Lookin' Back, Texas

by Leanna Ellis

  He looks at me long and hard. “Are you okay? Really okay?”

  “Yes. Of course. Just tired and stressed. I was before this, and now …”

  He puts a hand on my arm. I can feel the warmth of his touch through the sleeve of my blouse, the heat of his intensity.

  “You know you can come to me if you’re in trouble. Right?”

  “You’d help me the way you’ve helped Josie?” The bitterness in my words leaves a vinegary residue on my tongue.

  “You know I would.”

  I take a step back, break contact with him. “I do. Really. I do.”

  He takes a slow breath. “Okay. I guess this can wait. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “Tomorrow?”

  “In Luckenbach.”

  I blink at him, not understanding.

  He scratches the side of his head. “The arrival of your dad’s casket …”

  “Oh! Yes, of course. Okay.” How could I have forgotten?

  When I reach the car, I am once again able to draw a complete breath. But my heart has trouble completing a full beat, as if it’s been split into two jagged pieces.

  * * *

  “WELL, WHAT ARE you going to do about this?”

  Mother sits in the front seat of her Cadillac, Cruella de Vil waiting to pounce on anything lost or innocent.

  Oliver slumps farther down in the back seat beside me.

  I just want to be home. Home in California. But I will settle at the moment for my room in Mother’s house, and I silently urge Mike to drive faster.

  “We’re handling it,” I say. I’m not quite sure how or what Mike and I are going to do. But I don’t want Mother to think we’re scrambling. Nor do I want Oliver to think that. But truly, we are. Or I am. Mike seems in control, capable, strong.

  About a year ago I caught Oliver with pot in his room. We clamped down. We sought counseling. He’s been a model teen ever since.

  Oliver is a good kid. He’s the responsible one of his group. He’s diligent in his studies. He has goals for high school, college, life. So this is a curve ball we didn’t expect. But we didn’t expect my mother to go off the deep end either, or my parents’ marriage to crumble like a three-week-old cookie. Even though all the signs were there.

  “Oliver,” Mother twists around in her seat to give her grandson the full intensity of her glare, “what got into you? What on earth were you thinking?”

  Of course, Mother doesn’t want the answers to these questions. She has her own answers. Wisely, Oliver keeps silent.

  “You weren’t thinking! That’s the trouble. But you had better start or you won’t make it into a decent university.”

  “Mother.” I hope she’ll stop, knowing she won’t. But I have to make the attempt for Oliver’s sake.

  “Why, do you think your parents—”

  “Did you hear Mrs. Hoover, Mother?” I lean forward, resting my forearm on the back of the front seat in an effort to shield Oliver from Mother’s lecture.

  She pauses. “What’s that, dear?”

  “Mrs. Hoover.” I speak louder than necessary, as if that will derail Mother’s train of thought. “Did you hear what she said at the party?”

  “Nobody listens to her.”

  “Apparently they do.” Mike takes us on the detour around the area where the highway buckled. “I heard it from several people.”

  “Wait till Linda Lou Hoover gets a hold of this piece of juicy gossip, about Oliver being arrested for possession of an illegal substance.” Mother has built up a head of steam, and her momentum keeps her going down the same misguided track. “Linda Lou will chew on this for months. Chew on it like her cud. It’s all I’ll hear at the beauty salon. ‘How’s that drug addict of a grandson you have, Betty Lynne? Is he in prison yet?’”

  It’s always about her.

  Mike grins though. I can see his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Actually, Betty Lynne, everybody’s talking about Archie’s ghost hanging around. Haunting the area.”

  “Yes, yes.” Mother folds her hands over her purse primly. “That’s all well and good. They believe he’s dead. Which is exactly how I want it.”

  Silence permeates the car for a few minutes. Mike turns the Cadillac onto the country road that leads to my parents’ house. The shocks jounce and bounce us with each dip and groove.

  “What you’re not getting …” Mike’s grin widens as he pauses to deliver the blow.

  “… is that Grandpa is hanging around,” Oliver finishes, a wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. I should reprimand him for jabbing back at his grandmother, but I can’t blame him.

  “What?” Mother sits straighter. She jerks around, looks at Oliver, then me, and finally Mike.

  “He didn’t leave.” I find too much pleasure in explaining this to her and wonder if I need to repent. “Daddy’s talking to people.”

  “He doesn’t know he’s supposed to be dead.” Mike clicks on the high beams to illuminate the dark road ahead of us.

  “Oh, heavenly hand baskets!” Mother’s profile suddenly looks two powder shades paler. “Stop the car this minute. Turn it around.”

  “Why?” Mike keeps driving.

  “We’ve got to get Archie out of town. Right now!”

  That’s one thing I don’t want to see—my parents duking it out in the same room. If that were to happen, my father just might end up in the casket Mother has bought online from Costco.

  “Mike?” Mother shrieks. “Did you hear me?”

  He pulls into the driveway. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mother glares at him. “Whose side are you on, mister?”

  “My family’s. We’re tired. And we’re all going to bed. Oliver, we’ll deal with this problem in the morning.”

  Relieved, I smile to myself. I do like a strong man.

  * * *

  “WE HAVE TO be at the church—well, dance hall—in the morning for the casket to arrive.” I pull down the quilted comforter and fluff the pillows.

  “How did your mother pull that off?” Mike unbuttons his shirt. “She doesn’t have a body, does she? Is she using a real funeral home?”

  “She said she hired a hearse in Austin. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.”

  “Bette Moore hired one for Jerry’s fiftieth birthday bash last year. Remember?” He kisses me hard and fast. “You wouldn’t have killed me off, would you?”

  “I hope I didn’t inherit that particular gene.”

  Mike laughs and sits on the bed. He pulls me down beside him and begins to rub my shoulders, his thumbs making circular motions, kneading my aching muscles. I’m not used to this bed. Or the stress of being home. I can’t seem to relax here.

  “You’re not like your mother.” He’s trying to reassure me.

  But I suspect that I am. After all, she’s lying to the whole town. I too, am a liar. The needle prick of truth pierces my heart.

  “Did you have fun tonight?” I attempt to divert the conversation away from what is so uncomfortable.

  “No, my son was arrested.”

  “I meant at the party.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been to anything quite like it.”

  “Did you meet anyone interesting?” I pluck at a loose thread on the comforter.

  His fingers begin to work their way up my neck. “Everyone in Luckenbach is interesting.”

  I can’t seem to nonchalantly get around to the topic of Josie. Agitation makes me bold. “I saw you talking to Josie. She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

  “I’m surprised you two were such good friends.”

  I shrug, guilt tweaking my stomach. I’m not behaving like much of a friend. But I push forward. Marriage is more important than a friendship. “We were different. But we cared about each other. Helped each other out. She had a rough home life. Her mom was hard on her.”

  “Then it’s no wonder you got along.”

  I half turn toward him, and he stops massaging my neck.r />
  “What do you mean?”

  “You had something in common. Your mothers.”

  “Yeah, but hers wasn’t like mine. It was rougher for her.”

  “Damage can be caused in different ways, but it’s still painful. Still leaves scars.”

  “Is that how you see me? Scarred?”

  “Wounded. But aren’t we all? We all carry our own baggage. I brought a truckload of my own.”

  We’ve gone down the wrong path, so I detour. “So is that what you were talking to Josie about?”

  “No.”

  I let out a frustrated breath.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just … you just looked like you were having fun, is all.”

  He pulls me backward and kisses me. “Are you jealous?”

  “No.” I deny the feelings roiling inside.

  “You have nothing to worry about.”

  I feel as if I’m naked, all my scars and open wounds visible and oozing. I make a sputtering laugh to bandage myself. “I know.”

  “So,” he kneads my shoulders again, “where’d your mother buy the casket?”

  “Online. Costco ships within twenty-four hours.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Go figure. Mother said a friend of hers got a good deal, found Costco’s prices to be cheaper than the funeral home’s. Who buys a casket at Costco? Why do they even sell caskets?”

  “Maybe,” his voice dips low in an eerie way, “it’s the mob.”

  I gently elbow him in the stomach. “This is all so bizarre. Like a TV movie. So who would take a job driving a hearse?”

  Mike shrugs a broad shoulder. “Someone who needs cash?”

  “Or worse.”

  “A drug dealer?” He grins, his cheek dimpling.

  But I don’t find it funny.

  “I‘ll take Oliver over for his test,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. He pulls me back against his solid chest and rests his chin on the top of my head.

  I close my eyes and try to relax in his embrace. But I fear our family is coming apart, the cracks beginning to show. “That shouldn’t take too long. Why don’t you get Oliver’s hair cut while you’re out?”

  “I could use one too. We want to look spiffy for the funeral.”

  I rub his arm like a worry stone. “What are we going to say to Oliver in the morning?”

  Slowly he stands and pulls the tail of his shirt from his slacks. “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s not go overboard. He made a mistake. But it’s not the end of the world.” There are worse things he could do. Like I’ve done. Or what his grandmother is doing. “Let’s listen to him. My mother never listened to me.”

  “Neither did mine.” Sorrow darkens his eyes.

  Mike didn’t have a mother. Not one that cared anyway. Mine, in her own warped way, at least cared.

  He reaches for my hand, folds his fingers protectively over mine.

  “We’ll talk with Oliver together.”

  Together is how all of our problems should be handled. Should have been handled. It’s my fault they weren’t.

  16

  Oliver is sitting on the couch in the den, flipping channels. He’s dressed in shorts, a T-shirt that says Surf’s Up, and flip-flops. I’m glad Oliver turned out to be a boy and not a girl. It would be harder for me to react differently from Mother if I had a daughter. Besides, I never wanted to say, “Yes, you have to wear hose and a dress to church.” Oliver makes that promise to myself easy to keep.

  Our life in California is relatively boring, and I like it that way. Now I know why. It must be a reaction to my childhood and the chaos and turmoil I grew up in. Or maybe I’m controlling things the way my mother controlled our lives here. The thought makes my insides squirm.

  “Oliver,” Mike tilts his head toward the back door, “let’s go.”

  It’s already hot this morning. Or maybe it’s my stress level making the temperature skyrocket. I’m accustomed to cooler mornings along the coast. This heat is relentless. With my hands clenched, I say a quick prayer that we’ll say the right words to our son. Behind us, the door claps shut and Oliver’s footsteps echo along the porch planks. Mike keeps moving—away from the house, past Daddy’s garden, past the peach trees Daddy planted, away from prying eyes and ears of my mother—and finally stops at the foot of the windmill.

  The incessant wind stirs the windmill, creating a slow, grating sound that stops and starts in an out-of-sync rhythm. I lean against the wooden tower and turn to watch Oliver follow. Mike always hoped he would follow in his footsteps to our alma mater, then into law school. But now, just getting him out of high school without a police record or a stint in drug rehab feels like a worthy goal. Mike seems calm, but I see an angry tick in his jaw. I draw a slow, calming breath.

  “Yeah, Dad?” Those green eyes can look oh so innocent.

  “What happened last night?”

  That one simple question cuts off the childish act. Oliver sighs, crosses his arms over his chest and assumes the teenage stance of detachment. “Nothing. Really.”

  “That’s not what the sheriff says.”

  Oliver stares at the dirt for a moment; his flip-flops are dusty around the edges. “I met some guy. At that party. There were a couple of girls. No big deal. We were just joking around. I didn’t smoke any weed. I swear, Dad.”

  “Look at me.”

  He does.

  “You’ve always been straight with me. Are you now?”

  There’s a beat of a pause that makes my hope clatter and rip through me like one of the steel blades from the windmill if it were to come loose.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is this like the time with Slater?”

  Oliver swallows hard. His face looks mottled, like tiny blood vessels are flaring beneath the surface. “No.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave last night? Walk away.”

  “Mike,” I want to step between father and son. “He said he didn’t smoke anything. Sometimes—”

  “Suz,” Mike stops me with a hand on my arm, “he needs to answer these questions.”

  “But—”

  “There wasn’t time, Dad. The guy lit up, then the cop was there. That’s all.”

  Silence creaks in the interval, like the unheard, unseen pressure building along a fault line. Can we believe him? Did Mike push too hard, the way my mother did in pushing me away. I ache to reach out to Oliver, to pull him close, but I force myself to resist. I know what it’s like to be accused of something I haven’t done. I also know what it’s like to be guilty.

  “Dad? Mom?”

  I study Oliver’s face. He’s tall and handsome. I remember him as a young boy, how he cupped his hands around a frog to protect it, how he brought me a razor he broke trying to shave like his Daddy. He’s always been a good kid with a kind heart, a sensitive spirit. Honest and true.

  “You can tell us anything, Oliver,” I say.

  “I screwed up. I was bored. I shouldn’t have gone off with Rick and the others. I knew that. I knew he was trouble. Do you think I ruined everything?”

  “Of course not. We’ll work things out,” I reassure him.

  Mike slants me a quelling look. “We can’t promise that.”

  “You have connections.”

  Could we plead with our friends to get Oliver off whatever hook he’s dangling from? Would Mike call in favors? Probably not. I know my husband. He’s known for his integrity. But I am not above such tactics. My one and only contact that could have any influence over this situation is Drew. I pray I won’t have to tell him the truth to save my son’s future.

  “Oliver made a choice. He has to accept the consequences. No matter what they are.” His gaze settles on our son. “What happens all depends on the test this morning. We’re at the sheriff’s mercy.”

  Anger flares inside me. I want Mike to say he can protect Oliver, our family. I don’t want to be at Drew’s mercy. What will happen if the test comes back positive,
if Drew comes to arrest my son? His son? Will I tell him? Tell him in order to protect Oliver?

  “Yeah.” Oliver jams his hands in his back hip pockets. “I’m sorry.”

  I step forward, wrap my arms around his shoulders. My son. I need him as much as he needs me. Mike forms another wall of an embrace around the two of us. He claps Oliver on the back.

  “Let’s get this test over with.”

  * * *

  MOTHER GLANCES AT her silver watch. There’s a pinched worry line between her carefully waxed eyebrows. I know the look. She watches for the hearse out the open wooden slats that cover the windows of the dance hall.

  “What’s the plan, Mother?” My voice echoes off the rafters. Out the window I can see a family of tourists climbing out of their van and walking up to the Luckenbach store. Some bikers mill around in the shaded areas.

  “They should—” Mother pauses and readjusts the level of her voice—“be here any minute.”

  “They?” I brace myself for more surprises.

  “Mrs. Davidson?” a voice says behind us.

  Mother turns. “Pastor Reese.” Her voice is creamy. She holds out her hands to a man who seems only a few years older than my son. He wears a Harley Davidson T-shirt, jeans, and black leather biker boots. “This is my daughter, Suzanne.”

  I shake his hand, notice the cross and rose tattoo on his forearm, and smile. I’m surprised Mother asked Pastor Reese to officiate at Dad’s funeral. I thought she might go back to her Lutheran church in Fredericksburg. Of course, it doesn’t matter since it’s all fake.

  “Oh, yes.” Pastor Reese hooks a thumb through a belt loop on his jeans. “I saw you yesterday during the service. It was more crowded than usual because of the earthquake. Nothing like an act of God to roust folks out of bed on a Sunday morning. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I want to crawl under the nearest bench. I’m glad Oliver isn’t here. What is this whole episode teaching him? Is it scarring him for life? Teaching him to lie? We’ve always put such importance on speaking the truth in our home, and now here we are, caught in a tangled web of lies. This doesn’t even count as stretching the truth; Mother snapped the truth as easily as a rubber band. Then again, Oliver may already have learned to lie from me. What if he’s lying to us now about the marijuana? What then? Is that the legacy I have given my child? My own hypocrisy handed down from generation to generation?