by Leanna Ellis
Maybe if I had driven my own car to the hotel, maybe if I hadn’t wrapped my arms around him and ridden on the back of his motorcycle like old times … maybe things would have ended differently.
Sometime late in the night or early in the morning we kissed. For a moment it was like we were eighteen again. And then Drew was brushing a strand of hair off my face, caressing me, trying to see what I was thinking, peering into my very soul. I curled on my side and pretended to sleep. I wasn’t even sure how we had moved from ‘How are you?’ to the bedroom.
What had happened? What had I done?
Guilt splashed over me like a massive, unforgiving wave of self-recrimination. I floundered in regret and self-flagellation. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say to Drew. I lay in his bed, berating myself. He called my name in sleep, but I couldn’t answer. I was sick inside with grief. Inside I was curling up into a ball, tighter and tighter, withdrawing from myself and the pain I had self-inflicted.
Finally I left. I took a cab to my car, then drove home. I laid face down on my own bed and wept. With my arms out wide, great wracking sobs shaking my body, I begged God for forgiveness.
I didn’t love Drew. I didn’t want my past. Or even some future I had dreamed up of a perfect Gerber baby, a perfect family that didn’t exist.
I loved Mike, wanted him.
A couple of days later, miraculously, Mike returned. He was remorseful. He regretted leaving. He asked for my forgiveness. How could I not forgive him when my own mistakes were so much worse? Yet how could I tell him what I had done?
I didn’t know what to do with the guilt. The all-consuming guilt.
I still don’t.
I’ve prayed. Every time I go to church, every week, every day, I pray. Flat on my face. Staring up at a cloudless sky. Curled into a ball. But the guilt, the shame won’t evaporate, even in this desert heat …
Mike!
He’s not an afterthought. But once I get my thoughts off myself, I realize I have left my husband in the middle of nowhere. Alone. Defenseless.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t. I was reacting. Just like Mother.
Guilt and recriminations are swift and succinct. Once again I give myself a quick mental kick in the backside. I turn the key to start the ignition and hear the motor grind. The car has been running all this time. I throw it in gear and drive back to find him.
But he’s nowhere in sight. Either he’s fallen into the crevice, which I seriously doubt, or he has caught a ride with someone from among the steady parade of sightseers. I figure the latter. I try to call his cell phone but can’t get a signal. So I decide to go back to Mother’s. Maybe I’ll come upon him on the way, or maybe he’s there already.
A few minutes later I pull into Mother’s driveway, park the car, my hand still on the gear shift when I see another car, a white Cadillac, in the drive. Another friend or neighbor bringing an apple pie or tuna casserole, I suspect. Or maybe someone picked Mike up and brought him here. I draw a slow, heavy breath, like lifting weights, then release it. I don’t feel ready to see Mother, friends, or old acquaintances. But I don’t have much of a choice.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows mascara pooled under my eyes. I swipe at it with a tissue. What does it matter? Everyone thinks my father is dead. It makes perfect sense for me to have been crying. No one will question that. Except Mother. And Mike.
That’s when I see Mother. She’s standing on the porch, talking to some man. No, not talking. I lean forward to peer through the dusty windshield. But the picture is clearer than a motion picture on a big theater screen.
Mother is kissing him! The man’s arms are around her, their mouths joined. And the man is not my father. My jaw drops as the shock sets in.
When the man pulls back, Mother releases her arm into a full-swing slap, right across the man’s face. As if the blow were meant to galvanize me, I leap from the car.
“Mother!”
What is going on? Who is this man who’s trying to take advantage of a recent widow. But Mother and the man in question don’t seem to hear me. They are talking in hushed tones. It’s not until I mount the steps, my breath coming in huffs, that I hear, “This is not the time, Cal. I told you a long time ago—”
Mother stops talking, turns to look at me. A flicker of irritation tightens her features, then miraculously disappears. “Back so soon?” She pats her hair, her hand fluttering from temple to throat. All she needs is a cigarette to complete the sultry pose.
“Yes.” I walk toward them, staring at the man. He’s tall, thick through the chest, bald on top. But he sports a mustache, gray yet tidy. He’s wearing a baby-blue suit, white shirt, and bolo tie. Could this man be the reason Mother is in a hurry to bury Daddy? Or maybe why she doesn’t want Dad to come back?
“Where’s Mike?” she asks.
“He’s not here? I should—” I gesture toward the car, know I should go find my husband.
“Cal Henry Boyle.” The man who was kissing my mother sticks out a hand toward me.
“Oh, uh, hello.” I shake his hand. “I’m Suzanne. Betty Lynne’s daughter.”
“Nice to know you.”
“Mother? Are you okay here?”
“It’s nice to meet you,” he insists.
I glance at Mother, who looks like her dress shrunk a couple of sizes in the wash. She tugs on her sleeves, her skirt. But she’s not explaining who this man is. I don’t remember a neighbor or friend or distant cousin by the name of Cal Henry Boyle.
Footsteps behind me approach. Oliver walks up, grimy as an earthworm.
“Mr. Boyle,” I say, lingering over his last name as it begins to ring some distant bell in my head, “this is my son, Oliver.”
“We met already. I’m going in and shower.”
“All right.” I motion toward the door. “Shall we all go in? It’s hot out today.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Mother says as if she’s overcome her momentary bewilderment. Is she trying to get rid of the man she slapped? Was he getting fresh? Or did I interrupt a lovers’ spat?
“But Mother—”
“Cal Henry was just leaving.” She takes his arm, pulls him down the porch toward the steps.
“I wouldn’t mind sittin’ a spell,” he says over his shoulder at me as he grabs his hat off the porch railing.
But Mother’s not having it. She is determined as she manhandles this man.
“Did you come over because of my daddy?” I ask, trying to figure out who he is.
“In a way.” He stands at the end of the porch on the top step, his hands on the brim of his Stetson. “I’ve known your momma a long while. We go way back. Way back. Don’t we, Betty Lynne?”
“I’m going to send you way back if you don’t go on home and forget this nonsense,” she snaps.
It strikes me as funny suddenly to see my mother flustered and out of control. Maybe she needs to experience what it would be like to have suitors coming to call if she really were a widow or divorced. Maybe this new development will be good. Obviously my mother can defend her own honor.
“But, Mother, this gentleman wants to stay and visit.”
“No, he doesn’t.” She turns him toward his fancy white Cadillac and gives a push in that direction.
His boots do a quick two-step down the back steps and land in a puffy cloud of dirt. The man stumbles forward another step or two, then turns back, settling his hat on his head. “We was—”
“We dated. All right?” Mother says. “That’s all.” She marches along the porch toward me. “And the moment he finds out I’m a widow woman, he comes sniffin’ around. But—”
“So you’re from Marble Falls?” I ask. It’s the town where Mother was raised.
“Originally, yes, ma’am. Live in Austin now.” He nods and smiles. He has kind eyes and a firm jaw. “To be honest, Miss Suzanne, your mother and I have been mighty close. We was actually—”
“Cal Henry!” Mother in
terrupts. She is standing at the back door behind me. “That’s enough now.”
“Cal Henry Boyle,” I say, as if testing a new coffee, deciding whether or like the bite, the roast. Then the name settles into place. “You’re the own—”
“We was married,” he blurts out.
I blink as if I misunderstood what he said. “Excuse me? Y–you, were what?”
“Married. Long time ago.”
“Married?” I repeat, dumbfounded, the word not quite making sense, scattering my thoughts like dandelion fluff on the wind. “To my mother?” Slowly, I turn around and look at her. “Mother? Is this true?”
She looks pale enough to hang around my father, the local ghost. Immediately I know this man is telling the truth. But apparently there’s a lot more to this story.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Mother says. She walks into the house, bangs the door shut behind her.
I meet Mr. Boyle’s gaze. He stares at me, whisks his hat off his head once more, looking kind yet determined. “Guess this wasn’t the best idea. I might’ve spooked Betty Lynne. She always did like to feel in control.” He takes a small step toward me as if in confidence. “I might’ve overplayed my hand.”
I don’t have an answer for him.
“I saw the obituary in the paper this morning.”
“Oh?”
“Did you help write it?”
“Yes.”
“You all did a fine job. And I should know. I read the obits every day. I’ve probably read a million obits in my time.”
“I see.” I snap my fingers. “Boyle Brothers Funeral Home. You own it, right?”
He nods, grins.
“So you sent the hearse, the driver.”
He ducks his head. “Betty Lynne was really perturbed about that, I can tell you.”
“It was kind of an old model.”
“It’s my son’s. We had a last-minute funeral. And I had to use the good hearse for a customer. I thought Betty Lynne would understand.”
“Mother likes things a particular way.”
“Don’t I know it.” He rubs the back of his neck.
“So Bennie is your son?”
He nods. “Yep, that’s him. When I bought the new hearse, I gave him the old one. It was big enough to haul his band’s equipment around in.” He looks off toward the windmill that is silent and still today since there isn’t even the hope of a breeze. “Maybe I should’ve waited till after the funeral to come see her. Maybe next week some time. But …” He turns his hat around in his hands. “I’ve been waiting a long time to win Betty Lynne back. And I just couldn’t wait any longer.”
“I see.” I can see a lot of things happening here, mostly Mother working and manipulating more people. Sweat is beginning to pop out on his forehead. What did Mother promise him for the use of his hearse?
“Would you care to come in, Mr. Boyle? Cool off under the air conditioner? Have some iced tea?”
20
Drew
Alone figure walking along the roadway snagged Drew’s attention. He slowed the SUV, flipped the switch for the lights, and rolled up beside the pedestrian. Lowering his window, he recognized Mike Mullins, saw the sweat running down the edge of his face.
“Out for a noonday stroll?”
Mike stepped toward the SUV. “Might say that.”
“Have car trouble?”
“Something like that.”
“Get in.” Drew tipped his head toward the empty passenger seat. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“Thanks.”
Drew glanced over at Suzanne’s husband, noticed the haircut and hid a smirk. Obviously he’d been to see R. J., the barber in Stonewall who knew only one haircut. “How long are you planning on being in town?”
“Long as it takes.”
“Nice boots. New?”
“Not according to Suzanne. Thought I’d try to fit in with the natives.”
Drew pulled back onto the highway. “The funeral is Thursday, right?”
Mike nodded.
“He was a good man.”
“Yes.” The attorney didn’t elaborate.
Drew considered asking more about Suzanne’s father but resisted. For the moment. It was always about timing. He tapped the steering wheel with his index finger. Silence grew in the car like rumors in a small town.
Curious about the man Suzanne chose to marry, Drew wondered what their marriage was like now. Almost twenty years ago, there had been problems. But maybe they had moved past all that. Suzanne seemed happy. Stressed maybe. But an earthquake and a funeral could do that to a person.
“How’s your son doing?”
“I’ve got him doing some manual labor.”
“That’ll build character.” He wished his father had taken the time to mold his own character. But he had been too busy trying to earn enough money to put food on the table or too tired at the end of the day. He was a single dad, and that wasn’t easy. Drew had heard folks say it took a town or a community to raise a kid. But in his case, no one had taken the time to see beneath the hard edge, the self-defense, the anger, and the occasional spot of trouble he had got himself into.
Only Suzanne had.
Guilt ate silently away at him. He never should have called Suzanne in California. He had known she was married. But she hadn’t acted too married, which had secretly made him glad. Still, he knew it shouldn’t have happened between them. He shouldn’t have … well, leaving California was the best thing he’d ever done.
He’d had to face himself then. And it hadn’t been pretty.
“Mind if we take a quick detour?”
Mike rubbed his palm over the top of his boot. “Not at all. I’ve been on a few ride-arounds with friends who are cops in San Diego. Police work is fascinating.”
“This won’t be.”
“Have the test results come in yet?” Mike studied the computer built into the dashboard.
“Should be today or tomorrow.”
“I know you think I’d rather you drop the charges, but that’s not true.”
Drew glanced again at Mike, then forced himself to watch the highway.
Mike rubbed his palms against his thighs. “I’d rather him get in trouble now if it will keep him from getting into worse trouble later.”
“Sounds like you’re a good dad.”
Mike shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I try. Oliver’s a good kid.”
“Seems so.”
“I didn’t have a dad. Didn’t have anyone. I got away with a lot.”
“You love your son. That’s more than some kids get. Has Archie Davidson been like a father to you?”
“In some ways, maybe.” He knocked out a rhythm with this thumb against his jean-clad knee. “We haven’t been around him much. But he accepted me right away, and that meant a lot.”
“Sure.”
“I’ve always believed family was important. Probably because I didn’t have one.”
“Heard some strange stories about ol’ Archie this week.”
Drew let the words hang out there like a lure lying upon the water, a speared worm wriggling to attract a big mouth bass.
“You mean all the ghost stories?”
“Partly.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts now, do you, Sheriff?”
Drew laughed and met Mike’s curious gaze without trace of a smile.
“Not at all.”
Mike Mullins was no big mouth bass. He didn’t seem spooked. What was Mike Mullins hiding? What was he not saying?
Drew pulled into a gas station, just off the highway, and filled up the gas tank. A few minutes later, carrying a couple of water bottles back to the car, he handed one to Mike.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t know what’s gotten into folks.” Drew shook his head. “Maybe it’s the earthquake. Or whatever caused that crack. Even my deputy … It’s all peculiar.”
Mike glanced out the passenger window. “Death can scare people into thinking or seeing all so
rts of things.”
“Uncertainty. Yep, that’s frightening to a lot of folks.”
He was just turning into Suzanne’s parents’ driveway when the speakers on the radio crackled. “Sheriff?”
Drew reached for the receiver. “What is it, Martha?”
“You better get on over to the Luckenbach dance hall.”
“Tourists,” Drew offered as explanation to Mike. “Often cause trouble. They have a tendency to cut up when they’re away from home.” He clicked the voice button and said to the dispatcher, “What’s the problem?”
“Mrs. Hoover’s over there. She’s downright hysterical.”
Over Archie? A frown pinched into the beginning of a headache. “Where’s Flipper? Can’t he handle it?”
“He’s not on duty.”
There were other deputies, but none knew the drill quite as well. Most were young, inexperienced. Mrs. Hoover was too much for a wet-behind-the-ears deputy. “Okay, I’ll head on over. I’m not far.” Drew braked.
Mike opened the door, put a foot on the gravel drive. “Thanks for the lift.”
“What should I tell Brother Reese to do?” Martha’s voice came from the speakers again.
Drew sighed, knowing his quiet afternoon was a lost dream. “About what?”
“About the dead body?”
His gaze locked onto the radio as if he’d misunderstood. “Come again?”
Mike stayed in the SUV and listened.
“Mrs. Hoover found a dead body in Archie Davidson’s casket.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Martha, there should be a dead body in the casket.”
He used his peripheral vision to watch Mike’s reaction.
“It ain’t Archie Davidson in there.”
21
Suzanne
Why hasn’t Mike made his way back to Mother’s yet? I decide to go in search of him, but before I can explain to Mother and Mr. Boyle, the door bursts open behind me and Mike is there.
Relief pours over me. I rush toward him, put my arms around his waist. “I’m sorry,” I whisper against his chest.
He kisses the top of my head. “Come on. There’s a problem at the dance hall.” He leaves the door behind him wide open, a no-no in Mother’s house. “Sheriff’s waiting.”