Lookin' Back, Texas

by Leanna Ellis

  * * *

  “MOTHER,” I FOLD a black-and-white-checked dish towel and lay it on her counter in the kitchen. “You have to go.”

  “I do not.” She starts another pot of coffee. “Cal Henry, would you like some coffee cake? It’s not my recipe, but it’s not bad.”

  Mr. Boyle seems to have become a permanent fixture in my mother’s kitchen. I regret asking him inside, like one of the three little pigs opening the door to the big bad wolf. Although Cal Henry doesn’t look big or bad. Still, he could gobble what’s left of my hope for getting Mother and Daddy back together.

  “I believe,” Cal Henry rubs at his top lip, “I would like something sweet.”

  I ignore him. Ignore this little domestic scene. Which is all wrong. “Mother, the sheriff ordered it.”

  “I do so like feeding a man.” Mother takes three dessert plates out of her cupboard. “Don’t you, dear? There’s something very natural about it. I’ve missed it.” She acts like Daddy has been gone a century. With knife in hand, she approaches the cake cover and, in the same tone as if we’re discussing whether we prefer tea or coffee, she says, “I don’t care if the pope orders it. I’m not going. And that’s final.” With cake cover raised, she pauses. “Would you care for a little chocolate sauce on top?”

  “No, thanks, Betty Lynne.” His eyes practically shine when he looks at her. “Think that would be too rich.” “You’re probably right.” “Mother, the sheriff will arrest you.”

  “Oh, he will not. For goodness’ sake!” She looks over at Mr. Boyle. “The sheriff is Suzanne’s old boyfriend. Never did like him. Trouble from day one. I should have done the same thing my parents did and shipped Suzanne off sooner, before she formed such an attachment to him.” She waves the knife in my direction. “You watch yourself with him, missy.”

  “Mother, I’m not interested in him. And he’s not interested in me. He’s interested in getting this …” I don’t know a better word for it, “thing over with. And getting life in Gillespie County back to normal.” As normal as it can be. I purposefully don’t look out the window toward Ned Peavy’s trailer. “You don’t want to end up in jail, do you?”

  “For what?”

  I don’t have an answer. “He doesn’t have to have a reason.”

  “He can’t just go around arresting people for no reason.”

  “For fraud.” I throw that out for starters.

  “Fraud?”

  “Yes. And libel. You’re slandering Daddy when you say he’s dead. You’re also disturbing the peace.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me the trouble in the Middle East is my fault too?”

  When I was a teenager, Mother would not have allowed us to air our so-called dirty laundry in front of others, like Mr. Boyle. But frankly, neither of us seems to care today. And Cal Henry, a smile lurking about his thin lips, seems amused by it all.

  “Mother, this charade has to end. Are you seriously going to pretend that Daddy is dead forever? That you’re a widow. And then go gallivanting around,” I cringe at my word choice and realize I’ve been in Luckenbach too long, “with this … this … suitor?”

  Mother cuts a slice of a buttery coffee cake and hands me a plate, with napkin underneath and fork lying alongside the cake. All so proper.

  “I don’t want cake, Mother. I want you to be reasonable.”

  “That’s not for you, Suzanne. It’s for Mr. Boyle.”

  With a heavy sigh, I pass the cake to my mother’s ex.

  “For your information, I am being reasonable.” Mother continues slicing cake. “Everyone else seems to be upset. But I’m not. I’m perfectly fine.”

  Obviously everyone else being upset doesn’t bother her. “Please, Mother, just go talk to Daddy.”

  “I will not.” Her tone is that of a petulant child.

  “You have to face Archie sometime.” Cal Henry wedges his fork into the cake.

  I stare at him for a moment. “You know about this whole charade and you don’t care?”

  “I love Betty Lynne. Always have. I’ll take her anyway I can get her.”

  Good luck is what I want to say but refrain.

  “I don’t know why I have to face Archie at all,” Mother counters. “His attorney, my attorney—they can take care of things without us getting in the middle of it.”

  I take the knife away from Mother and cut myself a piece. Mother holds the plate for me. Silver fork in hand, I shove a bite into my mouth and chew before I realize I’m not hungry. Pushing away the cake, I say, “So you’re going to divorce Daddy and take up with this man?” I wave toward Mr. Boyle. “Are you still in love with him?” Are her fears about Drew and me based on her own feelings? Feelings for a man other than her husband? “Have you been in love with him all these years?”

  She covers the cake and wipes the knife on a paper towel. But she doesn’t answer me.

  “Is that why you decided to kill Daddy off? Pretend he’s dead? So you could call Cal Henry for help, use his hearse? Is that why you’re so unforgiving of Daddy? Because you want another man?”

  Mother props a fist on her hip. “Now, Suzanne, that is so melodramatic.”

  “Mother.” My voice has that commanding tone I hold in reserve for Oliver when he’s pushed me beyond my limits. “You will get in the car and go see Daddy. Right now.” She opens her mouth with another protest, but I don’t give her the chance. I have no choice either. “Or I will march down to the newspaper office in Fredericksburg and tell them my version of this story. You will be the laughing stock of Gillespie County.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Try me.”

  Mother’s mouth thins into a straight line. She glares at me, but I remain firm. I have had it with the lies, the deceit, the trickery. Too many people have been hurt. Finally she stands, picks up her purse, and says, “All right. Let’s get this over with. I have a funeral to arrange.”

  She opens the back door but stops. “I’m not going to speak to him.”

  “Fine.”

  “Just so you know.”

  “Okay.”

  Then she looks over her shoulder at Mr. Boyle. “Cal Henry,” her voice softens to room-temperature butter, “aren’t you coming?”

  The light above the kitchen table flickers and goes out. Cal Henry walks over and studies the crack along the ceiling that has continued on its path bisecting the kitchen. “Betty Lynne, looks like you got yourself a foundation problem. It might be affecting your electricity.”

  “What on earth? What would cause that?”

  “The ground’s been shifting with the drought. That crack that opened up not far from here might be causing this.”

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  * * *

  AFTER CAL HENRY cuts the electricity to make sure the house doesn’t burn down while we’re gone, we drive over to the sheriff’s office. The blinds are drawn for privacy. I bring Mother in through the front and leave Mike a message on his cell phone to bring Daddy in through the back so he won’t be seen. All we need now is another ghost sighting. Drew sits at his desk, looks up when I knock on the door frame and motions us inside. He doesn’t smile.

  There’s something in the way his hair curls over his forehead that reminds me of Oliver. It hurts to look at his face, to see my son there … to know my sins. But my love for my son is pitted against my guilt. My throat feels parched.

  Several chairs have been placed in a semicircle around Drew’s desk. Which, I notice has a chunk missing from the corner. I can see papers and folders lined up inside the cabinet.

  “Mrs. Davidson,” he says, “why don’t you have a seat?”

  Mother glances at her watch. “I hope this won’t take long, Sheriff.”

  “All depends.”

  “On what?” She sits on the edge of the wooden chair, her purse perched on her lap.

  “On you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that. If it was up to me, we wouldn’t be
having this meeting in the first place.”

  But Drew’s not listening. His focus has shifted to Cal Henry who stands back at the entrance. “What can I do for you?”

  “Oh,” Mother rolls her wrist by way of introduction, “he’s with me.”

  Drew’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Cal Henry. “This is not a good idea. This should be a private family—”

  “He stays.” Mother pats the seat next to her. “Or I leave.” Cal Henry dutifully sits down beside her. “What on earth happened to your desk … your window, Sheriff? You didn’t get careless with a gun, did you? Why this is a disgrace for the sheriff’s office.”

  I notice along the window there’s a large chunk out of the windowsill.

  Drew grins. “A small incident with a prisoner who decided to escape.”

  Mother’s forehead wrinkles.

  “Suzanne.” Drew pulls his chair around the side of the desk and places it next to Cal Henry. I sit on the outskirts of the semicircle, wishing I was sitting back at home, outside the confines of this whole charade.

  “Suzanne,” Mother shifts her gaze from Drew to me. A frown puckers her brow and she licks her lips. “Why don’t you wait for me in the car?”

  I hesitate. I’d rather not see my parents’ marriage unravel before my eyes. I don’t want to hear the petty details of he said/she said. But then again, I don’t want my mother to actually kill my father either.

  “Your husband called, Suzanne.” Drew fiddles with a pen on his desk. “Your father is concerned about his safety.” His gaze settles on Mother. “Can I see your handbag?”

  “What? What for?”

  “To check for weapons.”

  “Oh, goodness gracious. I am not going to shoot Archie.”

  Drew holds out a hand, palm up.

  Mother glares at him. But Drew has perfected the art. Being a sheriff, I’m sure he’s had to stare down speeders, thieves, and crooks of all varieties. Mother crosses her arms, pressing her purse close to her chest. Drew doesn’t relent. His gaze remains steady, uncompromising. Finally she huffs out a hot breath, stands and hands him her purse. “Don’t mess anything up in there.”

  “No, ma’am.” He pops the metal clasp and peers inside. With one finger, he pushes something aside, then closes it and hands it back to Mother.

  “You’re not going to frisk me too, are you?” Her tone is sassy.

  “It crossed my mind. All depends on if you give me reason.”

  Mother clamps her lips tightly closed and sits back in her chair.

  “Please cooperate,” I whisper.

  “I’m not going to bite your father. Or try to escape.” She looks down her pert, non-threatening nose at the sheriff. “But I do want it known I’m here against my will.”

  “Duly noted, Mrs. D.”

  “Is this the right place?” Pastor Reese stands in the doorway, looking more like a prisoner than a preacher.

  “Sure thing, come on in.” Drew ushers in the preacher and has him sit in a vacant chair beside Mother, right in the middle. The other two chairs are for my father and Mike. “The rest of the party will be here soon.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Davidson,” the pastor says.

  She gives him a polite but cool nod.

  He shifts in his seat, looks around, checks the clock on the wall. “We, uh, still need to discuss the funeral when you have time.”

  “Now’s as good a time as any. I’ve given it a lot of thought. Of course, I want the funeral to be respectful and heartfelt.”

  That word almost makes me choke.

  She frowns at me, then offers a smile to Pastor Reese. “I suppose we should have the Twenty-third Psalm read.”

  Drew stares at Mother with a combination of incredulity and something close to mild respect. Anybody with that much gall demands admiration or at least close inspection.

  “It’s become a standard.” Pastor Reese nods. “Did you want any hymns sung?”

  “Of course. We can have the mourners sing ‘Amazing Grace.’ I’ve already asked Josie Bullard to sing ‘It Is Well.’”

  “You have?” Given Mother’s disdain for my friend, not to mention the rumors about Josie and my husband, her choice seems tasteless.

  “She may be a slut,” Mother straightens her skirt, making a crease lay flat along her thigh, “but she has the best voice in town.”

  “Mother!”

  “It’s true. Now I was thinking—”

  “Mother,” I interrupt, look to Drew for help, but he seems content to watch the proceedings, “don’t you think this is all a little premature. Considering what we’re here for.”

  “This has to be discussed.” Mother dismisses me and focuses on the preacher. “You heard Pastor Reese. He wants to be prepared.”

  “Doesn’t he know?” I tilt my head toward the preacher.

  The sheriff shrugs, making his starched shirt bunch momentarily along his shoulders.

  “Know what?” Pastor Reese’s eyes narrow.

  A scuffling at the door distracts us.

  “Hurry!” Mike waves to someone we can’t see.

  Then my father steps into the room and Mike jerks the door shut behind him. Pastor Reese gasps.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Mike apologizes.

  “It’s all right.” Drew claps the preacher on the back. “I should have told you, but I couldn’t risk you telling anyone else. Not until this matter has been settled. As you can see, Archie Davidson is alive and well.”

  “Alive maybe,” Daddy says.

  “But most decidedly not well,” Mother finishes.

  23

  Pastor Reese clears his throat after Drew explains the purpose of this meeting. Looking pale as a corpse himself—which is supposed to be my father’s role, but Daddy’s actually looking ruddy-faced and embarrassed— the preacher fidgets and takes off his leather jacket. Mother seems annoyed, her arms crossed over her chest. I sit one seat over from Mother, beside Cal Henry who’s placed a possessive arm along the back of Mother’s chair. Mike sits on the other side of Daddy’s designated seat. Our gazes meet briefly. He doesn’t look as worried as I feel. Drew sits on his desk, presiding over the whole mishmash.

  “This is kinda odd,” the biker-turned-pastor rubs his arm, making his muscles bulge, his tattoo flex, “giving marriage counseling to a widow.”

  No one laughs at his attempt at humor.

  “What are you going to do about Flipper?” Daddy’s face is a map of concern. He still stands in front of the sheriff’s desk. “I didn’t know he thought I was dead. If I’d known, I would have called him first thing. I didn’t want him grieving for me.”

  “Don’t worry about Flipper.” Drew points him toward his seat. “I’ll tell him the truth. Soon as he wakes up.”

  “He’s not going to get in trouble for drinking, is he?” Daddy presses.

  “No. He wasn’t on duty. And if anything, he’s been provoked.” The sheriff looks straight at Mother.

  “You cannot blame me for someone else’s drinking problem. Next thing you know, you’ll be blaming me for global warming.”

  “Betty Lynne,” Daddy turns on her, “you could drive any man—”

  “Now, Archie.” Mike stands, puts a hand on my father’s shoulder and pulls him toward his seat. “We’re here for a peace treaty, not to hurl insults.”

  “Who’s that?” Daddy gives a nod in Cal Henry’s direction.

  “He’s with me.” Mother purses her lips.

  “Is he your attorney or something? Well, I got my own attorney right here.” Daddy claps a hand on Mike’s back.

  “Wait a minute,” Mike protests. “I’m not here in the capacity of—”

  “No, this is not my attorney,” Mother cuts him off. “I don’t have one. Yet.”

  “Then who the—”

  “Cal Henry Boyle.” Cal Henry rises and sticks out his hand.

  “Archie Davidson.” Daddy stands. They shake hands like they’re standing outside the post office, passing the time o
f day.

  “Nice to know you.” Cal Henry smiles the smile of a car salesman.

  “I still don’t know who you are.” It takes all the muscles in Daddy’s face to form such a scowl.

  “I’m Betty Lynne’s ex,” Cal Henry explains. “Soon to be—”

  Daddy takes a step back as if knocked square in the jaw. “Ex-what?”

  “Ex-husband.”

  Daddy starts to sit down, as if his knees gave way, but stops and stands back up. His long, narrow face grows longer with disbelief.

  “Well, that’s not exactly true,” Mother stands. She puts a hand on her husband’s chest as if holding him back from attacking Cal Henry and explains. “Our marriage, such as it was, was annulled. So legally we were never really husband and wife.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A few months before I met you.”

  “But you never said nothing.”

  “Well, there wasn’t any need to. It would have just got you all riled up. See! No point in that.” With her fingertips, she gives a slight push, but Daddy doesn’t budge. “Now just sit back down, Archie.”

  The sheriff stands, stepping between the two men, and encourages everyone to take their seats. “We’re getting off track here. What’s in the past isn’t relevant. The immediate problem is this funeral scheduled. Since there’s not a corpse, we can just call off the funeral.”

  “Now, Sheriff—” Mother stands toe to toe with him.

  “Right now,” Drew finishes, not intimidated as others might be. “Only two ways I can see this ending. One with a happily-ever–after, and the other with divorce proceedings. But the first thing that has to be done is to explain what’s happened so everyone knows the truth. If Mrs. Davidson wants to save face, fine. But it’s my job to make sure Mr. Davidson don’t get buried.” Drew looks about as uncomfortable as a lone dog caught on the highway in heavy traffic.

  Pastor Reese coughs, rolls his shoulder, and pops his elbow like he’s ready to step into the ring. “Yes, well, now, Mrs. Davidson, why’d you make up this story in the first place? Why would you pretend that Archie was dead?”

  “I believe that’s a personal matter.”