by Leanna Ellis
“I left.” Daddy meets Pastor Reese’s gaze steadily. “I’m not saying it was right or nothin’. But I did. And it ticked her off.”
“Set her off is more like it,” Drew mumbles loud enough for me to hear.
“Did you have a fight?”
“No, we did not.” Mother’s lips are puckered so tight it looks like she’s about to whistle.
“To be honest, pastor,” Daddy leans toward him confidentially, “I—”
“Archie Davidson,” Mother claps her hands, reminding me of her docudrama on Daddy’s death, “if you say one more word …”
“I’m just trying to be honest here, Betty Lynne.”
Honesty is not what Mother is looking for.
“This is a private matter. I will not air our dirty laundry for everyone to see and smell.”
“I told her I wanted out. I wanted my freedom. After forty years of dealing with—”
“And you wanted my blessing?”
I wait, hoping Mike will say something. He can sway a jury with the quirk of an eyebrow; surely, he can say something to persuade Mother and Daddy. But he remains quiet. Maybe Pastor Reese will interject some Scripture, something convicting. But my parents exchange words like an angry racquetball match, with the verbal assaults coming fast and furious. The rest of us try to stay out of their trajectory.
“Why would I want your blessing?” Daddy argues. “I wanted a divorce. You’re the one that went berserk and—”
“How did you expect me to react? One minute we’re having dessert and coffee …” She pauses and looks at me imploringly. “I made your father’s favorite banana cream pie.” She looks from Drew to Pastor Reese, seeking a sympathetic listener. “Have you had my banana cream pie?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t? You brought it to the Easter picnic.”
But Drew shakes his head. “Must’ve missed that.”
“Well, trust me, it’s the best. It’s not easy getting the meringue just right. And what’s the thanks I get for all that trouble? ‘Thanks, I’d like a divorce.’ How would you react, Pastor Reese?”
He stammers.
“Exactly!” Mother squeezes his forearm as if thanking him for his support. “That’s just how I felt. Stunned. Shocked. Why, Archie was the one that suggested I kill him!”
“I did not!” Daddy throws up his hands. “You are crazy!”
“I asked you what exactly I was supposed to do. Your bag was packed like you were leaving on your honeymoon. Did you pack it while I was making your favorite chicken-fried steak dinner?”
Dad looks down sheepishly.
“You said you didn’t care what I did. That I could say you was dead for all you cared. And after you walked out the door, I decided I couldn’t see myself as a divorcee. I deserved respect for all the years I gave you. My best years. I was not going to be scorned or pitied. And so the only reasonable course of action was for me to become a widow. A widow gains respect and even admiration. A divorce … that means failure. Like I did something wrong. And I didn’t. And so, as you can see, Sheriff, Pastor Reese, Mike …” She’s gathering her troops. “I was forced to kill my husband.”
I’ll bet that is the oddest confession Drew’s ever heard. He looks speechless, as if he doesn’t know what to do now.
“Of course, I understand,” the pastor says, “I’m sure it was shocking.” He looks down his sharply pointed nose at my father.
“Pastor,” there’s a note of warning in the sheriff’s tone.
“How can you blame her?” Pastor Reese crosses his arms over his chest. He looks like a biker version of the Archangel Michael, sent to avenge some wrong. “She was under extreme stress. She devoted her life to this man. And he betrayed her trust.”
“We’re not here to take sides,” Drew says. “We’re here to come up with a solution. If you want a divorce, fine. But this mock funeral cannot proceed. And I won’t have a ghost running around town scaring citizens. Jeremy Parsons almost ran his truck into the postman yesterday evening when he saw you, Archie.”
“Then Archie will have to leave town.” Mother sits down, crosses her ankles and clasps her hands in her lap. “You said you were going to live in Oklahoma or New Mexico. So do that, Archie. Move to Santa Fe.”
She opens her purse, pulls out a handkerchief she has embroidered with snapdragons. She dabs the side of her face and neck, then places the wispy cloth back in her purse and snaps the clasp closed. “If you can forget that trip we took there. Remember our twenty-fifth anniversary? Do you? Do you remember that little bed and breakfast where we stayed? They put chocolates on our pillows every night. And they made the most sumptuous waffles for breakfast. What was that beautiful purple plant growing outside our bedroom window?”
“Lavender.” Dad’s tone has an edge to it.
“Do you remember that spa we went to, Archie? Where we had our own private Jacuzzi?”
He nods, his throat working up and down.
Mother is quiet for a moment as if lost in memories. I remember Mother occasionally doing something crazy like tossing Daddy’s clothes out the bedroom window or chasing down some phantom woman she thought Daddy was seeing. But I remember happy times too. Mother’s laughter. Daddy dancing her around the living room when he received a fat bonus at work. The two of them cuddling on the couch. Were the smiles and merriment only a façade?
No relationship is perfect. It’s a dance. Sometimes one partner makes a misstep and crunches the other partner’s toes. But that doesn’t mean the dance ends. There are dips and turns. As the old song goes, one step forward, two steps back.
I look to my father, wish he would make a move toward Mother. This could all end with a reaching out, clasping hands, and a little forgiveness. Or a lot. Hope inside me flickers when I see a wistful gleam in his eyes, as if he’s remembering too and feeling a tug on his heart.
Then Mother jerks her chin. “So fine, go there. Live in Santa Fe. It’s as simple as that.”
The softness in his eyes hardens. “I’m not leaving.” He sits down, arms crossed, mouth firm. I’ve seen that look before, not often, but enough to know he’s not budging. “Everybody I know is here. This is where I was born and where I’ll die.”
“Exactly.” A smug smile spreads across Mother’s face. “And the casket is all ready. Make yourself comfortable.”
I look to Mike. He shrugs, then leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Look, we can easily come up with an explanation that will help Mrs. Davidson save face. But we need to agree—”
“I do not need to save face. I am fine. My reaction is perfectly reasonable. It’s Archie who has been making a spectacle of himself.”
“And what about this man here?” Daddy bellows. “Why I’m not even six feet under and already you’ve got a man you’re leaning on. I see his arm around you there. Around my wife.” Cal Henry has the good manners to redden. But he leaves his arm where it is on the back of Mother’s chair.
Suddenly Daddy stands, leaning forward, his face reddened with emotion. “You don’t know, mister, what you’re getting yourself in for. Believe you me, you better run for the hills. You don’t want to tangle with Betty Lynne Davidson. Oh, things might be lovey-dovey now. But there’s an end to that. You only experienced the honeymoon. But it don’t last. I spent forty years with her. I know. Soon she’ll be harping at you to pick up your socks, take out the trash, call before you get home, call when you leave. Do this, don’t do that. And you’ll never keep all the rules straight.”
Pastor Reese holds up his hand. “It’s reasonable for Mrs. Davidson to want a public apology. Archie, would you be willing?”
“For what? I didn’t do anything.”
“Didn’t do anything?” Mother stands, turns on her heel, then whips back around. “Archie Davidson, I …” For the first time, Mother seems speechless. She slaps her purse against her leg. “If we’re finished here, Sheriff, I have a funeral to attend to.”
* * *
“THAT’S NOT WHAT I would call a succes
sful negotiation.” I stare out the window of the sheriff’s office. Mother leaves in Cal Henry’s Cadillac, with her new beau and ex-husband driving. Daddy already left with Mike. They headed in opposite directions, of course. So for at least the next few minutes I don’t worry that Mother’s going to corner Daddy in an alley.
“No one pulled a gun at least.” Drew leans back in his chair and clunks his boots on the corner of his desk.
I turn and meet Pastor Reese’s blank stare. He sits in front of the sheriff’s desk as if he’s strapped into his chair with a seat belt. He scratches his head, making his do-rag slip sideways.
“Was this kind of situation discussed in your seminary class Dealing with Difficult Congregational Members 101?”
A wisp of a smile touches his lips, then he shakes his head. He crosses his arms over his chest, and the cross-androse tattoo on his forearm twitches as his muscles tense.
“What do you recommend we do?”
“I could talk to them.” Pastor Reese rubs his hands down his jean-clad thighs. He stretches out his legs, sticks out his square-toed black leather boots. “Separately, of course. But I’m not sure that’s going to do much good either. Your mother is hurt. Angered by your father’s betrayal. Your father’s a bit shocked. Learning your mother was married before … well, that’s a lot to swallow in one day.”
“But not telling someone isn’t the same as lying, is it?” I’m not exactly asking on my parents’ behalf.
“If it has bearing on the relationship, then it should be discussed. Not fair otherwise.”
That is not the answer I want to hear. But he’s not my pastor. Maybe he didn’t even go to a real seminary.
“You see,” Pastor Reese folds his hands together over his belt buckle (or where a belt buckle would go if he wore one), “something made your mother and Mr. Boyle get an annulment. And I’d bet that same emotional stumbling block is what’s affecting your mother today. But something made your father want to leave. The reason don’t matter as much as the fact. What does matter is that something was missing in your parents’ relationship. Now if we could find that, then maybe we could get them back together.”
“You think that’s possible?”
“All things are possible.”
“I don’t see that happening.” Drew clasps his hands behind his head.
“They still care about each other,” Pastor Reese argues. “Did you see jealousy spring up in Archie when he found out who Cal Henry was? He cares. But it takes more than caring to make a relationship work.”
“He was just being territorial.” Drew’s cynicism reflects my own. I wonder what makes him that way. Was it our relationship? Or others along the way?
But I don’t have a right to be cynical, despite the years of watching Mother and Daddy. My marriage survived, not because of me or Mike but because of God. If our relationship can survive what I did, then anything is possible. Hope begins to find its spring inside me.
“Did you see them remembering that trip to Santa Fe?”
“Oh, yeah.” Pastor Reese touches my hand, gives my fingers a squeeze of encouragement. “They were remembering, all right. I’ll be thinking on this. You call me if I can help.” He stands and shakes the sheriff’s hand, then turns to go but stops at the door to Drew’s office. “What should we do with the casket?”
“Leave it where it is.” I grab my purse, eager to follow the preacher out of Drew’s presence. I wonder if the reason my marriage survived is because I kept a crucial part secret. If I’d been honest with Mike, if I’d told him about Drew, the relationship might have collapsed. Suddenly my optimism implodes. “We might need it yet.”
24
Tuesday afternoon Oliver and I head to the local Wal-Mart in Fredericksburg to stock up on milk and eggs and other staples. He’s been wanting some sodas too.
“What else sounds good?” I push the cart, trying not to notice the grungy gray splotches along the handles. My son has worked hard today, not only cleaning out my parents’ garage but also mowing the yard. I remember when he was young enough to sit in the cart, facing me, kicking his little legs and smiling. Sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s almost a man.
“I’m tired of the stuff Grandma makes. Couldn’t we just have plain ol’ hotdogs?”
“Your grandmother would keel over from the shock.”
Oliver grins. “But it might be fun to watch her choke down a hotdog. Besides, if she made me eat that spinach thing, she can eat a hotdog for me.”
Only for Oliver. Or Mike. Mother would do most anything to please them.
“I suppose we could tell her the hotdogs are kosher.”
“Organic.”
He grabs a couple of packages and tosses them into the cart.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?” I redirect the cart toward the bread aisle.
“Why’s your mom so … ?”
“Weird?”
“Stiff. Crazy. Whacked out. I mean, to be doing this funeral—”
I place a hand on his arm and glance around us to make sure no one overhears. Instantly I regret stopping him, putting what others might think ahead of speaking the truth. What am I teaching my son? What weird traits or habits am I passing down to him? “Oh, Oliver, I don’t really know. It’s hard to know what’s in someone else’s heart.”
He grabs a package, squeezes the buns through the plastic covering, and puts it back on the shelf. He scans the shelves, then notices the bags along the bottom are orange. Just like I would, he takes the whole-wheat buns. Eating healthy is not a bad habit for me to have taught him. Is it? A mother should teach her child important things like hygiene and nutrition. But I’m suddenly feeling paranoid and vulnerable about my parenting skills or lack thereof.
“Her father, my grandfather, was a perfectionist too. Wore my grandmother out trying to please him. He couldn’t delegate. No one else could hold to his standards or live up to his expectations. When he died, my grandmother became a total slob. Her house was a junkyard. It drove my mother crazy. She couldn’t stand it.”
“If Grandma inherited her father’s—”
“Or learned it.”
“—then how come you’re not that way?”
“A compliment!” I hug him around his broadening shoulders. But guilt is a powerful force. “In some ways I am though. And I’m sorry about that. I hope I haven’t warped you too much. I saw the damage perfectionism caused. It stripped my family of any joy. It beat my father down.” I point us in the direction of the condiments, knowing my mother doesn’t have yellow mustard in her pantry. And you can’t have hotdogs with Gulden’s.
“Was it hard on you too?”
“Absolutely.” I grab a bottle of ketchup because I know Oliver likes it on his hotdogs. “Unfortunately I’m more like her than I realized.” Voicing my uncertainty feels like I walked out of the bathroom trailing toilet paper from my heel.
“You’re not like her, Mom. Believe me, you’re nothing like her.” His intonation makes me smile. “So how’d you end up not warped?”
“God changed my heart. Otherwise, I might be a lot more like your grandmother.” But I don’t tell him that in many ways I’m worse. So much worse.
Oliver nods sagely. He’s been raised in the church and understands spiritual matters. “Does she not know Jesus then?”
“Oh, she knows. But sometimes head knowledge doesn’t always translate to heart knowledge. Do you know what I mean?”
“I see that in a lot of kids at church. Not that I’m perfect but—”
“You’re right.” I reach up and ruffle his hair, which doesn’t ruffle as it’s now too short. “You’re not. But nobody is.” Especially me. “Do you think you could forgive me if I did something …” My throat starts to close with emotions. “Something that changed everything?”
“Sure,” he says without hesitation, “you’re my mom. I may not show it all the time, but I love you.”
I hug him, sniff away the tears that threaten. If only I could b
elieve that. If only I could believe that my husband would forgive me too, that my sin was forgivable to those I love. If only I could believe that telling the truth wouldn’t jeopardize my marriage, my family, my life.
Oliver takes the cart from me and pushes it down the aisle.
“What are you looking for?”
“Chili. I want a chili dog.”
“That’s over near the beans probably.”
So we turn the cart around and head back the other way. Mother’s going to love this meal. Not. But maybe it’ll be good for her. Maybe she needs to loosen up her standards. That is, if she wants Daddy back.
At the end of the aisle, we turn left. Oliver pulls up short to avoid running into another cart.
“Suzanne!” Estelle Rodriguez and two of her children … no, three—another zooms around the corner—stop beside our cart. “How are you? I’ve been meaning to come by.”
“It’s good to see you again.”
“I saw your father’s obituary in the paper. It was very nice. Is everything going well with the funeral arrangements?”
“I suppose.”
“Do you need some help? I could get my husband to watch the kids tonight and …” She looks around, grabs the side of the cart. “Esteban?”
“Over there.” Oliver indicates the cookie aisle.
“Oh, dear. I better …”
I give her an understanding nod. “I’ll see you later.”
Estelle’s soft face pinches with concern or regret.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re busy. Don’t worry.”
Then she moves on, chasing down her son.
Oliver pushes our cart forward, and we go in search of chili.
“She was my friend in high school,” I explain to Oliver. “We took English together and loved talking about books like To Kill A Mockingbird.”
“You were friends with Josie too?” He slows the cart and peruses the jars of pickles.
“I had very eclectic friends.” I take a jar of Mrs. Fanning’s butter pickles, which I haven’t seen outside of Texas, and put it in the cart.
“She doesn’t seem your type.”