Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  “Ali told me. She found it odd that you kept driving in front of the house, staring at her.”

  “Ali?”

  “Allison.” He held up his left hand, a filigreed band of white gold wrapped around his naturally tanned third finger. “My wife.”

  She stepped back, her head spinning, her thoughts muddled, her fists tight. He was married. Westley was married. To the pretty girl on the front porch. She was his wife. They shared a house. A bed. A life. How stupid could she be to have ever thought—“You will never,” she spat through clenched teeth, “ever see your child again.” She ran halfway to the house, gasping. Turned again and screamed for all it was worth. “Ev-ver!”

  Westley came toward her, storming, and she ran as fast as her feet allowed—because every inch of her had become dead weight—until she reached the front door. She jerked it open, darted inside, and spun to shut the door. Lock it. Away from him. Away from everything.

  But he’d reached her. Shoved against the door, sending her backward. She stumbled to the floor, hitting her backside hard against floorboards that hadn’t seen a mop in a month. At least, not a clean one. “I’ll call the police,” she threatened, fear now sliding over her as she scooted back. Had she gone too far?

  Westley stood with his legs braced apart, his jaw firm. He reached down, grabbed her by the wrists and righted her. “You do that,” he said before pointing toward the phone. “Go on, Cindie. Do it.”

  Cindie jerked the handset from the receiver, not because she would really call, but because she couldn’t give him the upper hand. Her own daddy had done that to the mother of his children and look how that little scenario had turned out. “I will—”

  He stood his ground. “All you’ve got to do is dial zero. Put your finger in the hole and pull to the right.”

  “I hate you,” she screamed, slamming the phone back into its place, sending the lamp behind it teetering until it settled again to shine a ghostly light on her mother’s ashtray filled with old butts and flicked-off ashes.

  Westley breathed out, slow and easy, the scent of musk and spearmint reaching her. Taunting her. “Well, I don’t hate you, Cindie. But you’re not going to threaten me with Michelle.”

  “I swear to God,” she said, ire tying her jaws into knots. “You ain’t never seeing her again, you hear me? Lettie Mae already said so. She means it, too. She knows how to deal with the likes of you, Westley Houser.”

  “I’m sure she does.” With that, he turned, stopping at the door to look at her again. “I’ll see you in court, Cindie. You and Lettie Mae can count on that.”

  He left her then, not shutting the door behind him, making her walk across the room to keep the cold from infiltrating the barely warm room. Cindie watched him as he backed the car out of her driveway, not looking toward her, even for a last glance.

  Other than her mother’s tirade and her daughter’s frightened shrieks at all the fuss Lettie Mae kicked up, she’d not heard anything since. But it hadn’t been twenty-four hours yet. The next morning, Lettie Mae met her in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette dangling from puckered lips, her tattered robe hanging loosely about her pudgy frame. “Tell you what you’re going to do, little girl,” she said after perching the cigarette on a nearby tin ashtray. “You’re gonna get yourself put together and you’re gonna go see that DiAnn Houser first thing. Ain’t no two ways about it; that woman knows what’s what, you can count on it.”

  “So what if she does?” Cindie asked, the weight of her anguish almost too heavy to get the question out of her mouth. “What good will any of it do?” She poured coffee into a chipped cup, then added two large scoops of sugar and a wide pouring of milk.

  Lettie Mae slid a chair out from under the table, the scraping of metal against old linoleum sending a flinch through Cindie’s muscles.

  Dear God, how she hated her life. Hated it with every fiber of her being.

  “You make that woman tell you the truth. You know how to do it. As long as you got that baby, you got the upper hand.”

  As long as she had the baby … No. Michelle wasn’t the upper hand with a man like Westley. But something else was. All she had to do was figure out what.

  Cindie took a long swallow of the coffee that warmed her clear through with a taste so perfect, she could almost believe that life could get better. “I got a shift this morning, Mama.”

  “Then right after that. Don’t waste a second. See if she knows if he means it.”

  “Means what?”

  “About the lawyer. We can’t afford no lawyer, Cindie, so you’d best find out what’s what, like I said. We’ll plan what we need to do onc’t we know for sure.” She nodded toward the counter. “Bring me my cigarette, will ya? And pour me a bowl of cereal before you go get ready. Two scoops-a sugar like you know I like it.”

  As soon as her shift was over, Cindie went to the restroom her boss set aside for his employees—not the better one for customers, but the one with the rust-stained sink and the toilet with a broken seat that pinched every time she sat on it, and the cheap paper towels they were ordered to use only one of per visit. There she washed off the smell of grease and coffee before changing into the best dress she owned, a new pair of nude pantyhose she popped out of an egg-shaped container, and the boots from her daddy. She swatted her lashes with another coat of Great Lash before applying a touch of lip gloss, and—for her final act—slid the posts of Westley’s earrings into the tiny holes in her earlobes.

  Ten minutes later she was at DiAnn’s office and, this time, the receptionist recognized her. “Here to see Mrs. Houser?”

  “Yeah. Tell her Cindie Campbell—”

  “Yes, I know. She said if you ever returned, she’d see you.”

  Cindie just bet she did. She waited while the woman punched numbers into a large office-style phone that would connect her to DiAnn’s office. She wondered fleetingly if DiAnn would offer her another Coke poured over chipped ice, and hoped so because, with everything at stake, her throat was as bone dry as she was bone weary. Dear God, she was still a teenager. Why then, did she feel seventy?

  “Mrs. Houser said for you to come on back,” the receptionist said in her clipped tone. “Do you remember the way?”

  “Yes.”

  DiAnn Houser was standing behind her desk, dressed like the professional she was, when Cindie entered the sanctity of her office. “Close the door behind you,” she said, then smoothed the back of her wool skirt as she sat. She leaned back easily, crossing her legs and resting her elbows on the soft leather of the armrests with complete command. “Have a seat.”

  Cindie kept her jaw firm as she tried to sit in the same relaxed manner, knowing the act wasn’t coming off the way she’d hoped. Would she ever have the grace and poise this woman possessed in her smallest finger? “I reckon you know why I’m here.”

  “Westley called me this morning.”

  Cindie leaned forward. “Look, DiAnn. I ain’t—I’m not trying to act like we’re some great friends or something, because we’re not. Even back in school you hardly paid attention to me—”

  “I hardly knew you, Cindie. What’s the age difference here? Several years?”

  “Probably. But we’re not in school anymore. We’re not kids.”

  “No, we aren’t.”

  “So you need to tell me right up front so I’ll know. Because like it or not, I’m the mother of your niece, and you owe me for that.”

  DiAnn’s chin dipped. “I don’t owe you anything, Cindie, but I’m happy to try to help you if I can.”

  “Is Westley really married?”

  “He is.”

  “Since when?”

  “He and Allison married right before Christmas.” She pulled a drawer open and reached in, then held up an envelope marked by a logo of a leaping rabbit. “I have pictures here if you want to see them.”

  She didn’t. But she did. She stood, snatched the envelope from DiAnn, then walked over to the window to allow for bett
er lighting. One by one she sifted through the matte photographs with the rounded edges, gazing at the young woman in the white bridal gown—white—and the man Cindie loved standing beside her, dressed so uptown: black tuxedo, red sashy-thing around his waist, topped off with a red bow tie. Picture after picture … Westley looking into his new wife’s eyes. Adoring her. Kissing her. Dancing with her. Cutting a slice of cake with her. Laughing as they shared it . . . his eyes teasing her as he pulled a blue-and-white garter from midway up her thigh, while she . . . blushed.

  The photos seemed to grow heavy; they depicted everything Cindie had always wanted—always dreamed of—Cinderella and her Prince Charming …

  And nothing she would ever get. Not at this rate. Certainly not on this path. No fairy godmother for her. No pumpkin turning into a coach or mice becoming horsemen. Even Cinderella was a cut above Cindie Campbell and there wasn’t a doggone thing she could do about it. Nothing … nothing… would change her. Could change her. She was exactly what she was and she could never be more.

  Cindie tossed the photos and their envelope back on DiAnn’s desk, then returned to her chair and attempted to breathe past the heaviness that had settled in her chest. “Did he tell you he’s going to see a lawyer?” she asked, using what little bit of oxygen remained in her lungs.

  “He did.” DiAnn gathered up the photos and slid them neatly back into the envelope.

  “Do you think he means it?”

  “He already has an appointment.”

  Cindie nodded, reached into her purse, and dug around until she located her pack of cigarettes. She pulled one out, then continued digging for her Bic. “You mind?” she asked, looking up.

  Again, cool as a cuke, DiAnn reached into another drawer and brought out an ashtray, fancier than anything Cindie had ever seen.

  “What if I give him good visitation?” she asked after blowing a long line of smoke from between her lips.

  “You’ll have to talk to Westley, Cindie. This isn’t between you, me, and him. It’s between you and him.”

  Cindie drew deep on the cigarette, allowed it to remain in her lungs. Burning. Punishing her for every wrong deed, including that night with Westley. “What’s she like?”

  “Allison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s lovely. And pretty, as you know. Smart. Funny. Enjoys life to the fullest.” DiAnn paused. “She’s the perfect girl for him.”

  Yes. Lovely and pretty she already knew. Smart, though. Unlike her. She’d not even made it through high school. “She go to college for a long time like he did?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  A thought tickled her then. Nudged her from the inside. Poked at her until she stood. “Tell Westley to call me when he can,” she said, crushing her cigarette in the elaborate ashtray, keeping her eyes locked on DiAnn like Lettie Mae would expect her to.

  “Is that it?” DiAnn rose without a single blink. Darn her. Darn her.

  Cindie walked to the door, her legs filled with dishwater. She opened it, took a deep breath, and hoped for the courage she’d need to face her mother. The courage she’d need—God help her—to say three more words before she bolted. “Yeah,” she finally managed. “For now.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Allison

  My sister’s visit brought more than my car.

  On Saturday morning, after Westley took Dean up to the pharmacy to purchase a disposable razor—Dean had left his Gillette at home—Julie and I curled up like kittens on the sofa, our hands nestling a cup of Westley’s delicious cinnamon coffee heavy with cream and sugar the way we both liked it. “Dean didn’t really forget his razor,” she said, her voice set in a confidential tone I could scarcely remember her using with me. Perhaps now that I was married …

  I tilted my head at her, at the beauty of her. The glow about her. She wore not a bit of makeup so early in the day, and yet her loveliness—the dark of her hair against the cream of her skin—was undeniable. My whole life I’d been envious of her natural good looks, but right then I only felt a sister’s love. Perhaps marrying Westley had changed things for me. For us. “Then why did he—”

  “Because he knew I wanted to talk to you for a while and I knew I’d never get you away from Westley long enough that we could—you know—chat.”

  I clutched the mug tighter in my hand. Had she sensed that something was wrong between Westley and me? Or—could it be—had something gone wrong between her and Dean? They didn’t act as if they had too many cares in the world, considering. Then again, Westley and I were putting on a pretty good show ourselves. “Are you—are you okay? You seem okay …”

  Julie laughed, her near-perfect lips forming a delightful smile. “We’re more than okay. We’re … pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” The word came out half whisper, half gasp. The thought struck me in the gut: my sister was going to have a baby. My husband’s one-night stand had a baby. Babies seemed to be coming at me from everywhere and yet none were to be found. For a modicum of a moment I wanted nothing more than to jump up and run from the room, but Julie’s face … oh, her face! And her confiding in me. How long had it been since we’d shared anything of this magnitude?

  Julie’s hand reached for my knee, bent toward her. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy for me?”

  I blinked several times. Swallowed hard. My sister’s joy had fallen to concern. “Of course I’m happy. Julie,” I exclaimed eagerly, then leaned over to hug her, careful to keep the contents of our coffee mugs from spilling over.

  She laughed again as relief replaced the worry. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. Now that you’re a married woman, too, and all.”

  “Do Mama and Daddy know?” I asked, wanting not to go down that trail.

  “We told them Thursday night.”

  “And?”

  “Well, first we had to tell them that we’re moving to Savannah because—”

  “Savannah?” My hand flew to my chest and rested there. “Gracious, Julie … Whatever for?”

  “Dean was offered a job with the Savannah Morning News. We felt like …” She threw one hand up in the air. “Like it was such a blessing from God, really. We found out about the baby a month ago—”

  “Before—”

  “Your wedding, yes. I wasn’t about to rain on that. I couldn’t.”

  “Oh, Julie …”

  “And I was so bummed because, I mean, how in the world were we going to survive on my salary alone? And you know, Dean … always talking about me not working.”

  No, I hadn’t known that. How would I?

  “But I trusted that Dean would do the right thing and he did. He applied at the paper and got the job. Not exactly what he wants to do with his career, but it’s what’s necessary for now and, well, I won’t have to work anymore—Dean says that’s God’s way. So … we’re moving.”

  “And having a baby.”

  The smile broke wide again. “And having a baby,” she parroted as she pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach. “In six months.” And then she looked at me. Really looked at me in that way only sisters can do. “Allison, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice soft. “Are you and Westley okay? Because, if you don’t mind my saying so—and I know I have little right—but, Dean and I both noticed last night that there’s a tension in this house. I mean, you’re playing the role just fine, but, it’s still there.”

  I nodded yes, but the tears welled up in my eyes, betraying me, calling me a liar. “It’s just that …” I dabbed at the corner of my eye with my index finger, careful not to smear Revlon mascara all over my cheekbones.

  “Is it—is it the sex?”

  I shook my head no as a flame rose in me. Goodness, it surely wasn’t that. Even two nights before, as hurt and bewildered as I was over Cindie Campbell and her child, and in spite of Miss Justine’s advice, I couldn’t hold back the passion and want I felt for Westley. “No. We’re—we’re fine.” I caught another tear, this time with my pinky, determined not to
tell my sister the truth, still unsure of her loyalty to me. What if she told Mama? Or worse, Grand?

  “Hold on,” Julie said, already rising from the sofa and turning toward the bedrooms. “I want to show you something.” She returned a moment later extending a book toward me, one I’d heard about on television but hadn’t seen in person. The white cover was slick, the single red rose arched over the elaborate lettering of the title: The Total Woman.

  “You’re reading this?”

  She nodded as she sat, this time keeping her feet on the floor. “And you should, too.”

  “Does Mama know?”

  “Does she know? Mama’s the one who insisted I read it. She said that if I were a better wife, Dean might get a job.” Julie’s laughter came like tiny wind chimes on a breeze. “I swear, Allison, she thinks her advice on my reading this book is what led to Dean getting a job and me getting pregnant. She has no clue it was the other way around.”

  I thumbed through the pages. “Does she really talk about showing up at the door dressed only in Saran Wrap? The author …” I looked at the cover. “Marabel Morgan, I mean. Not Mama.”

  “Oh, gosh.” Julie feigned disgust. “I haven’t even thought about Mama and the whole meet-him-at-the-door-in-Saran-Wrap notion.”

  Our eyes met and we both pretended to have the willies, which—if nothing else—gave me a moment of reprieve from my angst.

  “Honestly, Julie,” I said with a sigh. “Sometimes I feel like you and I are a part of a generation caught in between.”

  She cocked her head in curiosity while the merriment from a moment before lingered in her eyes. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning there are times I don’t know whether I’m supposed to act like Donna Stone and Samantha Stevens or Ann Marie and Mary Richards.”

  Julie laughed again. “Seriously, I do know what you mean. Do we tie a kitchen apron around our waists or burn our bras.”

  But then, as the gaiety subsided, Julie spoke softly and said, “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, Allison. All young brides have to get through something or another. I know I did. But, read this for kicks, okay?” She pointed to the book. “And if you can take anything away from it … great.”