Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  Mary Helen left on the same chilled wind she’d most likely entered. He stepped around to the back of his desk. Picked up the handset and waited until he heard his wife on the extension. “I’ve got it,” he said, then waited for her to hang up, which she did. Loudly. “Rita?”

  “Sorry to call you at home, but you said it was urgent.”

  Patterson sank into his chair and it squeaked, then sighed. “I didn’t say urgent, Rita. I said as soon as you can.”

  “Sounded urgent to me.”

  He pulled a small notebook from one of his desk drawers, flipped it open to a clean sheet, then grabbed one of the half dozen pens scattered on the cluttered desktop. “Did you find out anything?”

  “You know,” she said, her voice taunting, “only an ex-lover who still cares for you would go to all this trouble …”

  “The ex part was your decision. Not mine.” And not just once either, he reminded himself. Between his wife’s frigidity and his mistress’s on-again-off-again mindset, he’d wondered at what point he’d simply lose his faculties and commit himself to a residential hospital. Preferably on a deserted island.

  Or, perhaps, he could have the next best thing.

  “I know,” Rita finally said, and he brought the pen upright. “You’re right.”

  “As you’ve said before. So? You have information for me?”

  “I do. Her name is Cindie. Cindie Campbell.”

  “I know that, Rita. She’s my student.”

  “Well … Dr. Thacker … I found out from her files that she came here, you may be interested to know, on Dr. Miller’s recommendation.”

  A gust of breath pushed itself from Patterson’s lungs. “Harry?”

  “Don’t go overboard. You and I both know Harry Miller is as faithful to his wife as a church mouse is to his cheese. When I oh-so-casually questioned Harry about her, he said he’d met her on a return trip from Tallahassee and found her—and I quote—interesting. You know Harry and his lost causes.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “There’s more, of course, if you’re ready.”

  He poised his pen over the paper; the dim light from the desk lamp caused a long shadow to slice across the page. “Yes.”

  “She’s from some little town in southwest Georgia I’ve never heard of and you probably haven’t either. Has a nearly three-year-old child who was born out of wedlock—”

  “Stop. She’s only—what—eighteen? Nineteen?”

  “She’ll be twenty in about two months. January twelfth, if you were thinking to buy her anything.”

  “Is the child with her? Here?” Because that would change things. Most things, in fact, if not all things.

  “No. The child—a little girl—lives with her father back home, according to Dr. Miller, while the object of your interest resides in a small apartment off campus with two others—a brother and a sister. And she’s working over at Rhinestones. Which means—”

  “I know what it means.” Rhinestones was known for its scantily clad waitresses who flirted with the predominantly male patrons while serving tables, which meant Cindie was exposed to too many other men for Patterson’s liking.

  “Patterson, please tell me you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid,” Rita said, sounding more like a sister than a woman who, once upon a time, kept him warm in bed.

  Again, heat rose to his face. Rita breathing down his neck was the last thing he needed. “No, no. She’s having trouble in my class,” he said matter-of-factly. “I only want to see what I can do to help her. I thought a little background would help—would help me know where she’s coming from. It’s obvious she’s a fish out of water.”

  “But such a darned pretty fish …”

  Yes. Yes, she was. And she reminded him so much of Stevie, who he could never have beneath him. And a little of Dani, whom he’d most likely never see again. But her … Cindie Campbell … “What else do you have?”

  “She’s a high school dropout. Got her GED before applying to DeKalb. Comes from the poorer side of town, as Billy Joe Royal used to sing it—”

  “Poor.”

  “What?”

  “Johnny Rivers—not Royal—sang The Poor Side of Town. Not poorer.” He’d also written it, but that was beside the point.

  “Well, pardon me for living.” She paused long enough for him to apologize, which he didn’t. For pity’s sake—Music of the ’60s 101. “Anyway. She got her GED, came up here on some scholarships and Dr. Miller’s recommendation and there you have it,” she fired off.

  “Thank you,” he said after scribbling a few undecipherable notes onto the paper. “I owe you one.”

  “You’re darned right you do.”

  He closed his eyes, squeezing them as he gripped the phone’s handset tighter than need be. “I’ll see you tomorrow …”

  “Patterson,” she said then, her voice whispery soft.

  “What?”

  “Tell Mary Helen I’m sorry for interrupting her evening.”

  “Shut up, Rita.”

  She laughed, then disconnected the call.

  Patterson drew a circle around the initials of Cindie’s name—CC—and smiled. Everything in his life had been heading for the dumpster until two weeks ago when Little Stevie Nicks walked into his classroom. He’d seen from the first day that she was out of her element. That calculus didn’t—and wouldn’t—come easily to her. And while he’d tried to get her out of his mind—while he’d tried to stop the plot from forming—he found that he could not. Somewhere down the line he had to have at least one thing—one person—he could control, rather than feeling as if the whole world controlled him.

  He had hoped it would be her. Now that he knew about the child born out of wedlock, he was pretty sure he could bank on it. Unless, of course, she’d had some kind of spiritual conversion, which the job at Rhinestones negated.

  Everything balanced; he’d make certain she both understood and passed calculus and she’d give him the one thing Mary Helen and Stevie could not.

  Tomorrow, a new life would begin. Piece of cake.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Allison

  The second chapter in Mrs. Morgan’s marriage book talked about redeeming time. Not yesterday’s time. Tomorrow’s. Which, in some sense, becomes today’s. According to her theory, to redeem time, to make it work with you rather than against you, the total woman will sit down at night and compile a list of all the things she needs to do tomorrow. Then she numbers them according to importance. Priority. She then tackles them, Mrs. Morgan says, one at a time, never skipping to #2 until #1 has been completed. And certainly never worrying about #5 until numbers one through four are done.

  According to Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Kennedy kept such a list that was maintained hourly during her time as First Lady in the White House.

  So who was I to go against the tide of Mrs. Kennedy?

  To be honest, at first, I had no intention of keeping such a list. It seemed almost too adult, even for someone like me who, in the short course of a year, had grown up way more than I ever thought possible. But then Julie talked about her list as though it were the Ten Commandments, never to be deviated from. And, I noticed, Miss Justine kept a list—although the notion that Miss Justine had ever read The Total Woman, much less put its mandates to practice, seemed too far-fetched. So I finally broke down, purchased a composition book, and began my own daily lists of tasks—some of vital importance (like making dinner, dressing Michelle, dressing myself, and going to work) and some not quite so important (sweep the back porch, organize my sock drawer, write a letter to Grand). If I got to those things, more power to me, but if I didn’t, they’d save for another day.

  My only concession—my only personal stamp—was that I didn’t compose the list at night in some cosmic expectation concerning the next day. Instead, I got up before the sun—who would have ever guessed I was a morning person—made coffee, and then sat at the dining room table with a steaming cup, my composition book, and a Bic pen.

/>   Remarkably, Mrs. Morgan was as right about the making of a list as she was about most of the things in the book. At least as far as Julie and I were concerned.

  Julie, whose second child was due in about three months. Julie, whose life—in spite of being married to a man we’d originally deemed “the bum”—had turned out more perfect than any of us could have imagined. Dean’s job had not only provided steady income, in one year he’d won an award for a piece he’d written, published in a column he’d created. Lowcountry Profiles of Chatham had become—to my father’s shock and my mother’s delight—the must-read of the Sunday paper. Right after their first child—a boy, my nephew—had been born, Dean and Julie purchased a ranch-style home in a subdivision so new, the front-lawn sod hadn’t fully rooted to the earth. Three bedrooms, all of which would soon be filled.

  I, on the other hand, had managed to miscarry not once but twice. And while Westley had become the darling of downtown and Michelle was the princess of everywhere she went, I had morphed into the shadow who stood behind them both. Even Cindie—according to the reports she gave Westley who then thought it was his duty to share with me—glowed in every hall of DeKalb College, her academic scores impressive. Except, as Westley had informed me a few nights earlier, for calculus, which she worried would be her undoing.

  “When did you talk to Cindie?” I asked, my hands busy wiping a dish already dry enough to go into the cabinet where it belonged. I looked over my shoulder, wanting to read his expression, but finding nothing noteworthy.

  He leaned against the kitchen doorframe, a cup of instant decaf coffee in hand, and blew at it, his eyes locked on me. “This afternoon.” He took a sip of the drink, then swallowed as if it may have still been too hot to consume.

  “She called?” I placed the bowl in the cabinet; my angst over Cindie’s calls was no need to rub the pattern off.

  “Like clockwork. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

  “And Saturday,” I reminded him.

  “You know that’s to talk to Michelle.”

  I wrangled another dish—this one a plate—from the avocado-green-coated dish drainer. “Which always leaves her upset,” I reminded him.

  “Hey,” he said, his word soft but commanding. “Stop.”

  I turned and leaned against the sink. “You’re not the one who has to deal with it, Wes.”

  “I do, too, deal with it.”

  “No … that’s when you usually run whatever errand you feel has to be taken care of right then, leaving me to be the one who holds her and rocks her and reminds her that Mommy loves her and Daddy loves her and—”

  “And Mama loves her, too.”

  I placed the plate on the countertop and reached for another. Yes. Mama. The name she’d started calling me a little over two months ago. The name that brought both sunshine and heartache, especially after the second miscarriage. “Yeah,” I said, now studying the design of the plate with more intensity than it deserved.

  “Hey,” Westley said again.

  When I didn’t look up—when I couldn’t for the layer of tears clouding the pattern and threatening to give my feelings away—he set his cup of coffee on the nearby stove and moved to me. Pulled the plate from my hand, placed it back in the drainer, and slid his arms around my hips, drawing them to his. “It’s going to happen,” he said, having read my thoughts in a way only he could.

  The dam broke. “I know,” I whispered through the sobs I deliberately kept silent. Michelle sat alone in the living room watching television and playing with her toys; I didn’t want her to hear my cries. To leave her perfect little world for my torn one. “But when?”

  Westley drew back, smiling. “How about nine months from tonight?”

  I slapped his arm, now smiling myself. “You know what the doctor said. We have to wait a little while longer.”

  His brow rose. “But can we practice?”

  I stepped away from him. “Stop,” I half-teased before throwing the dishtowel over the remainder of the dishes that, I figured, could keep till morning. I reached for my ever-present composition book with the pen shoved into the metal coil that held it together. “I’ve got to get Michelle’s bathwater ready.”

  Westley’s fingers found my upper arm and squeezed. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I can do it.”

  I looked at him, studying him. He’d had a haircut recently, which had whacked away at many of the curls I so loved to weave my fingers through. His face bore the tan that never seemed to fade. His eyes the same soft and gentle nature that had drawn me to him in the first place. I smiled. Briefly. “No,” I said. “It’s my job. I’ll do it.”

  I woke early the next morning, shuffled into the kitchen aware of an early-autumn chill that had seeped into the house. After starting the coffee, I went into the dining room, flipped on the light, and then sat at the table where my notebook waited. A yawn found its way through me. I gave in to it, blinking back the moisture it brought to my eyes as I flipped pages until I came to a new sheet. I scribbled the date across the top, followed by placing a #1 in the left-hand margin.

  Put coffee on …

  I then placed a checkmark next to the words, which brought an instant sense of satisfaction and a smile.

  By the time I’d completed the list, which included Start planning Michelle’s b-day party, the coffee had gurgled its last perk and I was enjoying my first cup while placing numbers based on the order of importance next to each assignment. As I wrote #3 next to Start a load of whites, Westley walked around the corner from the living room. “Morning,” he mumbled.

  I lifted my face for a kiss, which he gave. “Coffee’s ready.”

  He strolled into the kitchen, prepared his drink, then returned to lean over my shoulder. To read over what would constitute my day. “Michelle’s party … You already thinking about that?”

  I glanced up, noting the stubble of his beard. “Why wait? Especially with DiAnn …” Both my sister and my sister-in-law were expecting now—DiAnn’s baby due on Michelle’s birthday, which had made for a lot of family joking—We can just celebrate them together—but a hindrance when it came to planning our little girl’s third birthday party.

  Westley pulled a chair from under the dining room table and lowered himself into it. “Has Miss Justine said anything to you about DiAnn’s baby shower?”

  I shook my head, then jotted a note at the bottom of my list. “I’ll talk to her about that today.” I shrugged one shoulder. “I mean, she mentioned it, but …” But, she hadn’t said too much, knowing how fragile I had been over the past few weeks since the last miscarriage. She’d been one of the select who’d even known I was expecting again. She and Westley and Julie and me. Only the four of us.

  Well, possibly Dean. If my sister had told her husband, she hadn’t mentioned it.

  Westley stood. “I’m jumping in the shower.”

  “Okay,” I said, looking up. Forcing a smile.

  He kissed the top of my head. “It will happen, Ali.”

  I nodded, keeping my eyes downcast, the words on my list blurring as all logic left my brain. Which it always did when I thought about the two babies I’d not been able to “grow” to full term.

  I’d lost the first baby on Paul and DiAnn’s boat—a boat I refused to ever get on again. Illogical, I knew, but I didn’t care. Not that it stopped Westley from going out with his brother and sister-in-law and Michelle every chance he got, leaving me sitting at the dock to read whatever book I currently immersed myself in. Or inside the house “starting dinner.”

  The second baby had been lost at home while napping with Michelle, my arms tucked around her, my body curled like an “S” around hers. After a trip to the hospital where a D and C was performed, the doctor warned Westley and me strongly that we shouldn’t “do anything” for several months that could lead to another pregnancy. “Give her body a chance to rest,” he said. “To heal.”

  “How long are we talking about … exactly?” I had asked, not wanting to waste a si
ngle second.

  “Six months would be my recommendation. Especially in cases like yours, Mrs. Houser, where the second pregnancy resulted in a second miscarriage.”

  Six months. I’d marked February 15, 1980 on the calendar with a big heart drawn with one of Michelle’s red crayons, then began counting down by months, weeks, and then days. Six months. Approximately twenty-seven weeks. One hundred and eighty-three days.

  And only a month and a half had managed to snail by. Only six weeks. Only forty-two days.

  “Wait till you see what the cat drug up to the house,” Ro-Bay said from Miss Justine’s front porch. She stood there, a broom in one hand, the other fisted and planted between the folds of flesh at the hip. I had a notion she’d been sweeping in wait for Michelle and me to arrive.

  “Wait, wait,” I said as I pulled Michelle from her car seat. The moment we climbed the steps, Michelle left me to rush to Ro-Bay and I added, “What’s happened?”

  “That boy of Miss Justine’s,” Ro-Bay muttered. “Come home last night like he was the king of some castle. Got Miss Justine all upset this morning, I’ll tell you that much.”

  I glanced upward to the span of the second floor, half expecting the face of the man I’d only seen in a few photographs to stare down at me from a windowpane. “Biff?”

  “Well, it ain’t Jimmy Carter passing through on his way from Washington to Plains.” Ro-Bay propped the broom against the closed front door to gather Michelle in her arms. “Hey, sweet baby,” she cooed before turning back to me. “That boy ain’t nothing but trouble. Nothing but smooth-talkin’ trouble. Miss Justine’s been wringing her hands all morning. You best get on inside.” She nuzzled Michelle. “I got this one.”

  I found Miss Justine in her usual place—the sunroom. Sure as Ro-Bay had said, she was out of sorts. Not her usual “well-honey-come-on-in” self. I walked over to where she sat, looking out the wide windows at the vast backyard and the lake glistening under the midmorning sun. “Ro-Bay said Biff is here?”