Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  “Oh, I know … marry Calvin Klein and we’ll get all our jeans for free.”

  Cindie slipped into her sexiest voice. “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins.”

  Kyle sobered then. Blinked in a way that said he just now saw her. Really, truly saw her. “Brooke Shields has nothing on you.”

  Their eyes locked long enough—too long perhaps—until Cindie forced herself to laugh again, Kyle right along with her. “She has more money than me, that’s for sure.”

  “More money than both of us.” He righted himself. “So, Jacko … is he the brother whose wife just had the baby.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  He nodded, his eyes still focused on hers. “Yes, you did.” Then his brow shot up and the dimple cut through the left cheek again. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl,” she answered, grateful for the question. This was the most she’d ever talked to Kyle—strangely enough, seeing as they’d been roommates as long as they had—and she didn’t want their banter to be misunderstood. As available and adorable as he was, nothing and nobody was coming between her and Patterson. “Six pounds, one ounce. Velma says she’s like a little baby doll.”

  “Is your brother older then?”

  “No. Younger. Patt—” She caught herself, swallowing the name. She’d never once told a soul about her relationship with Patterson. Not even Leticia and certainly not Velma. She’d promised him that she would keep their relationship solely between them. Because it was sacred, almost. A togetherness to be treasured. “A girl I work with—Pat—says they’re just babies themselves. And I suppose they are. But …” She looked down then. Down to the newish, shaggy tan carpet that carried a few coffee stains already—mostly hers—to the base of the console where the local news had changed to national.

  Pope John Paul II left Rome today, traveling to Africa … Dan Rather reported.

  “But Jasmine loves my brother—in spite of his wild ways at times. And they both seem excited about the baby.”

  “Babies are nice.”

  “They are,” she said, now missing her own. Some days were easier than others, but the closer the time came to her seeing Michelle, the more she missed her.

  “You seeing your little girl while you’re home?”

  Cindie nodded. “Of course.”

  “Think you’ll ever have another one?”

  Cindie blinked at the intimacy of the question, unsure how to answer. She hoped so. At least, she supposed she did. Although her plans had changed drastically since she’d left Michelle with Westley and his wife, she still wanted to get married one day. Have more children. A houseful would be nice; a chance to prove that she was a better mother than Allison. For sure a better mother than Lettie Mae ever dreamed of being. But … if she continued to see Patterson—and she couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t—that would prove sticky. How long they could keep seeing each other the way they had, she wasn’t sure. Would she be satisfied with things as they were now? Or would she want more?

  Would he?

  She believed he loved her. And, goodness, how she loved him. But she also felt certain he would never leave Mary Helen. Never leave his daughters. At least, not until they were older. Maybe.

  Then again, the age difference between Patterson and herself stood up and begged to be noticed. Nearly a quarter of a century. Not that she minded. She didn’t. But Patterson, having already raised his daughters, might not want more children. Gracious, if she could bide her time, and if he left Mary Helen and they got married, and if they had kids, he’d have children and grandchildren nearly the same age. But that had been done before, hadn’t it? Men could have children at any age. Not that Patterson was just any man. He was a man who wanted certain things to be certain ways. So …

  “Sure,” she answered when she realized she’d left Kyle waiting long enough. “I guess I’ll need to start dating someone seriously first though, huh?”

  Kyle stood, reaching for the mostly empty pizza box as he did. “Won’t we all …” He looked over at her. “Want the last slice?”

  She stood with him. “No.” She pressed her hand against her stomach now paunchy from her dinner. “I really need to see if I can get out of here before too much longer.”

  He straightened. Raised the box and gave her a nod. “Hey. This was nice. Kind of a shame we haven’t spent more time together before. Karen will have to go off to Chicago and you’ll have to run late more often.”

  Cindie crossed her arms. “Yeah. It was nice.” She started around the coffee table and toward her bedroom. “I’ll—uh—I’ll just get my suitcase and then you can start your official Kyle weekend in earnest.”

  Kyle was halfway to the kitchen when she crossed her bedroom’s threshold. “Let the official non-party begin,” he called out. “Woo-hoo!”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Allison

  “Look, Mama. Somebody spilled ink on the moon.”

  I lay on my back next to Michelle in the cool backyard grass, my fingers clasped around hers. “That’s right, baby girl. And what kind of moon do we have tonight?”

  “Full.”

  “Very good.”

  “And there’s Oh-RYE-on,” she said, pronouncing the constellation Orion in her own special way.

  I turned my head toward her; she did the same toward me and I rolled over, gathering her, kissing her soft cheek and smelling the baby shampoo that lingered in her freshly washed hair. “I’m going to miss you this weekend,” I whispered.

  “I’m going to miss you more,” she whispered back.

  “But you’ll have a good time with your mommy,” I said, my throat closing in around the maternal moniker.

  “I like my Aunt Velma,” she said, then rolled on her back with a furrowed brow. “Mama, is it okay if I lay on the grass in my new shorts and shirt?”

  I laughed easily. Oh, my goodness, this child. “Yes, sweet baby. It’s okay. It’s not like we’re wiggling around or anything.”

  Michelle said nothing back for a minute, then: “Do you see that start over there?”

  “Star,” I corrected gently. “No T. Just star. S-t-a-r. Can you spell that?”

  “S-t-a-r.”

  “Very good. You’re the smartest little girl I know. Did you know that?”

  “Uh-huh. But do you see it?”

  I laughed again. “Yes, I see it. I actually think it’s Venus and Venus isn’t a star, but a planet.”

  “What’s a planet?”

  “What’s a planet?”

  Westley’s voice brought me onto my elbows and Michelle scrambling to reach her father. “Daddy,” she squealed as she ran to him.

  “You made it home,” I said. “I was beginning to think you’d decided to spend the night at the drugstore. What time is it anyway?”

  My husband grimaced. “Felt like I needed to—after eight thirty—too much work, not enough time.” He kissed Michelle’s face, then neck, which brought a melody of giggles. “You packed?” he asked, as though she were heading out on vacation. “Mommy ought to be here soon.”

  Michelle nodded and I pulled myself to my feet, brushed the grass from the back of my damp shorts, then crossed to my family. “Does Mama get one of those kisses, too?” I asked Westley.

  “You’ll get more than that later on,” he said, bringing his lips to mine as Michelle wrapped her arms around us both.

  “I love you guys zoo muuch,” she said in her way of over-emphasizing “so much.”

  Westley turned. “Is that the phone?”

  I paused, listening. “Yeah. I’ll get it.” I took off in a sprint, bounded up the back-porch steps and through the door to the kitchen. “Hello,” I panted into the wall phone’s bright yellow handpiece, the one that coordinated with the floral wallpaper I’d hung earlier in the spring.

  “Let me speak to Westley.”

  All joy rushed out of me. Cindie. I could imagine what she wanted, but I couldn’t imagine who’d taught her that Let me speak to Westley bordered on goo
d manners at any level.

  But at least my mama had raised me right. “Of course,” I practically cooed. “Hold on.” I turned as Westley—Michelle still cradled in his arms—entered the room behind me. “Cindie,” I mouthed.

  Westley’s face became like stone. “Hey,” he said into the phone while transferring Michelle to me. I held her against me as he continued with, “All right... all right... yeah, okay … I’ll see you then.”

  I set Michelle’s feet on the floor and suggested she go watch a little television. “Y’all gone talk?” she asked, straining her head backward to look up at us.

  I raised my brow as Westley smiled. “You are a very smart little girl, Michelle Ma Belle. Do what your mama said now.”

  She left us in a wake of giggles, her footsteps growing faint as she neared the front of the house.

  “What is her excuse this time?” I crossed my arms, knowing Michelle would not see Cindie that night.

  “Atlanta traffic.”

  I sighed. “Doesn’t she care—”

  “Don’t start, Ali. It’s not a big deal. She stopped at a phone booth south of Macon and called, meaning she’s not going to make it until way after Michelle’s bedtime, which …” He glanced at his watch. “ ... is about twenty minutes from now.”

  I pursed my lips. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll meet up with her in the morning.” He raised his hand to stop me from saying what he knew I wanted to say—that a mother—a good mother—would know that Atlanta’s traffic on a Friday afternoon was bumper to bumper. That a mother—a good mother—would leave early enough to beat it. But Cindie had some perfect excuse, no doubt. She always did, especially over the past couple of years.

  “All right,” I said. “Are you going to break this news to Michelle, or will you leave that for me?”

  Westley shook his head, his hands coming to his hips. “Stop it, Ali. It’s not that big of a deal. Don’t martyr yourself. It’s unattractive.”

  But it was a big deal for me. I hated seeing Michelle disappointed and I told him so.

  “Life is full of disappointments. She’ll learn that eventually. May as well start now.” He opened the refrigerator door, leaving me with the harsh reality of his words. Yes, life was slap full of disappointments. “I’m starving,” he said, then closed the door without removing a single item and turned to me, his face now full of the tenderness and love Michelle and I both counted on. “I’m sorry, sweetness,” he said, his eyes on mine. “I’m frustrated, too.”

  I stepped into his arms, felt the power of them. The surety. He would make everything all right, I knew. He’d make a fun game out of it with our daughter and she would be okay, too. Truth be told, she was more excited about seeing Aunt Velma than she was about seeing Cindie anyway.

  I leaned back to look into his eyes. “Are you?”

  He kissed me gently, then nibbled on my lower lip. “I had big plans for you and me after I took her to meet her mother.”

  “Oh, did you now?”

  “Mmm. The neighbors were probably going to have to call the cops.”

  I groaned as my legs turned to jelly. “I can probably be persuaded to wait until tomorrow night.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Tomorrow night we’re supposed to have dinner with Trev and Marilyn.”

  Ah, yes … our monthly dinner with our friend and attorney and his new bride—a couple I’d come to enjoy getting together with. “All night?” I teased, pushing myself closer to him.

  “Woman …”

  “From what time to what time?”

  “We’re supposed to meet them at seven.”

  “Can we be done by seven thirty? In bed by seven-thirty-five?”

  Westley laughed as he stepped away from me. “Tell you what let’s do—right now, you fix me a sandwich and some chips, and I’ll go break the news to Michelle.”

  “Good,” I said. “Because I believe I hear the theme song to Dallas playing and I think she may be a tad too young for that drama.”

  Westley closed the gap between us and whispered, “Tomorrow night …”

  I kissed him. “With bells on.”

  He wiggled his brow. “Yeah, we can try that.”

  He left the room on the melody of my laughter.

  “So, what’s next for her?”

  Trev and Marilyn Donaldson sat across from us in a booth at an off-road seafood restaurant that had opened only a few weeks previous to rave reviews. From the aromas permeating around us, I could see why. Everything—and they did mean everything—was beer-battered and deep-fried.

  Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight” pulsed from the sound system and Westley had just finished telling Trev about his meeting with Cindie earlier that morning and of how she had not arrived on time the night before. Trev followed up by asking the question I’d been wondering but dared not ask.

  Westley took a long sip of sweet tea before returning the sweating glass to the vinyl red-and-white-checked tablecloth while I glanced over at Marilyn with a slight roll of my eyes. She smiled inconspicuously, then looked at Westley with wide, smoky eyes. “Yes, do tell,” she said.

  After a slight shifting, Westley leaned his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. “Well, now,” he began, “there’s the rub. See, in the beginning she couldn’t get enough of telling me about this class and that event. I got every minute detail on her social calendar and then ...” He shook his head. “I dunno. She just stopped talking about it.”

  “Maybe she really is serious about school,” Trev noted. Then, when no one said anything, he added, “It could happen.”

  “Does she say anything about her grades?” Marilyn asked, ignoring her husband’s wit.

  Westley’s fingers shot up, then fell back into the grasp. “That’s another thing. To my knowledge, Cindie has never been an ace student. But she’s actually doing well. I mean ... like the dean’s list well. She told me recently that she’ll graduate after summer term.”

  Heat rose within me, but from where, I was unsure. Anger? No. Embarrassment? Perhaps. Was it not enough that Cindie had given birth to Westley’s child—a child I called my own, but nonetheless came from her own womb? Was it not enough that I couldn’t seem to get pregnant and stay pregnant, no matter what the doctors tried or how hard I prayed? Did Cindie now have to find herself on the dean’s list and near to obtaining a degree as well? Something I’d never wanted, really. Especially after meeting Westley. All I’d ever really wanted was him. Yet here I sat with three educated adults—Westley a pharmacist, Trev an attorney, and Marilyn, the principal at Michelle’s elementary school. And me? Well, I’d graduated from high school, hadn’t I? And I worked for Miss Justine, didn’t I? And I raised Michelle ... Michelle, the little girl who had somehow taken the place of—by now—the three babies I’d not been able to carry to term.

  Yes, well, that and thirty-five cents could get me a cup of coffee at—

  “Ali?”

  I jumped at Westley’s voice, my eyes coming to his. “What?” He looked up and I followed his gaze. The waitress had returned with our plates of food; she stood waiting for me to lean back so she could place them on the table. “Oh,” I said as another warm wave bathed me. I offered a smile as she completed her tasks. As she asked if we needed more tea. As Westley said, “Yes, please” and she said she’d be back in a moment.

  My husband took my hand in his. “You okay?” he asked, and I nodded.

  Now was not the time. Later ... later I would ask: After graduation, what then? Would she return to live here? Would she want Michelle back? Would Westley allow that disruption to our daughter’s life? Or would he think that now, with her degree, Cindie would be fine as a mother as he’d once promised her?

  The pain started low, near my uterus. Cramping that, at first, I attributed to too much fried food the night before. I rolled onto my back, careful not to disturb Westley who snored lightly, then turned my head to the digital clock glowing amber and red on the nightstand on his side o
f the bed.

  Four thirty-eight.

  I breathed out slowly. In through my nose, out again between slightly parted lips. Another cramp, a twisting almost, and I knew. This wasn’t nausea. My period was back after only two weeks.

  I frowned as I raised up, wincing. Had I purchased pads and tampons since the last time? Never mind the tampons; they tended to hurt for some reason now.

  But, had I? Getting them was on my list. Written neatly in my notebook.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and felt it then, that first gushing of blood. Not wanting it all over the sheets, I stood, pressing my hand against my lower abdomen while the sensation of my bottom about to fall onto the floor let me know that taking soft steps to the bathroom wasn’t an option. I nearly stampeded. Westley moaned as I reached our bedroom door. Don’t wake up … not yet.

  Blood spilled down my legs as I stepped into the bathroom, plopped onto the octagon-shaped tiles. My hands shook as they jerked my soiled nightgown over my hips in frustration, then lowered the toilet seat Westley left up at some point during the night. Men.

  Blood poured into the toilet as if I urinated and what felt like a rock pressed against my bottom, distending me. I bent over, nearly blinded by the stabbing pain. Breathing in, then out, I pulled a wad of toilet paper from the roll. Held it against me. But it soaked almost instantly and pooled into my hand.

  “Westley,” I called out, grateful Michelle was at her aunt’s and not a wall away. I drew in a quivering breath and waited. Hearing nothing, I called out again. “Westley!”

  Within a moment he stood as a silhouette in the dark hallway. He took one look at the damage, another at my face, then dashed in and dropped to the floor in front of me. His hands, warm but trembling, pushed my hair from my face. “I’m here.” Then, looking down, he said, “I’ve got to get help.”

  “I need a towel … or something,” I said, panic rising in my voice.

  He grabbed a hand towel from the linen closet—off-white with gold daisies—and handed it to me. “Not that—” I started, then shut up and folded it until it formed a large pad.