by Lynne Gentry
Bo wipes his greasy hands on a rag. “Sounds like that serpentine belt is on its last leg.”
“Looks like you’re way too busy for that today.” Charlotte nods toward the VW’s owner who’s drifting our way like the insidious smoke of an incense stick. “Momma says you can spray the belt with something.”
Bo lifts his UT baseball cap and wipes his brow with his forearm. “It’s only a temporary fix.”
“But it’ll get us home, right?”
“Probably. But sooner or later it’s going to break, then your engine will overheat pretty fast. Y’all will be lookin’ at some serious costs. Might be cheaper to think about retiring the Escort and getting Miss Sara something more reliable.”
“Momma doesn’t part with things easily.” Thankfully, Charlotte’s not interested in telling her old boyfriend about the state of her finances or the sorry mess James McCandless has made of her life.
If putting the blame on me will help her sleep at night, then she can blame me for everything.
“Hey, C.” Winnie’s face appears in the open window. Damp strands of curly shoulder-length hair frame her tan face. She’d look almost lovely if she wasn’t wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt tucked inside the waist of her broom skirt like some sort of gypsy.
Aria leans over the seat. “Hi, Aunt Win.”
It pains me that Aria’s chosen to make Winnie Moretti part of this family but saying so makes my earlier declaration of who is and who is not family seem hypocritical. I keep my mouth shut...for now.
“Hey, Ari.” Winnie’s arm wraps Bo’s toned middle as easily as that blasted alley cat of hers wraps its tail around my leg. “I didn’t know you and your mom were back.” Winnie’s unusually attractive glow does not come from one LaVera’s creams, I can tell you that. “Why didn’t y’all call?”
“I told Mom we should, but—”
Charlotte cuts Aria off. “We’ve been busy.” Her white-knuckled grip of the steering wheel tells me I’m not the only one who’s noticed how fast the relationship between Charlotte’s best friend and her old boyfriend has progressed. “Not quite settled yet.”
“Beauregard and I would love to help you unpack.” Winnie squeezes Bo a little tighter.
“Winifred’s right,” Bo says. “Happy to make you feel at home.”
“We’re good,” Charlotte’s hands strangle the wheel at ten and two. “We’ve got eggs in the cooler and an order of Alka Seltzer for your mother, so we need to get going.”
“Thanks for checking on Mom. Her cooking probably got the best of her again.” Bo nods toward the Escort’s hood. “Keep ’er running and pop the lid, Charlotte.” Bo pecks Winnie on the cheek. “I’ll give that belt a squirt of WD40 and get you on your way.” He saunters to the tool bench in the garage.
Winnie leans in, all smiles and flush with love. “The three of us need to catch up over a glass of wine soon.”
Charlotte releases the hood latch. “Momma doesn’t drink.”
“I meant you, me, and Beauregard.” Winnie may want everyone to believe she’s got nothing between the ears, but she’s pressing this invitation because she can tell Charlotte’s miffed about something. “Hope your lawyering days aren’t over.”
Charlotte and I both perk up at this bit of randomness.
“Why?” Charlotte asks.
Winnie rests her elbows on the open window sash and waits until Charlotte finally looks her in the eye. “I’ve heard the Wootens are having a moving sale. Sam Sparks bought their property and the word at last week’s council meeting was that he still has his eyes on yours.”
“Sam Sparks will be missing an eye once I find the key to the gun safe,” I shout over the screech of the belt.
“Momma!”
Winnie leans in closer. “Hey, Mrs. Slocum. Sorry, didn’t mean to ignore you. How are you feeling?”
That everyone is so willing to drop the danger that is Sam Sparks and make such a big deal over something as benign as my possible failing mental health irritates me almost as much as watching Bo make a fool of himself over this flower child. I’ve had my car serviced at Tucker’s station since before Bo was big enough to wash my windshield while his daddy filled my tank. Never once did either of the Tucker man inquire about my health. Now that Winnie has her claws in Bo, excuse me—Beauregard—maybe she’s thinking she doesn’t want to live in the apartment above the gas station’s repair bay. Maybe she wants more and that’s why she’s taking it upon herself to increase Bo’s business by marketing this one-car garage and two-pump station as a full-service automobile emporium.
“My mail’s been a bit later than usual, Winnie.” I smile to camouflage my attempt to throw her off. “Are you not feeling well?” Smoke that in your incense burner, you, nosy hippie.
“Couldn’t be better,” Winnie’s smile is irritatingly genuine. “I’m glad you’re dropping by LaVera’s. She’s been going through Alka Seltzer like candy.”
I cross my arms. “Bo used to drop everything to see to his mother.”
“I told him he could go, but his assistant is on vacation so Beauregard’s the only mechanic in town. If I don’t get Bella back on the road, no telling how long the mail will be held up. Sorry about the delays, Mrs. Slocum, but hopefully Bella’s new radiator will get her back up to speed.”
“LaVera’s sick?” I ask. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
A shadow crosses Charlotte’s face. “It’s what we’ve been talking about, Momma.” She squeezes my knee. “Remember, LaVera asked you to pick up her order from Gert?”
“Of course.” I’m not sure what I said that was wrong, but from Charlotte’s gentle reprimand, I was supposed to have known about LaVera. But nobody told me. I’m sure of it. I try to replay the conversations we had in the pharmacy, but I can’t. “If LaVera’s sick, why are we wasting time at the gas station?”
“Bo has to fix your car, remember?” Charlotte pats my knee and I see her pass Winnie a look. Not sure of its meaning because I can’t see Charlotte’s face full-on, but from the side, her brows are raised and her mouth seems to form a plea for help.
The screeching suddenly stops and all of us breathe easier.
“Finally,” Aria says from the backseat.
Bo slams the hood. “Hope that takes you down the road a piece.”
“Thank you, Bo.” Charlotte’s digging in her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
Bo waves her off. “Tell Mom to take her Alka Seltzer but not to worry about supper. Winifred’s made some soup and I’ll run it out after I close up.”
“You’re always so good to your momma, Bo Tucker,” I say. “She won’t forget it.” I give Winnie the fish eye as we drive off. Soup? Next thing you know Winnie will be fixing all of LaVera’s meals and she and Bo will be sitting around LaVera’s table and...I can’t remember why this makes me so mad. The tears that have been building all day suddenly seep out. I paw through my pocketbook and find a tissue.
“Momma, you okay?”
When the good days come to an end, how long will the bad days last? The math is more than I can bear. “Right as rain.”
Chapter 13
CHARLOTTE
Now that the serpentine belt has been tamed, I can finally hear myself think as we zip along the country roads, windows down and the wind whipping through our hair. Momma’s not speaking to me and neither is Aria. My daughter’s earbuds are jammed in and her nose is glued to her phone—the universal teen signal to leave me alone. Normally, I’d try to relieve the tension by fiddling with the radio. Music is the one thing we last remaining Slocums can agree upon.
But trying to suit my mother and daughter would require me to act like the things bothering them are not bothering me. Which is not true. The list is so long I can barely breathe.
Wilma’s job offer is tempting. Far less money than what I’m used to making, but now that Aria and I are staying rent-free in Momma’s house, our cost of living has been drastically reduced. I might be able to swing our day-to-day expenses. No
t sure how I’ll cover Juilliard camp or any other extras, but I’ll worry about that when the time comes.
Then there’s Bo...and Winnie. They’re obviously a couple...a happy couple. I don’t know why it bothers me to see them together. Winnie deserves every bit of happiness she can carve from the ruins of her life. Bo, well, he’s one of the finest guys I’ve ever known. He would have made an excellent husband and father, but that’s water under the bridge. Letting go of pubescent feelings I once had for the boy next door is the only way I’m going to be able to keep my friend Winnie close. And right now, I could use a friend. Someone with two healthy brain cells to rub together. Someone who can help me think through my options.
Finally, but always pushing its way to the top of my list of woes: Momma’s diagnosis.
I mentally beat down the anxiety the word Alzheimer’s brings to mind and chance another glance at the woman I scarcely know anymore. We’d talked about LaVera’s upset stomach with the pharmacist, Bo and Winnie. Momma knows better than anyone that LaVera struggles with indigestion, yet all of the sudden it’s news to her. But Momma forgetting isn’t what scared me. It was the panic in her eyes when she realized she had no idea what she’d gotten wrong. I tried not to sound alarmed, but when it dawned on her that I was explaining things again, she retreated into herself and hasn’t looked at me since.
According to Benjamin, the distance between us is only going to grow. A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed it possible for us to be any further apart emotionally, but now that I’m daily in her presence, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a small crack in the ground. The earth is rumbling beneath my feet and the crevice is growing wider and wider by the second. Sooner or later, one of us is going to topple in.
I steal another glance at my mother. Thankfully, she’s quit crying. I’m hoping that she’s either forgotten why she was upset or that her tears were simply the result of today’s stressors: A definitive mental diagnosis. A prickly encounter with her arch enemy. Confusion about her best friend’s health.
When I add them all together, it’s enough to make me cry.
Considering how much everything is going to change, Momma deserves to shed a few tears.
We all do.
The Escort bounces across the cattle guard at the end of LaVera’s drive. I’m immediately struck by how well-cared-for this ranch appears to be, especially compared to the decay that’s eating away at Fossil Ridge. The parallel fence rows are in good repair and freshly mowed. LaVera’s two-story house sparkles with a fresh coat of lemony-yellow paint. Her huge yard is neat, trimmed, and well-watered. Even the abandoned chicken coop, hay barn, and empty pole shed are in pristine shape. LaVera’s home place is a testament to what loving attention can accomplish. Obviously, Bo Tucker is a much better son than I am a daughter. Another reason I shouldn’t have cast him aside and taken off.
I throw the car into park. “I’ll get the eggs out of the cooler if you and Aria want to go on.”
Momma turns in her seat. “Aria, if LaVera offers you a slice of angel food cake, smile and say thank you. But don’t take a bite. It won’t be fit to eat.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” Aria asks.
“I have a fairly effective system,” Momma says. “Ask for a tube of Berry Nice lipstick. She keeps all of those samples for herself, but she’ll share if she smells a sale. While she’s off searching for her favorite shade, drop your cake into my pocketbook.”
“Momma!” I don’t know whether to be appalled or impressed. “You used to make me choke down every dry crumb.”
“Everyone knows I love my granddaughter more than you.” Momma shrugs. “I’m teasing, Charlotte Ann.”
Although I’m not so sure she’s teasing, her quick, easy humor has made so few appearances these past twenty-five years, I’m taken off guard. For this enjoyable relic of her personality to suddenly appear today, after all that she’s been through, is an unexpected sliver of light for which I am grateful. I admit finding that part of Momma again was one of the main forces driving me back to Texas. I want to hang on to this moment. Savor the return of my positive, funny mother and the way she used to look at life...and me. Store it up for the day Benjamin says is coming. The day that mother—the good and bad sides of her—slips beyond the point of no return.
“I can’t fault you, Aria’s a keeper.” I give her a conspiratorial wink and to my delight Momma winks back.
With a pleased-at-herself smile, Momma gathers her handbag. “LaVera’s eyesight has deteriorated to the point that she often mistakes sugar for salt or vice versa. Eating anything this woman cooks should be considered hazardous to your health.”
“No wonder she needs Alka Seltzer,” Aria says from the backseat.
“This is just between us, Aria.” Momma opens her door. “Grab the pharmacy bag for LaVera.” Momma clambers out.
Arm in arm, she and Aria make their way to the front door. For a second, it is as if I’m watching Momma and Caroline walk to the door. It won’t be long before Aria will pass Momma in height. I marvel at how much they’re alike. Bold, bossy, beautiful...just like Caroline.
Momma knocks on the emerald green screen door. “LaVera!” She leans close to Aria and says, “LaVera claims her hearing is supersonic because her eyesight is so pitiful, but her hearing is going too.” Momma raps loudly on the door this time. “LaVera! It’s Sara and Aria.”
“Maybe she’s resting,” I suggest as I open the trunk to get to the eggs.
“She doesn’t believe in napping.” Momma steps inside and Aria follows. “LaVera!”
“Mrs. Tucker,” Aria calls. “It’s your neighbors.”
They disappear into the house. I dig two egg cartons out of the cooler, close the trunk with my elbow, then start up the steps. Right when I reach the screen door, a blood-chilling scream echoes in the house.
Eggs splatter at my feet. “Aria!” I rip the screen door open. Even though I haven’t been inside this house in nearly thirty years, I don’t need time to get my bearings. I race straight to the stairs. “Aria!”
“Mom!” Aria’s at the top waving me up. “Come quick. I think something’s wrong with Mrs. Tucker.” Aria wheels and disappears into the master bedroom.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I fly into LaVera’s bedroom. It smells of talcum powder, perfume, and something sour. Momma and Aria flank a body clad in an old terry cloth robe and slumped in front of a Hollywood-style dressing table. Lights are blazing on the three-mirrored vanity where Caroline and I experimented with the makeup samples in LaVera’s Avon bag.
“LaVera!” I shout, but even as I stride to her, I know it’s useless. The one person who always heard me can’t anymore. For a brief second, the world shudders on its axis.
The old woman’s forehead is pressed against the vanity’s glass top. Her ample arms hang limp. Bottles of cream and lotions are scattered across the floor. Under the broken vials, wet circles of sickly-sweet perfume are eating through the varnish on the wooden floor.
“Mom?” Aria’s small, terrified voice breaks through the rumble inside of me.
Taking my daughter by the shoulders, I refuse to crumble. “Aria, I need you to go downstairs and call 911.” I give my daughter a little shake and force her wide eyes to focus on me. “Aria. Do it now!”
Aria stutters like she’s been under water and I’ve pushed her up for air. “Should I call Bo or Winnie?”
“No!” My heart breaks at the way Momma is stroking LaVera’s hair. “I’ll do it.” Clarity breaks through my muddy thoughts and I realize my daughter is trembling. I pull her to me, hug her tight, then kiss the top of her head. “Do this for Nana, okay?”
Aria’s eyes cut to her grandmother. When she sees what I see, her breath shortens to ragged snatches. Momma has a purple hair brush in her hand. She’s gently brushing LaVera’s hair and whispering, “I promise you’ll be presentable before anyone sees.”
“Aria, go! And stay downstairs. Understand?”
My daughter nods and dashes from the room. I wait until I no longer hear her terrified feet scrambling down the stairs. “Momma,” I say softly. “Let’s wait for the ambulance.”
“LaVera’s dead. Not sick.” Momma continues gently brushing LaVera’s snowy white strands. “I can’t find her lipstick.”
“Momma,” I reach for the hairbrush. “Let me take you downstairs.”
She jerks the brush away. “LaVera wouldn’t want her son to see her like this.” She waves the brush over the mess on the floor. “Help me find the tube marked Berry Nice. I always thought the shade was too pink for her, but she likes it and I want her to look nice when Bo sees her.”
“What?”
“Her lipstick,” Momma’s teary eyes seek mine. “Please, help me.”
“Momma.”
“Help is what family does, Charlotte Ann.”
I swallow and nod, then drop to my hands and knees. There are probably twenty or more sample lipstick tubes strewn about. While I’m crawling around, flipping over each tiny cylinder, and trying to read the label through the tears swimming in my eyes, Momma’s walks to the closet and retrieves a soft pink robe.
“I found it!” I hold up a tiny white lipstick cylinder. “Berry Nice.”
“Good.” Momma spreads the robe on the bed. “First, we’ll change her dressing gown. Help me move her.”
I shake my head and struggle to my feet. “That’s illegal.”
“Don’t you wish you would have done this for Caroline?”
But I hadn’t. By the time she was pulled from the water, her terrified face looked nothing like my sister. I couldn’t even make myself look at her in the casket.
“All right.” I slip the lipstick into my pocket and swipe away tears. “I’ll get her arms. You grab her feet.” As I move into position behind LaVera, I notice a small saucer sitting beside LaVera’s head. A single bite has been taken out of a piece of dried up angel food cake.