Son of a Preacher Man

by Karen M Cox

  Well, I was different from any of the others, so she might as well get used to me showing up at her place. It was time to turn on the charm. I let her have one of my best smiles.

  “Don’t blame Elizabeth, ma’am. She didn’t know I was going to drop by.” I leaned on the door frame and lowered my voice. “I wanted to surprise her.”

  She let out a little “hmmph,” but then she stepped aside and let me in.

  There was a rhythmic sound of footsteps at the staircase, and I looked up to see Lizzie bounding down the stairs.

  “Sue Ann said I had a visitor, Mrs. Ainsley,” she began, then stopped on a dime when she saw me. After a brief second of shock, a delighted smile spread over her face. “Billy Ray! What’re you doing here?”

  “Calling on you, of course.” I wondered why she was surprised. “Would you like to take in a movie? Get some lunch?” I asked, hands in my pockets. I felt almost giddy.

  She looked down at her jeans and man’s T-shirt. “I look a mess.”

  I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone look any better, but if I said that, Mrs. Ainsley might push me right back out the door. “I’ll wait, if you’d like.”

  “Just give me a couple minutes.” She turned and hurried back up the stairs.

  I smiled at Mrs. Ainsley and took a seat.

  I bought us tickets to see West Side Story at the theater and root beer floats at the drugstore soda fountain. The afternoon flew by in a series of snapshot images of Lizzie laughing, talking, and walking that would give me enough good memories and sweet dreams for a month. Afterward, she wanted to see where I lived, so I took her to my studio apartment near the hospital.

  Lizzie walked around the small room, looking at the books, and running her fingers along the countertop of the kitchenette. I sat down on the couch and watched as she made a quick circuit around the place. I drank in the sight of her, like a man parched from a long trek across a seemingly endless stretch of desert.

  She looked over her shoulder and smiled at me, eliciting an answering grin from my own lips.

  “Nice place.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Quieter than a boarding house full of girls, that’s for sure.”

  “I imagine.”

  “We’re all in school though, so when it’s test time, everybody settles down.”

  I laid my arm across the back of the sofa and crossed my ankle over my knee. She turned back to the shelf under the only window and studied the family pictures I had arranged there.

  “I recognize the reverend, but is this your mother standing with him?”

  “That one? Oh no, that’s my aunt Catherine. She’s his sister.”

  “The one you stayed with during school, after—”

  “Yes, after my mother passed away.”

  “Is that your aunt’s house in the background?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Nice.”

  “That was taken right after my high school graduation.”

  She moved to another frame—a portrait in colorized sepia tones.

  “That’s my mother.”

  She picked up the frame and studied the face. “You look like her—same eyes, nose, same mouth.”

  “I have dad’s wavy hair though.”

  “And his stubborn, chiseled jaw,” she said, smiling at me with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. She held the picture up, so she could see Mama and me together.

  “And those eyelashes of yours—pretty as a girl’s. You got those from your mama.” She paused, lowered the picture. “She was beautiful—like you.”

  We stared at each other across the room, while in my mind I imagined striding over and pulling her against me. I hardly knew myself. I hadn’t seen her in two years, and though I had gone out with half-a-dozen other women since I left Orchard Hill, I’d lived like a monk all that time. And within one day, eighteen hours, and forty-five minutes of laying eyes on Lizzie Quinlan again, all I could think about was laying hands on her too. That visceral pull between us—it was still there. If we didn’t see each other for another forty years, I knew it would be there when we met again.

  Lizzie was the first to look away, putting Mama’s picture back on the shelf and clearing her throat. “You didn’t have pictures of your family when you stayed in Orchard Hill, did you? I don’t remember any.”

  “I was there such a short time; it didn’t seem important to bring more permanent things, like pictures.”

  She gave me a sad smile. “That summer was just a flash in the pan—a stop along the way to the rest of your life.”

  “Some of the most important things happen when you stop along the way.” I gestured with the fingers that lay across the back of my tweedy, second-hand couch. “Come sit with me, Lizzie. Let me put my arm around you.”

  She sauntered toward me, grinning. “Now, that’s new.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Blunt requests. That’s a new addition to your repertoire of ladies’ man skills.”

  “I’m no ladies’ man. I’m one lady’s man.”

  She laughed. “At any rate, it’s a new twist on a two-year-old game.”

  “It’s new to me too—as in right this very minute. It’s the first time I’ve ever said it.”

  “It offsets that killer smile quite nicely. Should I be worried?” She sat down beside me, so our legs were touching. Although it was October, I felt my skin heat up like I’d been working in the sun.

  My fingers drifted over her upper arm. “You never have to worry when you’re with me, Lizzie Quinlan.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  I slid my free hand from the side of her head around to the back of her neck and drew her close. My lips burned to take hers, but I stopped a moment, looking at her beloved face, her eyes now closed. I kissed the closed eyelids, the cheeks, and then her lips.

  “Only you,” I whispered. Then I almost whimpered in dismay when she tensed and drew away.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Pretend like nothing’s changed. Pretend like we didn’t have that awful fight the last time we saw each other.” Her expression hardened. “Or maybe after you read my letter, you think I’ll roll over for a smile and a promise. I don’t do that anymore, and you might as well know it up front.”

  I felt like she’d slapped me. This girl who flitted around my dreams—who I’d fantasized about since the day I set eyes on her—brought a harsh reality crashing down around us with a few, ugly words. My pain must have shown on my face, because she looked away, apologizing.

  “I’m sorry, Billy Ray. I know you’re not like that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I guess I’ve forgotten what honest men are like.”

  “I thought you’d…well, I hoped you’d forgiven me for what I said that day.”

  She laid a hand against my cheek. “I have. I have forgiven you. It seems like forever ago. But seeing you again, it dredges up things from the past—things I thought I’d put away.”

  “So, you aren’t glad to see me.”

  “Thing is…” She knit her eyebrows in a puzzled, little frown. “I am glad to see you. I thought I’d never want to see a familiar Orchard Hill face in this new life I made for myself, but—”

  “But?” I took a finger and smoothed it over her brow, dissipating that frown.

  “But seeing your face makes me smile.”

  “Then why can’t I kiss you?”

  “Well, listen to you!” She sat back and chuckled softly. “The Billy Ray who came to Orchard Hill that summer would never have asked to kiss me. You’re different, that’s for sure.”

  “Not so much.”

  “It’s okay. I’m different too.”

  “You said it would be all right if I called on you. You said—”

  “I know what I said!” There was exasperation in her voice. She crossed her arms protectively. “I don’t know. I’m confused. I left Orchard Hill—you left Orchard Hill. What if what we ha
d in the past should stay there?”

  “Do you think it should?” My heart sank with the words.

  “I don’t know—I don’t know. I was so glad to see you the other night, but it’s been two years. Everything’s different, and yet when I look at you, nothing is. You see me just the same as you always did, but I’m not that person anymore.”

  I turned toward her, leaning my elbow on the back of the couch and propping my head on my closed hand—studying her, as I would a problem in a book or a patient on a table. Finally, I got up and went to my sock drawer.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I want to show you something.” I pulled out my shoebox and sat down beside her, placing the box in her lap.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it. There’s something in there I want you to see.”

  She lifted the lid, setting it on the coffee table and peered inside. She took out the papers, shuffling through the half dozen or so envelopes that were there.

  “Letters? To me?”

  I nodded.

  “I thought you said you didn’t write to me.”

  “No, I said I didn’t mail any.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did I write them? Or why didn’t I mail them?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Well, I wrote them because I missed talking to you. I could scribble out those sentences and imagine what you might say. It comforted me, I suppose, to have a familiar ear listen to my stories—someone who would understand.”

  Her eyes were bright, and an incredulous smile burst from her. Lord, she was beautiful!

  “Go on, read them.” I got up, not wanting to watch her while she read. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I made a couple cups of instant coffee and brought them to the living area.

  Her eyes scanned the lines of the last letter I’d written, the one right after Easter. “What on earth would induce you to sit at a bar drinking whiskey? I can hardly imagine it!”

  Feeling my face flush, I told her the story about Marian Baker and the whiskey at Barney’s.

  “Sounds like you found an unworthy damsel in distress that night. Oh, Billy Ray, what were you thinking? Flirting with a married woman? I can only imagine how you punished yourself for that.” She clucked and shook her head, just like she had in my foggy mind’s eye that night, but there was no censure in her tone.

  “I thought she was alone and in need of protection. I trusted what I thought I saw through whiskey goggles. And to be honest, it never occurred to me that a woman would try to make her husband jealous.”

  “Shame on her. She didn’t deserve your pity.”

  “My pity? I think she did deserve that, for being so desperate to get her husband’s attention. But she didn’t deserve the pound of my flesh her husband was getting ready to take out of me because I was considering leaving with her.”

  “How did you talk your way out of that one?”

  “I didn’t. Donovan pulled my hindquarters out of the fire with some cockamamie story about toddies and the flu.”

  “Quick thinking.”

  “It was.”

  “You are too good, Billy Ray. How have you made it through the last two years?”

  “I have lived in the world and learned some lessons. I’m not always so clueless. The whiskey did impair my judgment. But that night? I made it through with God’s help and good friends like Big Theo and Richard.”

  She smiled and returned to the letter. Her lips moved as she read until she murmured, “I remember this.”

  “What do you remember, honey?”

  Her cheeks pinked at the endearment I used. That was different, something I’d heard my friends do, calling women “honey”. I’d never used it on anyone though, and it felt sweet and spicy on my tongue when I said it to Lizzie.

  “When I went to Orchard Hill church that Sunday and heard your father preach.”

  When she looked up, her eyes were shiny with tears.

  “Why were you there? I’ve often wondered.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve often wondered myself. I rarely go home now, but I made a trip that weekend for Lily’s birthday because she begged me. The whole weekend in all those familiar surroundings was so odd. I walked down the street where some girls that I used to eat lunch with crossed to avoid talking to me. I used to ignore them. I strolled in front of the farm supply shop where the men used to watch me walk by with lust or condemnation in their eyes, or both. I used to stare straight at them, almost daring them to say something to me. I stood in front of the school where teachers wouldn’t quite meet my eye. I remembered very well what it felt like to be dismissed or avoided.

  “But you know what was so strange? By then, it was as if Orchard Hill had forgotten those days—even if I hadn’t. They’d forgotten how they’d treated me. People spoke to me, greeted me, as though those other times didn’t exist. Marlene Miller even asked me how I was when I passed her on the street that Saturday morning. Part of me was glad, but part of me was angry—angry that what had shaped me so profoundly was forgotten in a year. People don’t realize how the things they do and say to a young person—good and bad—stay with that person for so long. How important they are.

  “I went to see Mrs. G that weekend. I was so happy to see her, to thank her for what she’d done for me. The big favors and the hundred little kindnesses she did by being my older and wiser friend. She made me older and wiser just by watching her. And when I realized that your dad was in the church that weekend, I wanted to hear him preach. I listened to the sound of his voice and his message. It did put me in mind of you. Your voices are so alike. I hadn’t noticed that before. It soothed me.”

  Well, that was encouraging. “What was the message that morning?”

  “Coveting—or rather, not coveting.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes. I don’t think he saw me, and I slipped away before he made his way to the door to greet parishioners on the way out.”

  That explained why Dad hadn’t told me he’d seen Lizzie. I wanted to think that if he had, he would have said so, but in all honesty, I wasn’t sure.

  “Those letters—you thought about me all those times. But not all the time—not pining away.”

  “No, not really. But when I had a situation I wanted to mull over in my head, or an idea that was confusing or sad or painful, I wanted to talk to you more than anyone else.” I took her hand in my two and held it. “See, it’s been two years, but to me—in a way, you’ve been with me all along. So, it seems like you saw me change. I didn’t think I’d see you again, but I promised myself if I did, I’d do things right.”

  “Like I did at midwife school?”

  “Exactly like that. And this is my chance.”

  “To start over?”

  “If I have to, yes.”

  “Hello, I’m Elizabeth Quinlan.” She turned my hand over and shook it with hers.

  “Hello, Elizabeth. I’m Billy Ray Davenport, but most people around here call me Bill. You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, and a smile that warms me from head to toe.” I lifted her hand to my lips.

  Heat and joy burned in those eyes when I lifted my face to hers. She brought my hand back to the nape of her neck.

  “You can kiss me now.”

  Chapter 22

  About three weeks after the night of the community center mixer, I found myself sitting in the hospital cafeteria, spooning sugar into my coffee, my thoughts somewhere else. Not with Lizzie, for the first time in many days, but instead, my mind drifted upstairs to the hospital room of another young woman.

  Her roommate brought her in that morning with abdominal pain on the right side, nausea, and cramps. It seemed like a classic case of appendicitis, but there was no fever yet, although she did report feeling dizzy. The staff was in the process of scheduling her for an appendectomy. Dr. Jenkins was the supervising physician, of course, and he made the call, but I had done the initial intake and examination.

  It
didn’t sit right though, and I had come down to get a cup of coffee and try to reason it out.

  “You want some coffee with that sugar, Billy Ray? Oh, excuse me, I mean, Bill.” It was Lizzie, walking toward me with a smile on her face.

  I peered into my cup and laughed. “How many have I put in there, I wonder?”

  “At least four that I saw.” She slid into the booth across from me. “What’s going on? You’ve got that awful scowl on your face again. You know, you never used to scowl like that when you were younger.”

  “There’s a patient upstairs, and something’s bothering me about the case.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nah, that’s okay. I’ll figure it out. How are you this morning?”

  She cut her Danish with a fork and took a bite, looking at me thoughtfully. “Tell me about your patient. Sometimes if I think it out loud, it helps me solve the problem.”

  I told her the scenario, while she nodded and sipped her coffee.

  “So, she was admitted this morning with symptoms that present like appendicitis”—I finished off—“but no fever.”

  “Young woman, or older?”

  “Twenty-four, I believe.”

  “Could she be pregnant?”

  “She’s not married.”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes at me. “That doesn’t mean—”

  “I know that, Lizzie. I did ask her if it was possible, and she said no. Seemed really embarrassed too. And Dr. Jenkins seemed sure about the appendicitis when we discussed it.”

  Lizzie sat there, twirling her fork. “Hmmm…”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “It could be an ectopic pregnancy. Some of the symptoms are the same as appendicitis. Or it could be both, I guess. I hadn’t considered that.” She took a sip of coffee.

  I sat back, stunned. Ectopic pregnancy hadn’t occurred to me, and it should have. I realized how biased my thinking was, given my assumptions about the patient. I had just taken the woman at her word that she couldn’t be with child.

  “You want me to talk to her? If she is hiding something, she might be more likely to tell a woman than a stern-looking, handsome guy like you.”