I By 7:00 p.m. my head was pounding and my back muscles tight. I was gathering some files to stuff into my briefcase for work at home when Quentin Sammons appeared in my doorway. Inwardly I braced myself. He was my boss, but he and his wife, Edna, were also parental figures, and I’d known that sooner or later he’d want to talk about the phone call that had stalled our rare office party.
“Congratulations again on ten years,” he said, gracefully lowering his angular frame into a leather chair across from my desk.
“Thanks. They’ve been good ones.”
Fleetingly I thought of what my career could have been like had I remained at Grayland Advertising, which offered me my first job after I’d earned a degree in graphic arts through the University of Arkansas. Grayland Advertising had been a flailing mom-and-pop affair that could not keep its clients, due to Ed Grayland’s ineptitude and Dorris Grayland’s constantly simmering argument with life. But it was work, and I gained experience that year until Quentin “discovered” me, as he liked to say. Alvin Kepler, the owner of Kepler Electronics, a chain of local computer stores, made good on threats to pull his account from Grayland and huffed over to the offices of Quentin Sammons’ agency. Kepler didn’t have enough derogatory words to describe Grayland, making exception only for “the lovely young blond gal” that created their logo and newspaper ad copy. “She’s sure wasting her time with that pair!” he’d declared to Quentin, who promptly called me for an interview after ushering his new client out the double mahogany doors.
Quentin Sammons was fifty when I met him, a tall, lanky figure with the most graceful, spindly fingers I’d ever seen on a man. He’d steepled them above the stacks of paper on his desk as we talked. Obviously impressed with my portfolio, he’d questioned me about my goals in “the business.” His thick hair was beginning to gray. I was struck by the aura of his agency—an insistent hum of associates hurrying to meetings, sketch pads and draft copy thrust under their arms.
“I’ve never sought out anyone to work for me before,” he’d said. “In fact, I’ve turned down many. But you show promise. If you stay at Grayland, you’ll soon be out of a job. Work here and you’ll earn a higher salary, plus I’ll be around to help you really learn the ropes. That’s my part of the bargain. Yours is—and I don’t mind telling you—that you’ll work like crazy. Nights, weekends. You’ll spend hours to come up with a brilliant advertising campaign only to hear that the client’s girlfriend thinks it’s too cute or not cute enough, and the opinion of a layperson will send you back to the drawing board. You have to possess both talent and a high degree of diplomacy in leading clients to accept what you know is right. If you can manage that, you’ll do well here.”
The talent I’d possessed. But diplomacy? I’d spent the previous seven years drifting away from people, swimming in my grief and guilt. Then again, I thought, the promised hours were appealing. I figured I could lose myself in the work’s hectic pace and have little time left to mourn all that my life was lacking.
“I’ll manage it,” I’d declared, holding out my hand. We shook on it. Now, ten years later, after a few minutes of chitchat as he sat in front of my desk, Quentin Sammons artfully steered our conversation to the morning’s event. Matter-of-factly I told him of Mama’s request. “I need to go but I don’t see how I can. I’ve got two new big accounts, plus now I’ve been pulled in on Partners, not to mention all my old clients.” I dropped my head and rubbed my temples.
Quentin was silent. I heard his chair creak, knew he was leaning back to gaze absently out my window, chin puckered, hands clasped across his chest. After Carrie’s words I now found myself waiting for his response like a child pleading for a benevolent uncle to whisk away a daunting burden. At least he wouldn’t preach.
The chair squeaked again as he leaned forward to place both elbows on my desk. He cleared his throat, his words careful. “I don’t think work is the real reason you’re reluctant to go.”
I stared at him, a denial dying on my lips.
“Celia,” he said gently, “I’m about to say some things that until this moment I’ve kept to myself. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never once talked of your parents except in grudging answers to Edna’s prying questions. You’ve never taken a real vacation. Your holidays are spent nursing old folks and working on accounts at home. We’re like family here, and you’re one of the most liked and respected of all my employees. You have such a giving spirit—yet you only allow your friendships to go so deep. I don’t know what happened to you in that little town where you came from, but I think you fear facing it. Your parents won’t be around forever. So go. We can handle the work while you’re gone, and with all your accrued vacation time, it’ll be a paid leave. Take care of your personal business. Then come back and get on with your life. I think you’ll be happier for it.”
Echoes of Carrie. Once again I was betrayed.
I After Quentin left, I gazed unseeing out my window, wishing he’d minded his own business. My thoughts tumbled from our conversation to Southern Bank, from lunch with Carrie to Partners and Mama. Partners. My eyes narrowed. Out of nowhere a catchy phrase for Gary Stelt began forming in my head. With sudden inspiration I reached for the phone to dial Matt’s extension.
“Still here, huh? Look, I’ve got an idea for a slogan for Partners. How’s this: ‘When you want someone minding your business.’”
He repeated it, rolling it over his tongue. Thought it had promise. “Hey, thanks!”
“Anytime,” I replied.
Mamie rubbed against my hand as I sat on the patio Friday night, head tilted toward reluctant stars, a mug of tea balanced on my lap. My irritation with Quentin Sammons and Carrie had seeped away, leaving me with the old emptiness and longing.
The neighborhood was quiet, children gone to bed, their bikes and balls stored in overfilled garages. I was the only single homeowner on my tree-lined street, the helpful person who could always be counted on to feed my neighbors’ animals and watch over their homes while they were on vacation. I occasionally spent time with Carrie or other friends, went to movies, sometimes hosted dinners in my small dining room. But Quentin was right—Celia Matthews’ friendships merely skimmed the surface. Like the purring of the cat at my feet, Quentin’s words rolled over me in undulating waves. I’d learned so well to gloss over my loneliness, filling my time with busyness. And for years a lulling “there’s still time” thread had woven through the tapestry of my estrangement from my parents. Now with one phone call that thread was rippling apart.
How could I return to Bradleyville and face Mama?
The day I’d fled Bradleyville, clutching every penny I owned, I took a cab to the Albertsville bus station, prepared to catch the next bus for anywhere. The next one turned out to be an overnighter to Little Rock. I remembered that ride so well—the countless stops, people getting on and off, tepid yellow lights washing over fuel-stained parking lots at midnight and 3:00 a.m. I remembered how I focused gritty eyes out the window, inviting no conversation, wondering at the sun’s audacity as it rose. I could not cry. There is a pain that finds release in tears. There is a pain so deep, so enmeshed within the very core of your being, that tears cannot touch it, and so do not fall.
I landed in Little Rock and fainted in the bus station. For days afterward, as I stayed in a hotel, I remained in a state of near catatonia. In time I pulled myself together enough to find an apartment and land two jobs—providing maid service at a hotel by day and stocking shelves at a grocery store by night. I didn’t care that the work was hard; I needed to be busy every moment so I wouldn’t have time to think. In the fall of the following year I enrolled in the University of Arkansas, keeping the grocery store job. For five years I worked to earn my degree in graphic arts. I did not date, had no friends. Like a beaten dog skulking into the forest to lick her wounds, I kept to myself. I merely studied, worked at the store, and practiced art projects over and over, defining and refining my skills. I kept telling myself I’d call my pare
nts, let them know where I was, but every time I picked up the phone, my heart would race, my hands shake. What could I possibly say to Mama? Would she even want to hear my voice? And how to apologize to Daddy? The longer I waited, the harder it became.
It took six years to make the call.
By that time I was working at Grayland Advertising. The company had shut down between Christmas and the new year, and, desperate with boredom and loneliness, I found myself propelled almost unwittingly to the phone, heart pounding.
“Mama, it’s Celia.”
A long pause, a sharp breath inhaled. “Celia!”
I heard background noise—footsteps, the receiver being pulled away—and Daddy was on the line, voice shaking, asking where had I been. Didn’t I realize their worry? Didn’t I know they’d been trying to find me? Would I come home? My throat was tight as I answered his questions, saying I was sorry I’d had to leave, that I couldn’t bear to face Mama, then or now, that even hearing her voice brought it all back. My quiet daddy talked for a long time, urging me to “let God forgive you so you can forgive.” I found myself softening. But then Mama returned to the phone, her tone reserved, cold, the way I remembered her. “Thank you for the call,” she said stiffly, as if I were a distant relation. “I hope you’ll stay in touch.” And I knew afresh that the wounds between us would never be healed.
All the same, during that call the guilt I already bore was deepened by the hurt in Daddy’s voice. After I hung up, I simply could not deal with it, and it was a long time before I brought myself to phone again. Eventually I told my parents where I was, gave them contact information. “Sometime I’ll see you,” I promised Daddy, “when I’m ready and Mama’s ready.”
There were numerous ways I could describe my guilt, each symbolizing one of its different facets. Sometimes it was a glacial lake in a yawning cave, with a sucking whirlpool at its center. Sometimes it was a steel rod through my heart, red-hot from the constant blaze of regret. Most times it was a huge movie screen that forever replayed that instant of momentous decision, the camera whirring as it rolled, the horrific consequences of my wrong choice unfolding in slow motion, the audio a raucous blare. Over and over again, a million times in the past seventeen years, those scenes had played in my head. Sometimes the reason for the screen’s appearance was obvious. Other times the memories came from nowhere. I could be in a meeting with a client or combing the hair of an elderly patient at Hillsdale. I could be driving. Showering. Falling asleep. Waking up.
Soon after that initial call to my parents I began volunteering at the nursing home, both in penance and in dread of facing future holidays alone. There I found a bottomless need for extra hands and compassion. Now, years later, I still spent two to three evenings a week plus Sundays and holidays with my aged friends, reading to them, helping them from bed to wheelchair, listening to life stories, rubbing lotion on dry, spindly arms. I loved making them happy. And I’d benefited as much as they—both from feeling needed and by filling what free time work left me. Keeping busy precluded me from thinking too much.
Sometime I’ll see you, Daddy. Sometime ....
Staring at the brightening stars, I reflected on Quentin Sammons’ words about my returning home. You’ll be happier for it. How easy for him to say. I’d long imagined that any chance for my happiness would be as impalpable as a milkweed seed drifting by. And that, preoccupied as I was with the past, even if it should appear I would lack the keen-eyed delicacy to pluck it. A return to Bradleyville was anything but a weightless milkweed seed. The mere thought of it was heavier than lead. There were too many people there I did not want to face, too many wrongs to make right. And as for Carrie’s talk of God giving me a chance to heal, I knew better. Even if my past didn’t stand in his way, my mama certainly did.
Still, one fact remained. Daddy needed me. He was calling for me, perhaps even at that moment. How could I live with myself if I didn’t help him? Hadn’t I made enough mistakes for one lifetime?
Mamie’s hair tickled my legs. I took a long drink of tea, now cold, and shivered suddenly despite the warmth of the spring night.
chapter 6
Quentin was hanging up the phone when I appeared in his office doorway Monday morning. His coat was off and dangling from a hook in the corner, his desk spread with an associate’s draft designs for a car dealership. A mug of coffee had been set on the credenza behind him, where it could not spill on the artwork.
Taking a deep breath, I made my commitment. “I need to talk to you about that leave of absence.”
That day and the next were a blur. I met with one coworker after another, going over accounts, calling clients to explain that due to a family emergency, I was placing them in the capable hands of a colleague. I wondered about taking my computer, what it would require to set up a fax line in Mama’s house. When I began asking assistants to copy files for me, Quentin quietly intervened.
“Remember what I told you?” he said. “Take care of your business at home. Call maybe, help with ideas, counsel us when we run into a snag. But leave the rest until you return.”
His gentle chastisement only heightened my anxiety. How could I stay in Bradleyville without work to occupy my thoughts?
I also had to say good-bye to every patient at Hillsdale, plus figure out what to do with my home and cats. Fortunately, Monica came to my rescue. The day I left she moved into my house, nodding patiently at my harried plant-watering instructions and petting Mamie and Daisy under their upraised chins.
“You’re wonderful,” I panted as we lugged in her things. “Don’t worry, I won’t be gone too long.”
“Are you kidding?” she said, grinning. “A cute place and no roommate! Take your time!”
The insouciance of the young.
I forced down half a sandwich for lunch and left. I drove all afternoon, fighting my memories and losing the battle. The farther I got from Little Rock, the more my dread increased. It was as if I rode a time machine, the familiar present unraveling into an inhospitable past. When I could pull my thoughts back to Little Rock, it was only to remember what the consequences of Bradleyville had cost me there.
In seventeen years I’d had only two relationships with men. Roger, an attorney, had asked me out numerous times before I said yes. After three months of dating, he finally broke through my barriers enough to convince me to tell him all about my troubled past. And like all armchair counselors, once I capitulated, he knew exactly what steps I needed to take in order to heal.
For all his good intentions, he got nowhere.
“You have to get past that guilt of yours,” he told me with exasperation four months later over dinner at an expensive restaurant. “You need to see a therapist.”
I bristled beneath my red silk dress. “No, I don’t. I’m handling it just fine on my own.”
“You call sobbing before a lighted candle all night handling it just fine?”
“That’s none of your business,” I retorted. “It’s only once a year. I told you to go home.”
“I wanted to help you.”
“I didn’t want your help. You can’t help!”
He reached for my hand. “But I want to. Please let me. You keep it all bottled up, but it’s got to go somewhere. And where it’s gone is right here, sitting between us, getting in the way of what we could have.”
Three years later Michael could do no better with me. I’d learned from the heartbreak with Roger and so had told Michael nothing. “You’re so remote,” he said one evening at dinner after we’d been seeing each other for ten months. Frustrated hurt poured from him. “You just won’t trust me with who you really are.”
On I drove. Around dinnertime I crossed the state line. “Welcome to Kentucky, the Bluegrass State,” read the large sign.
Soon afterward I left the interstate, heading east through familiar winding hills. After an hour darkness began to fall. The evening air breezed through my window and swirled my hair in floating spiderwebs around my face. Cicadas were singi
ng among the darkened hills that cradled the narrow road. Massive, gnarled oaks jutted from those hills, their dignity heightened by their blackness against a clouded sky.
Tomorrow it may rain, I thought.
Turning the wheel, I rounded a long, sly bend that curved like the crook of a beckoning finger. Bradleyville was now less than ten miles away. Childhood memories rushed me like the shadowed road leaping to life at the wash of my headlights. For some reason I thought of a day twenty-five years before, when I’d dared the biggest jump ever out of the tree swing hanging from a thick branch of a wizened oak in our backyard. I remembered pushing away hard, scraping my fingers against the scratchy rope, the smooth board pulling from my thighs. The air had been warm then also. It whizzed past my ears and shot up my nose, snatching away all breath. Or perhaps my breathing had stopped amid the ecstasy, the sheer freedom, of flying. For a moment I, at ten years of age, was suspended above the world. The idea had flashed through my head that I could conquer anything, that I, who had the courage to launch into space, could transcend it all. I was giddy with elation. Grandiose. All-powerful.
Then I began to lose momentum, saw the ground rush up to meet me. Gathering my legs, I fell, tumbled, and immediately thrust to my feet, grinning like a warrior who’d just slain her fiercest dragon. “Did you see that?” I cried to Kevy, then four. “Did you see how high I got?”
His eyes were huge. “Wow! That was great!” He ran on short legs to throw his arms around my waist in unabashed worship. We giggled and fell over, rolling and victory-punching each other like two playful bear cubs. I was only vaguely aware of the window dully screeching open above us.
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