by Connie Lacy
“Hullo…”
“Jenna?”
Tia sounded angry.
“Hm?”
“Oh my God. You’re not even up yet. Again. Do you know what time it is?”
But she didn’t give me time to answer.
“I want you to know I had a very interesting visitor last night. You’ll never guess who rang my doorbell.”
My eyes were closed and I really didn’t want to open them.
“A cop,” she said.
Which, I have to admit, did pique my interest.
“A very nice, and I have to admit, a very good-looking police officer asked me if you got home all right. And I was, like, in my robe, you know. It was almost one o’clock in the morning! So embarrassing. And I said, well, I didn’t know because you didn’t live here anymore. And he was, like, this was the address on your driver’s license. And I was, like, well, she moved out recently. And he was like, can you tell me where she lives. And so I gave him your mother’s address. Jenna, are you listening?
“Mm-hm.”
“And I asked him what the problem was and he was a little vague and said he just wanted to make sure you got home all right. And then he was gone. So, what the hell was that all about?”
“I ran out of gas.”
“Why do I not believe you?
“Tia, don’t call me a liar again.”
“I didn’t call you a liar.”
“Yes, you…”
“All right, I called you a liar last time, but Dad says you did ask him about a genealogist.”
“Listen, I ran out of gas on my way home from the theater last night and a couple of cops helped me get some gas. I had no idea they’d check to see if I got home. I’m sorry they woke you up, okay?”
I wasn’t about to tell her the whole story.
“I wasn’t asleep,” she said.
And then my phone was beeping.
“I’ve got another call,” I said. “Later.”
I hung up to answer the other call. It was Mrs. Robertson, her voice so cheery and loud that I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
“I’ve got time to meet with you if you can pick me up in an hour,” she said. “I want to take you on a little field trip.”
Miraculously, I was only five minutes late, after jumping in the shower, throwing on some capris and a top and stopping to get gas on the way. She slid onto the front seat beside me, a black leather briefcase hanging from her shoulder to match her black and white outfit.
“You know where the Decatur cemetery is?” she asked, as she buckled her seat belt.
“Sure.”
“That’s where we want to go.”
“But my dad’s family is buried at Northview.”
“This is about your mother’s family.”
“But my mom was…”
“Cremated, I know.”
I started to say something else but decided to zip it, even though it was my father’s family history I was anxious to learn more about. I thought I’d made that clear when we first met but couldn’t recall our conversation clearly. Still, after that grim vision I’d had of my dad the night before, I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find out anymore.
Twenty minutes later we were strolling between granite headstones. The humidity was high but the clouds were thick so it was tolerable in the midday heat.
“Here we go,” she said, stopping in front of a large tombstone, after consulting notes on her phone.
The marker was engraved with two names, John William Kelly and Evelyn Mary Kelly. John was born in 1930 and died in 1981, Evelyn was born in 1939 and died in 1994.
“Your grandfather died in a car accident,” she explained. “And your grandmother died young, just like your mother. Cause of death listed as a heart attack. Just like your mother.”
She led me deeper into the cemetery until we were standing in front of another set of grave markers. They were older and more weather beaten.
“These are your great-grandparents. Your mother’s mother’s parents.”
The headstones read: Thomas Richard Murphy and Alice Mae Murphy. Thomas was born in 1914 and died in 1989. Alice was born in 1919 and died in 1965.
“Notice a pattern?” she asked.
“Heart attack too?” I asked.
“I didn’t find a cause of death. Now, where’s the other one?” And she looked at her notes again. “Oh yes. This way.”
She walked deeper into the cemetery until we were in a much older section with tombstones whose engravings were worn with time. She led me to a plot with two small markers.
“These are your great, great grandparents – Esco Jonathan O’Donnell and Mary Grace O’Donnell. Esco born 1890, died 1958. Mary born 1899, died 1931.”
“Of?” I asked.
“Committed suicide.”
Which made me sad and scared at the same time.
“Because of the suicide, I wondered whether the other women who died young might’ve had some mental health issues,” she said. “So I poked around a little and found out that your grandmother, Evelyn Kelly, was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in the 1980s after her husband died. Treated for depression. I couldn’t find any evidence that your great grandmother had psychiatric problems, but if I keep looking, I might. Depends on whether you want me to spend any more time on that.”
She slid her phone carefully into her purse, waiting for my reply.
I looked up at the clouds, wondering how far back the vision-sight curse extended. Was it a genetic mutation that passed this infuriating gene along the matrilineal line? Fascinating. But not what I needed most to find out right now.
“Or,” she continued, “I can trace your mother’s patrilineal line. Or maybe you’re more interested in having me spend time tracing the families back to Europe.”
“I’m not sure what kind of focus I’m most interested in for my mom’s side. But I’m keen to know more about this kind of stuff – you know, medical issues, diseases, things like that – about my Dad’s side of the family.”
Bottom line: was my dad a ticking time bomb?
14.
A shiny black pickup was parked in front of my house when I got home. And a man was sitting on the front porch in jeans, a faded blue tee shirt, sunglasses and a Braves baseball cap. He looked to be on my side of thirty. He stood up as I climbed out of the car and I guessed he was about six feet.
“Hello,” he called. “I noticed your lawn needs some attention and wondered if you could use a yard man.”
I looked around at what had always been a perfectly manicured lawn as far back as I could remember. I was stunned at what I saw. Knee-high grass, overgrown bushes and the flowers my mother had carefully tended were mostly dead. On top of that, there were bits of trash here and there that must’ve been blown by the wind. A plastic grocery bag dangled from a big holly bush at the corner of the house. Embarrassing. How could I not have noticed how shabby it looked? The neighbors never said a word. Damn considerate, I thought, that they hadn’t marched over to my door and demanded I clean up the joint. And then it occurred to me – maybe it was one of the neighbors who called the yard man.
I took off my shades and he did too. He had a friendly, down to earth look about him. Light freckles, short brown hair, fit looking – like he was used to physical labor.
“Brian Mitchell,” he said, shaking my hand.
“Jenna Stevens.”
He had a melodious voice that made me think he might be a singer.
“So…” he said.
“I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t even noticed, which must sound kind of pathetic.” I could hardly get the words out of my mouth and I wasn’t entirely sure he heard me.
“So you want me to…”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Thanks.”
And I hurried up the steps, needing very much to get inside.
*
There was no way I could get out of going to the baby shower. So I put on a happy face and did my best to help out. It was hosted by
Meg’s sister at her suburban McMansion. Huge rooms, tall ceilings and no trees in the yard.
Her sister and mother were so excited Meg was finally having a baby. I heard them talking in the kitchen with one of Meg’s old girlfriends about how they’d been afraid she wouldn’t get to have kids at all, and what a shame it would be since they knew she’d be a great mom.
It wasn’t a typical baby shower. Not only were most of the people there middle-aged, there were a lot of men too – co-workers of Meg’s, co-workers of Dad’s, friends, relatives and neighbors. Not at all like either of the baby showers I’d been to with young women comparing how long their labor lasted, how tough the birth had been and telling stories on their young husbands. No one tried to scare Meg about what labor would be like or how exhausted she’d be after the baby came. If anything, the guests seemed to avoid that kind of talk altogether, which made me think everyone else might be as concerned as I was about the age of the parents.
Except for my grandfather, who, I guess couldn’t help himself. I heard him telling a couple of guests it would be a lot cheaper if they’d just wait for grandchildren, which might not be too far off. Grandma wagged her finger at him like he should keep his mouth shut and I cringed at the implication.
Dad and Meg were so busy visiting with everyone, they didn’t have time to notice I was avoiding them, freshening up the hors d'oeuvres or folding empty gift bags. They oohed and aahed over the soft, blue hand-knitted baby blanket I gave them. It was a substitute, though, for what I really wanted to give them, which was health and long life.
Another difference was that at this baby shower, wine and champagne were served. Which suited me fine. I refilled my glass several times in the kitchen.
When all the presents were finally unwrapped and I finished making the list of gifts and gift-givers, I snuck out and headed home. I called Sam as I drove and he answered just as I was about to hang up.
“Hey, babe,” he said.
“I’ve only got a week left before the show’s over.”
“I know.”
“You still want me to come?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“You don’t sound…”
“I want you to come,” he said. “I’m casting you in Steel Magnolias. But we’re in final rehearsals. Funerals opens Thursday. No time to talk. So, ciao for now!”
And that was it. I set the phone on the seat beside me. I still hadn’t told anyone I was leaving. It was better if I waited till the last minute. Less time for people to try to dissuade me. Of course, who knows, maybe they’d be relieved to see me go.
*
The play had gotten good reviews and we were sold out for our last four shows. Standing ovations every night. No one missed a line. Everyone totally in character. Rachel said we were a well-oiled machine.
I had learned to gaze lovingly into Randall’s eyes while thinking of how he was screwing his way through life with his young co-stars, never allowing myself to be completely absorbed in my character.
After our final curtain call, we all changed into party duds and gathered at Rachel’s Midtown high-rise condo. Who knew she was rich? It was on the twenty-first floor and had a stunning view. Her husband, Ken, was a developer and I heard him talking about their other home in Colorado.
Everyone was there, actors, stage crew, managers, business office folks. Everyone but Sam, that is. Melanie brought a tall, handsome guy as her date. Justin, the guy who played her husband in the play, brought his boyfriend, who was also an actor. Helen was with her chubby, grey-haired husband. And Randall introduced his wife Wendy who was wearing a low-cut, royal blue cocktail dress, her ample cleavage on display. I tried to feel some sympathy for her, after having that tawdry vision with Randall. But she gave me the evil eye, which I guess shouldn’t have surprised me since I got the part she wanted.
Rachel and Ken had hired a bartender for the occasion, who served up all manner of fancy cocktails. When I asked him to choose a drink for me, he looked at me for a moment and then whipped up what he called a Spicy Mangotini. He laughed when I returned a few minutes later for a second one. We were all enjoying ourselves chatting, taking in the view, recalling our favorite moments from the show and talking about upcoming auditions, when Randall’s wife suddenly appeared in front of me.
I was half-way through my third drink, but she was obviously way ahead of me. She must’ve started before she got to the party because even I could see her eyes were glazed and her head wobbled like a bobble-head doll. Now that I was up close, I could also tell she was a little older than I thought that day in the lobby. And her breasts looked like they were about to explode from her dress at any moment.
“What do you think of the view?” she said, slipping her arm through mine like we were close friends and pulling me closer to the large windows.
“Makes me wish I was rich,” I said.
When we were directly in front of the windows, taking in the lights of the Atlanta skyline, she whispered to me so no one else could hear.
“I saw the show, like, eight times.”
“Wow.”
“And I know you enjoyed pretending Randall was your husband. Kissing him every night, probably sticking your tongue down his throat, wrapping your arms around him, rubbing your body against his. And that’s just what happened on stage!”
“What?” I blurted, trying to pull my arm free.
“I know all about you and Randall,” she said, holding my arm tight against her. “And I just want you to know…”
“Randall and I never…”
“…that I carry a gun,” she said.
“I don’t even like your husband!”
And I jerked my arm free, dropping my glass, which shattered on the ceramic tile floor.
“You can’t fool me. I know what’s been going on,” she said, her voice rising and her eyes bulging. “Always late getting home, smelling of alcohol and women’s cologne, talking about Jenna this, Jenna that.”
“I can assure you I would never have anything to do with your husband,” I whispered. “Not in a million years.”
I whirled around and strode across the room as the guests turned to stare, including Melanie, whose eyes darted about like a driver caught doing sixty in a school zone. Randall disengaged from a small cluster of people and sprinted toward his wife, which meant we were on a collision course. While I was actually heading for the door to escape the extreme unpleasantness, my anger erupted when we both reached the middle of the room.
“Asshole!” I hissed, blocking his path. “You cheat on your wife and then use me as a decoy. Is that what you do every time? Trick your wife into thinking you’re screwing Actress A when you’re actually screwing Actress B?”
“You’ll never get another part in this town,” he said, his voice low and menacing.
And I remembered then who I was talking to – the pampered son of one of Atlanta’s wealthiest arts patrons. But I couldn’t stop myself.
“And Melanie, get your butt over here,” I said, using my stage voice. “I’m not taking the fall for you.” I looked at Wendy then. “Here’s the actress your husband’s been screwing. Not me. But keep in mind – he’s the one cheating on you. Also keep in mind he’s a repeat offender.”
No one said a word as I stalked out, although I did notice the bartender grinning as he wiped the bar with a white cloth.
15.
Sam had texted me the address but I was beginning to think my GPS was screwed up by the time I pulled onto Elizabeth Lane. Was there another street with the same name and I just had the wrong zip code? It was a rundown, old neighborhood just north of downtown Charlotte. Lots of warehouses turned into apartment buildings, refurbished old wooden houses, big trees and people walking along the sidewalks. I parked and double-checked the address, looking across the street at a duplex painted aqua with a pink crepe myrtle in front. 213A and 213B had separate entrances on either end. A large oak shaded the small front yard. I rolled down my windows, turned off the engine and s
at there. Rock music was blaring from somewhere. And the aroma of ethnic food reminded me it was supper time and I was hungry. I rolled up the windows and got out, locking the car as I strolled toward 213B.
Tapping on the door brought no answer. I knocked again. Nothing. I texted him. No reply. I called his cell phone. Voice mail answered. I reluctantly left a message. “I’m standing outside your door. At least I think it’s your door.”
When I talked with him just before leaving home, he said he’d be here, that we could have dinner together. So maybe he was on his way home. I sat on the porch steps and waited. Which was fine, really. Maybe it would help calm my nerves. The closer I got to Charlotte, the more uncertain I’d become. Was I doing the right thing? But was there a right thing? I didn’t know anymore. As I sat there on the hard concrete, it occurred to me that I could just jump back in my car and take off. I could head back down I-85 if I wanted to or I could drive east all the way to the beach. What the hell. But, of course, this was a good opportunity for me, getting another acting job so quickly. It might lead to bigger and better things. And there was something about Sam that I found… what? Stimulating? Plus, there was the added bonus of not being constantly on edge about having a vision.
About thirty minutes later I heard someone call my name. And there he was, jogging straight for me, grinning. He was dressed in baggy shorts and a blue polo, his dark hair longer and shaggier than the last time I’d seen him, which made him look sexy. He closed the distance between us and pulled me into an embrace and kissed me. It was not just a quick hello kiss either.
“Welcome, gorgeous,” he finally said, leading me up the steps. He unlocked the door and ushered me into a messy living room, two beer bottles on the coffee table, clothes draped on a chair. “Come on,” he said, taking my hand again and drawing me through the hallway to a bedroom. “This is yours,” he explained, then flipped a pale green bedspread down. “Let’s break it in.”