The Testament of Harold's Wife

by Lynne Hugo

  33

  Larry

  Larry had been careful not to go too often. He didn’t want to take stupid chances; it was too good a site except there was no place to hide the truck, and even though the nearest house was maybe a half mile down the road, he didn’t want anyone noticing. No one was likely to pay attention if they passed it once, but hell, pass the same truck parked there regularly, and it would look suspicious. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention.

  So he’d gone just a couple of times more before or after his shift, getting in and out as fast as he could to check the cameras. The place was crawling with deer; he could hardly believe it. One of the trail cameras ended up useless. The kid must have messed up the waterproof covering, but the other two made it look like the whitetails were holding conventions or something. He’d only brought his rifle in once, before work, and taken shots—it had been plain irresistible, a buck running like that, the challenge of a moving target. For the first time in his life he’d been just as glad to miss; he’d have had to go back to the truck, bring in the deer drag, his shovel, knife, all that. How would he account for his time, with LuAnn thinking he had gone in before dawn to put in overtime? He would have had to call off sick and get the carcass over to the one guy near Waynesville who’d process an out-of-season deer for extra cash. He really hadn’t thought that one through. He hadn’t been able to get a clear look at how big the rack was, whether it was trophy-size. So it might not have even been worth the trouble, to say nothing of the fight with LuAnn. Not that she was going to tell him what he could and could not do.

  But he didn’t want to fight with her if he could avoid it. Having LuAnn around paid off even beyond the sex and getting him out of jail. She’d gone to that Lodge dinner when he’d wanted to join, and talked to the women the way she was good at, which let him hang out and see what he could pick up. Now he had virgin territory to himself. That Lodge was a trip and a half. Some asshole fat guy had sidled up to him and like it was a threat when no one was around, he’d said, “Don’t ever come back here, you’re not welcome.” What was that about?

  34

  Louisa

  As I mentioned, the weather turned that day; it went from being hungover August to freshly washed early October in one diurnal cycle. Still, the brilliance of the sky that could have been a blue plate holding a fried egg yolk dousing the house with light by nine o’clock wasn’t enough to keep me from lapsing into a coma-like sleep. I awoke at twelve thirty with a sense that I’d missed something urgent.

  I skipped a shower again and just stayed in the clothes I’d put on last night, so I’d be ready to get up and get right out ahead of Larry, in case he came again, which I had no way of knowing for sure.

  “Wait for me, girls. I’ll be back really soon, and then I’ll let you out.” I didn’t know if I was lying or not. I was prepared to wait it out. Six beady, accusing eyes protested as I passed the coop on my way out to the car. Even Beth, who is usually the most empathic of the three, was clearly annoyed.

  I guess I might not have mentioned that I was going back to Larry Ellis’s house. I’m a little embarrassed to go into it, after what happened last time. You probably figured it out anyway, I suppose. You can see, can’t you, that I had to? It’s not like I was going to break in or anything. Not that again, even though I didn’t plan it the time I did.

  Remember those big silver uncovered trash barrels alongside the house? I hope you’re not rolling your eyes like Marvelle right now because it wasn’t like I was some dumpster-diving old bag lady. In fact, I thought of myself much more like a senior Nancy Drew. I was hoping that Larry Ellis was the sort who threw out all sorts of things like the envelope his paycheck came in (if he even had a job!), so I could find out where and when he worked. Anything I could glean that might help me predict his schedule, when he would be likely to be back on my property and after the lives that remained in my care.

  To make sort of a pun, I’ll cut to the chase. I failed.

  Oh, I got to Larry’s house fine, just like the other times, and parked across from it and down the road. I was going to cut in through that section of woods and undergrowth I’d used for escape. When I turned off the car, I checked the rearview mirror to make sure no one was around. I didn’t mean to look at myself, too, but I did. Or at my eyes. Then I pulled away to see more of my face because the eyes didn’t look like mine. They looked, well, deranged, for lack of a better word. I couldn’t even tell their color, but that must have been the lighting there in the car, with the sun glinting off the hood. My eyebrows looked wild and unruly, like my grandmother’s used to. There was a time I kept them plucked neat as a made bed. I need to do that tonight. What am I doing? I thought right then. What am I doing? Is CarolSue right?

  I swear to you I didn’t get out of the car. I just sat, a rag doll, only a rag doll wouldn’t have been able to smell her unwashed self. I cried. A car passed.

  I wiped my face on the hem of my shirt finally, started the car, turned around in the driveway of a white ranch house a quarter mile down the road, and headed through roads fringed with faded cornstalks toward home.

  This is the truth: I have no idea if I would have quit The Plan entirely, or reverted to the nice, tame, legal version CarolSue knew and approved of in which I just finally caught Larry on my land, called Gus, and had him arrested for trespassing and—if Gus did his job—hunting out of season and where NO HUNTING was posted. I can only say that a plug had been pulled on my confidence, which really isn’t like me. What if CarolSue is right? I thought, over and over. How can I know? Maybe this is just the wrong thing to do. You see? The plug had been pulled on my anger.

  I’ve already told you I’m not one to believe in signs, but what happened next is a doozie and changed everything. How the world can flip over, and flip over again, all of it in your mind. Nothing happens, but everything changes.

  I have a bladder the size of a pea. I may have told you this already. I’d have thought I’d cried out all the water in my body sitting there in the car, but no, as I drove back I thought there was no possibility I was going to make it home without exploding. It was a lot closer to detour to Sandy’s Mini Mart in Rushville (not even a town, just a breath while you drive through, but they have a bathroom as well as the canned goods, bread, milk, beer, and wine that save the people out here a thirty-five-minute midweek drive to a real grocery store).

  Now why would it catch my eye, having to pee the way I did, that computer-made sign in the window along with all the handmade ones saying things like TRUCK FOR SALE, and LOST DOG (BLACK, WHITE, AND BROWN), and BENEFIT FOR SAMANTHA CALDWELL, and YARD SALE?

  TENT REVIVAL

  REV. GARY HAWKINS PREACHING ON

  ENBALMBED BY GOD

  AT SITE OF OUR FUTURE CHURCH HOME!

  (in FIRST FIELD)

  Saturday 7:00 P.M.

  154 Rural Route 2

  Shandon, INDIANA

  REMEMBER! IT’S ALL ABOUT JESUS!

  It was like it was meant to happen. The outrageous spelling caught my eye before the name. Even though I practically had to cross my legs, I stopped to read it on the weedy sidewalk in front of Jamie’s. If I hadn’t gone back to Larry’s and felt that despair, I wouldn’t have been there to see it. If I believed in signs, which I don’t, this would have been a neon one saying, Louisa, you have to go on. Of course, you’ve already figured out that the preacher is my son. What you didn’t know is that address is my farm; the first field has the winter root crops for the deer.

  To know now that all that time he’d been planning to use my land—no, more: to take it, without asking, without a word to me, too impatient to wait for me to die.

  It’s so much easier, isn’t it, when things are clear? Like a running stream, no murk, no algae, no debris, the smooth stones glistening on the bottom, graspable and clean as truth. The rage I felt again then was like that, unmuddied by second thoughts, not even by grief. I could put love for my son away, as if in the back of the dark closet
in the spare bedroom with Glitter Jesus. What kind of mother can do that? I know you have that thought. Don’t you think I have felt myself failing Gary these last months?

  I used the bathroom at Sandy’s, feeling almost faint with the blood in my head. Waving off a pimply boy at the counter who asked what I’d like—the bathroom supposed to be for customers, and I’d intended to buy a Hershey’s bar—I leaned over a rack of snack cakes to tear the poster from the glass where it had been taped. “Ma’am,” the boy started to say. I didn’t hear the rest. The bell on the door rang as I let it drop behind me, poster crumpled in my hand, back to my car, to my home on my land, what used to be Harold’s and my land. Our beloved land.

  35

  Now I needed to think about The Plan and what to do to save my land, so I did mindless tasks. Plucked my eyebrows, put clothes in the washer, dusted, moved the clothes to the dryer. I didn’t even discuss it with Marvelle or the girls at first. CarolSue called, and though I intended to tell her about what I’d discovered at Sandy’s Mini Mart, when I heard her voice, tired and disheartened, I didn’t. I knew that to stay with The Plan I should go to the woods at dusk, though I didn’t have any more notion about when Larry Ellis might come back or where he might head. The phone rang as the afternoon waned. I saw it was Gary, and didn’t answer even though Beth bobbed her head emphatically that I should and waddled off in uncharacteristic disgust when I didn’t.

  I think she’s psychic. I should have answered the phone. A half hour later I heard a car door slam outside. Gary. I barely had time to compose my face, and no time to imagine what was next. He came through the front door, without knocking, wearing a green plaid shirt that had been Harold’s, and his toothy smile. He’d tamed his curly hair into a side part and slicked it down, making him look like a TV game show host.

  “Mom! I tried to call, but you must have been outside. I brought you a surprise!”

  He didn’t wait for a reaction, but lumbered toward me holding out several papers. I assumed that it was another church tract and took it, knowing that was the quickest—indeed the only—way to get him to leave. Thank heaven I hadn’t changed into hunting clothes before he showed up, I thought, but there wasn’t much time before I’d have to go. I knew my odds weren’t generous at tracking Larry, but I had the will. And the will to deal with Gary and his revival, but one thing at a time.

  “It’s lovely to see you, honey, but I’m getting ready to go out for supper.” I kissed him and we stood in the living room. I didn’t turn to lead him into the kitchen, the way I usually would have, and didn’t ask him to sit down, either.

  “Great!” He wasn’t paying any attention obviously, or he would have asked questions necessitating more lies. I was preparing what to say, but he just went on. “Look at your surprise,” he said, pointing at the papers in my hand.

  It took me a moment to decipher what the papers—a computer printout—were. I hope I don’t need new reading glasses, too, but I think it was just shock making my eyes blur: it was a receipt and itinerary for one passenger—me—to fly to Atlanta on Wednesday.

  “Gary! This is very generous, but—”

  “No buts about it, Mom. You’re staying a week, a real visit. Hey, you know these chickens are pooping in the house, right? I need to see your driver’s license to make sure it’s valid. You can’t fly without a current government photo ID, you know.”

  “Does your aunt know about this?” I couldn’t keep suspicion out of my voice. Probably I didn’t try.

  “It’s actually a present to both of you, so I wrote that card you’ve been telling me to and said I was sending you down to help. She’ll get it today or tomorrow.” He grinned, pleased with himself. “That’s why I had to tell you today. I had to give you some notice. And don’t worry. I’ll come feed the chickens and the cat. I promise I’ll take good care of them. Are you excited?”

  Excited? Trying to get me out of town so he could use my field for his revival. I looked out the side window. Flares of light glared above the treetops; it wasn’t long at all until sunset. Already the western sky was taking on a pinkish tinge. I had to keep watch in the woods, but I couldn’t let this stand.

  “Excited isn’t the word. I am flabbergasted. Why are you doing this? What is this really about?”

  “It’s all about Jesus, Mom,” he started. “He said we have to—”

  “Gary, stop. Just stop. What does that even mean? What is all about Jesus? It’s a slogan. It answers nothing. It’s meaningless. Cody’s death was not about Jesus and neither was your father’s. It was about a drunk driver who took no responsibility for actions that devastated our family. Our family. Jesus had not one thing to do with it.”

  “God has a Plan, Mom, and everything happens according to His Plan.”

  I could hear the capital letters in his voice and they enraged me. I knew I should stop. I had to get out into the woods before twilight. I should have let it go and I couldn’t. Or just didn’t. I started putting capital letters in my own voice, mine irreverent, angry.

  “No, Gary. God and Jesus did not Plan to kill off Cody any more than they Plan our wars or what spiders die under our feet or what chickens get thrush. Oma made Plans about who was using what beds and menus and so did Grandma.” I knew I was too loud, but I didn’t dial it back. “I might be capable of making a Plan to kill someone off, but that’s not The Jesus Show. It’s not All About Jesus. It’s All About Larry Ellis.” Now I was furious. “Your father and I should have been able to watch The Cody Show for the rest of our lives, even after The Gary, Nicole, and Cody Show was canceled. It damn well wasn’t God or Jesus who ended The Cody Show. Larry Ellis got drunk and smashed that TV. And it was pointless.”

  I’d gone too far, but not for the reason I thought. I thought I’d given myself away.

  Gary was crying. He turned his shoulders sideways, one hand to his face, then the other, too. Then he walked away.

  Of course I followed him. I’m his mother, and that’s what mothers do in moments like these, filled with that toxic mixture of rage and guilt that most mothers know at various times. I tried to put my arms around him. He pulled away. He seemed like he was going to leave, heading for the front door, but then his sobbing made him unsteady and he sat on the couch, doubled over his knees.

  “It’s all I . . . Mom. Don’t take . . . Jesus . . . away from me. I’m begging . . . you. Don’t take Jesus away . . . from me.”

  I’m his mother. “Oh, son . . . Okay, son. Okay,” I said, and rubbed his heaving back. “Okay, I’m sorry. I understand.” What else could I say? We sat like that a long time, my arms around him.

  I hugged him then until, face flushed and wet, voice ragged, he used one hand to smooth his hair and forced a half-smile as he sat himself upright. “I’m all right now. Ticket’s nonrefundable, so you gotta go.” He didn’t tell me why he’d bought the ticket. Even then. And I didn’t tell him that I knew. I told myself I needed time to think, and there was truth in that. And it was a lie.

  “It’s a very generous gesture,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I had no intention of going to CarolSue’s. Not on Wednesday, I mean.

  I got him out of there in another five minutes by dissembling and letting him think I’d be on the plane. I even showed him my license when he asked to see it, though it doesn’t need to be renewed until my birthday in three more years and I told him that.

  He said he’d take me to the Indianapolis airport, but I made up a story about how I’d want to shop for some underwear in Indy before I went, since it’s an afternoon flight. Like I’d dream of wanting to shop, which I hate. Have you ever noticed that once someone you love has disappointed you, it becomes easy to say and do things that should make you disappointed in yourself, but they don’t? Not at the time anyway. That had become the story of me and my son.

  * * *

  Anger is a powerful fuel. I suited up for hunting—not to hide myself, but for the protection from the underbrush this time—closed Marvelle in the hou
se, and put the girls in the coop. This really annoyed Jo, who made me chase her around the yard first, leaving me winded before I set out along the edge of the fields to the entrance to the trail I knew Larry had been on. It was only a guess as to where he’d hunt, if he came at all that night, but I wouldn’t forgive myself for not trying. I couldn’t even think about the likelihood of being in the wrong place again.

  It was way later than I wanted. The deer would be already out of their day beds and on the move, increasingly restless, increasingly closer to rut season as the daylight hours shortened.

  The pinkish sky had deepened to scarlet with apricot streaks. It wouldn’t last; the sun would set soon. “Red sky at night, sailors’ delight,” I said aloud, just as I found the entrance to the deer trail my own use had already made more distinct. I meant there’d be sunshine tomorrow and I’d have to be up before dawn to be out in the forest. Already the rifle was heavy, and I was hungry. I was so rushed, I’d left without bringing any food or water.

  I was checking my watch and guessing that there was about an hour until dark. Strange how shocked, how unprepared I was at the moment it happened: a shot. And it was close. I started to run in the direction it had come from, slowed a minute, and fumbled in the jacket pocket for Harold’s old orange hat and pulled it on hard. I wanted the next shot to be mine, a last one.

  Running is a big exaggeration for what a woman my age wearing crappy sneakers and too-big hunting clothes while carrying a Winchester deer rifle can do on a deer trail, especially if it’s not herself she’s intending to kill, but I moved as fast as I could while trying to keep the thrashing down. I wasn’t getting enormous cooperation from the underbrush, which continuously thwarted me. Desperate to find my target, I was making too much noise.