The Shade of My Own Tree

by Sheila Williams

  He stopped and looked at me, his dark eyes sparkling with merriment.

  “We haven’t confirmed that she’s a vampire yet.”

  “I would say that her application has been accepted, wouldn’t you?” Jack said sarcastically.

  I shrugged my shoulders and busied myself with a piece of calamari that kept slipping off my fork. Finally, I just gave up, picked it up with my fingers, dipped it in the spicy Thai sauce, and popped it into my mouth.

  “What can I tell you? River people are different.”

  It was when we were having coffee that he reminded me of something that I had forgotten about. It was something that I had hoped that he had forgotten about, too.

  “I need to tell you something,” Jack said, turning his coffee cup around in his large hands.

  “OK,” I said slowly. There was another paddle wheeler going upriver, but I turned my attention away from the window.

  “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, and …” Jack paused. It was strange to see him searching for words. He seemed nervous, which was not like Jack at all. “And I don’t want you to feel self-conscious, but I think I need to clear the air.”

  Clear the air. Uh-oh. A phrase that always spells trouble.

  Now I was getting nervous.

  Jack paused again and then plunged ahead.

  “I saw you one night in the crisis center. I volunteer my services there as a handyman of sorts. LaDonna, Nancy, or whoever’s on duty leaves a list on my fax machine, and I follow up. That night, they had a broken pipe.”

  I clutched the coffee cup so tightly that I could have crushed it. I felt a stone settle in my stomach. Its name was “shame.”

  “You were sitting in a corner. You looked … so … sad. I asked you if you wanted the light on, and you said, ‘No, thank you.’ And then, I left.”

  “I remember,” I murmured. I studied the swirls of cream in my coffee as I stirred. I busied myself with the sugar packets even though I don’t take sugar in my coffee. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t.”

  Jack’s warm hand settled onto mine.

  “Opal.”

  Very unwillingly, I looked up. I was so humiliated, so embarrassed. All these months, I’d thought that he hadn’t recognized me. I was sitting in the shadows, wasn’t I? He probably thought I was a deadbeat, an idiot. Who the hell else would stay in a marriage like mine for almost a quarter of a century? If I’d been younger, I probably would have cried. But I was too old. And most of my tears had dried up years ago. I managed to look him in the eye, but my throat was tight and dry and I couldn’t say anything.

  “Opal, none of what happened to you has anything to do with us. And I hope … that there will be an ‘us.’ ”

  “Why … why do you volunteer for the crisis center?” I asked finally.

  His answer was simple, but it wasn’t what I was expecting.

  “It’s because of my sister,” he said.

  I knew that he had a sister a little older than he was. But when I said so, he shook his head.

  “No, not Theresa. Linda. My twin. She married a sick bastard who abused her. But there wasn’t a place like the Center where she lived, and every time she tried to leave he followed her and forced her to come back. The police …” Jack paused for a moment before he continued. “She went to the police, but they said that they couldn’t do anything until he did something.”

  I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. I knew this story by heart, even the ending.

  “They kept their promise. They arrested him after he shot and killed her.”

  “I’m sorry.” It was all I could think to say.

  Jack shrugged his shoulders and picked up his glass.

  “I couldn’t save my sister,” he said simply. “So, I offer my services to the crisis center. Maybe, in some way, it will help another woman and her family.”

  I looked out the window again.

  “What you did took a lot of courage, Opal,” Jack continued. “That’s why I haven’t said anything. Until now. I didn’t want you to think that I felt …” He paused as if he was looking for the right words. “I didn’t want you to think I felt sorry for you or thought you were weak or anything like that. You’re a brave woman; you have no idea how brave you are. My sister was brave, too. But her luck ran out.”

  Our conversation had a sobering effect on the rest of dinner. That was to be expected. But it wasn’t a negative thing. I was quiet but not sad, and I wasn’t embarrassed anymore. And Jack seemed to be relieved that he had gotten something off his chest. In the twilight, we walked back to the yellow house. The birds chirped, but they were saying good night as they headed for nests and sleep. The lightning bugs sparkled here and there, announcing the transition from day to night. And Jack and I walked hand in hand down Burning Church Road in the warm, familiar silence of an old couple.

  Chapter Eleven

  Is there a quotation in the Bible that says, to paraphrase, “There’s no rest for the wicked”? Or is it “no rest for the weary”? I should know this from over twelve years of Baptist Sunday school. But I can’t remember everything, plus I like the second version best. There is, absolutely, no rest for the weary. The more stressed out, put upon, tired, and worn out you are, the more crap will come your way. It’s a guarantee that you can get in writing.

  I am trying my best to enjoy the small peaceful moments in between the chaos and catastrophe. Sitting on the front porch in the twilight and petting the dogs or painting in the sunlight of a quiet Saturday morning before the rest of the world gets up. These are the treasured times to be guarded jealously. Because it seems that since I opened the doors of the yellow house, drama has followed me in. And that’s Drama with a capital D in bold letters and in neon lights.

  What happened to providing a little bit of peaceful sanctuary for women who needed it? The dream was very different from the reality. I had forgotten that I was dealing with people. And people bring problems with them in grocery sacks, beat-up suitcases, and, sometimes, matched sets of designer luggage. Of all people, I should have known this, considering all of the baggage that I lug around.

  The days came and went, some better than others. And, as can be expected, on the day that was the absolute worst of the week, the floodgates burst open.

  It was one of those days.

  The human spirit is tremendously resilient. It can withstand the most horrific of circumstances, whether of human or divine creation. Floods, famine, cancer, death, severe illness, financial decline, the human spirit comes through these with the light of survival and hope every single time. It is not these larger-than-life situations that beat us.

  It’s the little things.

  It was a Tuesday. Of course. A day from hell is never on a Friday so that you can rest up and recover on Saturday. It is always on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, leaving you in a nasty mood for the rest of the week.

  First off, I overslept. Then, I realized that I hadn’t laid out my clothes the night before, so I spent ten minutes rummaging around my closet trying to find something to wear. I had an 8:30 meeting with a new client, so I wore a skirt. Unfortunately, my last pair of panty hose had a run in them. The shower I took wasn’t as warm as I liked it, so I made a mental note to check the water heater. Wells had eaten something that disagreed with him and thrown up on the carpet next to my bed. And, the crowning glory of the day, I started my period. I was so mad that I was yelling at the Menopause Goddess.

  “Hey, bitch! I’m forty-eight; I thought I wasn’t going to have to deal with this anymore!”

  She laughed and threw me a tampon.

  So, it was one of those days.

  I barely made the meeting on time and then returned to my desk to find fifty E-mails and that charming little message that pops up on your voice mail: “Your mailbox is more than 85% full! Please delete unwanted messages or greetings.”

  I was growling at the
computer screen when Bonnie at work popped her head over the top of the divider separating my office from hers.

  “Opal! Have you heard the latest?”

  I picked up the receiver of my phone that hadn’t rung and shook my head at Bonnie.

  “This is Opal Sullivan.”

  Bonnie moved on to the next victim.

  Another coworker called about an issue that he thought I should know about. I growled at him, too.

  “Tom, that’s nice, but you need to tell someone who cares.” I hung up.

  Then, the new up-and-coming executive strolled by. He was the boss’s golden boy and too cocky and too cute for words. I can’t stand him. He is one of those MBA wonders who are a fountain of the latest business lingo and not much else. I am not cut out for that kind of business acumen. I don’t care about “value added,” I am not a “team player,” and the only time I sing off the same page is in church. He intimidates most of the other people around here, but as I am the only old black broad with an attitude in the office, most of his barbs bounced off me like a Wilson basketball on the court.

  We traded a few insults when he finally turned to leave, with a smirk on his face that said, I’m going to talk with Kellner about you.

  His parting words were, “What’s the matter with you? You on your period or something?”

  I grinned at him like the Grinch did just before he stole Christmas.

  “Yes, I am, but that’s my excuse. Is it yours, too?”

  He turned red and left.

  Most of the office were walking a wide berth around me by lunchtime.

  And then, the crowning event of the day was a telephone call from Ted.

  “Opal Sullivan, may I help you?”

  “Yeah, bitch, you can help me.”

  The anger seeped through my shoes again and started up my legs. The cramps in my back disappeared and I felt my eyes narrow and my mouth pull back, baring my teeth. Standing at the copier, Bonnie glanced my way. Her eyes widened as if she had seen Godzilla.

  I let him rant for almost a minute as I continued to sift through my E-mails. That DELETE button works really well; did you know that?

  Ted paused in his rant for a moment, realizing that I had not said anything to him. Silence always drives Ted crazy.

  “Opal! Are you listening to me?”

  I deleted the last E-mail with a flourish and turned my attention back to the telephone.

  “You know what, Ted?” I said, the hostility and anger dripping from my voice. “If you don’t like the damn agreement, don’t sign it. If you don’t want to pay the money, don’t pay it. And since you want to be an asshole about paying for your only child’s education, then I’ll make sure that she stops in to see you so that you can tell her that to her face. But, as far as I am concerned, you aren’t doing me any favors and I don’t owe you a damn thing. You can do what you want to do; just leave me the hell alone.”

  “You know what? I just might come over there and—”

  I was seeing red again.

  “Ted, today is not the day,” I told him. And I hung up the phone.

  Of course, I knew that it was just a matter of time before another shoe dropped.

  I drove home like a crazy woman, ready to shut myself up in my third-floor sanctuary, sit in a bathtub of water, and soak for about six years, until the world came to its senses. I was sick and tired of being on edge. Tired of fighting and being afraid all of the time. Hating Ted and his threats. I almost wished that he would come over so that we could have a showdown. And then it really would be over, one way or another. That’s an awful thing to say, but I was tired and crampy and my back hurt. And I was feeling real sorry for myself. How did I ever think that I could have some peace in my life? How stupid was I?

  I passed through the dining room and yelled at Rodney, who was cleaning up for the day. He was working on the plaster repair and doing a decent job. But I wasn’t an appreciative client that day.

  “Will you be finished in this century, Rodney?” I asked him curtly. “My daughter will be home in a few weeks.”

  Rodney, bless his heart, took no offense.

  “Absolutely,” he replied cheerfully, dipping his brush into a bucket. “Almost wrapped up here!” Then he added, “Hey, Opal? There’s something I need to show you—”

  “Not today, Rodney,” I snapped, my heels clicking on the shiny wood floor. I felt like a Victorian schoolteacher. I was not in the mood for any shit today. “Probably wants more money,” I grumbled to myself.

  “Right,” said Rodney. He’d noticed my bared teeth. “It can wait. Maybe tomorrow?”

  Troy was coming in through the back door.

  “Wipe your feet, Troy,” I snapped at him as I got a glass of water.

  “I did,” he said.

  “No, you didn’t,” I snapped back. “Wipe ’em.”

  Troy took one look at my face (which resembled an alien monster from a sci-fi movie) and decided not to give me another smart answer. He wiped his feet and headed up the back stairs to the room he shared with his mother.

  I heard Rodney’s truck pull out of the driveway and looked out the back window. Dana’s curtains were open. That was different. Then I looked out toward the rose garden.

  Gloria was home early. Some days she worked 6:30 until 2:00; other days she worked later. She was standing in the rose garden, but she wasn’t working. She was talking to a man I hadn’t seen before. A tall, thin man with collar-length blond hair, who wore a baseball hat, work shirt, and jeans. He was smoking a cigarette and looking down at his feet as he talked to Gloria. She stood about six feet away from him, her legs planted in the ground, her arms folded across her chest. I couldn’t see the expression on her face.

  I am not usually nosy.

  OK, I am nosy, but when it comes to the women who share the yellow house with me, I try to give them enough room to work out their own problems. My job is not to act as a counselor. My job is to provide a place.

  But I was curious. Since she’d been here, the only person I’d seen in Gloria’s family, besides Troy, was her brother, who was still nameless.

  The man talked for a while, chain-smoking. I saw him raise his head once, then look down again as if looking Gloria in the eye was hard for him to do. I guess it would be after he’d almost burned her to death.

  When Gloria said something, she backed up a step, a movement that troubled me. She kept her arms folded and she wasn’t smoking. She even turned down a cigarette when he offered her one. That action worried me, too. Gloria would not turn down a cigarette from the Devil.

  Finally, the man threw his cigarette down and moved toward Gloria, his arms open and outstretched. I started to open the back door.

  But Gloria must not have felt his movements were threatening, because she didn’t move, and the man, after talking earnestly for a moment, finally shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He moved briskly down the garden path and disappeared around the other side of the house. I didn’t remember seeing an unfamiliar car or truck parked near the house, so I assumed that he had walked here.

  I set aside my plans for a bubble bath and decided that it was time to think about dinner. I was still thinking about it when I heard the back door open behind me.

  “Saw you looking through the curtains,” Gloria said. She headed toward the sink to wash her hands. I was rummaging around the pantry looking for another jar of mayonnaise for the tuna salad that I was making.

  “Sorry. I was trying not to be obvious,” I said. “And I don’t mean to be dipping in your business.”

  Gloria smiled weakly.

  “Opal, that doesn’t matter much. If it weren’t for you, the only business I’d have would be me and Troy out on the streets somewhere.”

  I shook my head.

  “Nope, Gloria. You’ve got too much goin’ on for that to happen.” I rinsed off the celery and started chopping.

/>   She sat down wearily in a chair.

  “That was Butch, in case you hadn’t guessed. My brother told him I was here. Sorry.” I shrugged. “He wants me to come back with him. Says Troy needs his daddy. Says I need a man. Says he’s found Jesus.”

  I didn’t look up from my chopping. Didn’t want to lose a finger.

  “Jesus must get lost a lot,” I said. “Someone should give him a map from Triple A.”

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” Gloria sounded more tired than I felt. I turned around. Her voice was rough and hoarse. “I want a good life for Troy. I know he needs his daddy. Every kid needs a daddy. And Butch is workin’ again; he got his old job back at the dealership. It pays good.” She stopped for a moment and looked at me. I bit my tongue. Sometimes, I talk too much. And sometimes, I interrupt. This was not the time for either of those. Gloria needed for me to listen.

  Without thinking, she lit a cigarette, took a deep drag on it, then rolled it over and over in her fingers.

  “But I been married to him for twelve years and he’s punched me around for most o’ those. The only time he didn’t slap me was when I was carryin’ Troy. I think he was afraid I’d lose the baby or somethin’. He says he’s stopped drinkin’. Says this new preacher at the Pool of Bethesda has helped him … see the error of his ways and find Jesus.” At this turn of a phrase, Gloria laughed bitterly and looked up at me. There were tears in her eyes. I felt a lump form in my throat. “As if the man were wanderin’ around the country trying to find the interstate or somethin’. I felt like sayin’ the same thing you did: ‘Butch, Jesus isn’t lost. You’re the one that was lost.’ ”

  She blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

  “He’s pounding on me, Opal. Not literally, I mean; he keeps talking at me. He needs me. He needs us to be together. He needs Troy. Troy needs him.…”

  I took a deep breath and broke my silence.

  “What do you need?” I asked. It was the one question that LaDonna had forced me to answer aloud.