by Sara Evans
“I didn’t know he was the Charles Manson. He was just a creepy man with a lot of skinny, vacant-eyed girls following him.”
“How did you meet him?”
“At a party. There was always a party at the Haight. He liked to hang around musicians, fancied himself as one. But I never saw the fascination with him.” She shivered. “I did a lot of wild, stupid things, and it’s hair-raising to see how close I came to danger. Now I know my parents’ prayers covered me in my youth.”
“Beryl.” June thumped the steering wheel. “Charles Manson . . . mercy.”
“He smelled. And had this sneaky, evil grin. One of the girls Marilyn and I ran around with thought he was the living end. Her father came for her just in time. Other girls weren’t so fortunate. Bunch of runaways showing up in San Francisco with no money, no place to live. The vultures quickly snapped them up, getting the girls on drugs, abusing them. Men like Manson were everywhere.”
“Do you regret any of it, Beryl?”
“I wish I’d spent more time with my kids.” She stared out her window without even a peek at Jade. “What about you, June? Any regrets?”
“Look there, our exit.” June swerved the big car toward the ramp, pressing hard on the brake.
“Come on, June. Girls’ trip. Got to confess a regret.”
“I wish I hadn’t let my mother talk me into yellow bridesmaids’ dresses.” A snort slipped through her nose. “With the hairstyle of the day, my bridal party looked like a bunch of bouffant canaries.”
“Bouffant canaries? That’s the worst you got?” Beryl’s laugh sounded like tiny bells. “That has to be right up there with meeting Charles Manson.”
June merged onto the exit ramp, slowing the Caddy down in time to stop for the light. “Maybe worse.”
Twelve
The Tennessee sun surrendered to Kentucky clouds by mid-afternoon. An icy chill filled the Caddy, and on the last stop, Jade insisted on raising the top.
After June talked them into an outlet mall excursion near Nashville, Jade took over driving, hoping to make up time by pushing the speed limit. Between Mama’s bathroom stops and June’s detour, they’d lost a good bit of the driving day.
In the backseat June dozed, exhausted from speed shopping. She purchased enough for a fourth suitcase. Mama gazed out the passenger window with a contemplative expression, freed from the ski gear.
Was she thinking of home? Of dying? In the last thirty minutes, pressure started mounting in Jade’s spirit to ask Mama if she was ready to die, to stand before God. But finding the words proved difficult. New in her faith in Christ, Jade hadn’t spent much time in the witness chair. Mama seemed like a good place to start. Or not.
In the months Mama had lived with them in Whisper Hollow, she’d attended church without complaint. Sang along in worship. Followed Reverend Girden’s Scripture reading with a pew Bible opened in her lap.
But she’d never confessed in Jade’s hearing, “Jesus is my Lord.”
Jade squirmed, inhaled, lowered the volume on the radio. So, Mama, I was wondering if . . .
“Dairy Queen. Look. Next exit.” Mama rapped the window. Knuckle-sized imprints dotted the glass. “Paducah, Kentucky. Paducah. Pa-du-cah. Isn’t that a funny word? Where are you from, friend? Pa-du-cah.”
“Did I hear Dairy Queen?” June’s sleepy face peered over the seat. “I haven’t been to one in so long. Let’s stop. Road trip food.”
“Dairy Queen it is.” Jade took the exit, settling her question and courage back in the box . . . for now.
The Dairy Queen was connected to a Subway, which was tucked inside a gas station. Jade filled the Caddy’s gas tank while June walked Mama inside. Staring toward the western horizon and the golden hue of the traveling sun, the fragrance of the air reminded Jade of Prairie City.
It would be good to step into Granny’s place. Home. Jade wondered what Max might be doing. Working? Moving in his son? She looked away from the mental image of her husband cradling the towheaded boy.
While the gas pumped, Jade pulled her phone from her jeans pocket. If she dialed him, then what? He’d start up again with how he needed and wanted her home.
Funny, in the midst of all of this, his apology and regret, he never once asked her what she needed or how all of this made her feel. She’d expressed herself, but he never reached out to her heart. What were best friends for otherwise?
With a glance back at the DQ, Jade spotted June settling Mama at a table. Even sitting in the car wore her out. For Jade, anxiety perched on the ledge of her soul most of the afternoon, looking for a moment to jump in and gum up her peace.
The balance was precarious.
Dialing the Blue Umbrella, Jade talked with Lillabeth, ignoring the pulsing twinge in her belly. All was well at the shop. A few new consignments had come in. Lillabeth sold the miniature tea set and the set of leather-bound first editions. On Saturday, Dani Olsen agreed to cover the shop so Lillabeth could check out an estate sale in Johnson City.
“Remind me to give you a raise.”
“Jade, give me a raise.”
“Done.” The pump clicked off. Jade lifted the nozzle and replaced it. “How much do you think you’ll need for the estate sale?”
“I don’t know . . . it’s mostly clothes and jewelry.”
“I’ll budget a thousand. Call me if you find anything above and beyond.”
Jade wound up the call with Lillabeth, tucking the gas receipt in her pocket. While she’d insisted June pay for some of the gas, Jade refused her help at the last stop. This trip was her gift to Mama.
With a fast glance back at the Diary Queen, seeing Mama and June talking at a table, Jade moved toward the end of the pump island and stared west into the setting sun. The cold, sharp air refreshed her worn, dull thoughts. She inhaled deep and exhaled long.
On impulse, she dialed Daphne. She was on the air, but sometimes . . .
“Hey, just a sec . . . Linda, I’m up against a break, so hang on the line and we’ll see how we can help you with your relationship when we come back from the break at the top of the hour. This is the Daphne Delaney Show.” Jade heard the commercial roll in the background, then Daphne’s voice soothing her ear. “Jade, hey, how are you?”
“Standing. I’m taking Mama to Iowa. With June.”
“With June? How’d that happen?”
“She wanted to go and she had the road trip car, a honking big pink Cadillac.”
“Are you holding up okay?” Daphne asked.
“Still feels kind of surreal. How could he have been so deceitful, Daphne?”
“You’ve weathered some tough storms, girl. You’ll get through this one.”
Jade walked to the edge of the pump banks, her heart too sad for the lovely bluegrass evening. She reached for the medallion resting at the base of her neck. The first wave of purple panic sloshed around her feet.
“I don’t want to weather another storm. When I married Max, the storms were supposed to end. How do I deserve this? Who have I made mad? What sin have I committed that prevents me from happiness?”
“You don’t believe in karma, Jade, so don’t go there. Trust in your faith. I knew you before you met Jesus and I see how much you’ve changed.” Daphne didn’t believe in Jesus, but she understood how to tap into a person’s faith system. It’s what made her a great psychiatrist. What won her the radio show.
“I just can’t get past the idea of Max and Rice, Daph. I try, but there’s a constant ache in my chest. I can’t just chalk it up to one stupid night in Vegas. What happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas. It came alive in the bright eyes of a little boy.”
“Are you struggling with panic again? Have you tried the visualizing techniques I gave you?”
“I close my eyes to imagine something beautiful, peaceful, and what do I see? Max making love to his ex-fiancée.” Jade set her foot in a pothole on the edge of the pavement.
“Picture yourself forgiving him and—”
“Thirty
seconds, Daphne.”
“Looking past that one night. I need to go in a few . . . Hey, want to call the show?”
“Only if I can say Max’s and Rice’s names.”
“That’s my girl, moving right past the pain into revenge. Okay, quick, do this for me. Focus on a memory or place, on something beautiful.”
Jade faced the warm twilight hovering over the glossy horizon.
“Are you in a good place?”
“Yes.” It’s what Daphne wanted to hear.
“Look deep, past the moment, past the imagery, and into the future. What do you see, Jade? Where are you and Max in a year?”
Jade narrowed her eyes, straining to see her life beyond the thin line where heaven touched earth, where the amber lights of the highway twinkled like fallen stars.
“Five seconds.”
“Jade, what do you see?”
“I don’t see anything, Daphne. I don’t see anything.”
June suggested a hotel in Paducah for the night. After the chocolate shake and burgers at the DQ, Beryl looked tired and June felt like a fading flower at the end of a long, hot summer.
She’d expected to field protests from Jade, who seemed determined to cover more road before stopping, but she’d readily agreed.
To June, Jade looked tired beyond sleeplessness. Her movements reflected her restlessness. One moment she was calm, smiling, the next fidgeting and distracted with a yearning in her eyes.
June realized she brought too much luggage. Dragging her three overstuffed Vuitton bags down the long hall to room 315 aggravated and enflamed her tennis elbow.
When she tried to hoist her tote bag onto the luggage rack, pain fired down her arm.
“June, you all right?” Beryl watched from her bed. The old gals were bunking together while young Jade booked her own room.
“Hurt my arm. Old tennis injury.” She tried to laugh, but pain tightened up her arm. “I can’t raise it above my waist.” Sitting on the side of the bed, June massaged her elbow and upper arm. Not anticipating this, she’d left her elbow brace at home.
“Can I do something for you?”
June laughed low, mashing her hair with her good hand. “The ride in the Caddy . . . I wanted to wash the road out of my hair, but I can’t lift my arm.”
She tried to make a fist. “Or open a shampoo bottle.”
“It’s okay to ask for help, you know.” Beryl headed into the bathroom. “Once in a while, sit back, kick your shoes off, relax, let someone else have a chance to serve you, June.”
June swallowed two Tylenol gelcaps with a sip from her water bottle. “You mean? Oh, no, Beryl, I couldn’t.”
“Why not? You let the women at the Whisper Hollow Suds and Bucket wash your hair.”
June laughed. “Whisper Hollow Style-n-Set. Suds and bucket. Wait until I tell Barbara Jean.”
“Please, let me do something nice for you.” Beryl flipped on the bathroom light. “Got us fancy bottles of shampoo and conditioner right here.”
June stood in the bathroom doorway. “A good hair washing would be lovely.”
“Good, let’s just drop this here . . .” Beryl tucked the folded hotel towel against the tub.
“Beryl, are you afraid to die?” June reached for her arm.
“Terrified.” Beryl took a second towel from the rack.
“Do you believe, Beryl? In Jesus? In heaven?”
“I’m considering my options.” She laughed, but it didn’t resonate with merriment. “It’s just, well . . . I think I’ll feel real stupid if I decide Jesus is all He claimed to be after living my entire life running in the opposite direction.”
June rubbed her elbow, gazing at the small square tile floor. “I’ve believed my whole life and still, in some ways, ran in the opposite direction.”
“Then tell me, is He true? The real deal?”
“Yes, Beryl, He is true.” June glanced at her friend. “The real deal. But don’t look to me and Reb as stellar examples of a Christian life. Look to Jesus.”
“Here. Kneel down.” Beryl motioned to the bathtub.
June started to bend her knees, but an odd bubble buoyed in her chest. “Beryl, are you sure? You don’t have to wash my hair.”
“And hear about road grime the rest of the trip?” Beryl sat on the toilet, leaned over the tub, and started the water. She made a pallet with the towels. “Now, be a good Christian and kneel.”
“Clean hair . . .” After a second of hesitation, June knelt on the towels. “This feels so awkward.”
Beryl gently guided June’s head under the water. “Letting folks help makes us vulnerable.”
“I suppose.” The warm water cascaded over June’s scalp. Relaxing chills ran down her back. She closed her eyes. “Thank you, Beryl.”
“I don’t have many credits of good deeds to my name.” Beryl’s hands gently massaged the water through June’s hair. “But I’ve washed hair and backs, even feet in my day.”
The tension eased out of June’s neck and shoulders. Even the throb in her arm lost some of its grip. The shampoo was soft and silky against her scalp.
“Rebel ever wash your hair?”
June shook her head, buttoning her lips, holding a sob prisoner.
“Harlan, my first husband, loved to wash my hair for me.” The tenor of Beryl’s soft laugh was the kind that came with reminiscing. “I can’t remember why he washed my hair for the first time, but hoo boy, it led to some passionate lovemaking.”
June peeked under the water cascading over her face. “Don’t get any ideas.”
Now Beryl laugh-laughed. “Never did swing that way. Even in my wildest days.”
June faced down again, her emotions waxing over her thoughts. Maybe she’d lived her own way for the last forty years, but she didn’t have to spend the last decades of her life doing the same. She wasn’t too old for some kind of Lord’s work. Beryl didn’t claim many good deeds. June was quite sure she couldn’t either.
“I’ve always known about Reb, Beryl. He’s a good man. A loving father. A good man.”
“Are you telling me or yourself?” Beryl rinsed her hair, then shampooed again, humming softly.
“I’ve cried a lot of tears over him. Behind closed bedroom doors, under the cascade of a hot shower, while sitting in a dark garage bay.”
As Beryl’s fingers massaged June’s scalp, her song grew louder. Sharper. The notes flat and sour, but lively. Lyrics whispered from her lips. “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair, I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair . . .”
What in the world . . . June peered at her through the edge of her elbow. “What did you do with the money your mama gave you for singing lessons?”
“Spent it all on cigarettes.”
A snort slipped through June’s nose.
“I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair,” Beryl sang, rinsing June’s hair. “Get the picture, Junie?”
She snickered, then let go a good laugh. “If only we were on an island in the South Pacific.”
“I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair . . .” Beryl shut off the water, squeezed June’s hair, and handed her a towel. “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair . . .”
“And send him on his way.” June turbaned her head with the thick hotel towel and did a jig into the bedroom. “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair.” She spun in the middle of the room. “And send him on his way.”
Truth or dare? June didn’t know, but the lyrics sure felt good.
Thirteen
Eleven o’clock. Jade couldn’t sleep even though her eyes and her thoughts drifted along under a permanent fog.
For the tenth time in the last few minutes, she wondered what Max was doing but kept her iPhone on the far desk so she wouldn’t reach for it on impulse and call him.
They needed time apart. Space. She’d insisted. And Jade needed to pretend he was in Whisper Hollow pining for her.
Jade kicked off the covers. The boxy roo
m was hot and claustrophobic. She’d adjusted the thermostat because the air had been chilly; now she roasted like a pig on a spit.
For the last hour she surfed the channels, bored with the same-old-same-old out of Hollywood. Was every producer or writer an overgrown geeky teenager?
She clicked off the television and tossed the remote to the end table.
Mama and June had been quiet for a while. Earlier she thought she heard them singing, but when she pressed her ear to the wall, she didn’t hear Mama’s pitchy melody and decided it must have been a movie.
Sigh. Now what? She had to get out of the room. Changing into her jeans and top, Jade grabbed her coat and purse and jerked open the door.
The reception desk clerk lifted his head as she passed. “Heading out?”
“Heading somewhere.” Please, God, let her be heading somewhere.
Firing up the Caddy, Jade revved the engine, cranked the radio, powered the top down, and laughed with a glance toward heaven when Springsteen came over the speaker singing, “I love you for your pink Cadillac, crushed velvet seats . . .”
Divine intervention.
Springsteen’s voice picked up her emotions and carried Jade back to Prairie City, Dustin Colter, and the magic of first love. Now, at thirty-one, it all seemed like a dream. Even the bad times waxed good.
She cruised the pink “boat” down Hinkleville Road, aiming toward what she hoped was the Ohio River. The midnight sky was speckled with light.
Jade sang along with Bruce, “In your pink Cadillac, in your pink Cadillac,” drumming against the wheel. When her phone rang from her hip pocket, she turned down the radio to answer, and took the Y in the road.
“Hey.” Max’s voice filled her with warm familiarity. He sounded tired and burdened.
“Hey.” On first impulse, she wanted to ask what was wrong, share in his load. But he’d done this to himself. She’d learned from Daphne over the years that people need to feel the weight of their actions and consequences. Pain invokes change.
“Y’all haven’t killed each other yet?” he said after the moment of silence.
“Our mamas are having a great time.”