The Volunteer

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  “Was it all right?” Sophia asks, “with Maureen, I mean?” Wick usually ends up furious after a conversation with her.

  “She’s decided I can have Chip’s scrapbooks and trophies after all.”

  “Oh, Wick, I’m so glad. Did she say why she changed her mind?”

  “Not really. Just that she realized it was logical, that he’d want me to have them. As if that was ever in doubt. I was there for God’s sake; I worked out with him, coached him. She hated baseball.” Wick gets to his feet, shoving his hand over his hair that is short and dark and only sparsely shot with gray.

  Chip, Wick’s and Maureen’s son, their only child, had been killed in a car accident eight years ago in 1991. He’d been eighteen, a freshman at Texas A&M, on a full-ride athletic scholarship. Sophia has seen a few photographs of him. He’d had a sunny and engaging look like his dad. He was named for his dad too: John Wickham Bowen, Jr., but they had called him Chip because of his uncanny resemblance to his dad. Wick said it was corny; he told Sophia he thought Maureen was jealous of how close he and Chip were. It had made Sophia think of the occasions she had been jealous of Russ’s relationship with Carolyn. It had made her think of how hard it is at times to look into the mirror of your own selfish longing.

  Sophia had learned the worst of the tragic details of Wick’s story during his third session when he had abruptly pitched forward in the chair across from her desk, set his elbows on his knees and told the floor he’d been the one to cause the accident that killed Chip. Wick had gone to the campus to have it out with Chip about his lousy grades. They were in the car on the way to dinner, Wick was driving, and the two were arguing, when Wick ran the red light. He sailed right into the intersection, right into the path of an on-coming Fed-X truck. They were T-boned on the passenger side. Chip died at the scene. Wick walked away with a concussion and a broken arm. He had said Maureen had never forgiven him anymore than he could forgive himself. He had looked up at Sophia, tears glazing his eyes, and said, “Try living with that.”

  Sophia had jumped up from her office chair. She had wanted to say, I do, every day! Instead she had dashed out her office door offering him some bogus excuse about having left something on the stove in the house. She had apologized later for her extreme lack of professionalism, but she has yet to explain that what motivated her behavior wasn’t her recent bereavement as she had claimed. She has a feeling Wick suspects this, but he would never ask. In weak moments, she’s caught herself wishing he would. She would tell him then how uncanny it is that they have suffered these similar tragic losses through their own actions. She would say how much her heart reaches out to him, how she knows his anguish.

  She would tell Wick about Jody Doaks, how counseling him led to the saving of little Benny Chu, but that his rescue wasn’t enough to atone for her mistake. She would tell Wick about Dylan, everything Russ would never hear, never allow her to say. And Wick would hold her gaze in that intent quiet way he had, that in itself brought her comfort.

  But it’s pure fantasy, impossible to think she could allow Wick to bear the burdens of her conscience no matter how drawn to him she feels. That in itself is improper, disloyal to Russ’s memory.

  o0o

  Cort and Carolyn are sitting at the patio table, glasses of tea and a plate of cookies between them when Sophia leaves her office. She pauses on the stairs to look over the fence at them. Carolyn’s head is inclined toward Cort as if she is hanging on his every word. Sophia switches her glance to the street. What can he possibly have to say to Carolyn? Clearly, he has some sort of an agenda. If it isn’t luring Sophia into some last-ditch effort to save his brother, then it’s something else equally deplorable. Speaking so openly about his difficulties and his feelings in the driveway the other day was probably part of the—

  “Mom.”

  —act, Sophia finishes her thought as Carolyn’s voice clears the fence line. “Come have tea and cookies with us. They’re your favorite.”

  Snickerdoodles. Carolyn has made Sophia her trademark snickerdoodles. Sophia could be a sour apple and refuse, plead a headache, fatigue, but she doesn’t.

  “Cort has asked us to have dinner with him and Grace tomorrow night,” Carolyn announces when Sophia joins them, “at Grace’s Table.” She hands Sophia a glass of tea, offers the bowl of sugar, a plate arranged with wedges of lemon, a cookie.

  “Oh,” Sophia darts a glance at Cort. “I’m sure that’s very kind, but—”

  “Please say you’ll come.” Cort seems adamant. “It’s the least I can do in return for your—” he hesitates seeming to hunt for the right word— “assistance,” is what he comes up with. “Your patience,” he adds quickly as if he has found a more suitable substitute. “The job is taking longer than you anticipated, I know.”

  “We don’t have any plans, do we?” Carolyn is hopeful.

  “It would be a diversion, something Grace would look forward to.” Cort’s expression melts when he says Grace’s name and Sophia is unwilling to be touched by this, but she is in spite of herself.

  Cort says, “You’ve been so tolerant of the delay. I’d like to even the score if I could.”

  Even the score? What an odd choice of words, Sophia thinks. Somehow she is reminded of her mother, Esther’s conviction that Sophia is out for revenge. Perhaps there is something in the wind....

  “It’ll be fun,” Carolyn says. “Do us good to get out.”

  “You could bring a date, if you like,” Cort tells Carolyn and then he turns to Sophia, but before he can suggest she might do the same, she gives her head a firm shake.

  “Didn’t I see Wick leave a little while ago?” Carolyn’s eyes dance with mischief. “Why not ask him?”

  “He’s a patient, Carolyn.”

  “My mother the psychologist is the only one who believes that,” Carolyn tells Cort. She brings her gaze back to Sophia and although she’s still smiling, she’s somehow grave too. “A year is long enough to mourn, Mom. You need to go out, have a life. Phil thinks so, too. He said we should encourage you.”

  “You and Phil talked about me?” Sophia feels her face warm. She’s appalled. “I’m sure Cort isn’t interested,” she murmurs.

  “I like Wick, Mom. He’s a good guy. It’s fine with me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “I don’t think Dad would mind either,” Carolyn insists. “He wouldn’t want you to be alone. I don’t want that for you.”

  Sophia stirs a spoonful of sugar into her tea. Carolyn is wrong to assume Russ wouldn’t disapprove. Wick is a retired welder, a blue collar worker who hadn’t finished college, but instead had been drafted to fight in Viet Nam. Wick likes working with his hands. Last February, around Valentines Day, he had helped her prune the roses and Sophia had admired his hands as they worked. She had thought them wonderfully strong. Adding lemon to her tea, she stirs it again. Russ wouldn’t have appreciated Wick’s hands. He wouldn’t have had a man who worked with his hands as a friend.

  Carolyn is talking about her broken engagement. She spreads her fingers. “It’s been really hard.”

  Cort says it sounds as if Carolyn could use a diversion too. He turns again to Sophia, locking his glance with hers. “You’ll come then, say, around seven?”

  Sophia asks if Grace is aware of Cort’s invitation and she’s not sorry if she’s perceived as rude. “It seems as if entertaining would be a hardship for her right now.”

  Cort gropes for words, flustered. “She—we— It isn’t wrong or bad to want life to be normal, is it? To pretend, if that’s what it takes, for one evening that we’re just an ordinary couple having guests for dinner.” His gaze narrows. “Are we always going to have to feel guilty?”

  Carolyn frowns and Sophia drops her glance. Cort isn’t asking in regard to the dinner invitation, but in a much larger context: Will he always have to feel guilty for being free when his brother isn’t, for taking as his own his brother’s family, for loving not only his
brother’s children but his brother’s wife?

  “There’s no ulterior motive, scout’s honor.” He smiles and Sophia feels the world where it concerns him tilt again on its axis.

  “Just dinner,” he says, “a pleasant evening. You don’t still have doubts about me, do you?”

  His directness surprises her; she twists her head, a response to indicate confusion, but that he interprets as a no.

  “You’ll come then,” he says as if it’s settled.

  “We will.” Carolyn smiles. “We’ll look forward to it, won’t we, Mom? Thank you for inviting us,” she adds earnestly.

  Sophia sips her tea.

  Cort stands, pushing his hands toward his knees, smoothing the legs of his jeans. He says he has to get going. “It’s pizza night and I’m in charge.”

  o0o

  “Did you know he was married once?”

  “No.” Sophia nibbles a cookie. “What happened?”

  “His wife died suddenly of a brain aneurism. Cort said one day they were planning a family, trying to have a baby, you know, and then she was gone.”

  “How terrible.”

  “No, I mean, yes, it is terrible, but now he’s in love with Grace and it’s killing him.”

  “He said that?”

  “Not exactly, but it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it, when we came home with the paint samples?”

  “That’s a very astute observation.” Sophia gathers the glasses onto the tray.

  “Well, you see my mom’s a psychologist. It’s in the blood.”

  “Really? I had no idea. You’re a funny girl, Cecie.” They share a smile.

  Carolyn sets the sugar bowl alongside the empty glasses on the tray. She finds Sophia’s gaze. “So, if you were Cort,” she says, “what would you pray for at night?”

  Chapter 18

  Friday, October 8, 1999 - 9 days remain

  Larry is at the kitchen counter and his back is to her when Sophia comes into the house and she isn’t surprised in the least to see him. When she says his name, he turns, uncertain grin tilting over his mouth.

  “I’m trying to make coffee,” he says. “I hope it’s all right.”

  Sophia hugs him. “Of course. Can I help?”

  “Where do you keep the filters?”

  “Pantry,” Sophia says. “Second shelf.”

  “Right. I knew that.” He opens the pantry door. “I’m sorry for barging in like this without an invitation.”

  “You don’t need an invitation.” Sophia takes the collection of unwashed coffee mugs she has brought from her office to the kitchen sink. “I’m always glad to see you.”

  “I guess you heard?” His gaze is contrite, worried.

  “That you were married before? Carolyn told me.”

  “I shouldn’t have kept it from her.”

  “But I can understand why you did.”

  “I wish she could.”

  “Give her time. Does she know you’re here? She’s having headaches again. She had one earlier. I sent her upstairs to lie down.”

  “She’s washing her hair. She said you have a dinner engagement.”

  “Oh, right. I’d nearly forgotten.” Sophia turns on the tap, running water into the mugs, feeling the rush of regret. She doesn’t want to go to Grace’s Table this evening and even as she wonders if there isn’t some way to excuse herself, she knows there isn’t, not without seeming ill tempered. She glances at Larry. “You’ll come with us?”

  “I don’t want to impose. Anyway I doubt Carolyn wants me along. She’s already asked me to leave.”

  “I’ll talk to her.” Sophia dries her hands. She cups Larry’s cheek. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I love her,” he says. “I wouldn’t have hurt her for the world.”

  “I know.”

  o0o

  Carolyn is sitting on the side of her bed wearing a white half-slip and a delicate cotton-embroidered camisole. “I can’t get this buttoned.” She indicates the matching flounced skirt she’s holding on her lap. “I’m too fat.”

  “Nonsense. How’s your headache? Better? Did you find the Tylenol?”

  “No, I—I shouldn’t take anything. I had a nap instead.”

  “Larry’s here. You didn’t mean it when you asked him to leave, did you?”

  “Will you close the door?”

  “But one of us should call Grace.”

  “Mom? Please?”

  Sophia holds Carolyn’s gaze and somehow she knows, even as she closes the door and retraces her steps. Even as she sits beside her daughter and asks, “What is it?” she knows in the moment before Carolyn says it—

  Says, “I’m pregnant.”

  That it’s true and that Carolyn is ashamed. “Oh, honey, oh my, well.” Sophia opens her arms without thought, but then she holds her breath. Suppose it’s the wrong response? But Carolyn comes readily into Sophia’s embrace and Sophia’s heart rises. She lays her cheek against the crown of Carolyn’s head and her feelings of love and commiseration are shot through with pangs of memory, of herself, her girl-self, caught in similar circumstances. How she had longed for her mother’s reassurance, for Esther’s acceptance, her forgiveness.

  Although Carolyn is older, not a child carrying a child in the way that Sophia had been, she will still need support. And she will have it, Sophia tells herself, and her vehemence surprises her. She closes her eyes fighting tears.

  “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  “We’ll work through it, Cecie.”

  “Do you remember Leslie Fletcher, when she got pregnant our freshman year of college? Remember me telling you there was no excuse for it? How could I have been so arrogant?”

  Sophia does remember; it had concerned her that Carolyn was so unforgiving. And while Carolyn had ranted, Russ had stood there giving Sophia looks from the corner of his eye. He had meant for her to see it anew: that Carolyn would judge her no less harshly.

  Sophia pulls away from Carolyn a little; she touches her cheek, thinking of the tiny life she is harboring, of the miracle that it is. She could be coaxed into being delighted, if it weren’t so plainly obvious that Carolyn isn’t, at least not yet. “How long have you known?”

  “A couple of weeks. I did three of those drugstore tests, but I thought they were wrong until I went to the doctor.”

  “How far—?”

  “Almost six weeks. I was going to tell Larry, but then I found those divorce papers.” Her fingers worry the tissuey folds of her skirt.

  Sophia smoothes her hair.

  “We’re supposed to be best friends. Wouldn’t you tell your best friend about your divorce?”

  “What I—” Sophia catches herself before she can remind Carolyn again that what someone else would do isn’t important. “Maybe he has a valid reason. People can have good reasons, you know, if what happened caused them pain, if they feel it was a mistake and they want to forget.”

  “Larry said he—aahhh—” Carolyn shuts her eyes. “I’m more mad at myself than him. I wish I’d never gone through his stuff. I was already feeling like a big enough idiot, not only pregnant, but unemployed, too. I keep wondering what’s next. Welfare? And let’s not even talk about how angry Dad would be.”

  “Maybe at first, but he’d come around. He always did.” Sophia isn’t really sure of this and the grimace that crosses Carolyn’s face suggests she isn’t either.

  “Larry and I had a plan, Mom. We were going to buy a house before we started a family. It takes two incomes to qualify, but who’s going to hire a fat pregnant woman?”

  “I gather Vanderburg and Dodge wouldn’t?”

  “They told me to be prepared to put in ninety hours a week. How could I handle that? My head aches all the time. I’m nauseous in the morning, sometimes all day.” She raises her shoulders. “Am I ever going to feel better?”

  Sophia smiles; she can’t help it. “I had awful morning sickness with you, but it didn’t last.”

  “What happens if I can’t pull m
y weight? What if Larry hates the idea? What if he feels obligated to marry me?” Carolyn’s look is searching. “What if I’m not cut out to be a mom?”

  “Oh, I think you can cross that worry right off the list.” Sophia takes Carolyn’s hands. “Does that mean you’ve decided to keep the baby?”

  “I—I think— I’m not sure I could go through with—” an abortion. The idea hovers, but instead of putting it into words, Carolyn sighs. “I guess a lot depends on Larry; I dread telling him.” Carolyn makes a face. “I dread telling Grandmother, too. I can just imagine what she’ll say.”

  Like mother, like daughter. That’s what Esther will say. With utter disgust, Sophia thinks.

  “Does she have to know?”

  “If you decide to keep the baby, there won’t be much chance of hiding the fact, will there?”

  Now Carolyn shares Sophia’s smile. “Are you mad at me?” she asks.

  “Heavens no. I’m right here for you. Whatever you need, no matter what you decide, okay? You have a home here with me, always.”

  Carolyn returns to Sophia’s embrace and while she isn’t entirely at ease there, it is enough, a beginning. Like the tiny life Carolyn is harboring. It is, perhaps, the opening of the way toward each other, toward mutual understanding. Toward having the truth out between them. This new life could provide the means to speak of him. Of Dylan. The child whom Sophia failed, the one who is buried in a grave she was never allowed to visit.

  o0o

  Grace has taken the liberty of ordering. It’s a new entrée, she explains. “One we’ll be adding to the menu soon. Pecan crusted tilapia with honey or mango sauce, but if you’d like something else?” She glances around the table that is dressed in a padded snow of white embossed linen and supports a delicate construct of twinkling crystal, china and silver.