Breaking TWIG

by Deborah Epperson

  I trailed after him. "I’m sorry."

  Frank pounded the top rail with his fist. "Hell, Becky, I didn’t know what happened to you. I thought someone got you or maybe you did something stupid."

  "Something stupid? Like what?"

  He gave me a sideways glance. "You know what I mean."

  I started to proclaim my ignorance, but the words froze in my throat. "You thought I killed myself? Drowned myself, maybe?"

  "You tried to end your life once before. Remember?"

  "I was a kid. A silly, angry kid who thought she was alone in the world." I tugged at the sleeve of his shirt. "How could you think that about me after all we’ve been through?"

  Frank swung around. "You accused me of wanting to be rid of you just because I believe you should continue your education. How could you think that about me?"

  I had no more of an answer for him than he had for me. If this were a movie, this would’ve been the scene where Frank and I suddenly realized how foolish we’d been. We’d beg each other’s forgiveness, pull our yearning bodies together, and make wild, impatient love right here on the deck. The stars would be bright. A full moon would reflect off thunderous waves whose powers would seem impotent compared to the passionate tide rolling over us. And of course, the man walking his dog along the beach would magically disappear.

  But this wasn’t a movie. Only a handful of stars and a three-quarter moon lighted the night’s sky. In addition to the man with the dog, several couples walked hand-in-hand along the water’s edge, just as Frank and I had done the past five nights. But tonight, we stood six feet apart, not touching, not talking, and not knowing how to get beyond our mutual disappointment with each other and with ourselves.

  A woman’s scream penetrated the salty ocean air. A man pulled a reluctant female into the surf. At first glance, it looked as though she was fighting him, but then a wave washed over them and a gush of shared laughter flooded the shoreline. Free of her captor’s embrace, the woman ran giggling down the beach, stopping now and then to make sure her gentleman friend was following. The sound of their laughter tickled the night air long after the darkness swallowed their forms.

  Frank stood with his hands on the rail, his focus on the sea. My mind searched for the words to make things right between us. His refusal to accept my apology worried me. I surveyed the deck. Chairs, tables, loungers, but no rocker. How can people furnished a house and not include at least one rocking chair? Even a hammock would’ve sufficed.

  "Everyday I think about two things, Becky," Frank said, while keeping his eyes on the waves. "I think about what my life would be like without you. There’d be no laughter, no love, no balance. There’d be only work."

  I placed my hand on top of his. "I feel the same. That’s why my moving—"

  He pulled his hand away, walked to the end of the deck, and turned to face me. "You didn’t let me finish."

  "I’m sorry. Go ahead," I urged, despite the knot in my gut.

  "Like I said, everyday I wonder what I’d do without you. I also wonder what you’d do if you weren’t stuck in Sugardale with me."

  "I’m not stuck. I want to be with you. I can’t do anything without you, Frank."

  "That’s not true, Becky. You’re stronger than you think. You need to see the wonderful things the world can offer a smart, pretty girl like you. Things you’ll never find if you stay in Sugardale . . . or with me."

  "You can show me new things."

  "You should be with people your own age, people whose curiosity and energy match your own."

  "Please don’t start with the age thing again. It doesn’t matter."

  "It does." He walked over and put his hands on my shoulders. "You’re at the beginning of your life. I’m halfway through mine. If you’d stop looking at yourself through Helen’s eyes, you’d see how special you are."

  "I’m not as stupid as Momma thinks I am. But Frank, I’m not as strong as you believe, either." I stopped to wipe away unwanted tears. "I’m a good gardener, a competent cook, and a pretty fair bookkeeper. That’s all I am, but it’s enough for me."

  "It shouldn’t be. There’s much more waiting for you if you’d take a chance." Frank smoothed back a lock of my hair. "I bet if you went one semester, you’d like the university so much you wouldn’t want to come back."

  "And when you lose that bet, I’ll be the one who pays." I grabbed the railing and watched as the Atlantic continued its unrelenting attack on the defenseless beach, each wave sweeping grains of sand from the shoreline as it retreated into dark waters. "You always think the best of everyone, Frank. But there are people like Momma and Donald out there, people waiting for easy pickin’s like me to come along."

  "You can’t hide from the world behind me. It’s time you took a chance on life."

  "I took a chance when Johnny and I ran off together. Look at all I lost. Johnny, my baby, my freedom." I wiped more tears away. "I can’t take any more. Please don’t make me."

  "I want you to be happy, to have the best life possible. You won’t find it in Sugardale."

  "I’m happy . . . with you." Sobbing, I wrapped my arms around his waist. "I’m happy with you. Please let me . . . just . . . be happy."

  Frank sighed and pulled me into his chest. "Don’t cry, Becky. It kills my soul to see you cry." He patted my back. "Okay. Don’t cry. We’ll do things your way for now."

  *****

  The next day, we said goodbye to our beachfront hide-a-way and headed for home. On our way to the beach, we’d dropped Helen off at Eva Whitcomb’s house in Atlanta. Today, we’d pick her up and arrive back in Sugardale looking like the typical American family returning from vacation.

  Eva and Momma had been good friends for over twenty years. Twice divorced and widowed once, Mrs. Whitcomb had—according to Momma-–more money than one person could spend in a lifetime. So several times a year, Momma visited Eva to help her spend it.

  Henry had gone to Palm Beach to visit his wealthy Aunt Velma and planned to stop by Eva’s on his way back. When Momma informed Eva about the peculiarities of our family relationships, she voiced no objection. It seemed she lived a secret Bohemian life of her own—respectable socialite by day, party girl at night.

  As he turned into the Whitcomb’s tree-lined driveway, Frank cast me an anxious glance. "I hate this part."

  I knew what he meant. Eva’s maid would usher us inside the marbled floor entry and escort us into a large living room filled with expensive antique furniture and Persian rugs. I’d sit down on the edge of the least expensive-looking chair, pull my arms in close, and pray I didn’t accidentally break some collectible worth more than my year’s salary.

  Frank would stand at the back wall, arms crossed, body tense, until Momma and her friend decided we’d had enough time to appreciate the opulence of our surroundings. Then dressed in their newest attire, the ladies would call down to us from the curved balcony overlooking the vaulted chamber. In one hand, Momma would be holding a champagne glass. Bags filled with designer clothes and accessories gleaned from Eva’s closets would be clutched in her other hand. Normally, Momma wouldn’t think of accepting hand-me-downs, but Eva’s donations were different. Most had been worn only once or twice; many still had price tags on them; all were ridiculously expensive.

  Helen would wave and then descend the curved staircase looking like the grand lady of the manor. This was the life she felt she’d been born to live, the life circumstances had stolen from her.

  Frank and I accepted our parts in the ritual so we could have time alone together away from Sugardale. We did manage to attend a couple of out-of-state hardware conventions without setting nosey tongues to wagging. But we dared not risk more than a couple of weekends a year.

  As we pulled up in front of the house, the massive oak doors opened, and Helen came storming out. Frank was barely out of the van when she reached him.

  "Here," she said, shoving designer bags at him. "My suitcases are in the hall." She came around to my side and opened
the passenger door. "Move, Becky Leigh."

  I slipped between the front bucket seats and made my way to the back. Eva Whitcomb came out wearing a simple caftan and no makeup. I barely recognized the woman. She opened the van door, leaned her head against Momma’s, and whispered something.

  Momma shook her head vigorously. Eva continued to whisper. I strained to hear what she was saying, but failed to catch a single word. Frank opened the backdoors of the van. He paused for a moment. Our eyes locked. I had a sinking feeling that whatever was happening with Momma would end up causing trouble for us. Frank’s clenched jaw and raised right eyebrow indicated he shared my concern. He shoved Momma’s suitcases up against the back of the seat and slammed the doors shut.

  CHAPTER 21

  I waited until the last car left the parking lot of Monsieur Henri’s Hair Salon. As I pushed open the salon door, a trio of bells jingled.

  "We’re closed," Henry Nash called from the back room.

  "It’s me, Mr. Nash. Becky Cooper."

  The curtained door between the two rooms parted and Momma’s estranged lover entered carrying a bottle of shampoo in each hand. "What a nice surprise. How’ve you been?"

  "Fine," I said, adding another lie to the pile.

  "How’s Frank?"

  I sat down in a swivel chair. "He’s okay."

  "I saw him at the bank yesterday. He looked tired."

  "He’s been working long hours. We’re trying to get a wholesale department going."

  I didn’t feel it helpful to explain that Frank and I spent extra time at the store because of Momma’s foul mood. Since her breakup with Henry two weeks prior, she’d been feeling miserable and had made life hell for everyone who crossed her path.

  "Helen told me about the expansion. Sounds good." Henry set the bottles down next to the shampoo bowls. "How is your mother?"

  "Momma’s fine." Another lie.

  "I’ve been worried about her. Every time I call, she hangs up on me." Henry walked to the front door and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. "Did she send you?"

  "No, sir. I needed my hair trimmed."

  "I trimmed your hair before you went on vacation."

  "I’m thinking about changing the color," I said, adding lie number four to the list.

  I try to keep a count of my daily lies. On a good day, I tell five or less. Ten was about normal. At fifteen fibs, I’d promise myself to do better. When the number of falsehoods reached twenty, I turned the counting over to God.

  According to Reverend Murray, the Lord keeps a record of everyone’s transgressions. Heaven’s library must have an entire room dedicated to my family—the Cooper-Wooten Journey to Purgatory Room. I imagine there are shelves of thick, leather-bound journals documenting every excruciating detail of our sinful acts in permanent ink. Momma and I are in a race to see who can fill the room up first. Because of her eighteen years head start, she holds the lead, but I’m fast closing the gap.

  My true purpose for visiting Henry was to get him and Helen back together. Then Frank and I could get on with our normal, twisted lives.

  Henry picked up my ponytail and examined my hair. "I’ve got customers who’d kill to have hair like yours." He sat down at the beauty station next to mine. "What’s the real reason you dropped by?"

  I shrugged. Even though Henry had been an integral part of my family’s charade for several years, I knew little about him. His family had owned the local funeral home for four generations before selling it in the early sixties. Henry lived in a garage apartment next to his ancestral home, one of the oldest and grandest houses in Sugardale. Being the only mortuary in town had to be a lucrative enterprise. Sooner or later, you get everyone’s business.

  Henry’s mother had died of pneumonia the past winter. His only living relative, Aunt Velma, resided in Palm Beach, Florida. Velma’s late husband had made millions in the early days of the oil industry. According to my mother, Henry’s aunt had three times the money Eva Whitcomb had. In this instance, I believed Momma. When it came to sniffing out who had money and who didn’t, she had the nose of bloodhound.

  "Did Helen tell you I’m moving to Florida?" Henry asked.

  I nodded. "She’s real mad at you, Mr. Nash."

  "Call me Henry." He swiveled his chair around to face me. "I can imagine how mad Helen is."

  "No, you can’t. You should hear some of the things she’s saying about you."

  "Let me guess," he said. "She’s saying I’m deserting her. I don’t love her anymore. I’m the lowest son-of-a-gun who ever walked the earth. Is that about right?"

  "Pretty much, except her language is a lot stronger."

  He laughed. "In all her ranting and raving, did Helen mention I asked her to move to Palm Beach with me?"

  "Why would you do that?"

  "Because I love her." Henry went to the back room and returned with a green velvet box. "I bought this ring in Florida." He opened the box. Tucked down in the center was a diamond solitaire. "I couldn’t wait to get to Eva’s to ask Helen to marry me."

  My eyes grew wide, my mouth fell open, all coherent thought processes stopped.

  He snapped the box closed. "You’re looking at me like you think aliens stole my brain."

  "Are you sure they haven’t?"

  Henry slipped the box into his shirt pocket. "I hope you’re better at selling flowers, Becky, than you are at trying to sell me on Helen. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?"

  "She’s driving Frank and me plum crazy, Mr. Nash . . . I mean Henry." It’s such a relief to be able to tell God’s honest truth now and then.

  He patted my shoulder. "Helen can be a double handful when she wants to be."

  "Then why do you want to marry her?"

  Henry turned and faced the large mirror that covered the wall in front of the beauty station. He stared at his likeness for several minutes, as if trying to find the answer to my question in his own reflection. "Have you ever wondered why I turned my back on my family’s business and took up hairdressing for a living?"

  "A lot of people wondered about that, especially after your daddy died and you sold the funeral parlor to the Levin brothers. Most people thought it was a downright shame you didn’t carry on your family’s tradition."

  Henry’s mouth tightened into a thin strip of lip; his eyes squinted half-closed, making the tiny lines around his hazel eyes deepen. "Do you think I was wrong? Was it selfish of me to want to do what made me happy instead of carrying on the family business?"

  Our eyes met briefly. My last statement, however factual, had caused him considerable pain. That’s one of the dangers of being honest after dining on lies every day. You tell one truth, and your mind hungers to tell more. Next thing you know, you’re telling some poor fellow more truth than he ever wanted to hear. Momma might be right when she says the telling of what she calls, "Peanut lies," is truly an act of kindness.

  "Don’t ask me," I said. "After all, I’m the third generation to work in my family’s company."

  "Do you work there because you want to? Or because you feel you must?"

  I glared into Henry’s probing eyes. "Why are you asking me such a silly question? Grandpa Eli started the business. Papa took over when Grandpa died, and now it’s my turn. With Frank’s help, I’m going to see that the Cooper name is never forgotten. I have to make my papa proud of me."

  "Don’t you think your daddy would be proud of you anyway?"

  I watched Henry Nash watching me. How much had Momma told him about me?

  I slipped out of the chair. "I’d best be going."

  "Your father would be proud of you, Becky, even if you didn’t work in the store."

  "Right before Papa died, I promised him I’d take care of the house and store."

  Henry stood. "You were a child when Paul died. No one expected you to keep such a promise."

  "I can’t break my promise to Papa, Mr. Nash. That wouldn’t be right."

  "It’s Henry. Remember?"

  "Okay," I said and walked t
oward the door.

  "You want to know why I became a hairdresser instead of an undertaker?"

  I turned around.

  "Because the only time my mother laughed was when she went to the beauty parlor."

  "I don’t understand. I remember her smiling."

  "Smiling, yes, but never laughing. Growing up in our house, you learned early on that life had to be taken seriously. My father thought spontaneous laughter was a sign of disrespect. His father taught him that, just as his grandfather had taught his son. When you spend decades working with the dead, your heart shrinks. If it didn’t, you’d go crazy. Bodies come in twisted, torn, abused, and diseased. A mortician’s job is to put all the pieces together again so families can say their last goodbyes." Henry eased down upon a black vinyl-covered stool. "Even the women of our family were taught that laughter was unseemly for folks who made their living off the dead."

  I pulled out the manicurist’s chair and sat down.

  "When I was a young boy, I would accompany my mother to the beauty parlor every Saturday morning. The ladies there would talk about husbands and kids and dresses that didn’t fit anymore. Someone would tell a joke and everyone would laugh, including my mother." Henry rubbed his fingers across his forehead. "Her laugh was like music, Becky. A sweet, delicate melody played on some angel’s golden harp. At least, that’s what it sounded like to a five-year-old boy."

  "That’s real nice, Henry."

  He nodded. "When I turned twelve, my father decided I needed to learn the family business. Instead of spending Saturdays with mother, I went to the funeral parlor to help my daddy." Henry walked over to the counter, picked up a brush, and started cleaning it with a wide-tooth, tortoise-shelled comb. "If a funeral was scheduled that day, my job was to escort the grieving family into a room where they could view the body of their loved one in private. The people would cry and moan and pray. Sometimes, one of the women folk would wrap her arms around my neck, sob, and ask questions like, ‘Why did this happen to my child? Why my husband?’" Henry stopped cleaning the brush and looked back at me. "Hell, Becky, I was only a boy. How was I supposed to know why death takes some people and leaves others?"