Breaking TWIG

by Deborah Epperson

  They walked toward the bedroom door.

  "Wait," I said. "There’s something else . . . you need to know . . . about Donald."

  Helen crossed her arms. "What?"

  "Look in my jewelry box." I pointed at my dresser. "There’s a small bag."

  She retrieved the bag, opened it, and checked the contents. "How did you get this?"

  "What is it, Helen?" Tate asked.

  "It’s a silly medallion Donald won last year for selling the most used cars one month. His name and the date are engraved on it—Donald Wooten, October, 1970." She handed the award to Tate for his inspection.

  "When did Donald give this to you, Becky?" he asked.

  "He didn’t. I found it in the grass . . . near the warehouse . . . the night it burned down."

  Helen frowned. "How did it get there?"

  "Wooten must have dropped it when he set the fire," Tate said.

  "You think Donald started the fire?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Some of my former deputies work for Sheriff Hays. They said Hays suspects Donald of starting the fire, but he doesn’t have enough evidence to arrest him."

  Momma snatched the medallion out of Tate’s hand and stuck in front of my face. "You had this all along and didn’t turn the bastard in? Why the hell not?"

  I pushed her hand away. "I wanted to protect Frank. It would’ve killed him . . . to know his son . . . burned down the store."

  "That liar Frank died anyway, didn’t he? And thanks to you, his no-good son got away with arson and might end up owning everything that’s mine." She shook her finger at me. "If you weren’t in the bed already, I’d put you there myself."

  "Just a minute, Helen," Tate said. "You can still use the medallion to your benefit."

  "How?"

  "A conviction on assault will send Donald to the county jail for a few months. One for arson will get him years in the state pen." Tate pointed at the medallion. "You couldn’t ask for better leverage against him."

  A slow smile crept across her face. "I see your point."

  Tate held out his hand. "Maybe I should keep it for you."

  "Why’s that?" she asked.

  "If he believes you or Becky has the evidence against him, Donald might try to force you to give it to him. I’ll make sure he knows I’m holding it. The bastard might be brave enough to beat a woman and rape a child, but he’s too much of a coward to come after me."

  "That’s true." Helen handed him the evidence. "When you have your talk with Donald, make sure you add a few exclamation points for me."

  Tate grinned. "Don’t fret, ladies. Wooten will get the message loud and clear. If he bothers either one of you again, he’ll be looking at my fist and a short ride to the penitentiary."

  *****

  Helen yanked back the bedroom curtains. "Let’s get some light in here."

  "Let’s not," I said, pulling the sheet over my head.

  Ignoring my wishes, she went right on pushing back curtains, drawing up Venetian blinds and raising windows.

  I reached for the blanket at the foot of my bed. "Close the windows. It’s cold."

  "Don’t be silly. It’s a beautiful autumn day. The sun is out. A new school year has begun. You’ve been in the bed a week now. It’s time you got up."

  "I need a pain pill. My hand hurts."

  "You need to get out of bed and quit feeling sorry for yourself." Momma pulled a paisley scarf out of her skirt pocket. "I’m going to let you use this designer scarf Eva gave me as a sling for your wrist. The green matches your eyes. It’s prettier than that white cotton thing the doctor gave you."

  "I’m not getting up today. Where are those pain pills?"

  She sat down on the foot of the bed. "Those make you sleep all day."

  "That’s the idea."

  "No medicine is going to stop the pain you’re trying to forget. You’re not the first woman to be betrayed by some man. Every one of the bastards will swear you’re the love of their life, and then double-cross you the first chance they get." She smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt and sighed. "I’m partly to blame. I knew better than to put my property in Frank’s name, but people were beginning to talk about his living at the store. Several old biddies told Betty that it looked like I couldn’t keep my man."

  "Why should their opinion matter? It’d been a good while since you and Frank had lived together as man and wife."

  "Our family’s reputation was at stake. The Coopers have always been an important part of Sugardale society. I couldn’t let some jealous old crones damage our good name." She twisted a curl around her index finger. "Besides, this house was so quiet, so . . . so lonely with both you and Frank gone. I hadn’t lived alone since I left West Virginia."

  "West Virginia? You mean Kentucky, don’t you, Momma?"

  "Did I say West Virginia?" she asked, a note of surprise in her voice.

  "Yes, ma’am."

  She frowned and tugged at her earlobe. "I meant Kentucky."

  I recalled Henry’s contention that Momma grew up in West Virginia. I’d concluded she’d lied to him. Was it possible she had lied to Papa and me instead? And what was this talk about being lonely? She had too many gentlemen friends to ever be lonely. "What about Henry, Momma? You had Henry to keep you company, didn’t you? And Roy Tate."

  "Henry and I were just friends at the time. He liked some gal who lived in Catoosa County. Nadine Tate threatened to leave Roy if he didn’t straighten up. He figured it’d be hard for a divorced man to get reelected sheriff." Helen laughed. "Little good it did him. He ended up losing both Nadine and the election anyway."

  Experience had taught me that loneliness encompassed a suffering no medicine could ease. But weren’t Pickers impervious to all suffering? That simple principle had been one of the cornerstones of my mixed-up life. If champion Pickers could feel pain like us lowly Picks, then it was possible Momma could experience anguish, fear, and heartache like me. Was this revelation an epiphany of some sorts? Or simply mental confusion due to my withdrawal from the pain medication?

  I pulled the blanket up higher. "I’m not convinced Frank betrayed me. Maybe I misunderstood him. Perhaps he planned to make out a new will, but didn’t get around to it. After the fire, he got busy rebuilding and—"

  "And maybe your daddy left me a diamond mine in Africa and forgot to tell me about it." Momma slapped the covers. "Wake up, Becky Leigh. Men are dogs. Frank seemed nice, but in the end, his true nature showed itself. You can’t trust any of them."

  "Does that include Henry?"

  "Henry is better than most."

  "Then why don’t you go to him?" I pushed myself up against the headboard. "That is him who keeps calling, isn’t it?"

  She nodded. "He still wants to get married, but I won’t go down there empty-handed. If things didn’t work out, I’d have nothing. Besides, I won’t give Donald the satisfaction of thinking he drove me out of my own home." She pulled the scarf back and forth through her hands. "There is a way to beat Donald, and I’ll find it. Come hell or high water, I’ll see to it he ends up with nothing or ends up dead. Preferably both."

  I lifted my injured arm and laid it across my chest. "Have you . . . done that before? Seen to it that somebody ended up dead?"

  She cocked her head, gave me a sideways stare. "There are some questions you should never ask another woman. Her age, for example. Whether she was a virgin on her wedding night." Momma walked over to the dresser, picked up her cigarettes, and tapped the end of one smoke on the wood before lighting it. "And never ask a woman about her past." She took a deep draw, exhaled, and fanned the smoke toward an open window. "I’ve done what was necessary to survive the bastards who messed with me, and I’ll do it again if needed. Let’s leave it at that. Shall we?"

  I nodded. When it came to my mother’s life and her dubious adventures, the less I knew, the better off I was. "I’m going to take a nap."

  "The hell you are." Helen pulled a notepad from the pocket of her blouse. "You’re going to come
downstairs and help me fill these orders."

  "Orders? Orders for what?"

  "We need money to hire a lawyer to fight Donald. You and I are starting a catering business. I’ve bought the supplies and have three orders." She flipped open the notebook and began to read, "A chocolate cake to welcome the new music director for the Methodist church. Two lemon pies for Mrs. Treadwell’s Daughters of the Confederacy meeting, and one Southern Belle cake and four dozen assorted cookies for Judge Langford’s grandchildren."

  "Judge Langford’s grandkids don’t live here."

  "No, but now that Harland has retired from the Georgia Supreme Court, he and Ruth are back home in Sugardale fulltime. His daughter and her family are coming to visit this weekend. Ruth wants something special for dessert."

  "I can’t decorate cakes with one hand."

  "Between the two of us, Becky, we’ve got three good hands. Now get up."

  "No." I sank back under the blanket. "I don’t feel like cooking."

  Momma jerked the covers off me. "I don’t give a damn how you feel. You’re getting out of that bed and helping me cook or else."

  "Or else what?" I yelled. "You gonna hit me? Go ahead." I held out my right arm.

  "You want to twist my other arm? Here it is. You’ve always been good at smashing things—ashtrays, glasses, dreams, lives. Take your best shot, Momma. I don’t care."

  "You ungrateful little bitch. After all I’ve done for you."

  "You’re right, Momma. I should be grateful to you for all the beatings you gave me. They toughened me up enough to survive Donald."

  "I covered your ass while you and Frank played house and let you two use my money to build the new building Donald now claims to own." She shook her smoke at me. "You always give up too soon. No backbone. That’s your problem."

  "Then why didn’t you get rid of me when I was born?" I tugged the covers up, tucked them under my chin, and rolled onto my right side, giving her my back. "You should’ve stuck me in a burlap bag and drowned me like an unwanted kitten."

  Momma grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked.

  "Let go," I screamed.

  She pulled even harder. "You can say anything to me, except that. Don’t you ever talk to me about drowning." She let go of my hair, slid the notebook into her pocket and headed for the door.

  I managed to sit up. "You’re crazy. You’re the one who belongs in Havenwood."

  She turned around. "It’s the Cooper blood in you that makes you weak."

  "You’re wrong, Momma. It’s the Cooper blood that makes me human."

  "Really?" she asked with a snicker. "Well, Miss Cooper, human extraordinaire, you can stay in that bed until you starve to death." She pointed toward the bathroom. "Or if drowning sounds good to you, there’s a nice, deep tub across the hall. Either way, I’m sure you’ll win Donald’s lasting gratitude. But don’t worry, when he laughs at your funeral, I’ll slap him upside his head in memory of you."

  She stomped down the stairs. I listened to the rattle of pots and pans and the muffled cursing emanating from the kitchen. I hated her for the all the slaps, kicks, and beatings she’d given me over the years. Hated her for sending me to Havenwood and destroying my baby and the people I loved. And for a lifetime of lies and denying me the one thing every child had a right to claim—a mother’s love—I despised her even more. But at that moment, I hated her because she was right. I did give up too soon.

  Truth be told, I longed to stay in the quicksand of selfish commiseration. I wanted to wrap myself in a blanket of self-pity and slip quietly out of life’s line of fire. That’s what any sane person would do, isn’t it?

  Momma was right about my being weak, but it had nothing to do with my Cooper bloodline. My Cooper ancestors settled in northern Georgia before the Civil War. They fought for the Confederacy, not because they condoned slavery, but to protect their homes and families. They fought, bled, and died. Those left standing picked up the pieces and went back to work, and back to the business of living quiet, honorable lives. No, any weakness in me did not come from Papa’s side of the family.

  All that was left was Momma. As much as I wanted to blame her for all the evils in my life, I had to admit she’d never exhibited any weakness, other than hating to be alone. She could be as mean as a cur dog, hard as pig iron, and as cold and slick as a frog’s belly, but never weak.

  I had to be the proverbial black sheep then. Worse than that, I must be a mutation. A weak link in the Cooper chain. Neither Papa nor Grandpa Eli would’ve ever considered giving in to the likes of Donald. My imaginary friend Claudia wouldn’t have either.

  I hadn’t thought of Claudia in several years. I stopped writing to her shortly after Frank and I became lovers. There was no need to write because Frank had made me happy. But now, there was no more Frank and no more happiness. With my good arm, I wrestled the dresser out from the wall, reached behind it, pulled the dusty journal out of its hiding place. I cleaned it off, retrieved a pen from the nightstand and began to write.

  Dear Claudia,

  You’ll be surprised to hear from me after all this time. Remember Frank, my stepfather? I know you wouldn’t approve, but he and I fell in love. We were very happy for the past two years and planned to get married as soon as Momma divorced him. But he died from a sudden heart attack before we could marry. I still can’t believe it. He was only 42 and in great shape, or so we thought. Everything was in Frank’s name—the stores, Papa’s house, the mountain property where Frank and I planned to build a cabin. He told me he had made out a new will leaving everything to me. I reckon that was a lie. The only will we found gave everything to Donald, who is meaner than ever.

  A few days after Frank’s funeral, Donald came over and beat the tar out of me. He would have raped me again if Momma hadn’t stopped him. I’ve said a lot of nasty things about my mother and they were generally true. But I must admit, she is the most fearless person I’ve ever known. Too bad I didn’t inherit some of her courage. It was amazing to watch her beat Donald down with nothing but a cigarette and a four-inch knife.

  There I was, flat on my back, rooting for my mother to win a fight. How weird is that?

  Stranger still, Roy Tate took me to the doctor and then warned Donald to leave me alone. Momma said it was rumored around town that Donald was hurt in a car accident. But in truth, Momma and Mr. Tate walloped the daylights out of him.

  I’m so confused. The man I trusted with my heart, body, and soul betrayed me. My two enemies—Momma and Roy Tate—put themselves at risk to protect me. Nothing makes sense. Is the earth rotating backwards? Will I forever be stuck on this Tilt-A-Whirl, my life going forward, then back, up, then down? Is that the true nature of life, Claudia? Or just my peculiar destiny?

  I wish I could be like you. So sure about life and your place in it. You always know what to say and do, what’s right and what’s wrong. And even when things stray off course, you still have faith in your ability to ride out the storm. How can you cling to hope in a world seemingly devoid of truth? Tell me your secrets, Claudia. Teach me to be like you.

  Momma is downstairs. I should go help her. I think that’s what you’d do if you were here.

  Goodbye for now.

  Your best friend,

  Becky Leigh Cooper

  P.S. Momma wants us to start a catering business. Can you imagine anything more bizarre than Momma and me as partners? Isn’t that a recipe for disaster?

  CHAPTER 29

  By the first week in October, my bruises were gone, but I still couldn’t lift anything heavy with my left hand. Doctor Condray gave me a brace designed to help support the wrist, but it made the skin beneath it sweat and itch. Thus, I wore it only when working in the garden or the kitchen.

  To my surprise and Momma’s delight, our catering business seemed to catch on. At first, most of the requests were for cakes, pies, and cookies. But then folks started asking if I could rustle up a batch of chili, some chicken and dumplings, or a pot of stew for their club me
eting or unexpected company. My cheese soup served with fresh-baked nut bread was especially popular.

  Whatever a customer ordered, Momma would always suggest something more. "A cherry cobbler would go great with chickens and dumplings," she’d advise. "You’ll want a nice strawberry whipped pie or apple crisp to compliment that soup, won’t you, Sugar?"

  In addition to talking the customers into ordering extra goodies, Momma charged such high prices, it embarrassed me. But not her. "People expect to pay more for quality and convenience," she said. "Give your customers both in one product and they’ll pay whatever price you ask. Besides, good lawyers don’t come cheap."

  It’s hard to argue with success and harder still to argue with Momma. Big smiles dotted our patrons’ faces as they forked over their hard-earned money. By the end of September, we had a number of standing orders. It surprised me to learn that I enjoyed cooking more than gardening. Momma got me some cookbooks from the library, including one with recipes developed at the famous Le Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris. On slow afternoons, I’d try out new recipes and pretend I was a student at Le Cordon Bleu. I knew such pretense was childish, but it was the only time I forgot the pain of Frank’s betrayal.

  Customers always sneaked one cookie for the road or asked for a taste of whatever aromatic concoction simmered on the stove. They’d also ask about the bruises on my head and the wrap on my wrist. The old story about falling down the stairs came in handy once again.

  I hadn’t left the house since Donald’s attack. But the first Friday in October brought with it the grand opening of the discount store, Save-U-More. Betty Powell called and convinced Momma she needed to be there. Momma didn’t view herself as a discount store shopper, but the grand opening included a drawing for a free trip for two to Las Vegas, a city she’d always dreamed of visiting. I didn’t want to go, but she insisted.