"If we both enter, Becky, we’ll double my chances of seeing Las Vegas."
I noticed she hadn’t said our chances, but that suited me just fine. The idea of spending a week with her in a city that Reverend Murray referred to as the sin capital of the world gave me a chill. So, we compromised. After registering for the drawing, I’d go to the library’s annual book sale.
It seemed we did a lot of compromising in the six weeks following Frank’s death. Momma pointed out that all we had left was each other, a fading chance of contesting Frank’s will, and her plots for revenge against Donald—plots that ran the gamut from the feasible to the ridiculous to some so brutal, they would’ve made Geronimo wince.
When we could find no compromise, we did what we always had done. We did it Momma’s way. Between the injuries inflicted by Donald and a chronic stomach flu that had plagued me since shortly before Frank’s death, I seldom cared about what went on around me. I tried not to think of Frank. When I did, I waffled between missing him and hating him for leaving me with nothing except my mother.
After registering for the drawing, I left Momma and Betty debating on where to go for lunch and headed to the library. I purchased a thick reference book, The Complete Encyclopedia of North American Plants. A sudden craving prompted me to stop at Ferrell’s drugstore for a vanilla coke and a double order of fries. Mrs. Ferrell remarked that I’d never be able to eat so many French fries, but I surprised us both by polishing them off, along with an ample amount of catsup.
The weather was perfect. A temperature in the high sixties, a clear sky, and a modest breeze muffled by leaves dressed in their autumn finery. I decided to walk home the long way, via the back roads. Hopefully, the exercise and fresh air might help settle the revolt of my stomach against all the French fries I’d crammed into it. I’d just turned onto Bragg Road when Mrs. Treadwell stopped and offered me a ride.
"No, thank you. It’s a fine day for walking."
My elderly neighbor agreed. "Did Helen tell you I needed three dozen cookies to hand out on Halloween?"
"Yes, ma’am. I can decorate them to look like pumpkins and ghosts if you’d like."
"In that case, make it four dozen, two of each design." She started fumbling with her purse. "Should I pay you now?"
"No need, Mrs. Treadwell. I know where you live."
She gave me a quizzical stare and then laughed. "Sure you do. I’ve lived across the street from you all your life."
"Yes, ma’am. That’s what I meant."
Mrs. Treadwell laughed again. "You must be patient with me. It takes awhile for me to catch on to things now days. Did you hear Anna Santo’s boy moved back?"
"Johnny? Who told you that?"
Her wrinkled fingers brushed across the top of snow-white hair. "I can’t rightly remember. Maybe it wasn’t the Santo boy. It may have been the youngest Sanders kid instead. What’s his name?"
"Jimmy. It couldn’t have been Johnny Santo, Mrs. Treadwell. He got married and moved to Texas when he finished his military service. If he’d moved back, he’d have come by or at least called. We were very good friends."
"That’s right. His mother worked for your family for eleven years, didn’t she?"
"Thirteen."
Mrs. Treadwell shook her head. "It’s hard when you get old, Becky. Things get so mixed up. It’s like your entire brain becomes a Mulligan stew."
I smiled, reached in, and gave her a pat on the shoulder. "Don’t worry about it. I’m only twenty-one and I stay mixed up most of the time too."
We shared a laugh. I offered to deliver her cookies early on Halloween and help her decorate her front porch. As she drove off, I wondered if being lonely was harder on the young or the old. The young had fewer memories to draw upon for comfort. But the elderly must face the regrets of plans not carried out, dreams never realized, and friends and family members gone to soon. Did anyone ever get to the end of life and feel content? Feel satisfied with what they’d accomplished in their life? Saw everything they wanted to see? Loved and were loved in return? Based upon my experiences, I didn’t think so.
*****
It’s such a little word, the word if.
Who’d ever think that two letters pushed together could make such a difference? Could change joy into pain or life into death.
If I had stayed home that day. If I’d went to lunch with Momma and Betty. If I’d accepted Mrs. Treadwell’s offer of a ride home, then I wouldn’t have been walking down Bragg Road when Donald came along in Frank’s old truck.
Four weeks prior, Donald had moved his family to Sugardale and had taken over managing the stores. Charlotte didn’t like being away from her parents. After forcing me into the Ranchero, Donald told me how she and the girls had slipped out during the night and gone back to Athens. She’d left a note saying she was filing for divorce and wanted full custody of the children. From Donald’s ranting, I surmised he’d come home drunk the night before. Apparently, Charlotte had confronted him about his drinking and about an affair he’d started with the new secretary at the Kirbyville store, Wanda somebody.
"I’ll be damn if that bitch, Charlotte, is going to tell me what I can do," he said as he drove toward Starview Mountain.
Every pore in my body seeped. The flutter in my stomach matched the quiver of my chin, but I was determined not to let Donald see how scared I was. No matter what happened, I wouldn’t let the bastard make me cry. With trembling hands, I opened my book and pretended to read. Perhaps if I said nothing, he’d ignore me.
Donald grabbed my book and threw it on the dash. "Are you listening to me? I asked if you were the one who told Charlotte about Wanda."
"I didn’t know you hired a new secretary. What happened to Mrs. Compton?"
"I got tired of looking at that scowling old warthog. I fired her. What do you think about that, dummy?"
Mrs. Compton had been an excellent secretary and loyal employee for nine years. A fact I decided not to point out to Donald given his agitated state.
"When you’re running a business, you need a secretary you can feel at ease with."
"You’re damn right. I’m the boss. I can hire and fire anyone I please."
I nodded. My unwillingness to confront him seemed to settle him down some. Hopefully, Roy Tate’s threats about what would happen to him if he hurt me again had registered in his depraved mind. If I controlled my mouth, maybe I could avoid another beating.
Donald pointed to five long rolls of white paper lying on the seat between us. "Do you know what these are?"
"No."
"They’re blueprints and my secret to making it big. I’m going to be richer and more important than my daddy or Charlotte’s old man ever thought about being."
"How’s that?" I asked, trying to sound interested.
"This real estate company from South Carolina approached me about building a resort on the mountain property Daddy had."
"Mr. Parr gave Starview to Frank because he didn’t want the property developed."
Donald cast me a sour look. "Who cares? Raw land doesn’t make money. Besides, I’m not selling to the realty company."
"That’s good."
"Those jerks treated me like crap. Planned to pay me chump change, build a fancy resort, and make millions off the rich hot-shots." Donald patted the rolls of paper. "I’ll show them. I’ll build the damn resort myself. What do you think about my idea, moron?"
In truth, it was an excellent idea. The county’s growing popularity as a weekend retreat, and the increase in the number of vacation homes had helped our stores prosper. Still, I doubted any reputable bank would loan Donald the money to build a doghouse, much less a resort—an opinion I kept to myself. "Sounds good. Those well-heeled professionals in Atlanta could use a place to unwind."
"You bet they could." He grinned at me. "If you’re nice to me, pea-brain, I’ll give you a job as groundskeeper."
I gave a small nod, tugged at the neck of my pullover, and focused my attention on finding a way
out of my predicament.
As he drove, Donald’s rhetoric fluctuated between his grand plans for the resort and the malicious strategies he’d concocted to use against Charlotte. As his subject changed, so did his mood, from excited to menacing.
When we arrived at the entrance to the property, Donald jumped out to unlock the gate. For a moment, I had the truck to myself. I could slide to the driver’s side, throw the truck in reverse, whip it around, and leave Donald to walk home. It’d been a while since I drove Frank’s truck, but I still remembered how, didn’t I? If I failed, I’d get the living daylights beat out of me or worse.
"Take a chance, Becky," I whispered. "Do it. Do it now." But I’d waited too long.
Donald climbed back into the truck. "Did you say something?"
"I was talk . . . talking to myself." If Momma had been in my place, she would have hijacked the truck and run over the bastard. Unlike me, she had guts. She had a backbone.
He laughed, rolled down his window, and gave me a hard thump on my temple. "That proves you’re crazy." He didn’t bother to close the gate.
When we arrived at the bluff overlooking Cascade Canyon, Donald swung the truck around so the tailgate faced the edge of the cliff. "Get out."
"Aren’t you going to turn the engine off?"
"If I do, we’ll walk home. This piece of junk won’t start without a jump." He slid out and stood by the driver’s door. "That bitch wife of mine took my car."
I decided not to remind him that Charlotte’s daddy had given them the car.
Donald reached in, gathered up the blueprints, and tucked them under his arms. "Get out of the damn truck, stupid. You’re not going anywhere."
I did as I was told.
My stepbrother slammed his door, walked to the back of the truck, and let down the tailgate. He unrolled the blueprints and began studying them.
"I’m going to walk down to the pond." I waited for his reaction.
Donald stared at me for a moment. "If you fall in, don’t yell for me. One less idiot in the world suits me fine."
I clenched my teeth, pivoted, and marched off toward the pond. How could that creature spring from Frank Wooten’s loins?
*****
I wasn’t prepared for the memories my visit to the pond conjured up. I’d never been to Starview Mountain without Frank. On our last trip, he’d driven four stakes in the ground to mark the corners of the cabin we planned to build. Three still stood, but one had toppled over. The giant oak that stood sentinel over the meadow, looked smaller without its full uniform of leaves.
A light breeze jostled the swing hanging from the oak. I closed my eyes. In my mind I could hear the laughter again—Frank’s and mine—as he pushed me higher in the old tire swing. My senses vibrated with the echoes of my giggles and his teasing as we chased each other around the meadow. It was as if I could feel his arms around me. Once more, I could taste his lips, smell his cologne, and hear his whispers of love. And if I kept my eyes closed and stood perfectly still, I could see him smiling and reaching for me again. If—that damn two-letter word.
I opened my eyes and sucked in a deep breath as reality assaulted my senses. I’d come to the pond to get away from Donald, not to refresh my heartaches. If I cut through the woods and made it down the mountain to the main highway, I could hitch a ride home. But the highway was miles away and I didn’t know these woods. People had got lost in them before. Some had been found in time. Others had not.
If I didn’t come home, Momma would start hunting me. She’d call Roy Tate for help and maybe the new county sheriff too. Donald would be her prime suspect in my disappearance, but he’d bite his tongue off before telling them where to search for me.
Maybe that’s why he hadn’t objected to my walking down to the pond. Perhaps he figured I’d head off through the woods, get lost, and die from exposure or be set upon by a pack of wild dogs. Was this his scheme to get rid of me so I couldn’t testify against him for the crimes he’d committed?
My head ached. Half-digested French fries practiced jumping jacks in my stomach. I needed an escape plan. If I made my way along the edge of woods, staying low so Donald wouldn’t see me, I might be able to sneak past him. The clearing where he’d parked the truck contained few trees big enough to hide behind. Still, it seemed a better plan than just taking off through unfamiliar woods. If I made it past the clearing, I knew Donald would never be able to catch me.
When I approached the line of cottonwoods, I heard shouting. I hid behind the biggest tree, peeked out to see who Donald was arguing with, and recognized the tan Rambler station wagon as belonging to Gordon Zagat.
I’d never heard Mr. Zagat so much as raise his voice before. He hollered at Donald and my stepbrother yelled something back at his store manager. I couldn’t understand their words because they were shouting at the same time.
Donald threw a punch, but Mr. Zagat ducked, and all Donald’s fist hit was air. Then Gordon swung. He didn’t miss. My stepbrother went down and stayed there.
Mr. Zagat headed for the Rambler, staggering slightly. If it’d been anyone else, I’d have sworn he was drunk. Mr. Zagat got in his car, started the engine, and began backing up. He was leaving, and so was my best chance to get away from Donald.
I ran toward the Rambler, shouting for Gordon to wait for me, but he didn’t stop. The engine noises of the two vehicles, the rolled-up windows of the station wagon, and the curtain of dust kicked up by its hasty departure drowned out my pleas.
"Damn." I grabbed my side with one hand and fanned the dust out of face with my other.
"I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bitch," Donald said, rising to his feet.
"What were you two arguing about?"
Blood trickled from Donald’s lower lip. "If that bastard thinks he can tell me what to do, he’s crazier than you."
"What have you done now, Donald?"
My stepbrother wiped the blood off his chin with the sleeve of his shirt. "I did what I should’ve done weeks ago. I fired his ass."
"You fired him? Why on earth would you do something so stupid?"
"Watch your mouth, bitch." He brushed the dirt off his khakis. "That old man thinks he knows everything about running the business."
"He does know everything about running our business."
Donald gripped my shoulders. "It’s my business now, moron."
I pulled away. "You won’t be happy until you ruin it all, will you? You’re going to destroy everything Grandpa Eli, Papa, Frank, and I worked hard to build. Aren’t you?"
Donald raised his right hand. I ducked to avoid his slap. His hand slammed against the back of my head and I fell on my hands and knees.
"Get up, slut."
I didn’t move except to shake my head in an effort to clear my mind.
"I said get up." Donald grabbed a handful of my hair and lifted me to my feet. "Some idiots never learn. Guess you need another lesson."
I tried to pull free, but couldn’t. "Roy Tate warned you. You’ll go to prison."
He laughed. "No, I won’t. Haven’t you figured it out yet, dimwit? The chain that binds me, binds you too. If I go to jail, you and Helen end up on the street. You’d never risk losing the old homestead regardless of what I do to you. I can have you anytime I want."
"Let me go," I screamed.
Donald threw me to the ground. He stood over me. "I’d planned to go to Kirbyville this evening to see Wanda. That apartment above the store comes in handy, doesn’t it?" A bloody, merciless grin snaked its way across his acne-scarred face. "Thanks to Helen’s interference, we didn’t have a chance to finish our party that day at the house. Might as well do it now." He pointed to the truck. "There’s a blanket behind the seat. Get it. Spread it out under that clump of trees over there, unless you prefer to do it in the dirt. Then take off your clothes. All of them."
I didn’t move.
My stepbrother hooked his hands under my armpits, yanked me to my feet, and shook his fist in my face. "You do as I say o
r so help me I’ll throw you off this mountain."
"All right," I cried. "Okay." A sudden breeze ruffled the trees. I motioned toward the back of the truck. "Your blueprints are blowing away."
Donald turned. Resort blueprints drifted toward the edge of the cliff. "Shit." He ran to catch them. Over his shoulder, he yelled, "Get the damn blanket, bitch."
I staggered to the truck.
CHAPTER 30
The last pie was in the oven when someone knocked at the front door. Above the stove, a clock shaped like the face of a black cat read half-past eleven. I pushed open the swinging door between the kitchen and living room. "Can you get that, Momma? I’m cooking."
"I’m trying to watch my soap opera. It’s probably Rudy with the groceries."
"His name is Randy."
"I don’t care what his name is, and stop giving him free food every time he comes by."
"Then stop asking him to do chores for you. His job is delivering groceries, not changing light bulbs and hanging curtains."
She waved her hand as if shooing away a pesky fly.
I pulled off my oven mitts, threw them on the kitchen table, and headed for the front door. I turned the doorknob and pulled.
For a moment, the world paused. The wind stopped tickling the scarlet leaves of the Japanese maple. A gray-tailed squirrel halted its hunt for a noonday meal in a lawn bounded by pink Confederate roses and flowerbeds filled with summer bulbs waiting to be dug up. The earth seemed to stop in a show of solidarity with the stillness of my heart and the lack of air in my lungs. A rock-hard quince fruit fell from its thorny bush. The thud of the aromatic fruit hitting the ground bought my world back to life and started my heart beating again.
"Who is it?" Momma asked.
I swallowed hard, licked my lips, swallowed again. I wrapped my arms around my waist, leaned against the doorjamb, and stared at the man on the other side of the screen door. "It’s Johnny. Johnny Santo."
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