by Lynn Shurr
Cy steered the truck off the interstate and onto a straight blacktop road, then turned on another. A gate left open allowed them to enter a long dirt and gravel drive leading to a square, two-story white frame house boxed in on three sides by windbreak trees. A light shone before a green painted door sheltered by a generous porch and a lamp glowed in one window with shutters of the same color on either side. As they left the truck, a chill breeze rushed across the former prairie and rattled the chains of a porch swing. Bats swooped, devouring insects drawn to the illumination of the house. The end of the long, hot summer lingered in Louisiana, but Iowa raced toward Halloween.
After tossing down the suitcases, Colt launched out of the truck bed over the tailgate. He’d had the sense to button up his denim jacket and jam a cap down on his head for the ride. Tricia, still dressed for New Orleans heat, shivered. Rex, unable to stop himself, tucked her under his arm to lend his warmth. Pleased she didn’t draw away, he noticed the pack of Welles men exchanging glances. They need not worry. He intended to declare his honest intentions before going back to the Big Easy, but he did release Tricia as soon as the group reached the warmth of the house.
“You take our guest upstairs, Colt. Put him in Granny’s old room and show him where to wash up. Put Tricia’s bag in her room. I’ll lay out some supper,” Cy said.
“Let me help you with that, Dad.” After draping the black bag over Colt’s shoulder and smiling at his dismay, Tricia trailed her father down a hall to the rear of the house.
A staircase plain as a ladder ran along one wall to the second floor. Family pictures decorated every foot of the journey upward. Four very small bedrooms, a bath, and two larger rooms filled the space under an attic. Colt dropped Tricia’s suitcase and bag in the corner room at one end of the hall. From the quick glance Rex got, it appeared a teenage girl still lived there amid a collection of stuffed toy animals on the pink chenille bedspread and a fan of playbills tacked to the wall.
Colt showed him the guestroom, pointing out the others along the way. “Trish’s room, then Cody’s, the john, Carson’s room, mine right across from yours. Granny died in here and sometimes her rocker just starts moving by itself. Mom said if Gran is still here, she’s watching over us. And the floorboards creak in the hall just so you know.” The teen waited for a reaction.
Rex nodded. He wanted to smile at the teenager’s blatant moves to protect his sister, but respected the kid enough not to laugh. Colt might still be filling out, but would grow as massive as his father and older brothers fairly soon. “Tricia must look like her mother,” he remarked mildly to the kid.
“Yep, spittin’ image my old man would say, except for the blue eyes. Trish and me got the blue eyes from him. Cody and Carson’s eyes are brown like my mom has, had.” The overgrown boy struggled with that last word and turned his back on Rex. “I’m going down now. Come on whenever you want to eat.”
Rex gave Colt a few minutes to contain his emotions in the bathroom. A flush signaled an all clear even if the kid hadn’t used the toilet. Rex followed after to use the facilities, a plain old-fashioned commode. He washed up at a sink hung from the wall with a skirt of yellow-checked cloth hiding the pipes. A shower curtain patterned with playful rubber duckies surrounded the big claw-footed tub large enough to accommodate any member of the family, maybe two standing up. A vision of him and Tricia in there together popped into his mind shaming him. He’d better get something to eat and turn in early. Last night after she’d left his apartment hadn’t been conducive to rest, more of those embarrassing dreams again. Maybe a big meal and travel exhaustion would take care of his unseemly urges tonight. With Colt across the hall, he sure hoped so.
Far from there being no food in the house, a long plank table surrounded by six sturdy chairs with rush seats revealed very little of its worn surface beneath a smorgasbord of offerings. A large ham sat in the middle like a centerpiece. Rex counted three whole roasted chickens and a paper bucket full of fried bird. Mac and cheese, that green bean casserole like his mom made at Christmas, baked beans, coleslaw, au gratin potatoes, and a salad of carrot coins and green peppers filled in the spaces between the meats. Three cakes, two pies, and a big glass bowl of banana pudding crowded the kitchen counter.
Tricia added one more crumb-topped hot dish to the array and spread her oven-mitted hands wide. “I guess we don’t need to worry about starving.”
“The church ladies went into action as soon as they got word of Martha’s passing. They have this phone tree, you see. Even stocked the freezer with chili, beef stew and lasagna, though we still had plenty of soups and light stuff they brought for my wife.” Cy cleared his throat. “What do you want to drink? There’s pop, iced tea—and beer.”
“Water would be fine,” Rex said.
“Not a drinker then?”
Unsure how to answer, he went with the truth. “Not so much, but I do have a beer now and then.”
Cy nodded, satisfied with the response. He filled a glass with water from the tap, added ice from a plastic freezer tray he banged against the sink to release the cubes, and handed it over. “That bottled stuff is going to be the death of the environment.”
“Yes, sir.” Rex took the glass and got another curt nod of approval.
“I had the hot dishes in the oven on low while we went to the airport but if anything is too cold, you let me know and I’ll zap it in the microwave. Tricia, why don’t you sit in your mom’s chair?”
Slim as a champagne flute surround by beer steins, she took the suggested seat and appeared to be very uncomfortable there. Rex found himself boxed in with Cy at the head of the table and the boys surrounding him. Directly across the way, Carson, the middle boy, obviously the strong and silent type, stared at him like a red-eyed bull in a pasture of plenty.
“You want to offer a prayer for all this?” Cy asked him. “I know you got religion. Sometimes I think I’m losing mine.”
“I’d be glad to do that.” Rex went with a simple two-liner. His father would have gone on longer blessing all the church ladies.
“Dig in,” Cy said.
Carson started shoveling food into his mouth as if he hadn’t been fed for a month. The others joined in passing the dishes. Rex showed his appreciation by eating plenty, but noticed Tricia picked at her food. “This chicken is really good,” he recommended. “Try some.”
“Mrs. Welch brought that. She said she made her special rosemary chicken from scratch for us, didn’t buy it ready-made at the supermarket like the others,” Colt said, ripping a leg from the carcass.
“She lost her husband to lung cancer last year, sold the farm, and moved into town. Says she misses country life. I’ll have some of that.” Cy carved off part of the breast. “We saw a lot of each other at the cancer center before he died.”
Cody waved the offered platter away. “Dad, she’s already going after you with Mom barely cold.”
Colt dropped his chicken leg. “No! She has a daughter my age, Heidi in my chem class.”
“Don’t you like Heidi?” his father asked.
“I do, a lot, but I don’t want her for a sister. That would be gross.”
“Settle down. No one can replace your mother.”
Tricia pushed back her chair. “I’m really tired and not very hungry. Let me put on coffee before I go upstairs. I know you like some after dinner, Dad. I want first chance in the shower while the water is still hot.” Tricia fiddled with an old percolator and plugged it in. It began burbling almost at once. “I’ll come down and clean the kitchen later.”
“We can manage. Get some rest. Rex will keep us company, won’t you, son?” Cy bestowed a fatherly smile on their guest. The interrogation Rex expected came as soon as Tricia’s footsteps faded on the stairs.
“You seem mighty close to my daughter, but she hasn’t said much about you, not even to her mother. Yet, she brought you along for the funeral.”
No sense in trying to explain the barriers Layla threw in their path or that he’
d invited himself to Iowa. Rex cut through to the main issue as quickly as if he saw a gap in the line allowing him to run the ball. “I want to court you daughter. I’d like to marry her if she’ll have me.”
“Court.” Colt snickered at the old-fashioned term.
“I’ll bet you want to do more than that with her if you haven’t already,” Cody said with a threatening edge. Carson simply lowered his head as if getting ready to charge across the table—or maybe he was nodding off.
“Boys, stop. He spoke his mind and spoke it plainly. Are you asking my permission?” Tricia’s father said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’d better ask Tricia. She has a mind of her own like her mama. As far as it goes, you have my blessing.”
“Dad! We hardly know him,” Colt said.
“He’s a pro football player. Everyone knows everything about the man. Born in Texas, father is a preacher, raised in Africa, went to A&M, star quarterback, drafted by the Sinners to replace Joe Billodeaux, leads a squeaky clean life. Look it up on Google, Colt. I did.”
Rex suffered a moment of panic. Had Cyrus Welles seen the photo of him carrying Trisha to her room, read the scurrilous article?
And the man didn’t know everything, how he’d been shipped back to Texas at thirteen to get an American education and stayed three years with his prejudiced maternal grandparents who despised blacks, Hispanics, Jews, Democrats, and the missionary who’d taken their daughter off to Africa. He’d prayed hard to be with his family again and removed from that hateful household so out of sync with his father’s teachings to love everyone. He told his grandparents he wanted to return to Africa and help with the mission, not attend high school and college in Texas. They told him he could do that when he grew up.
Three years later, his parents and sister returned with his father too ill from a chronic tropical disease that attacked his liver to serve a big congregation. The four of them straggled from one small church to another, moving on when his medical care grew too great for modest coffers.
Had his fervent prayers to be reunited with his family caused that, Rex often wondered?
Had God balanced the scales by giving him the talent to play football on a level where he could help his parents and see his father got good health care to keep him alive until a transplant became available?
Not so different from what Tricia tried to do for her mother, only she had suffered for it while he lived an enviable life. He truly admired that trait in her. It had to be nearly unbearable taking Layla’s verbal—and sometimes physical—abuse.
“Yes, sir. That’s about it,” Rex said. “The huckleberry pie looks great. Can I cut a slice for anybody?” Every last one of the big men nodded.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lying in the white iron framed bed with the faded quilts at least a generation old drawn up around his neck, Rex watched the rocking chair move back and forth in the patch of moonlight coming through the window. Earlier he noticed it sat on a warped board and tended to rock when a puff of cold air found its way under the window frame. He did not believe in ghosts. People went directly to their eternal reward or punishment in his mind. If some did choose to not to enter glory, he doubted they would hurt him anyhow.
The hall floorboards creaked, too, exactly as Colt warned. First, he’d heard a light step approach the stairs and go down followed by a heavier tread maybe a half hour later. Could be Tricia had decided to get a snack or simply couldn’t sleep. Maybe a brother joined her.
Rex got up and put a red flannel robe over a pair of pale yellow pajamas imprinted with little footballs. He never could decide if the gift from his mother was meant as a joke or not. Usually he slept in his underwear, shucking it off the next day for clean after he showered, but figured he needed more modest nightwear in the Welles household. These were the only PJ’s he had. Slippers put on against the cold hardwood floors weren’t such a bad idea either. He’d join Trish wherever she sat up and be there for her. Maybe, he could coax her to eat a piece of pie, but it would have to be apple since the men polished off the huckleberry.
The kitchen light burned. No one occupied the space. The back door, not securely latched, banged open suddenly under a fist-like blow from the wind. Rex peered into the darkness. The only light other than the glare from a tall security pole leaked from the cracks in a small building about the size of a chicken coop. Strange time of night to gather eggs. He crossed the barnyard unafraid of snakes or other creatures. On a night like this most would be lying low in their holes. The conversation coming from the henhouse had heat, however. He should have knocked, but stood there by the rickety door listening to Tricia argue with one of her brothers.
“You can be arrested for growing weed, you idiot, five years in jail for a start. What a way to make Mom proud. How could you?”
“I did it for her. She got a card for using medical marijuana to help her through the chemo. This way, I knew the product was good and free of chemicals.”
“Great, you grow organic pot, Carson, and that makes what you did better. Mom couldn’t possibly smoke this entire crop. You’re using. Boyce was a pothead, and I know the signs. Are you selling it, too?”
“Jesus, sis, every cent you gave us went for Mom’s care. Cody got a football scholarship to Iowa State, but I don’t have his talent. Dad said I’d have to wait for college until—until Mom got well. So, yeah, I did sell the extra, but only to people I know. I saved the money to start college next year instead of God knows when. I’m already a year behind my class. Trish, I don’t want to be a farmer all my life.”
“Dad condoned this?”
“When I asked if I could use the old henhouse to grow organic herbs to sell, he said yes. I don’t think he ever comes in here because he doesn’t want to know. Look, Mom is gone. It’s my last crop, I swear, but I didn’t want to lose it on a cold night like this.”
“How could you dishonor our mother’s memory by becoming a drug dealer? All I sacrificed for this family and it wasn’t enough.”
“Yeah, some sacrifice living in L.A., hanging out with the rich, famous, and foxy Layla Devlin, getting paid a shit load while I shovel shit in Iowa. Poooor Tricia.”
“Manure. You shovel manure on this farm!”
The sharpness of the slap caught Rex off guard. Afraid Carson might return the blow from his sister Rex stooped and entered the coop. Once inside he came to his full height within inches of long tubes of grow lights mounted on the ceiling. Where hens once brooded their eggs, raised trays of marijuana plants grew in various stages of maturity. Drying bundles of weed hung from the roof beams. Plastic tacked around the walls kept the howling cold air at bay and the heat from a couple of space heaters comfortably inside. The man knew how to grow—herbs.
Tricia in a gray robe with pink piping that almost wrapped around her twice stood confronting her middle brother with her hair disheveled around her shoulders. Hand-knit slippers of pink yarn warmed her feet, all except for one little toe that stuck out of a hole. From the way she turned her glare on Rex, he knew she wasn’t happy to see him.
“Great! Marvelous! Now you know we have a drug dealer in the family.”
“A medical marijuana provider,” Carson countered. “Hey, it’s cool, man. Marijuana is Iowa’s fourth most profitable crop.”
“It’s not and never will be!” Tricia started to tear at the plastic sheeting keeping out the chilly air, rending holes in it with her nails. Tears ran down her cheeks and watered the serrated narrow leaves of the plants.
Carson grabbed her from behind and, lifting his struggling sister off the floor, handed her over to Rex. “Get her out of here before she ruins everything. Since you want to marry her, you won’t turn me in, huh?”
Tricia went still in Rex’s arms. “He knows you want to marry me?”
“All of us do. He announced it at dinner and asked for Dad’s blessing,” Carson said, pleased he’d found a way to deflect the attention from his misdeeds.
Tricia shook he
rself free of Rex’s embrace. “Our relationship, such as it is, is none of their business. How could you?”
“She asked me the same thing, dude. I’d get her back to the house before she goes off again.” Carson rummaged beneath the trays for a hammer, nails, and extra plastic sheeting to mend the damage.
“Let’s go back to the kitchen together and talk about this,” Rex suggested.
“Let’s not!” Tricia threw the henhouse door open and turned briefly to shout at her brother. “I hope all your plants shrivel!” She charged off into the night with Rex following, but entered the kitchen quietly enough.
Tricia slumped at the table, head in hands. “Nothing I did mattered. If I’d come home to help Mom and keep an eye on the boys maybe Carson wouldn’t be growing pot in a chicken coop.”
“Everything a person does matters. Sometimes we don’t know how until later. You do the best you can at the time. That’s all God asks. And growing pot to help your family isn’t the worst crime in the world. In Africa, people still sell extra daughters into slavery to feed the rest.”
“I don’t care what people in Africa do. My family is falling apart. I wasn’t here to keep them together.”
“The rest look like they’re doing okay. Can I make you some tea or get you something to eat?” He did know how to boil water and could nuke practically anything.
“Not hungry. Tea would be nice. You just don’t know, Rex.”
A whistling teakettle sat on a backburner of the stove. He filled it and turned up the heat as Tricia continued talking. He didn’t dare interrupt her to ask where the teabags might be, so he quietly opened cupboards until he found a box of Lipton’s, some Celestial Seasonings herbal teas, and a few baggies of crumbled herbs he thought best not to investigate.
“Cody wanted to play football for one of the Big Ten teams, but he felt he had to stay close to home with Mom so ill. He’s going to Iowa State just up the road. He’s in his junior year and he’s worried no one will draft him when he graduates. He promised our mother he’d finish college before turning pro. If he isn’t noticed because of going to a smaller school, he might never get a chance at an NFL career.”