by Marsha Moyer
"Lord a mercy," Ash said. "Is this Jude Farrell?"
Jude stared. The smile blinked on and off, like a traffic signal.
"Ash. Don't tease him."
"But it can't be! Last time I saw Jude Farrell, he was a little boy. This is a great big, strapping young man!"
"It's still me!" Jude blurted out. "I'm the same me, only bigger!"
"You don't say." Ash pretended to ponder this. "How about me? Do you remember me?"
Jude looked uncertainly at me, then back at Ash. He nodded.
"Well, in that case, how about a hug?"
Jude hung back for barely a second before throwing out his arms, and Ash reached down and hoisted him into the truck, where they collapsed in a heap on the backseat, wrestling and laughing.
"You smell yucky, Daddy!" Jude shouted, hysterical with excitement as Ash held him and stroked his hair.
"Yeah, well, you don't smell so great yourself."
"You smell like a horse!"
"You smell like a hamster."
"You smell like a big fat hippopotamus!"
"You smell like a polecat."
They grinned into each other's eyes. I felt the day unraveling in front of my eyes like a ragged sweater.
"You smell like a ferret."
"You smell like a brontosaurus!"
"All right, Jude, that's enough," I said. "You need to get dressed now. I mean it. School starts in"—I looked at my Timex, automatically subtracting a quarter of an hour—"ten minutes."
"I don't have to go to school today!" Jude cried. "Daddy's here!"
I shot Ash a look—Help me out here—and prayed against all odds that at least a trace of our old telepathy was still there.
"Do you want to see my Hot Wheels Turbo Blaster?" Jude was saying. "I've got dinosaurs, too! And an aircraft carrier, and a Captain Hook pirate ship."
"Run do like your mama says, buddy," Ash said. "I'll check out your stuff later, I promise."
"Don't go away," Jude ordered, sliding out of Ash's lap onto the chrome step. "I'll be right back."
"He's in school?" Ash said in amazement as we watched Jude make his way toward the house, feet flapping in the clumsy rubber boots.
"Kindergarten. Since September."
"I swear to God I was just holding him in the hospital. It seems like a week ago."
"Your sense of time has always been lousy."
Ash slid to the edge of the seat, tugging the tail of his T-shirt down over his middle. "What the hell, Lucy. After all I went through to get here, the least you can do is act glad to see me."
"Do I have to be glad, or do I just have to act?"
He smiled and massaged the back of his neck. "You're something else, you know that? Looking good and talking sass at, what—six in the morning?"
"It's seven-forty-five. You see? Look around you. The sun is up. People are up and about, getting on with their lives."
"Is that supposed to be a metaphor? I seem to recall you like those."
He leaned between the front seats and switched off the stereo, then took a plastic Coke bottle out of the cup holder, twisted off the cap, and poured a gulp into his mouth, swished it inside his cheeks for a few seconds, and swallowed. "Sorry," he said. "I guess I'm a little rough around the edges. But it was a long drive, and I hadn't planned on sleeping in the truck."
"I don't get it."
"It was raining like a son of a bitch when I got here. I just planned to stretch out for a few minutes in the backseat and wait for it to let up. I guess I must've been tireder than I thought."
"That's not what I— What is the meaning of this, Ash? What is your intent?"
"My intent?"
"We haven't seen hide nor hair of you in eight months. You haven't called since Jude's birthday. And now you land in the front yard in a rainstorm in the middle of the night in a brand-new truck, no warning, no explanation, and I'm supposed to just, just drop everything and welcome you with open arms?"
"That'd be nice, but I'm getting the feeling it's not gonna happen." He'd started rummaging on the floor and under the seats, pulling out various balled-up pieces of clothing, a wrinkled copy of Nashville Scene, a sneaker. I'd never known Ash to own sneakers in his life.
"Denny said you were checking into some rehab place in Nashville. A thirty-day inpatient program."
"Yep."
"So?"
"So, what?"
"That was two weeks ago."
"What can I say? They let me out early."
"Early? What for?"
"Good behavior?"
I closed my eyes, pressing my fingertips to my temples. "You left, didn't you? You picked up and walked out and nothing is any different than it was before."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you're still a drunk."
"Correction. A drunk is somebody who has a problem. Who can't control himself. That doesn't apply to me."
"You can control it? Since when?"
He took another swig of Coke, then inched forward to the edge of the seat. "Look, I'll tell you everything you want to know, okay? Let me just pull myself together a little bit here, get a shower, a couple of cups of coffee in me, and some breakfast. Hey, how about mixing up some of your famous waffles, huh? How's that sound?"
"Ash."
"Yeah?"
"I need to ask you something."
"I'm telling you, this'll go a lot better once I've got some caffeine in me."
"Do you remember the night I left you?" I said.
He sighed, twisting the top back onto the soda bottle. "Sure, I remember."
"No, do you really remember? Do you remember why I left? Because you're acting like you just, just went out for a newspaper and got hit on the head by a brick and forgot how to get home again. It's April, and I haven't seen you since August! Do you think I've just been sitting down here all that time, all damp and dewy-eyed, waiting for you to show up and pretend like nothing happened? Did you think you could just waltz into town and find everything blown over, like some, some middle-of-the-night thunderstorm?"
"Lucy. Listen to me." He reached for my hand, but I jerked it back. "Let's go in the house. Let me clean up a little, make us a pot of coffee, and we'll talk."
"I can't go in and talk! I've got to take Jude to school, and I've got to work. I got promoted," I said. "I'm assistant manager at Faye's."
"Is that a fact."
"Today's the Easter party at Golden Years, and we've got flowers for the church, and a big anniversary bouquet for Loretta Mackey… Is something funny?"
"Faye's Flowers. Golden Years. Mrs. Mackey. Damn, I've missed this place. Nothing ever changes."
He slid out of the truck onto his feet. The sudden proximity caught me off guard, the solid shape and heat of him, and as he raised his arms over his head to stretch out the kinks, the smell just about knocked me sideways: road-ripe and unwashed, rained on and slept in. But underneath it all was another note, sweet and dark like raw honey, a note I recognized the same way a bee must recognize the one hive out of a hundred it calls home.
The screen door slammed, and Jude came running into the yard wearing a pair of camouflage pants with his rubber boots and his Spider-Man pajama top under a bright orange reflective hunting vest.
"You're wrong," I said. "Everything's changed."
But Ash was leaning in to the bed of the truck, lifting the lid on a big Marine ice chest. "You like crawfish, right?"
"Excuse me?"
"I stopped along the side of the road in Arkansas and bought a mess. Thought maybe we could boil 'em up, have some folks over for a little get-together."
"You want to have a crawfish boil?"
"Well, forty pounds is too much for you and Jude and me. Hasn't your aunt got one of those big propane cookers?"
When I didn't answer right away, he turned and looked over his shoulder at me. My mind spun like a whirligig, around and around on its point, all its energy aimed at the simple act of staying upright. I opened my mouth, then closed it. T
here were too many questions. I couldn't begin to know where to start.
"Hey, you okay?" Ash said. "Come to think of it, you look a little peaked. Maybe you ought to call in sick."
Jude scuttled over and attached himself to Ash's leg. "Daddy, will you take me fishing? I've got a rod and reel. Uncle Bailey's been teaching me!"
"Get in the car, Jude," I said. "We have to go."
"Not today, buddy. I think you better do what your mama says."
"But you just—"
Wordlessly, I snapped my fingers and pointed to the Blazer, and Jude detached himself from Ash and dragged himself over to my car, where he stood dawdling beside the rear door, fooling with a flap on his vest.
"I don't have my backpack!" he yelled. I told him I'd get it.
"Crawfish," I said to Ash. He shrugged, smiled. To look at him, you really might think he'd just run across the state line to buy a bunch of mudbugs and gotten caught in the rain.
I went inside, grabbed my purse and Jude's backpack, and set out the dogs' food.
"Here," I said, sliding my house key off the ring and handing it to Ash. "You might need this." He let his hand close over mine. I slipped my fingers free, tucked them under my arm. "I had the locks changed."
"Another metaphor?"
"Don't push me. I'm not in the mood."
He laughed, reaching into the backseat of the truck. He pulled out a plaid flannel shirt, examined it for a second, held it to his nose and sniffed it.
"Don't worry about me!" he called as I climbed into the Blazer and fired up the engine. "I'll just make myself at home!"
Or, I thought, he might just disappear again as mysteriously as he'd landed, blasting off into outer space in his shiny white pickup, leaving nothing behind but a few ruts in the yard and a cooler full of crawfish. Pulling out onto Little Hope Road, watching my husband get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, I couldn't say for sure which prospect I was more afraid of.
chapter two
thought I was marrying Ash Farrell with both eyes open and both feet flat on the ground. True, I was five months pregnant at the time, had known him a grand total of five months and two weeks. True, my late first husband of fourteen years had only been late—that is, dead—since February. True, Ash was wild and handsome and talented, getting ready to go off to Nashville and be a big country-western star, whereas I had never lived more than an hour's drive from my hometown in my life. But, in the way of people in love, I didn't see those things as challenges; they seemed to me more like interesting novelties, fun and quirky tidbits with which to eventually paper our own long and colorful marital history. Nothing seemed impossible to me then; I had a glut of energy and optimism along with all the estrogen pumping through my veins, and what other people might have seen as warning lights just looked to me like those mirrored balls that hung suspended from the ceilings of the dance halls where Ash sang and played, steadily turning in time to the music, casting our lives in an endlessly revolving shower of radiance. We shone, it seemed, from the ends of our hair to the tips of our toes. I thought we had everything going for us. I thought we couldn't lose.
I pulled up in front of Mooney Elementary with no recollection of having driven there, the last ten minutes lost in a cotton-candy haze. The dashboard clock said two minutes past eight, and I could see Jude's teacher standing at the entrance the way she did every morning, scouting for latecomers.
"Hop out quick, baby," I said. "Let Miss Kimble see you're here."
He muttered and squirmed in the backseat, struggling to undo his seat belt. I unbuckled my harness and leaned over the console to help him, but he pushed my hand away. I do it myself!
I looked up nervously. Sure enough, here she came, a wide-hipped, frizzy-headed woman, maybe thirty, in a denim skirt and a red cardigan and those thick, clunky sandals the kids called Jesus shoes, heading down the walk toward us with a purposeful stride.
"Mama?"
"What, Jude?" I asked, silently urging him to hurry. I didn't know why Miss Kimble made me so antsy. She was always nice. Even when she was admonishing us for being late and explaining to me about the yellow squares, she was nice.
"Can I bring Daddy for show-and-tell?"
"We'll talk about Daddy later."
I sent the window whirring down and pasted on a bright smile for Miss Kimble.
"Morning!" I called in my best PTA voice. "Here we are! Right on time!" It was a tactic Ash had taught me: Lie in their faces and dare them to contradict you.
"Actually, Mrs. Farrell, the bell rang a couple minutes ago." The fact that Miss Kimble called me by my married name made it apparent she wasn't a native of Cade County. To the locals, I was and would always be Lucy Hatch.
"Really? Hear that, Jude? The bell already rang!"
Miss Kimble ignored me and poked her head through the open window. "Morning, Jude," she said. "Having a little trouble there?"
Jude gave a loud grunt. "Goddamn seat belt!" he said. "It's stuck!"
I think I gasped. Miss Kimble, bless her, just opened the back door, reached over, and unclicked the two halves of the metal clasp, like a genie saying, "Open, sesame!"
"There we go!" she said. "All set."
"What do you say to Miss Kimble, Jude?" I said.
"My daddy came, Miss Kimble! He came in a truck in the rain!"
"Is that right?" She was clearly used to hearing children babble all day and filtering out their fantastical delusions, because she breezed right on ahead. "So, are you excited about the party today? Ready to dye some eggs and eat some cupcakes?"
"Jesus died for our sins," Jude informed her somberly.
Miss Kimble glanced at me. I gave her an unapologetic shrug. I didn't want my son growing up thinking Easter was only about bunnies and candy. Anyway, my mama had worked hard to put the fear of Jesus in me, and I felt obliged to pass it along to the next generation.
"Well, that isn't the kind of dyeing we're going to do here today. Today's about the fun side of Easter!"
"They nailed Him to a cross," Jude said. Miss Kimble was starting to look upset, so he tacked on a disclaimer. "But it was a long time ago. In a galaxy far, far away!"
The second bell—the tardy bell—rang. I pictured Jude's chart on the wall behind Miss Kimble's desk, a solid line of yellow like a highway divider: Stay back. Do not pass. Was it possible to flunk kindergarten?
"I'll see you this afternoon, baby," I said. "Ill come by Dove's and pick up you and Lily, and you can go with me to the party at Golden Years."
I started to power the window up, but Miss Kimble waved, and I let it down again. "Yes?"
"Cupcakes, Mrs. Farrell."
"Yes," I repeated, like I knew perfectly well what she was talking about. I admit I wasn't giving it a hundred percent of my concentration. I was thinking about Ash and his new truck and his forty pounds of crawfish; I was thinking about his raw-honey smell, and the swath of skin between his Levi's and the hem of his T-shirt. I was thinking about how you could threaten to pull out his tongue with a pair of pliers and he still wouldn't admit he'd done anything that needed apologizing for.
"You did get my note, didn't you?" Miss Kimble said.
"Note."
"About the cupcakes."
So many details. Nobody warns you about it at prenatal classes, and it's not in Dr. Spock. Having a child is an endless procession of paperwork, of certifications and immunizations, of progress charts and permission slips. Who could keep track of it all?
"Is this about the sugar thing? Because I know some of the parents are up in arms about it, but honestly, as far as I'm concerned, it's not a problem. Jude can have all the sugar he wants! Well, not all the sugar. I mean, I don't want him making himself sick! But, hey, it's Easter, isn't it? What's the point of Easter, if not sugar? Except for Jesus on the cross, that is."
Miss Kimble leaned over and said something to Jude I couldn't hear, then gave him a pat and sent him up the walk toward the building. I watched him go, his backpack bouncing off hi
s hip, his orange vest glowing radioactively. As he reached the door, he turned and gave me a brave little salute, then disappeared inside.
I looked at the teacher, who was watching me with what I recognized from long experience as a pitying expression. Screw you, Miss Kimble, I wanted to say. Screw you and your yellow squares and your ugly shoes. Give me back my boy and we're outta here.
"Today was Jude's turn to bring cupcakes, Mrs. Farrell. I handed out the schedule at the beginning of the semester, remember? And I sent a reminder note home last week."
"Oh!" My throat felt swollen. My eyes burned. "Oh, hell. I didn't… I don't…" I turned to the windshield and blinked several times, telling myself to get a grip.
"Mrs. Farrell? Excuse me for asking, but is everything all right?"
I laughed. "Am I going to get a yellow square?"
"I only ask because, well…"
Don't say it, I willed her silently. You only ask because I look like I'm at the end of my rope, and if you say it out loud, that will make it true, and it can't be true, because I need my rope. I need it to hold my family together. Or, if not that, to hang myself.
"What time is the party?"
"Ten o'clock."
I gritted my teeth and threw the Blazer in gear. "I'll be back in half an hour."
The food king didn't have much in the way of Easter goodies. They didn't have much in the way of anything else, either, unless you counted cramped aisles, grimy displays, wilted produce, and sullen employees. Frankly, I was amazed the place was still a going concern. Nobody in Mooney in their right mind or with the means to go elsewhere shopped there; it was hot in summer and freezing in winter, and sparrows roosted indoors in the rafters, a problem no amount of effort or brainpower on the part of the management seemed to be able to fix.
If there'd been time, I'd have driven the eighteen miles to the Super Wal-Mart up near Atlanta with its wide, bright aisles and acres of parking, its mind-boggling assortment of merchandise, a bakery department where a request for Easter cupcakes would be greeted with something other than a head shake and a scowl. Instead, I had to settle for two dozen plain white cupcakes with gummy pink frosting, decorating them myself in the backseat of my car with a bag of stale-looking jellybeans and a jar of little candy sprinkles. While I worked, I told myself that if I'd gotten Miss Kimble's note—or if I'd gotten it and then bothered to read it—I'd have baked these cupcakes myself, maybe not from scratch but at least from a Duncan Hines mix, would have made up frosting in different pastel colors and garnished the tops with little sugar bunnies and chicks. Now it was too late for beauty, for freshness and creativity; I had to cross my fingers and pray that nobody chipped a tooth on a jelly bean or broke out in an allergic rash from Red No. 2 dye. I cleaned my hands with a wet wipe and sped back to the school. Luckily, Miss Kimble's class was outside playing kickball when I got there. I left the cupcakes on her desk like a prankster's trick, and ran.