by Marsha Moyer
At the bottom of the stairs I pushed open a side door and stepped out into the courtyard. The little patch of garden seemed too small to hold such an abundance of roses, and yet clearly they thrived here, nodding in the breeze, raising their pink and crimson and salmon and cream-colored heads toward the sun. The gardener didn't see me; he was bent over a scarlet-bloomed plant, humming to himself, a tune I knew but couldn't name.
"Excuse me," I finally said, and he whirled toward me, a pair of shears dropping from his hands and clattering at his feet onto the flagstone walk.
"Heavens!" he said. "You like to have cost me a toe." In spite of the way he was dressed—his T-shirt said motorola marathon 1995, and he wore expensive-looking running shoes on his feet—he was a little on the chunky side, his legs muscular but thick, his belly bowing out above the waistband of his nylon shorts. His arms and legs were covered with dark hair, though there was very little of any sort on his head, despite the fact that he wasn't an old man. In fact, I pegged him at about my age, maybe a year or two older, by the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes.
"What do you think this is?" He stepped toward me, extending one gloved hand. Across the palm lay a handful of green leaves covered with small, dark splotches.
"Black spot," I said.
"No kidding."
"That's what it's called," I said. "It's a fungus. Common to roses, especially in this climate. You spray for it in the spring and again in the fall. I can't remember what the stuff's called, but you get it at the hardware store. My aunt would know. She's the best gardener in this part of the state." Better than this one, that was for sure. What kind of rose grower never heard of black spot?
The man peeled off his gloves and drew one across his sweaty forehead. "I swear, I had no idea roses could be so much trouble."
"You've got to baby them," I said. "There's not just black spot, butthrips, and powdery mildew…"
"You interested in the job? It's yours if you want it." He had a nice smile, his gray eyes disappearing into the creases in a friendly way.
"No, thanks," I said. "I've already got a job. I work with flowers, too, as a matter of fact."
"Oh? Where would that be?"
"Faye's, up in Mooney."
"Hang on a minute," he said. "This famous aunt of yours wouldn't happen to live in Mooney, would she? Lady by the name of Dove Munroe?" I nodded. "I drove by that place once, last summer! Incredible, like something out of a fairy tale. Nobody was home, though, so I didn't go in."
"You should have," I said. "The gate's always unlocked. Folks come from all over and leave things."
"What kind of things?"
"Offerings, I guess you'd call them. There's a lot of religious stuff, not just Christian but Buddhist and Hindu and Muslim, and things from nature, you know, seashells and feathers and such. But there's a lot of cheesy souvenir stuff, too, like key chains and Burger King toys. Just whatever strikes people's fancy, or what they happen to have in their pockets, I guess."
"So it's a shrine, sort of."
"I guess it is. A shrine to everyday life."
"I think that's the best kind."
"I do, too." I leaned forward and held out my hand. "I'm Lucy Farrell."
"Oh my gosh! You're Ash's wife!"
My hand fell to my side. "You know Ash?"
"Didn't he send you?"
"He said I should see Father Laughlin."
"Well, you're seeing him," the man said, bending over to pick up the shears. I'd been expecting a stern-faced old man in dark robes and a collar, and here was this pudgy, sweaty, middle-aged guy in running shorts, wielding gardening shears.
"If you want, we can go inside and I'll show you proof of ID. My diploma from seminary, or my ordination papers. I've even got a picture of me with the Pope." He grinned and held out his hand, and I shook it. "You can call me Punch," he said.
"Punch?"
"I used to box, in prep school," he said. "What can I say? My Christian name's Wesley. Punch fit me better, and it just seemed to stick."
I smiled. He didn't look like an ordinary priest, but for a fact he looked even less like a Wesley.
"Ash asked me to come see you," I said. "I don't really know why."
"Your husband's quite a guy," the priest said. "Not like most of my—what should I call them?"
"Well, he was brought up Catholic, but I don't think he's ever been what you'd call observant."
"Oh, I'm talking about AA, not the church. Most of the drunks around here are more or less run-of-the-mill disillusioned people. You know, office workers, blue-collar types. I'm pretty sure Ash is the only one who ever got as far as Nashville."
"He's still disillusioned, though."
"Yes, on that front, he definitely qualifies." Father Laughlin— Punch—gestured toward a concrete bench, and we sat. "What I'm trying to say is, not many of the folks in our group ever managed to rise very far from their rearing. Ash is probably the only one who managed to break loose. Meaning, I guess, he's had further than the rest to fall."
"I really don't know that much about alcoholics," I admitted. "Or Catholics, for that matter. We haven't got too many of either one in Mooney. Or those that are, keep it to themselves."
"How about you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your religious beliefs, background."
"Well, I was raised at First Baptist in Mooney, and I still go there sometimes, to keep my mama happy, and so my little boy can learn about Jesus. But mostly I…" I hesitated, then shook my head. It seemed too much to try to explain, especially to a man of the cloth, even if in this case the cloth was nylon and synthetic leather.
The Father didn't seem to hold it against me, though. I imagined, between a church and an AA group, he was used to dealing with a good bit of doubt and confusion.
"I'm not really sure what I'm doing here," I said. "I didn't even know Ash was going to AA. He's still drinking, so far as I know. At least he's got liquor in the trailer— Did he tell you he's living in a trailer in our backyard?" The priest nodded. "He's been in and out of rehab, two or three times, but it never seems to take. He always acts like he's above that sort of thing. That he needs to tough it out on his own, to prove he's a man, or something. I don't know. It's complicated."
"Yes, it is. But that's Ash's story, isn't it? What about yours?"
"Mine? I thought I was here about him."
"You left him, am I right, up in Nashville? But now he's back in Mooney, and here you are, talking to me, even if you don't quite know why. That says to me you haven't given up on him— on the two of you—completely."
"We slept together last night," I blurted out, to my instant mortification. I'd spent the past two weeks dodging nosy questions from folks who'd known me all my life, and now, all of a sudden, I was admitting my private business to a total stranger.
"Isn't that what husbands and wives do?"
"Not us. I mean, not since Nashville, not in eight or nine months."
"So, you had a reconciliation."
"Well, I wouldn't call it that, exactly."
The priest and I sat quietly for a few moments. It was an easy silence, and the garden was such a pretty, peaceful place, the breeze light and warm and carrying on it the heady scent of all those blossoms.
"Here's the thing," I said. "Ash fell asleep, after, and I, I sort of panicked. I saw the liquor in the bathroom cabinet, and all of a sudden I started reminding myself all the reasons we're apart in the first place, and all the reasons it can never work. So I left. Left him there, in the trailer, and went to sleep in my own house."
Father Laughlin didn't respond. He seemed to be leaving it up to me whether or not I wanted to continue. "This morning Ash came over while I was making coffee, ranting and raving, saying our problems aren't all his doing, because of his drinking or his carousing, that they're mine, too. That I can't ever stay put long enough to work anything out. I just always up and run."
"Is that true?"
"I guess maybe it is. I mean, I
left him three times between the time we met and the time we got married, and that was only six months. Of course, it was just a few miles, those times, but still…"
"I don't think the distance is what's important," the priest said. "It's what it says, your leaving."
I gazed at a rosebush just across the walk, its peach-colored blooms the size of salad plates. There was an unpleasant pressure at the back of my throat. I felt the way I'd felt back in grade-school arithmetic class, when it was my turn at the board and everything I'd ever known about addition and subtraction suddenly flew straight out of my brain, like I wanted to just lay my head on my desk and hide my face for a week.
"You know," Punch said, "your husband loves you very much."
The pressure in my throat let loose, and I started to cry. I hated crying, even in front of the folks who knew me well, and it should have been worse in front of this man, this priest in running shorts with a crazy name, but it wasn't. I cried, and Father Laughlin—Punch—put his big red hand on my arm and sat without speaking till I was through. It took awhile. I'd been storing up my tears, it seemed, like an oil field buried deep underground that suddenly comes a gusher. It took a long time to get it capped off. Punch didn't seem to mind, though. He acted like he had folks crying in his garden every day of the week. Considering the business he was in, maybe he did.
"My daddy left when I was six," I said.
Now, where had that come from? I opened my purse and rummaged around until I located a wad of Kleenex, and blew my nose into it.
"Our little boy is that age, exactly," I went on. "Jude. Like your church."
Punch smiled. "Patron saint of impossible causes."
"We thought I couldn't get pregnant. It was a—a surprise."
"Sometimes God gives us answers to questions we didn't even know we were asking."
"Ash grew up without a daddy, too. I don't want what happened to us to happen to Jude."
"Parental bonds are very important. But what about you and Ash? About the two of you? As a couple?"
I twisted the Kleenex in my hands. "I was married before, for fourteen years. Mitchell and I—well, we weren't unhappy, but we weren't exactly happy, either. We just sort of got through the days, doing what had to be done. I thought that was what marriage was about. And I still do think that—at least, I think that's part of it.
"But then he died, and I met Ash, and I—I realized there could be something else. I never really believed in soul mates, or any of that. But from the very start, with Ash and me, there was—something—a recognition, I guess you'd call it. It was like I knew him in some way I'd never known another person before."
"There's a quote I love that I heard a long time ago, when I was just a kid," Punch said. "I have no idea who said it, and I've probably got it a little mixed up, but it goes something like this: 'Love is a gift not to be squandered. But neither is it something to be hoarded.' In other words, what good is it if you don't spend it?"
"Sounds like one of the cards we sell in my shop."
"That's probably where I got it, then," Punch said. "I remember being heavily influenced by Hallmark as a boy."
"So what do I do? I can't just go on pretending Ash's drinking doesn't matter."
"Of course not. But why not let Ash deal with that, and concentrate instead on holding up your side of the bargain?"
"He's coming to your meetings, then?"
"Well, technically, I'm not supposed to say. The name is Alcoholics Anonymous."
"Why's he keeping Jack Daniel's in the bathroom cabinet, then?"
"Sobriety isn't usually an overnight process, I'm afraid. Some folks do quit cold turkey, but most go up and down, back and forth, for a long time before they finally give it up for good. I know, for me, it took almost six years. Even with my faith to lean on, it wasn't easy to let go once and for all."
"You? Were—"
"A drunk? Was and am. In AA, you know, there's no such thing as a recovered alcoholic. We call ourselves 'recovering.' "
"Then how do you know when you're—well, there?"
"That's the thing—there is no 'there.' I'm sure you've heard our mantra: 'One day at a time.'"
I looked at my watch, then gathered my purse and stood. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. I'm having a party at my house tonight. Our daughter—Ash's daughter, my stepdaughter—just got married."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks. And thanks for seeing me. For letting me just drop in like this. Is there— Can I pay you in some way?"
"Sure. Ask your aunt to call me up and tell me what to do about black spot."
"I'll do that." I stepped onto the flagstone walk, breathing in the heavy perfume of the roses.
"Stop by again, if you feel like it," he said. "You know, we have a program called Al-Anon, for the families of alcoholics. If and when you ever feel you're ready."
"Oh, I—I don't know. But thanks. Thanks again."
"Remember," Punch said. "Don't hoard, don't squander."
When I left, he was on his knees between the rosebushes, humming the same tune he'd been humming when I'd arrived.
chapter twelve
t twenty minutes till seven, I found myself racing up Highway 59, the back of the Blazer filled with chips and Cheetos, microwave mini-pizzas and popcorn, two six-packs of beer, one Mexican and one lite. I was hoping against hope to get home in time to warn Denny about the unexpected onslaught of Girlfriends, but I was too late; as I drove into the yard, I saw both Dove's Buick and Connie's mini-van out front, and every light in the house was blazing.
As I was unloading the junk-food stash, I heard Audrey's Charger rumbling up the unpaved dirt road. "Here, let me give you a hand with that," she said, grabbing a couple of sagging plastic sacks with her free hand. In the other she toted a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice.
"Where did you get that?" I asked. "You're not old enough to buy alcohol."
"You think I'm gonna tell you? And get the TABC on somebody's ass? No way, Jose."
"I didn't expect to be running so late," I said. "Lord, the house is probably a wreck." On the other hand, if it wasn't a wreck before Girlfriend Night, it surely would be after. Anyway, there wasn't one of us who cared more about the cleanliness of our kitchen floors than we did about each other's company—-in that regard, I knew, I was blessed.
We found Connie, Dove, Rowena, and Denny sitting around the kitchen table scooping Fritos into a ceramic bowl of onion dip and drinking Seagram's Wild Berry coolers and listening to Loretta Lynn's new CD on the boom box. I dropped my bags on the counter and leaned over to give Denny a kiss.
"Sorry," I murmured into her ear. "I kept meaning to call you. I hope you don't mind, I invited a little company."
"Nah, this is great," she said happily. "It's like old home week or something. Look at Dove's and Rowena's shirts—aren't they wild? I want to take a bunch of 'em back to Nashville."
"Where are the boys? Your daddy and Will, I mean."
"Oh, they took off a little while ago in Daddy's truck. I think they were headed to the Tap to watch a ball game or something."
I couldn't believe she'd talked them into it. I introduced Denny to Audrey as I unloaded the snacks and wedged the beer into the icebox. "Has anybody heard from Geneva?" I asked.
"She called and said she had to stop by the package store," Dove said. "She'll be along directly. Denny, hon, are you sure this here record is by Miss Loretta? I mean, it sounds like her singin' and everthing, but what's with all them weird-soundin' guitars and such? Don't tell me she's crossin' over to the dark side, too."
"Hey, this record won two Grammys," Denny said. "She's my hero. If I ever have a baby girl, I'm gonna name her Loretta." I shot a little glance in Denny's direction, but she seemed to be speaking of some ambiguous future event, not something tangible and imminent. That was the last thing I wanted to worry about right now—her letting Will Culpepper, husband or no, get her in the family way.
I ran down the hall to change out of my work dress into a
n old T-shirt and cutoffs as Connie went into the bathroom to start mixing up a concoction for Audrey's hair. A few minutes later Peggy showed up, bearing a Crock-Pot full of her famous spicy Velveeta dip. I poured chips into bowls and put popcorn into the microwave, and had just started passing around the beer when Geneva arrived, carrying a bottle of tequila and two of margarita mix.
"Hope you got lots of extra blankets," Rowena said to me. "Looks like we're all gonna be campin' on your livin' room floor tonight."
Denny and Geneva let out squeals at the sight of each other. "Girl, let me hug your neck," Geneva said, and Denny jumped up and ran over to greet her. "Look at you! All married and everything. You look like a million bucks."
I took the blender out of the pantry for Geneva and set about peeling avocados on the drain board. She tried to swipe a bite, but I slapped her hand away.
"These aren't for eating," I said. "Facials, remember? Avocados for dry skin, oatmeal for oily."
"Are you nuts? Connie's got the whole entire Mary Kay product line in the back of her van. I say we let her take care of the facials, and smear those avocados on taco chips, the way God intended."
We decided to put it to a vote, which came up unanimous in favor of guacamole. While Geneva whipped up a batch of mar-garitas in the blender, I mashed lemon juice and Tabasco and salt into the avocados, and Connie walked back in carrying a bowl of turquoise-colored goo and draped a plastic cape over Audrey's T-shirt. Before long the kitchen reeked of citrus and noxious chemicals, and what with the blender and seven female voices—eight, counting Miss Loretta's—going all at once, you could hardly hear yourself think. Not that thinking was high on anybody's list of priorities, once the drinks started to flow. I wondered if Audrey had considered the wisdom of letting a woman chugging Seagram's apply peroxide to her scalp; but then, I figured, there wasn't much Connie could do, short of decapitation, that would make Audrey look any more dreadful than she already did.