by Marsha Moyer
The phone rang. I opened my eyes, my momentary peace evaporating, and answered it. It was Audrey, calling from someplace up on FM 125. The van had a flat.
Ash brought the kids back to Dove's at suppertime, the two of them babbling like orphans from some inner-city youth camp about the pond and the old rowboat and a real live raccoon who'd taken up residence in the old handyman's cottage. Their clothes were grimy and they had melted chocolate all over their hands, from Snickers bars Ash had bought them at the Miracle Mart. "We had Cokes, too, Mama!" Jude cried, running circles around Dove's coffee table.
"Thanks a lot," I said to Ash. "He won't sleep for a week."
"Oh, he'll sleep just fine," Ash said. "All that fresh air and exercise. In fact, a dose of it might do you good."
"Haven't you insulted me enough for one day?"
"It was an invitation. To ride out and see how things are coming along."
I laughed. "Right. In my spare time."
Dove walked into the living room, followed by Geneva. The sight of her made me gape. For the first time since the hospital, she was in full makeup and fluffy hair, and she wore, in place of her usual PJs or baggy sweats, form-fitting jeans and a sweater. She'd lost weight since the surgery, maybe eight or ten pounds, most noticeable in her face and her hips. Ash whistled between his teeth and she cocked one leg at an angle and batted her eyes at him.
"Wow," I said. "You must be feeling better."
"I feel great. Dr. C. says I'm a walking miracle. He says I can go back to work next week, if I want. Half-days at first"
"That's terrific," I said. Something warm began to work its way up inside me, from my feet to the back of my neck. My life, I thought, feeling faint. I'm going to get my life back.
"Y'all sit down and stay for supper," Dove said. "You, too, Mr. Farrell. I've got meat loaf, and plenty of those beans of yours, all fixed up the way you like."
"Wish I could," he said. "But I've got someplace I've gotta be."
"Oh, Ash, come on," Geneva said. "What could be more important than Dove's meat loaf and Kentucky Wonders? Anyway, we're celebrating. I'm a walking miracle, remember?"
"Sorry," he said, already moving toward the door. "We'll celebrate another time, I promise. We'll drive out to Curly's and go dancing."
"Say what?" Bailey said from outside the screen door. "You hitting on my wife?"
"You better watch it, bud," Ash said as he stepped out and Bailey came in. "Looks like you're gonna have your hands full."
Bailey turned to Geneva, who threw out her arms and struck a pose.
"Whoa!" he said. "Get a load of you."
"That's right," she said as he walked toward her. "Take a good look."
But he wasn't looking; he'd wrapped his arms around her and was holding her as close as he could, murmuring into her hair. Whatever he said made her laugh, low and throaty, like they were the only two people in the room. In the kitchen, Dove was clattering dishes around; the kids had switched on the TV, cartoon animals screeching at each other, cartoon bombs exploding. The warmth inside me slowly leached away as I stepped over to the screen door and watched Ash's truck back out of the driveway, watched his taillights recede down the street, around the corner, disappearing, gone.
A layer of dust covered every surface of my house, and laundry had piled up so high that I'd stopped using baskets for sorting it and had taken to letting it collect on the bedroom floors. Little by little—one room, one load at a time—I worked my way through it all, in the evenings, while the supper dishes soaked in the sink and Jude sat at the kitchen table laboring over his homework, his pencil marking slow, deep grooves in his workbook. Meanwhile, Ash came and went, his trailer like a haunted house in my backyard: phantom sounds of doors slamming, lights popping mysteriously on and off during the night. He was there in the outfield at Jude's games, and every couple of days he dropped by Dove's in the afternoons to take the kids out to his new place, to let them run along the edge of the pond to chase bugs and poke at frogs with sticks, bringing them back grubby and high on sugar and caffeine but exuberant, happy, carefree. Rumor had it that Ash had ordered a timber-frame house kit from an outfit down in Longview, and one day Jude volunteered that "some men in a big truck" had been there, walking around with his daddy, but he didn't offer any more details, and I managed to keep my curiosity to myself.
Then, one late-spring evening, he was knocking at the back door, calling my name through the screen. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and walked down the hall. It wasn't full dark yet, but I switched on the porch light anyway.
Ash shaded his eyes with his hand against the sudden glare. "I just came by to remind you about tomorrow," he said.
"What's tomorrow?"
"We're closing on the Nashville house, remember?"
I'd completely forgotten—lost track of time was more like it. "What do I need to do?"
"Meet me at Shirley Tinsley's office at ten. All we have to do is sign the papers. They'll take care of everything, send it back to the agent up there. The whole deal should be finalized by the end of the week."
"And they'll send us a check?"
"Yep. Then I guess you and Geneva can take off for Vegas."
"Right."
"Listen," Ash said, "I've been wanting to talk to you."
"About what?"
"Jude spending the night. Not every night, mind you, just every now and then."
"So you've quit drinking?" I asked. Ash swiveled his chin, gazing off toward the darkening woods. "We had an agreement, Ash."
"No, we didn't. You laid down the law. It's not the same thing."
"Obviously the answer is no. Why else wouldn't you come right out and say so?"
"Everything always has to be black and white with you."
"Why isn't it black and white? Either you're drinking or you've stopped."
We stood staring at each other through the screen. I could hear Jude singing in the tub at the other end of the house, the whir of crickets in the woods behind the trailer, the faint sound of an engine growing louder as a car made its way up the road toward the house. Headlights swung around the corner, and Heather Starbird's brown station wagon pulled into the yard next to Ash's truck.
"Look." His voice was laced with frustration. "I just want—"
"I'll see you at Shirley's office in the morning," I said, and switched off the porch light and latched the screen door and walked back up the hall, leaving Ash standing there in the dark.
He was waiting on the front step of the real-estate company the next morning when I got there a few minutes before ten. Shirley's desk was empty, but her young assistant, Betsy Pope, a pretty blonde in a red skirted suit, came out and ushered us into a small conference room, where papers were laid out on a long fake-woodgrain table. She offered us coffee, but we both said no, thank you, so she handed Ash a ballpoint pen and opened the contract to the first of many little yellow flags reading sign here. We didn't speak, though our wrists brushed occasionally as we passed the pen back and forth, scribbling our signatures again and again above the strange-looking typed names: ashton l. farrell and lucy h. farrell. Who are these people? I thought; I wondered if we'd left them back in Nashville, if they'd ever existed at all.
When we were done, Betsy Pope affixed her notary's stamp and her own signature to the documents, and folded them shut with a flourish.
"I'll get these out by FedEx this afternoon," she said. "The parties up there should have them finalized by the end of the week."
"How long before we get our money?" Ash asked bluntly.
"Oh, it shouldn't take but twenty-four hours once everything's signed. It's a wire transfer, so the funds will go directly into your joint account here at First National."
Ash and I made eye contact for the first time all morning. I'd forgotten we even had a joint account; as far as I knew, there was almost nothing in it, and it hadn't been touched since we'd left Mooney seven years earlier. I felt a little woozy, from the warmth in the room and Betsy's perfume
, from all the reminders of the way our life used to be.
"Did you, um, want to make other arrangements?" Betsy asked, her face nearly the same shade as her suit jacket.
Ash looked at me. I shook my head.
"No," he said, turning back to Betsy, "the joint account is fine."
"All right," she said, exhaling with relief. "Then y'all should be good to go. I'll give you a call when the deposit clears."
"Thanks for your help," I said, and turned toward the door. My stomach was doing flips. I couldn't wait to get out of there.
"Mr. Farrell?"
Ash glanced over his shoulder at the young woman standing at the head of the table, all primary colors: yellow hair, red suit, bright blue contact lenses.
"I hate to ask, I mean this probably isn't the time or place, but I was just wondering… Well, I've always been such a fan, and if it isn't too much to ask… Could I get your autograph?"
"You just got it," Ash snapped. "About two dozen times."
I started at the tone of his voice, and looked at him a second time. He looked bad. It wasn't anything I could put my finger on, exactly—just tired, thin, the grooves etched a little deeper than I remembered at the corners of his eyes.
Poor Betsy looked like she wanted to run out the front door and keep going past the city limits sign. "I'm sorry," she said hoarsely. "I shouldn't have…"
"No, it's okay. Sorry." Ash cleared his throat. "Is there something in particular you want me to sign?"
"Um, well…" Betsy looked around, but the only paper in sight was our real-estate contract. "Let me just grab something." She ducked out of the room.
"What's the matter with you?" I said. "You didn't have to bite her head off."
"I just don't want to think about that part of my life anymore."
"For heaven's sake, Ash! You can't just walk out of it like an old suit of clothes."
"Want to bet?"
"Look, I've got to get back to work." I turned, hesitating at the door. "I want to hear about it the minute that money hits the bank."
"Don't worry, Lucy," Ash said, loud and clear, as Betsy Pope came back into the room carrying a yellow legal pad, "you'll get your half."
Aweek later we got the call that the funds from the house sale had finally landed at First National. Ash and I made another awkward joint trip, this time to the bank to take care of the paperwork that would split the deposit between his personal account and mine. The rift between us had never seemed greater than it did as we stood on the sidewalk in front of the bank afterwards, gazing at the carbons of the deposit slips in our hands. I guessed this kind of money was pocket change to some of Ash's old Nashville running buddies, but by Mooney, Texas, standards, I was rich. I'd expected to feel elated, but instead I just felt like I needed to go home and soak in a long bath.
"Well," Ash said, looking up finally, "send me a postcard from Vegas." Before I could think of a snappy rejoinder, he was headed off toward his truck, stuffing the carbon into the back pocket of his jeans. I don't know what I was expecting that day I'd stood up in front of God and my family and two-thirds of the population of Cade County and promised to cherish this man till death did us part, but whatever it was, it wasn't this.
chapter sixteen
That night was Jude's first time to sleep over at Lily's since Geneva's surgery, and I had the house to myself. I sat at the kitchen table with a pile of catalogs I'd borrowed from Geneva, dizzy with the thought that I could order anything I saw that took my fancy, but I couldn't quite get into the spirit of the thing. The rug I'd loved at first glance, with further consideration I realized wouldn't fit in the living room or match the couch. The clothes all looked like things either Audrey or the First Baptist guild ladies would wear.
I tried Denny's cell phone, but hung up without leaving a message when I got her voice mail. We'd spoken a few times since the night she took off with Will. Her band was back on tour, making their way along the West Coast, and from the sound of it, the new marriage wasn't all rosebuds and white picket fences. In fact, according to Denny, Will spent most of his free time with the other guys in the band instead of her. It was a scenario I was only too familiar with, and couldn't offer much in the way of comfort, only empathy.
I felt restless, at loose ends. I wandered around the house looking for something to do, but for the first time in three weeks, everything was in its place: floors swept, fresh towels in the bathroom and sheets on the beds, dishes washed and put away, laundry baskets empty. Even Jude's room was as neat as a pin.
I realized I was starved. I'd had a bowl of soup and a sandwich earlier, but this craving was more primal than that, possibly hormonal, like I could devour an entire pan of brownies at one sitting.
I set the oven at three-fifty and got out a pan and my graduated set of mixing bowls, took two eggs and a stick of butter out of the icebox, then opened the pantry and pulled down the flour and sugar, baking powder and salt, vanilla, a bag of chopped pecans. I stared at the items lined up on the countertop. Everything I needed was here, all but one thing. I practically tore the pantry apart, searching behind cans of soup and boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese, but it was hopeless—no chocolate.
I put back the butter and eggs, turned off the oven, slipped on my flip-flops and grabbed my keys. It was a quarter till nine; if I pushed it, and Dewey Wentzel hadn't set up his Friday-night speed trap on FM 1399,1 had just enough time to make it to the Food King before closing.
I screeched into an empty slot in the grocery store parking lot and rushed through the automatic doors, drawing a dirty look from the manager, Kenny Federline, who'd obviously been about to lock up, and Marcel Compton, the lone checker, who spent her time between customers filing her nails to lethal points and appeared ready to jab my eyeballs out with them now. I ran past them for the baking-items aisle, saying, "I'll be out of here in thirty seconds."
I grabbed a box of unsweetened chocolate off the shelf, then decided to pick up a gallon of milk while I was at it. No matter how often I bought it, it seemed we were always running out of milk.
Rounding the corner to the dairy aisle, I saw her: brown polyester pants and a scuffed pair of Keds, a man's cardigan hanging from her shrunken frame, gazing into the milk case like she was hypnotized by the choices there, whole and skim and two percent. There weren't a lot of homeless people in Mooney, but every now and then some poor soul wandered off the main highway, or hitched a ride with a trucker; you saw them sometimes panhandling outside the drugstore or the courthouse until Dewey Wentzel ran them off. Gray hair stood out in a frizzy corona around the woman's head as she began to rummage in a black pocketbook the size of a briefcase. My mama had a pocketbook exactly like that one, with its many compartments and its shiny metal buckle. For one awful second I wondered if someone might have broken into her house and robbed her. Then the woman looked up, meeting my eyes, and another, more awful understanding hit me.
"Mama?" My voice sounded tinny and far-off, like it was coming through speakers in a distant room. Maybe this apparition wasn't really Patsy Hatch after all. When, after all, had Patsy ever left the house without hose and heels, without every hair shellacked into place and her mouth drawn flawlessly in Revlon Fire and Ice?
"I forgot my billfold," Patsy's voice said, jerking me back to reality. "Isn't that the silliest thing you ever heard? Made it all the way to the store with my pocketbook, but I haven't got my billfold."
I approached her hesitantly, trying to remember the last time I'd seen her. Easter Sunday, I decided, nearly six weeks before. A shopping basket at her feet contained a loaf of Wonder bread, a jar of peanut butter, a can of store-brand coffee, two green bananas. Even with milk, it couldn't be more than eight or ten dollars' worth of food. Mama had been shopping at the Food King more than forty years; surely Kenny Federline would let her take her groceries and bring the money by the next day. I looked at her trembling, unpainted mouth, and I knew that she would never ask such a thing, not in a million years. She still had her prid
e, and she'd hang on to it with fingernails bleeding.
"Go on and get your milk, Mama," I said, reaching past her to open the dairy case. "Ill loan you the money."
She gave a ladylike little snort. "Moneybags," she said, her voice echoing in the bright, empty aisle.
"Excuse me?"
"I guess you're rolling in it now, aren't you? Up to your ears in clover."
I'd forgotten about my newly inflated bank account. Shame flooded through me, and I bent over and reached for her basket.
"Never mind about the loan," I said. "I'd be happy to buy your groceries for you."
She smacked my hand like I was four years old and grabbing for the cookie jar. I reared back, astonished.
"You wait," she said. "You think you're sitting pretty now. But you're all the same, you Hatches." Her voice rose. "Well, let me tell you, Miss High-and-Mighty, you've got another think coming, the whole bunch of you!"
Kenny Federline appeared at the head of the aisle, probably wondering what all the fuss was about. "Store's closing in two minutes!" he called out.
"Come on, Mama," I said. "Let's pay for our stuff and go home. If you've got something to say to me, that's fine, but please, let's not do it here."
She started digging again in her pocketbook. Lord knew what she had in there; the thing was big enough to hide a sawed-off shotgun. "Remember what you always used to say, about not airing your family linen in public?" I whispered as Kenny Feder-line continued to glare at us, fists on his hips. I was grasping at straws now; Patsy had never said any such thing. She wouldn't have dared to, seeing's how once upon a time she'd been known for running through the neighbors' front yards in her nightgown, trampling the flower beds, crying at the top of her lungs for my daddy, Raymond Hatch, to come back.