Heartbreak Town

by Marsha Moyer

  I slipped in and out of consciousness, and finally woke to a room filled with pearl-gray light. My head was full of scattered dreams, odd puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit. I wormed my way out from between the kids, taking care not to disturb them, and walked across the backyard to Ash's trailer. The morning was overcast, the clouds low-slung and heavy. I went up the cinder blocks and let myself in the front door, moving slowly from room to room. Everything I saw, from the bottle of dish soap on the kitchen sink to the blanket bunched at the foot of the mattress, made me heartsick. The place seemed not just unoccupied but abandoned. I looked into the bathroom cabinet. Nothing but a toothbrush and a tube of Crest.

  I walked outside and sat down on the cinder blocks, and I put my head on my knees and sent my prayers up into the gray sky, little unstamped postcards with a barely legible address. Maybe there was Somebody up there, listening. It was, after all, Sunday, the day God allegedly stayed home to reflect upon His creation and accept our praise, at least so long as you'd been raised in the Southern Baptist church. Or maybe God was just kicking back in his hammock and watching pro beach volleyball on TV, like a goodly portion of us sinners down below.

  I went inside and put on some coffee, then phoned the county sheriff's office, where after three rings a machine picked up and told me that the office was closed for the weekend and that I should call back Monday morning at eight. I drank a cup of coffee, showered, and put on a dark blue, mid-calf-length dress. I woke up the kids and made them pancakes while they dressed. We brushed our teeth and our hair and buckled ourselves into the Blazer and drove up Little Hope Road toward town.

  We arrived at First Baptist just minutes before the start of the eleven o'clock service, rushing into the cool, dim vestibule as the organist played the closing chords of "Wondrous Love." I guided Jude and Lily down the center aisle into a pew behind a group of Lilac Ladies, the oldest of the women's guilds. Skinny, slope-nosed Harriet McNee glanced over her shoulder at us and smiled automatically, then froze. She nudged her neighbor, Bernice Brumley, and muttered something in her ear. Bernice turned and met my eyes with a look that could melt glass. I scouted around for my mama, but didn't see her anywhere.

  The choir filed in, followed by Reverend Honeywell in his billowing robes and the brown-suited deacon, Calvin Paynter. The pastor took his place at the pulpit and delivered the invocation and the call to worship. We stood and sang "Lift High the Cross."

  Calvin stood to read the scripture, a story from the Old Testament book of Numbers that ended with the verse, "Be sure your sin will find you out." In the pew in front of me, Harriett whispered something to Bernice, who shot another peek over her shoulder at me as Reverend Honeywell intoned from the pulpit, "Let us confess our sins."

  I tried. I bowed my head and closed my eyes. But the words jammed up in my head and my heart, bumping against one another like random bits of glass and stone. Alone in my backyard, my prayers had flowed from me as easily as water, but here in God's house I felt a light spreading around me, and it was not the sweet, gentle light of redemption. It was the spotlight of my hometown, aiming its ultra-bright, withering beam on me. God's forgiveness was a piece of cake compared to the whispers and sneaky glances of the old biddies in the pew in front of me.

  "Amen," Reverend Honeywell said, his voice echoing throughout the sanctuary, "I ask you now, if there are any among us today in special need of God's mercy, let it be known so that we may ask His favor upon you."

  A man down front said that his sister was in the hospital in Waco and the X-rays didn't look good. Leslie Bingham requested prayers for her nephew stationed in the Middle East with the Fourth Infantry Division out of Fort Hood. Agnes Klinger asked, as she did every week, for us to keep her son, Kirk, in our hearts, that the Lord might show him the error of his ways, since the Texas Department of Corrections had not thus far succeeded in doing so.

  "Anyone else?" the preacher inquired.

  A murmur traveled along the pew in front of me, a row of blue-white heads bent together. I felt a pair of invisible hands closing around my throat. Spots swam in front of my eyes.

  Jude began to whimper. I reached for his arm and squeezed. "Ow!" he cried.

  Heads swiveled, clothing rustled. I got to my feet, grabbing for Jude's and Lily's hands, pulled them out of the pew and up the center aisle as a buzz moved through the church like the stirrings of a swarm of bees. Jude was sobbing; Lily tripped as she struggled to keep up with me.

  I hustled the kids across the parking lot, turned on the Blazer's AC full blast, and sped the half-dozen blocks to Dove's. She was out front in the garden, and squinted up at us from under her broad-brimmed hat as we squealed up to the curb.

  I sat paralyzed, both hands gripping the wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield until Dove walked up and knocked on the passenger window.

  Lily unbuckled her seat belt and leaned forward, pressing the button to lower the window. "I don't think Aunt Lucy feels too good," she said. "Maybe we should come in and have some Kool-Aid."

  "I think that's a fine idea," Dove said, and reached inside to release the kid-proof locks. Lily scrambled out as Dove leaned across the backseat and lifted Jude into her arms.

  "Hey, now, mister bud," she said. "What seems to be the problem?"

  "Mama hurt me!" he cried, holding out his arm. "And last night my daddy got in a fight and broke a glass and ran away! I wish I could leave here forever! I wish I never knew any of this!"

  For the first time since giving birth to my son, I felt shame down to my soles for what I had done. I had brought this boy into the world without scales or armor, to have his tender heart thrown against the rocks, over and over again. We are not equipped for this, I thought. We are too frail for love. And still we do it, and we go on doing it, even when it conies to nothing, even when it cracks us in two.

  "Come on inside, Lucy Bird," Dove said. "Maybe you need to lay down a spell."

  Five minutes later the kids were in front of the TV with cheese sandwiches and Kool-Aid, watching stock cars zoom around a tri-oval at 180 miles an hour, and I was stretched out on top of the comforter in Dove's guest room, the shades drawn, a cool, damp washcloth smelling of lavender and mint placed across my eyes. She kept them in the icebox in Ziploc bags for just this type of emergency.

  "I don't know what happened," I said to Dove as she sat down on the bed next to me, the mattress shifting gently under her weight. "We were saying the Prayer of Confession, and Reverend Honeywell asked if anybody had special need of God's mercy, and all of a sudden I couldn't breathe, and Jude started fussing and when I grabbed his arm he hollered out that I was hurting him. I didn't mean to hurt him, I only wanted to— It felt like my heart was about to bust out of my chest, like I was going to pass out from all those eyes on me."

  She ran a palm over my hair. "How you feelin' now?"

  "Like everything I've ever done in my whole life has been a mistake." I lifted the washcloth and peeked at Dove, who smiled. "I'm not kidding, Dove. What was I thinking, that anything good could ever come of me and Ash taking up together? It's like trying to mix two bowls of crazy stew and hoping it'll turn into some fantastic gourmet dish."

  "But that's what happened, didn't it? For a while, anyhow."

  "I guess. I don't think I can remember back that far."

  "Sure you can. Look here." She reached toward the bureau for a framed photo of Ash and me on our wedding day, my head on his shoulder, both of us grinning like fools, my bouquet of peonies barely hiding the swell of my six-months-pregnant belly.

  "Oh Lord," I said. "Look how stupid we were."

  "Naw," she said. "Just happy. I was there. I seen it with my own eyes."

  "Do you know, that idiot Dewey Wentzel came out and searched the house last night, then spent the night at the end of our driveway? Like Ash was just going to walk out of the woods and turn himself in." Dove reached for my hand and took it in hers, her fingers sinewy and strong. "I feel like I need to be doing something, but I d
on't know what. I thought he'd have turned up by now. What if he's hurt and needs help? Where's he going to go?"

  "Maybe he found someplace to hunker down for the night and let things cool off a little. Can't you think of anyplace he'd go?"

  "To the new house, maybe. But—no, not if he knows the sheriff's looking for him. He'd have to find somebody to take him in and cover for him. Isaac King, maybe. I don't know if Marjo would think to look there. Or…" I sat up, the photograph falling from my hand onto the mattress.

  "What?" Dove said.

  "Would you mind watching the kids a little while? I just had an idea."

  HEATHER starbird lived in one side of a beige brick duplex in a row of them behind the Food King. This Sunday afternoon the street was empty except for a skinny dog who trotted along beside my vehicle for a half-block or so, then fell back, panting in the heat. I cruised slowly, looking for Heather's station wagon, but as I approached her building, the parking area out front held only a shiny new Harley-Davidson and a rusting Chevy Malibu on blocks.

  I parked at the curb and sat for a minute with all the air-conditioning vents pointed at me, trying to screw up my nerve. The house was in sorry shape, even by Mooney's standards. What lawn there'd once been had burned to a crisp, and tinfoil covered the front windows, which faced the western sun. On the B side of the building, an assortment of plastic pots on the porch held the withered remnants of plant life next to a kid's Big Wheel, but the A side had nothing to characterize it but a sagging screen door.

  I left the motor running and crossed the dead grass in the yard, self-conscious in my church dress, and stepped onto the porch, rapping my knuckles against the metal door frame. On the street, two kids about twelve years old crept past on bicycles, giving me the eye. I waved, and they sped up and disappeared around the corner.

  The screen wasn't latched. I opened it and knocked on the front door. It had a small glass panel in it, and I had to fight the urge to stand on tiptoe and peek through it, imagining Heather hunkering behind it, gazing back at me with her flat dark eyes. It occurred to me that I had no idea what I'd say if she answered or, worse yet, if Ash was here: Just checking to see if my husband survived last night. Have a nice day.

  The door of the B unit opened and a big, sleepy-looking man in boxer shorts and a live free or die T-shirt squinted at me through the screen, a can of Bud in his hand.

  "Hi," I said. "I'm looking for Heather."

  "She in some kinda trouble?"

  "Not that I know of. I just want to talk to her."

  He gave me the once-over, peered out at the Blazer running at the curb. "You from Family Services? They don't usually come 'round on Sundays."

  "No. I'm just a, a friend of a friend."

  "Well, she's not here. Took off maybe a couple hours ago. Come over and borrowed ten dollars from the wife for gas money."

  "Was she alone? Did she say where she was going?"

  The man sipped his beer and considered me warily. "Look, lady. No offense, but I don't know you from Adam. Heather's had a tough time, but she's been doing real good lately, ever since she met that priest down in Jefferson and started going to meetings—•"

  I took a step backward and nearly fell off the porch. "Heather's in AA?"

  "Been, oh, I guess more than a year now."

  "Thank you," I said, backing off the porch and across the yard. "You've been a big help." The man continued to gaze at me suspiciously. "Really. You have no idea. Could you do me a favor?" I called out, opening my car door. He shrugged, noncommittal, and sipped his beer. "When—if—she comes home, would you ask her to get in touch with Lucy?"

  "I dunno. What should I say it's about?"

  "Just tell her Lucy needs to talk to her. She'll know." chapter twenty-three

  When I got back to Dove's, Bailey and Geneva were there, still in their church clothes, spreading out

  Willie B.'s pork ribs in the kitchen. "Seems to me you oughta talk to this priest fella," Dove said once I'd told them what I'd learned.

  I dialed directory assistance in Jefferson and got the numbers for St. Jude's and Father Laughlin's home, but both lines just rang and rang.

  "I guess I'll have to go down there," I said. "I can't think who else Ash would trust to take him in."

  "Well, you set down and eat somethin3 first," Dove said, already fixing me a plate. "It won't do to have you passin' out from hunger on the highway."

  "How about Isaac King?" Geneva asked.

  "I thought of him. But they haven't got a phone. I'll stop by their place on my way out of town. Maybe run by home first and get out of these clothes."

  "Want one of us to go with you?" Bailey asked.

  "I'd rather y'all stayed here and held down the fort," I said. "See if you can keep Jude distracted." He'd seemed okay when I came in—sitting glassy-eyed in front of the TV, listening to Lily describe in excruciating detail the NASCAR Nextel Cup points system—but I knew that sooner or later, unless his daddy miraculously reappeared, he was bound to melt down.

  Back home, I changed into jeans and a T-shirt and my old track shoes, and went into the kitchen for a drink of water. As I stood filling a glass from the tap, I happened to glance out the window over the sink, and thought my heart would jump out of my throat. Heather Starbird's brown station wagon was parked out back, in front of the trailer.

  Wiping my hands on the front of my jeans, I hurried down the hall and down the back steps. Just then the front door of the trailer opened, and Heather stepped out, tossing her hair over her shoulder, wearing a tank top and cutoffs, her limbs long and muscular, her feet bare. We stared at each other across the roof of her wagon. Judge not, that ye be not judged, I reminded myself. Things are not always what they seem.

  "He's not there," I said.

  She shook her head. She was watching me with the usual veiled blankness in her eyes. But there are all kinds of ways people have of camouflaging their true selves, of keeping their fragile cores intact.

  "I went by your place this morning," I said. "I thought he might go to you."

  "I've been out looking for him, too," she said, "after I heard about what happened last night. But…" She held out her hands, palms up, empty.

  I walked over and sank onto the cinder blocks, rubbing my eyes with my fists. She sat down beside me, stretching her legs in the sun. Her toenails were painted a sparkly pale lavender, like a ten-year-old girl's.

  "I'm real sorry," she said. "I been where you're at, I know what it's like."

  "I didn't know you and Ash were going to AA," I said. She glanced over at me. "Your next-door neighbor told me."

  "Charlie? That old blabbermouth."

  "I won't tell anybody."

  She started tracing a pattern in the dirt with her big toe. "Aw, I don't care. I already been called a witch and a whore and who knows what else. Folks can think what they want, it's all the same to me. But I been sober sixteen months, and I don't fool with married men. 'Sides, Tripp and me is engaged." She held out her left hand, on which a stone barely bigger than the head of a pin winked in the sun. "He behaves himself, he gets outta Hodge in December. We're gettin' married at Christmastime. I'm gonna have me a white dress and those red bushy flowers all over the place—whatta you call 'em?"

  "Poinsettias?"

  "That's the ones."

  "Congratulations," I said. "I wish you the very best. You and Tripp both."

  We sat in silence for a while as the sun shifted around behind the trailer, casting a shadow across the yard.

  "Look," Heather said. "This is none of my business, but…"

  "Go ahead."

  "Everybody's got a, a dark side to them. Some just has more trouble keeping a lid on it than most." I laughed silently, shaking my head. Ash had blown his lid, all right, right out of the stratosphere. "All's I'm saying is, if you're waiting for everything to line up perfect, the stars or the planets or whatever, then you're gonna be setting by yourself on the front step when you're old and gray, trying to figure out ho
w all the good stuff passed you by.

  "It gives me the shivers, sometimes, to hear Ash talk about you. In fact, it's what made me and Tripp finally decide to get serious. Both of us has fucked up plenty, pardon my French. But the thing is, nobody else ever made me feel like he does. Like sometimes him and me are on this little island of our own, and the whole rest of the world can go to hell. He's got my back, and I've got his, you know what I mean? 'You got to hang on to that,' Ash says. 'When it comes your way, you got to grab on to it and never let go.'"

  "I have to find him, Heather," I said.

  "I know."

  "I was thinking about driving down to Father Laughlin's, to see if he's heard anything. I tried calling, but there wasn't any answer."

  "You try his cell?"

  "I haven't got the number."

  She stood up, stretching her arms over her head. "Mind if I use your phone?"

  I sat on the living room couch picking my cuticles while Heather Starbird paced up and down my back hall with the receiver jammed between her chin and her shoulder, talking to Punch Laughlin.

  "No luck," she said, coming back into the room. "But he'll make an announcement at tonight's meeting."

  Before she left, she wrote down Punch's cell phone number for me. "He said call if you need somebody to talk to. And he said to tell you he'll light an extra candle."

  She handed me the slip of paper. "What's this other number?" I asked.

  "That's mine. Maybe I haven't got a hotline to God, like Punch does, but who knows? Maybe I do."

  The numbers swam as I stared at the paper. I remembered feeling this way when Mitchell died, that the smallest unexpected kindness was bound to undo me in a way that my larger grief was too deep to penetrate.

  "Listen, I got to run," Heather said. "Today's visiting day at Hodge. Tripp'll be waiting for me."

  I walked her through the kitchen to the back door. As she stepped out into the yard I could feel the distance between us growing, our old defenses sliding back into place. She may have walked in my shoes, but the truth was, she'd walked in Ash's, too; she'd ventured firsthand into provinces I'd never traverse. For a crazy second I almost envied her for it.