by Ninie Hammon
Jake leaned his head back on the headrest and the two were quiet for a time.
“So everybody knows about Daddy?”
“Yeah, pretty much everybody.”
“Don’t know why I’m surprised. Everybody knows about Joe Kessler’s daddy, and Sarah and Bob Fisher’s daddy. And Kelsey Reynolds’ daddy. So why not mine? Guess I just thought my father was smarter than theirs, did a better job of hiding it.”
“Kelsey’s father’s a doper? Billy Joe Reynolds is my sister’s cousin. He’s a doper?”
“Yep. Works for Daddy. At least I’ve seen him around the house a time or two, and it’s not like my father has any friends. But the way Kelsey’s daddy flashes cash, anybody could figure it out. Gives her more money than she could possibly spend, though I bet he doesn’t know she’s spending it on drugs.”
“Do you … use drugs? Smoke dope or do other stuff?” Ben didn’t, never had, never intended to. It was a decision he’d made at age 13 when he’d watched some friends drop acid. One of them decided he could fly and before the others could stop him, he climbed up onto the roof of the garage and jumped off. He’d be in a wheelchair the rest of his life.
“I’ve tried it. But no, I don’t smoke dope, or do the hard stuff.” Jake downshifted into rage so quickly Ben actually jumped. “’Cause I’m not my father! I’m not anything like him. I don’t want to have anything to do with him or his world. I hate him!”
Jake looked shocked, like he was surprised he’d actually said the words out loud. Then all the air whooshed out of him and he settled back against the seat, stared up at the ceiling and blinked back tears.
Ben wanted to put his arm around his friend, comfort him somehow, but it felt awkward. So he just sat with him in silence, remembering his own father and mother, how much he’d loved them. Losing them both had been a staggering blow. But he’d had Sarabeth. Without her, he’d have been lost.
And at that moment, Ben made a commitment to Jake. The big, dark-haired boy needed a family, a real family. Ben’s wasn’t much, but such as it was he determined to share it with Jake. Though he’d only been around Jake’s father a handful of times, at football games or briefly at Jake’s house, Ben hadn’t been surprised by anything Jake said about the man. Bubba Jamison’s eyes held a cruelty as old as time.
“I’ve got less than a year left on my sentence in hell,” Jake said. “Soon as I graduate, I’m outa here. Daddy knows I’m going away to college, but what he doesn’t know is I’m never coming back.”
Then Jake spoke so softly Ben barely caught his words. “I’m scared of him, though. He can hurt you, in ways you can’t imagine.”
Jake turned and looked deep into Ben’s eyes. “It’s an awful thing, to know something like this. But I do, I know it—like you know there’ll be sunrise on Easter Sunday morning.”
“What? What do you know?”
“If I ever defied Daddy—truly defied him—he’d kill me.”
• • • • •
Christmas Day dawned cold and sunny. Sarabeth and Ben had opened their gifts to each other the night before, sitting in front of the small Christmas tree in their den. They’d kept it simple; it was Sarabeth’s first Christmas without her father and every time she stumbled into the jagged hole of his absence the pain took her breath away.
Aunt Clara’s house lay at the end of a winding, tree-lined dirt road about a mile off KY 28 six miles south of Crawford. The old farm house had been Sarabeth’s grandparents’ home when she was growing up. It was three stories tall, with a wide staircase leading from the parlor to the bedrooms upstairs, and a dark, spooky back staircase that snaked down from the attic to the back wall of the kitchen. Sarabeth and Billy Joe used the back stairs to sneak out on their dishwashing chores when they were children.
Ben hopped out to unload the food as soon as Sarabeth parked under the leafless oak tree just outside the picket fence around the yard. They’d brought a deep-dish apple crumble pie, a plate of gooey chocolate brownies and Sarabeth’s back-by-popular-request white salad—cherries, pineapple and bananas in a fluffy mixture of Cool Whip, cream cheese and sour cream.
As Ben hauled in plates, and gifts for the children, Sarabeth sat for a moment listening to the latest news report about the crash a few days before of a Pan Am jet over Lockerbie, Scotland that killed 270 people, including 11 people on the ground.
Shaking her head sadly, she thought about the people who’d been going about their daily lives when out of nowhere an airplane dropped out of the sky on their heads! She was so engrossed in the story that she jumped when somebody rapped on the car window. It was Billy Joe.
“You get out of that car right this minute, Miss Bessie Bingham,” he commanded, “and give your favorite cousin a Christmas hug!”
She opened the door and stepped into his long arms. He held her tight, the standard Billy Joe embrace. He appeared genuinely glad to see her and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief. After what had happened at Thanksgiving … well, their relationship could have been strained.
It had been a gray, overcast day, spitting snow, and Sarabeth had been hurrying up the porch steps with her soon-to-be-famous white salad when she’d bumped into Bethany. Or rather, Bethany had bumped into her, more like crashed into her.
“Hi Sarabeth!” The little girl had squealed after the collision, then flung her arms around Sarabeth’s waist. “I remember—you were taking pictures at Elsie Bingo.”
“That’s right, and you were trying to win a teddy bear at the ring-toss booth.”
“Yeah, but I missed,” she said with a disappointed sigh.
“Your daddy bought you that great big panda bear, though. At Wal-Mart. Remember, Sugar?” said a woman standing on the porch smoking a cigarette. The woman wore a white fur jacket Sarabeth suspected might actually be real ermine and had a rock on her finger the size of the Hope Diamond. The little girl nodded but still looked downcast.
When the woman made no effort to greet her, Sarabeth stepped up on the porch and introduced herself.
“Hi, I’m Sarabeth Bingham and you must be Becky, right, Billy Joe’s wife? We met once years ago, maybe you don’t remember.”
Sarabeth remembered. But the teenage girl who’d been holding a wiggling, flaxen-haired infant that day more than a decade ago bore little resemblance to the woman who stood before her now. The girl had had soft golden curls, a round, happy face and a cheerful smile. This woman’s hair was a brittle, bleached-blond in a frizzy, Madonna-esque style, and the smile on her thin face was as empty as Al Capone’s vault.
“Sarabeth, yes, I’ve heard Billy Joe speak fondly of you on numerous occasions.” She articulated each syllable of the words carefully, like a battery-operated doll: “Hi, I’m Chatty Cathy. Do you want to play with me?”
Becky didn’t look at Sarabeth when she spoke, but at a point in space about six inches left of her face. Sarabeth had to fight the urge to move over into the flight path of the woman’s gaze.
There was an awkward silence then. Becky just stood with a little half smile, as if she would be content to wait there until somebody came by, picked her up and set her somewhere else.
“Is Billy Joe here?” Sarabeth asked.
“He’s in the house.”
Again, silence. Becky took a deep drag on her cigarette, sighed smoke out her mouth and nose and continued to stare at a distant nothing.
Bethany reached up and took Sarabeth’s hand. “I’ll show you,” she said quietly. The sadness on the child’s face when she looked at her mother broke Sarabeth’s heart.
She hadn’t meant to mention her encounter with Becky to Billy Joe, but after the huge Thanksgiving feast, she found herself alone with him in the back yard. They’d been pushing Bethany in the tire swing, the same one the two of them had played in as children, when Aunt Clara called out, “Who wants ice cream?” and Bethy hopped out of the swing and bolted into the house.
“You don’t want ice cream, Bije?” Sarabeth asked.
“I’m
so stuffed if I took one more bite I’d have to put it in my ear.” His face brightened. “Remember the home-made ice cream Grandma used to make? She gave Becky and me that old hand-crank freezer and Becky used to make strawberry ice cream in it when Kelsey was little.”
“About Becky …” Sarabeth began. All the light went out of Billy Joe’s face. She didn’t know if she should continue, but he looked so desolate. “B.J., what’s she on?”
He didn’t say anything for so long Sarabeth thought she’d gone too far, presumed too much on a childhood relationship. She was about to backtrack when he spoke, said one word so softly she barely heard him.
“Everything.” He pulled in a ragged breath. “Started out with coke, but anymore … I don’t even know what she takes now.”
Before Sarabeth could stop them, the words leapt out of her mouth. Not in an accusing tone, just sad. “It’s about you growing dope, isn’t it?”
Billy Joe’s head snapped back like she’d slapped him.
“Sarabeth Bingham! Why would you say a thing—?”
“Save it, B.J.,” she cut him off gently, reached out and touched his arm. “I know.”
He started to protest again, but the look in her eyes stopped him and he just hung his head. He was quiet again for a time and Sarabeth let him be, didn’t push.
“I lied to her,” he finally said, “told her I wouldn’t and then did it anyway. I said I was sorry, though, done everything I knew to make it up to her. And I’ve asked her, begged her to get help, but she won’t listen.” He lifted his head and looked at Sarabeth and there were tears in his eyes. “What she says don’t make sense, Bessie. She says all our money makes life worthless, that nothing she does matters ’cause I could pay somebody else to do it better. Says she don’t fit in this world. Crazy stuff like that.” He turned away and ran his hands through his hair. “Becky never had nothing growing up, barely had food on the table, and I swear, sometimes I think she wishes we were starving, too. I can afford to give her anything she wants, but she …”
He hung his head again, shook it slowly back and forth. Then his shoulders began to shake. He didn’t make a sound, but tears ran down his face.
Sarabeth put her arms around him, pulled him close and patted his back. She didn’t know what to say, so she just stood there, holding him, trying not to cry, too.
“Do you hate me, Bessie?” he asked in an anguished whisper.
She did cry then. “Of course not, Billy Joe! I love you. Nothing will ever change that.”
And now, as she stood with his arms around her in the bright December sunshine, what she’d said a month ago was true.
“Mama said you invited Seth McAllister to the famstravaganza,” he said, stepping back and grinning down at her. “You wouldn’t be just a little sweet on the guy, now would you, Bess?”
“Don’t start, Bije! Don’t even start.” She closed the car door and they headed into the house together.
Seth showed up a few minutes later, dressed in a forest green cashmere sweater and carrying a small box wrapped in bright red paper with a huge silver bow.
The day was too rowdy and loud to qualify as a Courier and Ives family Christmas. Billy Joe’s oldest sister had twin teenage boys who decided to play keep-away with another cousin’s UK ball cap and the three landed in a wrestling heap that upset the dessert table, dumping pies, cakes and Sarabeth’s salad on the floor.
Kelsey refused to engage with anybody, stood off by herself, her flaxen hair “crimped” and her bangs hanging in her eyes. Becky didn’t show up at all; B.J. explained awkwardly that she was “home sick.” Ben, Billy Joe, Seth and two of B.J.’s brothers-in-law tossed a football around in the back yard until one of them—there was much dispute about which one—chucked it through the glass storm door in the kitchen.
It was a joyous time, though, made even better by Seth’s presence. He was charming and gregarious, full of jokes and good humor. And he hovered so near Sarabeth that every time she glanced at Billy Joe, her cousin raised one eyebrow and winked at her.
Right after Christmas dinner, which was scheduled to go on the table at noon but didn’t make it until 2:30, a sudden pain jabbed deep into Sarabeth’s left ear, like someone had stabbed her with an ice pick. She tried to ignore it, but the jagged ache throbbed in rhythm with her heartbeat, which seemed to grow louder and louder until she couldn’t hear out of that ear at all.
By the time everyone settled in the living room for the gag gift exchange, Sarabeth was in so much pain she sat rigid on the couch, her face pale, her lips pressed tight together.
“You Ok?” Seth asked as he lowered his big frame down beside her. “You look—”
“I’m fine.” She stopped him, but she knew he could see she wasn’t and that made her want to bolt out of the room in tears.
Bethany had been designated the gift distributor, and as she dashed around the room handing out presents, Seth took Sarabeth’s hand and squeezed it. She could sense his vigilant attention, feel his concern, and she ground her teeth in frustration at being struck down—like those people in Scotland—totally out of the blue. But her anger made her ear hurt worse; Saran-Wrap vision was settling over her eyesight, too, and the whole left side of her head throbbed like a smashed thumb.
“This is for you,” Bethany squealed, her shrill voice shoving a blade of agony into Sarabeth’s ear. The child deposited Seth’s red box in Sarabeth’s lap, then turned to Seth. “And this one says S. E. T. H. right there.” Bethany handed him a shoebox-sized gift wrapped in newspapers. Ben and Sarabeth had spent all yesterday evening making it, gluing dozens of chicken feathers to a whisky bottle.
Ben squeezed in next to Sarabeth on the other side and leaned close. She’d seen him eying her from the other side of the room. “We need to leave now, don’t we,” he said quietly. All Sarabeth could do was nod her head.
The boy took her elbow and helped her to her feet, then made as casual an announcement as he could.
“The surprise gag gift Sarabeth just got for Christmas is a migraine,” he said, and everyone groaned sympathetically. “So we’re going to take that unexpected present and go home. But we had a great time and we’ll see all you folks soon.”
Of course, everybody clucked over her maddeningly as she tried to get out the door before she collapsed. Billy Joe gave her a gentle hug and a peck on the cheek, seemed to understand better than the others that whatever was going on, it was private. She was glad Seth had taken the arm Ben wasn’t holding because she was rapidly losing the feeling in her left leg.
She managed a remarkably sincere fake smile and Ben shooed her relatives out of the way without too much fuss and soon she was down the front porch steps and on the way to her car. Ben opened the door, Seth helped her in, then Ben went back inside to gather up Sarabeth’s empty dishes.
“I’m so sorry,” she told Seth as he knelt on one knee beside her. “I invite you out here and then I bail out—”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he cut her off. “This has been the best Christmas I’ve had in years! I just want you to go home and get to feeling better.” She hated hearing such concern in his voice. He patted the red-wrapped gift she still clutched in her hand. “I hope you like her. I worked hard to get her just right.”
The front door slammed shut behind Ben and Seth started to rise.
“There’s just one thing, one Christmas gift I’ve been hoping for all day,” Seth said. “I tried, but I never managed to get you under the mistletoe.” He leaned over and brushed his lips gently across hers.
“Merry Christmas, Sarabeth,” he said tenderly.
She was in bed for two days, off work for a week. Seth called several times, but Ben was a pit bull of a gatekeeper when she needed him to be. In the quiet solitude of her father’s old house, she withdrew, closed and locked doors she’d been foolish to open up to the big man with dark eyes. Her disease had made her limitations painfully clear; she didn’t intend to impose her less-than life on anybody else.
>
Chapter 13
As Sarabeth waited on hold to book a flight for her spring check-up at the USC Medical Center, she picked up the blue Smurfette doll that lived on the shelf by her typewriter, the doll Seth had painstakingly Miss Clairol-ed from a blond into a redhead as her gag gift at Christmas.
She smoothed the doll’s fire-truck red curls. The months since Christmas had passed remarkably fast. She’d worked hard at the newspaper and her confidence grew, one small victory at a time. From standing up to the angry mother of a bride whose wedding picture had been misidentified on the social page, to asking the parents of a drowned child for a photograph of the toddler to run with his obituary, Sarabeth was earning her stripes as a journalist.
Ben had been right; she could do this.
Life in general had taken on an ordinary-ness as time passed, too, gradually defining itself the natural way a stream finds its own path down a hillside. Perhaps the decrease in her stress level was responsible for the decrease in her MS symptoms. She hadn’t had an earache or a migraine in months. Only an occasional tingling in her fingers and Saran Wrap vision. Of course, it could also be that her megatron vitamin supplements had finally taken effect.
The American Airlines reservation agent came back on the line.
“You wish to depart Standiford Field on May 15, is that right?”
“Yes, and return to Louisville May 20.”
She’d waited to book a flight until after all the Kentucky Derby fans had gone home. The Derby, Ben’s first. It had rained, poured, miserable day. Except she’d seen Seth! And what were the odds of that happening? More than 150,000 people and he’d bumped into her while she was waiting in line for a chili dog.
“Well, hello there stranger,” he’d said, with a wide smile that accentuated the cleft in his chin. He’d stepped back and surveyed her outfit. Everyone dressed to the nines for the Kentucky Derby; no woman would dare show up at Churchill Downs without a hat. Sarabeth was wearing a pale yellow dress with a tiny rosebud design, and a wide-brimmed yellow hat with rosebuds on it. “I do believe you win the prize,” he said admiringly. “You are the most beautiful woman at the 1989 Run for the Roses.”