Double Wedding Ring

by Peg Sutherland

  Tag reached out and turned the screen on its swivel base so she could no longer see it. Then he picked her up and drew her onto his lap. She let out a startled cry.

  “I want you every minute,” he said, softly touching her hair with his fingers. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me, Susan.”

  “You won’t make love with me again,” she whispered.

  “This is Betsy’s house,” he said. “I won’t risk any kind of ugliness with her, not about that. Move out, Susan. Come home with me.”

  She shook her head again, this time more forcefully. “Not now, Tag. I won’t come until I’m...better.”

  She wanted to be able to walk and talk and drive and take care of his house and Cody and everything, just the way she had before. She would accept no less, no matter what Tag said.

  So, every morning, they plugged away at her reading and writing while Betsy plugged away at blocking Tag’s visits. She clipped the wires to the front doorbell. She kept the double doors to Susan’s room flung wide open whenever Tag came over and commenced her vacuuming or any other noisy activity to thwart their conversation. She sent Cody in to play while Susan and Tag tried to work. She opened the door leading from the kitchen to Susan’s room and rattled pans for hours on end. She invited Addy to come over an hour earlier, until Addy figured out what was going on and resumed the previous schedule. She even started inviting Bump Finley to bring his nephew over in the mornings so Cody and Jake could play their rambunctious games on the side porch.

  The only thing she didn’t do was speak—to either one of them.

  Susan’s concentration suffered. So did her emotional state. Some days she desperately wanted to pull the covers over her head and avoid the hostility that emanated from her mother. But that way, she knew, lay defeat. And she refused to be defeated by her mother.

  “Not again,” she would whisper to herself, then begin the painstaking process of dragging herself out of bed and bathing and changing clothes. “Never again.”

  Some days the strain gave her headaches. Some days she was so weary from it all, she could barely keep herself moving for late-afternoon therapy.

  “Is something wrong, Susan?” Sam asked one day when she felt too weak to drag herself out of the wheelchair.

  Afraid to tell him for fear he, too, might ban Tag from the house, Susan shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you aren’t. Is it Tag?”

  “No!” She tried to swallow back the panic. “No, really. I...I don’t sleep well. That’s all.”

  “Why not? What’s on your mind?”

  Frustration welled up in Susan. Sometimes she felt badgered on every front.

  “Malorie,” she said, wondering where that had come from.

  “What about Malorie?”

  She saw the interest in his eyes and felt guilty for the fib. Except, as she thought about what to tell him next, she realized it was no fib at all. She did worry about her daughter. On top of everything else, she saw how wan and edgy her daughter seemed these days. She had seen her daughter sink into that state before. If only she could remember when and why, perhaps she could prevent it from happening again.

  “I don’t think she’s happy.”

  “Do you know what makes her unhappy?” Sam settled onto the floor, hooked his arms around his knees and looked up at her.

  Susan shook her head.

  Sam seemed engrossed in the subject. “She seems afraid of something to me. I wish I knew what.”

  “I keep thinking I should know. But I can’t remember.”

  He put a reassuring hand on her knee. “Don’t worry. It will come to you. And, Susan? When it comes to you...will you tell me?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like Malorie. I might be...I might like her a lot.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “So you’ll tell me? So I can help?”

  Memories tickled the back of Susan’s mind and she hesitated. But in the end, the look of genuine concern in Sam’s eyes won out over the uncertainty of what the past held and how that might affect the future. Susan nodded.

  * * *

  BUMP FINLEY FINALLY caught on.

  This past week, he had grown fond of sitting in the wicker rocker on the side porch at Betsy’s, tuning out the shrill bickering and giddy fun of the two young’uns, Jake and Cody. Although he had occasionally come over so Jake and Cody could play in the weeks after Susan came back to Sweetbranch, Bump’s spat with Betsy at church a few weeks back had brought that to an end.

  That’s why Betsy’s call inviting him to bring Jake over in the mornings had taken him by surprise at first.

  “Now, you must be sure to come in the morning,” Betsy had insisted, sounding far more cheerful than he’d heard her sound in a coon’s age, “because things get hectic around lunch, what with Susan’s therapy and all.”

  So Bump had taken to coming. Tuning out the young’uns was no trouble. He could sit for an hour or more and hardly notice as they rammed their plastic trucks into one another or battered each other with ragged-eared stuffed rabbits or created the sounds of battlefields with their little toddler voices.

  He pondered, one morning, how it was that Susan and her feller, Tag Hutchins, got much studying done on that computer right inside the door. They’d told him that first morning what they were up to—computer reading lessons for Susan.

  It came to him finally. Betsy, the old cuss, was up to her tricks again.

  Swearing a blue streak under his breath, Bump struggled up out of the chair, gave his trick knee—aw, hellfire, it wasn’t trick at all, just crippled up with arthritis, was all—a chance to straighten out, then stuck his head inside the door.

  “‘Scuse me, Mizz Hovis, Tag,” he said, and waited for the two to look over their shoulders. “It’s just occurred to this old, befuddled brain of mine that these young’uns must make it right hard for the two of you to concentrate.”

  Susan and Tag exchanged glances, and Bump knew all he needed to know.

  “Blast it all!” he said. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mizz Hovis. Let me get these two noisy whippersnappers out of your hair right now. Come on, Jake, Cody. Pick up them trucks and we’ll take ‘em over to the park for a while. How’s that?”

  While Tag helped retie shoelaces and snap the two little boys into their jackets, Bump went into the yard in search of Betsy. He found her at the clothesline. Two blindingly white sheets already billowed in the November breeze, and a row of pink-and-white towels snapped as the wind whipped them around.

  “Betsy Foster,” he said, and took a perverse delight in watching her start. “You’re just a black-hearted, mean-spirited old woman. How in the devil I ever figured to be sweet on you, I’ll never understand.”

  Hands on her hips, Betsy glared at him. “I didn’t invite you over here to remind me that never for one single minute of your sorry life did you regret giving me up without a fight, Jacob Finley.”

  Not to be distracted, Bump said, “No, but I know why you did invite me over here.”

  With a huff of frustration, Betsy turned back to the clothesline and snapped a pin onto the corner of a green-sprigged housedress. “What are you ranting about, Jacob?”

  “You’re still thinking to run Susan’s life, aren’t you.” He walked up, plucked a bibbed apron from the clothes basket and handed it to her.

  “I don’t have any earthly idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I b’lieve you do. And I ain’t gonna be part of it anymore. I’m taking the boys to the park, Betsy. Givin’ those young people a little peace and quiet for those lessons.”

  “You’re an old fool if you think he’s here to give her lessons!”

  Bump chuckled. Couldn’t help himself. Some cantankerous part of him delighted in spats like this. “And you’re an old fool if you think you can stop him.”

  Betsy whipped a towel in the breeze to snap the wrinkles out of i
t. “Get on out of here, Jacob.”

  “I’m gettin’, I’m gettin’.” But before he got far, he turned and looked back. Still a fine-looking woman, Betsy was. “Sometimes I almost wish things had turned out different, Betsy. Maybe I wouldn’t be such an old grump.”

  “That would be a blessing.”

  He chuckled again. “And maybe you wouldn’t be such an old busybody.”

  Her outraged muttering set a swift rhythm for his stiff-legged retreat across the leaf-strewn lawn.

  * * *

  THANKSGIVING DAY at the Foster house proved to be as bleak as the weather. Beyond the off-white lace curtains at the dining room window, Susan could see the ledge of dark gray clouds hanging low over near-bare trees. The drizzle had stopped midmorning, just after her brother and his family arrived. But the clouds continued to look ominous; Susan’s heart felt the same.

  Steve and his wife, Debbie, had brought card tables and set them up in the dining room where Susan usually worked out. Chatting cheerfully about their jobs and their grandchildren’s forays into kindergarten, they covered the ugly metal tables with festive paper tablecloths trimmed with cartoons of pumpkins and turkeys in Pilgrim hats. They set out paper plates and napkins in the same motif. And by noon the five adults silently passed the platter of turkey and the bowl of corn bread dressing and a small serving tray of cranberry sauce. Cody sat in a high chair between Malorie and Betsy, gaily splattering giblet gravy all over his plate.

  Susan felt bad for Steve and Debbie, who both looked uncomfortable as the strain in the air dampened the festive mood they were trying so hard to generate.

  “So, Susie-Q, how’s the therapy going?” Steve asked. “You look great.”

  As she often did, Susan wondered just how great she looked. In honor of the holiday, Malorie had helped her dress in a soft rayon skirt and a cranberry-colored tunic instead of the comfortable fleece workout clothes she usually wore. Susan felt pretty. She wished she could look into Tag’s eyes and see his approval. That often made her feel pretty, even in gray fleece.

  But Betsy had made it clear. Tag Hutchins was forbidden to ruin her family holiday. Tag had said it didn’t matter, had assured Susan he had other plans, anyway. But she had seen the bleakness in his dark eyes when he’d left yesterday.

  He sat in that house alone, she was certain of it. Contemplating the possibility, Susan was not one whit grateful for her mother on this day of gratitude.

  “She still can’t walk,” Betsy said into the silence.

  “She can,” Malorie insisted. “Can’t you, Mother? I saw her two days ago, when I came in from work.”

  “Clinging to that rail,” Betsy said, nodding toward the metal bar. “What good does that do, I ask you, a step or two at a time?”

  “It’s progress,” Susan said, staring into the plate of food she didn’t feel like swallowing and hoping she wouldn’t cry.

  Debbie touched Susan’s arm. “Well, of course it is. My goodness, that seems like a lot of progress to me.”

  The tone of Debbie’s voice sounded to Susan a lot like the tone Betsy used to compliment Cody on an impossible-to-decipher drawing. Telling herself Debbie meant well, she managed an upbeat smile for her sister-in-law.

  Another few minutes of silence followed before Steve could think of another way to coax a conversation out of them.

  “Mal, I hear you’ve got a job. How’s that going?”

  “Fine.” Malorie sounded inclined to let that be the end of it. Susan looked up, their eyes met, and Malorie added, “I’m working at the Lawn & Garden. It’s fun, actually.”

  Steve looked surprised. “At Hutchins’?”

  “That’s right.”

  Betsy thrust a bowl at her son. “More sweet potatoes?”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He scooped out a heaping spoonful. “I thought Mrs. Hutchins died a few months ago. Who’s keeping the place open?”

  “Shall I bring more rolls from the kitchen?” Betsy asked.

  Malorie raised a stubborn chin and stared at her grandmother through narrowed eyes. “Her son owns the place now. You probably know him, Uncle Steve. Tag Hutchins.”

  “Tag?” Steve put the serving spoon back in the sweet potato soufflé and looked incredulously from Malorie to Susan. “Tag’s back in town? Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

  Susan saw the excitement in her brother’s eyes and knew she had an ally. “He’s been helping me read.”

  “Helping you read? Really?” Steve’s smile grew broader yet. “Is he staying at the house?”

  Malorie patted her lips primly with one of the Pilgrim-hatted turkeys on the corner of her napkin. “Why, yes. I suspect he’s there right now.”

  “Well, I’ll be. I’ll have to run over there after dinner. Deb, you’ve got to meet Tag.”

  Betsy shoved abruptly away from the table. “I’ll bring another pitcher of tea.”

  She stalked out of the dining room. Steve looked around. “What’s her problem?”

  “She doesn’t like Tag,” Susan said simply.

  “Still? After all this time?”

  Malorie leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “He’s been so sweet to help Mother, and he gave me a job and everything, but Grandmother refuses to be civil to him. I’ll bet you anything he’s sitting over there alone right now, and—”

  Steve’s fork clattered to his plate. “You’re kidding? Alone on Thanksgiving Day? When we’ve got a twenty-pound turkey in the kitchen and enough food to feed an army?”

  He stood. “I’m going to get him.”

  Debbie reached for his sleeve. “Now, Steve, if Betsy—”

  “Tell Mother to set another plate.”

  He was out the door before anyone could react. Going to the shopping bag her uncle had brought in, Malorie retrieved another paper plate and napkin. Susan noted the tremble in her daughter’s hands as she set the place and hated herself for allowing her daughter to grow up with such a weak mother for an example. Even Debbie glanced anxiously in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Oh, dear,” she said softly. “Betsy isn’t going to like this, is she?”

  Malorie dropped back into her chair, running a hand over Cody’s blond curls as she did. “Betsy has run the show long enough.”

  Susan took courage from her daughter’s tone of voice. Debbie shrank into her chair.

  When Betsy returned with a pitcher of tea, she glanced at Steve’s empty chair and the extra place Malorie had set. She circled the table refilling glasses, then sat again stiffly. No one spoke. No one ate except Cody, who had just discovered the raisins in his sweet potatoes. Betsy didn’t even bother to correct him as he mined for raisins.

  All four of the women stiffened further when the front door opened. Steve’s boisterous voice carried into the room, and Susan looked up to watch Tag walk in.

  He was dressed haphazardly, heedless of the holiday in frayed jeans and a University of Alabama sweatshirt that had been washed so many times the Crimson Tide was pink. His hair was uncombed save for a distracted sweep of his fingers, although it shone from his morning shower. His mustache captured Susan’s attention; she remembered the soft feel of it against her lips when they kissed.

  Suddenly the room brightened, although the sky outside was still the color of dull pewter.

  Tag’s first glance was for Susan—his eyes were hungry and solemn and apologetic—but he first went to Malorie and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. A family kind of gesture, it seemed to Susan. Then he turned to Cody, who had crowed with delight the minute Tag appeared, and spent a moment or two pretending to steal the boy’s plate of food. He met Steve’s wife, displaying all the Hutchins charm. Then he turned to Betsy and, standing behind the chair that had been placed at the table for him, said, “Thank you, Betsy, for the invitation.”

  Betsy’s cheeks grew red, whether with anger or embarrassment or both, Susan wasn’t certain. Betsy stared at the centerpiece Malorie had made and brought home from the store. Susan noted that Steve, too, sto
od behind his chair, as if waiting for Betsy’s reaction.

  If Betsy noticed that her son was waiting for Tag to be made welcome, she gave it no mind. She nodded curtly, and Susan supposed that was the most she could unbend.

  “Mom.” Steve’s prod held a warning tone.

  She glanced up at her son. “Please, everyone, sit.”

  Tag sat, although Susan doubted he felt very welcome. She wondered if he was only trying to get Steve to sit, to avoid the confrontation. Beneath the table, she reached for his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back, although his smile was uncomfortable.

  Steve, once seated, pretended to be oblivious to the tension in the room. He started grilling Tag on his escapades, and Tag obliged with subdued stories of drag racing and dirt track motorcycle races and treks across the southeast to do stunt work for movies being shot on location.

  “Mr. Hutchins, I had no idea you were so glamorous!” Malorie exclaimed.

  “I’m glad Steve never had that kind of adventurous streak in him,” Debbie said, her smile still nervous. “I’d be scared to death.”

  Tag chuckled. “Didn’t your husband ever tell you what all his buddies called him in the old days?”

  When Debbie shook her head, Tag gave Steve a devilish look and said, “We all called him Crash. And it wasn’t because he could learn all the algebra he needed the night before an exam, either.”

  The conversation grew lively, despite Betsy’s bitter silence. Despite Susan’s relative silence, too, for she couldn’t help but hear these additional details about Tag’s life with renewed trepidation.

  He had mentioned all of this before, briefly, the night he came to her room. But they hadn’t really discussed it. In fact, Susan realized now, she had purposely let it drop, allowed herself to shove her concerns to the back of her mind. But hearing about Tag’s life this way made the gulf that lay between them all too obvious.

  Adventure and excitement had accompanied Tag wherever he went, whereas her life had been nothing but dull routine. She had even given up her dancing, except for her late-night sessions after the dance school closed. That was all she had allowed herself, lest the hunger for what might have been grew too strong.