No Way Home

by MacDonald, Patricia

  ‘That’s the other part of the favor,” Lillie said, staring out into the dark expanse of yard. “I can’t talk about it. Please, don’t ask me, because I can’t tell you anything about it. Not until I know…”

  “Suit yourself,” said Brenda, trying unsuccessfully to keep from sounding offended. She walked over and sat down in one of the wrought-iron chairs, and felt, with distaste, the damp, cold iron through her clothes. “I brought the cushions in weeks ago,” she said. “I’ll have to show you where they are in case you want to sit out again while you’re here.”

  “Brenda, all I can tell you is that my life feels like it’s falling apart. You can’t know how much I wish I could talk it over with you.”

  “Well, if you can’t trust me…”

  “Oh, Brenda.”

  “You’re right, that’s not fair,” Brenda admitted.

  “If you don’t want me to stay, I’ll get a motel room.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Brenda. “You stay as long as you need to.”

  “I knew I could depend on you.”

  “Well,” said Brenda, “that’s true. You can. And if you want to talk…After all, you know every rotten thing that happened with all my husbands.”

  Lillie shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “All right, all right,” Brenda said, standing up. “But let’s go on into the house. It’s cold out here. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

  “I’m fine,” Lillie said.

  “Come on,” said Brenda. “You can’t sit here all night. And I want to show you what I bought at the food show. I tell you, that Opryland Hotel is so huge, I got lost today. I had to ask directions from two people.”

  Lillie stood up and followed numbly after Brenda, who led the way through the house to the cheerful kitchen, which was checkered with imported hand-painted ceramic tiles.

  “I could use a drink,” Brenda said, walking over to her glass-backed bar and reaching for the Southern Comfort. “Look in those bags. Those are the things I got at the show.” She turned around. “Do you feel like a little splash?”

  When Lillie looked up from the profusion of new kitchen utensils to refuse the drink, Brenda caught sight of her friend’s face in the full light of the kitchen. She slammed the whiskey bottle down on the counter and glowered at Lillie.

  Lillie looked at her, bewildered for a moment, and then her hand flew up to her face.

  “What the hell did he do to you?” Brenda demanded.

  Lillie backed away as Brenda strode around the center island and came toward her. “That son of a bitch,” Brenda exclaimed. “Let me see that.”

  Lillie lowered her hand and exposed the swollen black-and-blue area around her eye and her cheekbone.

  “Well, no wonder you left him,” said Brenda, examining her friend’s face. “Did you put ice on it?”

  Lillie nodded dumbly.

  “Lillie, there’s no excuse for that. You know it, don’t you? I don’t care what the fight was about.”

  “I know,” Lillie said quietly.

  “Goddamnit,” said Brenda. She picked up a glass, filled it with ice, and poured out some Southern Comfort. She added a twist of lemon and took a sip. “Divorce him,” she said. “I’m telling you, Lillie. Once they start this kind of shit, it never ends. There is always a next time.”

  Lillie sat down on one of the cane-backed stools beside the island, her eyes far away. “There won’t be any next time.”

  “There better not be. That bastard. I never liked him, Lillie. I don’t care. I may regret saying this one day, but I don’t care. I know he’s been a good father to the kids and all that. But look at your face. It’s purple.”

  Lillie walked over to the mirror behind the bar and gently touched the bruise on her cheek. She stared impassively at it, as if it were on someone else’s face. All at once the front doorbell rang and both women jumped. They looked at one another.

  “That is probably Pink,” Lillie said calmly. “Will you send him away? I don’t want to see him or talk to him.”

  Brenda banged the glass down on the counter and looked in the direction of the door with a vengeful gleam in her eye. “I’ll do better than that,” she said grimly. She opened the door of an antique oak server and reached inside. She rummaged for a minute and then pulled out a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol from inside.

  “Brenda!” Lillie cried. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m running him off,” she said.

  “Is that loaded?”

  “Damn right,” said Brenda. “You’d be surprised how handy one of these things is for a single girl to have around the house.”

  “Put it away,” Lillie pleaded.

  “We’ll have to get you one,” Brenda said, ignoring the plea. She started through the house toward the front door, her chin stuck squarely out, the heft of the gun like a natural extension of her manicured diamond-bedecked hand.

  The knocking on the door had turned to pounding, and Brenda knew that sound very well. The irate husband. Well, she’d put a stop to that right quick, she thought. Brenda reached the foyer, threw the switch that floodlit the front yard, and pulled the door open, holding the gun low. When she saw who it was, she greeted him, barrel first.

  Pink, who had been standing at the front door, nervously jingling his keys, spotted the gun and jumped back with a yelp.

  Brenda looked at him coldly. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “I have to talk to her,” Pink insisted, glancing worriedly at the pistol. “This can’t wait.”

  “Get lost, Pink.”

  “Come on, Brenda. Stop pointing that thing at me. Let me in.”

  “Why, so you can punch her around a little more?”

  Pink scowled, but there was a sheepish look in his eye. “This is none of your business,” he said. “Now just step aside there.”

  “Don’t try it, Pink. I’ll use it.”

  Pink looked in exasperation from the gun to Brenda’s flinty expression. “You probably would. You’d probably get off on it.”

  “I’m counting to three,” said Brenda.

  “Everybody knows you’re a man-hater,” Pink said.

  “Wife-beater,” Brenda retorted. “One…”

  “I want to see my wife,” Pink cried.

  “Move,” Brenda cried, rushing out the door after him.

  “Lillie,” Pink called out, backing down the steps between the gleaming white columns. “Lillie, come out here.”

  Brenda followed him down the steps, waving the pistol. Pink muttered something she could not understand and headed for the Oldsmobile, which was parked at the foot of the expansive front lawn.

  “Don’t come back,” Brenda cried. She stomped back up the steps and slammed the front door behind her. She turned to Lillie, who was poised anxiously behind an antique commode that served as a telephone table in the hall. “I think he got the message.”

  “Thanks,” said Lillie, a bitter smile curving her lips.

  Brenda blew into the barrel of the gun as if she had fired it and smiled brightly at Lillie. “I enjoyed it.”

  “You should be more careful with that thing,” Lillie said. “Put it away now, for heaven’s sakes.”

  “I think you should take this with you, if Pink’s going to be beating up on you. Do you know how to use it?”

  “Sure, I know how to use it. But I don’t want it. I’m not afraid of Pink.”

  Brenda arched her eyebrows and gazed pointedly at the bruise on Lillie’s face. “Maybe you should be.”

  “Oh, Brenda,” said Lillie, shaking her head. “This is the least of my problems.”

  “God, Lillie,” Brenda exclaimed, “why don’t you talk to me?”

  “I have to try to sort things out in my own head. Figure out how our lives went so wrong. And what to do about it.”

  “Well, I hope it doesn’t take all night. You need some sleep.”

  “All night is just the beginning,” Lillie said.

  “Well, go on to bed
,” said Brenda. “Try and rest.”

  “I think I will,” Lillie said wearily.

  Brenda chewed her lip and peered angrily after her friend, who looked as frail as a child to her, heading off down the hall. “If you need anything…” she called out.

  “I’ll be fine,” Lillie replied, turning to wave good night.

  Brenda drummed her polished fingernails against the top of the commode as she watched Lillie disappear into the guest room. Then she gazed down at the pistol she was holding and weighed it in her hand as if it were a decision. With a determined little nod of her head she marched back to the kitchen and looked around until she located the large leather satchel Lillie used for a handbag. After checking to be sure the safety was still clicked on, she dropped the pistol gingerly into the bag. Lillie, you’re too trusting, Brenda thought. Once they get a little taste of that pushing you around and knocking you down, they learn to like it. They always have to try it again. She zippered up the bag and headed back for her own room, glad there was no man around to wad up wet towels on her bathroom floor tonight.

  Chapter 22

  EVER SINCE CHILDHOOD, Lillie had loved the sound of the church bells on Sunday morning, ringing out the old-time hymns through the town. It always made her feel as if she lived in the most peaceful, protected place on earth. But she had tossed, sleepless, in Brenda’s guest room bed until dawn, and this morning the church bell’s peal jolted her awake like an alarm.

  She got out of bed, washed up, and dressed automatically. As she walked quietly down the hall she looked into the cream-colored Marie Antoinette-style bedroom and saw that Brenda was still asleep. She was lying still, wearing her lacy black sleep mask. Lillie wished that she could block this coming day out that effectively. But there was nothing else to do but to face it.

  She had had a long night to think about all of it—her marriage, her children, and the impossible situation she was in. But by the time the first flare of sun struck the wall, she was practically feverish with anxiety. She had made up her mind about only one thing that she had to do, and that she intended to do right away. She went out into the kitchen, put on her coat, and picked up her purse, which was lying on the counter. The purse strap weighed heavily on her shoulder, and she thought again of how exhausted she was. She picked up her car keys from the counter, looked around the room, and then let herself quietly out of the house.

  It was a cool, dewy Tennessee morning, the trees bare and chilly-looking, the air clear and silent except for a few birds. As she started down the driveway toward her car, she saw the black Oldsmobile parked out in front of the house. Pink was slumped against the steering wheel.

  Lillie hesitated a minute, feeling as if she should speak to him. The leaden pain in her face reminded her that she did not want to. She arrived at her car door and opened it as carefully as possible, hoping he would not hear her. But Pink suddenly sat up, as if the gentle thunk had been a gunshot, and looked out at her. Then he clambered out of the Oldsmobile and hurried toward her.

  “Lillie, wait a minute.”

  “Be quiet,” Lillie said sharply as he approached. “Brenda’s still asleep.”

  “We have to talk,” said Pink. He was disheveled and puffy-eyed from sleeping in the car, and nursing some bourbon, Lillie suspected.

  “I don’t want to talk now,” she said.

  “Oh, honey, come on,” he said, reaching out as if to embrace her. Lillie shrank from him.

  “Just keep away from me/’ she said.

  “Honey, I just want to tell you how sorry I am. I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand like they did/’ Pink insisted. “I never did that to you before. Now, you know that.”

  “And that makes it all right?” she said in a shrill voice.

  “No,” Pink said eagerly. “I know it was wrong. And I promise you, it will never happen again. Never. Now, darlin’, don’t be in such a hurry to rush off. Where are you going anyway?”

  “There’s someone I have to talk to,” she said.

  “Well, come on,” he said. “I’ll give you a lift.”

  “I’ll drive myself.”

  Pink took her hand and tried to knead it in his own but Lillie pulled it away from him. “I just want for us all to be back together again. You and me and Grayson. The way it’s supposed to be. That’s the way Michele would want us to be.”

  Lillie stiffened at his invocation of her daughter’s memory. “Don’t you dare,” she cried. “Don’t you mention her name to me. Oh, God, what would she think of us? Leave me alone, Pink.”

  Pink stared at her in bewilderment and then in anger, as he realized that his apology was not having the desired effect.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “I heard you.”

  “It’s just a bruise, for crying out loud. Where are you going anyway?”

  Lillie looked at him with anguished eyes. “I am going to see Royce. His son killed my daughter, remember?”

  “Look, there’s nothing Royce can do about this now.

  We made our decision,” Pink said stubbornly. “Why stir the whole thing up again?”

  “You decided, not me. All I knew about it were lies and more lies.”

  Pink shook his head incredulously and then slammed his palm down on the hood of the car. “Nothing I do is ever enough for you. I spend my whole life trying to satisfy you and for what? So you can turn on me. And our son.”

  “Pink, I’m not turning on you. You’re my family. You and Grayson…you’re all I have in this world. But this was murder, Pink. Not some prank. You’re all pretending it never happened. Our daughter was murdered!”

  “This is just for revenge, isn’t it?” Pink demanded. “Because we didn’t consult with you. You’re going to start making a lot of noise about it. This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you in the first place.”

  “Oh, right, Pink,” Lillie said sarcastically. “Absolutely. I couldn’t be trusted with something like that. You just went ahead and made the most crucial decision in our whole lives and just lied through your teeth about it. Why, I should be grateful to you. I should thank you for that.”

  Pink eyed her obstinately. “Don’t be so self-righteous. I was thinking of Grayson’s future. Somebody had to. What do you think would happen to him if this thing got out?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lillie.

  “That’s right. You don’t know and you don’t care. You’d think nothing of ruining his life to get your revenge on Tyler. Even though Michele is dead and nothing we do now can help her. You just always loved her more than you loved Grayson.”

  Lillie wanted to cry out in protest, make some nasty reply, but the retort did not come readily to her lips. Pink’s words winded her, like a low blow. Was it true? Michele had always been the vulnerable one, the needy one. The one who depended on her. Grayson had shaken off her help as soon as he could walk. And maybe that had hurt her a bit. Maybe she had drawn closer to the one who needed her the most. But it wasn’t fair to say she loved one more than the other. She loved them both, each in her own way. They were her children, her little ones. She did not have to defend her love to anybody. But in spite of herself, Pink’s words made her feel guilty. And she did not want him to know it.

  “I’m sorry you see it that way, Pink,” she said coldly. She reached for the car door handle, but Pink jerked her away from it.

  She turned on him furiously and snarled, “Let go of me.”

  He loosened his grip. She pulled away from him and got into the car. She got out her keys and began to insert them into the ignition with a trembling hand. Pink hesitated, then reached in and tried to grab them away from her. Lillie cried out and rolled up the window. Pink snatched his hand out quickly, to avoid getting his wrist jammed in the window. Lillie reinserted the key, pressed on the gas, and started the engine. She put the car into reverse and let out the emergency brake. As she glanced into the rearview mirror, she saw her husband standing there, behind the car.

  She rolled down t
he window and stuck her head out. “Get out of the way, Pink,” she said.

  “You can’t do this,” Pink said. “You can’t just go out and destroy all our lives.”

  ‘Tm not trying to destroy anything. But I’m going to talk to Royce Ansley. Right now.” She revved the engine and touched the gas. The car inched backward.

  “Go ahead and hit me,” he cried. “Why don’t you?”

  She blew her horn, but he stood still, blocking the car’s path with his soft, aging body.

  She looked at him incredulously. “Move out of the way,” she cried. “I’m going out.”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I don’t care.”

  And in that moment she knew that it was true. He would. For his misguided notion of shielding Grayson, he would stand in the path of a car. She didn’t know whether it was pity or revulsion or even sympathy that twisted her heart.

  She threw the gear shift into drive and the car jerked forward. She turned the wheel sharply and threw it into reverse, backing out at top speed over the emerald-green perfection of Brenda’s lawn, leaving tire ruts in an area around the driveway. Pink shouted something after her, but she rolled up the window again so that she could not hear him.

  Royce Ansley lived on a quiet street in a stone farmhouse that some returning soldier had modeled after a French country house after World War I. Lillie parked in the driveway and recalled what the now-shabby facade had looked like when Lulene was alive. Roses climbed up around the door and her flower garden was unrivaled in Felton.

  After his wife’s bout with cancer and her death, Royce’s brown crew cut seemed to turn gray overnight, and he never did appear to recover. He had married late in life, and when a seemly amount of time had passed and people suggested that he date again, he would always say the same thing. “I had my wife.” And the way he said it, it was as if he meant to say “my life” instead.

  Lillie banished the sympathy that she’d always felt for him. She walked up to the front door, dropped the old iron door knocker, and waited. She heard footsteps and the door opened. Royce Ansley, still in his bathrobe, looked out at her with tired eyes. He did not seem surprised to see her.