Bertie got to her feet and came to look. “I’ll help. A little mattress and coverlet and something around the sides so she won’t bump her head.” She fingered the smooth curve of one of the rockers, imagining Haylee in the cradle she and James had made together, the baby’s little hands exploring what was hard and what was soft. James set it down, and it started to rock, just a little, even though there was no wind.
39
Liza
Liza sat with Martin at the table in Hodge’s kitchen, where he’d invited them after the funeral. Hodge poured coffee from a battered aluminum coffeepot. The veined white Formica of the tabletop had separated from its base. Martin flicked it with his thumb, making rubber band music. Liza gave him her schoolteacher look, indulgent but suggesting that perhaps he should quit damaging property. He stopped. The kitchen was painted 1960s avocado green, the walls marked by the scuffs and accidents of Hodge’s children. Stove burners had branded oven mitts. Papers and photos rippled down the yellow refrigerator. Liza could feel Martin wishing the kitchen were his. Claudie had told them good night and gone to bed.
Hodge set the coffeepot on the counter and sat down. They all looked at each other.
“The three musketeers,” Martin said.
“The three stooges,” Hodge said.
“The three wise men,” Liza offered. “Wise people.”
“I like that one,” said Martin.
“We’re not that wise,” Hodge said. “Or you aren’t, anyway. I’m pretty wise.”
Martin snorted.
“Reverend Davis did a nice job with Leon’s eulogy,” Hodge said.
“Considering he never met him,” Martin said.
“Got his name right, anyway,” Hodge said. “I went to one last month where the preacher got the poor man’s name wrong the whole service.” He grinned at Martin. “That’s what happens when you don’t attend church regular.”
“I don’t want anybody yapping at my funeral. Especially not you, Hodge,” Martin said.
“Too late. I’ve already got my sermon written. The wages of sin is death and all that.” Hodge blew across his coffee to cool it. “By the way, Martin, the developer that owns that property back of yours called me yesterday, to see which one of y’all he needed to talk to about buying your place. He’s going to give you a call.”
“Did he mention a price?” Martin said.
“He floated two hundred thousand.”
“You’re kidding me,” Martin said.
“You can probably get more than that,” Liza said. The bigger cities nearby were expanding, rising like a slow tide, their waves beginning to lap at properties in surrounding rural counties.
“That would be nice,” Martin said.
“Of course, you could buy out your brother and sisters and live up there yourself,” Hodge said.
“Like I said, the money would be nice, seeing as I’m currently out of a job. I may be moving on soon,” Martin said.
“Now, don’t go and say that,” Hodge said. “We’ll find you another job. The community college wasn’t a good fit for you anyway. The headmaster at Wakefield Academy told me they’re looking for an English teacher. I told him about you. Private schools don’t pay much, but you’d make more than at the community college, and I bet the students are better.” Wakefield was where wealthier Willoby County families sent their daughters to high school.
Martin pushed hair out of his eyes and flashed a wicked grin. “Is Willoby County ready for a flaming homo from the city to teach its impressionable young ladies?”
It was the first time Liza had ever heard him put words to his homosexuality. She giggled. “This county could only benefit from a little flamboyance.”
“It really could,” Hodge said.
“Then maybe I will stay,” Martin said.
Liza got up, rinsed out her coffee cup in the sink, and set it upside down on the drain board. She put a hand on Hodge’s back. “I’m heading home. You two stay out of trouble.”
Martin walked her outside. At her truck, he pulled something out of his pocket. “This is for you.” He handed it to her, a palm-size package, store-wrapped by expert female fingers.
She raised her eyebrows. “Shall I open it now?”
He nodded.
She slipped a fingernail under the tape and unwrapped it. In an antique silver frame, her younger self leaned in to kiss Martin Owenby’s cheek. It wasn’t her own image that made her throat catch, but Martin’s, the happy, confident look on his smooth face. She wanted to weep for him. “Where did you get this? Did you find it at Leon’s?”
“I’ve had it,” he said. “I’ve always had it.”
The photo was worn, the pigment faded from handling. He had loved it. He had thought of her.
“I may need to borrow it back from time to time,” he said. “The girl in that picture has seen me through a lot.”
She ran her thumb over the frame’s patterned surface. “I’ll share it. You know where to find it.”
Martin hugged her. For once he felt solid in her arms. Liza realized that she was ready to go. That she was freed from the what-ifs that had tugged at her for thirty years. She knew that even though there would be other nights at Hodge’s table or her own, the hemorrhage of feeling, of regret for things unfinished, was stanched. She wanted to laugh and cry with relief.
She touched Martin’s face and said out loud what she had always counted on him to read in her mind. “I love you, sweetie. I hope you stay here. You know you’re welcome at our place anytime.”
He put his hand over hers. “I love you, too, Liza.” He squeezed her fingers and then let go. She climbed in her truck. Martin walked back to the house and stood in the doorway, keeping the porch light on until she pulled out, then turning it off and disappearing back into the house. Liza headed home.
* * *
For years after Martin broke it off with her, they hadn’t seen each other or spoken. Then, on the evening after another funeral, Shane’s, something made her get in the Sunliner and drive over to Eugenia’s, where she had heard Martin was staying. When she got there he was sitting on the porch by himself, smoking a cigarette. His sideburns were long, but otherwise he looked the same. When he saw the car he crushed out his cigarette and stood up. She got out and leaned against the car, crossing her arms.
“Nice wheels,” he said. “An old friend of mine had a car like that.”
“She still does,” she said.
He took a few steps toward her and stopped, then held his arms open. She stepped into his hug, finding a place in it that was hers. Their skin was warm against the moist chill of the night air. Their fit was perfect.
They separated and Martin helped her put down the convertible’s white top. Curtains fluttered as his sister Eugenia peered through the front window at them. They got in the car and went for a drive, as if nothing had ever interrupted their friendship.
* * *
When she got home from having coffee with Martin and Hodge after Leon’s funeral, she saw Raby through the window, his reading glasses down on his nose. Raby of the strong face and sly wit, who had coaxed her into marrying him, who checked the oil every time his wife or daughters started out on a trip. Raby, as solid as the mountain that rose beyond the fields on their farm. She pushed through the screen door, and he looked up at her with a little grin. “I was about to send out a posse.”
“Hodge had us over after the funeral.”
“How’s your Martin?”
“Fine. What are you doing?”
He held up the bridle Sandra used for horse shows. “I am sewing tiny pink ribbons on our daughter’s bridle so that she will not die of embarrassment at her horse show Saturday. I feel like a sissy.”
Liza unwrapped the photograph Martin had given her and set it on the mantel, then walked over to Raby and put her arms around his neck, rubbing her smo
oth cheek against his rough one. He put down the bridle and slid his hands along her arms, then nodded at the photograph. “I remember her,” he said.
40
Martin
After Liza left, Hodge rooted around in his kitchen cabinets and pulled out a skillet. “I’m in the mood for eggs and bacon. How about you?”
“Is it included in my rent?” Martin said.
“I’ll put it on your bill.”
“Two eggs, sunny-side up.”
Hodge opened the refrigerator and got out eggs and bacon wrapped in white waxed paper. He peeled strips into the skillet. Grease began to pop.
“Is there any species on earth that doesn’t like bacon?” Martin said.
“Bacon is a gift from God. This is the real thing. I get it every year from a fellow up the road who keeps hogs.”
“It smells like my mother’s.” Martin breathed deeply. He remembered waking up to that smell on cold mornings, trying to get downstairs early to claim his share before his brothers did.
“She could cook some bacon.” Hodge poked around the skillet with a fork. “Your mama would be proud of you, Martin.”
Martin shook his head. “I did not do well by my mother.” Hodge was facing the stove, and Martin couldn’t see his face. It was easier to talk to him with his back turned. “What kind of son was I, not to be there with her when she died?” Bacon smoke filled Martin’s eyes.
“She kept it from you.”
“What?”
“She kept it from you, how sick she was, because she didn’t want you coming home.”
“How do you know that?”
“I went and saw her about every weekend. I could see she was failing. She forbade me to tell you. I respected that.” Hodge turned around, a pudgy middle-aged man holding a fork. “I’ll never forget what she said, the last time I saw her. Your mama was a person of words just like you, even if she didn’t know as many big ones. We were out on her porch. She pointed to how red clay had crept up the sides of the house and outbuildings. She said she had seen it creep up the legs of people who stood still too long, and I wasn’t to call you back, lest it stain you, too.”
Martin stared at him.
“She was glad you got away, Martin. But that doesn’t mean you can’t come home again.” Hodge turned back to the stove, pushing the bacon to one side of the skillet and cracking eggs into the grease. “Did I ever tell you about the time I heard the voice of God?”
Martin groaned.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to witness to you, I’m just telling you about it.” Hodge touched the edges of the eggs with his fork, testing to see if they were cooked. “It was the end of my first year at the farm school. First time I’d been off on my own, and I had not behaved myself. I had lost my way. Too much drinking and wildness, and then there was a girl who thought I might have got her into trouble, she didn’t know for sure yet. I was out by the fountain at the school. I thought my life was over. It was five in the morning. I remember there was a little wren bathing in the fountain. I was watching it, and all at once I heard a voice say, clear as day, ‘None of that old mess matters.’ ” Hodge slid the eggs and bacon onto two plates. “People always want God to repeat Himself when He says something. I listened for it again. I went around the fountain to see if somebody was playing a joke on me, but no. I didn’t hear anything else. God just said it the one time, but I decided that was enough. I’ve never forgotten it. Every time my own mistakes pile up on me like manure, I remember it and the burden is lifted.” He brought Martin his plate and put a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “None of that old mess matters, Martin.”
Martin felt the sureness of his friend’s touch, the love it contained. Hodge gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Eat your breakfast,” he said.
They finished their food. Hodge got up and took their dishes to the sink. “I think I’m ready for bed. You going to turn in?”
“No.” Martin stood up. “I’ve been thinking I’d like to go to the clearing. I haven’t been there since I came home.”
“Do you want company?”
“Not this time.”
Hodge nodded. “It’s different now,” he warned. “Don’t be sad at how things have fallen in.”
“I won’t.”
“All right, then.” Hodge stood in front of Martin, his arms at his sides. On impulse Martin reached out and hugged him, the way men were supposed to hug other men, quick and hard, as if they could imprint all their love in one squeeze. To his surprise, Hodge turned it into a real hug, holding him long enough to make it matter. When they stepped back, Hodge wasn’t embarrassed at all. “You go on, friend,” he said. “I won’t worry about you till morning.” He walked down the hall toward his bedroom.
Martin went down the narrow basement stairs to his apartment, to change out of his funeral clothes and get a coat and the truck key. Next to the key on top of his refrigerator was the almost empty bottle of Scotch that had been there since before they found Leon’s body. He hadn’t touched it. He could look at it and not want it. He didn’t know if it was finding Leon that had dampened his desire for alcohol, or if he had finally just had enough. He knew the not wanting wasn’t likely to last, but for now he didn’t have to drink.
He went out the ground-floor entrance, turning on the porch light for his return and closing the door quietly behind him. The night was damp and hazy. The almost-full moon shone bright but out of focus. There were no stars out. A few frog voices rose from the grass around Hodge’s house, but he didn’t yet hear the excited cacophony of peepers that would come with full spring. Leon’s truck sat in the yard. In the moonlight its shadow loomed against the grassy bank behind it.
* * *
The morning Martin left for college his mother had made him a special breakfast, a double serving of bacon and fried eggs cooked as he liked them, runny, instead of fried hard the way his father insisted. The simple task of standing up to cook seemed to cost her breath, and she stopped every few minutes to lean against the stove. When she carried the skillet to the table and slid the food onto his plate her wrist strained to hold the weight.
Leon came into the kitchen, buttoning his shirt. Martin wolfed his bacon down before Leon could steal it. Leon ignored him, speaking only to their mother. “I’m going to town. You need anything?”
“I don’t believe so.”
A car horn honked in the yard. “That’s Liza.” Martin jumped to his feet. He reached around his mother’s waist, hugging her hard, making her wince. “Bye, Mama.”
“God bless you, Martin.”
His packed duffel bag sat by the door. He grabbed it and stepped out onto the porch. As he paused to lift its strap to his shoulder he looked back inside the house. His mother was at the stove again, her back to him, cooking Leon’s breakfast. Leon stood beside her, his hair combed into a perfect duck tail at the nape of his neck. As Martin watched, Leon put a hand on his mother’s upper arm, his fingers encircling it, squeezing it gently, then letting go. She turned her head to look up at him. Her profile was sharp. The smile she gave, just for Leon, crinkled the thin skin around her eyes.
Liza honked her horn again, and Martin walked out into the yard. He didn’t see his mother again.
* * *
He opened the heavy passenger door of Leon’s truck and slid over to the driver’s seat. A spark of static electricity shocked him when he turned the key in the ignition. The truck rumbled horribly, the noise bouncing between cornfields and houses all along Hodge’s road, but no lights came on. The people here ignored loud truck motors at midnight the way New Yorkers ignored car alarms.
He drove to the dirt parking lot of what used to be the Solace Fork school grounds and pulled in. Orange plastic netting blocked off the construction site. The concrete foundation of the new book depository was half-poured. Two portable toilets loomed in the darkness. He dug a flashlight out of Leon’s glove box an
d climbed out of the truck. The old deer path was still there. Animals didn’t change the way people did.
At one time Martin could have walked this path blindfolded. He started along it, holding the flashlight low. Small pink and white flowers had stuck their heads up along the trail, groundhog style, to test the weather. He imagined them shouting the all-clear back to their brethren in the ground. The air held the not-quite-warm wetness of spring. Then he heard the sound of the creek. He left the path and walked toward it. The water was so cold, ice had formed tubes around small saplings that leaned too far over into the stream. If Martin stuck his hand in, his fingers would ache with cold. He made his way through a canopy of winter branches, noting here and there the light green of new growth on the forest floor. May apples formed droopy green umbrellas under the trees. He saw wild orchids, jack-in-the-pulpits, trillium. He arrived at the clearing. The trees were still there, though they leaned or lay at different angles.
Liza had called them church ladies. She should have been the writer instead of him. Looking at the trees, he wished for her metaphoric eye. Or, more, for his sister Ivy’s glimpses of people who had passed. He turned off his flashlight and invited the moonlight to trick his sight, imagining bowed trunks as backs, bark as sun-roughened skin, hanging vines as sundries bought for trimming at Riddle’s general store. And then he saw them, sitting in a circle. He searched the crowd, and there was his mother among them. She smiled at him. He put his cheek down on the nearest tree, which grew sideways in front of him like a gate, and watched her. She was quilting. She chatted around the straight pins she held in the corner of her mouth. Her face was rested.
“Where was I when you needed me?” he asked her out loud as she talked to her friends.
She looked over at him, surprised. “Law, Martin, you were right where I wanted you to be.”
Under the Mercy Trees Page 29