Trouble's Brewing

by Linda Evans Shepherd; Eva Marie Everson

  “Hmm … I was thinking more along the lines of one of your great hamburgers right off the grill.”

  “What?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Tim!” I sat in my swivel chair, pulling it closer to the desk with a scootch of my feet. “What are you doing trying to fool your mother this way? You sounded just like one of the kids around here.” Even as I said the words, a couple of giggly female students entered the library, arms wrapped around their notebooks. I watched as they moved slowly toward the YA fiction section, then looked back down to my desk, where a scattering of papers and a few stacks of books had managed to take up residency since lunchtime.

  He chuckled. “Ah, I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. Nice to know all those drama classes at college were for a good cause.” “You’re a stinker.” I noticed that a book in one stack belonged in another and made the transfer. When I did so, I saw the Gold Rush News clipping of Donna’s great escape from the bear during one of our Potluck gatherings. I giggled in spite of myself.

  “I haven’t been called that in a few years,” Tim said after a pause.

  “I can think of a few other names I’ve been called lately, but not stinker.”

  I rested against the back of the chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call? The kids okay? Samantha?”

  “Always the mother, aren’t you? The kids are great. They’re always great.”

  I narrowed my eyes, waiting for a report on my daughter-in-law. “And Samantha?”

  “Ah, my dear sweet wife Samantha.” The dramatic tone was back in his voice, placing emphasis on the “man” in her name.

  “Tim …” I sat up straight but dropped my head so as to keep my preferred quiet in the library, even behind the glass wall.

  “You never answered me,” he said.

  “Answered you?” I heard the library door open again, and I looked up to see three more students entering. “I don’t remember there being a question, but I’m keenly aware that you are avoiding mine. Son …”

  “Mom, what would it take for me to get one of your grilled hamburgers?”

  I turned my chair to face the back of my office. “What’s going on?”

  Again he chuckled. “I’m just hungry, that’s all. And I’ve got a craving for one of your hamburgers.”

  Once again I heard the library door open, only this time I didn’t bother to turn to look. A sense of dread ran down my spine, then leaped into my stomach, settling there like a heavy rock. For some time I’d been worried about my son’s marriage to his college sweetheart. I’d hoped I was wrong, of course. A mother always knows when her children are in some sort of trouble, but we always pray for the best. But just recently Tim had called his sister Michelle—our deaf daughter who works at a resort in Breckenridge—telling her he was building a bigger home for himself and his family, something I thought a great waste of money … and also a “tale-tell.” Something was rotten in Denmark!

  When I’d pressed my husband, Samuel, about it, he pooh-poohed my concern away, telling me if I wanted to know if anything was going on, call Tim and ask. But then … Jan … and I simply let it slide.

  Now, with this phone call, I knew there was trouble.

  “Tim, I’ve been meaning to ask you … wait …” I swiveled back around. “I want to close my door—” My words faltered. There, standing on the other side of the glass wall, was my handsome son, cell phone pressed to his ear.

  “Hi, Mom.” He smiled a forced smile. His thinning light brown hair was tousled—probably from being windblown—but he still managed to look sharp in a pair of dark slacks, gray oxford, and multicolored sweater. His brow moved up and down in an imitation of Charlie Chaplin, an attempt to make me laugh—or at the very least, smile—but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

  From the looks of things, my youngest boy had come home. And, the good Lord willing, not to stay.

  I decided to take the rest of the afternoon off. Tim had flown into Denver and rented a car, so I suggested that he follow me home. “Don’t say anything,” I admonished him as I gathered up my keys and purse. “Just follow me home and we’ll … talk there.” I told him I needed to advise the assistant librarian and he should meet me in the employee parking lot. “Go,” I whispered, then made a hasty retreat to the American Lit section, where Ellie Brestin was filing away returned books. I made a quick excuse (Ellie is a dear, but she doesn’t need to know my family business) and then rushed out past the stacks, into the hallway, and out a side door.

  Naturally I called Samuel on my cell phone during the drive. Samuel is the president of the Gold Mine Bank and Loan, and I knew he’d be busy, but I also knew he’d not want to come home to any surprises, such as a married son complete with suitcase but without wife and kids.

  While I waited for his secretary to patch me through, I passed by Lisa Leann’s new bridal shop on Main Street. A wild thought ran through my mind, namely, Oh, dear Lord, what will Lisa Leann have to say about this? It seemed to me that Lisa Leann Lambert had something to say about everything, and most of it was none of her business.

  Samuel answered his extension with a “What’s up, Liz?” and I jumped right in with both feet.

  “I told you, Samuel. I told you something was up.” I pressed my foot harder on the accelerator, then released it as soon as I realized what I was doing.

  “Back up, Lizzie. Are you in the car?”

  “I am. And our son is in a rental car directly behind me.” I glanced in the rearview mirror just to make sure. I don’t really know why I had to make sure. Where did I think Tim would go?

  “Sam?” he asked, meaning Samuel Jr. “Why would Sam be following you?”

  “Not Sam. Tim.”

  “Tim?”

  “And I told you something was up a few weeks ago when he called Michy and said he was building Samantha a bigger house.” “Did he say what he’s doing home?”

  I braked for a red light, then looked back in my rearview mirror again. Tim was behind me, cell phone also pressed to his ear. I could tell by the expression on his face the conversation was serious. Was he talking with Samantha? One of the kids? “No. And I told him to just wait until we get home. But he said Samantha’s name as if it were a curse word. Oh, Samuel!” Tears began to well up in my eyes. “What if they get a divorce?”

  Samuel paused before answering. The light before me turned green, and I pressed the accelerator. “I’m sure it’s just a spat.”

  “A spat? Samuel, for a spat you don’t fly from Louisiana to Colorado. For a spat, you take a walk around the block … or go to the club and play racquetball or something. For a spat you get a cup of coffee at the local diner and mull things over.”

  “All right then, Lizzie. You’re on your way home?”

  I sniffled. “Yes.”

  “I’ll leave in a few minutes to join you. But you listen to me, now. If you fall apart, you won’t get anywhere with him. Just take some time and listen. Or, better yet, try not to get into anything before I get home. Hear?”

  I nodded, silent.

  “Did you hear me, honey?” I knew he threw the “honey” in as a comforter.

  “I hear you. And I’ll see you shortly.”

  Even as I said the words I pulled into our driveway, and Tim’s rental, a silvery gray Altima, bounded in behind me. When I met him at the driver’s door, he was flipping the top of his cell phone down, ending his call. His face seemed flushed, and in spite of the chill in the air, I could see rivulets of sweat escaping from his hairline and trailing down the jut of his jaw.

  He opened his door and looked up at me. A sigh escaped my lips. He no longer looked like a grown man or a husband or a father. He looked like a little boy.

  More specifically, my little boy.

  “Samantha?” I asked Tim, my brows raised in an empathetic arch.

  He nodded. “Yeah.” He swung his legs out of the car, and I stepped back. “I wanted to let her know I’d made it back home.” Tim cut a sharp glance fro
m me to the brick split-level perched before us. “For a while, okay, Mom? This is home … but I promise it won’t be for long. Just until I can get on my feet … feel things out …” He looked up at the sky, blinked a few times, then slammed the car door shut.

  I stammered. “Oh … sure. Of course this is home. It always has been, you know that.” I followed my son to the back of the car, where he opened the trunk and pulled out several pieces of matching luggage. It looked brand-new. And expensive. “Nice luggage,” I said, like some ninny trying to make casual conversation with my own son.

  Tim shrugged. “Wilson’s,” he said. “I bought it yesterday … maybe it was the day before.” He shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter, though, does it. Luggage is luggage.”

  “Apparently not.” I reached for the rolling duffle bag. “I’ll get this one,” I said.

  We strolled to the rust-colored front door in silence, Tim alone with his thoughts and me alone with mine. I gripped the roller handle in a tight fist, thinking about the new house Tim and Samantha were supposedly building, the expense of the leather luggage, even the cost of the clothes my son wore.

  Tim could easily afford it, and I knew this, but I’d always warned my children against becoming too materialistic. Just because their father and I earned good salaries didn’t mean we spoiled them. They hadn’t necessarily wanted for anything, but sometimes their wants were just that. Wants.

  “No one ever died from a disease called Wanting,” Samuel used to tell them.

  I recalled that on more than one occasion Tim lashed back, “Yeah, well … when I’m grown and making my own money I’ll buy whatever I want. I don’t care what it costs.”

  Samuel, wise and consistent, would reply, “When you’re grown and on your own, you can certainly do with your money whatever you’d like. But this money belongs to Mother and me.”

  Tim had stayed true to his word—or, in those days, threats. He’d graduated with a double degree in business and finance, then taken a job as a reimbursement analyst for one of the top hospital chains in Louisiana, making more money his first year than his father and me combined at this stage in our careers. New homes and pricy leather luggage he could afford, but I worried. Had my son become too … uppity? Was this the cause of his marital problems?

  As soon as we entered the foyer of the house Tim said, “Mom, just drop that bag here. I’ll take all this down to my old room and then grab a quick shower if that works for you.”

  I smiled a weak smile. “Of course, son. Your father will be home soon, so when you’re done, come back up, okay?”

  Tim leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Will do.” He hoisted several of the bags and made his way toward the staircase leading to the first floor, where he and his brother, Sam, had shared a room during their growing-up years.

  Sam … I’d need to make a few calls to the other siblings—Sam, Sis, and Michelle—as soon as I had more information; certainly something more than “Your brother has come home.”

  I raised my chin and sighed. If my son wanted grilled burgers, I’d better get started with the preparations. I headed for the kitchen.

  While Samuel and Tim sat at the old farm kitchen table talking more like two grown men than father and son, I stood at the double sinks, peeling potatoes. “Potato salad too, okay, Mom?” Tim had asked after he’d come back up the stairs and found me mixing the ingredients for the burgers. “What’re burgers without your potato salad?” He turned to see his father sitting at the table. “Hey, Dad,” he said, then crossed the room and shook his father’s hand.

  Samuel drew him close in a hug. “Son,” he said, slapping his back.

  I gave a slight roll of my eyes, catching a glimpse of the overhead shelf lined with my collection of antique teapots covered in a light layer of dust. The dust will have to wait, I thought. My married and successful son has come home.

  I listened to them speaking to each other about the way of things in Louisiana and somehow managed to keep my mouth shut. Get on with it … find out what’s going on in his marriage, not his state, I thought, but said nothing. The more you listen, the more you learn, I always say.

  “I don’t know, Dad.” Tim’s words brought me out of my thoughts. “It’s like the more I buy her, the more she wants from me. If I get her a one-carat diamond ring, she wants a two-carat cluster.”

  I narrowed my eyes and focused on dicing the potatoes. I knew my son, of course, but I’d known Samantha for a lot of years, and somehow I couldn’t imagine my daughter-in-law being that materialistic.

  “Is that why you were talking about building a bigger house?” Samuel asked.

  “Yeah. She’s always complaining about this thing or that thing in the house on Myrtle. I thought, well, build her one she won’t have anything to complain about. You know, give her a good year’s worth of projects, and maybe she’ll get off my case about stupid stuff like the faucets in the bathroom not being modern enough … about Mary Kate’s new wallpaper and Joan’s solid oak crown molding.”

  “Who?” I couldn’t help myself; I had to ask.

  Tim shook his head as though dismissing the women. “Friends of hers. Wives of the very well-to-do. My salary can’t hold a candle to what they’re bringing in.”

  Samuel nodded. “Had you bought property yet?” he asked, getting back on track. I returned my attention to the cooking.

  “No. Only looking. Though I had to do the majority of it. I mean, here I am, Dad, working ten hours a day, sometimes twelve, and then having to squeeze in property shopping before going home for dinner. My gosh, by the time I got to bed every night—what with having personal things to do, to boot—I just collapsed.” He guffawed. “And sex? Forget about it.”

  I twisted my neck so fast bones cracked. “Timothy!”

  He threw his hands up in the air and gave me a wide-eyed stare. “What? Mom, you do know we have sex, right? And I say that lightly. I can’t remember the last time—”

  “Mother,” Samuel warned. “We’ve always had an open door policy in this house. Our children can talk to us about anything.”

  I pressed my hand to my breast and swallowed. “You’re right, of course.” I looked back at my son. “Sex—or the lack thereof—within a marriage is critical, Tim. Continue.” I turned back to the diced potatoes lying in a mound in my favorite light blue Tupperware bowl. I began to rinse them, watching the starch mix with the cool water, then looked out the window at the near-naked trees of my backyard. The sky was gray, a sign that it was turning bitter cold out.

  Tim shifted before continuing. “Like I said … I can’t remember when. She hardly kisses me anymore. It’s like we’re strangers living in the same house, parenting the same children, even sitting in the same pew at church. But strangers nonetheless.”

  “What about counseling?” Samuel asked.

  “I dunno, Dad.”

  “It’s worth a shot, though, right?”

  “She mentioned it once, but … I hate airing my dirty laundry. For crying out loud, I’m a man from the Colorado high country. We don’t go around telling everyone our personal business. Even if we pay them to listen.”

  I dumped the water in the bowl and added fresh for a second rinse. “What about your pastor?” I asked, looking sideways at him.

  Tim shrugged again. “Maybe. I dunno. For now,” he said, slapping the palms of his hands against the top of his thighs, “I’m going to take my two weeks’ vacation and just think. Here. At home.”

  As soon as the potatoes were set for a slow boil on the stove, I made a beeline for the upstairs bedroom I shared with my husband and called my friend Vonnie Westbrook. I needed someone to talk this over with, someone who was logical and levelheaded in a dramatic setting. Someone like me … when the scene didn’t involve my family.

  I didn’t even bother to close the bedroom door; I just planted myself in the middle of the high-backed antique bed, crossed my legs, and pulled the phone from the edge of the nightstand to where I was sitting.

  “
Two weeks?” Vonnie Westbrook asked after I gave her the rundown. “He’s taking his two weeks’ vacation to come home and think?”

  “That’s what he said, Von.”

  Vonnie paused before continuing. “Where are he and Samuel now? Still talking?”

  “No. Samuel’s firing up the grill, and Tim’s downstairs in his old room. I imagine he’s resting … probably tired from his trip.”

  “Sons and vacations,” she said with a sad sort of laugh.

  I nodded. Her son, who had been adopted out at birth, had taken vacation days not too terribly long ago and traveled from California to Colorado in search of Von. Not that it was public knowledge as of yet, but we Potluckers knew as much as anyone could, and that wasn’t much. “True.”

  “Have you told the other kids?”

  “Only Michelle, right after we got home.” I’d called Michelle at her job in Breckenridge, using the TTY operator in order to communicate with her. In spite of her disability, Michelle has become quite successful and adept in life. “I barely got the words out when I heard Samuel’s voice downstairs, so she’s the only one I’ve told. I’ll have to call the others later.”

  “Well, you’re calling me before calling them, obviously, so what can I do for you?”

  “Pray, of course.” “Of course.”

  Music drifted from downstairs, pushing its way past the plush, rose-colored bedroom carpet. I’d left Tim’s old stereo system in his room along with his collection of albums and other musical memorabilia, thinking it all might be worth something someday. Apparently, my son—given more to books and music than sports—had decided the value was worth a trip down memory lane. I turned my left ear upward, attempting to place the name of the song.

  “What’s wrong?” Vonnie asked. “Why are you being so quiet?”

  I chuckled. “Oh,” I said, smoothing the floral comforter with the back of my fingertips. “Tim’s playing an old record in his room. Chicago, I think it is.”