Wild Raspberries

by Connie Chappell

  “Arnett?”

  “Yes, Arnett.” She pulled a knee up, then rested her chin and her thoughts there for a minute. “My aunt and uncle live in Tallahassee. Mildred and Ralph own Gibson Promotions. The company name would have become Gibson and Sebring. Uncle Ralph is a promoter. He got an idea one day to promote cities, businesses, and patriotism through eclectic designs. The best term would be a mural larger than a billboard. The murals would have focused on famous people born in a particular hometown, or a themed annual festival, or just history—whatever makes the heart of that city beat. For a business: maybe the progression of products. Maybe farming’s the subject. Or the country: the Plains, the Midwest.” A honey bee floated near. “There’s a four-story canvas I see on the side of an old building every time I drive through downtown Cassel. I picture what could have been. Dan did, too. I didn’t discourage his desire to paint landscapes, but Arnett couldn’t see it. Dan’s creativity was an integral part of his makeup.”

  “Artwork bigger than life,” he summarized. “Then Dan would have been the artist?”

  “Dan and I drove to Florida after graduation. It was all set. Yes, Dan would’ve been the artist, and Uncle Ralph the promoter. My job was researcher, working with Uncle Ralph and the hometown people. Then, like a bubble, the dream burst. Arnett sucked the life out of it. She had other plans for her son. Dan moved into management at Oldstone Manufacturing. Time passed. I became a mom.” Her eyes dimmed. “Then a widow.” She looked at Lucius. “I want to breathe life back into the dream. I hear the cautions about the grieving process and decisions made too fast, but I may just go to Florida and join forces with my uncle. We’ll need to find another artist, yes, but we’ll fill that wall in Cassel up with a mural.” Her hands moved. “I see it overlaid with snippets of the town’s history and snatches of Dan Sebring’s landscapes.”

  The words snippets and snatches hissed inside Lucius’s head. Lizbeth charged him up. She continued speaking about her dream bubble and his swelled to capacity. He knew recently lackadaisical Willie wanted the dream. He wanted less stress and more fun. He wanted T-shirts and jeans, not stiff collars and hundred-dollar ties. Lucius completed his assignment. He got broadband technology down Bullwhip for video conferencing so Willie could hold business meetings in the comfort of their living room. His clients would see him on a screen in the Cassel office. Lucius scooted around, pulling a bent leg up to rest on the platform. He must work to convince Willie to sell the house to the wheelchair-bound man. With the house sold, there would be no reason for delay, and Willie would be living in Baron before the depot’s rededication in October.

  Lucius’s eyes never left Lizbeth. Her hands made dramatic motions. He gladly let her talk without interruption. It seemed the only thing to do when dreams were involved.

  . . .

  The last thing Arnett said to her temperamental daughter-in-law before she slammed the Santa Fe’s rear door was, “You cannot choose my friends!”

  Lizbeth’s berating voice rose in tandem with the mountain’s elevation as Callie drove back to the cabin. Lizbeth issued her abuse simply because Arnett took measures to introduce herself to the neighbors. Tim and Ellie O’Malley were Arnett’s age, grandparents themselves, and gracious people who, when Arnett mentioned the lack of a phone at Heatherwood, offered theirs. She didn’t just call Chad in the villainous way Lizbeth intimated. She put in calls to Geoff in Florida and Gary’s boys, Zack and Kirk.

  Beebe nor Callie weighed in on the entire trip back. Arnett gave them credit for their neutrality. Earlier, too, outside the library, Beebe showed Arnett kindness. She offered to console her, but Arnett waved her off.

  “You’re being unreasonable,” Arnett said, chasing Lizbeth inside the cabin. “Where will it end? Am I supposed to get a written permission slip from you before I ever speak to a stranger?”

  Lizbeth answered by heaving her bedroom door shut in Arnett’s face.

  Arnett expelled an angry breath and spun to see Callie and Beebe standing two steps inside the kitchen door. They wore sheepish expressions for a split-second before jumping apart. Beebe charged off to her room, and Callie went to stow groceries. She plucked items out of plastic bags. Beebe returned with her notebook. She knocked on Lizbeth’s door and raised her voice to be heard. “Caucus in thirty, Lizbeth.” She aimed her next word at Arnett who hadn’t moved. “Okay?” Then she glanced Callie’s way.

  Arnett sensed Beebe’s patience with the grieving widow was waning, but still she offered no solace for the grandmother who was forbidden contact with her grandsons. Beebe took a left out the screen door. Arnett knew she was taking herself off the premises.

  Issuing another sigh, Arnett strode out the other door. She went straight to the rocker and lowered herself to the tufted cushion. She put the incident with Lizbeth behind her. A caucus was coming. She wondered about the subject matter. Arnett rocked and stopped, rocked and stopped. Realizing a unique opportunity just presented itself, she put the caucus behind her too, got to her feet, and went around the corner to the kitchen door.

  The door hinges squeaked her return to Callie who arranged canned goods. She must have felt Arnett’s eyes on her back. Quite casually, Callie said, “You’ve come to talk about the gun, haven’t you?” Callie closed the cabinet door before she turned to lean against the counter.

  Gospel of Jack

  Arnett’s thunder was stolen by Callie’s uncanny anticipation. Callie seemed satisfied with herself. No, smug, Arnett thought. One fact was true: Callie lured her out yesterday when she purposefully inserted a statement into her caucus about brides putting guns to their grooms’ heads, and Arnett bit.

  All Arnett could do was revert to her best sneer. “Can’t we talk outside?”

  Technically, their talk violated caucus rules, but, amicably, Callie said, “Sure.” She stored a package of chicken in the refrigerator on her way past.

  Arnett moved toward two chairs on either side of a small porch table that faced the river. She wanted to assert herself instantly, but Callie grabbed the petrified zinnias out of the vase on the table. She threw greenish water from the vase into the yard, resettled the vase, and walked off to the trash container with the dead flowers. When she came back, Arnett was seated. Callie took the other chair and waited expectantly. Again, Arnett found the turn of events unsettling. In her own way, Callie was a master manipulator, shrewdly delaying while Arnett’s anxiety churned.

  “You called this meeting,” Callie urged. “I wanted to get dinner started before Beebe called the caucus.”

  Arnett faced her dead on. “I want to talk about the crack you made yesterday in front of everyone.”

  “You’re the only one who picked up on the crack—as you put it—and that’s because it rang true.”

  At Callie’s suggestion, a melodious, vibrating hum, like that produced by a tuning fork, strummed Arnett’s nerves. She blurted, “What did John tell you?”

  “As I’ve said, I only got a sentence here or there. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember what prompted him to tell me the story. Oh, wait.” A finger went up. “Maybe I do. He was concerned that you’d follow him when he left the house on evenings he came to see me. He always kept an eye on the rearview mirror. That was the story, wasn’t it? Before you were married, you followed him one night. And you came packing a gun.”

  Arnett jumped in. “We were engaged. The wedding was two weeks away. His mother planned a huge ceremony. And John was still bowing out two and three nights a week, not wanting to come to my apartment. So one night, I did follow him.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Arnett’s chin came up. Well, well, well, she thought, she doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. He spotted me and pulled into an empty lot.”

  “That’s where he picked
up the story with me. You got out of the car. His car windows were down. From the passenger side, you leaned in and pointed a gun at him. Your words were, ‘You are going to marry me.’”

  “I was young. I couldn’t control him. I never could. I wanted to know what he was doing when he wasn’t with me. That’s all. I had that right. But he always had secrets.”

  Callie tilted her head, studying Arnett so long she began to squirm. “Why did he marry you?”

  “We made up,” Arnett said honestly. “I could always charm him back.”

  “But your charms wore off eventually. That left only the drama.”

  Arnett fought to hold her tongue while Callie openly scrutinized her again.

  “I can’t get over it. Why did he marry you?” She threw up a hand that landed with a soft whack on the table. “I always thought that mistake haunted him. You came after him with a gun. You threatened him, then you must’ve charmed him. That must be true. Maybe it wasn’t love, maybe it was charm.”

  Arnett found it somehow comforting that after twenty years together, Callie was right there with her, still trying to understand a complexly built John.

  After sitting back in her chair, Callie pitched herself forward. “You know, I may have just figured it out. He loved the excitement. That’s the common denominator. He found you exciting, your personality, the chase, the gun—but the drama wore on him. The kids came,” she said, her attitude matter-of-fact. “My personality didn’t match yours for excitement. The excitement for him was hiding our relationship. Perhaps a punishment for you. Something he felt you deserved.”

  “He had all kinds of girlfriends. You weren’t the only one.” Arnett wasn’t sure that was true, but Callie’s last comment pushed her too far.

  “But I was the last one. I was the one he loved. And I believe you. He probably did have girlfriends before me. But he was trapped because you trapped him. And that caught you in the trap, too. You made the rules, and you suffered under them. You promised him poverty if there was a divorce. He didn’t want that. And without damning proof, you wouldn’t risk Dan’s and Gary’s wrath and file yourself.”

  “I hated him for what he did to me. For the embarrassment. The public humiliation. Your affair went on for over twenty years. And you were half his age when it started. Then when I did have proof, he went and got cancer. I couldn’t divorce him then. What would the boys have said?”

  Arnett’s hand went to the vase on the table. Callie’s eyes followed.

  “Don’t do it, Arnett!” she cautioned sternly.

  “What?” Arnett smiled.

  “Lose control. That’s what Lizbeth saw at my house. That’s what makes her afraid to leave Chad with you.”

  “Afraid? She shouldn’t be afraid. That’s a monstrous thing to say.”

  “She thinks your reactions run to extremes. You resort to physical violence, and you throw things.”

  “I don’t throw things,” Arnett said. In her mind, she remembered sweeping the ceramic shards that had once been a statue into her dustpan.

  “You do.”

  “I don’t. Is that what John told you?”

  “Your jealousies and petty rivalries produce temper tantrums.”

  “That may be, but at least I’m not attracted to fags and old men.”

  Callie didn’t blink. She was out of the chair in a heartbeat, giving Arnett her back, crossing to the steps. The vase was weighty in Arnett’s hand. She reared it over her shoulder.

  “Arnett! Don’t you dare.” The voice belonged to Beebe.

  Arnett watched Callie swivel toward Beebe. The newcomer appeared at the foot of the porch steps.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Beebe said.

  In the next second, Lizbeth pushed through the screen door and held it wide. “What’s happening?” she said, sending a questioning look around the porch.

  Beebe answered. “I caught Arnett ready to heave that vase at Callie’s head.”

  “Arnett! What’s wrong with you?” Lizbeth said.

  Running through Arnett’s mind was the thought that Lizbeth would waste no time sharing this news with the family. As usual, Lizbeth wasn’t present for Callie’s goading, her taunting, arriving only for the finale.

  “That’s a good question, Lizbeth.” Beebe climbed the steps. She addressed Arnett. “I don’t know whether to be disgusted with you or admire you. A certain amount of anger is understandable, given Jack’s infidelity with Callie. She’s here, and this isn’t an easy situation.” She gestured to the wilderness surroundings. “I would hope you’d never produce this type of reaction in front of a child. But next week with Jack and Callie out of your life, you should be able to put your life in a groove that keeps you calm and allows you to enjoy your grandson. To gain the latter, Lizbeth insists on a concession. She asks you to accept the quilt and display it. Next week with Jack and Callie out of your life,” she repeated with attitude, “I wonder if you’ll continue to allow your anger to fester. Or is it fear? Or pride? I could almost admire pride. What’s it going to be, Arnett? Are you willing to accept the quilt and move on to next week?”

  In response, Arnett set the vase on the table with a loud thud.

  Lizbeth sidestepped and let the door slap closed. “I think we should just pack and go home. This is useless.”

  “No,” Beebe said firmly, “we’re sticking it out. But the kid gloves come off. I’m asking the questions. And they’re going to be nosy to a fault. I want the dirt, the grime, and the baked-on crud. I want honest answers and deep-down secrets. I want to understand this mess if it takes all night.” Her gaze passed over each woman in turn. “Ten minutes. Living room. Don’t be late.”

  Beebe and Lizbeth went inside. Callie stamped off to the dock. Arnett tested the weight of the vase again.

  . . .

  Time expired. Callie sat across from Lizbeth, each to her own couch. A stubborn Arnett was still planted on the porch.

  “Arnett, you’re late. Get in here.” Beebe, bent at the waist, spoke through the window screen, but Arnett’s obstinate posture persisted.

  “I might have been on time,” she said, “if your invitation had been more cordially deliv—”

  Mowing through her attempted protest, Beebe said, “Do I smell a butt coming? Why, yes, I do. It’s yours, Arnett. Get it in here.”

  Callie grinned at a wide-eyed Lizbeth. Beebe was still miffed, but Arnett did come scraping through the door. She marched to the vacant seat next to Lizbeth and, with precision of movement and a straight back, claimed it.

  Beebe already moved a tall side chair to the head of the coffee table. By accident or design, her place of prominence allowed her to look down on the other three. The construction of the chair seated her marginally higher than the cushioned couches.

  “New ground rules,” Beebe announced, then sailed them Callie’s way. “I ask the questions, and you answer them.”

  “Me?” Callie tapped her breastbone with two fingertips. “You’re directing everything at me?”

  Beebe’s eyes rolled heavenward, telegraphing mock thought. “I guess so. My questions are for you. I’m sure Arnett will want to give input, and that’s fine. But we will remain civil, not argumentative. We’re having a discussion between adults, the worst that could possibly happen already has. We can’t change that. I don’t even want to talk about Chad. He’s off limits. He’s the future. I want to dwell in the past. I want to write the Gospel of Jack. Sorry, Arnett, John has been taken.” She laid a finger across her lips, considering her course. “You know, in biblical times, Jack could have had two wives, or ten. He wouldn’t have been scorned. In ancient Mesopotamia, you two would have had to learn to l
ive together. We know the wives didn’t. There were jealousies.” She paused. “And petty rivalries.”

  Beebe just made Callie and Arnett aware of exactly when she came within earshot of their previous conversation. If she heard Callie’s comment, she also heard Arnett’s pointedly hurtful one that insulted Lucius and Jack.

  “I want to stick my nose in a place that’s closer to present day. Lives have been lived in obscurity, loves hidden, and I’ll be damned if I can figure out how it could have possibly been managed.” Beebe crossed her legs and addressed Callie. “Didn’t you worry that Arnett could show up at the club at any time, without warning? After all, her husband worked there. I picture her coming for lunch with Jack or dropping in unexpectedly with a girlfriend for drinks. She could easily have caught you and Jack playing around.”

  On a bet, Callie couldn’t have prevented her eyes from darting to Arnett. The older woman remained taciturn, quite pleased Callie shone in the spotlight. “First of all,” Callie said, indignant, “Jack and I didn’t play around at the club.”

  “But he had an office there,” a contentious Beebe replied. “She could have easily walked in on an embrace or a kiss.”

  “I thought we were going to be civil.”

  “You’re right. Forgive me. You may lead the charge on civility.” Beebe sat back and laced her fingers together. It seemed to Callie she sounded seriously peeved. Or was it an act? And to what end?

  “You don’t understand if you think Arnett was the only one with whom Jack and I had to be concerned. We couldn’t demonstrate a show of affection in front of anyone. At the club, we had to exhibit a friendly, working relationship.”

  “So Arnett would never have been the wiser when she stopped by?”

  “She never stopped by.”

  “Not once.” Beebe’s arched brows expressed her amazement.

  “Not since I was hired.”