by Vicki Lane
Miss Birdie’s eyes twinkled at Phillip. “Why, I believe—”
“How is Dorothy, Miss Birdie?” Elizabeth broke in, desperate to change the subject. “I haven’t seen her car here in a while. Is she looking after someone again?”
Miss Birdie’s cousin Dorothy had spent much of her life as an aide in nursing homes and, though she was now well into her seventies and retired, she continued to “see about” any of her ailing, elderly friends and relations who were in need of an energetic and bustling helper.
“Ay law, Dor’thy’s got her hands full now and that’s the truth. She’s taken on her sister’s grandboy. He’s right much of a handful, but I reckon Dor’thy can tame him.”
Delighted to be off the subject of Phillip, Elizabeth prompted Miss Birdie to continue. “I’m sure Dorothy can handle anything. Where’re the little boy’s folks?”
Birdie shook her head. “Oh, hit’s a sad tale. Why hit’s so awful, it could make a story for the daytime tee-vee, and that’s the truth. His mama’s at death’s door and I don’t believe she ever said who the boy’s daddy is—if she knew. Prin’s been a wild thing all her life, layin’ up with first one good-fer-nothin’ and then another. And when Prin got bad sick and had to be took to the hospital, the pore little feller was left with that rough ol’ rascal she’s livin’ with now—same one as once was married to her own sister. Now, I don’t think that’s right, do you?”
Elizabeth could only nod mutely as Birdie continued her story. “So Mag Ridder, what’s Dor’thy’s little sister, asked Dor’thy to take the boy and raise him up right. Her and Dor’thy both grew up there in that house where Morris Roberts and his family live now. But then Mag took up with them Ridders—they still lived way up there in the holler back then—and next thing you know, she’s married Royal Ridder—a no-count feller—and her and Dor’thy fell out.”
Bewildered at the twists and turns of this tale, which seemed likely to rival a biblical account in the telling of generations, Elizabeth grasped at the name snagged in the stream of remembrances. “Did you say Ridder, Miss Birdie? Is that the name of the little boy Dorothy’s taking care of?”
“Why, yes it is. Now, Dor’thy’s sister Magdalene married Royal Ridder, who was the last of the family to live up there where them Mullinses bought.”
Elizabeth and Phillip sat transfixed as Birdie traced the Ridder family’s gradual descent from prosperous farmers into poverty and crime. Royal and Magdalene Ridder had produced numerous children, among them Princess and her older sister, Precious.
“Now, just like her mama, Precious married a wild feller who was bad to drink and quarrel, but then they had the prettiest little yaller-haired girl, called Tamra. Law, she looked just like an angel. They all fairly worshipped that child—even her daddy, big ol’ feller, and rough as a cob. He got him a job on a road crew and was doing good. Why, he even come to church a time or two. Then what happens but Precious ups and runs off with some feller from away.”
Miss Birdie’s face grew troubled. “I never would of thought it of Precious. She was the smartest one of them Ridder children. Why, she’d finished high school and was takin’ courses to be a nurse. But one day she just packed up her bags and left a note on the kitchen table sayin’ she’s going off with someone as can give her the kind of life she wants.
“It was a heavy blow to Bib, that was the feller’s name, but he carried on just the same as usual. Told little Tamra her mama’d be back soon. And he was right—not a week later, Precious must of come for Tamra, for Bib come home to find another note. This un’s from Tamra, saying as how she’s goin’ to be with her mama.
“Well, sir, Bib read that note and did he ever cut a shine! He got knee-walkin’ drunk and set out in his truck to look for Precious and his little girl. He didn’t get far before the law stopped him, and then he set to on that trooper and the trooper like to died. Bib got sent to prison, and not a word has Mag heard from Precious in all that time. Presh hadn’t never even sent her mama a picture of the little girl—and I tell you what’s the truth, it like to broke poor Mag’s heart. And now, that sorry Bib is out of prison and he’s taken up with Presh’s little sister, Princess. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised iffen he didn’t have something to do with why Prin’s in the hospital now. Ain’t no wonder Mag wants Dor’thy to take on little Cal—git him away from that ol’ Bib.”
17.
OLD FRIENDS
Saturday, October 15 and Sunday, October 16
“She’s so firm… really straight-talking…. She put her finger right on what I need to do. Of course, some of what she says is painful: she doesn’t have time to beat around the bush. And you have to be strictly open and honest with her…she comes down hard on you if you try to evade her questions, but, believe me, it was an amazing experience…. What?…Well, of course it was expensive; she mainly does big workshops…. Oh, there must have been several hundred people at the one I went to last year…. No, she and her daughter also do intensives limited to twenty or twenty-five. Those are great—I did one in April and another in July…. I know I told you about that one…. Perilous Patterns?…You know, Lydia, I think you’d benefit from the PP intensive; it’s all about how we make the same stupid mistakes over and over…. No, I’m not calling you stupid…you told me yourself you keep marrying the same needy, passive-aggressive types….”
The emerald green door with the forbidding notice NO ENTRANCE / ONE-ON-ONE IN PROGRESS had opened and shut firmly behind a large woman in a long dark red skirt and jacket. The woman, intent on sharing her experience with a friend, took no notice of Rosemary and Jared sitting on the bench next to the door, but floated away from them, cell phone still to her ear. Wild gray ringlets, springing Medusa-like from her head, quivered as she talked to her unseen friend and waved an enthusiastic arm.
“No, I’m sure that Rudolph—excuse me, Randolph—is different…. Anyway, the intensives were so helpful to me that I decided to sign up for a one-on-one with Trish…. Yes, she told me to call her Trish…. Trish said she saves a few days a month for these one-on-one sessions…they drain her energy far more than the group sessions, so she has to limit them. But she knows that there are some who will benefit so much more from the intrapersonal time that she feels it’s part of her calling….
“Well, we focused on my addictive behaviors…Trish says I won’t make any more progress till I can detach myself from my need for constant approval and reinforcement…. Don’t you think I sound more self-assured already?”
Rosemary and Jared watched with keen interest as the woman retreated down the mini-mall’s corridor, still talking and still waving her free arm.
Jared glanced at his watch. “Five more minutes till our appointment. I’m sorry I hurried us through lunch, but when I spoke to the secretary she made a big deal of saying that Patricia—excuse me, Trish—is a very busy woman who requires punctuality.” He looked around at the drab surroundings and sniffed. “You’d think that at least they’d have a waiting room where we could sit.”
“Jared!” The vibrant green door swung open again and a petite blonde in immaculate white wool trousers and a creamy cashmere pullover stood framed in the doorway, both hands extended. “And little Rosie! Please, come in.”
“Well, she wasn’t at all the way I remembered her. And there was this weird kind of tension going on between her and Jared. We didn’t stay long because she had to catch a plane, but she said that she’d be back Wednesday.”
Sunday morning had come and, except for the stacks of books still arrayed at the end of the living room, it was almost as if the break-in had never happened. Almost.
Rosemary looked across the table at her mother. And Phillip. Speaking of a weird kind of tension. But this is a different kind…more like a private joke between the two of them.
Her mother looked up from her bowl of fruit and yoghurt. “So where did you and Jared end up going for dinner? I got your message that you wouldn’t be home till late, so we—so I didn’t wait up.”
>
Phillip was sipping his coffee and staring out at the birdfeeder where blue jays and cardinals, towhees and mourning doves jockeyed busily for position. A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth but he said nothing.
“Jared had tickets to a Keb’ Mo’ concert, so we ate at that new place just across from the theater. But I wanted to tell you about Patricia—Trish. She’s so different now. She used to be such a…such a…”
“Ditz? Is that the word you’re looking for?” Her mother’s tone was innocent.
Rosemary considered. Phillip had abandoned his birdwatching and was studying her now. It seemed strange to see him there, sitting at the end of the table where Pa had always sat. Strange, but okay too. She smiled at him.
“I guess ‘ditz’ is the word. Or ‘airhead.’ Back then, Phillip, she was like a life-sized Barbie doll. You know, all make up and wearing tight clothes and flashy colors. And she didn’t seem particularly intelligent or educated. But now she’s a vision of understated elegance in shades of white—spouting polysyllabic psychological jargon.”
She turned to her mother, who was basking in the morning sun like a contented cat, her eyes half-closed. “Mum, I really would like for you to go back with me to talk to her. To Trish, I’m still just little Rosie. It felt like she was humoring me but not actually answering my questions. Anyway, next week is Fall Break. I have classes on Monday and Tuesday, but I’ll be able to come back Wednesday. Trish said she would have time on Thursday to talk. It’s apparently the only so-called ‘free’ day she has for the next month.”
Her mother did not respond but continued her inward reverie, an annoying little smile flickering on her lips.
“Mum,” Rosemary raised her voice. “Will you plan on doing that with me next Thursday?”
“Sure, sweetie,” Elizabeth replied in an absent tone. “Next Thursday.” Her blue eyes were open wide now but they were distant and she was smiling broadly.
Feeling vaguely annoyed at her mother’s lack of interest, Rosemary rose. The scrape of the chair on the tile floor seemed to awaken the daydreaming Elizabeth from her private musing.
“Wait a minute, Rosie. You haven’t told us what Patricia—excuse me, Trish—said. How does she feel about your digging into all these old memories? It sounds as if she’s come to terms with the past and moved on.” Her mother’s eyes twinkled. “God, now I’m talking like a soap opera. But really, how did she seem?” Mum’s eyes were fixed on her now and she was at last paying attention. Rosemary sat back down.
“It was a little odd. She acted like she was really glad to see me…and Jared too. You know, Jared told me he hadn’t seen her since they left Mullmore. That was when Moon’s drinking really got out of hand. Trish filed for separation and Jared went back to his mother. He didn’t even see his father for years. It wasn’t till Jared was through law school and on his own that Moon got in touch. He was sober and doing the twelve-step bit. Moon asked Jared’s forgiveness for all the things he’d done or not done when he was drinking…and he offered Jared a job in Asheville as administrator of the Redemption Walk Foundation.”
“And what happened to change Patricia into Trish Trantham?” Elizabeth leaned on her elbows, waiting eagerly for the rest of the story.
Rosemary smiled. That’s better. Now she’s back with me. “Evidently she had some sort of epiphany when Krystalle refused to do any more beauty pageants. All that energy she’d used as a pageant mom had to go somewhere. So she enrolled in college and ended up with a master’s in Psychology. She said something about helping troubled people as a memorial to Maythorn.”
“But how did she end up with the bloody empire she’s got? Daily radio show, conference centers all over the place—the woman’s a household word, for god’s sake. She’s just a step or so beneath Billy Graham or the Pope for a lot of people. ‘Trish Trantham says…’ You hear it all the time. And it’s Patricia!” Elizabeth made a face. “I can’t quite get my head around that.”
“Trish said that the tragedy had taught her a lot and that she had chosen to grow from the experience rather than be buried by it. Of course, Jared told me later that Trish received a huge settlement when she and Moon parted ways; maybe that money made things easier as she expanded her business. But you know, Mum, it really is her personality—the self-assuredness, the quick, decisive, seemingly common-sense answers. All that’s what makes her so popular as an advice guru. You know; you’ve heard her on the radio. Everyone has.”
“Not me.” Phillip stood, picking up his plate and coffee cup. “She sounds like quite a go-getter, though.” His eyes lingered on Elizabeth, who smiled up at him—a long, sweet, lazy smile that Rosemary didn’t remember ever seeing on her mother’s face.
Rosemary studied Phillip as he picked up the rest of the breakfast dishes. Not nearly as tall or handsome as Pa, but he looks…trustworthy. I would have thought he was Italian or something ethnic like that, he’s so dark. But “Hawkins” is an English name. Not that it matters: Mum likes him, and that’s what counts. And thank god he’s going to be around, at least till they get that horrible guy who tore up the house.
A thought struck her. “Phillip, do you think they’ll arrest him, that Bib What’s-his-name? I mean, you can’t stay here forever—” She broke off, seeing an amused look pass between her mother and the burly ex-detective.
“I mean, I know you have classes to teach. Is Mum going to be safe here during the day?” Her mother and Phillip both looked as if they were suppressing a good deal of inner mirth. I feel like a kid trying to figure out what the grown-ups are doing, Rosemary thought with exasperation.
“It’s going to be all right, Rosemary.” The steadiness and certainty in Phillip’s voice were a welcome balm. A very nice guy to have around, she decided.
He went on. “Sheriff Blaine will have a deputy checking by when I can’t be here. And with Julio and Homero down at the lower place—I’ve talked to them about keeping their eyes open—I don’t think you need to worry.” He carried the stack of dirty dishes to the kitchen and she could hear the water running.
Her mother yawned, looking uncharacteristically relaxed. Usually Mum had so many chores to attend to that she didn’t linger long at the breakfast table. It was nice to see her be a little lazy for once.
“What do you need to do today, Rosie? Do you feel like you’re getting any closer to…to whatever it is?”
Mum was looking at her with that grown-up face again. Rosemary felt a twinge of annoyance. Is she humoring me? Probably. Maybe this is all a wild-goose chase. But I had a thought a minute ago…what was it? I felt like a kid trying to figure out what the grown-ups are doing. Like those notebooks Maythorn and I used to keep.
Realizing that her mother was still waiting for an answer, Rosemary jumped up from her chair and gave Elizabeth a quick hug. “Am I getting closer? Mum, I really think I am. I just remembered something that might be huge! I need to find my secret spy notebooks.”
They left Rosemary digging deep into the cubbyholes of her childhood room. Several old trunks and ancient family suitcases had been appropriated by the girls as storage receptacles for outgrown toys, costumes, dolls, books, and stuffed animals—outgrown but too dear to discard or give away. Elizabeth had watched, amused, as Rosemary turned out the contents of the first suitcase: a pink-and-purple stuffed dragon; a canvas bag of smooth river rocks; a flat box that housed a number of small seashells, each one carefully glued down and labeled; a dirty and much-mended pair of tan faux-suede breeches with fringe down the seams, and a matching shirt—an outfit Elizabeth had sewn for Rosie’s ninth birthday.
Along with an identical set for Maythorn. That weird fabric was a bitch to work with too. Elizabeth ran her hand over the smooth fabric, noting the wear to the seat of the pants and the incipient holes in both knees.
Something nudged her memory. And didn’t I have to put Maythorn’s pants back together after her little sister cut them up with scissors? But it was worth it—they loved these outfits.
> “Look at this! I’d forgotten all about my horse collection.” Rosemary had a cardboard shoe box open on the floor beside her. One by one she was pulling out little bundles of what looked suspiciously like toilet tissue. She began to unwind the yellowing wrappings.
“It’s Fireboy!” A small, improbably bright red plastic horse was revealed and set upright on the floor. Eagerly, Rosemary began to unwrap the next bundle. It turned out to be an identical horse, but this one pure white.
“Snow Stepper!” Rosemary proclaimed, and reached into the shoe box.
Elizabeth smiled fondly. “Listen, sweetie, Phillip has to go back to his house to pick up some stuff if he’s going to be staying here for a while…till they arrest that guy. I’m going to take him down to his car, okay?”
If Rosie’s colleagues in the English Department could see her now, surrounded by plastic horses. But maybe this is all part of what she needs to do to bring back the other memories she’s so sure are there. I know that most of these things got put away after Maythorn disappeared. It was all stuff they’d both played with, and it was just too painful for Rosie to deal with.
Rosemary looked up and a smile of pure happiness illuminated her face. “Okay, Mum. I’m just going to dig through all this stuff. But I’m going to have to take my time. It’s like…like finding old friends I’d forgotten.”
Elizabeth went carefully down the steep stairs. Behind her she heard Rosemary’s delighted crow: “Silver Star! Midnight!”
CLETUS
Spring 1986
HEY, ROSEBUD, GET your shoes on. We’re going to make a quick trip into Ransom. Mum and Laurie aren’t back yet and I’ve got to take that flat tire in to Jim Hinkley.
Rosie lay on her stomach, arranging the colorful array of plastic horses she had spread out on the living room rug. Some of Laurel’s Legos had been pressed into service as a makeshift corral and throw pillows from the sofa formed a mountain range. Behind the corral’s impenetrable barriers, three mares—Blue Moon, Misty, and Seafoam—moved restlessly back and forth, looking for a way out. The cruel rustlers who had captured them were all asleep, dead to the world after drinking a bottle of whisky apiece, and the fearless stallion Fireboy was leading the rest of the wild horse herd over the mountains in a bold attempt to crash through the walls and rescue—