Waking Up in Dixie

by Haywood Smith

  Howe swiped at the agony on his face. “Your mother’s right. I’m not myself.” He closed his eyes, bleak. “Do what Mama says, Patti. Go with your mama.”

  Patricia waited till they were in the hallway to balk. “What’s the matter with him?” she demanded loudly, oblivious to everyone else in the vicinity, as usual. “You said he was okay, but he cries all the time. And he cusses!” she accused, as if it were all Elizabeth’s fault.

  “Patricia Augusta Whittington,” Elizabeth scolded in a tight whisper, “you hush. He can hear you.” She dragged her daughter down the hall to the waiting area beside the elevators. When they were safely out of earshot, she sat Patricia on a large ottoman, nearing the end of her own rope. “Why do you talk to me that way? The man had a stroke, and brain surgery,” she clipped out, grateful there was no one there to overhear. “And was in a coma for almost six months. But he woke up, and he’s not a moron or paralyzed. It’s a miracle he can even talk. So he cusses. So he cries. Big deal.” A very big deal, actually, but not one she planned to go into with her daughter.

  The shocks of the day finally got the best of her. “Have you once thought about how hard this has been on me?” she blurted out, hating herself for doing it. “I know you’ve been upset, but have you ever thought about anything besides what this has meant to you, and how you can use it as an excuse not to study or go to your classes?”

  Patricia glared at her, lips compressed in a stubborn frown.

  “Your father just came back from the dead,” Elizabeth reminded her. “And the first thing you do is try to use him to keep from losing your car. I’m ashamed of you.”

  Elizabeth knew she should sit down and shut up, but Howe’s lack of control seemed to be contagious. “I swear, Patricia,” she vowed, her voice low but unsteady, “I’d shake you if I thought it would bring any sense into you. You’re not a child anymore. This isn’t about you. It’s about your father. And me. He has a lot of work ahead of him before he can even come home. I could use your help to get through this.”

  Years of adolescent resentment for Elizabeth’s efforts at discipline finally came to a head. “You don’t love him,” Patricia retaliated. “You never did. Gamma told me. You just married him for his money.”

  Elizabeth’s hand rose to slap her daughter, but she managed to hold back, curling it into an impotent fist. “That . . . is . . . not . . . true. I loved your father very much when I married him.”

  “No you didn’t,” her daughter accused. “You’re a cold fish. I can’t even remember your hugging him, or kissing him. Ever. I hate you, and so does Daddy, but he’s too much of a gentleman to ever say it.”

  On that note, the elevator doors opened with a ding to reveal an agitated Augusta Whittington, uninvited and unwelcome.

  “Gamma!” Patricia wailed, flying to her grandmother.

  Elizabeth expected the usual condemnation from Augusta, but saw fear, instead. “Patricia,” Elizabeth said, “you’ve frightened your grandmother.” She approached her mother-in-law. “Howe is fine, but he’s not quite himself yet. The doctors said there might be some emotional side effects, but he’s out of the coma and resting. We can thank God for that.”

  Patricia saw the relief on her grandmother’s face and had the good grace to be apologetic. “Sorry, Gamma. I didn’t mean to scare you. But he cusses. And he cries.”

  Augusta tucked her chin to hear such news, then shot Elizabeth a chilly look.

  Elizabeth found herself wishing that Howe would cuss and cry all over the old bat. Served the old bitch right for what she’d told Patricia. But Elizabeth didn’t give her mother-in-law the satisfaction of seeing her emotions. “He’s very . . . impulsive at the moment. That’s probably why Howe wanted to wait to see you,” she said evenly.

  “Nonsense,” Augusta said. “I’m his mother. I have a right to see him.” She turned, setting Patricia aside. “Stay here with your mother, Patricia. I’ll see my son alone.”

  Even after all Howe had done, Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to leave him emotionally naked and unprotected with his mother. “Wait here,” she told her daughter. “I’m going with Gamma.”

  “But—” Patricia whined.

  “Wait here,” both women said at once, then exchanged territorial glances before heading back down the hall.

  Elizabeth held the door open for Augusta, and the older woman glided in to stand rigid by the bed where Howe was sleeping. “Howell, it’s your mother,” she announced. “Wake up.”

  His eyes flew open. “Mama!” Bursting into tears, he grabbed her and pulled her to him. “Goddamn, but it’s good to see you!” He pounded her back. “So good. So good. I love you, Mama. I know I haven’t told you in a long time, but I do.”

  Augusta acted as if a gorilla had gotten hold of her, eyes wide with alarm, her tone measured. “It’s good to see you, too, Howell. Now, could you let me go, please? My osteoporosis . . .”

  “Shit!” Howe released her, instantly repentant. “I was so excited, I forgot.” But he didn’t let her escape completely, capturing her hand in both of his.

  Augusta looked constipated, deflecting with, “Now that you’re awake, you must get well quickly. You’re much needed at work. The bank needs you.”

  Howe chortled. “Screw the bank. I sold my soul for that place, and as far as I’m concerned, it can go straight to hell.” Augusta’s jaw dropped behind closed lips. “Don’t worry, Mama,” he reassured her. “The people I trained can run it just fine.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she snapped, trying without success to reclaim her hand. “They’ll steal us blind. You’re the only one I can trust with our businesses. You know this.”

  “No I don’t,” he retorted. “And God knows, I wasn’t trustworthy before this happened. Neither was Dad.” A brief wash of disgust claimed his expression. “God, Mama, how did you stand it with all of Daddy’s women? I hated him for it, but you never said a word. You just soldiered on.”

  Augusta almost choked, but Howe was oblivious. Elizabeth thanked God that Patricia wasn’t there.

  “I swore I would never do that to any wife of mine,” Howe went on, “then I ended up doing the same thing.” He shot Elizabeth a pained glance. “I’m so sorry, Lizzie. So sorry. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe because you knew me too well. Wanted me to care. But I didn’t have anything to give. You never gave me cause to do it. It was just the sex, I swear.”

  Augusta went so pale, Elizabeth thought she would faint. She’d have moved over to catch her, but her own feet seemed glued to the floor.

  “I swear to God, Lizzie,” Howe said to her, “I’ll make it up to you. You’ve been a perfect wife. Perfect. And I’ve been a total shit.”

  Augusta inhaled sharply as if coming out of a trance, snatching her hand free to place it across her heart. “Such language,” she spat out. “Such talk. Charles Howell Whittington the second, do not say one more word! Clearly, you are not in possession of your faculties.” She glared down her nose at him. “We shall never speak of such embarrassments again, is that clear? Never! Your father was human, but he had many fine qualities. I am shocked that you would dishonor his memory with such loose talk. Shocked.”

  Elizabeth watched in morbid fascination as Howe started leaking tears again. “Mama, it happened. We both know it. Dad screwed up. I screwed up.” He swiped away the tears, clearly annoyed by his own lack of control. “Can’t we be honest about it, for once? You’ve been so damned mean to Lizzie, but she never deserved it.”

  “Howell!” his mother shouted.

  Oooh, hoo, hoo. Vindicated at last, Elizabeth thought her mother-in-law was going to stick her fingers in her ears and start singing, but she blustered instead, “That is enough. I am leaving.” She turned to Elizabeth on her way out. “I’m taking Patricia home with me. Keep the children away from him till he’s himself again.”

  The thing was, Elizabeth didn’t want him to go back to being himself—she preferred the Howe he’d become.

  “And don�
�t let him use the phone,” his mother ordered. “God knows what he might say.” She pivoted, then marched out. “I won’t be back till he’s come to his senses.”

  Elizabeth watched her storm out, then turned back to Howe.

  Rueful, he clasped his forehead, staring at the door. “There I go again. Fucked it up, entirely.”

  For the first time in memory, Elizabeth started laughing, laughing so hard she couldn’t stop. It burst inside and rolled through her in waves, breaking up the scar tissue that had encased her soul. And Howe laughed with her.

  Chapter 9

  The glow of that moment buoyed them both till that evening when Howe fell into a sound, natural sleep, and Elizabeth felt it was safe to leave him. But on her way out, she stopped by the nurses’ station and explained that he was suffering from terminal impulsiveness and he preferred not to have any other visitors—including his mother and his children, to spare them further embarrassment—until he got a grip on things. As always, the nurses were kind and understanding (feisty Mavis had gotten off at three) and agreed to post a notice on the door with a list for visitors to sign.

  The last thing Elizabeth wanted was to have to explain the situation to anybody else, so she resolved to screen her calls as she replaced the batteries so the hospital could reach her. But her cell phone rang as she strode briskly down the dark sidewalk toward the condo where she was staying, and she couldn’t see the caller ID without her readers, which were, of course, in the bottom of her stylishly huge bag. It could be Howe or one of the children, so she answered. “Hello?”

  “I heard,” P.J. said dramatically.

  She frowned. The Whittington grapevine was good, but not that good. “Heard what?”

  “That he woke up.”

  “Who told you?” Was he bribing the nurses?

  “That’s not important. You might not believe this, Elizabeth, especially knowing how I feel about you, but I’m glad he’s out of the coma, and I hope he does great. Then we can all get on with the rest of our lives.”

  Now was not the time to think about any of that. “P.J., it’s not so simple. We’re looking at a long haul, here. Lots of therapy. An extended convalescence. I can’t talk about the future, now.” She reached the stairs to the condo and suddenly felt exhausted as she climbed them. “My husband needs me.” For now, at least, she had to do what she’d always done: be the good wife.

  After a brief pause, P.J. said, “He’s the luckiest bastard in the world to have you. But you don’t have to go through this alone. I’ll be here for you. I can’t help how I feel about you, but friendship is better than nothing, so I’ll be your friend. We’ll sort the rest out later, once he’s well.”

  Whatever well turned out to be.

  Elizabeth sighed, entering the condo lobby. It felt good that somebody who wasn’t brain-damaged loved her for who she was. “Thank you,” she told P.J., pressing the up button on the elevator. “I’m home now, and worn to a frazzle. I’ll call you soon.”

  “You never do,” he said archly. “But that’s okay. God knows, your plate’s full. Get some rest, honey.”

  The term of endearment almost dissolved her. He’d never used one before. “You, too,” she managed, eyes welling. “G’night.”

  The elevator doors opened, and she barely had the strength to step inside. When they closed, leaving her safe and alone, she burst into tears, then cried until she made it inside the generically decorated unit on the fourth floor.

  When she finally crawled into bed, a flicker of a question darted through her mind, too swift to be addressed: How the hell had P.J. found out so quickly? Then she fell into a bottomless sleep.

  There wasn’t much laughing in the upcoming weeks. Howe’s physical therapy was grueling, and he continued to blurt out whatever he thought or felt, with expletives, and weep, much to the dismay or shock of the staff and other patients. But daily counseling sessions gradually helped cut down on the cussing a little, at least.

  Elizabeth still wasn’t sure who the man inside Howe’s body really was. She’d long ago prayed that God would restore her husband’s love and affection for her, but not like this. This Howe wasn’t the gentle, genteel boy she’d loved. This Howe was turning both their lives into one big, bad divine joke.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Appalled by his own lack of ability to control what he did and said, Howe kept postponing seeing the children and his mother, leaving only Elizabeth to care for him seven days a week. As she always had, she remained the dutiful wife as far as anybody else was concerned. But inside, her frustration and weariness sparked the buried kernel of her anger to a tiny, white-hot sun that threw light on questions she’d never let herself ask. Questions like, “What have I really been doing with my life all these years?” And even more dangerous, “What would it be like to be happy?” Most dangerous of all, “Could I be happy with P.J.?”

  Yet she dared not say anything, and never complained. Her cloak of long-suffering fit far too well to take it off.

  Meanwhile back at the ranch, Augusta took over having the house cleaned and forwarding the mail to the condo. Charles, bless his heart, came to the condo every Tuesday and Thursday night with takeout from Elizabeth’s favorite restaurants, then helped her with the mail and medical paperwork. Augusta had given Charles one of her rental houses in Morningside as a graduation-from-law-school gift, and he was full of anecdotes and gossip about clerking for the cranky old judge and doing over the house in his spare time. He never pressed about Howe, accepting her upbeat, nonspecific assurances that he was making progress and looking forward to being up for company again.

  Patti had moved back in with her grandmother and resumed partying with her friends, but at least she answered Elizabeth’s calls, eager for news of her father’s progress, which she’d dubbed “the cussing quotient.”

  If it were only the cussing, Elizabeth would have been in better shape. But Howe was like a giant toddler, alternately winsome and frustrating, and she never knew from one minute to the next which he’d be. And even though he was definitely not the cold, distant man he’d been before the stroke, everything was still all about Howe, just as it had been before. But now, she wasn’t sure how long she could take it anymore.

  The whole thing was exhausting.

  By the end of each day, she barely had energy to crawl back to the condo and go through the mail, then nuke supper and go to bed, so her dinners with P.J. grew fewer and farther between, and he worried aloud that she was shutting down emotionally.

  Maybe she was, but it was the best she could do.

  And so the days and weeks rolled by, insulated from their past realities and facing an uncertain—and ironic—future.

  Despite Howe’s progress, the pecker problem persisted. The man was well over fifty, but had no more control over the thing than a sixteen-year-old—not his own, charming sixteen-year-old self, but some sex-starved hormonal maniac with no sense of propriety. Sometimes all it took to set him off was saying “Hello.”

  Bing, up went the sheet. She could tell it embarrassed him, but regardless, the man was fixated. He hadn’t jumped her bones, but he sure was gropey, and he was always trying to kiss her, even her hand.

  Elizabeth had told him she was willing to let bygones be bygones and start over from scratch, and he’d said he understood, but apparently he didn’t because he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her. She knew he wasn’t accountable for what he did, but it angered her that he thought he had a right to even touch her, after everything he’d put her through. It made her even madder that he still had the power to anger her so. But for the children’s sake, she put on a brave and patient face.

  She’d tried dressing like a nun, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  At the rate they were going after a month, she decided it would be Christmas before she dared let him out in public. But the hospital and insurance company had other ideas. So, six weeks after Howell woke up, he walked out into the blazing July heat under his own steam
, and Elizabeth took him home.

  Blessedly, Patricia was in the Bahamas on a sorority trip she’d scheduled long before Howe’s release, so they arrived home to find that Augusta had had the place scoured to within an inch of its life and smelling of Pine-Sol, her personal cleaning choice. Augusta had also made a few changes to the arrangement of the furniture and accessories, which was par for the course. She always had and always would consider the house more hers than Elizabeth’s.

  Suppressing a surge of anger when she saw the subtle changes, Elizabeth walked over and put her jade lion back where it belonged on the credenza.

  Howell plunked down on the velvet bench beside it in the expansive Georgian foyer. “Whew. You wouldn’t think an hour car ride could wear you out, but, d—sorry—” He staunched the cussword and substituted, “Man. I’m whipped.” The appended apology had lately become a reflex when he cussed, which Elizabeth took as a good sign. At least he was becoming more aware of it, if only after the fact.

  Elizabeth locked the front door and hooked the security chain, not against thieves—she never did that—but against her mother-in-law. “Would you like to lie down in the den for a while before going upstairs?” she offered, shifting the fresh flowers from the center of the credenza to the side, where she liked it, then moving both candlesticks to the other side where they belonged. “I could bring you some lunch on a tray.”

  Howe didn’t respond, scanning the rooms. “Has this place always been like this?” He winced. “I don’t remember disliking it, but it’s so . . . dark, and heavy.” Frowning, he sniffed the musty odor of ancient furniture and drapes. “So gloomy.”