Tumbling Blocks

by Earlene Fowler

  “You’re the best dog in the whole world,” I told Scout, bending down to scratch him behind his left cheek, a favorite spot of his. “Extra premium dog treats for the rest of your life.”

  “He already gets those,” Gabe said, bringing me a tray with a grilled cheese sandwich, tomato soup, hot chocolate and homemade butterscotch pudding, compliments of Kathryn.

  “Yummy,” I said, digging in, thankful it was my left wrist broken rather than my right. I’d taken a pain pill about an hour ago and was feeling hunger for the first time today. “This meal is almost worth what I had to go through.”

  “I hope not,” Kathryn said, walking into the living room. “I’d be happy to make you those things any time you like without you risking your life.” She smiled at me, then at Gabe.

  Gabe smiled back, which relieved me. They’d obviously come to some kind of truce. Had they talked about the past or just silently agreed to let it go? I looked from Gabe to his mother and back to Gabe. Nothing on their unexpressive faces told me. Ray came in, and for the next couple of hours we sat around chatting about a lot of nothing. For the first time since my mother-in-law had arrived, it felt like the air between Gabe and his mother wasn’t thick with resentment and anger.

  In bed that night, after taking an awkward shower with my wrist wrapped with plastic wrap and taped to keep it from getting wet, I asked Gabe about his mother.

  “Are you two okay?” I crawled awkwardly under the covers. I watched Gabe pick up Boudin and hold him in his arms, stroking his puppy fur, his face visibly relaxing.

  “We’re fine,” he said.

  “Did you talk?”

  He bent down and put Boo in his crate, taking his time to settle him in, fixing the soft blanket around the puppy, stroking him again, murmuring assurances before closing and locking the gate.

  “Things are fine,” Gabe repeated, not actually answering my question.

  I almost pursued it, discouraged that they hadn’t confronted the issues between them. What had happened with me had obviously eased things between them, but it hadn’t solved the deeper problems. Maybe that wasn’t possible. My husband carried so much anger inside him, so many questions, so much sadness, but, it seemed, this was not the time that things would be resolved between him and his mom. All things had their season. Perhaps this was not the season for that.

  The pain pills brought me wonderful, painless sleep, but they only lasted four or five hours. It was dark when I woke. I sat up, looked over at Boo to see if he was awake and waiting to go outside. He was fast asleep. Scout, sleeping next to my side of the bed, sat up, alert. As always, he was ready to accompany me wherever I needed to go at two a.m.

  “I’m fine,” I whispered to him. “Down.” He obeyed with a grunt of relief. “Go back to sleep.” I leaned down from the bed and stroked the warm top of his broad skull.

  By this time, I was awake enough to realize I was alone in bed. Where was Gabe? The master bathroom door was open, and in the dim light from the half moon, I could see it was empty.

  I struggled out of bed, worried. Gabe rarely wandered the house at night. Though he often had troubled dreams, insomnia never plagued him. I pulled on my robe and slowly made my way downstairs.

  I was at the bottom step when I heard it, the sound of two voices talking, the timbre of anger obvious even before I could hear the words. I froze where I was, knowing that me walking into the living room at this point might halt something that had been coming for a long time, something that needed to happen.

  “You should have told me about your MS.” My husband’s voice was low and angry. “Being the last to know was humiliating.”

  “That wasn’t my intention,” Kathryn said, her own voice tight, controlled. “You know that.”

  “I don’t know anything apparently. I am your son. I am your oldest child. Even Benni knew before I did.”

  “Perhaps it’s because she pays more attention,” his mother said, her voice now just as angry as his.

  “How can you say that?”

  His mother’s voice softened. “Gabe, honey, I’m sorry. Is that what you want from me? I’m sorry. You’re right; I should have told you immediately. I just didn’t want to ruin our Christmas.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said, his voice sounding adolescent now. “If that were true, you would have called and told me about Ray over the phone. You wouldn’t have sprung it on me in public.”

  She was silent for a moment. “That was cruel, I know. I was just . . . afraid.”

  “Afraid of me? Mom, I’m your son. I’d never hurt you.”

  “Not physically,” she whispered.

  My heart ached for both of them. My husband didn’t understand that the intimidating presence that made him such a trusted commander in an emergency was often more than a little scary to those who loved him. And my mother-in-law didn’t understand that the distance she kept was like a slap to her son.

  “I don’t mean to . . .” Gabe’s voice cracked.

  “I know,” she said, her words so low I almost couldn’t hear them. “I know that, son. I made an error in judgment. Surely you understand that?”

  What he said next completely floored me. Only in retrospect did it occur to me that he’d been wanting to say this for so many years.

  “You sent me away.” His voice was raspy, agonized.

  Kathryn gave a small gasp. “Gabe, I didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did! Dad was only dead for three months, and you sent me to Uncle Tony.”

  “You were almost a man,” she said, her voice sounding desperate. “I didn’t want to, but you were out of control. I didn’t know what to do. Your sisters were so young, and I was alone and had to work.”

  “You never called me.”

  “That’s not true! I called Tony every week to see how you were doing, but I was afraid to speak to you. Don’t you remember the horrible things we said to each other? I didn’t want that to happen again. We needed time to cool down. I never stopped thinking about you for a minute. I missed you every day. I’m so, so sorry. If I could do it over again, I wouldn’t send you away. I wouldn’t. Please forgive me.”

  Before she finished I heard something else, something I never thought I would hear in my lifetime. A sound that flooded me with sadness and relief.

  I stood up without thinking, making my way to the living room doorway. My husband sat next to his mother on the sofa, his head bent down to his knees, his back heaving with the tears he should have shed years ago. His mother’s arms surrounded him, her cheek against his black, tousled hair.

  “Lo siento, Mamá,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Papa . . . Luis . . .”

  “It’s okay, son. It wasn’t your fault. Luis is in God’s hands now.”

  “You can’t die, Mom. You can’t.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” she said. “I’m not going to die.”

  Her words turned into comforting murmurs, the sounds that mothers make, soothing nonwords that somehow a child, no matter what age, found comforting.

  Before they noticed me, I moved quietly away. There would be many times in our future when I would hold Gabe to comfort him, not the least when the day would come when he would lose the woman who now held him, the first woman he loved. Right now, it was her place to care for him, this woman who’d cradled him for nine months inside her body, who taught him to walk, to talk, to read, who kissed his skinned knees and hemmed his jeans, who’d sent him away in fear and guilt and love when he was sixteen, who, no doubt, prayed for him every day he was in Vietnam and every day afterward, this woman, who, no doubt, if asked, would die for him. Right now, it was her arms he needed.

  I went back to bed. Soon it would be morning. I would rise before everyone else and take muffins out of the freezer. Lemon muffins I’d made a week ago. I would serve hot tea and lemon muffins with warm, rich ginger butter. Gabe’s favorite. This was what I could do for him, for her, for us. When all the crying was done, I would be ready with hot tea and warm lemon muffins
.

  CHAPTER 16

  THREE DAYS LATER, CHRISTMAS EVE, I WAS FEELING much better, though I was still taking pain pills at night. We were driving to the Aragon house for their annual tamale feed when Hud called my cell phone.

  “Hey, ranch girl,” Hud said. I could hear “White Christmas” playing in the background. “How are you?”

  How was I? That was a good question. Right at that moment, I was grateful that my family was well and safe, grateful that Gabe and his mother were finally at peace with each other. He’d even managed a couple of laughs with Ray. I had a feeling that my husband was actually relieved that his mother had someone who cared for her. Most important, I was grateful to be alive.

  “I’m thankful,” I said, sparing him the details. We’d have time to talk when he picked up Boo.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. How’s Boudin?”

  “He’s doing great. We’re all headed over to Elvia’s parents’ house for tamales and presents. Sam is bringing both dogs in his car.”

  “Did you get Boo’s photo with Santa?”

  I hesitated. The only picture of Boo that Sam had managed to get showed the puppy screaming in terror while attempting to escape from the red and white scary monster he was certain was trying to puppy nap him. Nevertheless, it was a photo with Santa.

  “Sure did.” No use ruining his or Maisie’s Christmas.

  “Good,” he said, his voice relieved. “I have no idea why Maisie was so obsessed with that picture, but with what she went through this year, it seemed a small thing to give her. You have my undying gratitude, catin.”

  “No problem,” I said, my stomach sinking into my feet. Somehow, I’d have to figure something out before they returned from Texas. “See you soon.”

  “We’re flying home the day after Christmas. I’ll be by to pick up Boo about six p.m. or so, depending on whether the planes are on time.”

  “No hurry,” I said. “I’m actually kinda getting used to the little pumpkin head.”

  “Yeah, they do have a way of stealing your heart, don’t they?”

  “Merry Christmas, Clouseau.”

  “Joyeux Noel, ranch girl.”

  At the Aragon house, Gabe, Kathryn, Ray and I were the last to arrive. Sam had been there for about an hour, and Boo was in puppy heaven as he was passed from arms to arms of cooing girls and women. All of Elvia’s family was there and even Uncle Boone, Emory’s father, had flown in.

  “What a wonderful surprise,” Dove exclaimed, hugging her Arkansas cousin.

  So many conversations were going on at once, some Spanish, some English and even more a mixture of both. I glanced over at Kathryn and Ray. I was happy to see a flushed expression of joy on Kathryn’s face. Was she remembering times with Rogelio and his family? It occurred to me for the first time how much in common she and I had, being widowed at a young age. But we’d both found love again with two extraordinary men.

  At that moment, standing there watching all these families become one big family for this evening, a mixture of races, ages, backgrounds, histories, sorrows and joys, I felt the real presence of God flowing through the room, like a cool, refreshing breeze, a reminder of what this holiday was really about.

  We ate tamales and chicken verde and Dove’s twice-baked potatoes and Christmas butterscotch cookies and Mrs. Aragon’s Mexican chocolate cake until we were stuffed. Then we sat in the Aragons’ huge family room, squeezed in like sardines, and watched the kids open presents. The rest of us would wait until Christmas Day. This night was always for the children. I watched my best friends open the present I bought for the newest little Aragon-Littleton. It was a stuffed pony, of course. When you turned it upside down, it gave a spirited neigh.

  “It also comes with one thousand and one horseback riding lessons,” I said, laughing. “My wrist should be healed by the time your little niña or niño is ready to sit a horse.”

  Elvia touched her stomach, her face flushed with joy. “Thank you. It’s our baby’s first present.”

  Sam came over to me with a wrapped gift. “Here, stepmom. I got you something.”

  “The adults aren’t supposed to open their presents until tomorrow,” I said, protesting.

  “Well, it’s not exactly for you.”

  I took the shirt box-size package and tried to tear away the wrapping with one hand. When I finally got it open, Sam laughed, making me instantly suspicious.

  Nestled inside thick white tissue paper was a framed photo. It was a photo of Boo sitting on Santa’s lap. And the dog was smiling.

  “Oh, my stars, Sam! Thank you, thank you, thank you. How in the world did you get him up there? And smiling?”

  Sam grinned. “A gifted animal trainer never gives away trade secrets.”

  I stared at the photo, amazed. “You’re in the wrong profession.”

  “I agree,” Gabe said, winking at his son. “Computer graphics might be a good career avenue to explore.”

  “This picture is fake?” I exclaimed. I peered closer at the photograph. It was incredible. You really couldn’t tell that Boo wasn’t actually sitting on Santa’s lap. “This’ll do just fine. Thank you, stepson. I owe you big time.”

  “You know it, madrastra.”

  We ended the night gathered around the old upright piano in the corner of the family room. People took turns singing Christmas carols, harmonizing on old Beach Boys songs. Sam and Ramon, Elvia’s youngest brother, made us all laugh singing some silly verses they’d written to “Jingle Bells.” They’d replaced a one-horse open sleigh with a low-ride Chevrolet.

  I looked around the room at all these people I loved, each with their own story, their own beginning, middle and end. I thought about what I’d read somewhere about how each ending was only the beginning of a story we hadn’t read yet.

  For a moment, I thought of Pinky Edmondson and Nola Maxwell and felt a pang, wishing that things had turned out better for both of them. I wondered where Constance was spending Christmas, knowing she was probably missing her friend. I was sad for them and thankful for where I was right now, at this particular moment in time.

  I could not have guessed in a million years when I was a little girl how my life would be at this age, how many twists and turns it would take, how much sorrow I would endure, how much fear I would encounter, how much joy awaited me. It did feel like another beginning. I looked over at my husband, his face relaxed and happy. I sent up a quick prayer thanking God for the time we have had and for whatever time was still ahead. Then I rested my good hand on his knee and turned my attention back to our families, waiting for the next song to begin.

  Earlene Fowler was raised in La Puente, California, by a Southern mother and a Western father. She lives in Southern California with her husband, Allen, and a semi-obedient Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Boudin. You can visit her website at www.earlenefowler.com.

  THE SADDLEMAKER’S WIFE

  By National Bestselling Author

  Earlene Fowler

  After the death of her husband, Cole, Ruby McGavin arrives in Cardinal, California, where she has inherited part of a cattle ranch. But she is shocked to discover that Cole’s family, despite what he told her, is still very much alive.

  Though intent on selling out to the McGavins and starting a new life, she cannot help but be drawn to them—particularly handsome saddlemaker Lucas McGavin. And the more she learns about them, the more she wonders if she ever really knew Cole...

  “[A] sweetly told narrative.”

  -The New York Times

  “Emotionally powerful.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

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  EARLENE FOWLER

  Don’t miss any of the Agatha Award—winning series featuring Benni Harper, curator of San Celina’s folk art museum and amateur sleuth.

  Fool’s Puzzle

  Irish Chain

  Kansas Troubles

  Goose in the Pond

  Dove in the Window

  Mariner’s Compass

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bsp; Seven Sisters

  Arkansas Traveler

  Steps to the Altar

  Sunshine and Shadow

  Broken Dishes

  Delectable Mountains

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

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