Stripped Bare

by Shannon Baker

  Carly smiled. “Ruthie still gets crazy when her mom’s not around.”

  “I’d just turned eighteen, and Mom let me share the margaritas she’d made for her and Glenda.”

  Carly stared at the photos as if transporting herself back to the sunny backyard. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of day Louise would approve of.”

  I laughed. “We paid for it. When Louise showed up the next morning and found the three of you snuggled into one bed, with grass clinging to your feet and the Kool-Aid mustaches still on your faces, she pitched a fit about irresponsible child care.”

  Carly considered it. “I can see how she wouldn’t take to three drunks minding her kid.”

  I brushed that off. “We weren’t drunk. And even if we had been, the twins were thirteen and plenty old enough to babysit.”

  She set that packet aside and pulled out another. “This must be me and Dad.” She handed me a picture of Brian, asleep on the couch with a two month-old Carly snuggled on his chest, thumb in her mouth.

  We shuffled through the stacks of photo envelopes. Carly sat on the floor, her back propped against the couch. I perched on a rocker. Carly probably didn’t remember most of what she saw in the photos, but here was proof she’d had a mother and a father and they’d loved her. She didn’t cry, but her face looked brittle.

  I told her story after story about Glenda as a child. Fearless, rebellious Glenda, always organizing the Fox kids on one adventure after another. She had us building tree houses that fell from the branches, bike races that ended in blazing crashes, safaris involving a thermos of milk and peanut butter sandwiches eaten in the pasture behind our house. It’s a wonder any of us survived childhood.

  I listened as Carly took her turn describing the world Glenda had created for her on the ranch. The same sort of fun, only safer and more controlled. “Dad was really different when he was around Mom. Sort of relaxed and easy.”

  None of the Foxes saw what Glenda did—general opinion of the clan being that Brian lacked brains and confidence and needed someone to tell him what to do. Before Glenda, I suppose it had been Eldon directing Brian’s life. Even if I saw them as ill-suited, Glenda and Brian seemed devoted to each other. I chalked it up to a mystical match only they understood. After Glenda died, Brian became edgy. Marrying Roxy only added to the scent of desperation that clung to him, as if he had to work every moment to live up to her expectations.

  Way past when Carly and I both should have been in bed, I said, “You want something to drink?”

  She nodded and dug back into the box. I headed into the kitchen, hoping to find something without caffeine.

  Why wasn’t Ted home? I hadn’t expected he’d be out this long. He probably stopped at the Long Branch after he finished the paperwork, and got sidetracked. Unlike me and Carly, he didn’t have to be up at dawn.

  I heated milk in the microwave. As far as I knew, Carly and I were the only people on the planet who actually liked warm milk. I thought we could both use the comfort.

  I started into the living room with the mugs. Carly studied the contents of a dark-blue file folder. When she heard me, she slammed the file closed and looked up, a strained smile on her face.

  I handed her a cup. “What was that?”

  She didn’t look at me. “Dunno. What do you think of these?” She laid out a half dozen photos, ranging from her as a newborn to her in early grade school. All of the shots showed Carly with either Glenda or Brian or both.

  “Those should work.” I plopped onto the couch beside her and traced my fingers along the top of her head, messing her blonde ponytail.

  She dropped her head forward and encouraged me to keep massaging. We sipped our milk in silence. After a while she set her mug on the carpet. “Did Ted hang out much with Dad?”

  I thought a minute. “Brian was a little older than Ted. They knew each other, but I don’t think they were close friends. Brian went to Kilner, so he didn’t really have the same friendships he’d have had if he’d gone to high school here.” Brian always acted as if he was a cut above the folks around here, and I assumed he felt more educated and worldly for his time at the military school. At any rate, he kept in touch with some of his old classmates and liked to drop details about their wealth and accomplishments into his conversations.

  Carly pushed away from me and stretched her legs out. “So weird that Granddad would send Dad to a private high school. He’s such a cheapskate.”

  I’d wondered that, too. “You ought to ask him about it.”

  She frowned at the box. “I did. Granddad said he’d gone there, and his dad too. So it was a legacy thing.” She let that sit a moment. “Ted was sheriff when Dad died, wasn’t he?”

  “Yep.”

  She bent over her legs to stretch her back. “Did he investigate the accident?”

  Carly watched too much TV, with all the cop shows. “It wasn’t the kind of accident that needed investigating. Your father flew into the hill.” On a beautiful spring morning with no wind, in a Cessna 182 that he’d been flying for four years.

  Her eyes strayed to the folder. “They said he probably got distracted or confused and made a mistake, but did they check the plane to make sure it hadn’t malfunctioned or something?”

  I didn’t want to think about the pile of twisted metal and charred plastic, the mangled body. “I doubt they could tell much from what was left. As I recall, he’d just had the plane in for its annual, so somebody must have checked that, at least.”

  “Yeah.” Her eyes lost their sharp focus. Did she relive that afternoon often? Thankfully, she hadn’t seen the plane go down, but she’d arrived in time to see Harold Graham and Eunice Fleenor load the gurney into the back of the ambulance. She’d missed Brian’s face, of course. They’d zipped the black body bag before she arrived.

  My eyes drooped, but I didn’t want to leave her alone with all the memories and loss.

  Finally she stirred and pushed herself up. “See you tomorrow.”

  I staggered to my room and she made her way upstairs. The creaking of the ceiling, from Carly’s restlessness, drew me out of sleep from time to time. Late in the night, I heard her talking to Ted. Content that he was home, I drifted off.

  Carly took the photos to school the next day and, as expected, left the rest of the box’s contents strewn around the living room floor. I put it all away. Curious about the blue file folder, I saved it out to read. But before I even opened it, one of my sisters called, and then it was time to check cows and get dinner going.

  * * *

  I pushed back from the counter. It seemed like I’d grabbed the folder with a pile of bookwork and had shoved it into the file cabinet, in a section marked “After Calving.” My filing system might not be the most advanced, but I hated clutter. I had learned to keep my life as simple as possible during the weeks of calving. Stashing paperwork out of sight helped my psyche. Now, though, I’d take a cluttered office over a missing niece and cheating, bullet-riddled husband.

  My house felt like a vacuum. No wind to buffet against the walls and windows, no one to turn on the TV or music, no conversation. I usually relished this kind of silence, but I wouldn’t mind a little Carly bedlam about now. I headed to the office. The drawer where I kept the After Calving material was half open, and papers struggled out the top as if someone had yanked something out of the folders. I rifled through it. No blue file.

  Up the steep attic steps, I snapped on the light. Carly’s room took up one half of the attic, with storage on the other side. As always, I drew in a breath to steady myself. With Ted’s approval, and even his help, Carly had painted the plaster walls a startling chartreuse, outlining the windows in tangerine and lime. It was like being trapped in a Skittles bag. Clothes, books, makeup, shoes—the life of a teenager littered the floor, and a muffled odor of ripe workout clothes hung over it all.

  I stood amid the wreckage and let my eyes travel over every surface. No blue file. I didn’t expect to make a dent in the mess, but wi
thout much thought I grabbed a few jeans and shirts from the floor and dropped them on an overstuffed chair Carly had insisted on bringing from the Bar J. Not that I’d know if anything were missing, but I didn’t see Birdy Bird anywhere. Seemed odd that a seventeen-year-old would take a stuffed animal with her for an overnight, or even two nights. Guess she was feeling pretty bad. I sighed. If she’d brought the file up here, it could be buried under … What was that? A plate of mummified Christmas cookies?

  I backed down the stairs. I’d ask her about the file later. As soon as I had her home, we’d discuss how cleanliness might not be next to godliness but could go a far piece in preventing disease or insect infestation.

  I checked the cows once more, set my alarm for two hours, and climbed under the comforter. In my bed. All alone. When I wondered if Ted would ever share my bed again, I finally broke apart and bawled into the emptiness. But not as long as I’d have thought, before I dropped down to sleep.

  The alarm jangled me awake twice in the night to check the cows. I’d expected to stay awake fretting both times, but some self-preservation instinct allowed me to crash again. Good thing, because my phone started ringing before five a.m. and that was it for me.

  9

  With a gasp, I fumbled for the phone on the table next to the bed. The cat shriek had to go before I keeled over with a heart attack. In the time it took to punch on and bring it to my ear, I’d already run through the disaster possibilities. Ted had taken a bad turn. Carly in any manner of trouble. And that didn’t count the random accidents my eight brothers or sisters and their families might be in.

  “What?” I nearly shouted into the phone.

  “Uh, sorry.” Douglas’s calm voice cooled my panic. The gentlest of the Fox kids, Douglas seeped unnoticed among the others, usually on hand to lend gentle support. Unlike his twin, Michael, who always popped and sizzled with energy.

  I brought my own voice down to his kind level. “What’s up?”

  A cow’s moo floated to me. Douglas managed the university research ranch at the far northeastern corner of Grand County. Sounded as if he was already at work. “Didn’t mean to wake you up. We heard about Eldon and Ted and I wondered if you knew anything.”

  I plopped back on my pillow and closed my eyes. I gave him the scant information I knew about Ted’s condition, the dull throb in my gut flaring when I avoided telling him about Roxy. I’d let Ted recover before one of my brothers killed him. The good citizens of Grand County had done an amazing job of keeping news of Ted’s affair from the sibs. If any of them had known, Ted wouldn’t have survived long enough to let an outsider shoot him.

  Douglas projected away from the phone in a commanding voice. “Her. I need blood and fecal samples.” He came back on the line. “What about who shot them? I hear Milo is investigating, and they say the state patrol sent an officer. But I figured you’d know more than any of them.”

  I barely finished explaining what I didn’t know and where and how Carly was taking it when the call waiting beeped. I checked it. “Michael’s on the line. Can you fill him in? I need to check the cows.”

  “Sure. Take care of yourself.” With Douglas, that wasn’t a throwaway phrase.

  I padded to the kitchen, ignoring a call from Louise and two from other local folks. The last thing I wanted was to talk to people. One of our own had been gunned down in his home and the sheriff lay in the hospital. People were upset and concerned. Of course they’d call. Most of them would know about Ted’s affair. I needed some time to temper myself to be in public. Besides, I didn’t know anything about the shooting, and as sheriff’s wife—not sheriff—I didn’t have to talk to them.

  I choked down some toast. I had to eat, but the simmering thought of Ted’s betrayal seemed lodged in my gullet. When I added real grief over Eldon and what it must be doing to Carly, and the general stress of calving, it’s a wonder I wasn’t puking every thirty seconds.

  I set my phone to vibrate and went about morning chores, knowing work would quell my agitation. While loading a round bale on the hay sled of the tractor and using the hydro-fork to deposit it in mini stacks in the calving lot, feeding the horses and bulls, checking the stock tanks for ice, and pairing up the new calves and cows and kicking them to the adjoining pasture, I checked each vibration. Since none of the calls came from Susan’s phone—Carly’s phone still sat in the house—and none from the Lincoln area code, I let them all go. Including the dozen from Ted’s phone.

  The sun climbed higher but didn’t offer much heat. Knowing what surprises April often dishes up, the chilly, dry, and still day suited me fine.

  I’d just pulled a heifer’s calf and was on my way to the house to change my blood- and mud-smeared jeans and maybe force a little lunch down my throat when the purr of an engine alerted me to someone approaching. The nose of Sarah’s green Dodge pickup poked around the gap and hurried toward the house.

  That was the best sight I’d seen in a while, and I waited for her to pull up behind the house. With her thick chestnut hair tied in a bouncy ponytail, she slid from the tall four-wheel-drive and landed on the dirt driveway. Her outfit matched mine—Carhartt barn coat, faded jeans, flannel shirt—except she didn’t sport the stylish cow manure and blood I was rocking.

  She draped her arm over my shoulder and pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from her coat pocket. “It was only a matter of time before that shit-heel showed his true colors.” She twisted the top off the bottle and handed it to me.

  My fingers closed on the cool glass and my heart sank further. “You knew?”

  She grabbed the bottle back and took a slug. With eyes blazing in fury she swallowed. “Not until this morning. Louise called and said you weren’t answering.”

  I took the bottle. “How did she—”

  Sarah flicked her fingers in a drink-up gesture. “Aunt Tutti or something.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure we’re the last to know.” I tipped back the bottle and let a dose of fire burn its way to my empty gut.

  The Jack tradition started senior year in high school. Neither of us had dates for prom but, thanks to Jack, we’d had a great time anyway. Throughout college and until now, we’d tipped the bottle at our graduations, engagements, another month when one of us found out she wasn’t pregnant—first in celebration, then in commiseration. Richard and Sarah had been trying for a baby for over a year. Ted and I knew we wanted kids, just hadn’t decided when. Sarah and I didn’t always mark the highs and lows of life with bourbon, but often enough.

  Other women might hug me or want me to cry. But Sarah and I understood each other better than that. She tilted her head and assessed me. “What are you going to do?”

  I passed her the bottle. “I ought to leave him.”

  Always my staunchest defender, Sarah gave me a halfhearted nod. “Is that what you want?”

  Walk away from the only man I’d ever really loved? The only man who’d ever loved me? Leave Frog Creek without a backward glance? Fire up the chain saw and lop off both my arms; it wouldn’t hurt any worse. I reached for Jack and slugged it back. It burned like acid and erupted in my stomach. “You never liked Ted. Robert hates him.”

  Sarah grabbed the bottle and took a swig. “So? You love him. That didn’t stop, yesterday, when you found out.”

  She sounded suspiciously like Dahlia. “You think I should stay?”

  She held up a hand. “Whoa. I didn’t say that.”

  “Then, what?” I clutched the bottle, but my stomach lurched, so I didn’t drink.

  She folded her arms, calm flowing from her, as usual. “Take some time to think before you react. Right now you’ve got emotions running rampant. Let it settle, then make a decision.”

  My eyes weren’t red-rimmed and puffy from crying. I was taking care of business as usual. Growing up in the middle of nine kids had taught me how to keep a stone face. If you let someone know you’re ticklish, they’d be sure to tickle you. But Sarah was tuned into my silent distress. She might not
know exactly what I was feeling, but she knew I felt it a lot.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out, not so much because I wanted to talk but more to change the conversation. I didn’t recognize the local number, but I answered it anyway.

  A booming voice identified himself. “This is Clete.” Clete Rasmussen was county commissioner, with a million years seniority. He probably wanted to know Ted’s condition. “I understand Ted is in the hospital and won’t be able to make it to tonight’s debate.”

  Ha. Pretty casual comment, considering everything it meant. “I don’t suppose he’s up to it right now,” I said.

  Clete cleared his throat; the sound blasted a pathway straight to my brain. I switched the phone to my other ear. “We still plan to have the debate for the school board and whatnot,” he said. “But somebody suggested it’s not fair to Rich Hamner if he don’t get to speak his mind in public.”

  Rich Hamner, Ted’s only opponent, didn’t have trouble speaking his mind most Saturday nights in the Long Branch.

  “So I was thinking,” Clete rambled on. “Maybe you could fill in for Ted. Come to the debate and sort of … be Ted’s mouthpiece.”

  Someone suggested? Someone named Dahlia? I’d have to sit in front of a roomful of my friends and neighbors and even a few not-so-friendly neighbors and try to sound halfway intelligent. There wouldn’t be a soul in the room that hadn’t heard about Ted and Roxy, and they’d scrutinize me. I’d be like a plucked chicken turning over an open flame, the fat popping and sizzling in the fire. “I don’t think so.”

  Sarah frowned at me. She couldn’t help but hear Clete’s thunderous dialogue.

  He cleared his throat again, but this time I was ready and had the phone a couple of inches from my head. “I understand. But it really ain’t fair to Rich Hamner. And you know Ted’s platform, and it seems like the neighborly thing to do.”

  Sure. Neighborly. I opened my mouth to say no again, but then I glanced at Sarah’s stern face. One reason for Ted’s popularity at the polls was the backing of the Fox clan. If I turned away from him, he might not fare so well.