I sighed. Hoby had known a thing or two about clinical depression, mood disorders, and long-term treatment. My husband could put Ruthie’s psychology notes to shame, since he had lived through everything in her textbook. He left me all those years ago, yet his memory met me in this bedroom every time I had a spell.
I thought we had been happy together.
Until he drove away in his wrecker and left us. We had argued that day, and he stormed out of the house saying he needed to tow Izzy Arellano’s Buick to the shop and get started on it, but he never came back.
Not even for Ruthie.
I buried my face in the pillow, then laced my fingers between my toes and held tight. I did not cry. Right after Hoby left, I stifled my tears for months, until my sadness was replaced by hatred. That lasted several years but eventually gave way to apathy. Now the sum total of all my feelings only amounted to a swell of bitterness every so often.
But I wouldn’t allow myself to wallow. Not for long anyway. I’d give it an hour or so, and then I’d get up, splash cool water on my face, and eat a quart of Rocky Road.
***
“Momma, Sophie Snodgrass told me Clara Belle Covington saw you at Troy and Pamela’s junk shop with Clyde.”
“Yeah, so?” I nestled my feet between two couch cushions and pointed the remote at the television, blacking out a rerun of CSI. “She’s not the chief of police. Her husband is.”
“So, what were you doing?”
The pitch of her voice rose near the end of her sentence, and I tried not to grit my teeth. Ruthie had this theory about pulling me out of my episodes by reacting dramatically to every single thing that came up in conversation. I rested my elbow on the arm of the couch and leaned my chin on a fist.
“Dusting books,” I said slowly, attempting to tamp down her spirit to an appropriate level of boredom.
“Admit it. He’s interested in you.”
A thread on the hem of my shorts, one among many, fell slightly longer than the others in the fringe, and I fingered it, pulled it, snapped it off. “What if he is?”
“What if he is?” Her mouth fell open as though I had just confessed to capital murder. “Good grief, Momma, you’ve been alone for years. Don’t you think it’s time?”
I chewed a tiny spot on the inside of my cheek and wished Ruthie would leave. I needed to go curl up in bed awhile longer so I could think. And remember. And forget. I felt my shoulders begin to droop, but I jerked them back up with a reviving intake of air. “I’m doing fine, Ruth Ann.”
“You could do better.”
Irritation niggled at me just like it did whenever a huge family came into the diner five minutes before closing time. “I’m holding down a job,” I argued.
“Why aren’t you working today?”
“Day off.”
She tilted her head to the side as though considering how to cast the next round of the debate. “Well, you don’t socialize with anyone you’re not related to. You could go out with your old friends.”
A flash of anger exploded between my eyes, and I blinked hard before answering her. “I’m getting out of the house now, Ruth Ann. I talk and smile and visit with people, but as far as my old friends are concerned, I have no desire to spend time with them.” I lifted my palms, then let them fall back to the couch cushions. “You see what it gets me? I help Pam with a few books, and in less than three hours, you’re over here grilling me about it. I don’t need this.”
I expected her to lash out at me sarcastically, as was our habit, but instead, she glanced out the window, watching Corky Ledbetter pass by on the street pulling a red wagon filled with her two youngest children. When Ruthie looked back at me, I was surprised to see sadness in her eyes. Typically Ruthie showed about as much emotion as I did.
She smiled, but her gaze bounced between the coffee table and my left shoulder. “I want to have a baby, Momma. Dodd and I are making plans.”
A tiny hum sounded in my ears as if a favorite song was stuck in my head, filling my thoughts so thoroughly, I couldn’t make sense of her words. I forced my lips into a smile, and once they were there, it felt right. “That’s wonderful,” I mouthed silently.
“We’ve been praying that you would be happy.” Her gaze briefly returned to the coffee table.
“Yes.” My voice didn’t sound like my voice. I could hear the difference, but I couldn’t clear my throat, much less conjure up more words to say to her. I tried again. “Yes, Ruth Ann.”
She half giggled, half sighed—a frantic sound. “So you see why I’m worried about you staying well.”
I dug my toes deeper into the couch, and they pressed painfully against an exposed metal spring. Actually, I didn’t see what she meant. I didn’t see at all.
“What if a baby changes things, Momma? I’ll be really busy with work and school, and I might need some help. I might need you. With our family’s medical history”—her eyes locked with mine—“I’m scared I might get postpartum depression.”
The humming in my ears popped into silence, and suddenly I was powerfully aware of my surroundings. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the window seemed brighter than a moment before, and the hard lines of the television and furniture became clearer, more shiny, more polished. “I’ll be here, Ruth Ann.”
Robotically I unfolded my legs and stood, walked across the room, and patted her arm, as close to a hug as we ever got. My lips were still curved, and judging from the way her shoulders relaxed, I must have come across all right.
Babies weren’t bad. Dodd would provide for her, and his mother and brother would be obnoxiously supportive, but what if she really did need me? Could I be there for her? Could I battle the megaphone voices in my head and keep myself out of the dark pit?
My new cell phone chimed in the back pocket of my shorts, startling me. I would never get used to the thing, but right then, I was thankful for the distraction. The screen showed it was Velma, and my anxiety instantly settled. My sister knew about babies and pregnancy. She knew about daughters and sons-in-law and being a grandmother. She knew about me and the god-awful trouble I had with living life.
Lifting the phone to my ear, I concentrated on keeping my voice even. “You’ll never guess what Ruth Ann just told me.” I gave Ruthie another feeble smile and waited for Velma’s response. Knowing my sister, she would guess Ruthie’s plans and immediately start coaching both of us.
But only heavy breathing came from her end of the line, and my gaze wandered back to the window, where I noticed a small rain cloud peeking from behind the roof of the house across the street. “Velma?”
I once heard a mountain lion’s call in the darkness, and that sound came back to me when Velma spoke. Wild. Desperate. Instinctive. She cried out my name, long and low, and the sound of her despair sent a thousand doubts sailing through my already mangled thoughts.
“I’ll be right there,” I said. “Whatever’s happened, I’m on my way.”
I punched off the phone and backed away from Ruthie.
Chapter Eight
Strangely enough, Clyde liked his job. He stood alone in the kitchen of the Dairy Queen, stirring a vat of orange-brown chili. His responsibilities were mundane and predictable, mirroring his life. Troy had been urging him to apply for a wind-tech position, but honestly, Clyde wasn’t interested in risking his life for the betterment of the community. And just this morning, Lynda had seemed dead set against the notion. Not that he had talked to her about it. Maybe Troy’s wife had let the cat out of the bag, or maybe Lynda had read his mind. Either scenario was believable.
As he finished an order of chili dogs and set it on a red plastic tray, he saw Lynda through the front windows getting out of her car. He wiped a drip of chili from his work surface, but instead of starting the next order, he watched her for a second. A rain shower had left water in every pothole in the parking lot, and as she sidestepped
and hopped, her long hair blew across her face. Lord, she was pretty. And tough. And aloof.
And fragile.
When she entered the restaurant, she gave a curt greeting to the front-end workers, then came around the counter to lean against the door of the walk-in freezer. “What time you get off?”
“Twenty minutes.” He picked up a knife to chop onions, but before he made a cut, he pulled a wooden match from the pocket of his apron and stuck it between his teeth. He had read once that the chemicals in the match head kept the onion from burning your eyes. He figured Lynda would make fun of him, or at least ask him about it, but she only stared at the back of the ice-cream machine and rubbed her lips against each other. Something was up.
“Ruthie wants to make me a grandmother.” She laughed, but there was no trace of humor in her eyes, and Clyde knew something else was wrong. Lynda may not have been keen on being a grandmother, but he had seen her with Nathan enough times to know that she wasn’t completely against it. “A granny,” she mumbled.
A soft ache nudged Clyde’s stomach, and he slowly lifted his head, not wanting her to notice he was watching her. “You don’t say.”
When she nodded, her hair shifted across her shoulders. She had changed clothes since this morning at the bookstore, and now she wore old shorts and a tank top with her usual black Converse sneakers, looking more like a teenager than a granny. Clyde went back to slicing.
“And Ansel’s dying.” Her voice quavered, and the rattle in her throat, in her confidence, in her heart made Clyde’s hands shake.
Lynda’s parents had died in an auto accident when she was fourteen, so Ansel was the closest thing she had to a daddy. If he died, it would be one more person abandoning her. Clyde swiped the diced onions into a plastic bin, still gripping the knife. He wanted to stab something, but he forced himself to calm down. “That right?”
“He’s got some kind of advanced cancer.” She held her hands tightly at her waist, one palm gripping the opposite thumb. “Velma said he might not live six months.”
Clyde wanted to go to her, unclench her hands, and give her a hug. But touching wasn’t something they did. “That’s not long.”
“Nathan won’t even remember him,” she snapped.
Clyde pictured Ansel sitting in his recliner holding newborn Nathan in one arm and the remote control in the opposite hand. Now that the baby was older, Nathan would cruise around the recliner, jabbering nonstop, and Ansel would shoot the breeze as though Nathan were one of his buddies down at the feed store.
“Fawn has pictures.” It was a silly thing to say. He desperately wanted to make things bearable for her, but what could he do? Lynda would never stand for it if he walked over there and … what? … let her cry on his shoulder?
She was too stiff and independent for that.
He blinked hard. Actually Lynda was as needy as Nathan had been when Fawn brought him home from the hospital. As needy as Dodd and Ruthie’s baby would be. But Lynda didn’t need him.
“Velma said she’ll take care of Ansel at the house for a while, but pretty soon he won’t be able to get around, and something else will have to happen.” Lynda’s eyes bored into Clyde’s for a count of five, and then she looked away, this time to the back door leading out to the parking lot.
Probably she wanted to run out that door, to escape the unpleasant details. Something else would have to happen. Did she mean he would be in a nursing home? “Could be a while,” he said.
“Yeah.” She took a few steps to stand in front of the corkboard by the door. It was covered with announcements and old Dairy Queen sales pages. She had her back to him, with her head tilted to the side as she read a crooked note, but then she froze. Not moving, probably not reading, maybe not breathing.
“Velma will get through it.” His statement wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her that she would get through it, that she could survive this just as she survived everything else, that this didn’t have to set her back. He wanted to remind her to keep living. He wanted to walk up behind her, wrap his arms around her, and shelter her from everything life might hurl her way.
“Yep, Velma’s a trooper,” Lynda mumbled.
An order came back, and Clyde tossed two chicken-fried steaks in oil. Lynda still hadn’t moved.
He shouldn’t do it. Probably she wouldn’t want him to, but he stepped toward the bulletin board and paused for a second as he stood behind her. She was so short he felt like an ogre about to pet a hummingbird, so instead of touching her, he carefully bent at the waist and tilted his head to gaze at her cheek.
Her eyes were closed, and her lips were pressed into a tight line. She was holding herself together, but barely.
Clyde laid his palm on her shoulder, afraid his touch might crumble her concentration, but she only inhaled, then exhaled, then opened her eyes.
Slowly she turned her head to peer at him, first at his hand on her shoulder, then into his eyes, and in one fluid movement, she spun on her heel and buried her face in his chest.
Clyde straightened quickly, then held his breath. His hands were on each of her shoulders, and he squeezed slightly, not knowing if he should hug her outright. Her arms were still crossed over her chest, and as she leaned into him, he could feel the warmth of her breath through his shirt. She didn’t seem to be crying.
He lifted one hand to touch the top of her head, but she took a half step back and wiped her nose. “I’m all right.” Her words tumbled over each other. “Sorry to get all emotional. I’m just fed up with things happening to me. Or I guess this isn’t really happening to me. It’s happening to Ansel. And to Velma. And … Nathan and everybody.”
“I reckon you can claim it, too, Lyn.”
Turning away from him, she stepped to the back door, causing a wave of regret to wash over Clyde, as if he held a lottery ticket that was one digit short of the jackpot.
She tilted her head toward the parking lot. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
When she pulled the metal door open, a flash of afternoon sun shot into the kitchen, and Clyde squinted, but just as quickly, the door closed behind her, leaving him blinded from the brightness and alone with his thoughts.
He fled back to his vat of hot oil and removed the well-done steaks, trying to figure out what had just happened. His heart ached for Ansel’s family like it hadn’t ached since his grandpappy died, but in spite of the gloom of Lynda’s news, a tiny glimmer of hope cast a ray of sunshine in the darkness. Because Lynda was waiting for him in the parking lot.
Chapter Nine
“Want to go see the windmills, Lyn?”
Lyn.
Sometime over the past two years, Clyde had started calling me that, but sometime over the past two days, I had decided I didn’t mind. “Where’s your car?” I asked.
“Broke down again. Can I drive yours?”
The question seemed bold, but I was tired. “Sure.” The two of us settled into my hatchback and rode silently through town, past the city-limit sign and twenty miles down Highway 84. He took me farther than I had come on Thursday—almost to Roscoe—and as the terrain opened up into endless cotton fields, my mind became less cluttered.
When he pulled to the side of the road, my head rested against the seat, and I let my gaze wander along the edge of the Caprock. I inhaled deeply, and when the breath released from my lungs, a tiny bit of my tension relaxed. “Not everybody has an addiction to wind turbines,” I said.
“There’s worse things to be hooked on, believe me.”
I twisted my neck to look at him. “Do you think there’s a twelve-step program?”
“If there is, you’re somewhere around number seven.”
“You sound like Ruth Ann.”
“She’s a good girl.”
I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. “I can’t believe she wants to
be a momma.”
The windmills rotated in slow motion, mocking my heart, which spun as frantically as a child’s pinwheel. Maybe my sanity would be torn to shreds like a plastic-and-foil toy thrashed by the gusts.
“It was bound to happen.”
Irritation blossomed like a flowering thistle, but snapping at Clyde wouldn’t change Ruthie. “I wouldn’t mind her having a baby if it didn’t mean I had to be a grandmother.”
“I’m a grandpappy.” Clyde’s enormous frame shrugged as though he were trying to make himself look smaller than he was. “Is that bad?”
“No.” I said the word too forcefully but didn’t back down. “It’s not against the rules for men to get old and gray and wrinkled.” I yanked the rearview mirror around so I could look at my reflection. “Think how many movies have a man in his sixties courting a woman in her twenties. You never see it the other way round. Ever.”
“You’re not sixty.”
“I might as well be.”
“You want to be with a kid?” His eyebrows bounced playfully, but I didn’t feel the humor.
I popped open the door and climbed out of the car. Even though I had no reason to be upset with him, anger had become a familiar blanket I habitually wrapped myself in. I bundled my hair and held it at one shoulder to keep the wind from slapping it against my face. I stared at the windmills traveling across the land and noticed a frozen turbine unaffected by the currents. A slight movement at the top caused me to squint and refocus, barely able to make out two men working high in the air, two gray dots on the head of a needle.
After a few minutes, Clyde appeared quietly beside me, leaning against the car with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m not mad at you.” I pouted the half apology. “I’m mad at Ansel.” Even though it wasn’t Ansel’s fault the cancer was taking him, any more than it was Ruthie’s fault I was getting older.
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