Phantom of Riverside Park

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Phantom of Riverside Park Page 17

by Peggy Webb


  Thomas found it remarkable that it had taken them more than twenty years to get her pregnant. Eighteen, if you counted the time he spent in the war.

  Now, the time he’s spent away from her is an eternity. Hovered over the toilet, Thomas wondered if at last he was fixing to join her.

  “Are you all right in there, Papa?”

  Elizabeth was standing outside the door, and he could tell by the way she sounded that she was worried to death.

  “I’m gonna shoot that Fred Lollar,” he muttered.

  “What’s that? I didn’t hear you, Papa.”

  “Nothing. I’m all right.”

  He’d caught the bug from Fred, who should have known better than to come to the park spreading around germs.

  “Thought the sun would do me some good,” Fred had said, and now look where that got Thomas. Sick as a hound dog, and letting Elizabeth down, that’s where.

  He washed his face, then wrung out the cloth and held it to his neck. Keep your neck cool and your feet warm, Lola Mae used to say.

  As he started out of the bathroom he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He didn’t know that old, old man. He looked like a Bartlett pear that had been left lying in the orchard to rot.

  Picking up his comb, he tried to make himself presentable before he faced Elizabeth. Put on a good show, that was the ticket. He’d been doing a lot of that, lately, acting like he’s spry as a spring chicken when the plain hard truth was this: he felt worn out and used up.

  Elizabeth took one look at him and headed toward the telephone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling Celine. I’m staying home today.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. She’s already mad as a hornet about you taking off for the funeral. You’ll go right on to work.”

  “You need somebody to take care of you.”

  “I’ve been doing it all my life. I reckon one more day won’t hurt.”

  Elizabeth chewed on her bottom lip, and he didn’t have to ask to know what she was thinking.

  “I can take care of Nicky, too. He’s not a bit of trouble in the world.”

  “You need your rest, Papa. I’m taking him to the bakery with me.”

  “Won’t Celine get mad?”

  “As Mae Mae used to say, she has the same britches to get glad in.”

  “Lordy, don’t make me laugh. I’m going make a mess all over myself.”

  Thomas struck a lively trot, and got back to the bathroom in the nick of time. Beyond the door he could hear Elizabeth talking to Nicky about going to the bakery.

  “Can I take my fire truck?” he asked.

  “That might be a little too noisy for Celine. Why don’t I pack up your crayons and some paper and you can draw some more wonderful pictures.”

  “Can I draw lots?”

  “All you want.”

  “Can I have all the doughnuts I want?”

  “You can have one.”

  “How ‘bout two?”

  “Don’t push your luck, young man.”

  Thomas dragged himself to the couch and pulled an afghan over himself. He remembered the winter Lola Mae made it. She would sit in the hand-carved rocking chair her daddy had made from a lightning-struck black walnut tree, her knitting needles flying while skein after skein of bright wool pooled at her feet.

  Memories seemed to float up out of the coverlet, memories so strong he could almost see Lola Mae sitting in the chair by the window. Thomas wondered if he were dying. He’d heard tell of death-bed stories where the one passing on caught a glimpse of a loved one who had gone before.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to join you, Lola Mae,” he whispered. “It’s just that I’ve still got too much to do here on this earth.”

  “What was that, Papa?”

  He hadn’t even heard Elizabeth come into the room.

  “No. Just mumbling to myself.”

  “I hate to leave you like this.”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  “I’d call Quincy to come over, but she’s gone to Tupelo to visit her daughter.”

  “If I need anything I’ll call you down at the bakery.”

  “You know where the number is?”

  “I’m just losing my breakfast, not my mind.”

  Thomas had a fleeting thought of the million-dollar check they didn’t cash, of how it could have bought those fancy iPhones for both him and Elizabeth.

  Nicky raced into the room, stopping so fast his tennis shoes skidded.

  “You sick, Papa?”

  “Yes.”

  “You going to the hospital in a lemon zing?”

  “No. I’m just gonna lay right here till you get back home, then I’ll be all better.”

  “I’ll get Bear.”

  His cowlick bobbing, Nicky retrieved his therapy bear and tucked it into Thomas’s arms.

  “You take care of Papa, you hear me, Bear?” Nicky bobbed the stuffed animal’s head and made growly sounds. “He said yes, Papa.”

  Thomas had never seen a more beautiful sight than that child’s unblemished smile. “Thank you, God,” he said, and if he could have, he’d have gone down on his knees, but he reckoned the Lord would understand that when a man reaches his age, he means no disrespect by staying on the couch while he prays.

  o0o

  Celine didn’t say anything when she saw Nicky. She didn’t even say anything after Elizabeth explained how Quincy was out of town and how Papa and even Fred Lollar were sick, and there was nothing else she could do but bring Nicky with her. She just walked off, tight-lipped, and that was even worse.

  Every time Elizabeth looked at her boss, she felt guilty of some horrible crime, which just proved what she’d known to be true all along: words can sometimes clear up a situation while dirty looks do nothing but make it sink deeper into the mire. Besides that, dirty looks are just plain mean.

  So, there, she’d thought it. Her boss was mean, and a skinflint, to boot, and if Elizabeth ever found the time she was going to start looking for another part-time job, though where she would find one was beyond her. Especially one that would fit her hours.

  Elizabeth took Nicky to a corner booth and spread out his sketch pad and crayons. “You sit right here, sweetheart, and be quiet as a little mouse. Okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  Nicky bent over his sketch pad, his tongue caught between his teeth and his hair hanging into his eyes. Good as gold.

  Thankfully, it was a slow morning. There weren’t many customers about, and there was never a time she couldn’t see Nicky out of the corner of her eye.

  Not once did Nicky complain. He didn’t ask a single question. He didn’t ask for anything.

  At ten Elizabeth broke her own rule and bought three doughnuts, making sure Celine saw her ringing up the sale. Then she went to Nicky’s booth and smoothed back his hair.

  “You’re being so good I brought you three doughnuts.”

  “Sure ‘nuff?”

  “Sure ‘nuff.”

  His eyes were round and bright as silver dollars, and his little tongue flicked across his lips in anticipation. Then he got solemn.

  “I’ll save one for Papa.”

  That alone was worth spending her hard-earned money with the old skinflint.

  “You do that, sweet.”

  “Elizabeth!” Celine bellowed at her from the kitchen. Elizabeth made a face, and Nicky giggled. “I need you back here at the mixer ... unless you got better things to do.”

  “I’m coming... You stay put, Nicky. I’ll be back before you can say Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.”

  “Peter Peck pick...Peter peeper pie...”

  She left Nicky trying to say the rhyme, and giggling.

  When she returned, no more than five minutes later, he was talking to a perfect stranger, and Elizabeth’s heart tried to beat itself right out of her chest.

  He’s just a customer, she told herself. Still, she had the awful feeling that she’d don
e something wrong, something that would have terrible consequences for all of them.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man came to the counter, smiling. He was quite handsome, really, in a dark foreign-looking way. Not at all the alarming type.

  Elizabeth silently chided herself for being so jumpy.

  “Why, yes.” He scanned the glass display case. “These all look so good, I can hardly decide. What do you recommend?”

  “I’m partial to the cream-filled.”

  “What about you, young man?” He turned back toward Nicky. “Which kind do you like best?”

  “Stwabewwy in the middle.”

  The man smiled. “That sounds great. I’ll have two dozen doughnuts with strawberry filling.”

  He was a customer, after all. Relief flooded her as she started filling his order.

  “Cute kid,” he said, nodding toward Nicky. “Is he yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he come here often with you?”

  “No, not often.”

  She’d opened her mouth to tell him about Papa being sick, then changed her mind. One of the things she loved about living in the South was also one of the things she disliked most intensely: everybody knew everybody else’s business, which was fine and dandy when you needed a neighborly hand or a friendly shoulder, but which could be a royal pain in the constitution when you wanted to have some privacy.

  Down South it was possible to spend ten minutes in the bathroom with a perfect stranger and emerge bosom buddies. It would all start with the innocent question, “What color lipstick you got there, hon?” and quickly progress to intimate revelations such as “My husband’s sleeping around with his secretary,” which might be topped with, “I know just how you feel, hon. Mine got me and his secretary pregnant at the same time.”

  Nothing brings folks closer than shared misfortunes. And that was well and good with adults who had the wisdom to judge who was safe to talk to and who was not.

  In Elizabeth’s opinion one of the modern day tragedies was the necessity of teaching children that it was not safe to talk to strangers, even somebody’s sweet little old grandma who wanted nothing than to pat you on the head and call you a cutie pie.

  After the man left, she crossed to Nicky’s table, slid into the booth and smoothed his hair.

  “Remember that talk we had about strangers?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Don’t talk to stwangews.”

  “That’s right, Nicky. And always run to Mommy or Papa if one comes up to you.”

  He nodded so hard his cowlick bobbed up and down.

  “I ‘member, Mommy. He’s Mr. Kitty Hammer. See. I drawed his picture.”

  Nicky help up his latest crayon portrait which had captured the stranger’s red neck tie and swarthy skin to a tee.

  Celine started hollering again, and Nicky leaned over to whisper, “Is she a witch, Mommy?”

  “I think so,” Elizabeth whispered back. “All she needs is a broom.”

  Nicky put both hands over his mouth to hold in his giggles while Elizabeth gathered his art supplies. She was going to put him in a safe spot behind the glass counter, and she didn’t care what Celine said.

  o0o

  Elizabeth and Nicky would be home any minute now, and Lord, help him, what was she going to say about the fire truck parked in their front yard? Not to mention the charred stove and the burnt paper peeling off the walls?

  “It’s a good thing you called us when you did, Mr. Jennings. Otherwise this whole house would have gone up like a tinderbox.”

  The fireman couldn’t have been nicer, but Thomas was still shaking like a leaf. All because of a cup of soup.

  That’s all he’d wanted. Some soup and crackers. He’d got off the couch about three o’clock, feeling some better, he was glad to see. He’d opened a can of chicken noodle soup and set it on the stove to heat, then he’d gone back to the couch for a minute. Just to catch his breath, a little.

  The next thing you know, smoke was billowing around him and the whole wall behind the stove was on fire.

  He nearly died on the spot.

  “I didn’t mean to go to sleep on the couch,” he said.

  “You woke up in time, Mr. Jennings. That’s the main thing. Some folks aren’t so fortunate.”

  Maybe he’d be fortunate enough that the fire truck would be gone by the time Elizabeth got home, and he’d have time to scrub the stove and the wall with Ajax. It wouldn’t fix the mess he’d made, but it might make things appear less disastrous.

  “Papa!” He could hear Nicky yelling clear out in the yard. It was already too late. He burst through the kitchen door, eyes big as saucers. “Can I ride the fire truck?”

  Elizabeth was right behind him, taking everything in with one glance. “Oh, Papa,” she said.

  “Just put me in a home, that’s all.” He was ashamed of how his lips quivered. “Just put me in a home.”

  Her arms came around him, and he could feel her soft rounded flesh pressing against his bones. He’s getting skinny as a racer snake with every bit of muscle he once had now shriveled up. Just one more sign of old age.

  “Nobody’s going to put you in a home,” she whispered fiercely. “Not now. Not ever. And I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

  “Papa, how come the stove’s black?” Nicky said.

  Thomas had his family, so full of life and love they made the old nearly-burned-down shanty feel like a palace. What more did a man need? He pulled himself up tall and proud. “I did a little redecorating while you were gone.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Early evening was David’s favorite time of day. The deep blue shadows were kind not only to him but to the gardens he loved. Over the long hot summer they’d gone almost barren. In spite of the efforts of the gardener and a very good sprinkler system, the Carolina jasmine David had planted to climb over the pergola had hardly grown at all and the lace-cap hydrangeas nearby looked droopy and forlorn.

  Even the trees had not escaped the drought. The giant elm that had been on the farm as long as he could remember was already casting off its leaves in an effort to save itself.

  David had started outside to inspect his gardens when the teenaged boy who sometimes helped McKenzie at the stables entered the pergola with a nubile girl. Probably with McKenzie’s permission. Or maybe not. Jonsey Clark was seventeen and full of daring.

  Jonsey’s arm stole around his girlfriend and David watched from the window transfixed, doing what he did best, viewing life from afar. The burden of isolation had never seemed heavier.

  For one brief stolen moment David had known the feel of Elizabeth in his arms. What would it be like to fall asleep at night and have someone on the other side of the bed, someone he could curl into for warmth, for comfort, for the simple rightness of the thing? He would never know.

  Turning his back to the window, David went to his favorite chair, a big leather wingback his Grandfather Snead had bought at an auction over in Pontotoc. He remembered sitting in that same chair as a child, sitting on his grandfather’s lap and listening to him tell stories about how he came to be called Hooter and why he started selling baby chicks in the back room of his feed and seed store and how he came to acquire the rusted out old watering can that had been sitting on the top shelf above the cash register as long as David could remember. Weaving a web that connected threads of the past with the present, Grandfather Snead grounded David in time and place and gave him a sense of his own destiny as well as his heritage.

  Telling family stories was a tradition that dated back before the Civil War, and now the thread was broken. David would pass on neither stories nor genes. Perhaps McKenzie would. The only hope lay with her.

  David turned his attention to the library. Books lined three walls, a collection that included history, philosophy, architecture, medicine, law, great literature and current bestsellers. There were books that told you how to succeed in business, how to live and even how to die.

 
All of a sudden David was struck with an unutterable sadness. How could he learn to die well when he’d hardly even lived? He grabbed the remote control and snapped on the TV. He wasn’t an avid fan of TV. Sometimes though, it was exactly the anesthesia he needed.

  He surfed the channels until he found an old movie classic that never failed to move him to tears: “Now Voyager” with Bette Davis.

  One of the scenes that most fascinated him was Bette Davis’ transformation from ugly duckling to seductive beauty. He never saw it without a wrenching in his gut, a sharp tug that tore lose memories of the long-lost days of his youth. Before Iraq. Before innocence was gunned down and dreams shrapneled. Before Sgt. David Lassiter led his patrol into ambush.

  Gone. All gone.

  And now this. Now Elizabeth and Nicky. His mission with them was accomplished, and they were gone, out of this torturous existence he called life.

  And wasn’t that what he deserved? He’d lost the right to be caretaker for others. Except from a distance. Always from a distance.

  The black mood descended on David and wouldn’t let go. Even when he heard the library door open and knew it would be McKenzie coming in to check on him under the guise of saying goodnight, his dark spirits refused to lift.

  David snapped off the television and was left sitting in the dark.

  “I give you fair warning,” he said. “I’m not fit company for man or beast.”

  “Sisters are the exception, I hope.” McKenzie snapped on the lights and swept through the room like a good stiff spring breeze.

  “Sit down, McKenzie. I want to talk to you.”

  “This sounds omnibus,” McKenzie said, resorting to a game they used to play when one of them needed cheering--deliberate word misuse by substituting a word similar to the one needed. Tonight David couldn’t even muster a smile. “David, what’s wrong?”

  Nothing and everything.

  “I’m going away for a while,” he said.

  McKenzie looked relieved. She was accustomed to David’s abrupt leave-takings and unexpected arrivals.

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. For as long as it takes.”

  “To do what?”

 

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