(2008) Down Where My Love Lives (15 page)

JUNK MAIL WAS SPILLED AROUND THE BASE OF THE mailbox when I got around to opening it the following afternoon. I dug it out and stuffed it in my arms like firewood. Buried in the back of the heap was a conspicuous envelope. The VISA bill.

I hated that thing and moaned every time I saw it. I'd been paying it down since I took Maggs on that little surprise trip eighteen months ago. She had always wanted to do two things: fly to New York City and see Riverdance. It so happened that Riverdance was premiering in New York at that time, so late one night, after Maggs had gone to bed, I did some searching on the Internet and ended up booking flights, room reservations, and tickets.

I was busting at the seams to tell her, but managed to keep it a secret for two weeks. When the alarm went off that Friday morning, I poked her in the ribs and said, "Honey, pack your bag. Plane leaves in three hours."

Maggie lay there and pulled the covers back over her head while I showered. When I came back, I grabbed the covers at the foot of the bed and yanked.

She jerked up and said, "Dylan Styles, you know this is my only morning to sleep in. Now go away and leave me alone." Her hair was going everywhere, and she had a big sleep mark imprinted in her left cheek. She slammed the pillow over her head and motioned to the light switch.

So I pulled the Riverdance tickets out of my pocket along with the plane tickets and slipped them under her pillow. That got her out of bed.

We spent the weekend in New York City and saw the show from the third row, front and center. I had as much fun watching Maggie's face as I did the show. The next day we walked the streets like Dumb and Dumber, strolled through Central Park, toured Ellis Island, stood at the foot of the Empire State Building, and rode the elevators to the top and waved at the Statue of Liberty. Maggie loved every minute of it. Fourteen hundred and sixty-nine dollars later, we came home.

I opened the envelope, and the number at the bottom of the page said I had paid for the first twenty-four hours. Now I needed to pay for the second. I tossed the bill on the floorboard and bumped the stick into drive.

I drove past Pastor John's church, onto the hard road, and up the hill at Johnson's pasture, where I crossed the railroad tracks midway. I made it into town just as Frank, the owner of Frank's Hardware, taped a "Back in Ten Minutes" sign to the front door.

Ten minutes is about the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee, so I headed across the square, bought a paper, and sat down in the corner of Ira's Cafe. Just as I slid into the booth, Amos saw my truck and parked his squad car. He pointed his toothpick at me and walked through the front door.

"Morning, Ira," he said to the lady cooking eggs behind the counter.

"Mornin', sugar. You sit down there with Mr. Quiet, and I'll be there in a minute."

Amos slid into the booth across from me. "Hey, buddy, what's up?"

I pointed across the square to the hardware store. "I'm waiting on Frank so I can buy bolts for the harrow."

Amos looked over his right shoulder. "Frank left another `ten minute' sign?"

"Yup." I rummaged through the money section of the paper.

"How's our girl?" Amos asked.

"Same. I'm going there now. Soon as Mr. Back-in-TenMinutes finishes helping Ms. White with her latest emergency."

"That's the trouble with this town. Everybody knows your secrets."

"Tell me about it."

Ira walked up to the end of the table and kissed Amos on the cheek. "What you gonna have, sugar?"

Amos looked at me. "I just love the way she calls me 'sugar."' Then he looked up at Ira. "Give me three over medium. No, four. I'm hungry today. A couple of biscuits and some of that good honey that George steals from his neighbor."

A guy wearing a white T-shirt and flipping pancakes hollered over his shoulder, "They're my hives."

Amos turned and hollered back. "Yeah, but the bees are eating from his flowers."

George hollered again. "At least that's what he told the judge. I can't control where my bees go. It's not like I can train them."

Amos laughed.

Ira turned to me. She was a fixture in this town and had worked at this cafe for as long as I can remember. Consequently, she knows everybody and everything about everybody too. If you tell Ira something, you might as well announce it on CNN, because the world of Digger will soon know about it. She was also the most colorful person in town, and everything she wore always matched. Shirt, skirt, shoesall the same color. She looked like a walking color swatch. Today she was lime green.

"Good morning, Ira," I said.

"Good morning, honey. How you doing, Dylan?" She leaned down and gave me a big wet kiss across my forehead.

"I'm fine. Thank you," I said, wiping my forehead.

"You don't look fine. You look like somebody peed in your cornflakes." Did I mention that Ira was brutally blunt and had spent ten years married to a sailor?

"Thanks, Ira. I'll just have a biscuit, please."

"Okay, honey. Y'all give me a few minutes. I got to make some more biscuits."

Amos and I small-talked for ten or fifteen minutes, until Ira showed up with a plate of ten or twelve eggs and another plate of about a dozen hot, steaming biscuits. She slammed down both plates, poured two more cups of hot coffee, and did not leave a check on the table. She looked at me.

"Dylan, don't you get your butt out of my booth until you and Mr. Cue-ball here eat everything that I've put on those plates. You understand me, mister?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said. There was enough food on our table for five people.

Amos smiled, picked up a fork, and split a biscuit. "Well," he said, stuffing a buttered, honey-dripping biscuit into his mouth, "I think I made America's Scariest Police Chases last night."

"What happened?" I piled eggs on a biscuit.

"Well, I pulled this guy over for speeding about ten o'clock, and he decided he didn't want to be pulled over. He was driving a big, four-door Lexus. Before I knew it, we were going about 120 down 1-95. Then he hops the median and starts racing down the back roads at the same speed. Mac at the motor pool said this morning that I just about burnt up the engine and definitely ruined a good set of tires. Anyway, this guy bangs his Lexus around a good bit and then parks it in the middle of Old Man Packer's duck pond. You should have seen that thing fly through the air after he hit that hay bale."

Amos stuffed some more eggs into his mouth. "The driver managed to swim out and spent last night in jail, but his car is totaled. Some people amaze me. There I was, just giving the guy a hundred-dollar speeding ticket, and he hauls off and wastes an eighty-thousand-dollar car and a night in jail. Not to mention what Judge Hand will do to him when I give my report. This is a crazy world we live in, Dylan."

"What'd he say when you pulled him out of the pond?"

"Nothing. He just stood there looking at eighty thousand dollars' worth of splash and bubbles. Never even loosened his tie. Looked like a respectable fellow too. I handcuffed him and placed him in the back of my car. When I asked him why he ran, he gave me some lip about how the police were always picking on him. I asked him if he thought seventy-two was too fast in a fifty-five zone. And you know what the guy said?"

"No. What'd he say?"

"He said, `It depends on the person.' I said, `Sir, the law is no respecter of persons. It is what it is.' He didn't like that. Got real quiet. Then he started talking about his lawyer, and anyway, he's in jail, and I'm here eating breakfast. How come you're not saying much?"

"'Cause I'm eating my fifth biscuit."

Amos smiled with honey dripping off his chin. "They're good, aren't they?" He pointed his butter knife toward the kitchen. "She's sweet as pie and can cook like nobody's business, but that woman can cuss like nothing I've ever heard. I guess thirty-odd years waiting tables in this place with that guy will do it to you."

"Tell me about it."

After forty-five minutes, Frank reappeared in his window, fixed his hair in the reflection, peeled the sign off his door, and unlocked the bolt.

I nodded my head. "Frank's back."

"All right. I got to go. Judge Hand is expecting me. I'll pay Ira. You hug Maggie for me."

"I'll do that."

And it was at that moment that the guilt set in. Guilt caused by the fact that for almost forty-five minutes I had not thought about Maggie, or the death of my son, or the fact that my wife was a vegetable in the hospital, eating from a tube and urinating into a bag.

The guilt landed on my stomach like lead. I walked out the front door, turned right down the alley next to Ira's Cafe, and vomited five biscuits, six eggs, and a pot of coffee. I wiped my mouth on my shirtsleeve and steadied myself against the brick wall. A second wave coursed through me, further emptying my stomach. I wiped the messy tops of my boots against my jeans, drove to the hospital and forgot why I needed to see Frank.

I slipped quietly into Maggs's room, and Blue jumped up on the bed, nestling his nose in at her feet.

"Hey, Maggs," I whispered in her ear. I would have given the farm to hear her voice.

"Hello, Professor," Amanda whispered as she walked into the room and interrupted the silence.

"Hi."

"I won't be but a minute." She checked Maggs's feeding tube and then began to tiptoe out. Just as she was about to disappear behind the doorframe, she turned around and whispered, "Professor, I won't be in class tomorrow. Doctor's appointment. I left you a voice mail at home, thinking I might miss you here. See you tomorrow afternoon, maybe."

"Okay. Thanks for letting me know."

Amanda left, and the silence crowded in again. Blue whimpered, as if to say, Look, man, say something. She needs to hear your voice.

I took hold of her hand. "Maggs, I miss the sound of your voice." That's when it hit me.

Voice mail.

I picked up the phone, dialed as fast as the rotary phone would let me, waited four rings, and then she picked up.

"Hi, this is Dylan and Maggie. Sorry we missed your call, but leave us a message and we'll call you back. Talk to you soon. Take care."

I quickly dialed back, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear, dialing with one hand and holding Maggie's with the other. Blue crawled across the bed, put his front paws in my lap and licked the phone, whimpering. After the eighth time, I set the phone in the receiver, rubbed my face, and stared out the window.

I DISMISSED CLASS, GRADED QUIZZES FOR ALMOST an hour, then packed my bag and slipped out. Crossing the yard to my truck, I got curious, so I wandered over toward the fence. The football team was practicing on the far eastern side of the field. I threw my bag in the back and walked through the gate toward the scrimmage. I didn't necessarily want to see it as much as I wanted to smell and hear it.

As I was walking, I heard a voice behind me.

"You singing, Professuh?"

I turned around to see Russell towering over me like Goliath.

"Who, me? No, I'm just, uh ... " Okay, I lied.

Russell smiled. "You was singing, Professuh." His eyes widened, and a grassy, sweaty smile cracked his face.

"Not really," I dodged. "Who do y'all play this week?"

"Professuh, that singing sounded good." Russell raised his eyebrows and tried not to smile. "Sing some more."

"Russell, I can't sing my way out of a wet paper bag."

"My daddy loved to sing. He liked blues and old hymns. Sang both so much he got 'em mixed up all the time. One minute he'd be singing 'bout a girl he once knew, the next it was the coming glory." Russell's smile came back, and he raised his eyebrows once again. "And you still ain't answered my question, Professuh. Was you singing?"

"Russell, it's Were you singing.'"

"Okay, Mr. Professuh, sir." Russell had little quit in him. "Were you singing?"

"Yes, I was," I admitted, my eyes scanning the practice field.

"I thought so. Now, what was you singing?"

The last thing I wanted was a casual conversation with Russell. In class is one thing. Out of class, that's another. Students can't differentiate. Pretty soon, they start wanting to have out-of-class discussions in class. At that point, the idea of you as teacher, and them as students, hops on a ghost train and flies south. Never to return.

"Russell." I gathered myself. "I was singing a song my wife, Maggie, used to sing to our son before he was born."

"How's it go?"

"Russell, aren't you supposed to be out there somewhere, hurting somebody?" I pointed to the field.

"Professuh, you ain't answering my question." He put his hand on my shoulder.

Russell has a contagious smile. About like Pastor John's. It absolutely destroys any walls you throw in its place. You could rebuild Jericho, and Russell's smile would bring it crumbling down.

"Russell, let me put it to you this way," I said, looking at his hand on my shoulder. "There ain't no way in God's green earth I'm singing you a lullaby." I stepped up toward the fence, crossed my arms, and kept my eyes on the scrimmage, appearing intent on the action on the field.

"Professor," he said in his best English, "`Ain't' is not a word."