Dwelling Places (35 page)

“The hardest for me was when my wife had to work outside the farm. The kids were in high school, and she took a job at the nursing home. Harder work than the farm, and the pay was hardly enough to matter. Life felt different after that.”

Mack feels his heart throbbing, moving words to the front. But he's been putting things into words for months now. He knows they will come out and yet he won't be destroyed. He clears his throat. A
few people look at him, but some look at each other, understanding what he has been through.

“What's been hardest for me is farming without my dad and brother. Dad's been gone ten years, but I'm still not used to that. And as you know, my brother died a couple years ago, not long after we sold everything but the house and a few acres. I haven't farmed for a while now, but I still miss working with both of them.”

A long silence follows Mack's short speech. He feels tears in his throat, but nothing gets so far as his eyes. Since that day with George, when he stated how God had forsaken them, the tears have not been so easy to come. He wrestles now with bigger, deeper things that don't show themselves so freely.

A few more people speak, and Mack ventures a peek at Jodie's stone face beside him. Young Taylor says nothing, but that isn't a surprise. Kenzie sits slumped beside her mother, not seeming to connect to any of this. Maybe she will be able to later, with the pastor she knows better. But Mack aches for his wife to speak. He wants to know if the worst of all this for her is really him or if her grief includes the sorts of things people are naming now.

“Anyone else? I don't want to rush anyone, but I feel as if we're winding down.” Reverend Maynor searches the room with patient eyes. Mack sees the eyes rest on Jodie. He sees Jodie look back at the minister, her head coming up just a bit.

“I just…” Jodie says, her voice abrupt, “I just don't know what I'm part of anymore.”

It feels as if the whole room turns then and focuses on Jodie. Mack wonders suddenly if any of the people here know about Terry Jenkins. He looks for judgment in the faces around them, but all he sees are eyes that seem as hungry to hear Jodie speak as he is.

“So much of living out here is being part of everybody's life. We're all in this together. We're dependent on the weather and the market. Hardly anybody goes through something that everybody else doesn't go through. I used to belong to all that. I was part of the
seasons changing and the neighbors working. What am I part of now?”

A tear slips down her cheek. Her whole body is trembling. “I don't know what I'm part of now. And I don't know who my family is.” Her hands come up then, to cover her face, and she rocks. Mack hears Lacy begin to cry behind him.

He will remember forever how the room seems to collapse as his wife's sobs fill the arched space above them. How she makes sounds that he's never heard come out of her before, and how Kenzie suddenly slides close and clings to her mother. And then Lacy comes up too, scooting around Mack to gather both Kenzie and Jodie, and by then the room is weeping. He thinks that he weeps too, but mostly he is riveted to the sight and sound of his wife. He doesn't move, but allows her to be comforted by others. For the first time since all the hard times began, this does not feel like failure to him. He watches others stroke her hair and grasp her shoulders and speak soothing things to her, and he knows that this is meant to be. At some point he notices Ed sitting beside him. His arm comes down on the back of the pew behind Mack. Mack can't tell if the wetness on Ed's face is tears or sweat, but the grief is plain.

When the weeping subsides, Reverend Maynor reads two Psalms. They sing two hymns, easy ones that are old and second nature and require nothing but the heart and tongue to remember them.

Then each of the four families is presented with a small cloth bag filled with corn. This represents all their lives' harvests. The second is an empty scrapbook, leather-bound, a place in which to collect new memories and stories. Reverend Maynor has written a blessing, and she asks the families to stand, and she blesses each one. It is a lot like a baptism. After the blessing, they sing the Doxology, and the congregation comes forward to add good words, handshakes, and hugs. By then, the tears have dried and the mood has shifted. The air, though warm from the gas heater in the back of the room, feels light.

Rita

Rita's alone, on her couch, her bum leg resting on pillows on the coffee table. She hasn't done a useful thing for two days now. Jodie has helped deliver all the pill bottles to the neighborhood, and Mack picked up mail. It hurts too much for Rita to stand long enough to make soup for her folks. This is miserable.

Mack came by at noon, as he promised. He was pleasant enough, but his mind was on other things. He offered to take Rita to the church service tonight, but didn't push it when she declined. She quickly shifted the topic to asking about Jodie, Kenzie, Young Taylor, things at work. His answers were no different from a thousand other answers on other days.

Her TV remote had stopped working, a real inconvenience. She can get to the bathroom in just a few steps. But the crutches hurt her underarms, and changing channels by hand had become a burden. So Mack replaced the batteries. He got her fresh water, putting the little pitcher on the TV tray next to her. He washed the few dishes in the sink and reheated the lunch Jodie sent. Rita has to admit that her grown-man son is pretty good with the details. Taylor and Alex were fairly worthless when it came to anything inside the house, but Mack, maybe because of Jodie, has learned how to put a plate in front of a person and clean up the little messes that aren't that important but irritating all the same. He followed Rita's instructions wordlessly and with no resentment that she could see. She hopes he'll be this nice a decade from now, should she live that long. This is part of why she takes care of so many old folks—hoping God will notice her good works and provide the care she needs when she can't do for herself anymore. She has watched the light go out of too many faces as the years stole mobility and memory and simple pleasures. When she thanked Mack for his help, she meant it.

It is evening now, and she nibbles on the ham sandwich and carrot sticks and apple cake Jodie sent. Her leg is throbbing again, and she changes positions to ease it. Of course the doctor gave her pain pills,
but they remain in their little bottle by the water pitcher—all she needs is to lose what little clarity she has to narcotics.

She got bored with television an hour ago, so now she stares at the blank screen and notices that the landscape hanging on the wall above it is tilted. It's too high for her to reach; even Mack would need a step stool to get up there and fix it. But he's gone now—and with the whole family off to this grieving service, probably no one will stop by later tonight. So Rita gets to look at this crookedness for the livelong evening. She tries to picture a person tall enough to reach and make the adjustment. Amos is shrunken up—and she wouldn't trust him on a stepladder anyway.

Another image comes to mind then, of Joe, Marty's new friend. Huh. She hasn't thought of him much since Christmas, has decided not to get too attached until they make it official—if they ever do. But that Joe, he could reach right up there. He towered over everybody at Christmas.

Maybe she should take a little more initiative. She picks up her notebook and turns to a blank page, writes “Dear Joe,” and stops. He's new to the family and probably wonders if they like him or don't. She should have written him a note right after the holiday. Well, that's one oversight easy enough to correct.

She folds the letter and sets it where she'll remember to give it to Mack tomorrow. He needs to get her stamps too—better yet, stamped envelopes, because she's on her last envelope or two. She's let herself run low on a lot of things lately. No matter how hard she works to keep everything organized, one thing or another gets neglected. She considers turning this concern into a new prayer request, but her notebook landed on the kitchen cabinet somehow, and she is unwilling, for now, to go get it.

Mack

On the way home from the service, Jodie begins to cry again, not the sobs of before but steady, rhythmic sighs. No one speaks. Mack glances in the rearview mirror and sees that Young Taylor has his arm around Kenzie's shoulders. Kenzie looks tired and sad. Young Taylor's face is calm. His eyes meet Mack's in the mirror, but he says nothing.

They get to the farmhouse, and Jodie takes hold of Kenzie, and they walk together inside and upstairs. They go to Jodie and Mack's bedroom and shut the door. Mack taps on it and is told they are fine but need some time. He walks downstairs and finds Young Taylor at the kitchen table, having a bowl of cereal.

“I need to go see how your grandma's doing. I won't be long.”

“Want me to come?”

“No. I'd rather you stay here with Mom and Kenzie. I won't be long at all.”

“Okay.”

Mack is surprised at how tired his mother looks. He's also angered at how little she wants to hear about the service.

“I thought you'd be interested,” he said.

“I'm glad it went well. Sure it did good for some people.”

“I think you would've liked it.”

She shrugs and asks him to move her tray closer. She pours water from the Styrofoam pitcher. “I don't need some preacher telling me how to move on.”

Mack wants to say, “I'm not so sure about that,” but knows that tonight mercy is called for. He promises to come during his lunch hour tomorrow.

At the corner of Main and Walnut, he turns north. Three blocks later, he pulls into the drive of a small house near the school. He sits there, with the engine rumbling, and sees the curtains at one of the front windows part. Terry Jenkins looks out at him. Mack can't tell if Jenkins recognizes him or not.

He doesn't know what he planned to do, coming here. He promised Jodie that he'd let her handle it. But of course that's not enough. The man in the window has wronged the man in the car. Eventually they must face each other and settle something.

Eventually. Not this evening. There is too much pain welling up in the house where Mack lives. Anything he starts here with Jenkins will not end easily. Mack has never been a violent man, but he fears that violence waits low inside him for the few times in life when it's truly needed. He imagines hurting Jenkins, actually harming him physically. Jodie's sobs in the church have released a new level of anger in him. He wants someone to pay for all that's gone wrong. Even though Jenkins is a little part of it, it would be easy to kick the life out of him tonight.

He pulls out of the driveway and goes home. It's either a cowardly decision or a very wise one. All he knows for sure is that he needs to be home, not in jail, or not trailing in later with bloody knuckles.

He sees Kenzie at the kitchen sink when he pulls up. But by the time he walks in the door her feet are disappearing at the top of the stairs. Young Taylor sits in front of some demonic-looking video, a skinny, death-white kid rising from the ground, his teeth black. Young Taylor munches a sandwich. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey.”

“How's Grandma?”

“Tired, but okay I think.”

“Cool.” There is the same emaciated kid, dressed in robes, chanting “disposable teens” over and over.

“You consider that entertainment?”

“Yes.”

Mack goes upstairs and knocks on Kenzie's door. In a small voice she grants him entrance. She is on the bed.

“Is Mom still in the bedroom?” he asks.

Kenzie nods. “She wants to sleep.”

“That's probably what she needs.” He sits near her on the bed. “I know the service upset her, but I think it was good that she went. I'm glad you were there too. That meant a lot to Mom.”

“She'll worry about me now, won't she?”

He looks at his daughter, seeing again the agony that glowed out of her the other night, after they had waited and waited for that son of a bitch Jaylee to show up in the woods. She was so sure he would come, and then so inconsolable as Mack walked her back up to the house. She wouldn't look at him, but the yard light had shone in her eyes, and he was sure he'd never seen so much pain in one person.

That night Kenzie's face had brought another terrible memory out of storage. Back when they decided to sell the farm, Mack had arranged for Buddy Humbolt, the auctioneer, to come out and work on the list of goods to be sold. The evening before Buddy came, Mack saw Kenzie
carrying something down toward the creek, right at dusk. He waited until she was back at the house before going to investigate. At about ten-thirty, with flashlight in hand, he found the stash at the base of the old cottonwood. Her bicycle, covered up with grass and branches. A box filled with other treasures—some of her favorite books, the doll Rita had made her when she was five, a photo album. Kenzie was ten then and didn't understand that her most personal belongings would not be sold along with the machinery and acreage. Mack returned to the house, choking back tears, and did his best to explain.