Forever Friends (7 page)

Lana folded the letter and stuck it in the envelope. She replaced it where she had found it, standing between the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers, and then finished stacking dishes. She thought about Jessie and her kindness toward her, how she had welcomed them into her home, without hesitation or criticism. Mrs. Jenkins had been good to Lana, and the young woman knew it; and now, having read such an intimate and loving letter, Lana felt a deep regret that she was hurting more than just her own family.

She opened the cabinet, got out the dishwashing detergent, turned on the water, and began filling the sink. She placed the dirty flatware, the knives and cooking spoons, the measuring cup, and Hope's plastic fork into the water and wondered how long it would be before she would leave.

It wasn't that she loved Roger, the teacher in her accounting class at school whom she had met before she dropped out. He was older and had money, drove a nice car, and could speak two languages. He wore silk shirts made in Italy and insisted that she get dessert when they went out to eat. He was interesting and had traveled to China, read women's magazines, and thought she could be a model.

But Lana understood that she wasn't leaving Wallace for him. She wasn't abandoning her marriage and her baby because she had fallen in love with somebody else. He wasn't the reason for all that she was feeling. She only wished it could be that simple. That was understandable, even acceptable. Friends and family would be able to explain that to each other. It could be the hook for everything else to hang on.

She'd be hated and despised for what she had done, but at least they'd think they had a handle on why she left. There would be a reason, an explanation. They would all shake their heads with disgust but not confusion. Lana wished all that she was feeling could be summed up so cleanly. But it wasn't that easy. It wasn't that simple.

Lana realized that, just as Wallace was not to be blamed for her unhappiness, this other man was not everything she was missing. He, like her husband, was not the reason she was running away. Although she enjoyed the attention he gave her, found relief in the distraction of the new relationship, and appreciated having to put forth an effort to keep things secret, the young woman knew it was not enough to fix all that was wrong. She understood that Roger was just a balm, a Band-Aid, an excuse. Lana even knew that she would not stay with him for very long before she would go again. He was merely the convenient means to help her leave.

The young woman was finishing washing the pots and pans when she heard the doorbell ring and looked over at the kitchen clock to see that it was after 9:00
P.M
. She dried her hands on the dish towel, walked over to the entryway, pulled aside the curtain on the window beside the door, and saw Margaret Peele standing on the porch. She unlocked and opened the door, and the older woman was smiling in front of her, holding a box of cocoa.

“It's not too late, is it?” the woman asked.

Lana shook her head in surprise. “Um, I was cleaning up a
bit,” she answered and then realized she should ask her former Sunday school teacher to come in.

She stood back, pulling the door with her. Margaret walked in.

“I was just thinking of you and decided to stop by.” She spoke a little nervously. “I remember how much you used to like hot chocolate.” She lifted up the box in her hand. “Sorry, but it's instant.”

“Oh, that's all right,” Lana responded. “That's really nice of you.” The young woman shut the door. “Here, let me take that.” And she reached behind Margaret and pulled off her coat. “Wallace just left and Hope's gone to bed.” She opened the closet and took out a hanger, hung up Margaret's coat, and shut the door.

“Then it's just you and me,” the visitor said as she turned around to face Lana.

“Yeah, I guess so,” the young woman replied. “Come on in the kitchen while I heat up the water.” And she moved ahead of Margaret toward the other room.

“I haven't seen you in a couple of weeks. Did you and Wallace go away?” The older woman followed her into the kitchen.

Lana dried one of the pots she had just washed and turned on the water. She filled two cups and then emptied them in the pot and placed it on the stove. She turned the dial to high.

“Let's see,” she said to answer the question, “two weeks ago Hope was sick with a virus so we didn't go to church that
Sunday, and then last week Wallace and I went to the mountains.”

“Oh, that sounds like a nice trip,” Margaret responded. “Did you ski?”

Lana shook her head, remembering the brief discussion they'd had about the cost of skiing. Wallace had wanted to try it, but Lana had said it was too expensive.

Margaret sat down at the table and Lana joined her. Neither woman appeared to know what to say. There was an awkward pause.

Finally Margaret asked, “Have you heard from Jessie?”

Lana nodded, glad to have an easy topic of conversation.

“She called when they got to London and then also after they checked into their hotel in Nairobi.” Lana hoped she said the town in Kenya correctly. She wasn't sure how to pronounce it. Then she finished, “They're both fine. Tired, but fine.”

“That's a long trip.”

“Twenty-two hours, she said.” Lana shook her head. “I think I'd go crazy on a plane that long.”

Margaret agreed with a nod.

Lana got up from the table and opened the packets of hot chocolate. She emptied the contents into two mugs and then waited until the water started to boil. She took the pot off the stove and poured the water into the cups. Then she put the pot in the sink and got out a spoon and stirred both drinks. She handed her visitor a cup, and the women blew across the top, trying to cool down the liquid.

“Reminds me of old times,” Margaret said before she took a sip.

Lana smiled, trying to recall an occasion when she had drunk hot chocolate with the older woman.

Margaret could tell Lana was puzzled, so she said, “When you first found out you were pregnant, remember?”

Lana put down her cup.

“You came over to the house and we talked and then we went over to your mom's.”

Lana didn't respond.

“We had hot chocolate.”

The younger woman started to think back to that night she had gone to see Mrs. Peele. She certainly had memories of going to her house, how it felt finally to have made the decision to tell an adult, how frightened she was to let somebody know what had happened. The evening seemed so long ago to her now, and though she did remember the occasion of her confession, she did not recall drinking hot chocolate.

“I used to make it from scratch,” Margaret said, hoping that might spark a memory.

Nothing. Lana just sat watching.

“Well, it doesn't matter,” the older woman finally said. “Two friends don't have to remember doing something earlier to enjoy it at a later time.” And she took another sip.

Lana smiled and nodded.

There was another awkward hesitation between them.

“How's your health, Mrs. Peele?” Lana inquired, unsure of whether she should ask but uncomfortable with the silence.

“I went to the doctor a couple of days ago. I'm cancer free!” she said and lifted her cup as if she had given a toast.

“That's great,” Lana responded.

“Better than great,” Margaret answered.

“Yes, you must be so relieved.” And the young woman pulled out a couple of napkins and pushed one toward Margaret.

The two women sat in silence, both of them trying to think of something to say, one of them tangled in what she had seen and the other one caught in what she had done. They sipped their chocolate and listened to the sounds of the furnace coming on and the passing of an airplane overhead.

Margaret struggled with how to begin. She had thought about what she would say all the previous day and night and all that morning. She had practiced how she might broach the subject with the young woman, how she might ask if things were okay. She worried that she might be out of line. She had rehearsed an opening and an easy way to allow Lana to talk if she wanted to. But now that she was there with her, now that they were alone, drinking cocoa and talking of gentler subjects, Margaret was at a loss as to how to say what she hoped was the right thing.

She put down her mug, slid her chair away from the table, and simply began. She jumped in headfirst and long.

“Lana, have I ever told you about Luther?” Margaret folded her hands in her lap.

“Your husband?” Lana asked.

Margaret nodded. “He died before you were born.”

Lana shook her head. “No, I can't say as I ever remember you talking about him.”

“We were married almost thirty years,” Margaret said. “Hard to believe it was that long.” And she reached up and rubbed the back of her neck. “He was a farmer, raised chickens. He was a good man.”

The young woman took another sip from her mug of chocolate. She tried not to appear guilty.

The older woman smiled, dropping her hand in her lap, and turned to Lana. “We got married fairly young,” she said, taking a breath. And then she told it straight. “I left him after we had been together three and a half years.” She waited. “It wasn't that he was a bad man or that things changed. He didn't do anything to hurt me. And, well, I really didn't stay gone for very long.”

She paused, still watching Lana, the young woman staring into her cup.

“I guess I just worried that I had made a mistake, that our relationship wasn't quite everything that I thought marriage was supposed to be. I felt, I don't know,” then she turned away from the younger woman, remembering, “smothered or lost or something.”

Lana closed her eyes, the light in the kitchen suddenly starting to bother her.

“I left him on a Thursday,” she said. “In June.” She glanced beside them, out the window. “It was so hot I could hardly breathe. I packed my bags and took a bus to Memphis.” The
older woman stopped a minute, thinking about her past as she dealt her memories out like cards on the table.

“I even went to a bar and had a drink with a stranger.” She leaned forward and picked her cup off the table and took a sip. “It was all so very exciting.” She turned back toward her friend, whose face was still cast downward.

“Anyway, by Sunday I realized that Memphis didn't have what I was really looking for, so I got on a bus and came home.” Margaret ran her finger along the top of her cup. “I never left again.”

She wiped her hand on the napkin. She wasn't even sure Lana was listening.

Finally, the young woman responded. Her voice sounded small, distant. “What did your husband do?”

“Met me at the bus station, had a little bouquet of daisies.” She stopped as if to recall. “Told me that he hadn't slept in three nights and that he was sorry if he had done something wrong.”

Margaret sat leaning in her chair with her cup in her hands, remembering how her husband had stood waiting for her at the bus terminal. She thought of how it was to see him through the window on the bus as they pulled up, how he was out front all alone, his hat resting on his forehead, perspiration running down the sides of his face, the heaviness in his eyes and all along his shoulders.