Old Wounds (23 page)

Looky here! Cletus held the dead squirrel up by its bushy tail and inserted a finger into one of the cuts he had just made. I’m undressing him. He gave a tug and with a crackling sound the skin began to separate from the body. Rosemary watched in shocked disbelief as Cletus peeled the skin away, as easily as she pulled off her socks.

In a few seconds, Cletus was holding a raw red horror by its bushy tail. He grinned at her and said, I’ll fix you some dinner.

With a sudden heave, Rosemary rid herself of the partially digested chili dog. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she snatched the baling-twine leash and ran down the logging road for home, hauling the startled Dinah behind her.

She left the weary Dinah on the porch, gobbling down a long overdue bowl of dog chow, and crept quietly into the house to rinse out her mouth. The jeep was back and Mum was probably wondering where she was. And probably she was going to get in trouble for going off and not telling Pa.

I’m going to get it now, she whispered. Maythorn always said that when she was late going home. Rosemary wondered what it was.

Laurie was asleep on the sofa in the living room with one of Rosemary’s horses clutched in her hand. From Pa and Mum’s room came the sound of low voices. And then the sound of Mum crying.

18.

R
EVELATION
I
NTERRUPTUS

Sunday, October 16

Hand in hand,
Elizabeth and Phillip strolled down the leaf-strewn driveway, toward the little pond just beyond the herb field. The three dogs trotted behind them and the sweet-sad lilt of mariachi music floated across the field from the little rent house shared by Julio and Homero. Above, the sky was very blue.

She looked at Phillip, who, as usual, seemed perfectly happy and at home. He smiled at her and squeezed her hand. They walked without speaking, as if neither wanted to break the spell.
If nothing is said, nothing will change,
she thought.
It will always be a beautiful fall day, clear and mild, with music in the air and this amazing, unlooked for, deep joy welling in my heart.

Down the rock steps and across the wooden footbridge that spanned the shallow branch. The pond lay bounded on one side by the herb field and on the other by a pasture. A rustic pavilion, almost hidden by the coils of a rampant wisteria, jutted out over the still water, and two dark-stained Adirondack chairs awaited them there.

Elizabeth took down the metal can of fish food that hung from the rafters of the little structure, away from the clever paws of marauding raccoons. She tossed a handful of the pellets onto the still surface of the pond and waited. Phillip stood at her side, peering into the green depths.

They came slowly at first: one whiskered patriarch rose to engulf a little clump of the floating pellets, then a second and a third. Sleek, sharklike bodies, dark shadows in the water, made a shocking contrast to the pale gape of their wide mouths as they swept the water’s surface, passing to and fro and skimming up the tiny morsels. Elizabeth tossed more of the food as three and then four more of the giant catfish appeared, swirling gracefully about in a harmless feeding frenzy.

When the last crumbs had disappeared, Phillip turned to her, taking both of her hands in his. She faced him squarely, returning his questioning gaze with a smile that, she felt, grew from the very center of her being.

“Well, Ms. Goodweather.”

“Well, Mr. Hawkins.”

Phillip pulled her to him and kissed her. Then, reluctantly pulling away, he said, “I think we need to talk.”

“If you say so.” Elizabeth nodded to the chairs, set companionably side by side. She sank into the nearer one and propped her feet on the bench that ran around the open sides of the little pavilion. Phillip took the other chair, but instead of settling himself comfortably, he sat on the edge of the seat and ran his hand over his head.

A sudden chill of misgiving swept through Elizabeth.
Here I’ve been floating along in a dream of never-ending bliss, like a bloody character in a feminine hygiene commercial running through a meadow of wildflowers, and he’s about to tell me…what?…I don’t know…that he’s not really divorced…that he was too polite to say no when I pulled him into my bed…that he’s really looking for someone much younger and cuter…that the past two nights really didn’t mean anything.

He seemed to read the apprehension in her eyes and reached again for her hand. “Elizabeth…” His grip was strong and he squeezed her fingers as if hoping to communicate his feelings without words. “I want you to know…”

Up came the free hand to his head, but he caught himself and lowered it. He cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, I’m not good at the talking part of all this…but I want to say a couple of things. I should have before this but…first of all, I’m glad you had that nightmare. The past two nights have been like…like coming home to the place I’d been trying to find all my life.”

A surge of joy and relief swept over her. She started to speak but he shook his head. “Only, I feel like maybe there were some things I should have told you before we…before I…”

He was still clasping her hand tightly and his eyes were fixed on her in some unspoken question. She leaned toward him.

“Phillip, you don’t need to tell me anything.
I’m
the forward huzzy who dragged you into her bed. And I enjoyed every bit of it and I’m not sorry and you don’t owe me any explanations or anything. We already established that we were both disease-free, and I’m obviously not going to get pregnant, and I’m not looking for any kind of—”
You’re babbling, Elizabeth,
her inner censor warned her.

Phillip put a gentle finger to her lips. “Elizabeth, sweetheart, please be quiet and let me talk. I’m trying to be serious here—I
am
serious, dammit. This is important. I want there to be more between us than just—”

“Do you?” She felt a sudden cautious drawing-back forming in her mind, a reluctance to formalize this new step with words.
Are you sure about this man? Can you ever be sure about anyone?
“Do you really?”

The brown eyes never wavered. “You bet I do. Elizabeth, we’ve known each other for over a year now and we’ve been through some rough experiences together. I think I knew almost from the first that I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you. But first, there’re some things about the past—about
my
past—that I need to tell you. I—”

“Please…Really, Phillip, I don’t care about your past! I know you’ve been divorced for years. I assume there’ve been other women and all that, but what can it have to do with us, with now?”

Suddenly the dogs, who had been sprawled out on the grass absorbing the welcome rays of the autumn sun, sprang up and pattered across the footbridge to the road that ran alongside the stream. A thin boy, in immaculate, new blue jeans and a crisp white shirt, was rounding the bend. At the sight of the three dogs racing toward him, he dropped to one knee. He almost disappeared in a wagging swirl of black and brown as shaggy Ursa rubbed herself against his chest, James leapt to lick his face, and even the usually aloof Molly wedged her elegant head under his arm to get his attention.

A little way behind the boy came two elderly women, one with a tall walking stick, the other holding her frailer companion’s elbow.

With a last squeeze of Phillip’s hand, Elizabeth smiled ruefully and stood.
So much for romantic solitude!

“Phillip, it’s Miss Birdie and Dorothy. And that boy…that’s Calven.”

He watched as Elizabeth hurried to meet the two women and the boy. When Miss Birdie had told them yesterday that her cousin Dorothy was taking care of Calven Ridder, he had passed on the information to the sheriff, who had been conducting a fruitless search for the missing boy. Mackenzie Blaine had then confirmed that the boy’s mother, still in critical condition at the hospital, had expressed her wish that the boy be kept away from Bib.

And here they all are. And I still haven’t come clean with Elizabeth. The longer I wait, the harder it’s going to be for her to understand—if she will understand. Oh, goddammit all to hell! I wish that there didn’t have to be all this back story. I wish that it had been me, not Sam, reaching for the copy of
Walden
in that used bookstore way back then.

He hauled himself to his feet, feeling obscurely guilty at that last thought, and sauntered out toward Calven and the dogs, who were thundering across the footbridge. Elizabeth and the other woman were helping Miss Birdie negotiate the rock steps. Elizabeth flashed him a quick smile, then returned her attention to her little neighbor.

Calven stopped short at the sight of Phillip and looked hesitantly back at his aunt. Phillip smiled and put out his hand. “Howdy, son. You must be Calven. My name’s Phillip. I’m a friend of Miz Goodweather’s.”

The boy stood there, looking indecisively at the outstretched hand. Dorothy called out, “Calven Ridder, you mind your manners and shake Mr. Hawkins’s hand. He’s a policeman and he won’t put up with unmannerly little boys. And would you look at the grass stains on your nice Sunday shirt! Now, Birdie, you got to watch this last step here; I don’t want you to take a tumble.”

The little group of women moved slowly across the bridge and even more slowly the boy raised his hand. He did not meet Phillip’s gaze and the dirty little hand made no response to Phillip’s gentle clasp.

“Your aunt got that wrong, Calven—I’m not a policeman anymore. I’m a teacher now. You want to throw some horseshoes?”

The boy looked over at the horseshoe pits near the fence. Brightly painted horseshoes hung over one of the fence planks: blue, yellow, red, and white. He considered a moment, then a smile of great sweetness lit up his face. “I git the red ones!”

While Calven took some practice tosses, Phillip went docilely to pay his respects to Miss Birdie and be introduced to Dorothy. The two older women were ensconced in the Adirondack chairs and Elizabeth was perched on the bench, listening as Dorothy held forth.

“…and when we got to the church house, there’s a piece of paper tacked up saying as how Preacher’s car’s broke down and mornin’ meetin’s gone to be delayed one hour and a half. And I says to Birdie, ‘Birdie, we cain’t just set here a-suckin’ our thumbs; let’s take us a walk down the road.’ And when we got so far as you unses mailbox, Calven there, he takes a notion he wants to go look at your fishpond. That boy’s got more energy than a feist pup and that’s the truth.”

Phillip stepped into the little pavilion and three faces swiveled to look at him. Dorothy’s sharp eyes looked him up and down in critical assessment, like a horse trader surveying an unpromising nag.

“Mornin’, Miss Birdie. Good to see you again.” He bobbed his head at Dorothy, whose mouth was set in an uncompromising line. “Mornin’, ma’am. You must be Miss Birdie’s cousin Dorothy. Elizabeth’s told me about you. I’m Phillip Lee Hawkins.” He smiled in what he hoped was an ingratiating manner. “I’m sure glad you’re able to take that boy in—he needs a good home.”

“Birdie told me you was Omie Caldwell’s nephew. Now, I knowed your mama, back this many a year. We was in nurse’s aid training together, but then she went on to nursing school. Met that feller from away and they moved off to the coast.” The sparkling eyes studied him. “You do favor her right much, now I come to study you—dark complected and that big nose. Her and Omie always did claim a Cherokee grandmother. How’s Waneeta doin’ these days?”

“Well, ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but my mama passed away back in ’82.” Phillip moved to sit beside Elizabeth.

Dorothy pursed her lips. “Now, I hate that. But it don’t surprise me none. Some folks just don’t do no good a-tall when they leave these mountains. You look right healthy, though. Reckon you could take on that mean old Bib, was he to come around again, aggravating Lizzie Beth.”

Miss Birdie leaned forward and put a gnarled hand on his arm. “I’m proud you’re here. I worry about Lizzie Beth something awful. Why, Dor’thy tells me they say that Bib—”

“Law me, yes!” Dorothy broke in. “They say he got drunk as an owl and was goin’ on to anyone who’d listen about how new people had took what was his and how he was goin’ to make ’em pay. It was down there at the river, where a bunch of them rough old fellers get together and drink beer. And the trash they leave behind them…They say as he was talkin’ plumb wild and wavin’ round a pistol. Then he climbed in his pickup and off he went. Back on Friday night, it was. And ain’t nobody seen him since.”