One Second After (3 page)

Though it wasn't polite to be overtly “business” in their strata and Jennie preferred the role of genteel southern lady, in her day, John knew, she was one shrewd business person, as was her husband.

John pulled up alongside the Edsel. Jennie put down the book she was reading and got out.

“Hi, Jen.”

She absolutely hated “Ma,” “Mother,” “Mom,” or, mortal sin of all mortal sins, “Me-ma” or “Grandma” from her Yankee son-in-law, who was definitely not her first choice for her only daughter. But that had softened with time, especially towards the end, especially when he had brought the girls back home to Jen.

The two got out of their cars and she held up a cheek to be kissed, her height, at little more than five foot two, overshadowed by his six-foot-four bulk, and there was a light touch of her hand on his arm and an affectionate squeeze.

“Thought you'd never get here in time. She'll be home any minute.”

Jen had yet to slip into the higher pitch or gravelly tone of an “old lady's” voice. He wondered if she practiced every night reciting before a mirror to keep that wonderful young woman–sounding southern lilt. It was an accent that still haunted him. The same as Mary's when they had first met at Duke, twenty-eight years ago. At times, if Jen was in the next room and called to the girls, it would still bring tears to his eyes.

“We got time. Why didn't you go inside to wait?”

“With those two mongrels? The way they jump, they'd ruin my nylons.”

Ginger and Zach were all over John, jumping, barking, leaping about . . . and studiously avoiding Jen. Though dumb, goldens knew when someone didn't like them no matter how charming they might be.

John reached in, pulled out the bag of Beanies, and, walking over to the stone wall that bordered the path to the house, began to line them up, one at a time, setting them side by side.

“Now John, really, isn't she getting a bit old for that?”

“Not yet, not my little girl.”

Jen laughed softly.

“You can't keep time back forever.”

“I can try, can't I?” he said with a grin.

She smiled sadly.

“How do you think Tyler and I felt about you, the day you came through our door?”

He reached out and gave her an affectionate touch on the cheek.

“You guys loved me.”

“You a Yankee? Like hell. Tyler actually thought about driving you off with a shotgun. And that first night you stayed over . . .”

Even after all these years he found he still blushed a bit at that. Jen had caught Mary and him in a less than “proper” situation on the family room sofa at two in the morning. Though not fully improper, it was embarrassing nevertheless, and Jen had never let him live it down.

He set the Beanies out, stepped back, eyeballed them, like a sergeant examining a row of new recruits. The red, white, and blue “patriot” bear on the right should be in the middle of the ranks where a flag bearer might be.

He could hear the growl of the school bus as it shifted gears, turning off of old Route 70, coming up the hill.

“Here she comes,” Jen announced excitedly.

Going back to the Edsel, she leaned in the open window and brought out a flat, elegantly wrapped box, tied off with a neat bow.

“Jewelry?” John asked.

“Of course; she's twelve now. A proper young lady should have a gold necklace at twelve. Her mother did.”

“Yeah, I remember that necklace,” he said with a grin. “She was wearing it that night you just mentioned. And she was twenty then.”

“You cad,” Jen said softly, and slapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he pretended that it was a painful blow.

Ginger and Zach had stopped jumping around John, both of them cocking their heads, taking in the sound of the approaching school bus, the squeal of the brakes as it stopped at the bottom of the driveway, its yellow barely visible now through the spring-blooming trees.

They were both off like lightning bolts, running full tilt down the driveway, barking up a storm, and seconds later he could hear the laughter of Jennifer; of Patricia, a year older and their neighbor; and of Seth, Pat's eleventh-grade brother.

The girls came running up the driveway, Seth threw a stick, the two dogs diverted by it for a moment but then turned together and charged up the hill behind the girls. Seth waved then crossed the street to his house.

John felt a hand slip into his . . . Jen's.

“Just like her mother,” Jen whispered, voice choked.

Yes, he could see Mary in Jennifer, slender, actually skinny as a rail, shoulder-length blond hair tied back, still a lanky little girl. She slowed a bit, reaching out to put a hand on a tree as if to brace herself, Patricia turned and waited for her. John felt a momentary concern, wanted to go down to her, but knew better, Jen actually held him back.

“You are too protective,” Jen whispered. “She must handle it on her own.”

Young Jennifer caught her breath, looked up, a bit pale, saw them waiting, and a radiant smile lit her face.

“Me-ma! And you drove the Edsel today. Can we go for a ride?”

Jen let her hand slip, bent over slightly as Jennifer ran up to her grandmother, the two embracing.

“How's my birthday girl?”

They hugged and Grandma Jen showered Jennifer with kisses, twelve of them, counting each off. Pat looked over at the Beanies lined up, smiled, and looked up at John.

“Afternoon, Mr. Matherson.”

“How are you, Pat?”

“I think she needs to be checked,” Pat whispered.

“It can wait.”

“Daddy!”

Jennifer was now in his arms. He lifted her up, hugged her with fierce intensity so that she laughed, then groaned, “You'll break my back!”

He let go of her, watching her eyes as she looked past him to the Beanie Babies lining the wall . . . and yes, there was still that childlike glow in them.

“Patriot Bear! And Ollie Ostrich!”

As she started to sweep them up, he looked over at Jen with a bit of a triumphant smile, as if to say, “See, she's still my little girl.”

Jen, rising to the challenge, came up to Jennifer's side and held out the flat box.

“Happy Birthday, darling.”

Jennifer tore the paper off. Ginger, thinking the paper was now a gift to her, half-swallowed it and ran off as Zach chased her.

When Jennifer opened the box her eyes widened.

“Oh, Me-ma.”

“It's time my girl had a real gold necklace. Maybe your friend can help you put it on.”

John looked down at the gift. My God, it must of cost a fortune, heavy, almost pencil thick. Jen looked at him out of the corner of her eye as if to meet any challenge.

“You're a young lady now,” Jen announced as Pat helped to clasp the necklace on, and then Jen produced a small mirror from her purse and held it up.

“Oh, Grandma . . . it's lovely.”

“A lovely gift for a lovely lady.”

John stood silent for a moment, not sure what to say as his little girl gazed into the mirror, raising her head slightly, the way a woman would, to admire the gold.

“Sweetie, I think you better check your blood sugar; you seemed a bit winded coming up the hill,” John finally said, and his words came out heavily, breaking the moment.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Jennifer leaned against the wall, took off her backpack and pulled out the blood-sugar test monitor. It was one of the new digital readout models. No more finger pricking, just a quick jab to the arm. She absently fingered the necklace with her free hand while waiting for the readout.

One forty-two . . . a bit high.

“I think you better get some insulin into you,” John said.

She nodded.

Jennifer had lived with it for ten years now. He knew that was a major part of his protectiveness of her. When she was in her terrible twos and threes, it tore his heart out every time he had to prick her finger, the sight of his or Mary's approach with the test kit set off howls of protest.

The doctors had all said that, as quickly as possible, Jennifer had to learn to monitor herself, that John and Mary needed to step back even when she was only seven and eight to let her know her own signs, test, and medicate. Mary had handled it far better than John had, perhaps because of her own illness towards the end. Jen with her strength had the same attitude.

Strange. Here I am, a soldier of twenty years. Saw some action, but the only casualties were the Iraqis, never my own men. I was trained to handle things, but when it came to my daugher's diabetes, a damn aggressive type 1, I was always on edge. Tough, damn good at what I did, well respected by my men, and yet complete jelly when it comes to my girls.

“There's a few more gifts inside,” John said. “Why don't you girls go on in? Once your sister gets home and your friends show up we can have our party.”

“Oh, Dad, didn't you get Elizabeth's message?”

“What message?”

“Here, silly.”

She reached up and fished the cell phone out of his breast pocket, tucked in behind a pack of cigarettes. She started to pull the cigarettes out, to stomp on them or tear them up, but a look from him warned her off.

“Someday, Daddy,” she sighed, then taking the phone she punched a few keys and handed it back.

“Home late. Out with Ben,” the screen read.

“She texted you and me during lunch.”

“Texted?”

“Yes, Daddy, text message, all the kids are doing it now.”

“What's wrong with a phone call?”

She looked at him as if he were from the antediluvian period and then headed inside.

“Texted?” Jen asked.

John held the phone so she could read the message.

Jen smiled.

“Better start keeping a sharper watch on Elizabeth,” she said. “If that Ben Johnson has any of his grandfather's blood in him.”

She chuckled as if remembering something from long ago.

“I don't need to hear this.”

“No, you don't, Colonel.”

“Actually, I kind of prefer ‘Doctor,' or ‘Professor.' ”

“A doctor is someone who sticks things in you. A professor, well, they always struck me as a bit strange. Either rakes chasing the girls or boring, dusty types. Down here in the South, ‘Colonel' sounds best. More masculine.”

“Well, I am no longer in active service. I am a professor, so let's just settle for ‘John.' ”

Jen gazed up at him for a moment, then came up to his side, stood on tiptoes, and kissed his cheek lightly.

“I can see why my own little girl once fell for you, John. You'll lose both of them soon enough to some pimply-faced boys, so do hang on to her as long as you can.”

“Well, you sure as hell didn't help, draping that gold necklace on her. What did it cost, a thousand, fifteen hundred?”

“Roughly, but then again, no lady tells the truth when it comes to her buying jewelry.”

“Until the bill comes in and the husband has to pay.”

There was a pause. He knew he had misspoken. If he had said such a thing around Mary, she'd have lit into him about a woman being independent and the hell with a husband handling the bills . . . and in fact she did handle all the family finances right up till the last weeks of her life.

As for Tyler, though, he no longer even knew what a bill was, and that hurt, no matter how self-reliant Jen tried to appear to be.

“I best be going,” Jen said.

“Sorry, I didn't mean it that way.”

“It's all right, John. Let me go up to the nursing home to spend some time with Tyler and I'll be back for the party.”

“Jennifer was expecting a ride in that monstrous car of yours.”

“The Edsel, my dear young man, was a generation ahead of its time.”

“And the biggest flop in the history of Ford Motors. My God, look at that grille; it's ugly as sin.”

She lightened up a bit with the banter. There were half a dozen cars in
her huge garage, several newer ones but also an actual Model A, up on blocks, and, beauty of beauties, a powder blue 1965 Mustang convertible. A lot of bad memories, though, were tied to that Mustang. When John and Mary were dating, they had conned her parents into letting them borrow the car for a cruise up the Blue Ridge Parkway to Mount Mitchell and John, driving it, had rear-ended an elderly couple's Winnebago.

No one was hurt, but the car was totaled and Tyler had poured thousands into getting it restored . . . and swore that no one other than him or Jen would ever drive it again. And Jen still lived by that ruling.

“This Edsel will run forever, my dear, and just check on eBay to see how much it's worth. I bet a heck of a lot more than that SUV thing you've got.”

He settled back against the stone wall as Jen maneuvered “the monster” around and cruised down the driveway at breakneck speed. The wall was warm from the afternoon sun. The Beanies were still there, and oh, that did hurt a bit; at least she could have carried Patriot Bear or the ostrich in.

Inside he could hear Jennifer and Pat chatting away about the necklace until the stereo kicked on. Some strange female wailing sounds. Britney Spears? No, she was old stuff now, thank God. What it was he couldn't tell, other than the fact that he didn't like it. Pink Floyd, some of the old stuff his parents listened to like Sinatra or Glenn Miller, or, better yet, the Chieftains were more his speed. He picked up one of the Beanies, Patriot Bear.

“Well, my friend, guess we'll soon be left behind,” he said.

Leaning against the wall, he soaked in the view, the tranquility of the moment, broken only by the distant rumble of traffic on I-40 and the noise inside the house.

Ginger and Zach came back from their romp in the field behind the house and flopped down at his feet, panting hard.

The scent of lilacs was heavy on the air; if anyone wanted to truly see spring, they should live in these mountains. Down in the valley below, the cherry trees were in full bloom, just several hundred feet higher here at his home they were just beginning to blossom, but the lilacs were already blooming. To his right, ten miles away, the top of Mount Mitchell was actually crowned with a touch of snow, winter was still up there.