The Ninth Step (19 page)

 “Oh, Livie.” Kat brushed strands of hair that had loosened from Livie’s chignon from her cheek.

“I felt like a total failure. I couldn’t keep him, couldn’t keep our baby.”

“But he left you! Scared out of your mind he was dead, for god’s sake. It’s no wonder you miscarried. When I think what could have happened those nights you went out. And you didn’t even take precautions. It’s a miracle you weren’t raped. You never thought of the danger? Herpes? AIDS?”

“I wouldn’t have cared. I know it sounds stupid and melodramatic, but there it is.”

“No, not stupid. Tragic.” Kat tented her fingers over her mouth holding Livie’s gaze, clearly miserable.

Livie rubbed her brow. “I went with those other men in part out of spite, I think. Out of revenge. I wanted to get even. But even more, I wanted to forget. To be numb, blind, deaf. Dead. I hated myself and Cotton and life. I kept wondering what was the point?”

“I swear,” Kat muttered, “if I ever see that asshole again, I’ll kill him.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Livie, you could never see it, but Cotton always had issues.”

“Because of Delia and her drinking, the fact that his father walked out on them. He had a terrible childhood; he was scarred, but so were we. Can you honestly say we don’t have issues as a result of our mother’s carelessness, her self involvement, the way she always put us second after the men she brought home? I had no idea how to handle my own sexuality until Cotton came into my life. He understood me; he was patient and gentle with me. He helped me feel okay with it, having sex, I mean.”

“Yes, I guess he did do that.” Kat dropped her gaze meaningfully to Livie’s stomach.

Her face warmed. They shared a smile.

“I think I want to keep this baby,” Livie said, “even if I have to do it by myself.”

“But you aren’t by yourself, Livie!” Kat stretched out her hands. “You have me and Mom. Maybe she’s not a candidate for mother of the year; granted, she made mistakes, but she loves you--we love you.”

#

“I guess I can’t call you Glinda the Good anymore, can I?” Kat teased later.

Livie made a face. “And to think I never imagined anything good could come from all my dissolution.”

“You are going to tell Joe, aren’t you?”

They were curled into opposite corners of the porch swing sipping from glasses of iced tea garnished with fresh sprigs of lemon-flavored mint.

Across the road, the sun dangled near the horizon on a lilac-tinged ribbon of cloud. The early evening air felt warm and slippery against Livie’s skin. She fiddled with a mint leaf. Its gritty texture reminded her of an emery board or a cat’s tongue. “Remember that old saying, virtue is its own reward?”

“Huh?”

“In the language of flowers the gift of mint suggests virtue, or it can also offer protection from illness. No one really prizes virtue anymore.”

“Protection though, we can all use a little of that.”

Livie found Kat’s gaze. “I really think you and Tim should consider counseling, Cookie, for Stella and Zachary’s sake, if nothing else.”

Kat held up her hand. “We covered that ground already. I made an appointment with a therapist, okay? Anyway we’re not talking about me right now; we’re talking about you. When are you going to tell Joe?”

“Do I have to?”

Kat lowered her bare feet and slid them into her sandals, setting the swing into idle motion. “I think you do, yes. Absolutely,” she added. She found Livie’s gaze. “You’re the one who mentioned virtue just now. Truth is a virtue, isn’t it?”

#

It was nearly dark when Livie walked with Kat to her car. She opened the door, half-sat, then paused, looking at Livie. “Do you love him?”

“Joe? I hardly know the man.”

“No, Cotton. Do you still love him?”

Livie crossed her arms and looked across the road.

“Oh, Livie. . . .” Kat murmured.

Chapter 14

Delia never meant to tell Scott the truth. That was obvious from the way it came out. On his prom night. They were gathered in the living room with Scott’s date, Tracie McMahan, and her parents. Tracie’s dad was fiddling overlong with his camera and Tracie, in high anxiety, had taken off for the bathroom. Her mom held the glass of wine Delia had pressed on her. Delia, herself, had her usual glass of gin and she was ogling Scott, smiling and foolish. She kept saying, “I wish your father could see you.” Scott and Cotton assumed she meant  Harold, the dad who had walked out on them, who had died.

Then Delia stepped back and switching her gaze from Scott to Tracie’s mom, she said, “Carter wore a white tux exactly like Scott’s, on the night of my debutante ball.”

“Carter?” Scott said. “You mean Harold, Mom. Dad’s name was Harold.”

“My dress was white, too.” Delia continued as if Scott hadn’t spoken, eyes half closed, voice hushed, dreamy. Cotton’s gut clenched. “Yves St. Laurent designed it. Mama went to school with one of his relatives, a cousin, I think. Oh, but we were the most beautiful couple. Everyone said we were magic, simply magic, like Camelot.”

“Mom?” Cotton went to her side. “Why don’t you come in the kitch--”

“No.” Scott took her elbow. A little of her gin sloshed over the rim of her glass. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, nothing really, sweetie.” Delia laughed it off.

Everyone did.

Tracie’s dad got his pictures; the little pre-party broke up, but Scott must have had a feeling about it, because he kept after Delia until, finally, a few nights later, she broke down and told him about Carter Wainwright--a name Scott called pussy, pure pussy--who had ditched her when he found out she was pregnant.

With Scott.

Delia said Carter hadn’t believed her, no one had believed her, when she swore she’d never been with anyone else, that he was her first and only love. Delia said Scott’s birth was the reason she was estranged from her family, that her marriage to Harold had been a hasty arrangement to protect them, their name, not her.

Scott went off. He called Delia a liar. He went to Louisiana and asked Uncle Jimmy if what Delia had told him was true.

Uncle Jimmy confirmed that it was. Jimmy said Delia had been ruined by the lies; he described all the ways in which the whole family had suffered. Scott called Cotton at intervals from telephones along the highway as he drove west from Louisiana across the country and he related the facts of their mother’s history and it was in this way, with the sound of traffic humming in the distance, that Cotton came to understand the source and nature of his mother’s shadow, that dark place he had sensed was inside her, that had frightened him and worried him for as long as he could remember.

But listening to Scott, it pissed him off, what had been done to her, how it broke her. He hated her for not being stronger and for lying to Scott and driving him away.

Cotton had no place to go, no way to escape. Delia was in even worse shape after Scott left. She drank more. Sometimes in bed at night, Cotton’s tears would come to shame him and he would bury his face in his pillow. Why couldn’t she be like other moms? Why couldn’t she be normal? He felt sorry for her and he was ashamed of her. Sometimes he drank with her. He wanted to fix her. When Scott called--and that had happened less and less as the years passed--Cotton begged him to come home. Scott said no; he never would.

And he wasn’t coming now either. “The fact that she’s sick doesn’t change anything,” he told Cotton and Cotton thought: I don’t even know you. And almost immediately, he thought: We’re only half brothers anyway. He’d never considered their relationship in those terms before, not even when Scott had shut him out in Seattle, but Cotton embraced the idea now. He felt buoyed by it. “You are one heartless bastard, you know it?” Cotton spoke without emotion.

“You’ve got home health coming three times a week, what do you need me for?”

“She’s your mother, for Christ’s sake.”

“By whose definition?”

Cotton walked out the back door of their mother’s house into the warm evening air. He didn’t want Delia to overhear him having to plead her case with her number one son, her best boy, the one who resembled the love of her life. “Look, she hasn’t had a drink since I--”

“What about Livie?”

“What about her?”

“Have you talked to her? Does she know why you’re there? What about Delia? Have you told our wonderful mother what you did? What’s your plan? I thought you were gonna make it up to everybody, make it right. What happened? You fall off the wagon or what?”

“No, shitbird, I didn’t fall off the wagon. I’ve got my hands full working a job and playing nursemaid to your mother.” Cotton walked along the scruffy edge of the gravel drive toward the street. “She cries, Scotty, every fucking day! She just wants to see you one more fucking time. Is that so much to ask?”

“I bet she’s bouncing off the walls.”

When she’s not hallucinating, Cotton thought. When she’s not screaming at the bugs on the walls, or at the snakes slithering across the carpet. Or talking to her dead brother Jimmy or crying to her daddy and mama who were just as dead. If Cotton got close, she’d grab his hands, the way she had sometimes when he was a kid. She latched onto him like a monkey and begged for a bottle. He tried to be patient, but he hated her, what was happening to her. She scared him. He saw himself in her. He’d cut off his tongue before he’d say a word of this to Scott, not that he’d come home if circumstances were better.

“The doc is tinkering with her medication,” Cotton said. “She’ll get better; it’s just going to take time.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Scott said and then he said, “Tell me, what’s this job you got?” and when Cotton complied, when he told how he’d gone to work for Wes Latimer, Scott said, “Holy shit.”

“That’s about right.” Cotton sat down on the curb, looked back at the house. A light was on in the living room and he hoped Delia was watching TV, not pacing the floor, not emptying the closets, the kitchen cabinets, crawling around in the attic.

“So, let me ask you again, what’s your plan? You just going to up and spring it on Latimer, like, hey, man, I’m the hit and run driver that killed your wife?”

Cotton didn’t answer. The guy across the street came out and whistled, then called for his dog. “Shooter” was what it sounded like the man said. Pretty soon, the dog came out of the woods nearby, jaunty-stepped, tags jingling, but by then his master was back inside. When Cotton whistled softly, Shooter came right to him. Cotton scratched his ears and his muzzle and bent his head into Shooter’s neck. He smelled funky, like dog, like Humphrey. Humphrey Bogart, Nikki’s dog. Thinking of them, of her, made Cotton’s eyes burn.

Before they hung up, Scott advised Cotton to find out if Latimer had a gun. “Before you go spilling your guts.”

Cotton decided not to mention the Glock. He couldn’t stand another opinion, another spate of pissed off alarm and righteous advice. “Have you been talking to my sponsor?” he said instead.

Scott’s silence was puzzled.

“Forget it,” Cotton said. “I’ll be sure I pat Latimer down before I confess.”

“Be careful, son, that’s all I’m saying.”

#

Wes brought Cotton coffee. He asked about Delia. Cotton said she was fine, she was still sleeping a lot; he went on and on, blah blah blah. If he was going to get killed by anything, he thought, it looked as if it would be Wes’s kindness. Cotton held the mug and turned aside, brushing fruitlessly at the sawdust that powdered the built-in bookshelves he’d been sanding.

I murdered your wife.

It was right there, 24/7, the sense of it, squatted in Cotton’s brain, pressuring the space behind his eyes.

“You’re only as sick as your secrets.”

Bayronne D. had said at a meeting a few nights ago.

“Or your lies,” someone else had added.

“Same difference,” Sonny had said piercing Cotton with his stare.

Cotton had heard it before. It was crap, some kind of do-gooder AA trick to force you to open up, spill your guts. They’d own you after that. They could do whatever they liked with the information they got out of you. Use it for blackmail, turn you into the cops. At the least, his fellow AA’ers would want to tell him how to fix it, how to make amends.

Amends.

What did that mean anyway?

Sonny said Cotton would never know until he opened up and came clean at a meeting. “One step at a time, that’s how you climb a mountain,” Sonny said. “But you? Hell no. You want to carry the load like a boulder on your back.”

Let it go
, Sonny said.

Take it to the police
, Anita said.

Cotton drank from the mug Wes had brought him, scalding his tongue.

Wes looked around and asked Cotton how long he thought it would be before the studio was finished.

“A week,” Cotton said, “maybe ten days.”

Wes nodded. “Nikki sent out the invitations. We’re the only guys she’s inviting, did you know?”

“Yeah, she’s off boys apparently.”

“Something went down with a kid at the end of school last year. Dylan something. He asked her to some shindig the school was having and she said she’d go, then at the last minute she got cold feet and broke the date. She made me call him and say she was sick. I was not happy. I told her not to expect I would do that again.” Wes went to the window, ran his hand along the trim. “Women,” he said. “Who can figure them?” He looked at Cotton. “You ever been married?”

“No, I came close once.” Cotton set down the mug and Wes must have seen something in Cotton’s expression because he said it looked as if whatever had caused it to go wrong, it had hurt. Cotton answered that Wes didn’t know the half of it. He shoved his hands over his head and said her name: “Livie-- She was-- She made the world okay, you know?”

“Livie, huh?”

“Short for Olivia.”

“Pretty name. It didn’t work out?”

“Nope. I screwed it up.”

Wes turned back to the window. “I loved my wife, but I can’t lie, sometimes she made it hard. Joan had a real temper.”

The silence that lingered was as thin as gauze.

Wes blew out a mouthful of air. He said he had to go, headed toward the door. Paused when he got there. “Nikki has taken a real shine to you, but I expect you know that. I’ve got to say I’m sure glad you came along when you did. If you hadn’t been around when those thugs were working the neighborhood, I don’t know what I would have done.”