The Widows of Wichita County (6 page)

Crystal smiled. “Thanks. I needed someone to say that. But Nurse Landry has been great. She's about the only one who seems to know I'm here. The others just walk around me.”

While they watched, Shelby's fingers twitched, as if feeling along the bed for something.

Crystal grabbed her scrubs. In seconds, she had put on
all the gear and rushed to his side. “What is it, honey?” she whispered close to his ear.

His bandaged fingers found her hand and closed around it slightly.

“I'm right here.” Tears filled her eyes. “I'm right here.”

She looked back at Helena and Anna. “He likes to hold my hand when the pain's bad. It calms him if I talk to him. Funny, before the accident, I don't remember him ever more than half listening to anything I had to say, but now he seems to want me to talk.”

Helena glanced around the private room with eyes as sharp as a health inspector. “You'll need a more comfortable chair. If the hospital doesn't have one, I'll send one out.”

Crystal's eyes widened. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “Will they allow that?”

“Of course they will. You can't be expected to sit in this all day.” Helena touched the broken-down recliner Crystal had been using as a bed, then looked back at her. “I'll call my hairdresser and have her come by later this afternoon. She can wash and curl your hair in the hallway if nowhere else is available. And give you a manicure, too, while you're close enough to listen for Shelby.”

Tears rolled down Crystal's face and soaked into the cotton mask she wore. To many women, Helena's offer would have seemed frivolous, but Anna saw that Helena offered Crystal a gift she would treasure.

Anna knew to follow suit. “I-if you like, as soon as the special clothes are not needed, I could stop by your house and pick out a few outfits for you.”

Crystal broke into a full scale cry. “Oh,” she wailed. “Would you?” She hid her face in gratitude. “Colorful clothes and a real nightgown. Tasteful, of course.”

“O-of course.” Anna doubted Crystal owned anything that could be worn at the hospital. “I-if I can not find your gowns, I will buy one for you, if you will allow me.”

“Nothing low-cut,” Crystal added. “And only shoes with soles that don't make noise.”

Anna smiled. “I will bring several outfits and a selection of night wear. As soon as you are able, they will be waiting for you.”

“Wonderful.” Crystal wiped her face as she moved away from Shelby's bed. The nurse carefully elevated his arms.

“I probably sound selfish, but you're the first people to visit me and not just Shelby. I can't tell you how good it is to see you.”

“I'll be back tomorrow,” Helena announced as she straightened formally. “In fact, I'll be back every day until that husband of yours wakes up and realizes what a jewel of a wife he has.”

Crystal stood a little taller. “No one's ever called me a jewel before.”

“Well, it's about time someone did,” Helena said matter-of-factly.

Anna guessed Helena was a woman who made up her mind about who was friend or foe within minutes of meeting someone. For some reason, Helena decided she cared about Crystal. And for Helena, that was like signing on to a campaign.

After Helena made a few phone calls and had a short visit in the hallway with one of the nurses, the women said goodbye. Anna did not need to hear the words or even understand the language. She knew by the nurse's movements things would be easier for Crystal from this point on, or Helena Whitworth would see that heads rolled.

When oil rigs first spread across the land, labor was hard to find. Many of the farm boys were pulled from the cotton patch to work in what they called the “oil patch.”

October 14
5:30 p.m.
Randell House Restaurant

H
elena and Anna stopped off downtown at the Randell House for a late lunch. Neither wanted to end their time together.

Back in Italy, Anna would have left the funeral of a loved one to go home to a house full of company. Here, there was no one. She longed for relatives to cook for and clean up after. Somehow, keeping busy seemed a kinder way.

The two women walked into the empty restaurant arm in arm like old friends.

Davis once told Anna that during the 1890s the Randell House had been a huge home. The town had grown up around it. At some point, the house lost its first floor to commerce. Now, it stood like an architectural mutant with a top-floor restaurant of old grace and charm and a main floor filled with offices and bank tellers. The Victorian decor had been further humiliated by the joining of a parking garage at the back.

As they sat at the table surrounded by dark mahogany
and leaded glass, Anna saw nothing but the beauty that had somehow survived a hundred years.

Anna found Helena surprisingly easy to talk to. An unconditional acceptance between them crossed the barrier of age and made friendship possible.

From the second-floor windows, they watched shadows grow long across Main Street, elevating the town from dilapidated neglect into classic mystery. Helena ordered a third cup of coffee and asked to see the dessert menu. Although neither woman commented, both realized that, for once in their lives, no one waited for them to come home.

Half an hour later, Anna sipped her coffee and watched Zack Larson walk into the restaurant. He looked as out of place among the ferns and bookshelves as a bull in a deli. His usual work shirt and jeans were gone and his old Stetson had been replaced by one without a sweat stain.

“That your neighbor?” Helena asked as she sampled her coconut pie and tried to peek through the foliage.

“H-he was at the funeral.” She guessed Helena knew who Zack Larson was, but she continued anyway, “He has the p-place to the north of us.” She only remembered speaking to the man a few times when Carlo or Davis could not be bothered to deliver a message. Larson had not been friendly. Once, she told him what she thought of the horrible barbed wire that fenced his cattle in, and once she had complained about the cattle trucks using the back road between their property lines. The constant roll of dirt had dusted her sunroom windows on the north side for two weeks.

“He hasn't been home to change out of that ghastly suit,” Helena added. “Must have had business in town after the funeral. Word is his ranch is struggling, but then what ranch hasn't at some point? I would like to see
him prosper enough to buy new clothes and maybe get a decent haircut. I hate to see a nice-looking man ugly himself up. I swear he wore that suit to his wedding.”

“He is married?” Anna lowered her voice even though Zack Larson could not have overheard them.

“About eight years ago.” Helena usually limited her gossip to the facts and comments about clothes. “His wife left him before the first year was out. He's kept pretty much to himself since then, not that he was particularly friendly before. He must be real tired of his own cooking to stop in here.”

The waiter directed Zack to the table behind Anna. Even though plants separated them, Anna heard him ask the waiter if the place served beer.

“I got a headache the size of Oklahoma,” he mumbled bumping both the table and chair as he tried to fold his six-foot frame.

Anna turned back to Helena, Zack Larson forgotten. She watched Helena order another slice of pie. “You are very hungry?”

Helena laughed. “J.D. swears I can put away more than a field hand. I guess I just enjoy eating. Good food, good company.” Helena raised her thin shoulders. “Well, that's not altogether true, though I've enjoyed your company. I eat just as much when I'm home alone. Give me a good movie and I'll finish off a bag of Oreos along with the popcorn.”

“I—I do not mind eating alone,” Anna admitted, as she wondered what Oreos were. After meeting Helena, she guessed they must be something fancy ordered in only the best shops. “Davis was gone most of the time, anyway. It is nice to eat in silence watching the day come to an end.”

“I know,” Helena answered. “With my two daughters
setting up camp at my place this week, I long to be alone. They're masters at making trivial conversation. We've had entire meals with nothing talked about but a thirty-minute TV program from the night before. We could have all watched the rerun in less time.” Helena waved at the waiter and pointed at her coffee cup. “Now, my grandchildren are a little better. If we ever get their volume controls fixed, I might listen to them.”

Anna laughed. “Y-you know what I miss most?”

“What?” Helena leaned forward.

“I—I miss something I never have had, really. But at least when Davis was alive, there was a chance of it.”

“Oh? What's that?” Helena thanked the waiter with a nod as he delivered her pie.

“I miss…” Anna sighed. “I miss those huge, warm, all-encompassing hugs men sometimes give women. I would like to disappear into a man's arms and forget about everything but being safe. It is a fantasy I know must only exist in the movies.”

“I know what you mean. My J.D. gives me those hugs. He has since we were in our twenties. I remember the first one when Paula and Patricia's father died in Vietnam. I was a young mother with two little girls to raise and no skills. I thought it was the end of the world.”

Helena smiled, looking more into the past than out the windows as the town lights flickered on. “J.D. was back in the States for training of some kind. He'd already been to Vietnam once. He came home for a short visit. The minute he saw me, he hugged me like he would never let go and told me everything was going to be all right.”

“Did you love him, then?”

Helena shook her head. “Not the way you think. Though I've loved him all our lives, folks don't marry their first cousins. So, I thought the love was more brotherly than
anything. I'm a few years older than him. We were great friends as children, our mothers being sisters and all. When he came back years later for the funeral of my second husband, we figured we'd wasted enough time with the brotherly love. We expected all kinds of trouble after we got back from tying the knot in Mexico, but most people thought since he'd been gone for years; he wasn't really a close relative anymore.”

Anna laughed again as they stood to leave. Helena had managed to give Anna a quiet sense of peace in their hours together. As they passed Zack Larson's table, Anna noticed he had tossed down a few bills and walked out behind them, leaving his drink untouched.

At the elevator, Helena said goodbye to Anna with a motherly kiss on the cheek, while Zack politely held the door.

When Anna entered the elevator alone, she tried not to look at him. She wanted the feeling of peace to last just a little longer before the world stepped in.

“Garage?” he said.

“Pardon?” Anna glanced his direction, but Zack stared straight ahead as if looking at another in the elevator was strictly forbidden.

“Are you heading to the garage?” His voice sounded rusty as if he talked little.

It was a dumb question, she thought. Everyone who ate at the restaurant parked in the garage in the basement. Except maybe a few folks like Helena Whitworth who had bank-front parking. The first floor housed the bank and a few lawyers' offices that were long since closed for the night.

“Yes, please,” she answered formally. “Th-the garage.”

“You make it sound like some place I'd like to visit.” He smiled, but still didn't look at her.

As the old elevator jerked in movement, they both swayed and waited.

“Mrs. Montano,” Zack said. “I'm sorry to hear about your loss. Davis was a hardworking man and a good neighbor.”

“Th-thank you,” she answered, staring at the seam in the silver door.

Zack closed his eyes and continued, “I overheard what you said a few minutes ago in the restaurant. I want you to know if you ever need that hug, I'll leave my porch light on.” Words tumbled out of his mouth as if he had no control over them. “I imagine you can see it from your place, 'cause I can see your lights from mine. No strings, no questions, just a hug if you need it.”

The elevator tapped bottom, and the doors slid open. He waited for her to exit first.

Anna reacted without thinking. She took a step forward, then swung back suddenly and slapped Zack Larson hard across the face.

She walked away, shaking with anger knowing he had listened in on her conversation with Helena.

Just as the elevator closed with him still inside, she heard him mumble, “Or…maybe not.”

In the 1920s wagons carrying nitro to oil sites would occasionally blow up while crossing railroad tracks or deeply rutted dirt roads. The railroads were
not
happy, nor were the widows of the drivers.

October 18

M
eredith Allen curled into the shadows of her living room and watched as Sheriff Granger Farrington climbed out of his patrol car. He tossed his hat on the seat and headed toward her door. She glanced at the clock glowing from her VCR beneath the TV. Nine o'clock. Probably time for his final rounds, she decided. How did she get on his list? It must read something like “lock up office, check on fights at bars, drop in on pathetic widows.”

Everyone in town knew his routine. Since being elected sheriff, he started each day at his office by seven and ended every shift by driving through town just after dark. On weekends he was on call, but most folks knew they could find him at his office on Saturday mornings and checking out the bars around midnight without taking the time to order a drink. Sunday was slow and he was a little harder to locate.

Meredith always thought he deserved his Sundays alone. Surely one of his deputies could handle things. But, in a small town you are what you do. Not just during work hours, but all the time. She had seen the town pharmacist cornered at church about a prescription and heard
last week the home economics teacher was called at midnight because the Methodist Women's League had a canning problem.

The only unlisted number in town was the home phone of Hank Wilson, the TV repair shop owner. He figured in his line of work other folks' emergencies were never his. Rumor had it that the unlisted number made some people so mad they would buy another set rather than give Hank their business.

Just guessing, she would say Granger Farrington loved what he did. The paper had reported he worked ten years on the Houston Police Department and three with the highway patrol before running uncontested for sheriff. Most folks felt he had done a great job for the past four years.

Once, when Meredith had borrowed his copier at the courthouse, she noticed his rules posted on a wall beside his desk.

As far as Meredith knew, he had followed every rule to the letter. He never dated any women in Clifton Creek, nor made drinking-buddy friendships with anyone in town. Some said he limited his friendships and his women to Sundays in Wichita Falls.

Meredith thought of his third rule as he knocked on her door. This was a professional call. Nothing more. The principal at the grade school probably phoned him, reporting no one had seen her since the funeral. Principal
Pickett might be worried and influential enough to ask the sheriff to take action.

Meredith curled back into her chair. She was not interested in talking to anyone. No amount of talking would change anything. She just wanted the world to go away and let her be unhappy all by herself.

The sheriff knocked again, then tried the doorbell as if it would make any difference.

“Go away,” she whispered. “I don't want to get involved personally.” From now on she planned to take the sheriff's third rule to heart. A week had passed since Kevin's death and she could not stop the hurt inside. If she learned anything, she had learned caring is not worth the pain that follows. From now on no one would come close enough to be more than a “Hello” friend.

After waiting a few minutes, he finally stepped off the porch. He took a few steps down the walk, then noticed the old Mustang parked in the garage. The same car that was usually parked next to his at the courthouse when she worked on holidays while the county clerk's office was closed. On those days he would stop by to let her know someone else was in the building. She always passed his office and told him she had locked up when she left. That had been the extent of their communications before the night at the hospital when he held her tight to keep her from falling.

But, he had only been doing his job as he was now and Meredith did not want to be part of his duties.

They were considerate strangers, she thought. Saying hello to one another at work. That was enough.

She heard him step onto the back porch and knock at the rear door. The sound echoed through her little house.

“I'm not answering,” she whispered once more. “I don't
want to see or talk to anyone, Sheriff. Not even a considerate stranger like you.”

To her shock, he ventured further without probable cause of crime. He tried the doorknob. She had seen enough cop movies to know he was not following the rules.

She closed her eyes, pretending she did not hear his footsteps coming inside her house.

“Meredith?” he called. “Are you home, Mrs. Allen?”

Don't make a sound, she thought.

The sheriff swore beneath his breath as he tripped over the mop just inside the back door.

“Meredith,” he shouted as he moved through the cluttered house. “You've got to be in here. No one would leave the heater turned up so high. It has to be eighty in the place.” He caught his foot on one of the kitchen chairs. “You must be alive. If you were dead, you'd smell in this heat in no time.”

He drew a deep breath. “As it is, it smells like dying potted plants in here.”

She wondered if he always talked to himself or if he was keeping a running dialogue so that she would hear him coming and not be afraid.

He rounded the bar and entered the shadowy living room. For a moment, he did not see her hidden within the furniture. She sat perfectly still hoping he would yet go away.

“Meredith?” His feet crunched atop dead leaves as he moved around crumbling sprays that had filled the church a week ago. White mums, limp and brown-tipped, were all that clung to the wiring of once beautiful arrangements. “Meredith!”

She did not move.

Slowly, he neared. Crouching beside her chair, he touched her arm.

She finally looked up at him.

“Evening, Sheriff Farrington,” she said in a voice that sounded dry.

“Evening, Ms. Allen.” He smiled out of relief. “How are you tonight?”

“I'm fine,” she answered, “and you?”

“I was a little worried about you.” He moved so he could see her face better in the pale light coming through the Venetian blinds. “Folks seem to be having a little trouble reaching you. You're not answering your phone.”

“I haven't heard it lately.” She glanced at the phone on the table beside her. The cord was wrapped around it. The plastic plug that should have been in the wall reflected the streetlight's glow.

The corner of Granger's lip lifted once more. “Got tired of the ringing, did you?”

She nodded. “Everyone kept calling, saying how sorry they were that I lost my husband. I didn't lose Kevin. I buried him.”

“I know. I was there. It was a real nice service.” He patted her arm awkwardly. He looked as if he would rather be handling a bar fight than be here talking to her.

Meredith smiled up at him. “I planned the service all by myself. I figured it was the last thing I'd ever do for Kevin.”

“You did a good job,” Granger said. “You had anything to eat today, Meredith?”

She glanced down as she tried to remember. The area surrounding her chair looked like a snowbank made of tissues. Her legs were curled inside a huge jersey of Kevin's. She touched her long hair, now matted and plastered against her scalp.

“I had some of Mrs. Pickett's pie yesterday, I think.” She closed him out and settled back into the folds of the chair. “I've been so cold. So cold.”

Meredith folded into her own world, turning her face away from him. All she wanted was to sleep and make the world go away. She had been too tired to even think about her class. In truth, she felt too tired to even sleep.

Without warning, Granger grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to her feet in one quick jerk. “Meredith!”

For a moment she remained limp, like a gelatin doll. He tightened his grip, as if willing her to respond. “Meredith! You are not one of those wilting mums. Come on. Snap out of it. Kevin is the one who died, not you.”

She took a deep gulp of air as though he had pulled her from beneath water. Awkwardly, she stiffened, bones straightening. Her legs took her weight.

She tried to pull away from him. How dare he come into her house and remind her that her husband had died? Did he think for one minute, for one second, that she had forgotten? She gulped in air wishing she knew how to fight. Never in her life had she wanted to hit someone, to hurt someone, so much.

He backed away a few feet and watched her. “Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.” He tried to brush away the pain he had inflicted from her arms. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“I'm all right, Sheriff.” Rubbing her arms she tried to decide if she hated him or needed to thank him. “You don't have to worry about me. No one has to worry about me.” She suddenly wished she knew all the words to tell him to go away. Who did he think he was, breaking into her house, shaking her, reminding her she did not die with Kevin?

“Stop staring at me that way. I didn't mean any harm,
Meredith. To tell the truth I don't even know what got into me, shaking you like that. I just couldn't stand seeing you curled up, giving up. Not you.” He looked like he wanted to run, but he forced himself to face her. “How about I go pick up something for supper? Maybe if you ate something you'd feel better.”

She stared at him thinking he might just be the strangest man she had ever met. She would bet he never planned to touch her and the fact he did bothered him more than it bothered her.

“I thought, if you'd join me, I could be back in thirty minutes with some food. You'd have time to take a shower while I'm gone.” She did not answer. “The hot water might warm you up and save a little off your heating bill.”

When she did not comment, he unlocked the front door.

“If I come back and the door is locked I'll know your answer is no to my offer for dinner.” He walked out without waiting for an answer.

Thirty minutes later he was sitting at her kitchen bar with hamburgers and malts when she walked out of the bathroom.

“I feel better.” She admitted as she pulled her robe tighter and tossed her wet hair back. “What did you bring?”

He stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. Surely her thick robe was not that different from the sweaters she usually wore. But he seemed to be studying every detail about her.

“You did bring food?” she asked, as she moved around him and opened the sack.

“I didn't know what you liked,” he finally said. “I picked up a couple of cheeseburgers from Jeff's.”

Meredith climbed onto the stool beside him and waited.

He handed her a cheeseburger, then a malt. They ate without conversation. She had no clue about what to say to a sheriff. If she had ever committed a crime, she might confess. It did not seem polite to ask about his job. She was not sure she wanted to know who in town had been arrested lately.

When she finished, she went to the refrigerator and returned with a cake someone must have brought over. Funeral food, her grandmother used to call it. Friends and neighbors in small towns always baked their favorite dish and brought it to the house. It did not seem to matter that “the house” only contained one person who could not possibly eat a counterful of sweets and ten pounds of chicken. It was tradition.

She cut them both a slice and returned to her chair.

He pushed the dessert around with a fork without tasting a bite. Finally, he looked at her, and seemed to be studying her face with great interest. He lifted his napkin, leaned over and wiped the top of her lip.

Chocolate malt stained the white of his paper napkin.

She could have written the action off to instinct, but she guessed the sheriff had never done such a thing to anyone in his life.

“Thank you,” she said.

For a moment, he did not say anything. He seemed to realize what he had done. He was not a man who touched easily and he had touched her twice in less than an hour. The cake forgotten, he stood.

“Anything else I can do before I leave?” he said awkwardly.

Meredith yawned. “No. I think I'll go to sleep now. Thanks for the dinner.”

With him still standing in the middle of her kitchen, she walked the few steps into the bedroom. She lifted the covers and crawled into bed, still wearing her robe.

She heard him shoving food wrappers into the trash. Since he showed himself in, she figured he could show himself out.

“I'll lock up when I leave,” he said, the same words he had said to her many times when they both worked holidays at the courthouse.

When she did not answer, she heard him step to her door. She snuggled into the pillows too exhausted to care what he talked about.

He pulled the quilt over her shoulder. “Good night, Meredith.”

“Good night, Sheriff,” she mumbled, too near sleep to say any more.