Wanting Rita (26 page)

“I’m sure you were,” I added.

“I know now why I did it, although I can’t say I knew then or, if I did, I don’t remember. I just wanted Darla to be protected. I wanted God to protect her.”

“Protected?”

“Yes…”

We approached Greenspot, a low drowsy town reminiscent of the 1950’s. Rita directed me left, across another two-lane road that snaked and dipped around the town proper. Rising unexpectedly out of green fertile land and a line of cooling trees, I saw the impressive spires of a gothic cathedral.

“Is that it?” I asked, pointing.

“Yes. Episcopalian. Darla loved the pageantry. I suppose she inherited the sense of the dramatic from me.”

“It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“Ninety years ago it had a thriving congregation. An architect from England helped design and build it.”

We drove into the deserted parking lot and drew up near the entrance. Rita took a shallow breath before she got out. I viewed the immense stone walls and small stained glass windows as we approached the cement stairs. We ascended them and walked past the open heavy iron door.

“It’s open most days,” Rita whispered, as we entered.

We stepped into a murky serenity, under a vaulted ceiling, soaring pillars and arches. Soft light filtered through stained glass and bathed Rita in a spiritual light. We strolled the central isle, the atrium and apse. Our footsteps echoed along dark stone corridors. We paused near the organ, with its decorative organ pipes. We examined the carved leafage on the oak pulpit, with an ornate curved staircase, and finally settled into a pew in the choir, silently taking in the glorious rose window.

Discretely, I examined Rita’s face. It was blankly unresponsive, but her eyes clotted with tears. I looked away to let her have her moment. The silence was so profound that my ears rang, my shoulders relaxed and I grew sleepy.

Later, Rita and I sat barefoot and cross-legged on a grassy bank, overlooking a sprawling farm, with red rambling fences and grazing cattle. She held a stick, poking at the ground with it. I watched a little airplane make a slow lazy turn, swing and drift away, dwindling, then return, growing, sputtering.

“I thought if I became good—religious—that somehow God would protect Darla,” Rita said, quietly. “But I should have protected her.”

I searched for the right words. “Rita…how could you ever have known?”

She stabbed the ground. “I should have known. I should have seen it coming…Dusty was lost and had been for years. Oklahoma helped to beat him down—his drunken father and that damned nothing of a construction business; could have made a go of it if his father hadn’t been a damned, rotten, abusive drunk. Dusty was always making excuses for him—even when his father cursed him and threw things at him—even when he tried to get at me one night in his drunken worst. But Dusty always made excuses and promises and said things would get better someday. God, was there ever a man on earth who tried harder to make things get better?!”

She tossed the stick away and crossed her arms, trembling. “I was such a fool! I should have protected Darla from all of that. I should have taken her away from there. What kind of short life was that for her?! That shabby house, dodging tornados and Dusty’s dark moods. Damn me for not doing it! Damn me for not getting her out of there!”

I almost reached for her, but I didn’t. Her raw feeling, set free, was pouring through her words. “I tried to get Dusty to leave. Let’s get the hell out! Let’s go, Dusty! There’s nothing here but loss, failure and sickness. Let’s go! But he wouldn’t. He’d say, there’s nothing back in Hartsfield, Rita. They all think we’ve made good here. I can’t go back there. Those people will laugh at us.”

“Let them laugh, Dusty, I said to him. We’re withering away here!”

“I can make a go of this business, Rita. I’ll get dad set right. I will. Believe in me, Rita. Just believe in me.”

“So I did. I did believe in Dusty. I loved Dusty. He was a good man, Alan James. No brain child, that was for sure, but he was a good, sensitive man.” She dropped her head and spoke at a guilty whisper. “What a thing to say…after what he did. What a thing to say.”

She looked into the hazy sky and made a little desperate sound. “But Dusty was good until the failures, his father’s constant abuse and my…loss of faith in him… God forgive me…the loss of faith in us both.”

“When his father died of a heart attack, I thought we were saved. I thanked God for that stupid old man’s death. And when Darla prayed for him at the funeral, I cursed his damned wicked soul for all the things he did to Dusty. For nearly killing Dusty… And now I curse him for finally killing us all.”

Rita looked directly at me, with all the intensity she’d gathered. “God forgive me, I do curse him—every day—Alan James! Every single day I don’t forget to curse him. That is my prayer. I damn him to hell every day!”

Rita straightened, lifting her chin to the breeze, her face flushed, her eyes remote. “By the time we got back to Hartsfield, the town had fallen into failure, too. There was no work for Dusty or for me. Dusty slipped away into depression. The people he thought would look down on him, instead opened their arms and welcomed him. They gave us money. They sent us food. They said we were their friends…their family. It was Hartsfield at its best. For Dusty, that was worse than rejection and ridicule. His pride began to strangle him.”

Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Good people, Alan James. Hartsfield people are good, fine people.”

I gently unfolded my legs and stretched them out, not taking my eyes from her.

“Dusty had started drinking with his father… He thought it would help bond them or something. After his father died, then came the drugs… It got worse after we moved back to Hartsfield. It was the drugs and alcohol that devoured the gentleness in him—that destroyed the very goodness of him and turned him mean and violent. And I watched it happen, and didn’t protect Darla, and I didn’t take her away and didn’t do anything to stop it! Dusty and I fought and argued, yes, but I didn’t leave him. I was determined to be the good and faithful wife and mother, even if it killed…” Her voice dropped away and she sank into despair. “So I killed her. I killed my beauty. My baby.” Her shoulders rolled in torment as she sobbed and wept for minutes. I let her get it all out, fighting the urge to hold her, kiss her hair and hot cheeks.

She drew a tissue from her purse and dried her eyes. “Through ignorance, or pity or anger or confusion, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Through faith or loss of faith in God, or in Dusty or in us, none of that matters. I killed Darla, and nothing will ever change that; and no amount of therapy will ever change that, Alan James. I just…let it happen.”

“No, Rita. No. Dusty killed her… It was…”

She shook my words away. “‘Dusty, when he killed us, in his own stupid and desperate way, was trying to give us all a fresh start. I know that…I know that, in his crazy head, when he pulled that trigger, all the goodness of his twisted soul was trying to set us all free again. Free again, like we were in the beginning, when the world watched us be… special. I know that’s what he thought… I know that’s why he did it. But he couldn’t finish…”

Rita’s jaw hardened. “It must have come to him in those last few seconds, when he saw Darla lying there. It must have sunk in, and the clouds of drugs and alcohol must have swept away long enough for him to realize the horror of what he’d done. So he left me walking dead…remembering…that I was the one who had failed. Not him.”

She lifted her shoulders and dropped them. She inhaled and blew out a staggered breath. “And so I should be here, today, remembering. It’s right that I’m here on my baby’s birthday, remembering that I destroyed us all.”

“Rita…”

But she turned from me.

A light rain began to fall, thin and gentle. Rita didn’t move, so we sat for another ten minutes until it stopped, and the sun returned from behind the dark continent of a cloud and dried our damp clothes.

I took her hand and we stood up, in silence. We started to walk, through vivid green fields, on narrow paths, past and beside little brooks. We held hands, tramping across weed-bordered roads, where chunks of asphalt were missing. She asked me about college, medical school and my work. She finally asked about Nicole. When I was vague, she astutely pointed it out. I finally explained that Nicole and I were having problems and had been for some time. I reluctantly told her I didn’t think the marriage would last, but I didn’t offer details.

She grew quiet again, her focus going inward. Minutes passed before she asked about the status of the house.

“I’ve postponed the auction for awhile,” I said, as we stepped across rough and rocky land on our way back to the car. “I thought that maybe I’d spend weekends there, until Nicole and I make some decisions. I’ll go ahead and sell most of the antiques. The agent said she’s fairly confident she can get good prices at auction.”

I glanced sideways to see Rita’s reaction. She turned her head toward me, gazing openly. “I’m glad you’ll be coming back, Alan James. I’m sorry about your marriage, I really am, but I’m glad you’re not selling the house.”

We drove a half an hour to Lipton, another small town, where a spring festival was in full swing, pitched on the campgrounds where the Baptist church often held summer revivals. We parked and joined in.

“I came here with Darla last year,” Rita said, not sadly.

There were white and brown tents, flapping in occasional sharp gusts, and rows of parked cars and SUVs tucked behind trees and in open fields. The high-pitched cry of celebration and mumbled excitement rose from bake sale stands, flower stands, food stands and crowds of rambling people. A brass band belched out polkas, as couples whirled and bounced, faces glossy and flushed. Dogs barked, pleaded for scraps, then nosed with frenetic hope and busy tails toward the leaning hand, the slipping sausage, or the fallen hamburger from the child’s greasy, neglectful fingers.

There were two impatient lines of people waiting to ride the lazy Ferris wheel, with its intimate red, rocking seats and its breathy, hollow calliope melodies, sounding like the comical honks of a steamboat whistle. When I heard
In The Good Ole’ Summertime
, for some reason, I smiled.

Rita and I drifted, sniffing pumpkin spice cakes, banana muffins, pound cakes, fresh bread, apple cider, lemonade, sizzling turkey sausage, potato pancakes and lavishly decorated apple and cherry pies. We ordered and ate a turkey sausage on a freshly baked roll, with slivers of red pepper and onions; drank draft beer and shared a hot potato pancake.

When the band broke into the
Pennsylvania Polka
, I surprised myself and Rita by seizing her hand and dragging her into the circle of hefty, romping dancers. In imitation of others, I placed my hand at Rita’s waist, took her right hand high and nudged us into the forming circle. We struggled for rhythm and form, laughing brokenly, as we stuttered along the periphery, trying to avoid a collision with the experts, who ignored us and swung on by, confidently delirious.

Then Rita stopped, abruptly, and backed away, knuckle to her lips, as she studied those fast skipping feet with assiduous concentration. I, too, turned ridiculously serious. This was war. We were from Pennsylvania. By birthright we should, and must, be able to dance the Pennsylvania Polka. No backing away. No excuses.

“We can do this, Alan James!”

I jerked a firm nod.

With renewed passion and conviction, we joined hands and began again. This time we lifted the high knee in unison, found the precise moment and pitch of motion, and then boldly advanced into the vigorous circle, heads held pompously high, feet springing to life.

In a serendipitous wonder of motion, we abandoned ourselves, rounding the space, flying off in quick breaths past the blurring tents, trees and crowds, caught with elation and grins. Hands were clapping loud and sharp. Voices, nearly riotous with the spirit of it, sang on and off key, as we bounced, arched and swayed.

When the three accordions broke into
The Beer Barrel Polka
, Rita and I drew on reserve strength and danced on, whipping each other about, heads back, kicking across the ground with bright eyes from the sheer fun of it all.

Roll out the barrel,

We’ll have a barrel of fun.

Roll out the barrel,

We’ve got the blues on the run.

Zing! Boom! Ta-ra-rel

Ring out a song of good cheer!

Now’s the time to roll the barrel

For the gang’s all here.

With an abrupt rowdy cadence, the music died away into an echo. The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. Rita and I were bent over, panting, laughing, searching for a seat to rest. But all were taken, so we traipsed off to an open field and dropped down into tender grass, damp with sweat, giggling and spent.

“Oh my God,” Rita said, hand over her heart. “That was right up there, Alan James. Right up there.”

I looked at her with happiness, with that old 17-year-old longing. “I thought I was pretty good out there,” I said, jokingly.