Between Heaven and Texas (8 page)

“They weren't
all
honorable mentions,” Mary Dell mumbled as she heaved her pregnant body out of the chair she'd been sitting in. “I got a third place once.”

“I know,” Pauline replied. “I'm just saying you deserve better. If your sister were helping you, maybe you'd finally get the credit you deserve. Who knows? You might even get a design accepted by that quilting magazine you're always writing to.”

Two months previously, Mary Dell had received yet another “thanks but no thanks” form letter from C. J. Evard. Disappointed again but still undaunted, she had submitted still another design and sent it to Dallas via registered mail earlier that week.

She was certain that this quilt, utilizing an original block she called Tricky Tumblers, would be the one that would finally get C. J. Evard's attention. The “trick” of Mary Dell's design was that the central block, which was based on the classic Tumbling Block pattern, required none of the Y-seams that even accomplished quilters dreaded. All modesty aside, it was a clever, even ingenious design, and she was certain Miss Evard would agree. However, Mary Dell didn't mention this to her students. They'd see soon enough that her quilt designs could stand on their own without anyone's help—even her sister's.

Mary Dell turned her back to the women and started folding up the baby quilt.

Sweetums, who came by her nickname honestly, said in a gentle but hesitant voice, “Nobody is trying to hurt your feelings, Mary Dell. Everybody in this room knows you're the best quilter in this whole part of the state, maybe in all of Texas. But . . .”

Pearl, the oldest and bossiest of the Dingus sisters, a preacher's child and a big proponent of “speaking the truth in love,” became impatient with all this pussyfooting.

“Mary Dell, it's time you faced facts. When it comes to quilting, you've got all the talent in the world but no more taste than a hothouse tomato. However, Providence has paired you with a loving sister who can't sew a stitch but is amply supplied with the color sense you so sorely lack.

“Don't you see? You and Lydia Dale are like biscuits and gravy; one is too dry and the other too wet, but put them together and you've got yourself a meal! And if you'd just put aside your stubborn, sinful pride and admit that, you might finally be able to make use of the gifts and talents the good Lord has granted you!”

Mary Dell was still standing with her back to the others, trying to toss their comments into the trash can of her mind, the same way she tossed all those cheap rayon honorable mention ribbons into the actual trash every August after fair week. But when she heard Pearl accuse her of pride, she winced.

Mary Dell could never be jealous of her sister personally, but Pearl's blunt assessment forced her to admit that she was still jealous of her sister's accomplishments—specifically of the glass display case filled with pageant sashes and tiaras that still held center stage in her parents' living room. Actually, not that the pageant memorabilia itself made her jealous, but the fact that, after all this time, Taffy still insisted on showing these relics off to every person who visited the house, from the minister's wife to the man who delivered their propane.

How silly.

Silly of Taffy to still try to bask in her daughter's glow and silly of Mary Dell to still be trying so hard to secure a spot in Taffy's display cabinet, believing that winning a blue ribbon would also win her mother's approval. What an idea.

It wasn't wrong for a child to desire her mother's admiration, but Mary Dell wasn't a child anymore. Nor was it wrong for her now, as a woman, to have dreams and ambition, or to desire a little recognition for her talents. That was natural enough, wasn't it? Where would the world be if people hadn't been created with the longing to lean into life, to push the boundaries inch by inch, to do things that were hard simply because they
were
hard?

As a girl, in Sunday school, Mary Dell had been taught that work, the absolute necessity to scratch out a living, was part of the curse of original sin, and she believed it. But wasn't it also a kind of salvation? No one had told her so, but Mary Dell thought it must be true.

As a true daughter of Texas and a Tudmore to boot, Mary Dell knew in her bones that her town, her state, her world, the harsh, hot, dry, and vast land she sprang from, stark and starkly beautiful, could never have been peopled or planted without the stubborn ambition of her ancestors, those women of strong conviction from whom she had inherited her desire to leave an imprint on the world, some mark, however small, even if she had to patch it together from imagination and scraps of cloth.

To dream was not wrong. And ambition was no sin.

But to be so desperate to gain a toehold in the trophy case of a mother's heart, to be hobbled by childish envies, desiring prizes awarded only for solo performance, so unwilling to share the spotlight and credit that it thwarted the ambitions you were born, equipped, and uniquely placed to fulfill,
was
wrong. And proud. And pride, they'd told her in Sunday school, wasn't just wrong; it was a sin. She believed that too.

Mary Dell turned around. Pearl stared at her with arched eyebrows and an expression that dared Mary Dell to refute the facts as she'd laid them out.

“I heard you,” Mary Dell said.

“And?”

“And,”
Mary Dell said in an exasperated voice, “although Lydia Dale is due to deliver any second, and I'm about five weeks behind her, and neither of us will be doing anything besides breast-feeding and changing diapers anytime soon, the next time I start a new quilt, I'll ask her to help me pick out the fabric.”

Pearl smiled and sat back down at her sewing machine.

“How is Lydia Dale anyway?” Sweetums asked. “I haven't seen her in an age.”

“Better now that the divorce is final.”

Mary Dell squatted down to pick up some stray pins off the carpet and a pair of scissors she'd accidentally knocked off the counter, no easy feat in her swollen condition.

“Sometimes I wish Jack Benny would just leave town and never come back,” she said, grunting as she got to the floor. “That man is so low you can't put a rug under him.”

“His momma is just as bad,” Pauline said, squinting as she tried to poke a piece of thread through the needle of her machine. “Marlena's been going around town dropping hints that your sister's baby isn't a Benton, that Lydia Dale had been stepping out on Jack Benny and that's the reason for the divorce.”

“What!” Mary Dell's face flushed red. “Who's she been saying that to? That's a lie! Jack Benny was the one who was cheating, and Marlena knows it! How could she say something so terrible about her own grandchild?”

Looking furious enough to disembowel Marlena with the scissors she held clenched in her fist, Mary Dell tried to push herself up from the carpet, but was impeded by her big belly. Pearl jumped up from her sewing machine to help.

“Pauline,” she scolded, “stop your gossiping. Nobody in town is going to believe that story. Everybody knows what Jack Benny is. Marlena is just mean and bitter. Everybody knows that too. Best thing to do is ignore her.”

“But that's the problem!” Mary Dell exclaimed. “Everybody does ignore Marlena. It's about time somebody stood up to her!”

Pearl reached out her hand. Mary Dell grabbed it and tried to get to her feet, unsuccessfully.

“She's not worth it. You know what they say, ‘Lie down with a dog, and you'll get up with a flea.' And Marlena Benton is definitely a dog. Of the female variety. If you take my meaning.”

Pearl smiled momentarily, pleased with her little joke, and then frowned again as she looked down at Mary Dell, who was still struggling to get up.

“Here, honey. Let's try this.”

Pearl grabbed both of Mary Dell's hands, braced her feet against the floor, counted off one-two-three, and pulled as hard as she could.

Mary Dell got to her feet with a grunt but immediately doubled over, groaning in pain. Sweetums and Pauline leapt up and scurried to her side.

“Oh, honey! Oh, my!”

“Does it hurt?”

“Is it time? Is it the baby?”

“No!” Mary Dell protested, gripping her stomach. “It can't be. It's too soon!”

But another groan, another wave of pain, and a flush of fluid proved her wrong.

Pearl, herself a mother of five, stroked Mary Dell's back, spoke in a calm and even voice, assured her that it wasn't so very early, asked her if she'd packed a hospital bag, then looked up and started issuing orders.

“Here, honey. Come sit down in this chair for a minute while I go pack your toothbrush and robe. Sweetums, take my keys out of my purse and pull my car up to the door. Pauline, get on the phone. Call the doctor, Miss Silky and Miss Velvet, Taffy and Dutch, and go find Donny. Tell him the baby is coming.”

C
HAPTER 13

P
auline phoned Dr. Brownback but was unable to reach Silky, Velvet, Taffy, or Dutch because only a few minutes before, Lydia Dale had come into the TV room and announced that her own labor pains were ten minutes apart. They were already on their way to the hospital, so flustered they hadn't thought to call Mary Dell, not knowing she was following close behind.

Pauline hadn't been able to find Donny either. She drove to the barn to look for him. His truck was parked outside, but when she called his name, he didn't answer. Just that morning he'd decided to saddle up Georgeann and ride the fences, making note of any sections that needed repair. In another couple of weeks, he figured he'd have to start sticking closer to home, in case the baby came during the day.

Lydia Dale's baby came quickly. Four hours after she'd arrived at the hospital, a nurse entered the maternity waiting room and told the assembled relatives that Rob Lee Benton, a healthy, eight-pound, twelve-ounce boy with long eyelashes and a perfectly formed head as round and bald as a cue ball, had been born and would be available for viewing through the window of the newborn nursery in about half an hour.

When asked, the nurse told them that Mary Dell was doing just fine, that there was nothing to worry about, that first children always took longer to be born.

“But isn't it too soon?” Dutch asked, his weathered face creased with anxiety.

“We're taking good care of your daughter, Mr. Templeton. And your grandchild. The neonatologist has been called. As soon as the baby is born, it will be taken to the NICU. They have all the right equipment and staff to care for preemies,” she said, then patted him on the arm and left the room with rubber-soled efficiency.

Dutch dug three quarters out from the pocket of his jeans and dropped them into the vending machines. He bought two candy bars for Jeb and Cady and a cup of bad coffee for himself.

The nurse had spoken with authority, using words that Dutch didn't understand—“neonatologist” and “NICU”—but she hadn't answered his question.

Was it too soon?

After all the years of waiting, the pain of watching his daughter's hopes of motherhood be raised and dashed over and over again, was this baby, too, coming too soon? Was another of his grandchildren going to die before it had even lived?

Dutch went to church every week of his life and served as an usher every third Sunday of the month. Even so, he'd never been much of a praying man, but he prayed now, as hard as he could. Staring into the black lake of a cardboard coffee cup, he prayed to the God he'd always believed in but had spent precious little time talking with.

C
HAPTER 14

D
onny got home later than he'd planned. Georgeann had picked up a stone in her shoe. Donny was able to dig it out, but the horse kept favoring one leg and so he decided to come home on foot, leading her by the reins.

He removed Georgeann's saddle and bridle, washed her down, curried her, fed her, and checked her leg again to make sure it wasn't swelling. Then he hopped into his pickup and drove home, where he found Pauline's note taped to the front door.

He didn't even go into the house, didn't take time to change his dirty boots or shower off the smell of human and horse sweat, just jumped back into the truck and drove to the hospital in Waco as fast as he could, which was pretty fast. The drive normally took forty-five minutes. Donny made it in thirty-four.

He spent the whole of the trip worrying about what was happening to his wife and son right at that moment, cursing himself for deciding to check the fences today, cursing Georgeann for picking up a stone, cursing. It was only the twelfth of February. The baby wasn't due until the twentieth of March. Five weeks too soon. But was it
too
soon? Too soon to survive?

In the months since he had learned of Mary Dell's pregnancy, he had spent endless hours imagining all the fine things his son would be and do.

Dr. Bebee. Astronaut Bebee. H. H. Bebee, Attorney for the Defense. Professor Bebee. Howard “Hard Hands” Bebee, the best wide receiver in the history of the Dallas Cowboys. Senator Bebee. President Bebee.

No title would be out of his reach, no honor beyond his grasp. His son would be able to do anything he dreamed of doing—go to college, travel the world, reach for the stars. That was what Donny had wanted for his boy—everything. A world without limits.

Now he would trade it all, the titles, the honors, the fantasy son Donny had created in his own mind, for something simpler but more wonderful, something concrete: a heart that could beat, lungs that could breathe, a living child.

Hurtling down the empty highway through the dark of night, Donny said aloud, “Just let him live, Lord. That's the only thing that matters. Let him live. Do that, and I'll never ask you for another blessed thing.”