Homefires (52 page)

I blinked. Then opened my mouth. Now I knew I was crazy. “Roxie called.”

Instantly, his eyes hooded. “And?” His reply was flat.

I swallowed back a bubble of vehemence. “She said to tell you ‘they’re going to do it.’ She sounded hysterical and said she needed help.”

I watched color drain from behind Kirk’s mask. “I’ve got to go.”

I gazed at him, aware of the plea in that statement. But I could not say it. I could not say, “Go to her, Kirk.” It simply wasn’t in me.

“It’s your decision, Kirk.” My lips were wooden. I turned away and switched the vacuum on and began to push, push, push.....

I heard the door slam as Kirk rushed outside to his car. I turned off the machine and moved to watch his – our – car spit sand as it sped from the driveway. Two hours passed, long and tortuous minutes, seconds during which I prepared spaghetti for supper, simply because it required little thought and effort.

Heather sat with me on the sofa after dinner, holding my hand, watching, unseeing Sonny and Cher in living color. She’d asked me where Dad rushed off to and I’d explained the situation to her as truthfully and unemotionally as possible. Her initial thunderclap reaction quickly settled into one of concern for me, her near catatonic mom. She’d believed me when, during past weeks, I’d insisted on Kirk’s innocence of sexual duplicity.

“Don’t worry, Mama,” Heather’s voice now soothed my uncertainty. “Daddy’s too smart to let somebody like
her
mess up his life
.
”

“I know.” I patted her hand reassuringly. Yet, the shock of Kirk’s dashing to Roxie’s rescue whammied me. I tried to tell myself he was a pastor after all but by now, that rang hollow and mocking. Even sinister. And I felt used and ugly. And incredibly stupid.

“I love you, Mama,” Heather laid her head on my shoulder and squeezed my hand.

I kissed her sweet forehead. “I love you, too, bugger.”

“Me, too!” Toby landed next to me, burrowing in for his share of hugs.

It hit me suddenly, that this was what Callie had wanted to protect. Us. All us Crenshaws.

I wanted to protect us, too. And I would, by the help of God.

I
would.

Kirk walked in. His facial mask had not moved, had only turned grayer. His arms hung limply at his sides as his desolate gaze sought and found mine.

“I was too late.” His quiet words floated one by one to me, threaded with unreality.

Dread dropped over me like heavy black foam. “What do you mean?” I whispered.

“She’s dead.” He shrugged.

“How?” My hand flew to my chest.

“Murdered.” He turned and shuffled zombie-like down the hall to our room, where the door clicked softly, firmly behind him. I presently heard him throwing up in the bathroom.

God knows, I didn’t want Roxie dead, but I felt no great gush of sorrow. Only the sick stupor from being slammed by an eighteen-wheeler with
Death and Betrayal
emblazoned across it. I’ve since surmised that one’s grief-reservoir can only cough up so much before drying for a spell. I’d used mine all up in recent days.

Kirk had found Roxie in her blood-spattered apartment, stabbed repeatedly in the chest and neck. Such a horrible end for someone so young. Such a horrific sight for Kirk to see. He remained pale and shaken for days.

Rumors were the murder was drug-related. A police investigation was launched. Kirk was questioned but refused to discuss details with anyone. Not that I pressed him to. I was as reticent as he was on the subject. Church folk are simply curious beings about such and when they quizzed Kirk, he merely pleaded ignorance.

Kirk conducted Roxie’s funeral. His was a warm yet impersonal message in which he referred to the deceased’s grief over her husband’s death and her struggle to begin a new life. Then he quoted from the Bible Moose’s favorite scripture, Matthew 7:11, “If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?”

I read his features during the eulogy quite analytically, I confess. I watched for signs that never appeared. Kirk’s wan features presented a warm, controlled mien of sad concern. No more. No less.

Callie sat to my right, Heather to my left, both supporting me in ways known only to us. Charlie Tessner sang “Because He Lives,” Moose’s favorite song. In some ways, it gave closure to his disappearance. A
goodbye.

As Charlie sang, Callie, teary-eyed, leaned to whisper in my ear. “I hope she made it.” Her face shimmered and swam before me. I snuffled, blinked to loosen tears, and nodded.

Because Roxie, despite her ill deeds toward my family and me, had asked my forgiveness – some of her last words. I prayed she’d asked God’s pardon, as well, knowing she probably had, such was her desperation that day.

So I closed my eyes and tried to picture her in Heaven.

You don’t have to handle this,
came the familiar voice I’d learned to trust.

Just turn it loose. Give it to me.
I did.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I fought daily to be normal when I was anything but
,
trusting no one with the truth. Somewhere along the way, I’d adopted the notion that if one went through motions long enough, they became real. Maybe, I surmised, I could outlast it. So, I choked back apprehension and smiled when I felt like weeping, creating a desperate cheer to drive gray from my days and black from my long dreadful nights.

Heather entered the local junior college. She dated Ralph Stevens – now enrolled in his second year at Clemson – longdistance. Toby, precious Toby, with his innocence and affability, skimmed through time unaware that his mama teetered on a tightrope so flimsy, a gnat’s sneeze could send it crashing.

Dawn was my balm, anchoring me to sanity. Our nightly ritual was to bathe together, she astride my birdlike soapy thighs, as we chatted about everything under the sun, giggled like Doofuses, then sang to the rafters her current favorite, bouncing between
You Are My Sunshine, Bingo was His Name
and Frankie Valli’s
My Eyes Adored You.

Afterward came cuddling time, piled in my bed, singing softly her choice spiritual verses. Music was, and would forever remain, intrinsic to our bond. Then prayer...that soft little voice asking God to
bless Mama and Daddy and my Heaver (Heather) and Toby
never failed to leave my throat knotted like a pretzel.

I didn’t stop praying in those days of hazy suspension. Had I done so, I’m convinced the strength to nurture and sustain my family would simply have fled.

Truth was, the only time I felt
right
was when Kirk held me in his arms as he did so often now. His warm touch would – momentarily – seize that loosed, clanking thing inside me and press it back in place. His wonderful hands and lips, in private, calmed and validated.

Kirk’s libido had, most definitely, recovered from its sag.

Seemed like honeymoon at times, what with the sexual awakening.

Yet, without fail, the morning-after found me desperately engaged in battling
it
, that elusive, unnamed thing inside me that, sometime between lovemaking and dawn, disconnected.

It clamored in my gut like rocks agitating in MawMaw’s old wringer washing machine. It left me gaunt-eyed and vigilante. Of what? I had no idea. And despite life’s uneventful, outwardly peaceful flow, it flailed about, groaning,
Something is wrong.

“How’s it going, Chuck?” Kirk thrust out his hand to my bedridden brother.

Chuck’s face burst into a grin, transforming his gaunt features from torpid to alert. “Great! Just
great,
Kirk! C’mon, pull out a chair and sit a spell.” We were up for Friday and Saturday, having gotten the news, via Anne, of Chuck’s rapid slide into despondency.

I leaned to kiss his cheek and his frail arms engulfed me in a fierce hug. “Ahh, Sis,” he said gently, “it’s so good to see you.” He released me and wobbled his head around, searching. “Where’s that Toby?”

Like a rowdy hummingbird, Toby swooped in, alighted on the bed, and in a flurry of hugs and furious pats, uncle and nephew renewed affections. Heather was next. Her endearments, though more composed than before, were just as warm, leaving me misty-eyed at the mellowed change in my brother.

Anne and Dad arrived shortly thereafter to spend family time together with Chuck. We all wanted desperately to give him the sense of family he needed, a thing he’d so lacked. Now, we could rally for him, carry him on our shoulders and backs if need be to lift him above his placelessness. Of all the family, I could most sense Chuck’s desperation to belong somewhere. It twisted my heart.

“Anne,” Chuck said, reaching out to take her hand between the bed’s guard rails, “I want to eat with ya’ll tomorrow.” He weakly rotated his head till he sighted Daddy. “Can you come get me, Dad?”

My father nodded, nostrils aflare. “Wild horses couldn’t stop me.”

Chuck’s tired, pale face relaxed. Glowed waxy white.

That evening, after leaving the convalescent home, we prepared for bed at Anne’s and Dad’s.

I raised my brow at Anne. “Will they let Chuck come?”
They,
meaning the convalescent home staff. In view of Teresa’s territorial, power stance, it was doubtful.

Anne bit at her bottom lip, eyes worried. “I don’t know, Neecy.”

“We’ve got to do some
tall
praying,” I said.

“Yeah,” Anne nodded slowly. “I don’t want to fight Teresa.”

“Me, either,” I agreed. “We can’t
make
Teresa do
diddly.
We can only take care of our own attitudes and leave the rest to the Almighty” Something in me leaped at my own words. Something fearful. Nausea squeezed my stomach and tapped at my throat reflex.

The kids escaped to Anne’s small back den – a converted porch – to watch television and teen-gossip.

Dad, Kirk, Anne and I sat in the den for a long time, contemplating. I tucked my bare feet under me and snuggled against sleepy-eyed Kirk, who melded to the sofa’s crook like a sprawled lab retriever. His fingers played over my arm in an abstract yet intimate caress. Callie had just this week told me she could see Kirk’s renewed
reaching out
to me. Tonight, as usual, the warm reciprocal thing in me twanged like a happy banjo at Kirk’s touch, even as the subterranean thing in me shrieked
why?
I had consciously – desperately – buried my doubts about Kirk’s fidelity when Kirk buried Roxie. Literally. But in moments like these, just the words, “
..we can’t
make
Teresa do diddly,”
spewed them up like angry seltzer bubbles.

Remembering Kirk’s full speed ahead, blinders devotion to Roxie in my hours and months of need, left me shaken and sick anew.

I can only work on me,
I reminded myself. Just the thought made me feel exhausted.

I abruptly sat up and glanced at the wall clock. Kirk stretched and yawned, rubbing his abdomen sluggishly. “I think I’ll turn in, folks,” I forced lightness into my voice. “A long day ahead.”

“Good Lord willing,” Anne stood and began picking up empty tea glasses. “we’ll eat lunch with Chuck tomorrow.” She stopped and, glasses dangling from limp hands, gazed desperately at me. “I pray he’ll get to come this time.”

Fear shot through me, but I managed a smile. “He will.”
Please, God
.

Shortly, we retired for the night. Kirk fell asleep instantly, his arm tangled around my torso. My own sleep was sporadic and restless. I was on automatic pilot again, my norm for twilight time, and was relieved to hear Anne puttering around as the sun rose, rattling pots and pans early the next morning.

Daddy and Kirk left for the convalescent home at ten thirty-five. Anne sent our lunch menu for the nurses to check against violations. Chuck’s diabetic diet had to be kosher.

“Why don’t you call?” I suggested. “No use sitting on pins and needles wondering.”