Homefires (57 page)

Kirk resigned that Sunday evening, leaving a shocked congregation slack-jawed as we rushed from the church before being swamped with questions. I felt only relief while Kirk – well, he looked as if he’d taken a bullet between the eyes and had yet to fall.

Heather’s reaction to moving was, to my surprise, mild. Her courtship with Steve had cooled, what with him away at school and Heather’s increasingly busy college social life. She’d begun going to dances and socials that jerked Kirk’s eyebrows up and down like a wired Howdy Doody. My, but he was a territorial Dad. Too, Heather’s indifference to leaving evolved from a tiff with Dixie Tessner, her pal, who’d betrayed Heather’s confidence, by divulging to Kirk Heather’s tryst with a man she discovered later to be married.

I understood Heather’s hurt but at the same time, was grateful for Dixie’s courage in stepping forward with her information. “I know she hates me right now,” Dixie’s golden-amber eyes simmered sadness, “but I couldn’t stand by and watch her destroy her life, Mrs. Crenshaw.”

I hugged and thanked her. “She’ll get over it someday, Dixie,” I assured her.

And Heather did, they later reconnected by writing and phoning religiously. But at that precise moment in time, it was a difficult mountain for our daughter to span, especially when her Dad went along with her for the next ‘date.’ An angry Kirk Crenshaw is not a pretty sight. He scared the spit from the poor guy, who promptly vanished, but not before Kirk got his license number and called a local policeman-friend to get the man’s address and phone number.

A quick telephone call to the man’s wife – who’d delivered a baby only days earlier – filled in the blanks on her absentee husband’s antics. “He’s a
heel,
” Kirk snarled after hanging up. “She deserved to know and make right decisions.” This came after his confession to me and I knew that his righteous indignation was, in part, anger at himself, as well.

Somehow, that little statement drew respect from me.

Today, as I packed, I realized it was a first step in the right direction.

“Mama,” Heather rushed into my room later that afternoon, after Callie left, “Come talk to me while I pack some more of my school things. I can’t
believe
I’m going away to college in two days! No more sitting at the church piano week in and week out.” She hugged me effusively and jabbered about things to take and not to take as I joined her, sitting on her bed as she moved about, all energy and youth and dreams for the future.

“Mama,” she suddenly paused and peered at me, shifting from one bare foot to the other, “I’m sorry about...you know, about the baby. I know how hard it was for you.” Her hands clasped and wrung, then slid down her hips to dry. “We’d talked about how horrible it is for a woman to have an abortion. And it
is
. But with your health problems and all – ” She dropped down on the bed, facing me, took my hands in hers as tears shimmered along her lower lids, “Thank you, Mama,” she said past quivering lips while I watched a tear slide down each satiny cheek, “for choosing
us.
I was so afraid you wouldn’t and – and I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Her arms were around me for a long, long, fervent moment, and then she was up and moving again.

In the wake of her hummingbird’s departure, something in me sang of reprieve. And forgiveness. And hope.

My heart mushed as I watched her morph from little girl to woman and back.

Thank you, Lord, that she doesn’t know
.

Was it only last year I’d dreaded her going away like I would a pestilence? That I couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from her? Local college had merely whetted her appetite for the real thing and I’d agonized at her
I-can’t-wait-tobe-outta-here
gusto.

Now, I was grateful to see her go. I couldn’t hide from her indefinitely the thing between her father and me. I was casualty enough, thank you very much.

I’d faced many things over which I had no control

This was different.

My silence could, and
would,
buy my children two things:
peace and security.

Many voices clamored in my head as Kirk and I said furtive goodbyes to church folk, only doing so when forced to. Once decided, Kirk seemed as driven as I to get out of Solomon sans fanfare. In his resignation, he’d stated ‘
effective immediately
,’ hoping, I’m sure, to disengage himself with minimum emotionality. At any other time – given my near-maudlin nature – I would have balked, would have declared Kirk’s maneuver unethical and crudely insensitive to the flock. This time, however, I was in total agreement.

The blind cannot lead the blind.

I had to get away. To begin to sort out the mess of my life.

Tillie Dawson dropped by to say goodbye. Kirk and I were loading the moving van. We had little to no assistance. Only Charlie Tessner put his shoulder to Kirk’s and helped. I knew the churchmen were hurt by Kirk’s sudden, non-negotiable resignation. And the fact that we left them high and dry, without preacher or pianist, since we’d hauled Heather, trunks and baggage, to Winthrop the day before, was a slap in their faces. Of course, shifting Dixie from organ to piano would work. An organist would eventually be found. Charlie Tessner could, in a
pinch, lead the choir. There were ways, I’d learned early on, to accommodate ministry voids.

A new pastor – well, the conference would sort that out. To them, Kirk had pleaded
health problems
. Which was not untrue. We were, the two of us, basket cases.

Tillie’s appearance at my door hit me below the belt. I’d never before known what
below the belt
meant nor that it applied to emotional, as well as physical, jolts. It was a drop kick to my gut, one that exploded pain in every direction, leaving my lungs deflated, struggling to suck in air, and my legs like rubber. Because Tillie
knew
. I read it in her big, red-rimmed Bambi eyes and her quivery lips, in every gesture of her Tinkerbell body as she reached for me and squalled on my shoulder. Her arms held me as a mother holds her babe, to protect and shield.

I felt it, her pity. Her compassion. The new me did not want to reciprocate the passion, floundered against it because doing so acknowledged my loss, a thing I could not expose to others and survive. It was one of those base
Id
reactions I did not – still do not – understand. At that moment in time, it propelled me in directions uncharted. But with Tillie’s stick-figure arms squeezing me senseless, love overrode my self-revulsion and I returned her offering squeeze for squeeze, pat for pat. And when she released me, I smiled at her, a genuine smile of sisterhood. She was one of the few who remained in my order.

I knew Tillie would not mention my quandary, as I had not hers. She would allow it to remain my private hellhole because she’d been there. Hers had been tossed out there before the world while mine remained, at that precise moment, hidden away from all but a few eyes. The difference being that Kirk’s indiscretion, if broadcast, carried far more potential to atomize than Rick’s ever would. Of course, Tillie’s simplified vantage revealed only two women in like-peril. On that level, we were. When we bade one another fare-thee-well, with the customary promises to keep in touch, we both sensed this was truly goodbye.

Despite closet and drawer purgings, the Crenshaws left behind on our lawn, for the garbage men, tons of attic treasures, including all of Toby’s football gear and Dawnie’s baby paraphernalia. I suspected – what with all the trunks and bags transported to Winthrop with Heather – she had carried most of
hers. As Kirk and Toby pulled out in the moving van, I followed in the car. My eyes did a wistful sweep of crib, carriage, play pen, high chair, cleats, balls of every shape, shoulder pads and football helmets. At least, I thought, Kaye Tessner had helped me pack up all of Krissie’s clothing, Barbie dolls and outfits, toiletries and school effects into a cedar chest she’d insisted on giving me.

“Take it, Neecy,” she’d insisted. “You need something to keep her things in.” Her rapid blinking kept tears back and I was grateful for her stoicism, more than I’d ever been before.

“Thanks, Kaye,” I hugged her hugely. “I won’t ever forget your kindness.”

She gazed at me with amber donut, no-nonsense eyes. “You’d
better
not,” she snapped comically. “I expect you to stay in touch. And that’s an order. Y’hear?”

I grinned at her. “Yes’m.”

Her face gentled. “And don’t worry about Krissie’s grave. I’ll see to it when you’re not able to get here.”

Tears pooled, despite my resolve, then spilled over. I couldn’t speak, spread my palms helplessly, then hauled her into my arms for a final hug.

Today, driving slowly from the parsonage, remembering the good and the bad, I allowed my gaze to meander through Crenshaw booty littered about the lawn, the sentimental me torn asunder at leaving so much of us behind. Yet, another part of me rejoiced to leave the hurtful behind. I swiped tears away and laughed suddenly.

I stomped the gas pedal and looked ahead, beyond the van, to new horizons.

And a new homefire.

PART FOUR

 

1981-Present

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Life’s timing sometimes sucks.

Why couldn’t Kirk have adored me all those years simply
because
? Why
now
, with me furious and raw and bleeding
because
of him? In that next year, I was militantly territorial of my newfound autonomy. I did not consciously evolve into a self-absorbed person. It simply happened as I fought my way back to self-respect.

Actually, I was not aggressively difficult. It was just that, the contrast from my former docile easily entreated self to one obsessed with self-preservation and emotional space made me, on occasion,
feel
like a shrew.

“I know I’m different.” Kirk and I dined at the Truck Stop Restaurant, keeping one eye on our moving van parked outside and visible through the window. We sipped second cups of coffee while Toby and Dawn fed money to game room machines. “I’m simply being normal. Like I should have all along. I mean, I’m just acting like you’ve acted all along. You’ve
always
been viciously protective of your space.” Which was absolutely true. Only thing was, in the past, I’d always capitulated to Kirk’s whims. Now, I did not. “If you can’t handle this, Kirk, I’m sorry. That’s the way it’s gonna be from here on out. If you want to bail out, now’s the time.”

“Darlin,’ I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Kirk was so happy I stayed with him, and was so eaten up with guilt, he took it all in stride. “I know I’ve been lousy and demanding. I was a real butt, honey. You should have spoken up years ago.”

“I was
stupid,”
I retorted, meaning it. “Nobody should think less of themselves than of those around them.” That my words carried the sting of a swarm of wasps failed to daunt my pristine candor. For the first time in my life, I spoke with blunt honesty, letting the chips fall where they may. That fact gave me no great pleasure. For my survival, at that point in time, it simply had to be.

Kirk took my hands in his, gazing into my eyes. “We’ll get through this together, honey. I want you to do whatever you have to do to get past all this.”

Bottom line was, I needed to know me again in order to face the tomorrows. And to know me again, the
me
-pieces had to be joined together in a different order. The old no longer fit.

Was it true, after all, that
nothing
could put Humpty Dumpty together again?

All I knew was it was easier to fume than to hurt.
Easier
appealed to me simply because I’d shorted out in the cataclysmic explosion of adultery. It had depleted my emotional reserve. No quiet, lagoon refuge waited to embrace me and reflect in its still waters the real me, one I knew on some subliminal level. Now, indignation braced me for each leg of the arduous odyssey back to balance and purpose.

Quiet rage shaped my reasoning and simplified life for me. It told me I must never again be vulnerable. It was a knee-jerk certainty in my mind.

Thing was, I didn’t know my way out of the murky maze.