Making Waves (5 page)

The Junkins are a real nice couple, well-liked by everyone, not a thing like Cat's crazy parents. It's no wonder Cat turned out the way she did, her daddy was such a tight-ass. Her mama was nothing but a nervous wreck, crying all the time, finally ended up unable to function, to even go outside her own house. Really, it was pitiful. Cat's daddy used to beat the holy hell out of both of them. Nobody in town knew it but Aunt Essie and me, though. Some people in town actually liked Brother Jordan, thinking he was a real man of God and feeling sorry for him being burdened with such an unsuitable wife and daughter. Aunt Essie never could figure out how such a holy-roller got into the Methodist church, since they tend to be picky about their preachers and even make them go to preachers' college. Somehow, Brother Jordan slipped through the cracks, because he was more like the Holiness preacher, carrying on all the time about hell-fire and damnation and the sins of the flesh. The Methodists tolerated him for a few years but finally decided they were too dignified for such carryings-on. They persuaded their bishop to move him to some country church up in north Alabama. Cat was long gone by then, though. It was there, in that little country church away from everybody, that Cat's mama had her nervous breakdown and set the house on fire. She and Brother Jordan, neither one could get out in time. Poor Cat. Such a life she'd had! I missed her so bad and was going to call her tonight. It had been too long, way too long, since I'd talked to her.

Tim drove up just as I was about to wonder what on earth had happened to him. As soon as he parked his truck and got out, I could tell by the look on his face that everything went well at football practice. He must have been pleased with Tommy's performance.

I watched him carefully as he left the truck and started toward me. When he was contented and not too tired, his limp was not all that noticeable. I was sure of one thing—he couldn't have seen Taylor. Thank God for that!

Just as Tim almost reached the front steps, here came that Wanda Wooten from her tacky house across the street. I swear it's embarrassing to have such rednecks living there—it's just a plain ranch-style brick house, but soon as the Wootens bought it, Wanda actually put all her flower beds in old tires and painted them white. As if that weren't tacky enough, she lined the walkway with Clorox bottles, painted them white, and put pink petunias in them, to match her shutters. Like they say, you can take a girl out of the country but you can't take the country out of her—Wanda was raised so far out in the sticks the sun rose a day late.

She waved briefly at me but headed right toward Tim, stopping him before he could go any farther. I wondered what it was she wanted this time. I couldn't hear her, she was speaking to him so soft, almost like she didn't want me to overhear. Every single time her husband was on the road, she was over here wanting Tim to do something around the house for her, playing like she was so helpless and couldn't do anything by herself, big old farm girl like her. I know of course what she
really
wants with him, but Tim's too damn good for his own good, so of course that would never occur to him. Instead he lets her drag him over there and he spends hours fixing her washing machine or TV or stopped-up sink or something. Her kids are plenty big enough to do stuff like that. But what can you expect? Wanda was an Andrews before she married Billy Mack Wooten. Daddy always said there was three kinds of people in Zion County—whites, blacks, and Andrewses.

Evidently Tim promised to come over and fix something for Wanda later on, because I saw her prissing back to her house. She threw me a little wave over her shoulder, smiling. “Bye, Donnette, honey!” I felt like shooting her a bird but glared at her instead. If she thinks Tim'd ever notice her big fat Andrews butt, then she's got another think coming. Especially when he's got me. I try to keep him so satisfied he won't even look at another woman.

Finally Tim came up on the porch and sat in the swing beside me. Neither one of us said a word; we just sat there swinging, back and forth, back and forth, like an old married couple. It had gotten completely dark now, later than we usually eat supper, but neither of us mentioned eating.

The street lights had come on, and the night air was soft and sweet, perfumed with the flowers in the yard. I could see Brother Junkin sitting in his den—reading the Bible I imagined—the lamp next to him shining on his gray hair. Across the street in the tacky house, I saw Wanda Wooten at the sink washing dishes. She'd need to come over soon for me to re-dye her hair—I could see the dark roots, especially noticeable as she bent her head over, from here.

I looked over at Tim. He was relaxed, peaceful, swinging ever so slowly, also looking into the neighbors' houses. “Honey? You tired?” I asked him.

He smiled without looking at me, then reached over and put his hand on my knee.

“Yeah. And I'm getting hungry, too.”

“I figured that. Supper's ready, all we got to do is go inside and help our plates when we're ready.”

But neither of us made a move to go in, still swinging slowly. I took his hand and squeezed it.

“Tim? What are you thinking about?”

He turned his head slightly and looked past me at the beauty shop. Originally it'd been a front bedroom in the house, but that was before I was born, because it'd been a beauty shop as long as I could remember. It worked out well as a shop because it was both separate from the rest of the house and connected—you could only enter it from the porch.

It was mighty convenient to have your work at your home. I remember Aunt Essie canning her tomatoes, peas, and corn in between customers, running back into the house to check on the vegetables, then into the shop to check on the customers. It used to tickle Daddy; he said she'd can a head of hair and shampoo an ear of corn if she wasn't careful.

The only thing, the shop hadn't been modernized and had lots of old-fashioned equipment in it, heavy old hair-dryers and ugly black sinks. I hoped to be able to make enough within a year or so to fix it up.

“You thinking about the shop?” I finally had to ask Tim, since he kept on looking at it so long.

“Yeah, I was. I was thinking that you ought to name it,” Tim said. “Essie never needed to, everybody knew it was here. But times are different now.”

“Tim—what a great idea! Why hadn't I thought of that?” I squeezed his hand hard. Thank God he hadn't seen Taylor Dupree at the stadium and that football practice went well! And that he was able to think of something else for a change.

“What should I name it?”

“Well, what about Donnette's?” He smiled at me with a twinkle in his eye. He knew I'd never liked my name, named after my daddy Donald. I swore I'd never do that to a girl, though Tim teased me that our first daughter would be Timmette.

“
No way!
” I pulled my hand away from his playfully. “I'll come up with something better than that, don't worry.”

“Think of a real catchy name. Then, if you put a sign up front, folks from the highway can see it. It might be that you'd have folks passing through from Tuscaloosa to Mississippi who'd notice it, maybe stop by.”

I was really surprised. Tim
had
been giving this a lot of thought, and he was coming up with some good ideas. He surprised me even more, with what he said next.

“Tell you what, Donnette. I still got all my painting stuff from rehab, so I'll paint you a great big sign, hang it up for you. How about that?” We stopped swinging and looked at each other.

“Tim, that's wonderful! Would you really do that?”

“Of course I would.” He smiled at me. “The least I can do if you're going to support us.”

I smiled back but felt uneasy. It was a casual remark, meant teasingly, but I'd been afraid once I got the shop that something like that might come up. Though he never let on a bit, I knew that our situation had to bother him, to begin to eat away at his manhood and his pride. But I didn't think now was the time to discuss it, not tonight after I'd had such a hard day and seen Taylor and everything. I couldn't handle anything else. I decided to change the subject instead.

“Oh—I forgot to ask you. Were you pleased with Tommy at practice today?”

I could tell that was the right move as Tim's face lit up. He was awful crazy about his little brother and determined to help him make something of himself. Since Old Man Sullivan died, Tommy had been living with a great-aunt of theirs way out from Clarksville, but Tim hoped before too much longer we'd be able to have Tommy with us. We had the room, now that we had Aunt Essie's house—we hadn't in our little trailer before.

“I think Tommy's going to make it, Donnette. He's got the potential, and he sure has the drive. He wants to go on to college real bad—you know he's always wanted to be a vet, the way he loves animals. I hope to God he can do well enough to get him a good scholarship somewheres. He sure won't be able to go otherwise.”

Tim had his left arm on the back of the swing now, and he began to twirl my hair around his fingers, absentmindedly. Suddenly he stopped and frowned at me.

“Hey, I just remembered. I saw you at practice today—saw you tear out of that stadium like you'd just seen a ghost. I hollered for you but you didn't hear me. What on earth was the matter?”

I looked down at my fingernails, pretending to pick at a cuticle. I hated worse than anything to lie to Tim, because he never lied; he was honest to a fault. I thought for a minute about telling him, telling him about Taylor back in town and how I felt when I saw him. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring all that up again, with him so relaxed and peaceful lately, not tormented like he'd been the last two years. God forgive me, I just couldn't do it.

“Oh, nothing. I just remembered I'd left something on the stove so I had to run home before I burnt the house down.” It wasn't so hard to lie if I continued to look at my fingernail instead of into his soft blue eyes.

“You sure?” Tim asked me doubtfully. “You looked like you were about to pass out or something. You sure it wasn't anything else?”

“What else could it be?” I'd picked at my fingernail till it went to bleeding so I quit. Instead I looked down at my feet, gently pushing the swing, until Tim reached over and touched my face. I looked up at him then.

“You know as well as I do what it could be—being back at the stadium, seeing me on the field …”

I tried to look away but Tim took my chin in his hand, his big calloused hand both rough and gentle.

“Donnette, listen to me, honey. You got to stop worrying about me. I'm okay. Really I am.”

“You sure?”

“It's been two years. God knows, there's been plenty of times when I didn't think I'd make it. But I got to put all that behind me now.”

“But I don't know that we can do that, Tim. Ever.”

“Yes we can, baby. We have to. I'm lucky to be alive and to have you. And now, to own this house, and the shop—things are looking better for us. Nothing bad's going to happen to us now, honey. I promise you.”

“Oh, God, Tim—” Before I could stop myself, I was crying. Tim took me into his arms, using his left hand to place his lame right arm across my shoulder. I sobbed and sobbed while he held me close, cradled on his chest. “God, Tim,” I kept saying over and over, like a prayer. But as I quieted down and my crying stopped, I knew how much I wanted to believe him, wanted to believe it was all going to be over. Finally, after two long, tortured years. If I hadn't seen Taylor earlier, maybe I could. But I couldn't think of that now, or I'd start crying again. I had to pull myself together, for Tim's sake. So I said the first thing that came to my mind when I raised my head and dried my eyes.

“Tim? I've been thinking about Cat Jordan all day today. You know how you get people on your mind like that, just out of the blue sometimes?”

Tim nodded. “Don't you reckon Miss Maudie up and dying made you think of Cat, that and going back to the stadium? Made you start thinking about the old days?”

“I reckon so. Listen, I thought I'd give Cat a call tonight, tell her about Miss Maudie,” I told him.

“Really? Do you even have a number for her?”

“Far as I know, she's still in Atlanta. I believe we'd heard from her otherwise.”

Tim was quiet as he stroked my hair. I could tell he was doing some thinking, and finally he turned my face toward his again.

“Donnette? Tell you what—don't call her, okay?”

I was surprised. “Don't call her? But—how come?”

Tim shrugged and frowned. “I don't know. I guess because she's part of our past. Let's try and forget
all
of it, okay?”

I knew I'd never forget Cat, but I also knew I'd do anything on earth to help Tim.

“Sure, honey. If that's what you want—it was just a thought, anyway.”

Tim pulled me back into his arms and I snuggled close to him. All the unsettling events of the day seemed far away then. As always, when Tim held me close, I felt like nothing could hurt me, that nothing could ever come between us. I closed my eyes and the day swam before me like some kind of crazy kaleidoscope. I thought about Miss Maudie and the funeral parlor and how I'd fixed her up to look so good. I raised my head and smiled up at Tim.