Breeding Ground (24 page)

“You couldn't do anything else.”

Spence smiled cryptically and closed his eyes. “But that wasn't the end of it.”

“Somehow I didn't think it would be.” Jo sipped coffee from a large white mug, then leaned back in her chair.

“She called me repeatedly that night, then drove over with Giselle. I answered the phone the first couple of times and then didn't. I opened the door once and said I was very sorry, but there wasn't anything else to be said.

“After that, she circled the house, pounding on the doors and windows till after one o'clock, with Giselle in the car all that time. How destructive is that? I mean what does that do to Gigi? How can she help being warped?”

“That's the saddest part.”

“It was worse than I ever imagined.”

“Did Tara come to work Thursday?”

“Yep. She didn't try to talk to me but she left me a letter defending herself and wanting to talk again. Then Friday night she called about eleven saying she was deathly ill, throwing up uncontrollably, that she'd passed out once and didn't want to have Giselle there alone in case there was something dangerously wrong with her. She said her neighbor was out of town, and her mom was visiting her parents in Knoxville.

“So I went. If it was true, what else could I do? And, of course, Giselle was up watching us. I've never seen anyone look more sad and pathetic than Tara, lying on the sofa, barely able to raise a hand, with a bucket she'd used to throw up in sitting beside her.

“Giselle sat in my lap, leaning up against me, holding my hand, asking why I wasn't marrying her mother, and couldn't she ever see me again, and how could I leave her forever, when she wanted me to be her new daddy.” Spence put Emmy down and walked out into the lawn, his shoulders sagging as he crouched down to Emmy, whose boxerish ears had flopped happily as she'd bounded over and thrown herself on her back so Spence could rub her chest.

Jo tried to think of something useful to say and came up with absolutely nothing.

“Then Gigi went into the bathroom.” Spencer stood up and walked back toward Jo. “When she came back she was carrying a little bottle, asking if she could have it, since she'd found it in the wastepaper basket.

“Tara said, in the tiniest weakest sickest little voice, ‘That's not for you, sweetie, that belongs to Mommy. Bring it right here and get ready for bed. It's way past your bedtime.' It was ipecac. Tara'd taken it to make herself vomit.” Spencer shrugged and shook his head, then sat on the arbor's stone step.

“How'd you react to that?”

“I picked Giselle up, and kissed her on the forehead, and held her for a long time. Then put her down and walked out the door.”

Neither of them said anything. Till Spencer walked over, and sat in his chair again, and drank the rest of his beer.

“So that was the end of it?”

“Nope. Tara called after I got home till I took the phone off the hook. First thing Saturday morning I called her mom, who hadn't gone to Knoxville, by the way, and told her what had happened, and that I had to stay away from Tara so she understood it was over for good. And that meant that she, Tara's mom, would have to take care of Tara and Gigi if anything else happened. That the best thing for Tara and Giselle was to accept the fact, once and for all, that Tara and I are finished.”

“How'd she take it?”

“Her mother? I thought she was sympathetic. But she didn't want to get involved either. She's been through hell with Tara, don't you think? With what Betsy had to say? And from what she implied herself when she talked to me.”

“I know that was true in high school.”

“So I left my phone off the hook, did what I had to do with the horses, and then went to the hospital to see if they were ready to release Mom. They released her while I was there, and as we were packing her up, Tara called her room to talk to me. Not what Mom needed. Having to talk to Tara.”

“No.”

“And you only know part of it. On top of the blood clot, which is fortunately better, there's this guy who grew up with her writing her crazy letters.”

“Why?”

“I shouldn't have said anything.”

“Why? You must need to tell someone. If I hadn't been able to whine to Alan after Tommy died I don't know what I would've done.”

Spencer looked as though he were arguing with his instincts. But then he rubbed his eyes, and started again. “His dad was in medical practice with Mom's dad in Virginia. They'd dated each other years ago, and he broke up with her when they were in college.

“After they'd both married and had kids of their own, the families became friendly when we ran into each other in Williamsburg, where they were from. Then this last fall, he and his wife and daughter were visiting his mother, and his daughter got ill. His dad was dead by this time, and my grandfather treated her. She was hard to diagnose. Appendicitis often is, and after the surgeon operated, she developed peritonitis, and they ended up losing her.

“So he blamed my grandfather, who died six months later. Now this guy's decided it was deliberate, and that my mother's always hated him, ever since he broke it off with her, and it was a conspiracy to hurt him.”

“Sounds like paranoia.”

“I think it must be. He's quit his job and left his wife. And another letter came Friday.”

“Which is not what your mom needs.”

“She'd like to be able to help him but doesn't know how to begin.”

Jo watched Spence throw a stick for Emmy and said, “You folks need some good news.”

“You know any, do you?” Spence smiled sardonically and grabbed on to Emmy's stick so she could tug against him.

“I do actually. You've met Buddy Jones?”

“Sure.”

“He works part-time for Mercer Tate, and Mercer told him this week that he should trailer his mare over there this Thursday, and they'll breed her to one of his stallions. Mercer's drastically reducing the rate, and Buddy can work off part of it and pay him the rest over time.”

“Good for Mercer.”

Jo patted Emmy, rubbing her ears and under her chin, after she'd sat on Jo's feet. “I'm glad your mom's doing better. And I'm sorry about Giselle.”

“Thanks. You know you saved me from damn near ruining my life.”

“Good. Alan and I were both afraid you'd never speak to us again.”

“So will you tell Alan? I don't want to go through it again if I don't have to.”

“Sure.” It almost looked to Jo as though Spence wanted to say something else but had decided to hold himself back. “Is your mom out of the woods?”

“The doctors think so. They're keeping her on blood thinners and making her put her leg up, but they say the clot's dissolved pretty well. Booker and I are supposed to go to Europe in two weeks, but we'll cancel if there's any doubt about how well she's doing.”

“The broken engagement must be a relief to her.”

“Yeah. But there's more for her to worry about. She also found out today that when she let an employee go for drinking on the job, he got jailed that night for being drunk and disorderly. And the day after her blood clot hit, he got put in the hospital in what sounds like a psych ward that works with alcoholics.”

“Isn't that good?”

“I hope so. But Mom's wondering if she could've done more. And after he gets out, if there's something she should do then. She doesn't need that on her mind right now.”

“No.”

“I've gotta go.” Spence was up and walking toward the driveway when he said, “Thanks” over his shoulder.

Tuesday, May 8, 1962

Two days later, Spence got to work at six, the way he usually did, and found Tara sitting in his office. She was in a guest chair, dressed more sedately than usual in a black skirt and blouse, her hands folded in her lap, her hair tied back.

“You don't have to worry. I'm not going to make a scene. I only wanted to tell you how sorry I am I've been so emotional and made it harder for you.”

Spencer didn't answer. He stood just inside his door, waiting to see what she'd do.

“I've had trouble handling feelings before. I know I can be more sensitive than I probably should be. And I b'lieve I've done that with you.” Her voice was high and breathy the way it always was unless she was angry, when she screamed as loud as anyone. But this time it was so quiet Spence had to strain to understand her.

“I don't want to lose my job. I need to work to support Giselle. I can't afford any trouble between me and your mom.”

“She'll be fair. If you come to work and do it well, nothing would have to change.”

“Thank you.” She stood up, her arms at her sides, her head hanging for a moment, before she looked up in Spencer's eyes. “If you ever could see your way clear, Gigi would like to go to church with you.”

“I'd like to take her. I would. But Gigi needs to understand that we won't be seeing each other anymore.” Spencer was looking away from Tara when she lowered her head and walked by.

At eleven, on her lunch break, when Spencer was in a production meeting in the plant, Tara walked into his office, and opened the center drawer in his desk.

His keys weren't there. But his sports jacket was hanging on the back of the door, and she went through the pockets till she found his keys.

She slipped two off the key ring.

And took them to the hardware store four blocks away and had copies made while she waited.

She was back in his office before twelve, sliding his keys on the ring, before he was done with his meeting.

Wednesday, May 9, 1962

Jo had already interviewed the microbiologists and technicians in Equine Pharmaceuticals' lab. And that day she measured the space and drew freehand plans, and talked to Alan about organization and work flow. There were task areas she thought should be switched, and she could see ways to add counter space and another desk if he wanted one.

She'd gotten there at three, and they'd worked until after five when Alan asked her if she'd like to go back to his place and grab a quick bite. Jack was working at the Franklins' home and wouldn't be home until seven or after.

Jo called Buddy's wife, who said she'd be happy to take dinner to Toss. Jo and Alan drove separately to his house on Pisgah Pike.

Alan had started out stiffer than usual but warmed up as they'd worked at the lab, and when they were getting dinner together – he grilled steak while she made a salad and steamed fresh asparagus – he seemed as polite and businesslike as usual but not as calm and relaxed.

Once they started eating on his screened-in porch, he began to thaw and turn into something like himself – the easy-going, humorous himself he'd been before she mentioned Tom talking about him on the tape.

Jo told him what Spencer had said on Sunday and that he'd called and told her Tara had apologized at the office too, though Spence still hadn't trusted her to mean what she said.

Alan and Jo hypothesized about what Tara was up to, and how much mental illness played a part. They talked about the Kentucky Derby the Saturday before, and how well Bill Hartack had ridden Decidedly, setting him up to win. And moved on from there to Jo's work at White Hall and the lab at Equine Pharmaceuticals.

Then Alan swirled the Burgundy in his glass, took a swallow and set the glass down, and looked directly at Jo. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

“I'm not sure I should tell you.”

“Because?”

“When I told you I had a question, it seemed to make you want to avoid the question, and me as well.” Jo smiled when she said it, while untying the leather strip that held her hair in a ponytail – tying it back up tighter while Alan sat and watched.

He stared at her after she'd finished, holding his fork without seeming to notice, before he started to speak. “That's because I had an idea what you might want to ask.”

“I don't want to bring up anything painful. There're plenty of people who won't talk about the war, and I know there're lots of good reasons for that.”

They sipped their wine and finished their salads. And stared out at the night.

“Did Tom tell you something happened when I was in the hospital that I never talk about?”

“Yes.”

“I've only discussed it with my parents. No one else needed to know.”

“I see.”

“No. You don't see.” He said it matter-of-factly.

But it still stung.

Alan said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to sound so cold.”

Jo blotted the corners of her mouth with her napkin before she said, “That's okay.”

“I was injured by a grenade. I was patched up and sent back to the States. And I was in the hospital for a long time. There were so many guys hurt worse than I was, I felt guilty. Why was I as whole as I was when all these other fellows weren't?”

Jo knew better than to say anything in that silence, and she sat back in her chair.

“There was a woman who was volunteering in the hospital. A history professor who was really good with the head wounds and the shell-shocked, reading to them, and playing cards and games like checkers and chess. There was something healing about her. The humor. The quietness in her. I never could put my finger on it.

“Anyway, I was one of the head wounds that healed well. So I watched her with the other guys and got to know her myself.” Alan poured the last of the Burgundy into both their glasses, then pushed his chair farther from the table, and laid his left leg on an empty chair. “She was a widow with a daughter. Her husband was a Marine who was killed during the Bataan death march. After we'd known each other for a year, Jane and I got engaged.” Alan stopped again.

Jo held her breath, holding herself back from asking anything else.

“The wedding was two weeks away. We'd gotten to know the minister really well. Jane had made a dress for her daughter and a suit for herself. My parents were about to come out on the train from upstate New York. Then she got a call from a Marine in San Francisco who'd been a friend of her husband's. Her husband was alive and with him, and had been for months. He'd survived Bataan and been shuffled among P.O.W. camps all across Japan. He'd been tortured beyond endurance. And he was so traumatized by what had become of him that he didn't want to come back to Jane and let her see him the way he was then. But his Marine buddy couldn't keep taking care of him. He didn't know how to do it. Jane, of course, did what she should've done, and went to bring her husband home.”