I kissed him quickly and shoved him off me. “Hit the showers, Friday. Use the spigot marked C.”
After some unsuccessful cajoling on his part, he finally rolled out of bed. The box containing the medal fell on the floor with a jangling thump.
He bent over and picked it up. “Where did this come from?” he asked, his voice tight.
“The dresser drawer.” I handed him the picture.
“This was with it.”
He studied the photograph, an indecipherable look on his face.
“Gabe, that’s Dewey, isn’t it? Where was that?”
He hesitated, then said, “An Hoa.”
“Who’s the other guy?”
“Sal.” The name came out as sharp as boot heels clicking. “Salvador Quintera.”
“Who . . . ?”
A veil dropped over his face, and he turned away as if I hadn’t spoken. “I have to take a shower.” He opened the nightstand drawer, threw the picture and box in, and left me staring after him.
When he came back to bed, I curled under his arm, swallowing the questions tickling the tip of my tongue. Gabe’s tendency to keep whole parts of himself wrapped up in secrecy had been a touchy subject between us from the beginning. I was trying to be patient, but I’d always been a person who, once I decided I wanted to know about something, jumped right in and learned everything I could in the shortest time possible. Though I tried not to compare our marriage with my first one, I couldn’t seem to help it. One of the most comforting and fulfilling aspects of my relationship with Jack had been the complete openness between us, something I realize now I’d taken for granted. That kind of emotional intimacy came much easier when you were fifteen and eager to share every little feeling and experience. When connecting with another person at the halfway point in your lives, discoveries were made more slowly, and with more hesitation. That went against everything that seemed natural to me, and sometimes I felt like an impatient barrel-racing pony being forced to walk the cloverleaf course.
I sighed and kissed the bottom of his chin. “Good night, Friday.”
He tightened his arm around my shoulders and echoed my sigh. “Dream sweet,
querida
.”
The next morning, a sharp rat-tat-tat on the bedroom door woke me.
“Gabe,” I murmured into the pillow. “Someone’s at the door.” The rapping continued. He groaned and turned over.
“I’m on vacation,” he grumbled.
“Benni, are you awake?” Kathryn called through the door. “There’s a telephone call for you. Long distance, I think.”
“I’ll be right there,” I called out, jumping out of bed. The bedside clock radio said seven o’clock. Who would be calling me in Kansas at this hour of the morning? I pulled on the pair of jeans I’d left in a crumpled heap on the floor the night before and tried to fingercomb my tangled curls.
Already neatly dressed, Kathryn sat in the breakfast nook sipping a cup of tea. Daphne reclined across her mistress’s fluffy house slippers and aimed a halfhearted snap in my direction. I ran my tongue over my teeth, feeling like a stall that hadn’t been shoveled out for a week.
“Uh, good morning,” I said. “You said I had a call?”
Wearing her habitually aloof expression, Kathryn pointed to the brown wall phone. I picked it up and gave a tentative hello.
“What did you do, stop to bake a cake? I’ve had it!” Dove’s familiar gravelly voice blurted out. I felt my homesickness ease. Then panic set in.
I turned around and faced the wall papered in rust and brown coffeepots. “Dove, what’s wrong?” I asked in a low voice.
“They’re driving me to drink, Benni. I swear they are. It’s all your grampa’s fault. If he hadn’t looked so all-fire handsome behind those matched bays fifty-nine years ago, I would have never gotten married.”
“What’s going on? Where are you?”
I could hear her yelling to someone. “Hey, you. Yes, you, young man. Where are we? What do you mean, what do I mean? Clean out your ears, boy. Where are we?” She came back on the line. “Elfrida, Arizona. Ham’s Cafe in Elfrida, Arizona. We stopped in Tombstone and saw the World’s Largest Rose Bush, Benni. Lord, you should have seen it. Aphid heaven is all I got to say.”
“Dove,” I said, keeping my voice calm and patient. I could feel my mother-in-law’s eyes boring into my back. “Why are you calling me?”
“Just wanted to inform
someone
that I am getting fed up clean to my ears of all this squabbling, and I swear to Betsy that I’ll not put up with it another day.” In the background, I heard Daddy say, “Now, Mama . . .”
“Don’t ‘mama’ me,” she snapped. “Y’all are walking a thin line.”
“Dove,” I said. “I have to go. This call must be costing you a fortune. Just try and get everyone here in one piece.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m putting this call on that number you gave me a while back. Works great. Don’t need no money at all.”
“My AT&T card? That’s supposed to be for emergencies.”
“Honeybun, if this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is. Got to run, my biscuits and gravy are here. Oh, Lord, this stuff looks like paste. I can’t eat this. Hey, you, young man. Yes, you . . .” She hung up. “Goodbye,” I said to the dial tone so our conversation would appear somewhat normal to my mother-in-law. “See you soon.”
“Is everything all right?” Kathryn asked.
“Fine,” I said quickly. “My grandmother’s on her way. She’s having a great time.” I inched my way backwards out of the kitchen. “I think I’ll go take a shower.” Daphne’s caffeine must have kicked in at that point because she followed me all the way up the stairs, growling softly under her breath until, in her deranged little mind, she convinced herself that she’d chased me into the bathroom.
Later that morning while we drove around Derby exploring Gabe’s old childhood haunts, I told him what was going on with Dove and Daddy. Kathryn had gone up to the Methodist church, where the Ladies Altar Guild was putting the finishing stitches on the opportunity quilt to be raffled off this coming Saturday, the second day of the Bear’s Paw Quilt Show.
“Something terrible’s going to happen before they get here,” I said.
“You worry too much,” he said. “Let’s stop here for a minute.” He pulled into the side parking lot of the brick police station.
“Does Dewey work on Sundays?” I asked him in the lobby.
“No.” The dispatcher behind the glass window just happened to be an old classmate, so getting into Dewey’s office was a snap. Gabe sprinkled a layer of salt in the bottom of Dewey’s clean white Derby Police coffee cup.
“That’s mean,” I said, but laughed.
“Small potatoes next to my hundred-dollar speeding ticket.”
At four o’clock we were back at his mother’s house getting ready for the party. Kathryn had bowed out, saying she was tired from a day of quilting and that this was a young people’s party anyway. Copying Gabe, I ignored Becky’s sixties theme and opted for familiarity. I wore new dark blue Wranglers, a sleeveless white cotton shirt, and leather sandals. Gabe dressed California-casual in khaki chinos, a pale pink polo shirt, and his ever-faithful Topsiders.
Becky and Stan lived about three miles outside Derby’s city limits, on a five-acre lot in an unincorporated part of Sedgwick County. As we drove toward their house on a narrow, curving highway, it became obvious that Derby and its surrounding area was a community in transition. Though many of the large lots still boasted old wood-frame houses like Kathryn’s, there were just as many new and expensive contemporary homes, complete with matching horse stables and shiny satellite dishes.
“We used to call this Deadman’s Curve,” Gabe said as the road made a sharp bend to the left. Dark clouds were beginning to fill the stark blue sky; each breath I took seemed to require more effort, verifying the KYQQ disc jockey’s pronouncement of thunderstorms later that night. “Hot and steamy country,” he drawled. “Just like this next song by Tish Hinojosa.”
We turned off on a dirt road bisecting two seemingly endless fields of bushy-headed milo. At the black-and-white cow mailbox labeled “Kolanowski,” we turned and drove up a gravel driveway, parking behind a dozen or so cars and trucks. The house was a two-story red brick with four white pillars, a long front porch, and window boxes full of gold and rust marigolds. Sunflowers, their brown faces just starting to droop, lined the edge of a vegetable garden planted at the side of the house. We stepped out of the car, and the brisk warm breeze blew a scent of pine around us. I looked across the road at a forest of pine trees planted in neat rows and read the sign “Spears’ Christmas Trees. Opens December 1.” Peeking through the trees was the pointed patchwork roof of an ancient two-story farmhouse, the corner of a wooden barn faded gray, and part of a metal corral.
Without knocking, Gabe pushed open the front door to Becky’s house. We walked into an airy foyer that held only an antique walnut hall tree and a long navy-and-burgundy braided rug. “Becky’s probably in the kitchen,” he said. I followed him through the open double doors on our left into the living room. A large, red-brick fireplace dominated the room. The furniture, hunter-green and navy plaid, was an expensive Ethan Allen country style.
Becky’s love for quilts was apparent everywhere, from the navy and white Monkey Wrench crib quilt on the wall next to the fireplace to the Sunshine and Shadows quilt made of cheerful, Depression-era feed sack material to the quilt-patterned pillows scattered across the sofa and matching wing chairs.
“Clever,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Her theme. Only another quilter would recognize it.” I pointed to each of the four pillows. “Rocky Road to Kansas, Kansas Dugout, Kansas Dust Storm, and I can especially appreciate this one.” I picked up the pillow and ran my fingers over the jagged windmill-like pattern. Gabe waited, his eyes questioning.
“Kansas Troubles,” I said, grinning.
“Gabe! Is that you?” a feminine voice squealed. The swinging door to the kitchen opened, and Becky walked out wiping her hands on a spotless white baker’s apron. She wore blue jeans and a red tank top with a matching ribbon around her brown ponytail. She hugged Gabe fiercely, then pulled away and faced me.
“You must be Benni. It’s so great to finally meet you.” She held out a tanned hand. “How was your trip? Isn’t it awful there are no direct flights to Kansas from California? I hate landing in Colorado, don’t you? Always that turbulence. When are your grandmother and father going to get here? Gabe says you’re quite an expert on quilts. Your job sounds fascinating. You must tell me all about it. It’s so great to have another quilt lover in the family. They all think I’m crazy. I mean, I’m an addict, you know? Keep me away from a fabric store for
any
length of time, and I go into withdrawal. And I won’t even mention my antique quilt habit—Stan has no idea the money I’ve spent.” She squeezed my arm. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re both here. It’s going to be such fun.” She paused to take a breath.
Gabe laughed and ran his large hand up and down her back. “Benni, this is my sister Becky. She has an Off switch here somewhere.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, her cheeks flushing a pale rose, and gave her brother a shove. “Ignore him. If it were up to him, the conversation would consist of ‘How do you do—what’s to eat?’ ”
“Good question,” Gabe said. While we were laughing at the threatening fist she held in front of his nose, the door to the kitchen swung open, and his other sister, Angel, walked in.
“It’s about time you two got here,” she said. She wore tight men’s Levi’s, tan hightop work boots, and a white cotton-gauze shirt thin as a handkerchief and tied in a knot under her breasts. She slipped her arm through Gabe’s. “It was so good talking to you last night,
hermano grande
. I wish you’d move back here.”
“Not a chance, Angel.” He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him. “There’s too much keeping me in California. This is Benni.”
She looked down at me, an inscrutable expression on her face. Five seconds of awkward silence ensued, and it was instantly apparent which parent she’d taken after. I stuck out my hand and looked her square in the eyes. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she said, shaking my hand quickly, her tone cool.
Slightly irritated, I turned back to Becky. “Your quilt collection is impressive. I like the Kansas theme of your pillows.”
She looked pleased. “You
do
know your quilt patterns. I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour before you go back to California. There’s not a room in this house without quilts. But now, let’s go down to the basement. We just had it redecorated last fall. Gabe, you’ll love how Stan hooked up the jukebox to the new sound system. It’s so loud, you can taste the music.”
“And how are my nieces going to sleep through all the noise we’re going to make?” Gabe asked.
“They’re staying over at friends’ houses,” she said.
“Tonight, in honor of you and Benni, we’re all going to get wild and act like teenagers again.”
“Sounds good to me. When do we start?” he said.
The basement family room was decorated in a red, white, and blue patriotic motif. A long oak bar with six red vinyl bar stools claimed one end of the huge room. Stan, Becky’s husband, stood behind a professional-looking bar tap and pulled beers for the guests. Behind him hung a red, white, and blue Feathered Star quilt, a pattern I recognized from one of the quilting magazines our co-op subscribed to. A Dick Tracy pinball machine flanked one side of the bar, and one of those Wurlitzer jukeboxes with the bubbling neon occupied the other side. “Little Red Riding Hood” by Sam the Sham & the Pharaohs blared from speakers hung in the room’s four corners. In the back, people crowded around a carved walnut pool table, their exhilarated whoops and loud wolf howls sung along with the refrain of the song telling me most had already made more than one trip to the bar. Three dark blue love seats and some scattered easy chairs upholstered in a bright red-and-white-plaid fabric circled the small wooden dance floor in the center of the room.