Little Gale Gumbo (18 page)

Jack drained his beer and rose.

Patience or not, he just hoped the one thing Dahlia
did
have was an alibi.

 

Matthew pulled the pickup against the curb and put it into park, leaving the engine running. He and Dahlia looked up at the Sand Dollar's front porch, the stained-glass insert in the door, shades of amber and violet, lit from inside, warm and inviting.

Matthew studied Dahlia as she watched the street. Her cheeks were still hot from the wine, her dark eyes heavy. Dahlia felt his gaze on her. The question was on the edge of her tongue; she wanted so badly to ask:
Why didn't Holly come, Matty
?

She glanced over to her keys dangling in the ignition. He hadn't turned off the motor. He didn't mean for her to come up, and an alcohol-induced hurt bloomed within her.

But in the close quiet, Matthew wasn't as certain. He could feel the possibility floating between them. It wasn't so different from that night on the beach, or any of the other nights when he'd let her have her way. All she ever had to do was say the word.

Dahlia saw his brightening expression. “What?”

“Nothing.” Matthew shrugged, blushing slightly. “I was just remembering something.”

Something
. Dahlia grinned. “It's nice to see you smile,” she said.

“It's nice
to
smile.” He studied the streetlight, the balloon of moths at the edge of its glow fluttering madly. He let go a deep breath. “Pop had a good life here, Dee. A really good life. No matter what happens.”

“We all did, Matty. The best.”

She covered his hand where it lay on the steering wheel. The truth poured out of him like sap from a pierced maple. “She's fucking an architect. An architect she met in her yoga class.”

“Oh, shit.” Dahlia squeezed his knuckles. “We wondered why she didn't come.”

Matthew turned to her, feeling the alcohol stirring, warm and smooth. “I'm worried about you driving home. Maybe you should leave the truck here. I could walk you back.”

“It's only a few blocks.”

“If it's only a few blocks, then we can walk it.”
Or you could just stay here
, he thought reflexively.
Help me forget things. We were always good at that, weren't we, Dee?

Dahlia leaned over and kissed his cheek, lingering awhile against his jaw. He smelled good. Familiar. Warm. Safe.

“Get some sleep, Matty.”

He nodded, climbing out. While she moved across the seat, Matthew rested his hands on the driver's window, waiting for her. Dahlia shoved the car into gear.

“Seat belt,” he ordered, tugging the strap toward her.

Dahlia pulled it across her breasts, snapping it into place. Dear Matty, she thought. Still trying to take care of her.

“See you at eight,” she said.

“I'll be there.” Matthew pushed off from the door, patting the window rim, and watched Dahlia pull away, flats of mums sliding across the bed, the rusted pink tailgate spotted with peeling bumper stickers.

 

Josie dipped the last of the dishes into the sink of soapy water, watching her husband at the deck door. The smell of crab lingered in the kitchen, rising with each sunken plate. She took off her dish gloves, laid them on the edge of the sink.

“We're meeting at eight to go to the hospital tomorrow morning,” she said.

Wayne scratched at the thick hairs of his beard, his gaze fixed on the view.

“I think it's best if you all have some time alone with Ben first. Four people's a lot to cram into a tiny hospital room.”

Josie frowned at him, confused. “Baby, that's crazy. We've been waiting to see him.”

“I know,” Wayne said, his voice as far away as his gaze. “But I thought I might take the boat out tomorrow morning. Maybe try to clear my head on the water.”

Too shocked to argue, Josie just turned off the counter light and walked to the stairs. She stopped at the first step, her hand on the newel post. “You coming up?”

“In a little while,” he said without turning.

She nodded, then resumed her climb. Putting her hand in her pocket, she gripped the gris-gris bag she'd recently filled and dressed, feeling the long-lost relief of its bulk, the safety of its warm red felt.

A swell of longing filled her. But she wasn't sure, even as she climbed into bed a few minutes later, what—or whom—it was for.

 

Dahlia answered the phone shortly after eleven. It was the sisters' routine to call each other before bed, but tonight Dahlia couldn't help wondering whether Josie had called to make sure she hadn't stayed with Matthew at the hotel. Dahlia had heard the relief in her younger sister's voice when she picked up.

“Holly left him,” Dahlia said, cradling the phone against her shoulder while she smoothed lotion on her peeling heels. “For some architect in her yoga class. He just told me.”

“Oh, God. How could she?”

“Maybe she really liked his downward-facing dog.”

“Don't joke,” Josie scolded. “When?”

“He didn't say.”

“Poor Matty. On top of all this. Why didn't he tell us?”

“He just did.”

“No, I mean before. When it happened.”

“We're not exactly meeting at the cove anymore, Joze.”

“Well, obviously,” Josie said, hurt that Matthew had kept this from them, from her. “Do you think it was because they couldn't get pregnant?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“So what did he say?”

“I just told you.”

“Well, what else?”

“That was it.”

Dahlia could hear Josie nibbling on her thumbnail, the nervous tapping of teeth.

“I bet that's exactly why she left him,” Josie said. “God, I wish he'd told me. He knows I know what that feels like. I know how hard it is on a marriage to want to have a baby and not be able to.”

“They weren't married, Joze.”

“So? Neither were Momma and Ben, and they loved each other more than most married people do.” Josie paused, sighed. “God, it must have been because of Holly all along. Then again, Matty doesn't know that, does he? Oh, God, what if he thinks he was the reason they couldn't conceive?”

“What does it matter now?” Dahlia asked, wishing she'd never brought it up.

“Of course it matters, Dahl. You know Matty. He's probably been beating himself up over this.”

“I think he has other things on his mind.”

“I know that. I'm just saying maybe we should tell him now.”

“We can't. You know we can't.”

“We could,” Josie said. “We
won't
. There's a difference.”

The line went silent. Dahlia pumped out another dollop of lotion, rubbing it over her dry hands.

“What if Ben doesn't wake up, Dahl?”

“He will,” Dahlia said firmly. “The doctors are almost sure he will.”

“But they don't know how he'll be if he does. You heard what Matty said. Just because Ben comes to doesn't mean he'll recover. He could be a vegetable, Dahl. What kind of life can he have like that? It's too cruel.”

“You can't think that way.”

“I know. That's why I'm going to do one of Momma's cleansing rituals tomorrow. Just to be sure.” Josie paused. “Wayne isn't coming with us to the hospital.”

“Why not?”

“He says he thinks it's too many people at once. Does that make any sense? He's still downstairs. It's weird, Dahl. I can't help thinking it's because Matty's here and Wayne's just, I don't know,
sulking
or something. I can't believe he'd be that selfish.”

Dahlia set her lotion on the nightstand, the memory of Wayne's visit the night before flashing back to her. “He's just upset, Joze. Don't read so much into it.”

“Maybe.”

“Try to get some sleep, okay? I'll see you in the morning.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

When Dahlia hung up, she stared awhile at her hand on the phone, wondering whether the rest of her looked as old and unfamiliar as her fingers did, and why she never noticed before now.

Fifteen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Camille and the girls had three glorious months of freedom before Charles found them. The dreaded reunion came on a bitterly cold afternoon. It was Josie who saw him first, on her way back from the village with Camille and Dahlia. He was pressed against the railing on Ben's porch, his hands shoved under his armpits, the collar of his thin coat flipped up, the flaming points of his hair poking out from under his cap like sparks from a dry-wood fire, a short cigarette dangling from his chapped lips, two cases at his feet.

Josie heard her mother suck in a sharp breath behind her, but it was Dahlia who said, “Oh, fuck.”

“Dahlia Rose,” Camille said softly. “Let's keep our wits now.”

She took their mittened hands, squeezing them reassuringly.

“Look at y'all,” Charles said, grinning as they approached. “All y'all look like Eskimos!”

Panicked, Josie looked to her sister, but Dahlia's eyes were hard on Charles, as level as their mother's. Josie looked down, hoping he wouldn't call on her first, but he did.

“You in there, Julep?” Charles reached out to pry apart the thick shell of her puffy hood.

She smiled reflexively, ashamed at once at herself.

“Man, I've missed my girls,” he said weakly, his eyes fixed on Camille. “I've missed y'all real bad.” He turned to Dahlia, tilting his head. “I know what you're thinkin', darlin'. That I'm mad at ya for cuttin' your daddy like that, but I ain't. Promise.”

Dahlia met his eyes, her own without remorse.

“Girls, your daddy got carried away that day, and I'm real sorry about that. I understand why y'all took off like you did. Had a hell of a time findin' y'all, though. Cost me too. That new girl they hired at the beauty parlor wouldn't hunt up your forwardin' address for me for less than fifty. Can you believe that?” Charles took one last drag off his cigarette, then flicked it over the railing. “But that's all water under the bridge—look who made the trip with me!” He reached down and picked up the trumpet case at his feet, his grin huge now as he swung the case through the air. “Donna and me thought we might teach these Yankees what real music sounds like. Whatcha think about that?”

Josie swallowed, sure she would throw up all over her salt-lapped boots.

Less than ten minutes later, Charles was in his stocking feet and lounging on the couch, railing at the indignities of his two-day bus ride and smoking enough cigarettes to fill a chipped tea saucer.

“I can't believe these people up here, Camille,” he called out to their mother, who was already in the kitchen, warming up leftover biscuits for him. “You know I couldn't get a decent bowl of grits outside of Virginia? I mean, how hard is it to make a bowl of grits?”

Josie glanced quickly to Dahlia, but her older sister wouldn't lift her eyes from her soda. A Miles Davis record blared on the player. Josie could only imagine what Ben and Matthew must have been thinking on the other side of the house.

“I still can't understand why y'all came all the way up here,” Charles said, looking around at the unfamiliar furnishings. “Where'd y'all get this stuff, anyway?”

“The apartment came furnished,” Camille said.