Authors: Suzanne Jenkins
“She loved me!” Mary screamed. “We loved each other, you piece of shit. You didn’t deserve someone like her.”
“I didn’t know she was pregnant,” he said, dodging her flaying hands. “It was fifteen years ago. I was just a kid.”
“That’s no excuse,” she spit out, getting off the bed. A lump in her throat hurt from screaming. Leaving him in disgust, she went back to her own apartment and locked the door. She’d never admitted that she and Mary had been lovers to anyone. It was so delicate, Margaret refusing to discuss it in their conversations afterward because it didn’t mean the same thing to her. But to Mary, it was everything, especially after Margaret began to slip. Seeing her deteriorate was more than Mary could stand after what Margaret meant to her. Now that Alan knew, the beauty of it was cheapened, he knowing ruined it. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she lowered her face in her hands and started to sob in earnest, broken-hearted. Three months after her death, the finality of Margaret dying hit her in its fullest power, grief overwhelming her. “Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?”
Chapter 20
While Alan Johnson moved out of Mary’s house, heading to Beauregard to see if Cate would take him back, Frank and Ellen were at home after having her blood drawn by Margo at the clinic. Frank was putting another flat of petunias in the ground while Ellen made dinner; meatballs and spaghetti tonight. He insisted on doing the planting alone although it was something they’d done together in the past because having to be out there among the decimated peonies was too upsetting for her. They were trying to forget and move on. It would be easier to do once the garden was colorful again.
Knowing Alan Johnson was the stranger at the edge of the wood made Ellen feel a little safer; at least it wasn’t someone meaning to do her harm. Now all they had to do was wait for a week to get the blood results back, and then they would decide what to do with the information. Dinner was almost ready; a cover over the simmering sauce would keep it from spattering all over as she went out to tell Frank. Squatting down, putting the last flower in, Frank’s back was to the house. After doing battle at the lawyer’s office and working all day in the hot garage, he was sweating in the dirt for her. A sense of peace and of love flowing over her, Ellen was convinced that no matter what the result of the blood test was, Frank would always be her father.
“Time to eat, Frank.”
“That was fast.” He rocked back on his heels, sniffing the air. “I can smell Italian out here.”
“The flowers look very nice,” she said softly, smiling. “Thank you for doin’ this.”
“No problem. Can’t let a spoilsport ruin it for us.”
“Is that all it was?” she asked, uncertain. “It feels like a lot more. It feels very personal. Spiteful.” Walking to the porch, he reached up to take his hat off and scratched his head.
“Only if you let it. Don’t give nobody that kind of power over you.” He put his arm around her and they walked into the house together. Hanging his straw hat up on the peg behind the door, Frank looked around the living room as if he were seeing it for the first time in a while.
“You know, we got the same old furniture we had when my ma was alive. I think it’s time we spruce it up around here. What do you say?”
Ellen followed his eyes, to the upholstered chair with the carved wooden arms that her mother once sat in and the footstool covered in petit point that Frank’s mother had worked, where Margaret rested her feet, trim legs crossed at the ankles. Behind it were ancient maple bookshelves Frank senior built, filled with Margaret’s books. Next to the brass floor lamp stood Frank’s recliner where he sat to watch boxing on TV every Saturday night, drinking a beer or two. The right side of the couch was Ellen’s territory, and on the step table next to it was a pile of books to read and a good reading lamp. “I don’t want to change it,” she said passionately. “No thank you, Frank. Unless you really don’t like it, I say leave it be. I’ve had enough change for one day if you don’t mind. The house stayin’ the same is one thing I can count on.”
“Okay, just a suggestion on account of everything being so turned upside down I thought a little change inside might be in order.”
They made small talk over dinner, but what kept surfacing was Ellen’s fear. “I just don’t feel like I can ever sit out on the porch again. Or stay home alone.”
“All this only just happened,” Frank reminded her. “You might be expectin’ a bit much. But I have an idea. Let’s teach you to shoot a gun. We’ll set up a target out behind the garage. I got my old bale o’ hay and we just need to attach a target to it.”
“I’d like that,” she said, holding up her hand like it was a gun. “I dare anyone to pick my flowers. Bang, bang!”
“Ha! Nope, this isn’t for flower pickers. Shootin’ a gun is only if yer life is threatened.”
“Let’s do it soon,” she replied.
“We can do it tomorrow after work,” he said. “While we still have some light.” Ellen felt instant relief knowing she’d be able to protect herself, just in case.
Mary had an old-fashioned temper tantrum after Alan left. Knowing he was going back to Towering Pines didn’t help; Miss Logan would probably hear the whole story of their fight and it would end up being chair side conversation at the beauty salon. Thinking about it, the whispers at the café, even the baggers at Family-Owned gossiping about her, she tore the sheets off his bed and stomped on them for a few minutes before stuffing them in the washer, pouring in extra bleach. Next, she took the mug he’d used for the past week out to the concrete driveway to smash to bits with a shovel, working up a sweat.
“Mary Cook, you better sweep that up good so no visitors get a flat.” She looked at what she’d done and at her concerned neighbor who was watching her antics over the fence, but waved him off. A shard of glass wouldn’t flatten a tire. “He musta been a heartbreaker to make you so mad.”
“Peter go back into your house, please,” she said, bringing the shovel up over her head again for a final smash. A little piece of the mug hit her leg and she didn’t even feel it until she went back inside for a broom and noticed a slender thread of blood running down her calf. She grabbed a paper towel and pressed it against her leg, anger abating, sadness replacing it. If she’d known he was the THEE Alan, the Alan of Ellen’s father, she’d never had gotten involved. But to be honest, she’d wondered, already entertaining the fantasy of telling Margaret,
IF
she’d still be alive. The scenario went through her head, going to the hospital, holding Margaret, stroking her back.
“Alan’s living with me; he’s sleeping in my bed at night. I couldn’t get Frank, but I could get Alan.”
But you couldn’t keep him
, she thought, anger welling up again. Margaret would say that,
I couldn’t keep him, but
you couldn’t keep him, either.
Mary began to cry, the unfairness of it. She was alone, again.
***
Driving to Beauregard, Alan remembered that he wanted to tell the sheriff what Mary said she saw in Frank’s living room. He didn’t believe it for a second, but telling was the right thing to do, the first step toward protecting his daughter, just in case. Pulling into the gas station on the way to Cate’s, there was a pay phone outside on the side of the building. He dialed the operator and asked for the sheriff. Dispatch came on. “I need to talk to the sheriff about a child maybe being in danger.” He stumbled over the words, so foreign to his tongue and doubts about the validity of Mary’s story making him regretful for having made the call in the first place.
“Hold the line please,” dispatch said. Alan looked down at the glass and gravel ground almost into dust, intermingling with busted black top.
“Sheriff Dalton,” a familiar voice said.
“Sheriff, this is Alan Johnson. Ellen Fisher’s father.” It was premature, but so what. “Mary Cook told me she was over at the McPherson place a few nights ago and witnessed a deplorable act between Frank and my daughter. Now I don’t believe it, but she says they were kissing, holding on to each other. Like lovers.”
Boyd Dalton immediately thought of the destroyed garden. “Did she tell you what night it took place?”
“No sir, just that she was walkin’ by the river. But like I said, I don’t believe it, but I felt it was my duty to let you all know down there at the sheriff’s office.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I’ll look into it.” They said goodbye and Alan hung up and walked back to his car.
“I’ve got to get over to Seymour for a bit.” Boyd stuck his head in the control room of the station before he headed out to Mary Cook’s. He’d have an interview with her before the night was up.
***
The lights were on in the dining room at Towering Pines. Alan hesitated, dreading a public admonishment from Cate and Miss Logan. He thought it might be in his favor to let them see him vulnerable since he needed something from Cate.
“I’m back,” he said, announcing his arrival. But they’d watched him unloading his bag out of the front seat of the car, and were waiting expectedly, especially Miss Logan. When he glanced into the dining room, it was at a sea of smiling faces, not a wagging finger in sight.
“I see that,” Cate said, getting up from her chair. “Come in and eat with us.”
“Okay, I’d like that.” He followed her back into the room, everyone watching, forks poised above plates. “You have a room available?” There was a stranger at the table, a lovely woman with blond hair wound into a twist in the back of her head, very 1940’s.
“Yep, you can have your old room at the top of the stairs if you’d like,” Cate said. “This is Miss Margo Portland, by the way.” She nodded toward Margo who was smiling.
“Okay, I recognize you,” Alan said. “You’re over at the clinic.” Margo nodded and smiled. Now that he’d revealed it to everyone, she was legally free to acknowledge him.
“
My
guest,” Miss Logan said.
“Help yourself,” Cate directed, pointing to the buffet. “Roast beef tonight.” Alan took a plate and heaped on the food, not realizing how hungry he was.
“So what happened at Mary’s?” Miss Logan said, launching right in.
“Sally, for God’s sake, shut up!”
“That’s okay, Cate. I might as well get everything out in the open. I believe I’m Ellen Fisher’s father and Mary wasn’t too happy about it.” Margo and Miss Logan exchanged looks.
“I wondered why you were so interested in Margaret,” Miss Logan said, smirking.
“Yes, and I am sorry about seemly deceiving you,” Alan said. “I knew when I was fishing for information that it might come down to this, you being annoyed, but I had to take the risk.
You
started talking about Margaret without me saying a thing. I blindly arrived here having seen only a newspaper article and a name. Everything fell into place. It’s almost scary how easy it was; dumb luck.” The problems Miss Logan instigated by accusing Frank of passionately kissing Ellen were foremost in her mind.
“Are you going to do anything about the father messing with the girl?”
“Sally! Are you insane?” Margo yelled. “Honest to god, you are going to get your ass into hot water if you don’t keep your damn mouth shut.”
“I think it’s a bunch of crap,” Alan said. “But I’m sure the investigation will clear his name.” He didn’t mention talking to Boyd Dalton earlier to tell him about Mary’s accusation and Margo hadn’t had her evening chat with Boyd, so she didn’t know either. Miss Logan knew because she’d heard Mary’s gossip from Jessie and later, Mary confirmed it.
“Don’t be too sure,” Miss Logan said.
“Let’s change the topic, shall we?” Cate said. “Alan, how’s the job?” Giving more details than were necessary just to keep control of the conversation, Alan then pulled Mr. Rosen into the conversation and even tried to engage Emil.
But Miss Logan had to bring up Mary’s name again. “So, is it over between you and Mary? You made a great looking couple, by the way. A customer said she saw you two dancing and you made quite a team.”
“We’ll see,” Alan said, chuckling, thinking of Mary laying on the floor, screaming at him. “She’s a pistol, that’s for sure.”
When dinner was over, he had one thing in mind and that was to get to his room and crash. It had been an exhausting couple of days.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m beat. Think I’ll get unpacked and call it a night.”
“We’ve been meeting on the porch for wine around eight for summer nights if you’d like to join us, I mean if you’re still awake,” Cate said quickly.
“Any special occasion?” he asked.
“Just in honor of the summer,” Miss Logan said.
“It’s already almost the end of June,” Cate added sorrowfully. “I hope I get to the beach this year.”
“What beach?” Alan asked, confused. He was thinking she might be talking about a beach on the Alabama River.
“What beach? What beach!” Miss Logan said. “Are you crazy?”
Alan laughed out loud. “Tell me woman, what beach?”
“Dauphin Island, of course. Didn’t you say you lived on the Gulf? Galveston, wasn’t it? And you don’t know that beach? Good lord, man. Get with it!” Everyone was laughing. It felt good to relax and let it all out.
“Maybe I’ll join you later,” he said. “Unless I fall asleep. Then you’ll have to knock on my door.”
“Choose who knocks,” Miss Logan said, a sultry tone to her usually down-country accent. “Cate or me. Or both.” Cate was laughing, holding on to her side.
“Sally Logan! What in hell has gotten into you? Please, no one pay any attention to her.”
“I think you’re all nuts,” Emil Magda said, pushing his chair away from the table. “I’ve lived her for four years and none of you ever made a big deal out of me coming down for summer nights.”
“Don’t feel left out, Emil. They don’t give me the time of day, either,” Mr. Rosen said sadly.
“Okay, if I’m awake at eight I’ll come down. I’m pretty tired, though.” He looked at the men. “No malice intended.”
“None taken,” Emil said, frowning. “I’ll be there tonight, by the way. I wouldn’t miss this one for a million dollars.”
“Me neither,” Mr. Rosen said. “I think our presence might prevent an unsuitable event from taking place.”