The Devil's Beating His Wife (9 page)

Mother crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Father. "If I had wanted to succeed in killing him, I would have. I would have grabbed your gun and simply blasted his head off."

"Can we not talk about you killing me? I would greatly appreciate that—"

Father shook his head and arched an eyebrow. "You can't even shoot a goddamned rabbit pissin' on your green beans. What makes you think you could shoot your own son?"

"I reckon I could shoot Baxter if I had the right motivation."

I cleared my throat loudly and jumped from the bed. "Okay then. Since this conversation doesn't concern me, I'm just going to relieve myself—"

"Hold on now, sonny." Father planted a hand on my shoulder and pushed me back onto the bed. "We ain't done discussing your murder."

"I'd rather not be part of this conversation. Something about death triggers very unpleasant memories for me." My voice had dropped to a near whisper. I even had to strain my ears to hear my own words.

Mother blinked and blushed. Father's lips tightened. They had finally stopped talking.

With that bit of silence, I left the bedroom and entered the small bathroom. I sunk down onto the toilet and dropped my head into my hands. I ignored the soft knock at the door. I was too focused on forcing out thoughts of disemboweled children and decapitated women from my mind.

Suddenly, an image of Mother holding a shotgun pointed at Mary-Alice's head formed in my mind. I stifled giggles as I imagined Mother's victorious yell as she pulled the trigger. To be truthful, if my mother ever got around to murdering my sister-in-law, I wouldn't stop her. I'd probably help her hide the body.

When I finally emerged from my bathroom, I found my parents standing in the middle of the living room. Father had his arms wrapped around Mother's shoulders as she wept into his shirt. He and I exchanged a knowing look. I had narrowly escaped a similar fate only an hour ago.

Father cocked his head towards the radio. "Listen."

My eyes settled on the radio. My mind opened to the words streaming into the room. "—has been announced that President Roosevelt is dead."

Shit. That was a solid kick to the gut. My legs wavered. I sunk down onto the nearest thing. It was my father's favorite ottoman.

"What does this mean?" Mother asked, a plea in her quivering voice. "Tell me, Frank, what does this mean for us?"

Father's jaw locked as he struggled with his impatient nature. The relationship between my parents was one built on give and take. My mother gave my father's prickly attitude wide acceptance while my father took my mother's mercurial mood-swings with a grain of salt. His hand tightened on my mother's shoulders, a surprisingly reassuring gesture on his part.

"The President's dead. That's what that means to us. To everybody." The skin at the bridge of his nose wrinkled as he stared down at the floor. Outwardly, he seemed calm as he processed the news of Roosevelt's death, but inwardly, I imagined him to be reeling. My father liked things to be simple and explainable. When they weren't, he'd simply ignore the situation.

"Does this mean the war is over? Baxter, do you think this means those Germans have won?"

My father's tight hold on his patience suddenly broke. "Cecilia, you ain't gotta a lick of sense. You know that? Why don't you hush your mouth and go do something useful. Baxter don't want to be bothered by none of your stupid questions."

"What exactly should I do?" Mother snapped.

"I don't know. Maybe you can go burn something in the kitchen. It's damn near dinnertime."

Mother's head tilted as she angled a spiteful look at my father. Her eyes narrowed as she thought of her next words. "I still don't know why I haven't poisoned you and collected your life insurance."

"I'm already immune to any type of poison you can hurl at me, woman. Now get on outta here."

Mother slapped her open palms down on the couch and pushed herself to her feet. She stared down at Father and then turned towards me and abruptly placed a kiss on my forehead. "I'm so glad you're home, baby," she said as she ruffled my hair. She sauntered out of the room, dismissing my father's sharp words. The sorrowful mourning sure had not lasted long.

I glanced at him and caught the slight smile curling his lips. He winked at me and waited for her to leave the room. When she entered the kitchen, he leaned towards me and said, "I love her dearly, but she's a few bricks from a wall. You get my meaning?"

Silently, I agreed with my father, but I said nothing. I had learned long ago to never agree with my father's assessments of my mother; he'd either slap me across my head for disrespecting my mother or he'd slyly mention my betrayal to her, causing her to pout and admonish me.

I decided to turn the conversation back to the news of the hour. "This war ain't gonna end because he's dead, you know that, right?"

"Of course I know that. I ain't your mother." He snuck a glance towards the kitchen and then pinned me with his blue eyes. "Truman will take the reins and we'll trod on."

"I'm so very tired of this war."

"Roosevelt certainly was. That's why he up and died."

"He's been ill a long time."

Father clucked his tongue and sat back in his chair. "You can be sure this war hastened him to his grave."

Footsteps pounded on the porch. The front door opened and banged closed. Carver stormed into the room, his chest heaving with exertion and sweat beading on his brow. "Have y'all heard? I had just gotten into town when I heard the news. I had to turn right back around. Good morning, Mother."

The sound of Carver's voice caught Mother's attention. She walked to the kitchen doorway and glared into the parlor. "Is that female here?"

"Cecilia, not this again," Father barked.

Mother placed her hands on her hips and walked slowly into the room. She waved an oven mitt in my father's direction. "Arthur, I've done had about enough of you." She glanced up and down Carver's body. Her eyes narrowed as she took in his excited state. "What has she done to you now?"

"Damn it, Mother, this isn't about Mary-Alice!"

"Carv—" my mother whimpered.

"Carver!" my father snapped. He stood up from his chair and glared down at his youngest son. "Your mother may be a nitwit, but she's still your mother. Don't you talk that way to her again, you understand me?"

"I don't know whether to thank you or smother you, Frank."

I clapped my hands to silence the room. Father looked down at me with amusement. Mother leaned around Carver to see if Mary-Alice was hovering nearby. Carver stood with his face darkened and eyes dropped to the floor.

"So you heard, Carver," I said to him. "Roosevelt is dead and the war will continue."

Carver blinked a few times as if recalling the news that had brought him to the house in such a panic. "There's going to be a prayer vigil for the family down in the town center. I'm gonna pick up Mary-Alice and bring the boy along."

"The boy? You mean my grandson, Carver? Little Frankie? Why don't you ever bring him here?" Mother asked, sorrow in her eyes.

"Maybe because you don't allow his wife to step foot into this place? Would you let one of our boys go to a place where you ain't welcome? Ah, now, don't go down that road, Cecilia." Father glanced at Carver and then at me. "I think we should all go down this evening. Show a bit of solidarity during this time."

Mother raised her hand and smoothed down the loose curls of her hair. She grabbed the fabric of her dress and shook it out. "I should change into something else. Something black, I think." She gave one last glance at Carver then pivoted away from us. She walked into the foyer and skipped up the stairs.

"What about dinner?" I asked the air.

"If you're smart, you'll go into that kitchen and make us a batch of sandwiches. Your mother's mind is set on what she's going to wear this evening. Nothing good will come out of the kitchen once her mind is on something else. Better yet—" Father tapped Carver on his chest. "Why don't you have that wife of yours whip up something? Your mother will choke it down, but I'll make sure she does it silently. Bring Frankie and we'll make this a nice family get-together."

"We're having a picnic to celebrate Roosevelt's death?" I asked, chagrined.

"You know good and damn well that these affairs are about being seen and not about the reason for bringing people together," Father said. "The last thing we need is to air the little quibble between his wife and my wife out in public."

Carver stared at Father and then slowly nodded. "I'll do that. I'll bring Mary-Alice and the boy."

***

"I can't believe you are allowing that woman near my family."

"What are you jabbering about? Like it or not, she's a part of this family."

"If not for her, everything would be the same. You hear me? None of that would have happened years ago. She ruined my son. She ruined my relationship with Della. She ruined everything." Mother snapped the blanket and placed it onto the grass. She sat down and adjusted her skirts around her legs. Then she reached into the picnic basket and unloaded plates and silverware. There was no food in the basket. Father wouldn't allow it.

He stood above Mother and ran his right hand over his face. I couldn't tell if he was hiding a frown or wiping his mouth of the filthy words hovering on his tongue. Cocking his head to the side, he looked at her with an unreadable expression.

I decided to change the topic. "Look at all of these people gathered around. You'd think people would be tucked away at home, mourning in private. It looks like the damn Fourth of July out here. Will there be fireworks?" Anger ripped through me. My years spent fighting in Europe had distanced me from the realities of small town American life. Nothing brought together a community like a shared experience. Roosevelt had been our president. A diligent leader who brought us together through a difficult war.

All of the white families were gathered in the park. You couldn't find a colored person amongst us. They were all congregated in the small Baptist church across the park.

My eyes scanned over every person, forcing myself to recall who they were and what family they belonged to. I caught sight of my Aunt Fiona, my mother's sister, setting up a place with her family. There was Nixon Steele, clenching the hand of his new bride as they strolled from place to place. A local reporter was talking with a group of gentlemen, taking down their thoughts on the passing of our president.

Murmurs and cries floated across the park. The small groups of families reminded me of soldiers huddled together to keep warm. I could practically hear gunfire in the background and encroaching tanks roaring just over yonder. I felt raw and exposed, standing here as if we had left ourselves wide open for an enemy attack.

Through the haze, I could hear my mother wailing in excitement. She leapt from the blanket with her arms stretched wide. From the corner of my eye, I could see her hugging a young, pretty girl. I could hear her calling my name but my mind wouldn't allow me to listen to her words.

A sharp smack came across the back of my head. I brought my hand up and touched the spot of the impact. Recoiling, I stared at its source and saw my father standing there. His hand was pulled back for another firm slap.

"Son, your mother is talking to you," he said.

Blinking away my thoughts, I turned to my mother and stared at the women. Mother's left arm looped through the right arm of the young girl. They stood staring at me with similar expressions of apprehension and eagerness on their faces.

"You'd think that boy of mine hadn't any manners. I made sure he did even if his father had to knock it into his head a time or two. Baxter, come make your acquaintance with Miss Jean Donald." Mother's eyebrows rose as she waited for me to make a move.

Pasting a smile on my face, I stuck my hand out. "Miss Jean, it's a pleasure to meet you."

Mother grinned with pride. She pulled her hand away from Jean and placed it on the small of Jean's back. Pushing her towards me, Mother said, "This here is my oldest son, Baxter. You've heard me chatter on and on about him. Well, here he is. Fresh from fighting in France."

"Belgium," I said through a clenched jaw.

"France. Belgium. Same foreign place in my mind."

Jean dropped her gaze to the ground. Starting at my feet, she made a slow and thorough catalog of my person. When her eyes finally met my face, her mouth curved with pleasure. "Baxter, I feel like I already know you." Her hair was a light brown and her eyes were green. Her skin was pale, with a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. She had a slight gap between her top teeth but she had a nice smile in spite of that.

"My mother has mentioned you," was all that I could say in response. It was a simple lie.

Mother grabbed one of my free hands. She tugged me closer to Jean and then she grabbed the girl's hand and placed it in mine. "Why don't y'all take a stroll?"

"Ain't we here to commiserate over Roosevelt's sudden death?" I said, not wanting to even entertain the thought of courting this girl.

"Sometimes it's the tragic events that bring forth new opportunities," Mother said, talking to Father. "Ain't that right, honey?"

He shrugged his shoulders in response. His eyes were glued to my face, and I felt like he could read my thoughts. His lips disappeared into a thin line as he began to glance over the crowd. "Where's Carver?"

The happiness in Mother's face disappeared. Her shoulders sagged. "Damn that female."

"Not that again, Cecilia."

"I was happy enough to not think of her. My mind was set on Jean and Baxter here until you ruined it." She threw her hands in the air and stomped closer to Father.

Rolling his eyes to the sky, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his embrace. He nodded, indicating that Jean and I should leave them.

I thought about rebelling against his silent command, but Jean tugged on my arm. The strength of her tug caused my weak leg to buckle. I found myself stepping towards her in order to avoid falling.

"Your mama and daddy want a bit of time to their selves," Jean whispered. She had a fresh face full of innocence. No secrets hovered in the depths of her green eyes.