The Sweet Spot (19 page)

A mile down the road, on the outskirts of town, she forced her trembly hands to turn
the car at the wrought-iron gates to Roseland. One good thing about coming on Sunday
morning; the cemetery was deserted. Thank God. The gallop of her heart pounded in
her ears as she rolled slowly past acres of dead people.

Although she’d never been to Benje’s grave, she knew exactly where it lay. Generations
of Enwrights rested in the farthest corner of the cemetery. She pulled up and shut
off the engine, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Memories swirled in her mind like
an out-of-control film, faster and faster, until everything blurred, a background
to the roaring in her ears. She couldn’t breathe. Char grabbed for the door handle
and opened it, afraid she was about to be sick.

Resting her head on the elbow rest, she waited as gravity pulled blood back to her
brain. Shaky, she straightened and shut the door. But in a scant few seconds, the
pressure of silence and heat closed in. Damp, hot claustrophobia crawled over her
skin. Not yet ready to face the marching row of headstones, she lowered the car window
and fell back against the headrest. Slowly, sounds slipped into her jangled awareness:
the ticking of the cooling engine,
the sloughing breeze in the maples, sparrows twittering.
It’s just a plot of grass, Charla. Get over yourself.
She forced herself to pick up Benje’s wilting flowers and exited the car.

Her dressy flats swished through the manicured, shade-dappled sod. Char focused her
attention on the everyday sounds around her to quiet the panic welling in her stomach.

“Hi, Mom.” She brushed her fingers across the rose marble of the headstone. Her father
had his name carved on it too when he’d bought it for her mother. The blank space
after his birth date dangled, reminding her that, someday, there would be a date etched
there as well. She shook off the picture in her head of herself, growing old, alone
on the ranch.

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’m taking good care of Daddy.” She patted the marker and moved
on.

A low, crystal-white marble headstone stood next, the dates under Benje’s name proclaiming
God’s travesty. Her knees let go, and she fell to all fours, half sprawled on the
grave, the pain writhing like a large snake in her chest. Mouth contorted, she gasped
for breath through the violent, terrifying sobs.

She had no idea of how much time passed until pain’s grip ebbed. Her chest felt hollow,
her heart a papery husk.

The grass under her palms felt cool, and she leaned on one arm, to catch her breath.
She pried her eyes from the headstone, noticing a small bouquet of wildflowers before
it. Wild phlox, bluebonnets, and yellow primrose, so fresh that Char shot a quick
glance around to be sure she was alone.

Small, dark objects dotted the top of the gravestone.
She crawled closer to inspect them. She lifted the first. Benje’s Cub Scout Gold Arrow
point. He’d been so proud to bring that home to her. She ran her finger over the tarnished
brass, then put it back, before picking up the next bit, his attendance pin from Sunday
school. The next in line was a circular pin, featuring an enameled bucking bull, foreground
to the PBR logo. It looked familiar.

Jimmy.
He’d always worn it on his hat band.

She carefully laid the pin on the cold marble, imagining Jimmy, hat in hand, placing
it there. A guilt stiletto slipped through the tight muscles of her solar plexus.
In all this time, she’d never thought about Jimmy’s pain. Jimmy’s grief.

Her vision blurred and she brushed a hand across her eyes. Those damn pills had blinded
her to everything outside of her own skin.
Yes, but after the first week, when there was no one standing there to hand you one
every few hours, you managed to take up that duty for yourself, didn’t you?

“Oh, stop it, Charla.” Today wasn’t for self-recrimination. Today was for Benje. A
fresh breeze cooled her wet face, bringing the rich smell of life in the hayfield
bordering the cemetery. She took a cleansing breath, letting the familiar scents and
sounds settle her.

It’s peaceful here.

“Benje? Are you all right, son?” The wind took her words. Birds cheeped in the tree
overhead. As the restless, dappled shade slid over her, calm loosened her tight muscles.

After a few minutes, Charla gathered herself and stood. All this time, she’d dreaded
this for nothing.

Her son wasn’t here.

The pounding drum solo of Kenny Chesney’s “Big Star” slammed into JB’s brain. The
stool in front of the damn jukebox had been the only one vacant, and now he knew why.
Tipping back his Miller Lite, he attempted to squeeze his ears shut with the muscles
of his face. Surely the band would be back from break soon.

I shoulda listened to Wiley and gone back to the hotel.
But his bulls had been exceptional at the event tonight, and Denny Bucking Bulls
was celebrating—even if he was the only employee on the roster.
Well, make that one and a half—maybe.

He looked through the bottles of booze on the back bar to watch the crowd in the mirror.
It showed a different perspective of the churning crush; as if his bar stool were
a seat in a movie house. Stetsoned cowboys strutted around glittery ladies in a barroom
mating dance.

The females flitted and flirted, choosing their mates for the evening.

Jaded tonight, aren’t we?
JB shook his head. Months ago, he’d been a part of the scene, swaggering with the
best of them.
Guess that makes me hypocritical too.
He widened his focus, taking in the gouged cinder-block walls and pockmarked, blacked-out
ceiling tiles that booze, raucous music, and vibrating hormones usually rendered invisible.

A large-breasted, forty-something waitress brushed past him, and he caught her look
in the mirror. Her tired, sardonic smile telegraphed “How’d
we
end up here?”

He raised his beer an inch in salute and turned his attention back to the show.

“Are you JB Denny?”

He swiveled his stool to the high-pitched voice. A curvy little blonde stood, too
close, behind him.

“Yes’m.”

“I just wanted to meet you.” Bracelets jingled as she stuck out a hand with bloodred
talon-tipped fingers. “I think you and Wiley are the best. You have such a sexy voice.”

He stood, sucked in his gut, and took her fingers in his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Courtney.” She turned toward two twittering girls behind her. “And this is Jennifer
and Lacey.”

He tipped his hat.

The blonde cocked her head and smiled, in a move he somehow knew she’d practiced in
a mirror. “Could we buy you a drink?”

He looked past the cosmetics and bravado.
No way the bouncer is carding tonight.
“Thank you, miss, but I’m on my way out.” He relaxed his gut and tossed back the
last of his beer.

Her bottom lip protruded to a practiced pout. “Oh, come on, JB. The night is young!”

He reached for his wallet.
And so are you.
Dropping bills on the bar, he shot her what he hoped passed for a disappointed look.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but this old guy is flat tuckered. Y’all have a big time tonight.”

J
B whistled “High Cotton” along with Alabama as he made the familiar turn onto State
Highway 87, stretching a hand out to steady the bouquet of roses on the truck seat.
Char had always loved the white ones best. They cost him dearly, but he wanted her
to know how much it meant to him, her letting him back on the ranch.

He’d gotten the idea from Wiley. Since he was living there, he couldn’t miss that
Wiley was always bringing home flowers to Dana, and she lit up, every time. He glanced
down at the flowers. Maybe they’d be the peace pipe that would get them back on comfortable
speaking terms. He’d enjoy seeing Char happy for a change. He hardly remembered what
her face looked like wiped clean of worry.

A few minutes later, his arms full of conciliatory roses, he strolled into the welcome
shade of the barn. Charla’s trim backside confronted him as she shuffled and
strained, dragging a bale of alfalfa down the middle of the aisle.

“Here, let me get that.” He trotted up and, as she straightened, thrust the flowers
in her gloved hands, then bent and lifted the hay bale. “Where do you want it?”

Her face drained of color, and she swayed on her feet.

He dropped the hay, grabbing her arm to steady her. “What’s wrong, Char?” He lowered
her to sit on the bale. When she stuck the roses out, he took them, shocked at the
look of raw pain on her pallid face. He pushed her head down, lower than her knees.
“Breathe. Just breathe.” He patted her back.

“The funeral,” she whispered.

Oh, shit.
The flowers on Benje’s casket had been white roses. “Here, keep your head down a
minute.”

He looked around, not knowing what to do with his offending armload. He tossed them
into the stall behind him, to get them out of her sight.
Damn, how could I have forgotten?

When she sat up, a minute later, some color had returned to her face. He patted her
shoulder.

“I’m fine.” She shrugged him off, stood, and stepped away. Her eyes narrowed, watching
him as if he could be poisonous. “What are you up to, Jimmy?”

Her lightning shift from weak to angry caught him flat-footed. “What?”

She stood, hands on hips. “James Benton Denny. I washed your dirty underwear for twenty
years. You think I don’t know when you’re up to something?”

“Jesus, Char. I’m trying to do something nice here.”

She snorted. “Do you think you can waltz back in here and sweet-talk your boots back
under my table?”

Dammit, he’d taken about all the kicking he was going to take. He felt blood rise
to his face; the cords in his neck pulled taut. “Why don’t you get it all out, Charla
Rae? I’m sick of all the little digs.” He lifted his boot onto the hay bale, forcing
himself to relax. “Say your piece, Little Bit—have at it.”

As if his words lit a fuse, her face turned red and her jaw clenched. “You puffed-up,
arrogant rooster!” Her shrill voice echoed down the barn. “You’re a self-centered,
self-serving weasel!” She sputtered, but her mouth kept moving, clearly so mad she
couldn’t get it out.

Maybe this was better. Quit all the dodging and sparring and finally have it all out
in the open. “Oh, come on, Charla, you can do better than that.”

She shook a finger at him. “You’re a mangy, good-for-nothing cur dog. You’ve got the
manners of a baboon and the morals of a goat!”

“Is that it? After all this time, that’s it?” He smiled, knowing it would fire off
a bottle rocket. “You never could swear for spit.”

“Oooh, you turd! You insufferable… dick head!”

The little hellcat stood in front of him, tail puffed and spitting. “I can do better
than that without even cussing. How about disloyal, low-down cheater?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s right.”

“Dirty, double-crossing, two-timing loser.”

She nodded. “That too.”

“Lily-livered sheepherder.”

The corner of her mouth curled up. “Butt-wipe.”

“Yellow-bellied sod-buster.”

She chuckled.

He felt a glimmer of hope.

An hour later, Char made the familiar turn onto State Highway 87. After the dustup
with Jimmy, she’d run to pick her dad up from Junior’s. She glanced across the bench
seat to where he sat, hat pulled down, staring out the window. Was he thinking—or
off wandering the jumbled labyrinth of memories in his poor, damaged mind? Hard to
tell. After a while, the hum of tires on the asphalt and the familiar fence line unrolling
alongside the car lulled them both into their own thoughts.

Oh, she’d been mad at Jimmy, plenty mad. In the beginning. But after the initial rush
of words, the mad was gone, just like that. As if the anger were a heavy bucket of
water she’d toted around; she’d gotten used to its weight. Apparently there’d been
a hole in the bottom, and the anger had leaked out the past year, unnoticed. Now,
without it, she felt kind of… naked.

Another crutch, Charla Rae?

Mom, you’ve really got to get a—doesn’t
heaven
have anyone who needs advice?

No answer. She drove past a carpet of bluebonnets in a boggy section of ditch. What
if Jimmy was only trying to be nice? She pictured his tentative smile as he handed
her the roses, like he couldn’t wait to see her reaction to his extravagant gift.
The freeze-frame photo of pins atop a headstone flashed across her brain and shame
burned in the blood that pounded up her neck to flush her face.

On the other hand, her Jimmy, with no agenda? She shook her head. Not likely. But
just in case, she’d be watching. Closely.

Char turned into the driveway and drove to the back of the house. Jimmy stood at the
rail of the front corral,
watching the two-year-olds amble around, getting acquainted with the bucking chutes.

Her dad’s hands jerked. Animation returned as his face lit up. “ ’Bout time JB got
home!” He pulled the door handle before she got the car stopped.

“Daddy, he’s not—” But he was gone, walking across the yard, hand outstretched, huge
grin on his face. Char stepped out and stood, one foot in the car, leaned her elbows
on the roof, and watched to see what would happen.

“Welcome home, son.” Her dad pumped Jimmy’s hand.

Jimmy shot her a confused, panicky look.

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
Welcome to my world.

When her dad put his arm around Jimmy’s shoulder, pointed to the bulls, and began
dispensing advice, Char turned and walked to the house.