The Way Back to Happiness (20 page)

“George Brent.” Stuart sounded less annoyed by the intrusion than Alabama was.

In the film’s opening scenes, Bette spent the night out with George, which caused Bev to shake her head. “You know what that meant back then, don’t you? No birth control in those days.” And when Bette turned up pregnant, Bev was right there to say I told you so. “We saw that coming, didn’t we? Now what’ll she do?”

Alabama was pretty sure if Bette could have done anything at that moment, she would have stepped out of the television and strangled Bev. She was almost glad when the lights from Derek’s truck swept across the windows. Better to have color commentary ruin a Clint Eastwood movie than one she really wanted to watch.

Bev jumped up and practically jogged to the front door. Alabama winced at her overeagerness. Couldn’t she show a little pride?

Derek murmured something at the door, then came in and parked himself on the couch. He looked annoyed, and as a result the room bloomed with tension. Where Bev’s face had been full of anticipation all evening, along with a little anxiety, it now appeared a frozen mask of nerves.

“Maybe we should stop the film,” she said. “I was going to heat up a pizza.”

“What the hell is this?” Derek leaned forward and picked the plastic cassette case off the coffee table. “You rented this? They show this stuff on television for free every night of the week.”

“We’ve got Clint Eastwood, too,” Bev called from the kitchen.

Alabama reached for the remote control, her fingers fumbling over the unfamiliar tiny keypad.

“It’s okay,” Derek said, his voice gruff. “Might as well leave it on, since you’ve already started.”

He pushed himself off the couch. The whole house rattled when he walked around in it. Or maybe Alabama’s nerves were rattling. Bev’s mood had worn off on her. Whenever Derek was around, her aunt’s anxiety to please ramped up to Edith Bunker intensity.

She tried to concentrate on the movie, but she couldn’t help picking up snatches of words from the kitchen. First, she heard Derek’s gruff “already ate” followed by a disappointed response from Bev. The voices lowered, and all she could pick up were “don’t have time . . . stupid movie . . . kids . . .” The intensity of the whispers rose then, and Bev’s plaintive, “What
have
you been doing for an entire month?” came through loud and clear.

Alabama stood up. “Maybe we should go outside for a minute.”

“Okay.” Stuart’s rapid response tipped her off that he had been distracted by the kitchen drama, too.

Outside, they sat down on the iron lawn furniture Bev had so carefully painted red, white, and blue, and pretended not to listen as the argument in the house escalated.

It was impossible. “My parents never fight like that,” Stuart said.

“They aren’t my parents.” Thank God.

She was so embarrassed.
The one time I have a friend over for an evening to do something fun, and this happens.
Poor Stuart. His family was so perfect, he probably wasn’t used to raised voices, even.

“I really hope Granny Jackson writes me back soon,” she said under her breath.

Inside the house, glass shattered.

“Should we call the police?” Stuart asked.

Alabama hadn’t even thought of that. But her mother had always said that the police were the last people you wanted at your house. “No—let’s wait.”

Luckily, it wasn’t long before the front door slammed and they heard Derek’s truck roar down the street.

“At least that’s the end of the monkey movie threat,” Stuart muttered.

They ventured back inside. All was quiet. The silence should have felt soothing, meaning as it did the absence of Derek, but Alabama’s stomach clenched and she rushed to Bev’s door. “Aunt Bev?”

A moment passed before Bev answered. “I’ll be right out. Keep watching your movie.”

Turning, Alabama nearly stepped on Stuart, who was right behind her. After a puzzled exchange of glances, they shuffled back to the living room. With the couch free now, they settled on opposite ends and had a minor foot fight as each tried to stretch out. Laughing, they turned the movie back on.

A few scenes later, Bev emerged from the bedroom and hurried to the kitchen. “Y’all want pizza?” she called out brightly.

“Sure.” Alabama’s stomach was rumbly. All they’d had so far was a little popcorn.

Bev wasn’t big on eating in front of the television except if Derek was there, but she brought plates out, along with soft drinks and coasters. Once they were all served, she took a chair farther away from the television.

“Did Bette have her baby?” she asked. “What happened to George Brent?”

“He died in battle, and Bette had the baby in secret and gave it to her sister, Miriam Hopkins, to raise,” Stuart said, filling her in. They all pretended the movie was the only drama that had happened in the house that evening. “Now the girl thinks Bette’s her maiden aunt, and doesn’t like her.”

“That’s terrible,” Bev said.

It all seemed hokey to Alabama, but the end reduced Bev to a puddle of tears. In fact, she was weeping so hard, she had to retreat to her room again before the credits finished and they turned on the lights.

Alabama and Stuart cleared their plates, stacked them in the kitchen sink, and then went to her room. Alabama put on a record and flopped onto her bed. “What was
that
all about?” she wondered aloud.

Stuart remained quiet, which was unusual for him.

Great. The evening had probably scarred him for life. “You won’t tell your parents about this, will you? They might not let you talk to me again if they knew what a lunatic my aunt is.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully, hesitating another moment before asking, “What if she wasn’t your aunt?”

Alabama snorted. “I’d throw myself a party.”

Stuart didn’t join in her laughter. “I mean . . . what if she’s your
mother?
”

She propped herself up on her elbows. He had to be putting her on. “That’s not even funny.”

“But think about it.”

“I don’t have to. I
have
a mother.” Had.

“I know it sounds weird at first, but look at all the odd stuff that’s happened. First there was the mysterious wedding dress.”

“That could have been anybody’s. Bev probably sewed it for someone. Maybe even my mom.”

“But you said your aunt got bent out of shape about it. So much that you didn’t want to use it in the talent show at first.”

She still didn’t, but that was a separate issue. “Bev never told me that the dress was hers,” she pointed out. “Just that it belonged to her now, because this is her house.”

“Then there were those pictures of your dad that we found,” Stuart continued. “In your
aunt’s
attic.”

“I told you—there are all sorts of reasons why they could be up there.”

“Okay, but how do you explain that letter from your Granny Jackson? She seemed to know Bev, and maybe even like her better than your mom.”

“She only mentioned Bev in passing because I had told her I was living with her. That doesn’t mean she knew her. Maybe she’d heard Mom talk about her. Even as a teenager, Bev was Little Miss Perfect.”

“You think.”

Alabama bristled. “I
know.
My mother told me.”

“The woman you thought was your mother told you. You might be just like the girl in
The Old Maid.
”

“Wait. Are you saying that my life is following the plot of a Bette Davis movie?” She laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

Stuart didn’t back down. “The movie is what got me thinking. Did you notice how your aunt, your so-called aunt, reacted to it? She was weeping.”

“So? Bev weeps at anything. I’ve seen her cry during deodorant commercials.”

“And you said yourself that she really resisted renting the movie to begin with.”

“Because it was called
The Old Maid.
Which probably seemed like a turnoff to her because
she’s
an old maid,” Alabama pointed out. “My old maid aunt. Not my mother. It’s ridiculous.”

For a moment he shut up. Then, quietly, he pointed out, “You look like her.”

She puffed out a breath. “We’re related.”

“But you look more like her than your mom—the woman you call your mom.”

“Would you
stop?
” Alabama said, anger rising. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! My mother was my mother. She went through hell bringing me up all by herself. It wasn’t easy for her. We never had enough of anything, and yet she never gave me up, ever. I’m sure it would have been easier to come live near Gladdie, but Mom never wanted to do that because she hated Bev so much and didn’t want me around her. . . .”

Her words trailed off. What seemed like an argument for her case turned into something else when she spoke the words aloud.

“Why would she have struggled all those years to take care of me if I wasn’t really hers?” she finished.

Stuart didn’t have an answer for that. Of course he didn’t. His whole theory was idiotic. She wanted to laugh at him but she was too furious.

Bruce Springsteen sang on while they both sat frowning in silence. Finally, Stuart stood. “I should go.”

She got up, too. “I’ll get Bev.”

He shook his head. “That’s okay. Don’t bother her. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk.”

“But it’s dark.”

“This is New Sparta, not New York City.”

“Well . . .” Even though she’d been angry at him thirty seconds ago, she didn’t want him to leave. “I’ll walk with you.”

“Then my parents would insist on driving
you
home.”

She sagged. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

When he was gone, Alabama returned to the dark living room and flopped onto the couch. She picked up the movie again and stared at the cover that had been cut out and slipped into the movie’s plastic rental case. An uncomfortable doubt scratched at the back of her mind. Why
did
Bev have so many pictures of Tom Jackson?

Bev’s door opened and Alabama shoved the case back onto the coffee table, almost guiltily.

“Where’s Stuart?” Bev asked.

“He went home.”

“What? When?” When Alabama told her, Bev lurched toward the phone. “What is the Looneys’ number?”

Alabama reeled it off and turned onto her stomach while Bev dialed and then issued a heartfelt apology to Mrs. Looney for allowing Stuart to walk home after dark. “I had no idea. He left so quickly. . . .”

Mrs. Looney’s laughter came through the receiver, followed by tinny words Alabama couldn’t make out.

“No,” Bev said, “I know this isn’t New York City, but . . . Well, as you say, all’s well that ends well.... Stuart is such a good guest. And such a good worker in class, too,” she added for good measure.

Bev hung up and sagged into her chair with a sigh. “I owe you an apology for tonight, too,” she said. “I’m sure that was unpleasant.”

Alabama had been so focused on Stuart’s cockamamie theory, she’d almost forgotten about anything else.
You look like her,
Stuart had said. She sat up, reached to turn on the lamp on the end table, and gazed into her aunt’s face, hoping not to see a resemblance.

Her breath caught. Bev’s nose was swollen. In fact, the whole side of her face appeared misshapen.

“Oh my God! What happened to your nose?”

But even as she said it, she knew. Derek had done this while she and Stuart were outside.

“It’s all right,” Bev said. “I ran into a door.”

The words sounded surreal coming from her aunt. That was the kind of thing women said on soap operas. “You should have said something. How could you just let us watch a movie and eat pizza?” Worse, Bev had served them the pizza and they hadn’t even noticed her. She felt ashamed. “Derek should be arrested!”

Bev raised her hand and gulped in a breath. “No—I don’t want that. It was an accident.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“We were arguing, and he slammed the kitchen door. He simply forgot it was a swinging door—and it swung on me.”

Alabama bit her lip. Maybe that was the truth . . . or maybe it was the truth Bev could live with.

“At any rate,” Bev said, “he’s gone and he won’t be back. Don’t worry about that. But if I get involved in some sort of scandal, it could hurt me at school. The principal already hates me. I don’t want the police involved. It would be all over town tomorrow.”

“But your nose looks really bad. It might be broken, even. Don’t you need to go to a hospital?”

“No—I’ve been putting ice on it in my room. And even while we were watching the movie.” She glanced at Alabama. “I don’t think Stuart noticed anything, do you?”

Alabama shook her head.
He was too busy imagining us all living in a Bette Davis melodrama....

“Why was Derek so angry?” Alabama asked her. “Was it because of Stuart and me being here?”

Bev’s eyes widened in alarm. One of them. The other looked as if was swollen half shut. “No—heavens, no. He . . .” She gulped. “I think he’s found someone else.”

It was weird enough that one person wanted to date Derek. Two at once? “Who?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Someone he likes better than me.” Bev shook her head and blew her nose, which caused her to cringe in pain. “Story of my life.”

Alabama frowned. What
was
the story of Bev’s life?

T
he trouble with noses was they sat right there in the middle of your face. If something went wrong with a nose, it was impossible to hide. Even with a messed-up eye, you could always creatively arrange bangs to mask the damage at least partially. Or you could heap on copious amounts of blue eye shadow, add fake eyelashes, and pretend it was your new televangelist look. There were disguises for eyes—patches that could be explained away as medically necessary, or dark glasses.

The bridge of Bev’s nose was so swollen, no glasses would stay propped there. Not to mention, the injury already kept up a steady throb that radiated from the top of her forehead to her teeth. Glasses would just make matters more ouchy.

Her nose was barely functioning as a breathing apparatus. But to her shame, she focused less on the consequences for her respiratory system than on the cosmetic angle. What did it matter if oxygen reached her lungs if she showed up at school looking like Rocky in the twelfth round? All day Sunday she kept running to the bathroom to check the damage. Each time she flipped on the light, it seemed to have progressed to a different color. What had started out an angry pink overnight had morphed into a blue, and then by evening a bluish green. In any color, it was hideous—as if a decomposing gourd had taken up residence on her face.

At some point, she even stopped thinking of it as hers. It became simply
the nose
. That the thing between her eyes and lips was actually part of her body didn’t seem possible. She couldn’t breathe through it, so she was forced to become a mouth breather.

Alabama was an angel that Sunday. She made the meals and brought Bev plastic bags of frozen peas and corn to ice the nose. She suggested they watch the Clint Eastwood movie, but after fifteen minutes Bev shut the player off. It felt shockingly wasteful—like walking out of a movie they’d paid good money for—but she didn’t care. “I didn’t really like those monkey movies all that much, I guess.”

The strange thing was, she felt the same way about Derek today as she felt about the orangutan in the movie. What had been the attraction?

And why did she still feel like crying now that it was all over?

Well, she knew the answer to the last question, at least. She was thirty-eight years old, had never been married, and probably never would be. She would never have children to call her own—she’d just be the maiden aunt of a girl who didn’t like her very much. Her newlywed seventy-seven-year-old mother had more romance in her life. Meanwhile, her own second attempt at a grand passion in this lifetime had resulted in the tragedy of the nose.

Alabama peered at her as they sat in front of the dark television screen. “Have you ever noticed how much my nose looks like yours? I mean when it’s not . . . you know.”

“Pulverized?” Bev snorted, then shuddered in pain. She needed to remember not to find anything amusing. Which shouldn’t be difficult, actually. “You don’t think this would be a good look for you?”

Alabama remained serious. “I look a lot like you did when you were my age, don’t I?”

She nodded. “I think we take after Mama’s mother. Same coloring.”

“But it seems odd that we look alike enough that even Stuart would notice, don’t you think?”

“Stuart’s very bright,” Bev said. “And perceptive. That’s the sort of thing I would imagine he’d be good about picking up on.”

For some reason, Alabama didn’t seem pleased by her answer. Maybe she didn’t want her appearance compared to anyone whose nose looked as if it should be hanging on a meat hook. Who could blame her?

Monday morning, Alabama was eating toast in the kitchen when Bev came out dressed for school. Her niece drew back in horror. “Oh God!”

The nose was yellow-green, with an angry purplish welt across the most bulbous section—where the door must have scraped. Bev had thought it was an improvement, but apparently not.

“Well, it’s not
quite
as bad as yesterday,” Alabama allowed diplomatically, once she’d gotten her initial revulsion under control.

But Bev scuttled back to the bathroom mirror, stared at it some more, and decided a panicky
oh God!
was the more honest reaction. What was she going to do? “It’s hideous.”

“Maybe if you put on another layer of base. . . .”

“Then it looks like I’m trying to cover up something even worse.”

“What could be worse?” So much for diplomacy. As soon as she blurted out the words, Alabama paled. “I mean—well, this is what cover-up is for, right?”

Bev dabbed more on, and then groaned at the result. The discoloration defied cosmetic concealment. The nose would not be denied. “It’s so obvious,” she wailed in despair. “I’m going to be fired.”

“They can’t fire you for having a nose injury,” Alabama said, outraged. “Can they?”

“Oh, Lon Kirby is looking for any excuse.”

“Why? You’re a good teacher. At least, Stuart says you are.”

Bev shook her head. “I don’t fit Lon’s ideal. I’m too old-fashioned, too . . .”
Too me.

“But somebody’s got to teach health, and home ec,” Alabama argued. “You said yourself that your home ec class is packed.”

“Well . . .”

But now there was one fewer section than there had been last year. And though the home ec class had been full initially, several of her students had dropped out since the first day. To add insult to injury, most had rearranged their schedules to switch to choir. Lots of boys were taking choir this year—no doubt Leah Kirby and her tight dresses had something to do with that. So now girls who could barely warble a note were wild to don the blue robes of the New Sparta Songsters. The size of the choir had doubled since she’d been the director. Lon and Leah probably crowed about that over their Wheaties.

“Why don’t you call in sick?” Alabama asked.

“That’s probably what Lon’s waiting for. He grumbled enough when I took off the in-service day.”

Besides, calling in sick might just be putting off the inevitable. Who could say that tomorrow she would be any better? She couldn’t hide away for a week. At the last minute, she decided on a more clinical approach to concealment. She pulled down the first aid kit and covered the unsightly appendage with gauze and surgical tape.

“If anyone asks, we were in a car accident in Dallas yesterday.”

“Lie, you mean?” Alabama asked.

“No one would believe the truth anyway.”

Alabama bobbed her head. “That your thug boyfriend slammed a door on your face? Yeah, that’s a stretch.”

“I meant they wouldn’t believe that it was an accident.”

“No, probably not.”

At school, the reaction to the bandages was so overwhelmingly sympathetic that Bev felt vindicated in her decision to fib. Lon nearly dropped his coffee mug when she stopped by the office. “You poor thing.” He rushed toward her. “What happened to you?”

After her quick explanation, he admonished, “You should be at home today.”

She merely shrugged as she retrieved her mail from her cubby. “I’ll be fine.” She couldn’t help making a dig, though. “We’ve got so much ground to cover in class, now that two years have been consolidated into one. I’d rather not waste a single second.”

His expression, for once, was almost admiring. “That’s dedication, Bev. Let me know if you need help today.”

The only hiccup came when she passed the auditorium where Glen was rearranging a bulletin board. Stuart was with him. When he caught sight of her, Glen’s eyes bulged.

“Good grief! What happened?”

“Car accident in Dallas.” She kept walking. For some reason, lying to Glen was more difficult than lying to everyone else. “Sorry—can’t stop now. I have to prep for first period.”

She quickened her pace, half expecting him to follow. He didn’t.

But later in the morning, he tracked her down while she was doing hall monitor duty. Finding her wasn’t hard. There were places Lon designated as hotspots of likely misconduct—all the isolated bits of corridor, and of course the restrooms—and during a shift the hall monitor was expected to visit them all, like the stations of the cross.

She was in a small stairwell inspecting a discarded cigarette, trying to see if she could determine whether it had originated with a student, one of the cleaning staff, or Gerald the security guy.

“I’m worried about you,” Glen said.

“So am I. I thought I was a teacher, but now I’m examining cigarette butts for clues.”

He folded his arms. “I mean I’m worried about what happened this weekend.”

“Why? It was only a fender bender, but if you hit your nose the wrong way—”

“Bev.” He shook his head. “You weren’t in Dallas yesterday. Your car was outside your house the two times I drove by.”

She tossed the butt in the garbage. “You’re spying on me now?”

“No, but I still notice when I drive by your house. Is that a crime? This is a small town.” He ducked his head and admitted, “I did consider knocking on your door yesterday.”

Thank heavens he hadn’t. Seeing him before she’d put her story together—even an obviously false story—would have unraveled her last thread of composure.

When she didn’t respond to his visit-that-wasn’t, he continued. “Another reason I don’t buy your trip to Dallas yesterday is that Stuart also said he thought you’d been at home.”

She’d thought Stuart was eyeing her curiously during class this morning, and wondered if Alabama had filled Stuart in on some of the details he’d missed Saturday night. Then again,
everyone
was eyeing her curiously.

“What else did Stuart say?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

Bev was doubtful.

Glen’s gaze narrowed. “What could he have said?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she said quickly.

“He did seem worried about you.”

“I never thought you were the kind of teacher who would gossip with students about another teacher.”

He squared his shoulders. “And I never thought you’d make excuses for a jerk like that guy you’re seeing.”

This was her cue to admit that she and Derek were kaput. But to confess that, she would practically be admitting that his suspicions about her supposed car accident were true. He could tell Jackie, who might tell Lon. And then the jig would be up concerning the charade of the nose.

“Derek had nothing to do with the accident in Dallas,” she insisted.

Glen’s gaze pierced her so steadily that she almost shrank back against the wall. “No.” His voice held a hint of disgust that made her ashamed and sad. “I’m sure he didn’t.”

Her mood deteriorated over the course of the afternoon. Her nose throbbed, as did her conscience. She couldn’t do anything about the latter now, but she did buy a Diet Dr Pepper to hold against her face during study hall.

Toby Beggs, a born smart aleck, called her out. “You said no beverages in study hall, Miss Putterman.”

“This one’s not open,” she said.

“So you’re trying to absorb it, like through osmosis or something? That’s totally awesome!”

The class laughed and it took another minute to threaten them back into silence again.

At home, she got into a fracas with Alabama.

“I guess it was too much to ask that you not tell your little friend about what happened Friday,” she sniped at Alabama, without intending to.

“What are you talking about?” Alabama asked.

“Stuart. He seemed to know why my nose was swollen.”

“He probably guessed. He’s not an idiot. But I didn’t tell him anything.”

Bev wasn’t sure. The two were thick as thieves. “Well, I’ll thank you to keep family business private from now on.”

Alabama dropped her books on the dining room table with a crash. “Fine. Why not? It’ll be good practice for my lifetime as a Putterman. Keeping secrets is what we do best!”

She ran to her room and slammed the door.

Bev sighed. Why had she said anything? Alabama had been so kind to her this weekend.

She should start dinner now, but instead she took an aspirin and succumbed to the lure of a nap in her darkened bedroom.

Her head ached—not only from the nose, but from the stress of the day. The stress of the lie.

She should have stayed home, but she hated taking time off to be sick. She hated to be sick, period. Staying home while the rest of the world went on without her made her nervous. It always reminded her of those days when she’d had the mumps, when everything had gone on without her. By the time she was no longer bedridden, the world had turned on its head.

On that night back in 1970, Tom had arrived to find Bev quarantined. Neither he nor Diana had ever had the mumps, so Tom was only allowed to wave at her once from the doorway, which was probably just as well. Much closer, Bev feared she would have been a fright.

She expected Tom to turn around and drive straight back to Houston. To her surprise—not to mention her mother’s—he stayed. The first night, her soup tray came with flowers and a note from him.

The thought of Tom spending a night on the town with Diana sent panic through her. She sat up and started sloughing off bedcovers until her mother put out her hand and pressed her back against the pillow.