'Til Grits Do Us Part (20 page)

Adam got up from the steps, Christie trotting after him, and walked through the short space of grass between Stella's house and mine. He knelt by Stella's bushes, checking the leaves and then the base around the roots. I observed the two of them, curious, as Stella puffed in silence.

“Leaf blotch. See the purple spots?” Adam pointed to a clump of leaves illuminated by my porch light. “It's a fungal infection. Probably from all the rain we've been having.” He tore the leaves off, making the bush shiver. “You've got to get rid of all these infected leaves so it doesn't spread. What fungicide are you using?”

“Me? I just throw some fertilizer on 'em ev'ry now and then. That's all Mama ever did, an' hers grew as big as dinner plates.” Stella gestured with her hands, breathing out a mouthful of smoke.

But hey. At least Stella hadn't stooped to “planting” plastic flowers in her flower bed like the neighbors up the street.

“You should probably increase the potassium levels of your soil, too, but you definitely need a fungicide right away,” said Adam, interrupting my thoughts of tacky Snow-White-and-the-Seven-Dwarves lawn ornaments and pink flamingos. “Preferably something organic. There's a mixture of water, baking soda, vegetable oil, and castile soap I can whip together for you. Works as good as the commercial stuff but doesn't kill beneficial insects.” Adam checked the lower leaves again then stood up. “I'll bring it next time I come, if you want.”

I watched Adam as he talked to Stella, checking her petunia bed for something else. Wishing I could protect and heal and shelter like Adam did. Instead, the little crab apple
bonsai
tree he'd made me last Christmas had started to wilt, shedding leaves all over the windowsill.

I'd even managed to squeeze the life out of that, too.

“Y'outta see this green-tea panna cotta I've been making,” Stella puffed, turning to me. “It's kinda like a puddin', but better.”

“Green tea?” I looked up, mouth watering at the thought of bitter
matcha
powder. “Really?”

“No joke. I got to researchin' Asian stuff when I did that sushi cake for yer s'prise birthday party and figgered I might branch out a little. Try somethin' exotic.” She tapped her cigarette. “An' doggone if people don't eat it up! Jer asked for a double order this week.”

“That'll go great with the recipes we're recommending him.”

“Exactly what I thought. In fact…” Stella turned from her plants at the sound of a car, shielding her eyes from distant streetlights to see the road. “Hold on a sec. That can't be…naw. Forgit it.”

A sedan rumbled slowly past our houses, casting a shadow on my newly mown lawn. Headlights out. A glimmer of gray flashed from the roof as it eased through a puddle of streetlight.

“That can't be who?” My pulse quickened. I scrambled up from the porch and through the grass, stopping at Adam's side.

“Aw, nobody.” She slapped her thigh like something occurred to her. “Shucks, I know that car. That's ol' Mac Turner. He's probably jest checkin' on Wilma to make sure she ain't cheatin' on him again. She done two times already, you know, with that Smith fella. But she keeps singin' her innocence.” Stella shook her head and took another puff on her Marlboro. “They's both in the phil-a-telic club with Jer, ya know.”

I grinned to myself, hearing Stella say “philatelic.” She might overdose on hairspray, but the woman wasn't dumb. Probably a lot of people were smarter than I gave them credit for.

“I didn't know Jerry collects stamps.” I waved smoke away from my face and grimaced. “But who did you think was driving that car just now?”

Stella squinted in the direction of the road. “Nobody important. That ol' Townshend kid.”

I drew back, bumping into Adam. “Who? Jim Bob?”

And this time both Adam and Stella wheeled around to look at me in astonishment.

“How do you know about Jim Bob?” Stella leaned closer, hand on her hefty hip. The cigarette between her fingers continued to send up a swirl of smoke.

“I don't know much. Just what somebody told me at the office.” I shrugged lightly, not wanting to worry Adam. “Why would you think Jim Bob was driving that car?”

Stella coughed, a frown crinkling her lined forehead. “Well, it's real funny. He's been gone a long time now, years and years. But I could swear I saw him the other day, pickin' up some meds from the pharmacy for his pappy. And his mama used to have a car kinda like that. Won it from some prize giveaway.”

“You actually saw Jim Bob here recently?” I choked out the words, my fingers growing cold on Adam's arm. “In Staunton?”

“Well, yeah. Him an' his folks lived up on that mountain over past Goshen, before he moved off to West Virginia or wherever. He checks on his pa ev'ry now and then, ya know. Seems like the ol' fella's havin' some spells lately.”

“Oh.” I jutted my head back in surprise. “Well, he can't be too bad of a guy if he's taking care of his dad, I guess.”

“I reckon not.” Stella lifted her cigarette to her lips, turning again toward the street. “But he's real funny. Don't talk much to nobody. Heard he made it big-time in some business. Loads a money. Guess he thinks he's too good for the likes of us.” She snorted, making her housedress shudder. “Ya'd think with all that money, though, he'd buy himself some hair.”

“Sorry?” I scrunched my brow.

“You know. Like from Hair Club for Men or somethin'. Guy's had a receding hairline since high school. Big bald patch on the back. Don't they make hair weaves or somethin' nowadays?” She puffed. “I saw some kinda toupee on the shoppin' channel the other day that'd suit him jest fine.”

Stella coughed again, and I jerked my head in her direction. “Stella. You really need to stop smoking.”

Up to now I'd minced around the subject Japanese-like, putting out humble little self-abasing suggestions, but Stella didn't sound so good. Blame it on the buzzing streetlight along the road, but her complexion struck me as kind of green. Waxy.

I thought Adam would nudge me, but he nodded. “You do, Stella,” he said without hesitation. “That cigarette smoke is killing you. I can fix your peonies, but I sure can't fix your lungs.”

We stood there in an awkward silence, which Stella only broke by coughing again and pounding on her chest. “Ya got me.” She grinned sheepishly, giving a deep wheeze. “I tried to quit before, ya know, but it always come back to bite me in the rear. Reckon it's too late for this old dog to change her ways.”

“You're not a dog. And it's not too late.” I let go of Adam and put my arm through hers. “I'll help you. Whatever it takes. Do this for me—for us—if you won't do it for yourself. Please.”

Stella sized us both up. “What's next? Ya'll gonna try an' git me religion, too?”

“You never know.” I bobbed my eyebrows. “I'd start with the smoking before you give us any more ideas.”

Stella shook her head and chuckled then put out her cigarette and ground it in the grass with her flip-flop.

“There's one other thing about Jim Bob,” said Stella as we watched Adam's truck back out of the driveway. The long day had run its course, and my eyes felt sticky from sleepiness. My forehead burned where Adam had kissed me, his lips warm against my skin.

“What about Jim Bob?” I said over my shoulder.

“I don't know how he managed to make so much dough with that bum hand of his. Broke it jumpin' off a barn roof or some such nonsense. He weren't real smart, ya know. But he was good with precision stuff. Little bolts and lug nuts and whatnot. He used to work over at the mechanic's shop. The one over on Greenville Avenue.”

Stella reached over her shoulder to scratch her back. “But he wasn't much good with those li'l parts after the accident. Lost all the feeling in his right hand an' broke the bones in six places. Never will be the same.”

She grunted and stretched. “Anyhow. I'll see ya 'round. Need my beauty sleep.”

I hadn't moved a muscle. Still stood there, staring at Stella as she waved and headed into the house, fidgeting with her now-cold lighter.

Bald. Cast on his hand
.

And I turned and raced to the door, stumbling into Mom's room and jerking open the trunk.

Snatching out her sheaf of unopened letters.

T
here are some things I must tell you, even if you don't want to speak to me,”
Mom had written. I'd tried to read this letter before, the night I'd dug through her trunk for her transmission warranty, but choked up. Now I searched the lines again with my finger, perched on the edge of her bed.

Affect me? What from Mom's life could have possibly affected me back then?

I glanced at the date—just three months before Mom's death. I'd been in Tokyo at that time, interviewing the Japanese prime minister and writing award-winning articles on the Nagasaki bombing. Schmoozing with the bigwigs of journalism and studying journalistic ethics online for my master's.

As far as I knew, Mom was simply on one of her desperate kicks to turn her life around and start over with me when she sent this slew of correspondence.

But as I read again, brows creasing, something dark began to lurk in the corner of my mind.

The words hit me with surprising force, as if someone had thrown my glass of cold mugicha tea in my face.

What could Mom possibly have been talking about? When she died, I didn't even know what state she lived in.

I jerked the letter closer, the crackle of paper echoing in the stillness of the bedroom.

“Knows me?” I shouted, making Christie look up from her makeshift bed on the braided rug, head against my leg.

I threw my head back in surprise, nearly sliding off the bed.

Every last ounce of energy slipped from my joints, and I had to reach up and shut my jaw with my hand.

A year and a half ago, and somebody had asked for me? Here? In redneck western Virginia?

M
eg, this is by far the most bizarre thing I've ever heard in my life,” I said into the phone, collapsing onto the sofa. The cup of green tea I'd poured with shaking hands, spilling onto the placemat, sat untouched on the kitchen table.

I thought briefly of Tim and Becky's cow-tipping adventure and hesitated. “Okay. Not the most bizarre thing. But it sure tops the charts.”

Piles of letters sprawled across the sofa cushions, the deep blue ribbon coiled in an empty spiral. Papers everywhere. Cardboard boxes gutted, their contents strewn across the living room. Stuff from Mom's trunk.