Authors: Elyse Douglas
“I’m real good, Dr. Lincoln. I wanted to play on that table. I could have told all my friends that I played pool on Mark Twain’s pool table. But, then again, most of my idiot friends probably wouldn’t even know who Mark Twain was. You ever read much Mark Twain, Dr. Lincoln?”
“Some.”
“I love
Huckleberry Finn
. I bet I’ve read it, oh… maybe 10 times. A classic. Great dialogue. Great characters. It was one of the first books I gave Rita to read when she got sick—the year she missed so much school and had to make up the grade. She was 14 years old. I’d just been paroled, after ten long years. I read a lot in prison, Dr. Lincoln. They had a damned good library. I read lots and lots of books.
Huckleberry Finn
was definitely one of my favorites. You ever read that book?”
“No…”
“Impressive… anyway, I gave Rita a lot of books to read that year. I wanted to give her a real education, not some damned public education where they tell you what and how to think. They stifle your creativity, try to kick you down and press you into some damned mold so you’ll be like all the other morons in this country. Hell no, I wanted her to be special—to shine with a unique fire—to use that head to reason and think and grow into the authentic truth of herself. To find the fire inside and to live the life she was meant to live and not some stupid paper cutout life of every other kid.
“No sir! I told her, her sickness was a good thing. Be damned thankful for it. Thank the gods, the angels and the demons. Especially thank the demons. They’re the ones who will really get you through this racket of a life. They’re the ones who will keep kicking you in the ass until you finally figure out that you may have to start kicking a lot of ass yourself. Don’t you agree, Dr. Lincoln?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well, anyway, I told her to read the great authors—the classics. That’s how you’ll get an education. That’s how you’ll find your way in this cesspool of a world.
“So read she did. She read maybe two or three books a week. Then, after a few months, I told her it was time for her to learn how to write. I mean to really write. So I made her copy paragraphs from this one and that one—some bad some good—and then we’d talk about them. Then I’d say, write it better—not the same—never the same. No! Make it unique. Make it better!
“I made her turn off that idiot box TV and read and write. Oh…she hated me for it at first, but then after a couple of months…well, I didn’t have to tell her to turn off the TV. She was caught with wonder and surprise like a kid at Christmas. She was reading everything, and writing stories. I mean writing good stories, Dr. Lincoln. Ooooo weeee! Hell, I had no idea she had that kind of talent. Some of her first short stories were heads above things I was reading in magazines, and I told her. Yes sir. I told her she was good! They were original and inventive. They moved me, Dr. Lincoln. Truly, they did move me.
“Then she started reading plays and acting out all the parts: Tennessee Williams, William Inge, Eugene O’Neil, and even some Shakespeare. Damn, you should have seen her. You should have seen that girl. She was a sight to behold.”
I was still standing. My eyes had adjusted to him. I saw him look up and face me. “You ever read any of her stories, Dr. Lincoln?”
“Yes…I have.”
“What do you think of them?”
“Good. I liked them.”
“Good…” he repeated, with disappointment, as if “good” was very nearly an insult.
“Rita is exceptional, Mr. Fitzgerald,” I added. “In many ways.”
He seized on it, shooting to his feet. “Yes!” he said, loudly, pounding his fist on the stairs as he rose. “Hell yes…Rita is exceptional! And like many exceptional people, she’s, well, she’s high strung. She lives a little close to the edge.”
“She has good reasons,” I said. “She’s been through hell.”
“…Maybe, but my wife and I think it’s best if Rita stays away from the past. Completely away, if you know what I mean. It can’t be good for her. My wife told me that ever since Rita saw you two weeks ago, she hasn’t…improved. In fact she’s been low and she’s regressed some. That’s what her therapist said.”
“Mrs. Fitzgerald called me two weeks ago and asked me to come and see Rita.”
“That was a mistake. We know that now.”
I moved toward the top of the porch, looking down at him. “I’d love to talk with Rita’s therapist,” I said.
“Rita wouldn’t want that. We don’t want that. You have nothing to do with Rita, Dr. Lincoln. All that was a long time ago. You have your life now and Rita has hers. We want Rita to get better and move on past all the tragedy and anything and everything that might remind her of it.”
“So do I.”
“Good. Then we all agree. Don’t see her again. Let her be. Leave the past where it belongs.”
“If that’s what Rita wants then…”
“That’s what I want!” Frank said, with a hint of a threat. “Rita doesn’t know what she wants right now. She’s just barely hanging on. Barely!”
“Mr. Fitzgerald, she’s not 18 anymore; she’s 34. She’s a grown woman.”
“And she’s nearly out of her mind! Don’t you get that, Doctor? Leave her alone! Sell your big rich house, go back to New York and leave us all alone!”
“That’s up to Rita,” I said, evenly but forcefully.
“Don’t you fuck with me, Dr. Lincoln! Leave Rita alone!”
I watched him pivot and stride off, aggressively, into the night. I went back to the porch swing and sat, not rocking. I closed my eyes and felt my strong pulse, rebellious and agitated. Minutes later my cell phone rang. I dug it out of my jacket pocket.
“This is Alan.”
It was my answering service. A patient had an emergency. Mrs. Rivera was having an adverse reaction to some new medication I’d prescribed. I called her back to let her know that I’d prescribe a milder one. I immediately called it in to her local pharmacy.
I had just stepped inside the house and turned on the hall lights when my phone rang again. “Alan.”
“Alan James…”
“Rita!” I said, coming alive. “How are you?”
“Fine…better. Mom said…said you’re here in Hartsfield.”
“She gave you my number?”
“Yes.”
Considering the conversation I’d just had with her father, that confused me, but I didn’t care. “Yes, I’m here. If the invitation’s still open, I’d love to see you tomorrow.”
Rita’s voice got stronger. “Yes…Tomorrow. Is your wife with you?”
“…No. You’re stuck with me.”
She laughed a little. It sounded like music. “Okay.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Eleven?”
“Okay. Should I pick you up?”
“No. I’ll go there. Alan James…”
“Yes.”
“I saw a… psychic. Near Pittsburgh.”
I closed the front door behind me. “…Yes…”
“I had to talk to her. I had to hear about Darla.”
“Yes, Rita. Of course.”
“I’ll tell you about it.”
I tried to sound enthusiastic. “Sure, Rita. Good.”
“I’m glad…glad you’re here, Alan James.”
“…Me, too.”
After I hung up, I wondered if Rita knew her father had returned. I wondered if she’d arrived home and had seen him. I suddenly felt a touch of melodrama. If she called back with trouble, I’d drive over.
Chapter Five
A dream about Nicole awoke me a little before eight the next morning. After a shower and a half-cup of coffee, the dream still hovered like smog. The internal struggles began. I dreaded the ordeal of a divorce but dreaded even more the thought of returning to our apartment and facing Nicole. I just wanted it all to go away. I finally gathered the nerve to check my cell phone for messages, but there were none—not even from my answering service.
I found a clean shirt, brown khakis and an old pair of sneakers and drove five miles, under frothy clouds, to Big Joe’s Truck Stop. It was one place that hadn’t changed—not in 15 years. I ordered sausage, eggs and hash browns, and ate while skimming the local paper.
When I turned into the driveway, a little after 10 o’clock, Rita’s gray 1998 Cavalier came up behind me and stopped. She emerged, walking toward me with a strained, eager quality. I immediately saw a change in her. She’d gained some weight; a healthy color had returned to her thin face, and her eyes were clear. She wore cream colored Capri pants, one inch heels and a yellow cotton blouse. She’d taken great care with her makeup and hairstyle, the latter being partless, artistically careless and gleaming. Black mascara accented the blue dusk of her eyes; her lipstick was a bold red. Long pearl dangling earrings caught the morning sun. From her meek expression and awkward stance, I sensed she hadn’t “dressed up” in a long time.
I stared with increasing pleasure, as the air around us carried the scent of freshly cut grass and the sound of frisky birds. I gave her a deep smile. “Look at you. You look…pretty.”
Her eyes fully opened on me. “It’s a special day.”
“Yes…”
A bird nearby made the jarring sound of a squeaky hinge and Rita looked for it, keeping half her attention on me. I studied her and she knew it. The youthful glamour had gone. The voluptuous, formidable body that had once graced and stunned, like a disturbing revelation, now seemed almost frail. But the face—the leonine face—proud and imperial, had dissolved into a regal maturity and attractiveness that reawakened in me an extraordinary innocence and an immediate desire. I certainly felt more of the blaze of life in her, more of the fighting spirit to live, than at our last meeting.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” I said. “Your father came by last night.”
Her eyes hardened. “He threatens. He needs total control. That’s his reason to live. He forgets that I’ve seen death…been dead for a long time. He forgets that… When he tries to scare me…it just makes me pity him.”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course. This will be a wonderful day. It’s Darla’s day.”
We took my car and drove toward Greenspot, a smaller town than Hartsfield, where Rita said Darla often went to church. We traveled a quiet two-lane back road, past open fields and the occasional pond. Rita seemed more inclined to talk, and her speech had an easier flow and rhythm. She told me she hadn’t taken any of her medication that morning. She said it fogged her mind and speech and today she wanted both to be clear.
“Children surprise…you,” she said. “Darla was religious or spiritual or whatever you want to call it. She even talked about becoming a minister. I don’t know where she got it. Dusty went to church once in awhile, but never seemed present. I just went along with Darla because she wanted to go. I can’t say I ever believed in it, even when Mom took me to the Baptist church when I was a girl.”
“And now?”
“And now…” she repeated vaguely, staring at a flowering field. “And now…I pray. I pray every night for her. I pray for the whole world. I pray and curse at the same time. Sometimes I pray for death…not so much anymore…but sometimes. I pray for some illumination…for any scraps of small wisdom. I pray to any God in any faith and listen to my words fall silent and dead in the room. But I pray. It’s an act of desperation, I know, but desperate acts of faith have gotten me through some very dark nights of the soul.”
She turned to me. “Do you…believe, Alan James?”
“I’m a doubting Thomas, Rita. I haven’t much—or maybe no—faith. I see no evidence of a compassionate or benevolent God. If God is love, then we’ve got to redefine and expand the meaning of love. I used to look to Galileo, Kepler and Newton to help me understand things. They were scientists—mathematical wizards—and they were deeply religious. Kepler once said, ‘I think your thoughts, oh God.’ But I’m not much inclined to longsuffering and meekness in the face of evil and ignorance in the world. I’ve seen so much suffering and pain in the ER’s and hospitals. I’ve seen so many people pray…and nothing happens. So, I don’t know, what good is it? I mean, what is faith? Just hopeful imagination?”
Rita considered the thought. “Darla used to say: ‘It’s not just about faith, mother, it’s also about experience.’ I’d say, what do you mean? She’d say, ‘If you experience love then you are experiencing God.’ So then I would challenge her. I’d say, what about hate, brutality and violence? Some religions say God is omnipresent, all pervasive, all powerful? If that’s so, why does he let these things happen?”
“Darla would say, ‘All those things: suffering, hate and violence, give us the experience and understanding to see that love really is the best way to go and, ultimately, the only way to go. So we struggle to move toward it.’”
I looked at Rita, to check her state. Her features were composed, her hands quietly folded on her lap. “She was a smart little girl,” I said. “But then, she was your daughter.”
She sighed heavily. “Yes… She was always reading about the Christian saints. Where did she get that from? I don’t know. She had the best parts of us…Dusty and me. She made us seem better than we were or ever could be. She wasn’t a little saint or anything…she could whine better than any child I ever heard… but…how I’d love to hear her whine now. When she turned ten, just after we’d moved back here, I actually joined the church and ‘got religion.’ I became a believer—a believer in my child, not the church. Darla was so proud of me. She said I was the prettiest woman in the church.”