Cynthia gazed at herself in the mirror, letting her hand pass slowly over her right cheek before she smoothed her hair and smiled. “I'm not that bad, am I?”
As Kellie had known, her mother would wear the red robe and enjoy it. She loved the scent of gourmet coffee, an aroma that usually gave her a sense of well-being, but at the moment, she couldn't bring herself to enjoy it. Her mind was on the frivolousness she detected in Cynthia. God forbid it was such gullibility as Cynthia had just displayed that got her into her present trouble. Kellie didn't want the coffee, but she drank it anyway, cooling it with the wind of her breath and sipping slowly, relieving herself of the necessity of talking. Sucking her teeth was the only evidence she gave of the spurt of anger that shot through her. Sure as hell, her mother didn't want to hear the words that fought to come out of her. She leaned back and closed her eyes; the time would come, though, when those unspoken words would be her trump card.
She put their cups, saucers, and spoons in the dishwasher and switched off the kitchen lights. “I'm going to bed, Mama. Happy number fifty-five. See you in the morning.”
“Thank you for making my day, honey. Uh . . . You going to church in the morning?”
“Hadn't planned on it, and I probably won't.” She headed toward the stairs. “Good night, Mama.”
“Good night, dear.”
Cynthia hadn't moved from her seat on the living room sofa, a lone figure in the dimly lit, almost eerie setting, with only the whistling of the wind for company. Kellie looked at her mother for a long time before going to her room, getting into her bed and sinking into a deep, restful sleep.
Â
Â
On that Sunday morning, Lacette arose early, cooked breakfast and called Kellie and her mother to eat. When neither responded, she checked their rooms, found nothing untoward, and put their food in the oven. Then, as she had promised herself, she went to her father's church and sat in her usual seat. She didn't burden her mind with thoughts of what the parishioners made of her mother's absence. Cynthia Graham did not miss Sunday morning service unless she was ill. She'd been known to attend service when she had barely enough energy to walk up the half a dozen steps leading to the front door.
Lacette listened for half an hour to her father's sermonâa very good one considering the radical change he made in his life the previous dayâextolling the efficacy of loyalty and trust. She wondered if he was talking about his personal life. At the end of the service, when the people usually gathered to give praise, to share the message they received from the pastor's sermon, and sometimes to gossip about what someone was wearing and who was in what kind of trouble, Lacette dashed to the women's room and, seeing that the route was clear, rushed from there to her father's office and waited for him.
Marshall Graham walked into his office and closed the door, having spent much less time with his parishioners than was usual for him on a Sunday morning. When he saw Lacette, a smile replaced his somber demeanor. She jumped to her feet and met him as he started toward her.
“I'm so glad you came,” he said. “I knew that if a member of my family showed up here this morning, you'd be the one. How are you?”
She let herself enjoy the strength of his embrace as she tried to recall the last time she had experienced the loving warmth of her mother's arms. She kissed her father's cheek, moved away from him and voiced the thought she'd just had.
“Don't ever compare your relationship with your father to your relationship with your mother. You look to us for different things, to me for protection and to her for social identity. When you passed your teens, your mother had to stop mothering you and let you be a woman. My role remains the same; it's the way I exercise it that has changed. So don't be so hard on your mother. What's happened is between her and me, and I don't want you to take sides.”
“I don't know if that's possible, Daddy. I've always felt closer to you than to anyone else.”
A half smile flitted across his face. “It's enough that Kellie will take sides with her. Don't you be guilty of the same foolishness.”
“I see what you mean,” she said. And she did. Kellie had always wound their mother around her little finger, avoiding guidance when she needed it and punishment when she deserved it. “Have you found a place to stay?”
“Last night I stayed at a motel over in New Market, and I don't think anyone recognized me. If I let it be known that Cynthia and I are separated, the trustees might expect my family to move out of the parish house, and I don't want to see you and Kellie without a home.”
She noticed that he did not include her mother in that statement. “Let's go have lunch somewhere, Daddy. I'm hungry.”
“Me, too. I had a nice supper at a little inn near Lake Linga-nore last night. Why don't we go there? Stokey's is nice.”
“You're on, Daddy. Anywhere as long as the place serves food.”
“Leave your car here in my parking space,” he told her. “There's no reason why we both should drive. If we go together, we'll be able to talk.”
They drove along the boundary of Catoctin Mountain Park where leaves that once hung green and heavy on the trees lay thick and beautiful in a gold, orange, and red carpet upon the ground. It was one of the reasons why Lacette loved the autumn.
“It's so peaceful along here,” she said, glanced at the speedometer and then at her father. “Could you please slow down, Daddy?”
He did as she asked. “I was only doing fifty. Whatever happened to that fellow, Reggie. Was that his name?” She took his question as a sign that he wanted a change of subject. Her father had very little tolerance for criticism, and she had just criticized his driving.
“Reggie neither recognized nor understood the word âno' so I sent him packing. That kind of man is a nuisance.”
He turned off Catoctin Furnace Road into Parks Drive, a romantic lane overhung with branches that formed a mile-long arbor often referred to as lovers' drive. He stopped in front of a white brick building that was distinguished mainly by the replica of a great elk astride its roof.
Lacette made no move to get out of the car. “Daddy, I have a feeling that if we're eating here so you won't see anyone who knows us, you're going to be disappointed.”
He got out, walked around the car and opened her door. A mark of absentmindedness, she knew, because he usually allowed her to let herself out of the car. “You think so?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
He took her arm and made rapid strides to the restaurant. “We'll see.”
Almost as soon as they seated themselves, the waitress arrived with two menus. “Lord, Reverend Graham, it sure is an honor to wait on
you
. This your daughter for sure, cause she looks just like you. No, sir, you can't disown this one. She's even got that little dimple in her left cheek.”
Lacette rarely saw her father flustered, but he turned the pages of the menu over and over without looking at them and drank half a glass of water, although he seldom tasted it.
“Do you go to Mount Airy-Hill?” he asked the waitress.
“I did for a while before we moved up here. What y'all having? The ribs are out of sight today. Mouthwatering.”
They placed their orders, and as soon as the woman left them, Marshall rested his elbows on the white tablecloth, made a pyramid of his hands and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “How often do you get it right?”
“When I have a premonition like I did earlier, I know to expect something, but I never know what.”
Like tomorrow,
she thought, but didn't say, for whatever came would not be welcome. She fingered the little medallion in her purse and prayed for the best.
After lunch, he drove her back to the church. “I hope you and Kellie took your mother out to dinner for her birthday last night.” He parked the Cadillac beside her old Chevrolet. “The Bible tells us, âHonor thy father and thy mother,' and I've tried to instill that in you and your sister. She's your mother, no matter what.”
Was he preparing her for something, or did he have a guilty conscience? Somehow, she didn't think he was the one nursing guilt. “We took her to Mealey's, and it was as gloomy an occasion as I have ever witnessed. I thought it would go on forever. I didn't even enjoy the crab cakes, and that should give you an idea of how miserable an affair it was.”
“I can imagine, and I'm sorry, but I'd have been a liar if I'd had dinner with her. I'm going to run by and see Mama Carrie for a couple of minutes. Then I'm going back to the motel till time for evening prayer.” He wrote his telephone number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. “Call me if you need me,” he said, got into his car and headed to his mother-in-law's house.
As she drove home, it occurred to her that she should look for a place of her own. Her father had discouraged her attempts to move out of his house, claiming that nice girls stayed home until they married, but he was no longer their family anchor. Besides, she had remained with the family because he would consider it an affront if his unmarried daughters lived alone in a town in which he resided, although he would have accepted their moving to another locality. Male pride was a thing she didn't think she would ever understand.
Â
Â
The next morning, Lacette awoke suddenly and sat up in bed, startled by the banging on her door. Seconds later, Kellie rushed into the room.
“Ginga just called. She found Gramma unconscious, and the ambulance is taking her to Frederick Memorial.”
Lacette slid off the bed and struggled into her robe. “I'd better call Daddy. He went to see her yesterday afternoon. Where's Mama?”
“Getting dressed. You talked with Daddy yesterday? Oh, that's right; you went to church.”
Lacette telephoned her father and gave him the news. “How was she yesterday?”
“She looked great. When I got there, she was watching the Ravens on television. We had a good visit, and I promised to see her next Sunday. I'll get over to the hospital to see how she's doing.” An hour later, he approached his mother-in-law's hospital room as Lacette, Kellie, and Cynthia emerged from it.
“How is . . . What's the matter?' he asked, rushing forward, his face ashen. “Is she . . .”
“She's gone,” Lacette said. “She had an embolism. Nothing could be done.”
He gasped. Then, in a quick recovery, he took her mother's hand. “I'm terribly sorry, Cynthia. Mama Carrie was a mother to me for more than thirty-five years. When I left her yesterday, her spirits were high, and she was in a good mood. Happy. I'm thankful for that.”
He parked behind Lacette's car when they reached home, went in with them, surprising Lacette, and sat with them in the living room of what, until the previous morning, had been his home.
She gazed at the people around her, sitting together in total quiet as if they were still a family. Unable to bear it, she rushed from the room, explaining that she would make coffee. After forcing herself to settle down, she made the coffee, for she knew Kellie wouldn't do it. She let enough time pass for the chill to lift from the living room, put the coffeepot, four mugs, sugar, and a half pint of milk on a tray and took it to her family.
“I know it isn't easy for you, Cynthia,” her father was saying when she walked back into the living room, “but we have to talk about the service. It's best to have it Saturday morning and the interment directly from the church that afternoon. I'll have my secretary take care of bulletins, media announcements, ushers and so on, and she'll E-mail all of the parishioners who are on-line. One of you girls write out a short page on Mama Carrie's life and E-mail it to Mrs. Watson.” He looked at his estranged wife as if gauging her attitude. “You want to go with me to the funeral home to pick out the casket, or do you want to leave that to me?”
She wiped her eyes. “You're doing all this after whatâ”
He cut her off. “This isn't about you, Cynthia. I'm doing it for Mama Carrie and for my daughters.”
Lacette sucked in her breath and stared first at her mother and then at her father, looking for a clue, anything that would tell her what had gone wrong between them, but the most experienced actors couldn't have covered their feelings more adeptly.
“Well, for whatever reason you're doing it,” Cynthia said, “I certainly do thank you. And . . . I'd rather not go pick out the casket. Lord, I can't even believe she's gone.” She covered her eyes with a handkerchief, but only for a second. “Don't worry, Marshall,” she said, sitting up straighter in the chair and crossing her knees, “I'm not going to break down. At least not now.” Without another word, she left them and went up the stairs to the room she once shared with her husband.
Â
Â
Ten days later, Kellie sat in a lawyer's office along with Lacette, her parents, and Ginga, her grandmother's friend and cleaning woman, to hear the reading of Carrie Hooper's will. To her mind, only Lacette, their mother, and she should be there, because they were her grandmother's descendants and rightful heirs. Instead of dividing what was left by three, it would be shared by five people. She didn't really object to her father having any of it, but why should he?