The House on Persimmon Road (24 page)

That was when Justine felt the calm sliding away. “And just how did your day go, Mother?”

“Well, straightaway I got the job. A lovely hotel, dear.”

“Oh? Why didn’t you call me?”

“Well… that was the problem, you see. They explained the PBX—that stands for Private Branch Exchange—a telephone system. It was all computerized. You’d have understood it in a flash.”

“You were hired as a telephone operator?”

“PBX operator,” Pauline corrected. “Then at lunch—we had to buy our own at a discount—I spent my money. I only had the three dollars.”

“Mother,” Justine oozed between clenched teeth. “You worked on a phone exchange with outside lines and you didn’t take one minute to call me? You let me go bonkers worrying myself crazy about you—”

“Don’t yell, dear. I’m trying to explain. Had I been able to master the PBX, I’d still have the job, wouldn’t I? After they told me I wouldn’t work out, I’d already spent my money. Then they gave me a check for sixteen dollars, but I couldn’t get it cashed at the bank because I don’t have an account, and the grocers refused too because you have to have a driver’s license with your picture on it, not the temporary, plus a credit card. I could hardly borrow the cost of a phone call from a stranger. How would that look? So I thought, why waste the entire day? I went to the second place on my list and I have another interview in the morning, at a lovely, lovely restaurant. They need a hostess. And so, that’s why I didn’t call. Dear me, Justine, you’re looking at me the same way your father used to when he was dreadfully unhappy.”

“You drove Daddy crazy, didn’t you?”

Pauline’s hand fluttered. “I got the first job I ever had in my life today and all you can say is something shameful?”

Agnes cackled. “You mean you got hired and fired, all in the same day!”

“And paid for it,” Pauline reminded proudly, displaying the check.

“But fired!” Agnes pushed.

“That was a business decision, Agnes. My goodness. No wonder you were only ever a waitress.” She passed the check to Justine. “Could you make me a loan against this, dear? Oh, I’m so happy! My very first paycheck!”

Justine felt suddenly enervated, as if whatever it was that held together her bones and joints had dissolved. It was the aftereffects of the fear she had borne all day, she knew. “‘You did well, Mother,” she said, meaning it.

“I didn’t mean to worry you, dear. Next time, I’ll call. I promise.”

“Next time.” Justine closed her eyes. Another day of fear like today and she would shut down completely. ‘‘Mother Hale, can you manage supper? I need to lie down.”

“All by myself? What about Miss Cosmopolitan?” she exclaimed, flouncing out of the room. “I suppose I’m going to be the slave around here from now on.”

—  •  —

Lottie had a remark ready, but held it steady on her tongue. She was counting on good luck to make her life right. It was bad luck to say certain things aloud, even if she was the only one who could hear them.

For years and years, she hadn’t been afraid. But today, she had caught fear from Justine. It had been a physical element in the air and attached itself to her, reminding her of what fear was like. How it insinuated itself somewhere deep inside, how hard it was to get around and beyond it. She had everything planned. But suppose there was a barrier she knew nothing about? She didn’t remember one whit about arriving on this side of things. Suppose she didn’t really exist? Suppose she was just lost in her own mind? She moved past Judy Ann. The kitten arched her back and hissed.

That answers that, Lottie thought. The cat knew she was here. The cat would leave fleas and cat hair. Lottie sighed. More mess.

Still, the business of fear worried her. Fear caused doubt. Fear, Lottie decided, was treacherous. Fear was making her wonder if the family was going to accept her.

And how, she wondered glumly, was she going to explain where she had been all this time? Suppose she returned only to be cast out? She doubted she had a relative left in the world—outside of Milo Roberts, and he was only a distant cousin by marriage. She most assuredly did not want to take up housekeeping with the likes of him!

Pondering the problem, she left it too late to slip unnoticed into the pantry, for unexpectedly Justine and Tucker occupied the kitchen. They were too swift of ear and eye to miss the secret door opening. She settled herself on a stool in the corner and passed the time pleasantly—eavesdropping.

They sat at the kitchen table facing each other. Justine had set out cold drinks. Disconsolately, she stirred hers with a fingertip.

“C’mon,” Tucker coaxed. “Let’s go for a walk. The stars are out by the millions tonight. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I can’t. I have to do the dishes, sort dirty clothes, try to get in a couple hours of work, and before I get in bed, commit hara-kiri.”

He laughed. “Dear heart, your mother got home safe and sound. It’s over. Stop worrying.”

“That’s not it. The insurance company called today when my brain was nonfunctioning. I agreed to contract completion a month early.”

“Can you do it?”

“I have to. They upped the bonus to five thousand dollars if I bring it in by the end of August.”

“Very nice. I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. The whole contract is only worth twelve thousand, and that’s with the bonus. It may be all the money I’ll ever earn in my life.” She looked at him, her expression intense. “See, what I hoped was to use that money to buy this house. Then I wouldn’t keep having to dip into what I got out of the divorce for mortgage payments. That money has to last until I’m established.”

“What’s in the way of your getting the work done early?”

“Mother, Agnes, the children, laundry, not to mention you’re keeping me up nights.”

“Whoops. Let me ask another way. Is there anything that can be done to increase your productivity?”

“If I tied in a second computer, I could write sections of the program, then immediately write out that portion of the instruction manual. Make sure the bugs are out. And, I’d have a hard copy as I go along. Sort of like editing as I went. But the wiring in this old house won’t carry the extra pull. If the television and the computer are on, and somebody uses the microwave, poof! Another fuse blown.”

Lottie leaned forward, agitated. Not enough electricity? What did that mean? Mayhap there wouldn’t be enough for her. She hadn’t thought of that.

“I’ll rewire the office circuits for you this weekend,” Tucker was saying.

“You’re too much in our lives as it is. I’d just be more obligated.”

“Too much in your life?” he repeated, genuinely astonished. “In my mind I am your life and you’re mine. Are you telling me that’s not clear to you?” He went on, provoked to the point of anger. “What do you want in a man, Justine? Another gutless wonder like your ex?”

She reeled from his sudden attack. “That’s not fair.”

“Suppose you tell me—what’s fair?”

“For one thing, taking on my family isn’t fair…to you. You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for, emotionally, financially—”

“Wait a sec! I’m not going to let you make that kind of decision for me. I know what I want. I may not have it blueprinted, but I can handle anything that comes my way.” Dark as slate with sudden knowledge, his eyes fixed on her. “I got it. You want absolute control. You want to control your mother, Agnes, the kids, me. That’s not how life is, or relationships. I decide for me, you decide for you. Right or wrong we all have the right to make decisions for ourselves.”

“That’s not true! I’m trying to hold us together!”

“That’s what you’re telling yourself. Think about it. Or perhaps you don’t want a man who came up through the school of hard knocks.”

“That’s not true, either. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But, it can’t last. I know it can’t.”

He made a sound in his throat. “I’m getting out of here. If I stay another minute, I’d be tempted to shake you until your brain rattled. And since so little of it seems to be functional right now, we can’t risk that, can we?”

“Wait! Please.”

“Nope. I’ll start work on the wiring Saturday morning after I pick up my dad. Maybe by then, you’ll have come to your senses.”

“You’re saying you won’t…we won’t…that’s five days!” She was devastated.

“I have things to do.”

“Like what?” she shot back, lashing out with sarcasm because she knew he was right about her, right about wanting, needing control, that it was central to her sense of well-being, her protection against pain and hurt. Yet, she was hurting now.

“Well, I’ll tell you like what. Like writing a cookbook. I was ashamed to tell you, afraid you’d think me a limp-wristed nitwit. But listening to you just now I realized it was my own shame I was hiding behind. I had myself whacked out thinking it wasn’t a manly thing to do. Somebody might laugh. You know what? I don’t care if anybody laughs. I like writing the damned thing. I like cooking, too. And, I’m good at it.” He paused and almost smiled. “The look on your face is priceless.”

Beautiful, vulnerable, lovable face, he thought, behind which was a brain that was deluding her into believing that control was the foundation of life. There would be trust between them, he decided, or nothing at all.

He left. Justine got out of the chair, went into the bathroom, looked at herself in the mirror, and cried.

—  •  —

Lottie was embarrassed. She wished she had not stayed to witness the raw emotions that spewed between Tucker and Justine. Safely in the attic, she sat on her bed and gazed out at the starlit sky. A tremor started at a point very low in her spirit and moved rapidly upward so that it seemed to touch her very soul. Tucker was going to do something to the electricity. She would watch him and learn precisely how to use it for herself.

On Saturday.

After three mornings of watching her mother drive jauntily off for yet another interview, Justine began to take it in stride. By the fifth morning she could see the humor in the situation. Pauline wore three-hundred-dollar suits, hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume, and two-dollar panty hose to interview for jobs that would pay three dollars and thirty-five cents an hour. She invariably got hired in the morning and terminated in the afternoon, an event to which she attached no social stigma whatsoever.

She also kept a list of all the people she met and soon counted among her acquaintances the president of the local garden club, the secretary of a Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, a vice-president of First Alabama Bank, the members of two bridge clubs who had invited her to join, and the chairwoman of the auxiliary of The Order of Inca that sponsored a Mardi Gras ball every year. Pauline’s professional life died at the end of each day, but her social life was becoming a whirlwind of telephone calls and invitations.

Agnes spent less and less time pursuing contests and more and more time on the telephone with Wheeler Highsmith. If Justine was within hearing, Agnes’s end of the conversation came to a dead halt.

They’re plotting something, Justine thought. Harmless as it might be, she would’ve liked to have discussed it with Tucker. But, true to his word, he had kept his distance from her. She had not seen him all week. The children saw him every afternoon and sensed nothing amiss.

During the day she focused on her work, but her nights were inept attempts at sleep. Too often she had gotten up and sat on the porch, staring into the midnight sky. To her dismay and guilt, she had smoked a half pack of stale cigarettes.

Every time she recalled Tucker’s accusation, she felt a drowning sensation. She recognized that Philip’s defection had caused her to develop a strong defense against hope. It kept her from marching down to Tucker and telling him that she had come to her senses, lest she discover another dream crushed. She was afraid she had lost him.

On Saturday morning she arose at dawn, soaked in the tub, shampooed her hair, shaved her legs, applied cosmetics, and donned her most flattering sundress. She was sitting at the kitchen table polishing her nails when Pip wandered in, pajama-clad and still half asleep.

“Go back to bed, sweetie,” she told him.

“Can’t. I’m goin’ with Tucker to pick up Wheeler.” He made himself a bowl of cereal. This time of morning there was none of the defensive, hostile preteen in his demeanor. His favorite topic all week had been the photo equipment. She asked him about it.

“I’m ready to load film and take some pictures. Tucker’s takin’ me to get some.”

“Remind me, I’ll give you some money before you go.”

“I’ve got money. I earned it, remember.”

“I just thought—”

“I want to use my own money, Mom. I don’t want you doin’ everything for me. I’m not a baby. If I get to be any good, I might even earn money with photographs. There are contests all the time. I could even get to be class photographer when I’m in high school.”

“You’ve really been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

“It’s exciting, you have to know all about composition and shadows and framing. It’s brain work as much as skill, and I figure I’m pretty smart. At least Tucker thinks I am.”

“He’s right. You are.”

“You never said so.”

“There are a lot of things I haven’t said that I should be saying every day. One of which is that you are very, very smart and handsome, too.”

“Oh, yuk!”

Justine bent her head and smiled. Pip finished his cereal and put the bowl in the sink.

“Mom, can I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“Is Dad ever coming back?”

Her lungs deflated. Very carefully she inhaled. “I don’t think so. I don’t want to hurt you, or Judy Ann, or your grandmother, but I don’t want your dad back, not as a husband. We might, some day in the future, be friends again. That would be all right with me. And I would never stand in your way if you wanted to write to him or see him.”

“I don’t like what Dad did,” he said with no anger, only a kind of sadness.

“None of us do.”

“Dad was selfish. And he ran away from responsibility.”

“I would say so, yes,” she said, wondering if Pip were parroting her own words or had come to that conclusion himself.