Unto These Hills (24 page)

I heaved a sigh of relief as I paid the druggist for the antibiotic. I could handle Muffin as long as I had access to the children, to care for and protect them.

Protect them.
God help me to do just that.

~~~~~

Back at the house, Walter met me at the door. I could tell he was upset. “Russ called. Muffin’s over at Russ’s house, a’bangin’ on his door, yelling at him that he’s gotta pay her the child support. He’s threatening to call the law on ‘er. You gotta go get ‘er, Sunny.” He was wringing his hands, virtually rocking on his heels.

“Calm down, Walter,” I crooned, putting my arms around him, my heart breaking as it did every time he caved. “I’ll drive over there and try to calm her down. Think you can watch the kids?”

He nodded, my touch soothing him. “You sure?” I peered into the robins egg-blue eyes that saw little of what they’d perceived all those young, carefree years back. Now they gazed at me with trust. “You can handle it?”

“Yeh,” he winked suddenly and the crooked James Dean grin spread over his face. “I ain’t
that
addled.” I laughed, inexplicably delighted with the emergence of that little mannerism from yesteryear. Such appearances were rare and, each time it happened, it was like God tossed me a sweet morsel of gingerbread to keep me going. It eased the sting.

Oh yeh, I felt it, the guilt. Muffin, in that instance, had been right as rain. Her daddy would still be Daddy had it not been for me.

“You better get goin’, Sunny,” Walter reminded me, wringing his hands again, “else, she’s gonna be in
jail.”

I cranked my temperamental 1978 white Ford sedan and rushed to Russ’ dwelling in the Red Egypt section of the village, thus named because of the red dirt hills, though the yards were as neat as in any other village site.

“Honey,” I put my hand on her arm, halting her. She rolled her eyes skyward, lips tight “Russ told Walter he was going to call the law if you didn’t leave in the next ten minutes.”

“I need that child support check and I’m not leavin’ till I get it,” she spat. Never have I seen anybody more splendid in anger than Muffin and Francine. Right now, Muffin ferociously outdid Francine. “He’s not gettin’ away with being late again.”

“I know, I know, honey,” I murmured, rubbing her arm to placate her. “It’s not right.”

I glimpsed tears in her eyes. “It’s not easy being broke,” I said.

From my own experience with poverty, I knew how desperate she was for the check and felt a flash of anger at Russ. Then, just as suddenly, I realized he had his own set of problems, lack of steady work being the foremost. “Russ told Daddy he didn’t have the money yet. Maybe he’ll have it by tonight.”

“Yeh,” she spewed, “right.” She pulled her arm from my feeble ministrations and rubbed it as though to erase my touch.

Hurt swirled and sloshed, despite my determination to not think about
me.
“Muffin, Russ is threatening to call the law on you for trespassing.”

“This is still my house, too. Our divorce isn’t final,” she insisted in her low, confident way. “I can’t be accused of trespassing on my own property.”

I thought again of her brilliance. Too much for her own good.

“But he could accuse you of disturbing the peace — or the neighbors could call, honey. I don’t want you to be locked up. You need to call your lawyer and insist that Russ pay through the court system. That way you won’t have to talk to him.”
He won’t have to put up with this humiliation, either.

Russ wasn’t a bad sort; he and Muffin simply tripped switches in each other that shouldn’t oughta be disturbed and, in the heat of battle, he could give as good as he got. Muffin, the warrior, was no slouch, either. For each hole Russ punched in their walls, Muffin had gotten in some solid, bloody claw marks on his face and arms.

How I prayed she would, for once, listen to me. I was increasingly appalled at their bickering, at the way their children’s emotional well being slid right out the bottom on their priorities-totem pole

God must’ve heard me.

“Yeh.” She lit a Virginia Slim and took a long pull on it. “Okay, you f__
good-for-nothing
!” she yelled through the door. “I’d better see that check before night or I’m calling my lawyer and make you go pay through the court. They won’t put up with this
late-crock
.” She strolled nonchalantly to her 1980 red Porsche and sped away.

Thank you,
I rolled my eyes heavenward
, for getting me through this one
.

~~~~~

“She hates me, Emaline,” I said, swiping tears that pooled aggravatingly along my lower lids. I snuffled soundly, trying to regain a smidgen of control while my friend poured me a cup of hot coffee and placed it before me. The parsonage, one of the larger mill houses, sparkled of new paint and refinished pine and oak floors. Emaline’s touch had transformed it into simple country elegance.

“Oh, come on, Sunny. She doesn’t hate you,” Emaline reached across her maple kitchen table to grapple and hold my other limp hand. “Your fingers are like ice,” she said quietly, then took them between her hands and massaged warmth into them.

I closed my eyes, thinking how much love poured through this gesture. “Mmmm, that feels good.”

“I know. Drink some coffee. It’ll help warm you.”

I looked at her. “Muffin might not hate me but she doesn’t like me.”

“Big difference.”

“Not from my present perspective.” I eased my fingers free and smiled, flexing them. I wrapped them around the hot cup, recalling that morning’s scene. “Let’s face it. Muffin will never forgive me for that day her daddy was injured.”

Over the rim of her coffee cup, Emaline angled me a look of pure wisdom. “
Never
is a long time. I think she will. In time.”

I slowly shook my head. “I don’t know if I can make it through all this, Emaline.”

Emaline’s green eyes widened in mock horror. “Sunny not make it? Might as well say Stallone’ll get creamed in his next flick.” Then her sweet face relaxed into a look of pure love. “Sunny Stone, you’re one of the strongest women I know. Don’t ever let me hear you say that again, y’hear?” She chuckled then and slanted me a challenging look, “I mean, who’ll take care of Gracie and Jared?”

That did it. I felt my spine straightening.

“Yeh. You’re right.” I gazed at her. “One reason I put up with Muffin’s abuse is because I know that if Russ catches wind that
I
don’t consider Muffin good mama-material — well, he might whisk the children away and file for full custody. He could move anywhere with them.” Tears regathered. “I don’t trust him to deal fairly with them either. He’s prone to violence, as well.

“Remember my own father’s relocation all those years back? Had he wanted to, he could have kept us in Chicago, away from Nana and Daniel.”

Daniel.
Fresh pain filled me as I pictured his face. I quickly pushed it away.

We were silent a long moment, a comfortable thing with us. Then Emaline cast me a searching gaze. “You need to try and get Muffin in church.”

I gave a huff and shot her look of pure amazement. “Don’t you know I’ve been trying that for years? Know what she said this morning when I brought it up?” I leaned forward without her response. “She said ‘spare me your little motherly, spiritual lectures.’ The venom I heard and felt from her still clings to me, Emaline. It’s so — devastating.”

“Yeh,” Emaline conceded, a sad look in her eyes. “You don’t deserve what she said to you last week, when you were so sick. I would have talked to her if you’d not stopped me.”

“It would do no good, Emaline. Then she’d have her guard up with you and I don’t want that to happen. You’re too important to me and — really, I’d like to leave the door open between you two. She may someday need somebody to open up to.” I smiled at her. “And you’re the perfect one. Besides, I don’t want her to know that I’ve talked to you. She’s so paranoid, anyway. Makes a crisis out of the smallest things.”

Like last week, when I was down with the flu. She’d begun banging things around in the kitchen when food didn’t materialize in her hands. “
There’s never any m__f__ing
food in this place! I’ve starved for the past two days
.”

“Why didn’t you tell her to cook herself something?” Emaline had said when I shared it with her.

“Are you kidding? She thinks she’s royalty, Emaline. Doesn’t lift her finger.”

Anyway, from the sofa where my aching body fought to survive the worst nausea and pain I’d felt in years, I’d groaned,
“Honey, there’s food in there. You just have to heat it up. Remember, I cooked half a ham Sunday? And do you have to use that horrible language?”

“Yuck. I don’t want any more ham.” Slam went the fridge door. “I’m sick of it. Why don’t you cook anything interesting and —”

“I’m sick,” I said hoarsely. “I’m not able to —”

“You never cook anything but what you like. I’m daggum sick of macaroni and cheese and okra and tomatoes!” She slammed her glass onto the counter and marched from the kitchen, mumbling all the way to her room.

I’d thought, up until that moment
,
that I couldn’t feel any lower. I was wrong. The macaroni and cheese/okra and tomato thing cut to the bone because they were mainstay dishes I could afford and the kids liked them. Balancing my limited funds and tasty foods was my meanest trick and having it besmirched so callously struck below the belt.

I pulled myself from the sofa and, clutching the wall, struggled my way up the stairs to Muffin’s room, where she lounged from morning to night — oblivious to her mess of dirty dishes and piles of discarded clothing — watching television or talking on the phone
to friends; those nameless, faceless beings who miraculously regarded Muffin as sovereign.

I’d given up on trying to tidy her quarters, never mind asking her to do it. Her response was a blank look, like no speaka de English. I’d long ago conceded the battle. I was now convinced that she enjoyed the mess. Felt comfortable in it. Was, indeed, miserable without it.

“Why,” I whispered from the doorway, plastered against the jam, gasping for breath, “did you have to create a scene now? When I’m so sick?”

She cut her cold gaze at me. “I’ve been sick with my nerves for days — worried
silly by that sorry Russ.”

I gazed at her through a haze of sorrow and anger and debilitation. “I don’t understand you. I try to —”

“There you go — whining again. It’s all you ever do.”

Somehow, rage exploded through my weakness like a rocket blast. “This is sick, Muffin. I resent ––”

She shot up off the bed, nearly nose to nose with me. “You got it.” This followed by some blistery name calling.

The world turned red. Then purple. “You get out of my house.” Where did those words come from? It was from a different script.

“You got it, bitch.”

Today, I sighed and soaked up Emaline’s caring like a sponge. “Muffin stayed gone until the next day, when she showed up laughing and charming as though the bad scene had never been.”

“How did the kids take her leaving like that?” Emaline’s perception was so keen, so real, that I had to examine depths I usually avoided like quicksand.

“They were relieved. It’s difficult to get Gracie to even go in her mama’s room very often, even when Muffin calls her to bring her food or fix her a glass of Coke or a thousand other things that keep her little legs running from morning till night. I have to force her to respond to her mama’s summons. I tell her she’ll have to face consequences if she angers her. That usually does the trick.”

“Poor Gracie,” Emaline murmured. “But we have to remember that
Muffin is troubled.”

I snorted, not quite as sympathetic as my biblically sound friend. “So is Gracie, thanks to Muffin’s haughty way of going at life. She’s so self-absorbed that I sometimes wonder if she’s got a case of clinical narcissism. She truly feels superior to me and rejects any and everything I say.” I shrugged, feeling only a dead acceptance.

Emaline shook her head. “She doesn’t know how lucky she is, having a mom like you. You’re a lot like my mama was.” We reached across the table and clasped hands, remembering Renie — sweet, kind Renie.

“Thanks, Emaline,” I whispered. “That is the ultimate compliment.”

~~~~~

I grabbed the phone from the kitchen counter. “Hello?”

“Mom? Did you return the movies?” Muffin tersely inquired.

“Yes, I did. They were a day late. Where are —?”

“Not now, Mom. Don’t forget to pick up the kids at three. Gotta run.”
Click.
Typical Muffin. Too impatient to hear me out. Her time was too, too important — exceedingly more so than mine. As was her money, earned by the few house sales she made for a realty company.

Muffin did just enough work to keep her job and buy luxuries. I’d paid the movie video’s late fee, a fact she’d not even acknowledged.

It’s not like I grow money on trees —
I lopped off the uncharitable thought and banged the phone into its wall-cradle and switched on the counter top radio. From the Oldies station Tom Jones wailed that being loved was not unusual. I begged to differ with him. Shoot, I was ready to do battle over it. Love? At that precise moment, it was, as the old cliché goes, only a four-letter word.

Tom Jones made way for a one-hit wonder,
At This Moment?
It soulfully spoke of lost love and of wishing that he could just hold her once more. Unexpectedly, Daniel’s face popped up before me, halting me in my tracks. The male voice became Daniel’s.

As needy as a starving waif, I closed my eyes and, slithering down into a chair, allowed myself a moment of pure exultation in knowing I had once experienced genuine love with my marvelous Lion-Man. Ecstasy rolled over me, invaded me. I basked and marinated in it,
wallowed
in it until I felt giddy and loose and girlish again.