Unto These Hills (37 page)

Heart pounding like a sluggish bass drum, I peered at the two of them, feeling spiked walls closing in on me.
Tell her the truth
. I opened my mouth to speak, inhaled sharply, and nothing came out. The air hissed from my lungs. I snapped my mouth shut. I couldn’t do this to Muffin.
Not if it killed me
. In that moment, I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t.

Woodenly, I moved over to the bed and took Walter’s hand. Muffin scurried away as if I were a walking contaminant. Walter burst into fresh sobs and gazed at me, blue eyes pleading. “Sunny,” he rasped, “please don’ hate me.”

I sucked in a deep breath, blew it out. “I don’t hate you, Walter,” I lied. I didn’t want to look at him but beneath Muffin’s x-ray scrutiny I forced myself to focus on his top pajama button and give him a wobbly smile. “I’m sorry.”

He visibly slumped in relief, clutching my hand so tightly I nearly groaned from pain. And suddenly I felt like the Wicked Witch of the West. What had I been thinking of, ranting at him like that? In Walter’s child-like mind, it
had never happened
.

My mind was another matter entirely. My memory was clear as fresh-caught rain. Even after all those years the horrors of that night cropped up like garbage at the county landfill. My flesh smelled the rot and felt the slime oozing through me. I shuddered.

I looked at Muffin’s ramrod back. She’d gone to stare out the window.
Walter IS her father. At least I don’t have to hurt her in that way.
I called the nurse to give Walter a sedative to settle him. Muffin ignored me as the shot took effect, refused to even look at me. Me? I felt like a piece of dead wood waiting for the ax to fall. After Walter drifted off, I picked up my purse.

“Where you going?” asked Muffin from across the room, distanced from me, her face inscrutable.

“Coffee.”

She followed me out. I was under no delusion that I was off the hook.

I wasn’t wrong.

“I’ve been trying to figure out why you treated Daddy like that.” Her voice was quiet. Eerily quiet yet pulsing with nuclear energy. “I didn’t hear all the conversation, just where you called him ‘evil and monstrous’. I really don’t understand. Why don’t you explain?”

I couldn’t tell her that she’d been conceived when her daddy raped me. I just couldn’t. Not even to save myself. It wouldn’t help my case, anyway. She’d feel even more justified to hate me. Even more convinced I didn’t truly love and value her. How could I, when she’d resulted not from love but from rape? No, she couldn’t handle the truth.

God help me, neither could I.

I had no time to formulate a credible justification for lashing out at my sick, defenseless husband.
Husband.
I nearly gagged on the term. Recoiled from it. I knew that, to Muffin, I was despicable. So I threw myself at her mercy, knowing full well it wasn’t there. “I just lost it, Muffin,” I fabricated lamely and shrugged. “I’m burnt out. I just got tired of his demands and I just — lost it.”

We walked on several steps as she processed that and as my pulse switched tempos several times, each more erratic.

“Well, just for the record,” she paused at the exit door and cast me a withering look. “I hope you die and rot in Hell. I’ll never forgive you.
Never.”

Sick at heart, I watched my beautiful daughter, skirt swishing around long, brisk legs, disappear through swinging glass doors.

Chapter Twenty

Fortunately, in coming days, I didn’t have to squirm beneath Muffin’s accusing light-washed eyes. She currently lived with a man she’d met at a nightclub.

They all sounded alike to me, the men, faces, and backgrounds kaleidoscopic images, ever changing. In retrospect they all merged into a multicolored, nondescript blob. Between liaisons, she always came home, to her old cluttered room.

Through the years, her housekeeping had not altered a whit. I’ve never known anybody to court mess like Muffin. She gloried in,
rolled
in it. Piled ankle-deep were clothes, shoes, spilled pills, discarded candy and goody wrappers, dirty dishes, make-up bag, hair carry-all (gypsy-hearted, she stayed on
ready,
to move out at a moment’s whim), luggage still half-packed. You name it, it was there, strewn from wall to wall, spanning under-the-bed, trailing across nightstand, dresser, and chest-of-drawers. She remained blissfully unencumbered by it all.

I’d considered the possibility that one of three things propelled her in that direction: (1) rebellion against my penchant for cleanliness, (2) slothfulness, or (3) she had a mental problem. Perhaps a lethal combination of all three was my final surmise.

Whatever triggered Muffin’s mystical love affair with clutter, I never found its antidote. One development overshadowed the crisis following Doretha’s divulgences.

Dr. Wood faced me three days after I learned of Walter’s deception, somber as I’d ever seen him. “Mr. Stone has cancer. It’s spread to the lungs and lymph nodes. I’m so sorry. We’ll make him as comfortable as possible during the little time he has left. Needless to say, a liver transplant is out of the question. He’d never live through it.”

He watched me closely, concerned, waiting for a response. Something. “What about chemo?” I asked, thinking what
irony,
that all Muffin’s donor-match status accomplished was to expose Walter’s evil.

“We could go that route but I’ll have to be honest with you. It would only give him, at most, four to six months.”

I felt certain the good doctor attributed my lack of response to shock. The news rolled off me as though oiled canvas sheathed me. I was, predictably, numb again, encased in an invisible crystal bubble, one bullet and arrow-proof. One that kept feelings at bay.

I’d done a lot of thinking in the past week, since Doretha’s divulgences, and all of it reaffirmed what I’d known all along: something inside me was wrong. Flawed. I drew scandal and shame like a lightning rod during a summer thunderstorm. Seemed, too, that everybody around me got struck, to some degree.

So, I reasoned that the best thing for me to do was to let go of them all.

That way, nobody’d get hurt.

~~~~~

Muffin vetoed the chemo regimen after one treatment left Walter violently ill. She refused to allow any more. Walter’s health plunged dramatically from one month to the next. I took him home for his final days. Already weakened by the automobile accident, he never regained any of his former resilience. I prayed he did not detect my revulsion every time I had to touch him. I tried to hide it and felt I succeeded.

“Here,” Lee Roy took the wash cloth from my hand. “Let me do that.” Grateful beyond words, I arose from my stiff, aching knees and Lee Roy knelt beside the bathtub to help Walter finish his bath.

Walter smiled weakly at his old buddy. “How’s it goin’, Lee Roy?”

Lee Roy grinned like a possum. “If I was any better, I’d be flyin’.”

“Y’seen Daniel lately?” Walter asked, his voice gossamer thin, but I detected in it a thread of anxiety. At moments like this, Walter’s insecurity bled through.

“Naw. Daniel’s kep’ hisself scarce these days.”

“Muffin hasn’t been around much, either.” Walter’s words were flute-like and dismal.

Muffin did drop by daily to check on her daddy but her visit was more a fly’s lighting than a butterfly’s linger. She completely froze me out so I pretty much kept out of her way. Her curtailed times made Walter more vulnerable and lonely. To cover my own distancing, I called on Lee Roy more and more.

Walter missed Daniel. With no memory of the past, he couldn’t connect the dots for the whole picture. So, he simply yearned to see people he loved. At times, my mind did battle over the complexities of the situation. I always opted to push my denial button. That way, I could ignore the emotional ramifications of an up-close insight.

It was too much to handle. So I didn’t.

Daniel and I talked little after that night at the hospital. He called and tried to break through my wall of resistance. I sensed his own anger at Walter’s betrayal, but he wisely banked it down. He would later tell me that his tight-mouthed reticence sprang from knowing that just a word in that direction could push me over the edge. In that case, many people would be hurt, the chief one being Muffin.

No, Daniel simply encouraged me to talk to him about my feelings, hoping it would relieve the terrible anxiety he sensed gathered in me like a hive of bees, whose low-buzz activity could, in one provoked moment, implode into a vicious frenzied attack. But for me, to talk about it was to experience it. So I remained implacable. I had to. I’d attracted too much heartache, so much so that it had splashed over on those I loved.

Days of joy, light, and hope were a thing of a long ago forgotten youth.
Did I ever really experience those happy times?
I briefly wondered, my wet hands pausing, my head spinning. I slid dirty glasses into the dishwater. Nowadays, my path always seemed to lead into deep woods, shrouded with low-hanging fog and gray shadows.

“I got ‘im back in bed,” Lee Roy said from the bedroom doorway. He ambled over to me at the sink. “I’m kinely worried ‘bout ‘im, Sunny,” he said quietly, placing his and Walter’s dishes on the counter. “He seems real down today. It’s not like ‘im to not talk. Like he’s givin’ up, dontcha know?“ He shrugged listlessly, grief pulling at his grizzled features. “I hate to leave ‘im but I gotta go work on them new neighbors’ lawn mower.” He waved over his shoulder as he shuffled out.

Suddenly, I felt a rush of guilt. Walter was in his last days.

You don’t owe him anything.

Maybe not but —
I began scraping and washing lunch dishes, busying myself so as not to think. It didn’t work. My loyalties were jerked about so in recent days that my
numb
and
denial
buttons did double-time. I noted that Walter had barely touched his green bean casserole, one of his favorites. Pity hovered.

No, in one sense I don’t owe him. At least not in the sense that I once thought I did.
But at the same time, I thought of how he was no longer the Walter who’d violated me. And I thought how his time was running out. Least I could do was make the days as pleasant and comfortable as possible.

I’d do as much for a stray dog.

Pity crashed over me in tidal waves. The hard shell around my heart cracked loudly, split.

I gazed through the window at the sun-washed day. Across the back alley, kids bounced acrobatically on a trampoline. A new family. More and more of the old families were moving away to the suburbs. An invisible conveyer belt soon deposited strangers into those empty spaces. They came from all sides.

Sadness washed over me.

Then, an idea struck me. Walter’s birthday loomed on a near horizon. I would do something to cheer him up.

I sighed. Maybe in the long run a little of the cheer would splatter over on me.

~~~~~

Lee Roy was beside himself helping plan Walter’s party. Daily, Libby called from Summerville, she and Kara both determined to be in the family loop of preparations. In the end, we decided against keeping it a secret. It was the right decision.

Walter visibly rallied in those days as we gathered colorful decorations, laying them out for his approval, planned refreshments, and prepared an invitation list. I let him listen as I called practically everybody in the village, reaping near-unanimous participation.

Again, we opted for the Church Fellowship Hall. “What if he’s not able to sit for the entire evening, Emaline?” I whispered so Walter wouldn’t overhear. He and Lee Roy watched an old rerun of
Murder She Wrote
on TV, Walter dozing off-and-on in bed, Lee Roy roosting in his chair, now pulled close to the new hospital bed Libby and Scott purchased and had delivered.

“Then we’ll just transport his hospital bed there to prop him in,” she said so logically I had to laugh. “Good idea, huh?”

“You always come up with good’uns, Emaline.”

“What good’uns?” piped Lee Roy from the other room, craning his long neck to see us, cocking his ear toward the open door.

“Nothing,
nosey,”
I yelled back and heard his gleeful chortle, one echoed drowsily by Walter’s.

Emaline slid me her benevolence-smile and whispered, “You’re doing me proud, Sunny.”

My responding smile was tight, but a smile nevertheless. Then she casually said, “You’re going to invite Doretha, aren’t you?” Her emerald eyes were big and round and innocent.

I stared at her for a long moment, then snarled, “Don’t push it.”

~~~~~

“I wish I didn’t have to stay in bed,” Walter rasped, his breath mildly labored. Number four on the scale of one to ten.

“Well, you do,” I said gently, straightening his collar and tucking the sheet corners again. He wore pajama bottoms with the new blue shirt, a compromise for comfort. “This way, you won’t tire and have to leave your own party, doncha know?” I was surprised that, sometime during those planning days, the disgust I’d felt for Walter stole away into the darkness of a moonless night.

At some point something deep inside me had compartmentalized the old and new Walter. For the moment, the former evil man lay tucked away somewhere unknown to me.

“Yeh,” he groaned dispiritedly.

“Look, Walter, there’s Muffin!” I distracted him from his angst. He perked dramatically as she rushed to him. I quickly moved to other duties, dodging Muffin’s contempt. Truth be known, I needed this party as much as Walter and wasn’t willing to relinquish my good cheer to her whims, justified or not.

The Fellowship Hall shimmered with immense bouquets of riotous colored balloons and festive streamers. Walter’s bed centered the great hall. Rolled up a ways, he could see everything that went on. While Gracie, Jared and Kara pampered their Papa, Emaline, Libby, and Francine hustled about mixing punch and arranging plates, napkins, and cutlery. A huge three-tiered birthday cake, compliments of Muffin, hovered next to the serving table. Carrot cake layers oozed thick, frothy cream-cheese icing, Walter’s favorite.

Not too beholden to timetables, village folks started trickling in as much as an hour early. That was okay. We’d announced the time with that in mind so everything was in place. Nearly every long-time, able-bodied villager moseyed in during the evening. Daniel arrived with Doretha. I was a little taken back and it must have shown because Emaline was at my elbow in a heartbeat.

“Close your sweet mouth,” she whispered in my ear. “To everything, there is a season.”

I turned to glare at her. “You invited them.”

“This is the season to forgive, Sunny,” she added quietly. “Daniel forgave Doretha.” She shrugged, “If you’re honest, you’ll admit you would’ve felt terrible leaving them out when the whole village was invited. It’s for the best.”

I dragged air into my lungs, held it, then slowly blew it out. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

She just smiled at me, touched my arm briefly and was gone, leaving me feeling as if I were in somebody else’s skin, strange and edgy.

Sheila’s three exuberant daughters spilled through the door, dressed in new, expensive avant-garde fashions. They each hugged me hugely then went to spoil their Uncle Walter.

I wandered to a quiet corner to rest a moment and watch Walter’s interaction with his guests. From a distance he looked incredibly old and feeble, barely responding as he tired. But in a symphony of love, everybody seemed to know exactly what notes were needed for harmony; a hug, a handclasp, a big ol’ face-splitting grin, or soft spoken words of affection. Walter smiled often, reaching out as much as his illness allowed him.

Good.

My lips struggled into a smile and I noted how big the effort, how draining all this was for me. I didn’t know anyone had approached until the seat next to me, against the wall, filled. “Gladys isn’t here.”

I looked into Daniel’s eyes. They were sad, so terribly sad that I felt a twinge of response. A tiny flicker, then it was gone. Feelings were no longer an option for me.

“She’s in a nursing home now,” I said, glancing away, seeing Lee Roy dab at Walter’s mouth with a napkin. I looked closer, hoping he’d not gotten sick —

No. A bit of the broth he sipped had dribbled was all. I relaxed.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sunny.” We sat there for long moments in silence, his gaze on me. I didn’t look at him. “Where’ve you gone off to?” Daniel asked. ”Where’s that girl whose smile used to light up Tucapau like a million spotlights?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know, Daniel.” I looked at him. “I just know she’s no longer around.” I looked away.

“That’s too bad,” he said gently. “I miss ‘er.”

He arose and I watched him saunter away, a little disappointed and at the same time relieved to be alone.

I fixed Walter a tall glass of iced ginger ale to sip in hopes it would settle his queasy stomach, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to ingest the sandwiches, nachos, dips, potato salad, and all the other party fare. Lee Roy tried to get some more chicken broth down him later, as folks piled plates high and settled at tables to feast and celebrate.

Muffin pulled a chair up to Walter’s bedside, alongside Libby, to eat and chat with him. I quietly retreated. I admired her devotion to him. I expired a little huff of a laugh. Rolled my gaze to the ceiling.
Surprise! I’m not jealous.

I nibbled cold ham and cheese, my stomach balking after a few bites. I kept to myself, observing, thinking about what I’d write in my column that next week. The party, of course. It would be upbeat, no mention of Walter’s illness. That would come soon enough.