Bittersweet Creek (3 page)

Julian

M
ama leaned out the back door as I was getting out of the truck. “Baby, you want some tea cakes? I'm about to take them out of the oven.”

Baby, my ass.
I surveyed the flagstone path between the mildewed, weed-choked trailer where I'd grown up and my house, the older clapboard one that used to belong to my mamaw. I'd never planned to live so close, but I'd missed the boat on college and needed somewhere to live. Besides, someone had to look out for Mama since she wasn't in the habit of watching out for herself. And she did make some damn fine tea cakes.

The minute I shut the truck door Curtis's pit bulls started barking. He kept them tied to an old oak tree and did everything under the sun to make them mean. We'd always had dogs, usually mutts that roamed free. This time, though, Curtis had spent a great deal of money he didn't have to buy the meanest dogs he could find. His greatest pleasure in life was “training” them, and he had delusions of taking them to Memphis and making a ton of money at dog fighting.

Something whimpered to the side of me, and I looked down at the beagle someone had thrown out down in the dip of the road. She only emerged from under the porch when I was outside, scraping the ground with her belly and begging for attention. Ignoring the others, I reached down to scratch between her ears before stepping into my parents' house. Mama was already fussing around the oven and bending over to get the tea cakes. As she turned around, I saw the hump at the top of her back. Mama was getting old. Too old to hobble around in the orthopedic boot she still wore from where Curtis had broken her foot a month before.

“Mama, I think you ought to get your foot looked at. Shouldn't it be getting better by now?” I asked as I stepped over to the sink to wash the dog off my hands.

She waved away my concerns and fished through the kitchen drawer for a spatula. “No, no, it's done this before. I know it looks a little purple now, but it's going to be fine. I guess it's lucky the insurance paid for this boot last time.”

Mama and I didn't share the same definition of lucky.

Curtis was too smart for me to catch him in the act, but I knew he was responsible. Mama might blame ripped spots in the carpet or molehills in the yard or even her own clumsiness, but I knew better. What I didn't know was how to stop him.

Mama'd left him many times before, but he always played nice to win her back. Once when I was in kindergarten, I made the mistake of telling my teacher a little too much about our family dynamics. She called a social worker, who called the police. That didn't end well for any of us once Curtis got back from the police station. Later in high school, I asked Mama point-blank if she wanted me to make him leave, but she told me no.

Many's the time I wished I'd kicked his sorry ass out first and asked her permission later, but Curtis was a sneaky sonuvabitch. He'd rigged everything so all of the expenses and income from the farm came through his bank account. If I got rid of him, I wouldn't be able to run the farm. And he knew it.

Mama slid me a chipped plate with three steaming tea cakes, then bustled about the fridge looking for sweet tea. I let her carry on. Sometimes if I let her fuss over me enough, she'd hum the way she used to when I was a little boy.

The back door slammed shut. She started, and I tensed up. Today was turning out to be one helluva day.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

I knew he was drunk before I turned around. I could smell him, and I could tell by the way he slurred his words he was dangerous drunk. He could head to the recliner and fall asleep, or he could snap and start yelling at the first person he saw.

He wouldn't hit me, but he might decide to see if Mama needed another boot to match the first one. I had an assload of things I needed to do before meeting Ben, but I wasn't moving from my chair. Not until I saw what Curtis was up to.

It took him two tries to slap a meaty hand on my shoulder. He wasn't completely blind yet, but he was closer. I turned my head enough to see the ragged, grease-stained fingernails that needed to be cut. “Why don't you have a seat, Curtis?”

He scowled. He didn't like it when I called him by his first name, but he wasn't going to make anything of it. He'd ceased being anything more to me than a sperm donor on a certain night in May ten years ago, and I didn't give a rat's ass how he felt about it. My birth certificate might claim him as father, but that didn't mean I had to.

“Those hot, Debbie?” He pinched her behind harder than necessary, and her eyes widened. She scuttled off to get cookies and tea for him, too. She knew we were in the danger zone.

“Heard you got ran over in town today.”

“Almost did.”

He crammed an entire tea cake in his mouth, either not noticing or not caring it had to be hot enough to scald all the skin from the roof of his mouth. “I was thinking we could sue the Satterfield girl. You could even make enough to buy some of those damned rescue horses you're always fooling around with.”

“I'm not suing anyone.”

“Hell, son, did you know that each year over a thousand pedestrians get hit by cars in the state of Tennessee alone? I learned that from the TV the other day. And your uncle Charlie's a right fine ambulance chaser. We could make a pretty penny and put that Satterfield bastard out of business. Little bitch deserves it after she sneaked off in the middle—”

Suddenly, I had my father by the collar, his swollen drunken face just inches from mine. I didn't remember laying a hand on him, but it was a good reminder that hot McElroy blood flowed through my veins, too. “I'm not suing anyone. And you don't talk that way about Romy.”

For a second I saw a flicker of fear pass through his squinting eyes.
Good.
I pushed him into a chair. He laughed. “This one's still sweet on the girl next door. Even after she left him cold. Debbie, what do you make of that?”

“She's not worth his time. Too big for her britches,” my normally timid mother spat. This was the one safe topic for her, where she could air her opinions without worrying about making my father mad. “You don't leave someone you're about to marry. That ain't right.”

Mama would've exploded if she'd known Romy left
after
we got married.

Curtis pulled her into his lap and planted a wet one on her. Apparently, he'd progressed through remorse and headed straight into lovey-dovey drunk. I sure as hell didn't want to see that. “Don't mind me. I'll see myself out.”

I slipped out the back door, ticked off they both had to spew their vinegar on Romy.

She wasn't the one to blame—I was.

Romy

T
he next day, I got up entirely too late thanks to a full school year of burning the candle at both ends. Daddy only had instant coffee, and the sun was already high above me by the time my mental fog lifted enough for me to tromp to the garden to pick the green beans he'd asked me to get.

Good thing I'd ordered a Keurig coffeemaker last night. Paid an arm, a leg, and two toes to get it next day, too. It might not be as fancy as whatever contraption Richard had, but it was better than stirring coffee crystals into hot water.

I'd grown up working in the garden, often picking up potatoes in the heat of July, but my city years had made me soft. I picked only halfway down one row before the world started spinning. I couldn't catch my breath in the humidity, and something about the plants caused my hands to itch like the dickens. To top it all off, my fancy nails kept me from deftly picking the green beans as I must have done at least a thousand times in the past.

“I'm going to have to try this again tomorrow,” I told no one in particular as I grabbed a half-full bucket and went to the shade of the barn. At least I'd been smart enough to bring a bottle of water with me. And to think, if I'd stayed in Nashville, I would've been lounging by the pool at Richard's subdivision and reading the fluffiest book I could find.

Instead of reading poolside I needed to check on the cows. Cussing under my breath, I walked beyond the garden to where the main pasture began. When I found a low spot in the fence, I straddled the ancient outer barbed-wire, then gingerly lifted my leg over the newer inner strand of electric wire. And promptly snagged my other leg on the electric one.

Jolting out of reality and back, I tasted metal and inspected the snag in my favorite jeans in a daze. Only I would get caught in the electric fence. Damned metallic taste stayed with me, too, as I picked my way around briars and cow patties until I found Daddy's small herd huddled under the shade tree by the pond.

I counted one bull, nine cows, and all six calves. Every last one of them was a full-blooded Angus, solid black. Fuzzy ears facing forward and tails relentlessly switching, they counted one ridiculously out-of-place city girl in their pasture—not that it bothered any of them as they chewed their cud, occasionally slinging their heads back to get rid of the flies. The cows knew an impostor when they saw one.

Tromping back to the barn, I lost my balance and placed one tennis shoe in the corner of a fairly fresh cow pie.

So that was going in the trash.

And I was getting some boots.

As I rounded the barn to perform my last appointed task, I couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't someone better suited to this job. I couldn't pick even one row of beans, I'd lost my ability to properly navigate the pasture, and I didn't know anything about cows with prolapsed uteri.

Maggie May, oh she of the prolapsed uterus, mooed at me from the corner as if to say, “Still good.”

“Go on, turn around and let me make sure your stitches are holding up,” I said. As if the cow could understand me or would do what I asked even if she could. Then the squat black Angus snorted and did a one-eighty so I could see that all was well beneath her tail.

“Well, thanks for cooperating, Miss Maggie,” I said.

She flung cow snot over her shoulder and in my general direction.

“You missed,” I said before walking back to the house. Using the concrete step to pry off my ruined shoes, I kicked them to the side. “Alas, poor Adidas! I knew them, Horatio.”

On the other side of the door, the cat mewed, which made me jump.

“Wrong play, Mercutio,” I muttered to myself as I entered the back porch and discovered I had another task to go: doctor the cat's ear. Mercutio howled and wiggled, but I washed his ear with soap and water. By the time I finished, we were both out of breath and sopping wet.

“See if I help you out again,” I said before stepping into the kitchen.

“Who you talking to?” Daddy asked.

“Just the cat, Daddy.” I looked at the instant coffee and willed the Keurig to get there faster, then reached for a water glass instead.

“Genie called,” he said.

Of course she did.
I had been hoping for a day or two of peace before I met with Genie Dix to go over reunion particulars. We had been classmates since kindergarten, though, so I should've known she was too type A to let me rest when there was still so much work to do. “What did she say?”

“Wants you to meet her at The Fountain tonight for that singing thing.”

I could tell by his growl that Daddy wasn't too keen on the idea. “Karaoke?”

“That's it.”

“I told her your car broke down back in Nashville, so you had to leave it in the shop. She said she'd pick you up at eight.”

I sighed. My flabby suburban self was tired.

But they would have something alcoholic, probably beer.

I leaned on the table to stand up because my quads hurt worse after a few minutes of bean picking than the last time I tried Pilates. A shower was in order. Then maybe I could curl up somewhere with a novel that didn't involve mockingbirds, dead dogs, flowers, Algernon, or insanely long paragraphs about a boat ride into the heart of freaking darkness.

Daddy folded down his paper so he could give me his tilted-head look. “You gonna go finish picking those beans?”

Or I could drink some more water and dream the impossible dream out in the garden.

 

Later that afternoon I'd managed to pick the green beans and trudge back to the house. I went upstairs to get a change of clothes and everything I needed to shower, but as I hit the last step coming down I heard something I never thought I'd hear in the Satterfield home place:

A meow followed by “Yeah, who's a good boy?”

I blinked twice. Was that Daddy? Talking to the cat? I pushed through the door that separated the steps and the living room, bobbling clothes and toiletries. Sure enough, Daddy sat in the recliner and Mercutio lounged on his lap. “I thought indoor cats were for ‘stupid city people.' ”

Daddy's lips quirked. “Well, if I leave him outside those damned McElroy dogs are going to chew him up. Some idiot took out his claws.”

He was referring to the same idiot who'd dumped the cat in the dip of the road between the McElroy farm and ours. Almost all of my childhood pets had come from that very spot, a dark place where people slowed down their cars just long enough to abandon unwanted dogs and cats. Last year while home for Thanksgiving, I'd rescued Mercutio from that very spot. Daddy, not being a fan of Shakespeare, insisted on calling him Freddy Mercury or a more generic “buddy” instead.

“So you decided to go, huh?”

“Well, you told her to come on over.”

He frowned. “I thought you might call her back and tell her no.”

As if I'm a mind reader.
“Next time give me the option.”

His eyes narrowed, but he continued to stroke the cat, reminding me of Bond's nemesis Blofeld. “I'm not sure it's a good idea.”

“Daddy, I'm a big girl. It's karaoke night, and I've been there before.”

“Still.”

He didn't mention Julian directly. He wasn't going to say that name because he'd taken Julian's betrayal almost as hard as I had. Maybe harder. He'd had to get over his initial prejudice against the McElroys only to be proven right. I had been proven wrong and gained the prejudice as a consequence.

I huffed out a breath. “You don't think
he
will be there, do you?”

“Doubt it. Goat Cheese told me he swore off going that night he and the Gates boy raised a ruckus.”

Interesting.
Julian had once told me he was done with fights, but he'd been in at least one more.

“It never ceases to amaze me that you can call a grown man Goat Cheese and keep a straight face.”

Mercutio turned around three times and nestled deeper into my father's lap.

“Well, I'm not the idiot who announced to the world I was going to make my millions raising goats and selling their cheese.” To my father's mind, the world was full of idiots. Idiots who tried to raise goats for cheese. Idiots who declawed cats. Idiots who kept cats in the house. I supposed he'd just joined the ranks of the latter, but I wasn't going to point it out again—that would make me one of those “idiots who can't mind her own business.”

I shrugged and headed in the direction of the bathroom, a sixties add-on to the back porch—thank goodness Granddaddy Satterfield hadn't been so concerned about the integrity of the home place to insist we keep the outhouse.

“Hey, you.”

I turned around, not entirely certain if he was talking to the cat or to me. Rather than answer, I gave him the same look I gave my students when they were disrespectful.

“Dammit, don't look at me like that. When you do, you look like her,” he scowled.

“Well, I do have a name.”

He muttered something under his breath before continuing, “Well, Rosemary, I found something the other day I thought you might be interested in. It's on the old sewing table by the window. Your mother wanted you to have it.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” I said softly. I walked past the kitchen table to the little sewing table that had been Granny Satterfield's. There on the top was a manila folder with papers jutting out at all angles. On the front my mother's neat script proclaimed,
A History of the Satterfield-McElroy Feud.

I shifted towels, clothes, and such to the right and let my left hand skim her handwriting reverently. I'd heard about this folder. Before she got sick, Mom would tell me old stories, things she'd dug up from the newspapers and things she'd heard from the old-timers. She'd always told me she was going to write a book about it when she got better.

I laid the folder on the table and told myself not to worry about whether Julian would show up. Say what you would about Goat Cheese, he was generally the best source of Yessum County gossip.

As I turned to go, I snagged my jeans on the corner of the folder. Papers spilled then floated to the ground. I collated the typed pages, grateful for Mom's foresight in putting page numbers even though her work looked more like a draft than the book she'd wanted to write. Next I gathered the newspaper clippings and slick microfiche paper that had scattered. Finally, I saw a lone stack of papers that had slid underneath one of the chairs:
Happenstance in Love: A Comparison of
Romeo and Juliet
and
Much Ado About Nothing
by Rosemary Satterfield.

Since that handwritten assignment had brought Julian and me together, I could see Mom had really been doing her homework. I thought back to how she took me to the big library in Jefferson and taught me how to use the microfiche. It was one of her last good days, and she told me, “Now this is something your father won't be able to teach you, and the good Lord will take away my cosmic library card if I don't show you how to do this before you go to college.”

She couldn't have known that scanned files on the Internet were working to make microfiche obsolete by the time I got to Vanderbilt. She also couldn't have known that I would later take Julian to the same library and show him how to pull up microfiche or that we would end up leaning too closely together while I did.

But I wasn't going to think about that day. As a librarian, Rosemary Satterfield wouldn't have approved of love among the microfiche—especially not if her daughter had been falling for the worst possible boy.