Jaded (15 page)

Dodd snorted.

Grady scratched his chin. “You know … I do too.”

Milla rose from the love seat. “You boys are impossible. Ruthie, if you'd like to get away from them, you're welcome to help me in the kitchen.”

I followed her for no other reason than to escape the scrutiny of Dodd and Grady, even though it meant another one-on-one conversation with Milla.

She took a small knife from a block in the corner to cut the brownies. “Sorry, Ruthie. Grady's really missing his dad, and I think he talks more to make up for it.” She chuckled. “We never know what he'll say next. You'd be surprised at some of the things he comes up with.”

“Yes, I help in his computer class, you know.”

She flinched. “Tell me.”

“Let's see …” I picked up a stack of saucers and spread them on the counter. “One day he quoted an entire scene from
Monty Python
.”

“No, he didn't.”

“Something about the velocity of a swallow?”

Milla groaned. “He did.”

“And another time he took great pains to explain the difference between a buffalo and a bison—with a visual demonstration of the horns.” I raised my hands to my head, forming horns with my fingers.

“Ah yes.” Milla made finger horns on her own head. “Buffalo.” She repositioned her hands. “Bison.”

I nodded. “And of course, there's the daily commentary on his emotional adjustment to small-town life.”

“He doesn't hide much, does he?”

“Not Grady.”

She paused as we both heard my unintentional implication. “Do you see much of Dodd at school?”

I laughed a little too loudly. “Oh, of course we both eat in the teachers' lounge. He sits over by JohnScott, but I usually sit with Maria. She's the Family and Consumer Science teacher, but you probably knew that already.” My mouth bubbled out of control. “I mean, there are other times he talks to me, but not like Grady does. When Dodd talks, he gets right to the point and doesn't use extra words. He's more reserved.” I had to shut up. Determined to change the subject, I blurted, “Too bad you don't have ice cream.”

Milla had been smiling knowingly, but now she lifted her head. “What?”

“Brownie-bottom pie would be tasty.”

“Brownie-bottom pie?”

“You know, brownie in the bottom of the bowl, then vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup. Whip cream on top. Nuts, optional.”

Milla stared at me for several seconds, then yelled, “Ruthie and I are running to the United. Be right back.”

We scurried past Dodd and Grady, and as we sped away in Milla's SUV, Momma crossed my mind for only a fraction of a second, and then I giggled.

Fifteen minutes later, we returned to the kitchen to assemble the desserts.

“So, did your mother teach you this recipe?”

“Oh no. Aunt Velma is the chef. Momma cooks frozen food.”

Milla's eyes twinkled as she drizzled chocolate syrup on top. “Well, ice cream is frozen.”

“You're so different from her.” I said it before I thought.

“We view the world differently, that's all.”

“You live in different worlds.”

“Yet we're both right here in Trapp, Texas.” Her expression held understanding and compassion mixed with a touch of sadness. Then she sprayed whipped topping with a flourish.

JohnScott once told me God oozed out around the edges of the Cunninghams and rubbed off when anybody got close. Now I understood what he meant. The three of them were unmistakably encouraging me toward God—without ever mentioning His name.

Dodd and Grady drove me home in the late afternoon, sandwiching me in the front seat of the El Camino. I leaned toward Grady to avoid touching Dodd, who leaned against the driver's door to avoid touching me.

As we pulled up to my house, I nudged Grady to let me out, but he didn't budge.

“So, Ruthie, does Mom need to ask you out again, or can I send my big brother?”

Dodd slapped a fist against his forehead.

I formed my lips into a syrupy smile. “I'm not sure, Grady, but thank you for asking. You're ever so thoughtful.”

As Grady grinned, I scooted a half inch toward Dodd, who rolled down the window and opened the door in one fluid movement. I had never seen him so flustered. He stood with one hand on the door while I slid out of the car, but he didn't look at me. After asking me out for all those dates, how could he be bashful now? I paused in front of him until he lifted his gaze. Then I smiled.

What had come over me? Just that morning I had been determined to stay away from the preacher at all costs, and now I was smiling at him and getting all goose bumpy when his eyes widened. This was a bad idea, but for such a rotten idea, it sure felt good.

He followed me halfway across the yard. “I'm glad you came.”

“Me, too.” At least I thought I was glad. When I stepped onto the porch—home turf—reality gripped me like an offensive lineman. Momma could be home anytime.

Dodd stood at the bottom of the steps, smiling at me with straight, white teeth. “Ruthie, I hope you'll consider Grady's question.”

I shook my head, lighthearted from the fun I'd had. “I don't want to go out with Grady.”

He laughed, then said softly, seriously, “I hope you'll consider going out … with me.”

The cold air seemed to drop ten degrees, and I hugged myself, stifling the emotions building inside me. The tremor in my stomach was telling me one thing, but my brain had another agenda. The Cunninghams pushed me toward God, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that, because the Big Man and I hadn't talked much lately. But if being with the preacher meant going back to the Trapp church, I could live without Dodd Cunningham. “I need to think about it.” I glanced at the door behind me. “It's complicated.”

“I'm in no hurry.”

Neither of us remembered the car window being down until Grady said, “Dodd, you dork. It's forty degrees out here. Let's go.”

Dodd rolled his eyes, then held my gaze for a count of five before saying quietly, “See you, Ruthie.”

I slipped into the house and leaned against the door, listening to them drive away and wondering if I had started something I would regret. Right then I said the first prayer I'd prayed since childhood.

I thanked God for not letting Momma come home yet.

Chapter Twenty-Six

On the first night in December, cold mist pelted me as I walked from the United, but I found little refuge when I got home, where the thermostat only registered a few degrees warmer than outside. JohnScott would have gladly picked me up, but lately we seemed to be growing further and further apart, and I wondered if he wouldn't have added to the iciness.

After changing into dry jeans and a sweatshirt, I raised the setting on the heater, but only slightly. A high electric bill would wreak havoc on our makeshift budget, so Momma and I tended to seek warmth next to our tiny wood-burning fireplace.

Dashing out the door, I grabbed an armful of damp logs from our dwindling woodpile by the front porch and made a mental note to ask Ansel to bring more. He was in the process of clearing a pasture and cut down several mesquite trees every week or two. The wet logs I held in my arms dampened the sleeves of my sweatshirt before I dropped them into the box near the fireplace. I'd have a dickens of a time getting a fire started, but I knelt and began the slow process, which only darkened my mood.

For days I had been mindful of the preacher. He seemed aware of my attention even though I did my best to hide it. He would shift his gaze toward me and smile. Or wink. I could tell he wanted to give me time to figure things out, and he hadn't asked for a date again, but I had the sensation of being monitored, as if I were walking a tightrope while he lingered below, ready to catch me as soon as I fell.

I sat on the floor in front of the fireplace and stuffed wadded newspaper around the wood, pushing guilty thoughts of Dodd from my mind.

Momma came through the front door. “Thank goodness you're building a fire, Ruth Ann. I'm frozen and soggy.”

“Yeah, well, so is the wood.” I struck a match and held it to the paper.

She joined me on the floor, and together we watched the flame engulf the newspaper and flicker away without so much as warming the bark. “Is gasoline a bad idea?” she asked.

I enjoyed the scent of the match while I crumpled more paper. “I think so.”

A tap at the door startled us.

In general we lived comfortably in our house, but it had one fault—the small, diamond-shaped window in the front door, decorative from the outside but bothersome from the inside. Anyone standing on the front porch could look into the house, and at times like this, with the porch light off, our visitors could spy on us, but we couldn't see them. Granted, we didn't get many guests, but as I knelt at the fireplace across from the door, my spine tingled.

The knock hadn't sounded right. Not that I'd ever put much thought into the sound of knuckles on wood, but I didn't recognize this particular knock as JohnScott or Velma, the only two people who ever came to see us. It was just three light taps, tapering off toward the end, and if a knock could sound hesitant, this one did. It put me on edge.

Momma stepped to the door and flicked on the porch light, then peeked out from an angle. “What does
he
want?”

My nerves coiled like a roll of barbed wire as I prayed it wasn't Dodd or Grady. Or even JohnScott.

Momma opened the door three inches, prompting me to try harder to light the fire. I could already feel the icy draft.

“Hey, Lynda.”

The man's gruff voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

Momma leaned against the doorframe, still in her work clothes. They weren't as wet as mine had been, but she looked damp. “What do you want, Clyde?”

Clyde?
Sweat moistened my armpits, and I abandoned the fire and scrambled on all fours into the hallway where he couldn't see me.

“Thought I'd pay you a visit,” he said. “Been a long time.”

“You sober?”

He cleared his throat and mumbled a yes.

“Well, you might as well come in, then.”

Curiosity and apprehension rooted me to the spot, and I stayed in the hall even though my gut suggested I hide in my room with the door locked.
Why would Momma let Clyde Felton in the house?

“Sorry it's so cold in here. Ruth Ann's having trouble with the fire.”

“Ruth Ann?”

She huffed. “Well, the girl's hiding now.”

Clyde's shoes scraped the hardwood floor, and after a pause, I heard newspaper tearing. “Can't blame her. I scared the daylights out of her a while back.”

“For crying out loud, what'd you do?”

A match struck. “Aw, I'd been drinking. Didn't mean nothing by it.”

Silence followed, filled by the sound of scrunching paper. I hoped the man wouldn't feed newsprint into our fireplace for the next hour, because that's how long it would take to get the wood burning.

“I guess prison's awful.” Momma's voice wavered slightly, reminding me of every tale I ever heard about prisons.

“You get used to it.”

The couch creaked as Momma sat. “I wouldn't have come back to Trapp if I were you.”

“You might if you'd been where I've been.”

I peeked around the corner. Clyde squatted by the fireplace while Momma lounged on the couch with one leg draped over the armrest. Obviously they had known each other before Clyde's imprisonment, and even though their conversation sounded harmless, the idea of a convicted rapist in my living room made me sick to my stomach.

He continued to mess with the fire, and I wanted to scream at him to give up. Go home.
Leave.

He surprised me by saying, “I've been to church a couple times. Expected to see you.”

“
You
went to
worship
?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Under the circumstances, yes.” She chuckled bitterly. “How'd it go?”

“Last time most of them were frosty. Pretended not to see me.” The fireplace tools clanked as he replaced the poker. “Tonight Neil asked me not to come back.”

Momma grunted. “Ah, yes. Midweek service.”

“He said I'd be more comfortable at the congregation over in Slaton.”

“Well, surely you didn't expect him to send out the welcome wagon.”

Clyde hesitated so long, I looked around the corner again. Momma had a sad expression on her face.

“You wanted to see them, didn't you?”

Clyde shifted. “I learned a lot in prison. A couple missionaries came every few weeks and talked to us about Jesus. And I listened.”

Momma cackled. “You got religion?”

“I know it's hard to believe.” Clyde laughed a little too, but his suppressed cheer tapered. “The religion here is different than religion in prison.”

“The religion here is different than religion anywhere.”

“You didn't used to feel that way.” He paused. “You ever see Hoby?”

Momma didn't answer, but I knew she must have given him a gesture to indicate the negative.

“You know where he is?”

“No idea.”

“You should find him, Lynda.” A long silence filled the room, seeping into the hallway, before Clyde asked, “How are things between you and Neil?”

Momma spoke quickly. “What are you doing with yourself anyway? To keep your mind off the bottle?”

Clyde hesitated. “I got me a job at the Dairy Queen, flipping burgers in the back. Why won't you give me a straight answer?”

The springs in the couch squeaked, and the front door opened. “Ruth Ann and me—we've got work tomorrow. We should call it a night.”

Yeah, right.
Momma never made it to bed before midnight, but her lie calmed my nerves because it meant Clyde would get away from us.

“I guess that's good-bye,” he said softly.

Then he left.

I crept back to the living room and glanced at the door, thankful Momma had left the porch light on.

She stood in front of the fire, which now burned steadily, but she didn't look at me. “How do men get fires started so easily?” she asked.

“Must be in their genes.” I held my cold fingers toward the increasing warmth as a million questions ran through my mind. My heart felt like a balloon, filled to near bursting, then quickly deflated into a misshapen form that would never be quite as strong.

“What's the deal with you running off?” Momma demanded. “You too uppity to talk to my friends?”

I found her question humorous, since she hadn't had a friend in years. Not really. The humor died when I remembered Clyde had asked me almost the same question on the wall at the school. “He's your friend?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “He used to be.”

I rubbed my hands together, unsure of how to talk to Momma but desperate to know what Clyde Felton had to do with my daddy. “What happened with him, Momma?”

She opened her mouth to speak and then snapped it shut. “Aw, it don't matter.”

When she turned and shuffled to the kitchen, she effectively shut me out of her mind with all the finality of a slamming door.