Jaded (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

I wasn't able to keep the seed of doubt dormant for long. By Saturday—the day of the craft fair and silent auction—it had blossomed into a deceptive flowering plant akin to the sweet clover growing in Ansel's pasture. Sure, the yellow blossoms were pleasant, but if they went a little moldy, they could poison the herd. Maybe I leaned toward the melodramatic, but I saw no reason to push my luck and risk being seen with Dodd.

Momma was working at the diner, so I decided to skip the parade.

I opened a book and curled up on the couch as the high school band marched down Main Street. I could hear an occasional air horn and lots of yelling. Dodd would wonder where I was. Even though we hadn't planned to walk around together, we had discussed spying on each other throughout the day. His easy smile had become a tonic to me, dulling my problems like an anesthetic, but his words from our Christmas-light adventure still stung.
I can't picture Neil Blaylock hurting your family … He's a strong Christian man.

Yes, I wanted to see Dodd, but at the same time …
I didn't
.

Resting my head on the back of the couch, I hugged my book against my chest. JohnScott would also wonder about me. I told him I would meet him at the post office before the parade, and I didn't often go back on my word. I closed my eyes. Neither of them truly understood me.

I wasn't even sure I understood myself.

A loud knock at the door jerked me upright, and I stumbled to my feet.

“We know you're in there, little cousin.” JohnScott's face pressed against the diamond window.

His voice made me smile, but when I realized Dodd was with him, every muscle in my body tightened.
Holy cow.
The preacher was standing on my front porch in front of God and everybody.

I yanked the door open and pulled the two men inside.

“Good to see you, too,” Dodd said, his eyes dancing around the living room inquisitively.

Crossing my arms to ward off my panic, I ignored him. “Sorry I didn't meet up with you, JohnScott, but I figured you'd manage without me.”

“I managed just fine, little cousin, but it's time for you to vacate the cave.”

I tied my tennis shoes ferociously, anxious to get Dodd out of my house. Even though Momma was safely away at work, I feared her walking in unannounced.
That would be just my luck.
“Okay, I'm ready. Let's go.” I hurried to the door.

JohnScott grinned as he stepped onto the porch. “I get the impression you want us out of here.”

Dodd took my hand and pulled me back into the house.
“Relax.”

“I don't want people to see us together, Dodd.” I gritted my teeth. “I can't do that to Momma. Not yet.”

“I know.” He kissed my cheek. “This afternoon I'll admire you from a distance, but will you meet me tonight after the fireworks show?”

He looked into my eyes and waited until I finally softened. “Of course. Now go away, you twit.”

“I'm parked down from the high school parking. Meet me there,” Dodd called over his shoulder, then took off at a brisk trot in the opposite direction from JohnScott and me.

Soon we jostled from booth to booth in the crowded downtown area. Banners flapped overhead, meat sizzled on grills, and Christmas songs rang out from a public-address system. We spent hours creeping up and down the streets, browsing the craft items, and eating nonstop. I made a few Christmas purchases, and JohnScott sampled tamales, turkey legs, funnel cakes, and hot wassail.

Occasionally Dodd would pass by, nonchalantly bumping me in the crowd, and several times I caught him reading my lips from a distance, and I took the opportunity to say things to embarrass him.

By evening my cousin had gained five pounds, and I had a stomachache. We waddled through the fire-department garage, perusing the silent-auction bid sheets to see how the prices had climbed throughout the day. The two of us had offered a gift certificate for an afternoon of Christmas-light installation, Velma contributed a cookie jar shaped like the Pillsbury Doughboy, and Ansel donated several bags of feed.

As I pulled cotton candy with sticky fingers, I became aware of someone standing next to me. I ignored him but couldn't help smiling.

“Excuse me.”

The deep voice didn't belong to Dodd, and I glanced up to discover Clyde Felton at my elbow.

My skin prickled.

When JohnScott took a step toward me, I relaxed and looked more closely at the convict. His eyes weren't bloodshot, and he didn't reek of alcohol, but his movements weren't natural. He shuffled his worn Adidas in the sawdust, then thrust his hands in and out of his pockets.

“Hey, Ruth Ann.”

I raised an eyebrow. Apparently he thought he could call me Ruth Ann, since he knew Momma.

“I know you don't want to talk to me, and I don't blame you.” He fingered a set of crocheted pot holders on the table next to him and took a half step toward me.

I shifted an equal distance away.

My body language seemed to cause him to hesitate, but he gave a slight nod of acceptance. As though he didn't deserve better. “That day at the school?” he said. “I was just curious about your momma.” His gaze bounced from the pot holders to my face, and then he turned to peer behind him.

I followed his gaze and noticed Dodd standing near the auction announcer, who droned details into a crackly microphone. Probably the preacher was reading our lips, and it comforted me to know he was there, keeping an eye on me. When Dodd gave me a thumbs-up, my nerves settled.

Clyde turned back to face me. “I just wanted to say I'm real sorry, Ruth Ann.”

The sincerity of his words surprised me, and his eyes held mine for a few seconds.

“Um … that's okay.”

Clyde nodded, peering at me as though I might say something else, but when I didn't, he slowly turned around. From the back, his shoulders seemed even broader, and I shivered as he walked away. He may have been Momma's friend, but he still scared the life out of me. He picked his way around the tables, stepping cautiously to avoid the crowd, and then strode directly to Dodd who slapped him on the shoulder.

Needles of doubt prickled across my scalp.

“Well, that was unexpected,” JohnScott said.

I gawked at the two men across the garage, and when Dodd followed Clyde through the breezeway into darkness, I realized his thumbs-up hadn't been intended for me. “What in the world?” I quizzed my cousin. “Did Dodd put him up to this?”

JohnScott squirmed. “I know he's been talking to Clyde about straightening up his act.”

“His act?” I shoved my cotton candy back in its bag and squeezed it into a blob, my fingers sticking to the plastic.

“Laying off alcohol mainly, but Dodd's also been reminding him there's something worth living for.”

“You mean God.”

“Yep.”

I didn't know what to think. Who would've dreamed Clyde Felton would apologize? A teeny part of me was irritated with Dodd for talking about me, but on the other hand, I was shocked. Not only because of Dodd's willingness to befriend someone like Clyde but because of his undeniable influence on the ex-convict. And others.

I shook my head and muttered, “Let's go to the stadium and find a good seat for the fireworks.”

As we walked through town, JohnScott seemed to sense my mood, and instead of heading toward the bleachers, he led me to the high school parking lot, where we climbed to the top of his truck, sitting with our feet dangling in front of the windshield. We'd be able to see perfectly and yet still have some privacy.

Simultaneously JohnScott nudged my shoulder and I popped his knee. We sat silently for half an hour, watching the crowd gather in the distance.

“Why do you suppose he apologized?” I finally asked. “He doesn't seem like the type.”

“I get the impression Clyde's not what he seems.”

I laced my fingers together and hooked them over my knee. “Why does he care?”

“I guess because he's a Christian.”

My breath caught slightly. Clyde had told Momma he got religion in prison, but somehow I'd never attached the term
Christian
to my image of him. I figured
got religion
meant he went to the prison worship because he didn't get any visitors otherwise. But now I began to wonder. Obviously he wasn't a Trapp type of Christian, looking down on the rest of us, but he wasn't the Cunninghams' type of Christian either, goodness oozing out of their every action. It didn't make sense, really. Clyde was an obvious sinner, tried and convicted. How could he be a Christian?

The fireworks burst over the stadium, illuminating the shadows in the parking lot. At first I squinted at the brightness, but as my eyes adjusted, I watched in fascination. The same fascination I felt every year, energized by the rumble of the detonations, the vibrating boom of the explosions, and the acrid scent of gunpowder hanging in the air. With each flash of color, applause rose, and the hardness in my soul softened.

“JohnScott …”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me about Jesus.”

JohnScott exhaled softly, relief seeming to seep out of his lungs. “It's simple, really. He loves you, and He wants to take care of you.”

A few last explosions held my attention before I looked at my cousin. “I know He's there and all that, but I think I'm okay.” I blinked at the smoke hanging in the air. “I'm not sure it's worth the trouble, you know?”

“You mean the church?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He gave a tiny huff, and then smiled, trying to hide his impatience. “I won't ever worship in Trapp either, but it's not about them.”

JohnScott was wrong, but I didn't expect him to understand. Even though he'd seen how the church treated me, he didn't feel it. He didn't know how it stung. I bumped my shoulder against his, ready to end the conversation. “I'm doing all right, JohnScott.”

“Are you?”

He whispered the words, yet they hung in the air as though he had shouted.

Chapter Thirty-Two

My muscles were jelly as we climbed down from the truck after the fireworks display. Clyde's apology, coupled with JohnScott's Jesus discussion, left my brain muzzy. Both incidents prompted countless questions, but I had no energy to ask my cousin for answers. Instead, I found myself wishing for a quilt and a laptop movie in Ansel's back pasture. With Dodd. That first date seemed like an escape from the real world and all its problems.

Dodd and I planned to meet at his El Camino, but for the time being, I waited with JohnScott, hovering behind Corky Ledbetter's full-sized van as the crowd cleared. Dodd's car was parked on a shadowy side street—conveniently hidden from curious onlookers—but when I saw the preacher coming from the stadium with Clyde by his side, I groaned. “He's not going to apologize again, is he?”

JohnScott laughed. “Probably not, little cousin.”

He started to say something else, but a loud bang distracted him, and we both peered around the van. Tyler and Fawn were arguing, and apparently, Tyler had kicked JohnScott's truck.

“Oh, come on, Fawn. You know you want to.” Tyler's words ran together.

“No.”

When I heard the pitch of Fawn's voice, my sides tightened. It was only one word, but it sounded whiny and weak, without a hint of her usual confidence.

“We never should've let it go this far.” She turned away from him. “Just take me home, okay?”

Tyler grabbed her arm. “That's not what I had in mind, babe.”

“Everything all right out here?” Dodd walked hesitantly around the truck, with Clyde right behind him.

“Brother Cunningham.” Tyler drew the name out into several syllables, arrogance dripping from his words as he released Fawn. “You brought a registered sex offender on school property?”

Dodd didn't reply, but Fawn mumbled, “Come on, Tyler.”

“Why do we keep running into you, Felton?” Tyler's voice rose. “Wherever we are, you're bound to show up.”

Clyde gazed at him steadily. “Coincidence.”

“You sure you're not following us?” A threat lay just beneath his words.

“He's not following you,” called JohnScott as he stepped around the van. “Clyde's been with Dodd most of the day. They're headed back to his car. See?” He pointed, even though the only part of the El Camino that was visible was the corner of the front bumper.

Fawn looked between the three men, and her cheeks flushed. “Let's just go, Tyler.”

In first grade, her jeans had ripped during recess, and Fawn had the same humiliated expression. That day I had given her my jacket to tie around her waist.

“You need a ride home?” asked JohnScott.

Tyler snickered. “Like I'm going to leave her when the jailbird's around.”

Dodd hung back, scanning the parking lot until he located me, and then he gave a nearly imperceptible nod, indicating I should stay where I was.

Clyde took a step forward. “You're the one that's not good for the girl.”

“I'm not good for her?” Tyler's words slurred again. “But I suppose you are?”

“That's not what he meant,” Fawn said.

“Oh, shut up.” Tyler sneered. “Why don't you go ahead and hang with Clyde. He's a rapist. Maybe he can get something off you.”

The sound of her palm striking Tyler's cheek carried high on the breeze, and when Tyler's returning blow thudded, all three men rushed forward.

With mixed feelings, I silently urged them on. Even though Fawn represented most of the problems in my life, no woman deserved to be hit.

Instantly Clyde pinned Tyler against JohnScott's truck. “You're way out of your league, boy,” he growled.

Tyler's eyes grew wide, but Clyde seemed to instantly regret his actions, and his shoulders fell as he pushed away. He clenched his fists at his sides as though holding back a torrent of anger. “Don't touch her again.” He accented each word as he leaned within inches of Tyler's face, and then Clyde turned and strode quickly into the shadows of the bleachers.

The farther Clyde walked from the parking lot, the more Tyler seemed to regain his courage, and by the time the ex-convict disappeared, Tyler's face held no trace of the terror that had been there moments before. He mimicked Clyde with a high-pitched whine, “Don't. Touch. Her. Again.”

“Dodd … Coach Pickett … I'm sorry,” Fawn said. “I'm so sorry about this. It's my fault.”

I had only ever heard Fawn apologize like that to one other person. Her father. During our freshman year of high school, I had walked past them at the livestock show, behind the barns. Neil had leaned against one of his enormous horse trailers, his arms crossed, while Fawn cowered in front of him. “I'm so sorry, Dad. This is my fault.”

“Well, of course, it's your fault,” he'd agreed. “As usual.”

That day I sped past them, not wanting to hear more. And now as Tyler glared at her with the same scorn, I didn't want to hear it again, but I couldn't get away. I paced behind the van like a caged animal, trapped.

“It most certainly is not your fault,” Dodd said.

JohnScott used his calming voice. The one he used so often on me. “I could take you home, Fawn.”

I peeked from behind the van in time to see Tyler slam his fist against the truck. “If you go with the coach, we're finished.”

“Stop hitting my truck.” JohnScott sounded as though Tyler were an annoying insect.

“Fawn?” Tyler's hands were on his hips, and even though he swayed, he still reminded me of Neil Blaylock on that day at the stock show. His body language screamed that Fawn was unworthy.

She lifted her chin. “I don't need a ride, JohnScott, but thank you. My parents are still over at the silent auction, so I'll walk over there.” The way her shoulders slumped made her back appear hunched, and she didn't look like herself. “I'm sorry, you guys.”

“You'll ride with me, Fawn,” Tyler said.

She shook her head, uncharacteristically defiant. “No, Tyler. I'm not riding with you.”

Tyler watched as she made her way through the remaining cars in the parking lot, and then he spun on his heel, letting his arms swing. “That's it, then,” he called after her, even though she was probably too far away to hear. “Don't be calling me tomorrow, Fawn.” He stomped toward his truck, but his fourth step turned into a stagger.

Dodd groaned. “We shouldn't let him drive.”

“I got this.” JohnScott trotted after Tyler. “I'll drive him to Snyder and call Grady to come fetch me in my truck.”

“What if Tyler won't let you drive?”

JohnScott grinned. “It's me or the police, right?”

“Ah, the power of persuasion.”

Dodd watched them for a few seconds before he turned and ambled toward me. He smiled sadly, then took my hand and led me to the El Camino. We sat side by side in silence, staring out the windshield at a shadowy hedge that jiggled when the breeze hit it, and it occurred to me that Dodd hadn't spoken much during all the commotion.

I cleared my throat. “So they broke up?”

“I guess.” He stared blindly, as though deep in thought, and I studied him as he seemed to search for answers. Finally he exhaled and rested his elbows on the steering wheel, letting his head drop into his hands. He didn't move for several minutes, and I wondered if he was praying, but then he moaned. “I'm in over my head, Ruthie.”

His insecurity startled me, and I hesitated before answering. “You mean with Clyde?”

“All of it.” He shrugged. “The church, these people, they need more than I can give them.” He peered at me through the half darkness, still slumped over the steering wheel. “I'm not big enough for this. I don't have the wisdom.”

I ran the fingernails of my left hand up and down his back, trying to ease his tension. “God is bigger than all of this, right?”

Dodd leaned back and slipped an arm around my shoulders. “Of course He is. You're a smart woman.”

His transparency drew me in as his soft words comforted my doubts. I snuggled against his shoulder, burying my face in his neck until I imagined I located the exact spot he applied his cologne. I inhaled deeply and lost myself in his scent, his warmth, his touch.

In the dim light, I noticed circles under his eyes, and I ran the tip of my finger from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his lashes. He smiled, and the skin crinkled beneath my fingertip. I wanted nothing more than to comfort his stress away, so I slipped my hand behind his head and pulled his lips down to mine. He moaned softly, and his weight shifted toward me as he relaxed.

We kissed tenderly, without the uncertainty of the other times we had been together. And after five minutes, or ten, or thirty, he leaned his head against the back windshield and nestled me beneath his arm. “I got you something for Christmas.” He reached behind the seat and pulled out a medium-sized box.

Its weight surprised me as I tore off the paper. Lifting the lid, I felt smooth leather, so I turned the box over, its contents falling hard against my lap as my spirits fell heavy against my heart. “You got me a Bible?”

“If that's all right.” Dodd's voice questioned me.

I stroked the cover, wanting to be with Dodd, and at the same time, wanting to be far away from him.

It was too much. Clyde's apology, JohnScott's impatience, Fawn's insecurity.
Now a Bible
.

Movement in the parking lot distracted me, and I took advantage of the opportunity. “Is that Grady?”

Concern covered Dodd's face, but he rolled down the window, and I followed him out on his side of the car.

“I'm sorry, Ruthie.” He took my hand. “I'm rushing you.”

I shook my head, unable to speak and not knowing what to say anyway. How could I verbalize the loneliness I felt? I tugged him toward JohnScott's truck, but when we walked out of the shadows, Grady was nowhere in sight.

Instead, we came face-to-face with Fawn.

Her eyes mirrored my panic. I thrust Dodd's hand away from me, but Fawn had already seen. I expected her to cock her neck to the side with a calculated smile, but she only gazed nervously toward JohnScott's truck … and lowered her head like she was the one who had been caught. Like she was the one who should be ashamed. I realized she wasn't thinking about how quickly she could spread the rumor that Ruthie Turner had been holding hands with Dodd Cunningham. She seemed consumed by humiliation. Tyler had treated her like dirt in front of the preacher. He had talked to her like a tramp. He had struck her.

“I think I left my purse.” She edged away from us, grabbed her bag from the bed of JohnScott's truck, and scurried back toward the stadium.

Dodd called, “Fawn?
Wait.
” But she didn't answer. And when he jogged after her, she only moved faster.

I stood motionless, watching her as in a dream. This couldn't actually be happening. Fawn Blaylock running away.
From me.
An involuntary chuckle escaped my lips, but then I sucked in a ragged breath as a foreign sensation welled up in my heart. I held both arms across my stomach, overwhelmed by a realization so absurd to me it stung.

I felt sorry for Fawn Blaylock.