Johnston - I Promise (27 page)

Billie Jo kept the conversation going with descriptions of Todd and their tube trip down the Frio. She was entranced with the boy, and no detail of their day together was left undiscussed.

“Todd lost his older brother Jeff in a car accident a year ago, so he knew exactly how I felt about losing my mom without warning,” Billie Jo said.

Like Delia had lost hers.

Billie Jo shot a mortified look at Delia, obviously sorry for having brought up the subject of death, which everybody knew should be avoided at all costs in a situation where someone had just died and which, therefore, inevitably came to mind.

Billie Jo took a bite of her sandwich and concentrated on chewing.

Delia had opened her mouth to say something, anything, to break the awkward silence, when the kitchen door swung open and Rachel stepped inside.

“Rachel!” Delia was on her feet and headed for the door in two seconds flat. Before she reached Rachel, Marsh stepped inside holding Scott, who was sound asleep against his shoulder.

“Marsh!”

“Daddy!” Billie Jo cried, jumping to her feet and heading toward him. “You’re back!”

A confusing series of hugs and kisses and exclamations followed while Scott, who Rachel said had been awake during the whole plane flight and most of the drive to Uvalde, slept through it all.

“How did you all get back here so quickly?” Delia asked Marsh, her arm around Rachel.

Rachel answered for him. “I was packing when Marsh rang the doorbell. I’d already made up my mind to leave Cliff. I’m sorry I hung up on you like that. I had no idea you would be so worried, but I didn’t answer the phone again because I was afraid it might be Cliff, and that I might give everything away on the phone—that I meant to leave him, I mean.”

“I’m glad you’re here. Don’t worry, Rachel. We’ll work everything out.”

“I think Scott needs a bed,” Marsh said. “Where would you like me to put him?”

“Mrs. McKinley can have her bedroom back,” Billie Jo offered, “and I’ll go home with Daddy.”

“I’ll show you where it is,” Rachel said to Marsh, heading toward the hallway that led upstairs. “You stay and finish your sandwich, Delia.”

“Rachel, wait!” There wasn’t any way for Delia to say it except to say it. “Mother’s dead. She died in her sleep earlier this evening.”

She watched the blood drain from Rachel’s face, saw the grim look appear on Marsh’s. Her sister set a palm against the kitchen wall to steady herself.

“Dr. Robbins said her heart was failing, and that she knew it but decided not to tell us about it,” Delia said. “He was here earlier with the coroner. Mother’s been taken to Mortenson’s Funeral Home.”

For a moment Delia thought her sister was going to be all right. They had both already grieved once for Hattie Carson, only to find that she wasn’t dead, after all. This second death, coming after the false alarm, seemed unreal somehow. Like the story of the little boy who cried wolf, it was difficult to believe Hattie was really gone this time.

Delia saw the moment her announcement sank in. Saw Rachel reel as though she had been physically struck. Saw her face crumple and her mouth stretch wide in an ululating wail of grief.

Scott half roused against Marsh’s shoulder in a subconscious response to his mother’s cry of distress.

“I’ll take Scott upstairs and put him to bed,” Marsh said, “so you two can have some time together.”

“I can show you where Mrs. McKinley’s bedroom is,” Billie Jo offered. She led her father down the hall, leaving the two sisters alone in the kitchen.

Delia laid a comforting hand on Rachel’s back and felt her shudder. A moment later, Rachel turned to her, and they clutched each other tightly.

Delia felt numb, too battered by everything that had happened in the past week to feel anything more. She simply held on to Rachel while her sister cried, her own eyes dry, her throat aching.

Some time later, Marsh reappeared at the doorway to the kitchen with Billie Jo. “Scott’s asleep upstairs. I’m going to take Billie Jo home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Delia.” He hesitated a moment and sought out Delia’s gaze before he said, “If you need me before then, give me a call.”

He ushered Billie Jo quickly through the kitchen, not waiting for a reply from Delia. There wasn’t really much she could say. It was only after he had closed the kitchen door behind him that she realized he hadn’t offered condolences on Hattie’s death.

Rachel sank into one of the kitchen chairs and dropped her head onto her crossed arms facing away from Delia. Delia sat down next to her and reached out to touch her arm, so Rachel would know she was there.

“I never really felt like I knew Mama,” Rachel said, reverting to the childhood name she had used for her mother. “It was as though she lived on a mountain so high that even if I climbed forever, I could never reach her. Did you ever feel like that?”

“Um-hm,” Delia agreed.

“Daddy was different.”

Delia’s jaw tightened reflexively. She and Rachel had not discussed Ray John Carson once since the day he had died.

“Daddy could be so funny,” Rachel mused. “He used to play with me and hug me and kiss me . . . I mean when I was really little. Before . . . before the other.” Rachel turned her face toward Delia. “Why did he do those things to us, Delia? What was wrong with him?”

“I don’t know.”

Rachel turned her face away again, staring at a Timmons Feed and Grain Store calendar hanging on the wall with the days crossed off in black marker.

Delia noticed the Xs stopped on the day she had come home, as though that was the day all those Xs had been leading up to. Of course, the real reason there were no more Xs was simply that Hattie had gone into the hospital.

Six days ago. Not even a week.

But enough time to turn her life upside down.

The refrigerator hummed. The wind brushed a branch of the old live oak against the kitchen window.

“Mama didn’t mean to do it, Delia,” Rachel murmured. “It was an accident.”

“Do what?”

“Kill Daddy.”

Delia stared at Rachel, who remained unmoving with her face turned away. “Sit up and look at me, Rachel.”

Rachel pushed herself upright as though her upper body weighed a ton. She stared at Delia, her eyes dazed, her lower lip swollen where she had been chewing on it, her mascara streaked by tears.

“Repeat what you just said.”

Rachel stared blankly at her. “What? That Mama killed Daddy?”

“Damn it, Rachel! Don’t play dumb with me.” Delia’s hands clenched into fists on the table.

“I’m not, Delia. Why are you so upset?”

“What do you mean by saying Mama killed Daddy? Why would you say such a thing?” Delia demanded.

“I was there when she pulled the trigger,” Rachel said simply.

Delia’s brows arrowed down. She shook her head in confusion and disbelief. “Why didn’t you ever say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Mama made me promise I wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”

Delia felt betrayed. “You should have told me. I’m your sister. I was entitled to know.”

Rachel shook her head. “I couldn’t, Delia. Please understand.”

Delia didn’t understand. How could Rachel have kept such a secret for so many years? “Will you tell me now what happened? Or are you going to keep it to yourself a little longer.” Delia couldn’t help the sarcasm in her voice, even though she could see it upset Rachel.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Sure, now that it’s too late to say anything to Mother,” Delia snapped.

“Do you want to know, or not?” Rachel snapped right back.

“Just tell me the damned story,” Delia said.

“All right. Stop yelling at me and I will.” She pulled a strand of hair from her no longer perfect coif and twisted it agitatedly in her fingers.

“I came down to the kitchen that morning because I was thirsty and wanted a drink of water. I had already put my glass down in the sink when I heard Mama and Daddy arguing in Daddy’s gun room.

“Mama blamed herself for what had happened to us, because she had seen signs of what was going on and hadn’t done anything to stop Daddy. She was really mad at him, Delia. And at herself for all the mean things she had said to you.”

Why didn’t she ever tell me?
Delia wondered.
Why didn’t she ever admit she believed me?

“I heard Mama say something like ‘You should be shot’ and Daddy answered ‘Put down that gun.’ I got scared and ran to see what was going on.

“They were fighting over one of Daddy’s guns when it accidentally went off. I called Mama’s name, and she came running toward me to keep me from seeing what had happened to Daddy. I saw the gun on the floor, but Mama didn’t stop to pick it up.

“She practically pushed me out of the room. She grabbed my hand and dragged me back upstairs and all the time she was whispering to me that I couldn’t ever tell anybody what had happened—not anybody—or they would send her away to prison forever. She told me to stay in my room and not to come out until she came and got me.

“But I couldn’t do that, Delia. I had to see what had happened to Daddy. I heard Mama on the phone, and I sneaked downstairs and . . . and that’s when I screamed.”

Who had Hattie called? Delia wondered. Not the sheriff. She had called him later. Who, then? Her lawyer, probably. Hattie had always had a level head.

“Didn’t you know that all these years I’ve thought
you
killed Daddy?”

“Good grief, Delia. I told you at the time I didn’t kill him.”

Delia smiled cynically. “I wouldn’t have expected you to admit to murder.”

“No wonder you’re so upset with me for not telling you the truth sooner. I’m sorry, Delia.”

“I don’t understand Mother at all,” Delia said. “Why couldn’t she have told me she believed me? Why didn’t she admit she was wrong sooner and ask me to come home?”

“Maybe she felt like she didn’t deserve your forgiveness, Delia. Or that you wouldn’t give it to her, even if she asked.”

Delia’s throat squeezed shut. Rachel knew her well. As had Hattie. It was why she had left the note. Oh, yes, she was definitely Hattie’s daughter. She had held herself aloof, no more willing to offer forgiveness than Hattie had been willing to ask for it. She had every bit as much stubborn pride as her mother.

And now it was too late.

The sob caught Delia by surprise. Grief she had held in abeyance as a final defiance of Hattie washed over her with all the power and devastation of a flash flood. Because she had refused to grieve, her grief when she allowed herself to feel it was a hundred times more terrible, because it was mixed with equal doses of guilt and shame.

Delia laid her head down on her arms at the kitchen table and cried. She was inconsolable, though Rachel tried to console her. It was as though all the tears she had never shed—for the loss of her innocence and Rachel’s, for the betrayal and loss of her stepfather, for the death of her mother—had to be cried before she could move another step, before she could go on with her life.

Every time she managed to stop, she would lift her head and see the calendar marked with Xs and start crying again.

“Please, Delia, you’re going to make yourself sick,” Rachel said.

“I can’t seem to st-hop,” Delia sobbed.

She had no idea how long she had been sit ting at the table crying when she felt herself being picked up and lifted into someone’s lap. She opened her eyes enough to see it was Marsh. She sneaked a hand around his neck and clung, burying her face against his chest.

“It’s all right, Delia,” he crooned. “Rachel called and told me everything.”

“Ma-ma killed Dad-dy,” she sobbed.

“I know, sweetheart. I’ve known for a while.”

“How?” she asked. “How did you know?”

“It was the only thing that made any sense. She was the only one besides you who could have gone to the sheriff. She was the only one who could have convinced him that Ray John committed suicide because she had threatened to expose him.”

The sobs lessened, and Delia felt a strange calm settling over her. “I never forgave her,” she murmured to Marsh. “I told her I never would.”

Another sob. “I’m so sorry, Mama. I’m so sorry.”

Marsh’s arms tightened around her. “She knows, Delia. She knows.”

“I should have cried or screamed or
something.
I should have made him go away. I should have told Mama.”

“Shh,” Marsh said. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all over, Delia. It’s all over now.”

“Is she going to be all right?” Rachel asked anxiously. “Should I call Dr. Robbins?”

“I’ll take her upstairs and put her to bed,” Marsh said. “She’ll be all right after she gets some sleep.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Delia said irritably.

She heard Marsh chuckle.

“See what I mean?” he said. “She’ll be back to her old cantankerous self in no time.”

“Thank you for coming, Marsh,” Rachel said.

“I’m glad you called,” he said, rising with Delia in his arms. “You’ll have to show me where to go.”

“I can talk,” Delia said. “And I know where my bedroom is. If you’ll put me down, I can get there myself.”

Marsh and Rachel exchanged amused glances.

“Maybe you can,” Marsh said, “but indulge me, will you?”

“I don’t see why I should,” Delia said petulantly.

“Stuff it, Delia,” Rachel said. “Let the man carry you upstairs.”

Delia gave Rachel a startled look, but settled meekly into Marsh’s arms. “All right. Let’s go.”

“I’ll be up in a few minutes,” Rachel said.

Marsh headed up the stairs and then down the hall to Delia’s room. He paused at the door while Delia hit the switch that turned the bedside light on. He crossed to the bed and leaned down to pull the spread and top sheet away before he laid her down. He pulled off her boots and tucked her feet under the covers, then pulled them up under her arms.

“Good night, Delia. I’ll call you in the morning,” he said as he bent over to kiss her on the forehead.

She caught his wrist and said, “Please don’t leave yet.”

He sat down beside her on the bed and brushed her bangs tenderly away from her forehead. “Do you want to talk about Hattie?”