Lovesick (18 page)

Freddie walks over to her and touches her on the shoulder. Isabelle is clammy from the heat. The girl doesn't move.

“It was the only way,” says Freddie. “It was the only way to be rid of him. Your new life starts today. And I promise you, you will never be sad again—as long as I have a say in it.” She leans over and kisses Isabelle on the head.

Jewel is still sitting on the front porch, rocking fiercely. She determinedly ignores Freddie.

“We will get the details of everything worked out when I get home,” she says. “We just have to get through this next bit and then we can work out the rest. Who is to say, Jewel? Perhaps we can all just be happy. Wouldn't that be nice?”

“You don't have the right just to decide these things, Freddie. You have put me in a bad position here.”

“Well, it is too late now to turn back.”

“Yes, I guess you're right there. You best be going so you can get back here. I don't want this to go on forever.”

Freddie takes her time driving to town. Joe Parks isn't in his office. The secretary says he has gone to get a haircut and should be back in half a hour. She does not ask Freddie why she needs him, does not offer to call the barber shop, so Freddie tells her not to interrupt whatever it is she is doing that is so blasted important and she will just go look for him herself. She finds him exactly where the secretary said he would be, sitting in the barber chair. Several men, some of whom she recognizes from Standard's, sit around—waiting, reading magazines, joking with each other. They stop immediately when she walks in, eye her with suspicion. Women are not often here.

Harold King, the owner of the shop, speaks to her. “Miss Bramble, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Sheriff Parks,” she says. “You need to come out to the farm. There has been an accident. My sister's husband has fallen down the stairs.”

“Did you call the ambulance?”

“There wasn't any need. He broke his neck. He is dead.”

It takes a minute for Harold King to get the paper collar off from around the sheriff's neck. Joe Parks stands up, his hair half cut. He walks with Freddie back to his office, tells the secretary where he is going, asks her to call the hospital, have an ambulance sent out to the Bramble farm.

“He doesn't need an ambulance,” Freddie reminds him. “He needs an undertaker. He is dead. I am certain of it. He had been drinking.”

“They will need to examine the body,” he says. “Then they can release him to the funeral home. It is just the process we have to follow. Are you able to drive yourself, or do you wish to ride with me?”

“I can drive myself,” says Freddie. “He was Jewel's husband. She is the one to grieve him, not I.”

She follows the sheriff back to the farm. Thunderheads loom large in the east. There will be a storm before sunset, she is certain of it. As they pull into the driveway, she looks up to Isabelle's room, sees the curtains lifting with the breeze. Then, as she steps from the car, she notices Jewel at the top of the front steps, her hands waving over her head like a madwoman. She shrieks incoherently. No, not a shriek. A howl. A caterwaul. But it is not the sounds that Jewel makes that freeze Freddie. It is the blood. Blood on Jewel's apron. Blood on her hands and arms and legs. Blood streaks on her face.

Isabelle's blood.

6

Freddie tips a cup of steaming coffee into her saucer. It has been a week now that Isabelle has been dead, three days since they buried her and Mr. Odom and the stillborn baby. They buried them all in the family plot next to the Deegans. Jewel wanted to bury Isabelle with the baby, but Freddie would not allow it. She does, however, consent to a double headstone so that Jewel will leave her alone about the matter. Sitting on the porch, she can see the graves outlined by a wrought-iron fence from her rocker. Freddie tells Mr. Webb from the funeral home that due to the circumstances, they require only a graveside interment. Nothing at the church. Nothing at the funeral home. Jewel's preacher conducts the service—reluctantly, Freddie thinks. He doesn't know them, refers to Isabelle as Miss Odom. Miss Odom and her father. He does not mention the baby except in a passing reference to “all the young angels You have called home.” A few of the women from Jewel's committee attend and serve supper afterward. Freddie wonders if they have drawn straws.

She thinks about Isabelle lying cold in the ground. She would not let Jewel bury her in a maternity smock. She bought a new dress. A blue summer dress that she gives to Mr. Webb. In the coffin, he had washed the blood off her face, out of her hair. She did not look sad as she slept there, her hair tied in a ribbon. Freddie had wanted to give her something, a keepsake to take with her, to keep her company, to let her know she would be missed. There was nothing of hers that she could think to give that would matter to Isabelle—no memento to mark an occasion, a bond between them. She decided to put in the record Isabelle had played for her. Jewel ridicules her for it, tells her it is pure folly. Freddie thinks about the young Mrs. Deegan who simply sat down after finding her husband hanging in the barn. Thinks about the sadness that rooted her to the ground, sealed her tongue forever. Freddie understands this now, understands why Mrs. Deegan had her own tombstone inscribed as well the day her husband was buried.

It did storm the night that Isabelle died, just as Freddie had thought. She knows now that whenever the wind picks up and there is the breath of dampness in the air, a rumble of thunder on the horizon, she will revisit that night.

The images pop in her head on a continual loop. Jewel collapsing in the sheriff's arms. The harsh overhead light in Isabelle's room. Isabelle in a pool of blood on the bed. Her baby, a girl, puddled between her legs.
Abruption,
the doctor had called it. The dislodging of the placenta before birth. The baby followed the placenta out instead of the other way round. It had drowned in its own blood and, for good measure, killed Isabelle in the process. No one is there to give the baby a name. Freddie wonders if Isabelle would have named her Alice? She can think of no other name. She imagines the headstone with both their names and the writings on the Deegans' tomb: BELOVED, DEVOTED.

She and Jewel are not speaking, are avoiding each other as best they can. She knows that Jewel imagines she holds her responsible for Isabelle's death, and she tries to resist the urge, but cannot. The doctor said it was all a terrible, tragic calamity. A lamentation. No way to see it coming. Perhaps. Freddie thinks, trying to convince herself that what she believes cannot—could not—be true. But she has lived with Jewel too long, and there is a dread that rattles around her head like a pebble at the bottom of an empty milk pail. Jewel. Jewel. Jewel.

“The phone,” Jewel screamed at her, at the sheriff, at the ambulance driver when he arrived. “I couldn't call. I couldn't call. And she just started to bleed. To bleed and bleed. There was no way to stop it. I never knew there could be so much blood.” Jewel shrieked again until Freddie forced her to sit down. She brought her a wet cloth from the kitchen and gave it to her so she could wipe her face. Poured her a sip of bourbon from Mr. Odom's bottle in the kitchen. Freddie sat on the porch beside her. Jewel quieted, but continued to sob. Each broken catch of breath sounded to Freddie like the snap of a whip. She could not cry.

Mr. Odom's body at the bottom of the steps was more a nuisance than of interest to those who arrived at the house. In fact, the ambulance driver and his attendant moved him out onto the front porch and covered him with a cloth to get him out of the way. They were all more concerned with Isabelle. She could not merely be moved out of the way, covered with a sheet. The sheriff used his radio to call back to his office. They sent out someone to clean up inside the house. They sent the undertaker. And the coroner. And the newspaper. It was dawn before they were gone. The sheriff told Freddie that he had asked for someone to come out and check on the phone. He told her they will talk after the funeral. She and Jewel went into the house, silent not only in the new morning, but stilled now by death as well. They washed. They changed clothes. They waited for what comes next.

It does not seem like a week to Freddie. It seems to have been a moment ago. An eternity caught inside a flash of lightning from the storm. In that week, she had things to keep her focused. And Jewel had the women from her church to occupy and distract her. Now, Isabelle and Mr. Odom and Baby Alice are buried. Freddie thinks about the young Mrs. Deegan. She wonders what comes next.

Freddie hears the creak of the screen door. Jewel lowers herself with a sigh into the chair next to Freddie.

“I thought I might join you,” she says. “Have my coffee before I begin cooking breakfast. Is there anything you want in particular?”

“Nothing I have a mind for. Just whatever you make for yourself will do.”

“I was thinking we might drive over to the Belks in Florence this afternoon. I need to get new linens for my bedroom. We could have lunch out. Eat at the Skyview if you want. I know you like their hot dogs, and you won't have to dress up.”

Freddie imagines she would prefer being trapped inside a locked box with a nest of stinging wasps than to spend the day trapped with Jewel in a car listening to her incessant babbling. “Not today, Jewel. I will take you some other day. Not today.”

“I need to get new linens,” Jewel insists. “Those were ruined.”

“It's not like we will be having guests. It won't hurt to let the bed stay unmade another night or two.”

“Except that I don't want to do that. I like things the way I like them. I want to get back to my life.”

Freddie thinks for a moment what that means. Her life. Their life. Her and Jewel morning after morning, meal upon meal, day unto day.”

“I have boxed up all of his things. Hers too. There isn't much. We can give them to the Goodwill. Someone could benefit from them I'm sure.”

“No.”

“We can't keep them, Freddie. What use do we have for his suits or those homemade smocks? And when you think about it, we didn't even really know them. And it will be good to get back to some sense of normalcy,” says Jewel.

“I knew her,” says Freddie.

“What?”

“I knew her. And I will not allow you to simply box her up and dispose of her like she was yesterday's newspaper.”

“The sooner we put all of this behind us the better.”

Freddie pauses.
What if I am not ready to put this behind me? What if I can never put this behind me?
Instead, she says, “I hope you don't mind, but I really don't care for company right now. I was enjoying sitting here alone. With my thoughts.”

“And what if I do mind?”

Freddie lifts her gaze, puzzled. “I am not sure what you mean.”

“Where does that leave me, Freddie? You, with your thoughts. And me. Just left.”

“I don't mean it to be rude, Jewel, but I just can't. Not right now.” She sinks back into her chair.

Jewel stands. “Well, I guess that settles that. Blame me if you will . . .”

“That is not what I said.”

“But it is what you meant. You have decided. Just like you always do.”

“I don't know what you want from me,” Freddie says, her voice rising. “Just leave me be.”

“At least he was decent company,” says Jewel. “It was pleasant to have someone to talk to that paid me more attention than if I was a fence post.”

“He was a shit-hole bastard is what he was,” says Freddie. “And don't try to tell me any differently. I am glad he is dead. I am glad I killed him.”

“Likewise,” says Jewel.

“What do you mean by that?” asks Freddie.

“It means what it means,” says Jewel.

“You are talking about the girl, aren't you? You don't have sense enough to know what you are saying.”

“I know that she played you as a fool.”

“You shut the hell up.”

“Or what? Or what, Freddie?”

Freddie clasps her hands and presses her thumbs against her temples. “Jesus, Jewel. You are giving me a headache.”

“Because all you do is think. You are not pleasant to be with, Freddie Bramble. You are not good company.”

“Is that what he said about me?” Freddie asks.

“I don't think either of you cared for the other very much. That much was plain.”

“But you liked him.”

“You don't understand. I liked having
someone.
Someone besides you to cook for. Someone to tell me that I looked nice. Someone to talk about with my friends.”

“So, go and call your goddamn friends,” says Freddie. “You have your phone back. Call them and talk. Talk about whatever pleases you till your tongue falls out of your head. I don't care. Just please leave me alone.”

“So you can sit and brood about that girl.”

“Yes.”

“It is your fault she is dead. We should have sent her away when she came. You should have done as I asked.”

“I know.”

“If you sent her away, none of this would have happened.”

“Why do you say that?” asks Freddie.

“Because. If you had listened to me, if you had done what I asked, this could have been avoided. It is your fault that she is dead. I know you blame me. But you bear the responsibility for this. You had no right to put me through that.”

“I don't blame you.”

Jewel sips from her cup. “I woke up this morning and do you know what I was thinking about?”

“Who knows, Jewel? Who cares? New linens for your bed.”

“I was thinking about Mr. Landry. And Mr. Potts.”

Freddie is surprised to hear their names. It has been years since Jewel has mentioned either of them.

“I guess that would be only natural,” she says. “With all the commotion, it is bound to set your mind on the past. I think sometimes about Lt. Calder. How he survived the war only to die on the train coming home from the hospital.”

“No,” says Jewel. “I wasn't thinking about their deaths. I was thinking about if they had lived. I could have made a life with Mr. Landry. I was happy enough with Mr. Potts as well.”

“Then why didn't you?”

“You know why.”

“Jewel, please don't pursue this. Nothing good will come from it.”

“I didn't stay with them because I could never leave you.”

“That's not so,” says Freddie. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Sure, you can fry an egg when you are hungry and wash your drawers when they are dirty. But remember how you cut your hair when I was living in Charleston. How long would it have been before you made a complete spectacle of yourself?”

“If you were living in Charleston, then you never would have known. You didn't stay with Mr. Landry or Mr. Potts or Mr. Odom, for that matter, because you are a greedy, greedy woman who couldn't wait to get her hands on their money.”

“I didn't stay with them because I am loyal to you. I have always been loyal—to you! Only you. Why can't you see that? Appreciate what I do for you?”

“Because you drive me crazy. You are always at me. At me. I would appreciate if you just left me be. Please.”

“When Papa . . . died . . . I didn't say anything because I knew how he had treated you. I thought perhaps it was fair.”

“Are you saying this has all been my doing?”

“No, I am saying I have always chosen you—over Papa. Over Mr. Landry. Over Mr. Potts. Over Conrad.”

“So what? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to listen to me! That is what I am saying. Listen to me! You think you are so smart, that you have it all figured out. You didn't even tell me that it was the day you had arranged to remove Conrad. You just decided. And that was that. Why didn't you tell me? You didn't have that right. We were in this together. I did everything I was asked to do, but you didn't trust me enough not to tell me.”

“No,” says Freddie. “I didn't.”

“I hate you,” says Jewel. “For that. And for the thousand hurts you inflict on me every day. For thinking that living here with you is enough for me—for anyone. Did you think that you could just eliminate Conrad and that I would allow you to keep her here? Just because you had a mind to. I know that is what you were thinking. I know that is what you had planned. And you thought that you would just decide to do it and I would agree.”

“Yes,” says Freddie. “I wanted her to stay here—with me.”

“You would choose her.”

“Yes. Yes, I would choose her.”

“Then I am glad she is dead. I am glad I killed her,” Jewel says, smoothing out her apron. “You are not the only one who can decide these things.”

“No,” says Freddie. “She died in childbirth. A terrible tragedy, but no one's fault.” She knows, however, even as she speaks that what she says is a deceit, knows that what Jewel says is true. Has known it from the moment she saw Jewel on the steps covered in Isabelle's blood. To hear it, though, to have it become real made her fear the sky will crack and the sun rising over them will fall from the heavens and that the night stars will pour down around them, that she will come unrooted from the earth itself and float away into oblivion. It cannot be. It cannot be.