Ripples Through Time (18 page)

And that’s all I really cared about. Sure it would have been
nice to see his family. To get to hold his grandchildren and see his children,
but it was more important to me that he had them at all. He wasn’t alone. Life
is just too damn tough to go through it alone.

“I’m tired,” I said, settling back on the pillow and closing
my eyes.

“Okay mom,” Bethany said. “Erika, Michael, give your great
grandmother a hug.”

I forced myself to sit back up, biting back the pain, and
gave each of my grandkiddies a hug. It hurt, a lot, but it meant just as much. I
even smiled for them, using muscles I hadn’t used in a long time.

Finished, the children fled the room. I couldn’t blame them.
Visiting a wrinkled old woman lying in a bed probably wasn’t their idea of a
good time.

“Alright mom. I’m gonna let you get some sleep. I’ll see you
later,” Bethany said, giving me a hug and kiss on my forehead. It saddened me,
for some reason. My memories were fading, but I could still remember clearly
when our roles were reversed. When I put her to bed. She was my little girl.

I hate being weak. Hate what I had become.

But, on the other hand, I was very tired. Good rest is
always appreciated.

“Good night baby,” I said, settling back and relaxing. The
pill, amazing as it was, was fading. And so was I. I closed my eyes and yawned,
feeling my hand tap tapping away on the blankets. I barely even noticed the
shaking now, and sometimes I even got some real sleep.

“Should I send Calvin in?” Bethany asked at the door.

“No,” I said dreamily. “But tell him to stop puttering…”

And then I fell asleep, content.

“Bethany had a big crush on you when she was little,” I say,
breaking the hanging silence.

“Oh?”

“Yep. She would stare at you all dreamy-eyed.”

“She ended up marrying my brother. You sure it wasn’t him
she liked?”

I nod, eyes wistful. “I’m completely sure. I didn’t figure
it out, of course. Mellie did. She always knew that kind of stuff. There was a
lot of stuff she told me that I would have never figured out on my own.”

“Like what?”

“Like that it was you, your brother, and my own boys egging
my house all those years ago. You did it three times in two weeks, and I was
ready to raise hell up and down the street before Mellie finally told me. She
also told me not to do anything about it. It didn’t matter. It was just boys
having fun.”

“You never said anything,” Edward says, remembering. “We
thought it was the funniest thing. You never said a word and we finally got
bored. You weren’t mad at us?”

“No, Mellie was right. It wasn’t important. But I felt a
little cheated knowing, you know? Sometimes I think gullibility is a human
defense against secrets we aren’t supposed to know. The more gullible we are
the safer. Because sometimes Mellie told me things that I wasn’t supposed to
know. Things I didn’t want to know. Or wasn’t allowed to say. Secrets that
didn’t belong to me.”

“Like what?”

I wave my hand in dismissal. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“No,” Edward says. “You haven’t smoked in years.”

“That was for Mellie. I’ve wanted one this entire time.”

“It’s a filthy habit.”

“Spare me. I enjoyed smoking, and life is about enjoying things.
What’s the point of living to a hundred if none of it’s fun? I’d wrap my
cigarettes in bacon if I could.”

Edward smiles.

“Never mind. What was I saying?”

“You said that Emily knew things.”

“I meant before that,” I say. “What were we talking about?”

“Family,” Edward says, “And why killing yourself would let
them down.”

Another moment slips past.

Time does that, I know from experience. Just slips by and you
wake up one morning and you’re old and you don’t remember how you got here.

“You two were made for each other,” Edward says.

I snort.  “I wasn’t good to her.”

“She was happy. You both were.”

“Not always. I have regrets. We were happy, sure, but she
was why. Not me. She made me
want
to be better. But sometimes…winning
her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and worth every second.”

Edward nods, but doesn’t interrupt.

“Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if…” I am
silent for nearly a minute. “I gave up my dreams for her. For my family. I
don’t regret it, but there it is. I had to quit the horses, get a job at a
damned factory just to support my family. Did you know that?”

“I knew you worked at the factory,” Edward offers.

“Mellie had to work hard too. She gave up just as much. No,
she probably gave up more. She was smarter than me. Had more potential. She
lost more when…”

This time the silence drags on longer. Edward waits
patiently. He spends the silence glancing around the yard, taking it in. Not
even an acre. Put a horse out here and the yard would be picked clean before
the horse had even built up a proper hunger.

The lawn and foliage is neatly manicured by a company called
Compton Residential. Half of their staff, at least, is comprised of illegal
aliens. But they take damn good care of the neighborhood.

A siren blares from the road about a quarter of a mile
behind the condo, startling me.

Finally I find the words to continue: “Point is it took me a
long time to learn how important Mellie was. And by the time I did realize it,
it was almost too late. Hell, it might have been too late. Mellie was
everything I had. She was all that I needed, I was just too stupid to see it.
None of this matters without her. You say that I was a saint taking care of her
but she took care of
me
. Even when I was puttering around, cleaning up
after her and making her food these last years, she was what kept me going. Without
her, there is nothing.”

“You still have a lot,” Edward says. “Your children love
you, your neighbors care about you. You even have great grand-children that
want to come by and visit you.”

I shake my head. “My children deserve to be free of me. Out
with the old, in with the new.”

“They love you.”

“They love their lives. And they should. They don’t need to
love mine too. Mine was Mellie, and she’s gone. I should be with her.”

Edward sighs.

“I already told you, I’m not going to take you to the
cemetery. I’m not going to help you do this. If this is your plan, then I’m
going to make sure you can’t act on it. I can stay here all day if I have to,
until you convince me that you’ve changed your mind.”

I look away. This isn’t where I wanted things to go, but by
God I don’t think I have any other choice. Come to think of it, this was
Edward’s decision all along. If he wants to stop me, he’s going to make his
life and mine miserable in doing it.

That doesn’t make what I’m about to say any easier, though. Or
any more right. Quite frankly, it’s probably near the top of the worst things
I’ve ever said.

I clear my throat.

“Remember how I told you that Mellie just knew things about
people? And some of the things that she knew weren’t things she or I should
have known. They were things that a person has the right to protect. Things
people should be allowed to keep secret if they want.

“Mellie never judged. I don’t judge, either. Isn’t my place.
But we both knew because Mellie knew.

“Sometimes I think it would have been easier if she hadn’t
said anything. If she never told me anyone’s secrets. Something that isn’t my
secret to reveal.”

“What are you saying?” Edward asks. There is curiosity in
his voice, but also a sudden onset of fear.

He knows. He’s scared now. Maybe terrified. I feel terrible,
and regret what I’m saying. But I can’t stop. I
can’t
:

“Nothing. I’m just talking for the sake of talking,” I say,
eyes locked on Edward’s. “The thing is, Edward: Mellie had you pegged before
you turned fifteen.”

The silence hangs in the air, thick and unyielding.

A hawk cries overhead, swooping past as it hunts for rats.

Edward finally speaks up, his voice strained: “Mr.
Greenwood, are you blackmailing me?”

2001 -
Edward White

Ed closed the door behind him and hung his coat on a wall
hook. Jessica was still at work, her hook hanging empty, but Portia and Quincy
were both home. Someone was playing the piano in the living room. After a few
seconds Ed smiled. ‘Playing’ wasn’t the right word; ‘banging keys’ was closer. Definitely
Portia.

He snuck to the living room, peeking around the corner. Quincy
sat on the couch, tapping idly on his Gameboy with one leg thrown over the arm.
Portia had her hands balled into fists, slamming them down on the keys with a
big grin on her face; it was the best the six year old could do to imitate her
fifteen year old brother.

“I’m baaaack!” he said, stepping into view. The music
disappeared. Quincy glanced up, but otherwise remained immutable on the couch. Portia
turned to face him, her smile widening, and jumped off the bench.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” she said, leaping up into his arms. The
excited welcome thrilled him, as it always did. Her smile was contagious, and
part of him wished she would never grow older. Never trade her helpless
innocence for the self-conscious teenage fears that would consume her in
too-few years.

“Hi darling,” he said, rocking her for a moment and then
setting her back on the floor. “Did you have fun at school?”

“Yes. We did finger-paint and then had a snack and then
watched a movie and then Mrs. Reynolds told us a story,” she said, hands
clasped behind her back and rocking from side to side. It was the pose she held
whenever she either spoke a lot or was shy.

“What was the story about?”

“A princess in a tower and the prince that came to rescue
her and he had a pet dog and it was named Spot.”

“That sounds like a good story,” he said. She nodded several
times, still grinning. “Do you want to help me cook dinner? Your mom will be
home soon.”

“Uh huh,” she said.

“Alright honey, go get changed and we’ll start dinner.”

She bounded off, running for the stairs. Ed turned to
Quincy. “And what about you?”

“What?” Quincy asked, not looking up from the screen.

“How was school?”

“It was okay,” he said, turning it all into one word:
Sokay.

“Just okay? Not fantastic. Not wonderful. Not spectacular.”

“Just okay,” Quincy repeated absently.

“Do you have any homework?”

“No.”

“Is it done already?”

“Yep.”

“Can I see it?”

Quincy looked up, a flicker of fear in his eyes, gone as
fast as it came. “I left it at school.”

“Oh? I asked you to bring your homework home so we could go
over it together.”

“I forgot. But I already finished it. In intervention.”

“Well,” Ed said, “tomorrow bring it home so we can go over
it.”

“Tomorrow is Friday. They don’t give homework on the
weekends.”

Bullshit.
“Then bring Monday’s home so we can look it
over.”
“Okay.”

“Did you practice your piano?”

“Portia wanted to play.”

Ed fought down an exasperated sigh. “She’s six.”

“She wanted to play!”

“Your school performance is tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Well, are you ready? You need to practice.”

“I will.”

“We’ll be eating dinner as soon as your mom’s home. You’ve
got thirty minutes.”

“Okay.”

A slow minute passed. Ed folded his arms over his chest.
Don’t
get mad. Don’t get mad.

“Now,” Ed said.

“In a minute.”

“Not a minute. Now.”

Quincy sighed, setting his Gameboy on the arm of the couch
and standing up. “I don’t even
like
piano,” he mumbled, just loud enough
for Ed to hear. But he did head for the piano and grab his sheet music. He
threw himself onto the bench the way only a teenager can. Every movement stiff
and exaggerated. Ed watched, just long enough to make sure Quincy was playing,
and then headed to the kitchen.

He’s talented,
Ed knew, smiling to himself. Quincy
was good. Maybe not professional good, but considering the difficulty of pieces
he was playing it was quite impressive. He still missed keys and struggled with
tempo, but when he was composing his own material he truly flourished.

Tomorrow his school was putting on a jazz concert, and
Quincy had been tasked with writing two solos, one for a rendition of
In the
Know
and the other on a class composed jazz piece called
Flower’s in
July
. The song was a chance for Mrs. Rankle, the music teacher, to quietly
show off her subpar writing chops to the community in the guise of a music
composition, but no one minded. The parents were proud of their children
regardless.

Ed wished he knew how to play, so he could help his son
learn. Dreams flitted past—unrealistic, he knew—of his son growing up to be a
great composer.

Not likely.

Portia reappeared, her blue school dress traded for a pink
house one. “Ready?” he asked.

“Uh huh.”

He grabbed a well-used step ladder and set it against the
sink. “You clean the veggies and I’ll cut the chicken,” he said, handing her
the bag with green peppers and onions. They were the only two vegetables they
could get her to eat, and he would have to heat up a can of spinach to get
Quincy to eat anything green.
How nice would it be if they liked the same
vegetables? How much money would it save us each month?

He picked up the cleaver and dragged half of a slimy chicken
out of the plastic bag. He used soy sauce, garlic, and a few seasoning spices.
He avoided dry or acidic substances. Too many people marinated meat in vinegar
or alcohol, then wondered why their meat ended up dry. He would have preferred
to use the slow cooker, but he’d been in a hurry to get to work this morning.

Portia climbed onto the ladder and leaned over to the sink,
turning on the hot water. Cold would never serve the six year old.
Like her
mom,
Ed thought with a smile.
If I can’t get Jessica to use cold water
to wash vegetables, what chance do I have in changing her daughter’s mind?

“Good job,” he said as she turned the green pepper over in
her hands, rubbing the sides clean. He wasn’t sure if she would ever have an
interest in cooking or just wanted to be helpful, and he also wondered if this
counted as reinforcing gender stereotypes, but decided it didn’t matter. She
was learning a skill and he was getting to spend time with her. Wasn’t that
enough?

She handed him the bell pepper and he put his Victoronix
knife to use, rapidly slicing the veggies into bite-sized pieces. Portia
watched him, eyes studying his movements with the chef knife, and he hoped she
wasn’t in any hurry to try and emulate him. He’d cut himself many-a-time
slicing vegetables with his stamped knife and was afraid of the inevitable ER
trip to reattach his six-year-old’s finger.

The oven beeped. Ed sliced up the onions and peppers and
filled a pan with quartered chicken, sauce, and the vegetables.

“Can we make cookies?” Portia asked.

“Cookies?”

“Uh huh.”

“Peanut butter and anchovy cookies?”

She cringed. “No, chocolate chip.”

“Chocolate chip and anchovies?”

“No dad,” she said, exasperated, “just chocolate chip.”

“Oh, okay. Sure,” Ed said. “You gather the stuff and we’ll
bake some.”

Ed called out ingredients for his family-famous
chocolate-chip cookies while Portia ran around and grabbed them. It took her a
minute to find the vanilla and salt, which gave him enough time to finish
prepping the chicken.

“Thirty-five minutes,” he said, setting the timer.

“Thirty-five minutes,” she repeated. Ed smiled, grabbing a
can of spinach.

“Do you remember what order the ingredients get mixed in?”
he asked.

“Uh huh,” she said, grabbing the eggs. He laughed.

“Flour first.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh yeah.”

Jessica appeared in the doorway, smiling at them. “Hey,” Ed
said, tossing a towel over his shoulder.

“Cookies again?” she asked, laughing. Portia giggled. Ed
made his way to his wife and pecked her on the cheek.

“I like your hair,” he said. “Did you do something
different?”

Her face lit up. “No, same thing I do every morning.”

“Want to help us cook?” he asked. They watched as Portia
broke her first egg on the counter and dropped it. It hit the floor, splashing
everywhere.

“Oops,” Portia said cheerily, reaching for another egg.

“In a minute. I really have to pee,” Jessica said, heading
for the stairs. Ed watched her disappear and reminded himself to compliment her
a few more times before they ate, since they were baking cookies. She had grown
up skinny and petite and in the last few years—since Portia was born and as
they both got older—she had added several extra pounds.

And all of those pounds had settled around her hips and
butt. She was self-conscious. She wouldn’t
refuse
the cookies, of
course, but eating them would make her depressed. He was always careful to
point out how the extra girth in that lower region was by no means a bad thing.
She was still, at forty-two, a beautiful woman.

Jessica made it back down as they were putting chunks of
cookie dough on a pan. Portia ate little bits that scraped loose. Ed had
heard that eating raw dough—because of the eggs—was bad, but he’d grown up
doing it. And, to be honest, he thought of it as the best part.

“Smells good,” Jessica said, heading for the oven. She
opened the door and glanced inside. “No potatoes?”

“Didn’t have any.”

“I could have picked some up.”

He shrugged. “We won’t miss them. Starch isn’t that healthy
anyway.”

“Nope,” Portia agreed. “Not healthy.”

“But it tastes good,” Jessica said, closing the oven back
up. “I think we have some French fries in the freezer…”

“French fries!” Portia declared, jumping at the suggestion. Ed
groaned.

“
You
want French fries now too?”

“Uh huh,” Portia said, bobbing her head and rocking from
side to side. She looked down at the floor: “But they’re
Quincy’s
favorite!”

Ed couldn’t help but laugh. It was her standard ‘go to’
excuse for wanting something. If she wanted to go see a movie, it was
because Quincy wanted to (especially movies about princesses. He apparently
loved
those). The cutest part was she pronounced his name
Kensy.

“Okay,” he said, clicking on the fryer. They had another ten
minutes on the chicken anyway. He went over to Jessica and wrapped his arms
around her, holding her close and rocking gently. She smelled of lavender and
rosemary. “How was work?”

“Miserable,” she said. “Kevin’s still out on vacation and
Georgia called off. We still haven’t submitted any reports and the fiscal year
ends in a week.”

“Ah,” he said. She rested her head on his shoulder.

“And I didn’t get to the gym like I was planning.”

“It was too cold this morning,” he said helpfully.

“I still need to. Did you know your butt molds to the shape
of the chair you sit in all day? Mine will be a giant square soon.”

He pinched her butt. She jumped and burst out laughing. “Not
square yet,” he offered.

“No,” she whispered in his ear, giggling. “Not just yet.”

She pulled back and smiled at him, lascivious and wicked in
one moment. He leaned in and kissed her.

“Ew, gross,” Quincy said. They broke apart, laughing. He
stood in the doorway, watching them. Ed hadn’t heard the piano stop. “Is dinner
ready? I’m starving.”

“A couple minutes. Why don’t you set the plates and get us
some ice?”

Quincy sighed and went to the cabinet. He was always less
likely to object to tasks with the promise of food in the near future.

They made small talk as the food cooked. Ed tossed fries in
the oil and then after a bit pulled the chicken out, giving it time to cool
off. Portia washed her hands and helped her brother. Jessica slid the cookies
into the oven.

“If you keep making cookies my hips are going to be huge,”
she whispered.

“Just gives me more to hang onto,” he whispered back,
carrying the chicken to the table. She swatted him on the arm. They didn’t get
to have sex often, not since Portia, and when they did she was usually the one
to bring it up. Neither were comfortable with the quick frantic moments of
passion praying their kids wouldn’t catch them.

Eating as a family was more important to Ed anyway, to be
honest. They usually got a chance to eat as a family one or two nights a week. The
rest were in front of the TV, glued to the screen, or separate meals when
different family members went to different activities. He treasured these
moments and knew they wouldn’t last.

They sat around the large mahogany dining table, waiting
until the fries were done, and then tucked into the food. Ed was hungry. He’d
had a terrible day at work, busy taking care of clients and fixing computer
problems. The banking industry never slowed down, and it was a Friday. That
meant everyone wanted to have their computers fixed by Monday. Sometimes he was
there all weekend doing repairs and hard-wiping computers.

There was no talking while they ate. Everyone was too
focused on their food. The cookies were left out to cool. After the food was
gone Ed served them up. He let Quincy have two and Portia one. He gave three to
Jessica, knowing she would eat two and then decide she didn’t want the third. She
usually refused the third cookie, vindicated knowing that she had at least
some
self-control. He’d never admit that it was contrived.

“So what do you guys want to do tomorrow?” he asked,
settling back in his chair. Jessica rounded up the dishes and carried them to
the kitchen. Portia looked on the verge of nodding off and Quincy was back on
his Gameboy. “Want to go see a movie?”