The Way Back to Happiness (18 page)

“You two didn’t even like each other,” Alabama said.

To the right, a weigh station appeared, and Bev wrenched the wheel so they could make the turn in time. The Toyota donuted into the exit with a squeal.

Alabama assumed the pre-crash position, feet pressing an invisible brake, arms bracing the dashboard for impact. “What are you doing?” she yelled.

Bev kept driving, sandwiched first between two honking eighteen-wheelers, and then darting over to the shoulder. Mashing the brake sent both of them crashing forward against their shoulder belts.

Alabama glanced frantically out all the windows. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be in this place.”

Bev dug a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose.

“Is this about Mom?” Alabama’s tone intersected at the corner of understanding and impatience. “You’re so crazy. You weren’t even that close.”

“We lived together half our lives,” Bev said.

“And hated each other! You weren’t friends.”

“We didn’t have to be—we were sisters. I’m sorry you don’t know what that means. And I guess maybe Diana didn’t always say the nicest things about me. But even when times were at their worst, I know she still considered me her big sister.”

She ended the speech with a hiccuping sob and mashed her fist against her forehead to regain control.

“Ooo-kay . . .” Alabama said. “So you two had some weird psychic bond. Funny she never mentioned that to me.”

“You don’t understand. You don’t—”

Knuckles rapped against the window next to her left ear, and Bev jumped in her seat. She cranked the window down a crack. But only a crack.

A craggy face smiled tentatively at her beneath a
Where’s the Beef?
gimme cap. “Y’all doing okay?”

Bev’s lips automatically stretched into a big smile, which, combined with the tear-streaked makeup she glimpsed in the rearview mirror, probably made her seem even more like a madwoman. “We’re fine!” she singsonged back. “Just felt a little under the weather . . . you know. . . .”

“Uh-huh.” The man tilted his head and inspected her face, and then he darted a meaningful glance over at Alabama, no doubt trying to match it to his memories of recent milk cartons. “How are you doing today, little lady?”

“Fine,” Alabama said.

“School day, isn’t it?”

Torn between outrage at the interrogation and relief that there were still Good Samaritan truckers on the road, Bev opted for full disclosure. “I’m her aunt, and a teacher. We’re on our way to Dallas to see my mother.” She added. “Who has an appointment at ten.”

The trucker tapped the roof of the car and smiled again. “Just wanted to check that you weren’t lost or having car trouble.”

“No, everything’s fine.”

“ ’Cause you seemed . . . distressed.”

“Everything’s fine,” she repeated, and then rolled the window back up. When the man gave up and ambled back to his rig, she blew out a breath.

She tried to remember what had brought them to this point, and to think of some way to get them past it. “I’ll just let Mama know first contact has been made between you and the Jacksons,” she told Alabama. “I have to do that much. There’s always a chance that the Jacksons will try to get in touch with her, too.”

“Why would they do that?” Alabama asked. “They probably don’t even know I’ve got another grandmother.”

Oh, they knew.

“Can you at least not talk about it in front of Wink?” Alabama pleaded.

That would be difficult. Nothing of moment happened at Gladys’s anymore without Wink’s presence.

“Wink might think my contacting the Jacksons was sort of . . . disloyal,” Alabama said.

“I don’t know why it should matter to him.”

“Because he wouldn’t want Gladdie’s feelings hurt.”

So Alabama worried about Gladdie’s feelings, and even Wink’s. But she didn’t seem to lose much sleep over how Bev might feel. Bev tried not to take it personally, and yet . . .

What had she done wrong? She’d thought she’d been so welcoming. But from the very start, something hadn’t clicked. Maybe she just wasn’t cool enough. Alabama was always talking about the stuff the Looneys had at their house. Big-screen television, MTV, something called Nintendo, and a videocassette player. How could she compete with all that?

Since Gladys had specified ten o’clock, once in Dallas they went straight to The Villas, foregoing the usual trip to Bev’s favorite craft store. Whizzing passed it caused a twitch. Buying teaching supplies had been her rationale for skipping the ten o’clock faculty meeting and coming to Dallas.

Well, they could stop on the drive back, even if it was on the wrong side of the road and would require more treacherous left-hand turns. She needed pipe cleaners for the upcoming Thanksgiving project.

Alabama must have sensed her longing. “Why do you always need to go to that place?”

Bev had to laugh. “Oh, I know. It’s a sickness. Like an addiction.”

“You’ve got
so much
crud already. You could practically open your own store with the junk lying around the house.”

“Wouldn’t that be a kick?” Bev asked. “Owning a craft store . . . being around all that fun stuff all day long, seeing what other people are up to, and holding crafting classes on weekends?” It sounded like a dream.

Alabama didn’t appear convinced. “Better than being a teacher, maybe.” She shook her head. “But not by much.”

Gladys met them at the door wearing her royal-blue dress decorated with an orchid corsage. The outfit was also accessorized with the biggest smile Bev could ever remember seeing from her mother. For a moment, she looked like an entirely different person.

“Wink! The bridesmaids are here!”

Bev froze.
Bridesmaids?

In the next instant, she was swept into the apartment, where elderly ladies swarmed, dressed in their Sunday best. Somewhere, Benny Goodman played. When had her mother picked up a stereo? Confused, Bev spun, surveying the room. A woman was mixing champagne-and-orange-juice cocktails in the kitchenette, and someone from a nearby clump of guests offered one of these mimosas to Bev in a Dixie cup.

Her gaze snagged on an unfamiliar bookcase against the wall. It wasn’t only the people making the room feel crowded. The room was stuffed with new furniture, little of which matched her mother’s.

Bev grabbed her mother’s elbow. “What’s going on?”

“I thought it was obvious. Wink and I are getting married.”

From over her shoulder, she heard Wink laugh. “She probably wasn’t sure who you were marrying—me or some other fellow. Is there someone you haven’t told me about, Glad-Rags?”

Gladys laughed, too—she was as close to a state of bubbliness as Bev had ever witnessed. “The activity van is going to take us all to City Hall. You don’t mind if it’s not a religious ceremony, do you, Bev? I know you’re a traditionalist.”

Bev managed to steer her mother into the bedroom without attracting too much notice. The guests probably thought they were tending to last-minute details.

“I don’t care what kind of ceremony you have,” Bev said, “but why all the rush?”

“Wink and I aren’t getting any younger.”

“And why keep it a secret from me?”

“I thought you’d enjoy the surprise.” But when Bev continued to pin her with a stare, she admitted, “And I thought you might not be very enthusiastic. It appears I was right.”

“I’m not trying to be a wet blanket, but it seems so . . . odd. All these years, you never once spoke of remarrying. And now, after a few months of knowing this person—”

“We’ve lived in the same building for eight months.”

“And for six of those months you disliked the man.”

“There you go.” Gladys picked at her corsage. “Inflexible.”

“No, I’m not. But it hasn’t been that long since you two started . . .” Bev searched for the corrected word.
Hanging out
didn’t sound right for a senior citizens.
Going together
reminded her of her students.

“Courting?” her mother said. “It
hasn’t
been long, but Wink’s so enthusiastic. He wants us to move in together—to save money, for one thing—but I couldn’t live in sin. I don’t mind for myself so much, but it would set a bad example for Alabama, I think.”

It was all Bev could do not to laugh. “She grew up with Diana, and you’re worried about bad influences?”

A withering frown of reproof chilled her. “I won’t have any of your talk against Diana this morning. I want today to be pleasant.”

“I don’t understand why things couldn’t go on as before,” Bev said.

“Because we think we’ll be happier this way. Also, two people can live as cheaply as one. At least we won’t be paying for two apartments. I want to have some money to leave to you and Alabama when I’m gone.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Maybe now was the moment to bring up the Jacksons . . . although on second thought, that also would fall into the category of unpleasantness.

While she ruminated, Gladys thrust a small bouquet into her hands. “This is for you. You’re maid of honor.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Wink claimed Alabama for best man.”

Bev bent and sniffed the scentless posy of carnations and baby’s breath. “I really do hope you’ll be happy.”

“I know you do, Bevvie. You’re too . . . well, too much like me, I guess.” Gladys laughed. “That could explain why this family hasn’t seen a wedding for fifty years.”

Bev smiled, but then, as the words sank in, a stricken expression crossed her mother’s features—an expression she was certain mirrored her own.

“I’d better get back to my guests.” Gladys turned and hurried out of the bedroom.

Throughout the morning, Bev attempted to throw herself into the proceedings. When not everyone could fit into the van, she piled more into the Toyota’s backseat. Luckily, she hadn’t partaken of too many of those Dixie cup mimosas. In the judge’s chambers, she stood up tall and tried to feel enthusiastic as her mother swore to love, honor, and cherish a man in a multicolored check jacket and pink-and-green striped tie. Her head told her it was a hopeless mismatch, but her heart couldn’t help rising to the joy of the occasion. She clapped as excitedly as anyone when, after the exchanging of rings, Wink took out his ukulele and sang “I Found a Million Dollar Baby.”

Back at The Villas, she handed out beverages and finger sandwiches, and chuckled like everyone else that Clara, who had glaucoma, had chosen a sheet cake with a homecoming theme by mistake. It was seasonal and festive, everyone agreed, and the little marzipan footballs tasted delicious.

For the honeymoon, Wink was going to whisk Gladys away to a night at a fancy hotel that had a swing band on weekends. He’d even ordered a limo to take them. It was hard to imagine Gladys Putterman dancing the night away and then luxuriating in the honeymoon suite at the Mansion at Turtle Creek. In fact, Bev tried very hard
not
to imagine it.

She fretted that she wouldn’t have a chance to say a word to her mom before they left, but at the last minute, Gladys pulled her aside.

“I’m so glad you were here, Bev. It meant so much to have you and Alabama with me.”

“It was a lovely day, Mama. I wish you had warned me, though, so I could have done something special.”

“We wanted to do it our way,” Gladys said. “Frankly, a bigger event wouldn’t have seemed right. Not this year, with Diana . . .”

And there it was again, the broody uneasiness that had been right below the surface.

“I had something to tell you about Alabama,” Bev said.

A frown creased Gladys’s brow. “What’s the matter?”

“She’s written to the Jacksons.”

Gladys went ashen. “What does she want with those people?”

“She wants to be part of their family.”

“Good Lord in heaven. She asked me about them weeks ago, but I never dreamed . . .”

“Mrs. Jackson’s consulting her lawyers. Dot Jackson’s on the case, too.”

Her mother poked Bev sharply in the breastbone. “Don’t you let them get our girl in their clutches.”

“You don’t understand. I don’t think the Jacksons want to have anything to do with Alabama. They never have.”

“Horrible people.” Gladys tilted her head. “Did you tell Alabama about . . . everything?”

“Not exactly.”

To Bev’s surprise, her mother nodded her approval. “Good. Poor girl. First to lose Diana, then to bump heads with that pack of hyenas down in Houston.”

Wink darted his head in. “Limo’s here. Ready, Twinkle-toes?”

Gladys laughed and gave Bev a bracing pat on the shoulder. “We’ll talk more about this later. We probably haven’t heard the last from those people.”

“No,” Bev said. “I’m sure we haven’t.”

They were both right. That very evening, while Alabama was at Stuart’s—thank goodness—Dot Jackson called. It was the call Bev had been dreading, yet it caught her completely unawares.