All About B.A.D. (4 page)

The wind struggled to get through the Aquanet as they roared along. Stiff black tendrils flung themselves from perfectly formed curls into frenzied strands whipped by currents, adding to the feeling of unrestraint. She was away from rules, discipline and dirt-poorness. She couldn’t hide the smile on her face while slight nudges of guilt poked about her heart. She wouldn’t think of her folks. She would send a card. 

And poor Lilly, she thought, left to prune in Lone Grove. The girl would need to find a sense of humor. BAD never intended to wither. She had a goal, just no plan; the feeling of freedom would be enough until she did.

They sped over swells of land and into forests packed with pines, exiting near assorted bodies of water. Creeks and lakes teeming with sails, motors and lines with baits all begged them to stop and dabble warm toes in cool waters. They breezed on. Wooded corridors emptied into an impenetrable thicket interlaced with marshy grasslands. BAD teased him to slow the pace. Unburdened by curiosity, he raced toward seclusion.

They stopped for cheap, greasy food. She went to the bathroom. He stretched and smoked, then was eager to go.

“Why such a hurry? Aren’t you interested in a little sightseeing? How about stopping for a swim? Don’t you like to swim? We already have a place to stay a while, right?” 

The questions came too late and fell on deaf ears.

“You’re going to love it,” he said. “One of my favorite places in the summer. My folks have a house there where we can stay. Get in, let’s go.”

“How far? How about looking around here just a little while? There’s a lot to see and do.”

His mumbled answer was swallowed by an eighteen-wheeler competing for entrance onto the freeway. The red car lost the race and fell behind a large load barreling along on endless wheels. The scene repeated itself until the shades of day were sucked from the air and splattered against the horizon. So much life flashing by.

BAD wasn’t concerned that the topless auto didn’t allow much conversation. She was concentrating on all that was offered around her, trying to sate her neglected senses with everything blurring past. His words finally found her as he slowed in a new direction.

“Do you have any money? My folks said I could stay at the beach-house but they weren’t feeling too generous with the dollars.”

The question surprised her. 

“A little—some from my job at the drugstore and some from my art award.” The latter was a source of pride mentioned to stir his interest.

“How much?” It wasn’t the response she had hoped for.

“Not much. But we don’t need much, do we?” BAD felt a need to squelch the doubts nibbling here and there.

“I’ll give my folks a call when I get to the house,” he said. “I won’t tell them I have company. At least, not right away.”

The nibbling became a gnawing deep within her gut.

“Well, as soon as we’re settled and permanent and everything, I’m sure it’ll work itself out.” Her words were without conviction and dropped just beyond her lips into empty space. The word ‘company’ had a stinging effect.

Daylight was gone when they drove past the sign: “Emerald Shores – A Peach of a Beach”. The car slowed as it edged into a driveway under a house on large wooden pillars. Steps took them up to a wraparound porch. A dozen large windows, all encrusted with a permanent film of salt, faced what BAD could only imagine was the Gulf of Mexico. Its constant roaring spoke of a dynamic force waiting somewhere beyond the small circle of light thrown from irregularly placed streetlamps. She couldn’t wait to see it. 

He wanted to unload the car and get ready for bed.

“Tomorrow, Bernadette. It will still be there tomorrow. Come on in and look around.”

This wasn’t what BAD wanted to hear. Not what she wanted to feel. But, she reminded herself, she was no longer in Lone Grove.

Roux-colored water rose up on ridges of ecru foam. It boiled and tumbled its way to a shell-littered shore only to be called back into unmeasured depths. At the mercy of current and tide, minute critters rode along until eased out and deposited with other unsuspecting travelers. Bernadette stood, straining her eyes toward the coffee-stained expanse.

“Where are the blues and greens?” She had expected more. “It’s brown and muddy.”

He rolled his eyes. Curious about the tiniest of things, it appeared she was asking too many questions. Never accused of cleverness, he seemed stressed by hers.

“We’re running low on money, Bernadette. My folks won’t spring for more until I get a job.”

“There’s lots of shops. I’m sure someone needs help. We both can look.”

“Yeah, I was thinking maybe tomorrow we could try on the island.”

He turned to start back and tugged at her arm, pulling her from where sand and waves sucked her feet into warm depressions. Bernadette struggled to stand in place. She was fascinated by the crabs scurrying everywhere—the salt she could lick from her face, the debris continually washed ashore from places unknown.

“Did you ever think about this? A perfectly fan-shaped shell one day may be nothing more than a part of someone’s driveway?”

“No. Never thought about it. Aren’t you ready to go back?”

“Not really. Let’s walk some more, or we could go for a swim.”

“That’s all we’ve been doing.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that!”

A leer replaced a face masked with grumpiness.

“Come on,” she urged. “Tomorrow we can be working folks. Today, let’s be tourists.” Bernadette resumed her stroll and musings, her thoughts continually rearranging themselves.

He let go of her of arm. “Nah, go ahead. I’m going to see what’s left to eat, see if I can scrounge up a beer. Want one?”

“No, I’m going to look for sand dollars. Who knows, they may come in handy.”

“Yeah.” He flashed a forced smile, then headed in the opposite direction. “The island could offer up just what I need.”  

Standing on the beach, Bernadette cupped her ear for the words flung over his shoulder, but they were blown out of earshot. She wavered about, following him until her eye caught sight of a mound of sea-riding castoffs. There was a black, pointed shark’s tooth, a bit of a crab’s claw, fish bones, an indistinguishable skeleton and a buckeye. How did they all get to this place, fractions of originals? She scooped up a handful of shells and tried sifting them between her fingers, but they clung to her skin. It was fascinating how they managed to retain shreds of color and still sparkled after traveling hundreds of miles, tossed and ground by turbulent tides—the never-ceasing pounding of water. She could stay here forever.

She took out a pad and pencil from the beach bag and began sketching tiny bits of the leftover lives strewn everywhere. Shadowing resulted in sharp, crisp edges, making them jump from the paper. She squinted, remembering lessons on dimension and perspective. BAD wished for her workbooks. A hasty exit from Lone Grove meant things she now needed weren’t easily replaced. But life here was different and varied and interesting. Gritty, smooth, curved, flat—her drawings gave each a renewed beauty, restoring their dignity. She carefully printed a description and color beside each draft.

The next day he left her to survive on her own.

Once her mind had been made up, Bertha’s real struggles began. But she would stay in control. She would look forward and refuse to languish in self-pity, wallow in the past or dwell on what-ifs. She took out the little index card and wrote down the things that were most important to her. Next, she added the word ‘GOALS’. Under each of these, she carefully scripted sentences of implementation. The paper was tacked onto the wooden frame of her mirror where she would confront it each morning with an evolving image of herself. Over time, it made her a force to be reckoned with.

Bertha Mae Pease ran the Corps of Engineers office with a firm hand and a gracious heart. She took good care of the hardworking crew who had nicknamed her Mother Mae. When they put in long hours, so did she. When they confided their worries, sorrows, joys and concerns about their families, she listened carefully. Everything stayed in order and ran smoothly.

From the task of copying topography maps, Bertha learned that the newly created lake would extend to the back edge of her folks’ property—land she had inherited, and for which she was barely able to afford the taxes once their tiny estate had been probated. She drove the borrowed truck to the place where the water would lap the fringes of the land and immediately understood its potential. A goal was added to the slip of paper: “Settle delinquent taxes – asap”. She sold the remaining farm equipment and applied it to the debt. She put in extra hours for extra pay and rarely bought anything not considered essential. It paid off. Before the Lone Grove Lake spread out over pasturelands from the dam built by the Corps of Engineers, Bertha Mae Pease foresaw reaping large rewards from soon-to-be prime waterfront lots ready to be sold to urban dwellers. Again, things were about to change for she and Lilly. Only this time, the changes would be in their favor.

Lilly felt swallowed up by the recurring thought that she was entirely alone. Papa had left, Bertha was working all the time, and Bernadette fled to greener pastures. Lilly wallowed in her aloneness, letting it weigh her down and wear her thin, until she came to the conclusion that self-pity was pretty useless if there was no one to hear her complaints. Putting her energy into something other than an emotional sinkhole would prove more productive. 

For months she had been the human transport for coffee, supplies and gossip, occasionally being asked to share her thoughts or opinions with the little staff. It was a heady feeling, so when offered a summer position with the newspaper, Lilly readily accepted. She felt the excitement of being in the inky hubbub of words flying around like bees released from papery hives. She liked seeing facts plucked from bits of information turned into black and white script for people to digest, discuss and periodically fight over. Best of all, newsy gems became conversational currency exchanged with Bertha when mother and daughter found themselves actually sitting down to a meal together. 

A complicated trade-off of rides and a too-quiet house added up to an uneven schedule. Staying late at the newspaper office became Lilly’s habit. That was also when she often gleaned her best tidbits.

“Working late again, Lilly?” Paul Kirkpatrick poked his head into the cubicle where she was stacking reams of paper. 

“Yes, sir. Well, not so much working as waiting for the copier.” 

“I told you to drop the ‘sir’. It makes a guy feel old.”

“I know, but you haven’t had to deal with my mama. If she hears me leave off the ‘sir’ she will swat the ‘miss’. If I have to choose between the two, well, you lose.”

“Yes, I’ve heard tales! Let me know if you need a ride home tonight. I’m completing my series on the dam and want to talk to some of the evening crew out there. I’ll be headed out toward your place, so I can drop you off on the way.”

“Thanks. If Mr. Griffith can’t get off by 6:30, I’ll take you up on your offer.”

Paul ambled out and down the hall, a man never in a hurry but rarely late to anything. Intelligent and confident, he was the glue behind the
Lone Grove Herald
and
The Community Voice
. Lilly liked him. She admired the way he made everyone feel like equals pulling in the same direction. Because of it, the little newspapers had won some awards and kept their circulation numbers in the profit margin.

He drove her home that night. 

“With so many changes in the county, we’ll see how the ideas work…more people, more money, more everything.” He was talking about proposed additions to the
Herald
and
Voice
. Unlike sharing a car with Mr. Griffith, the time spent with Paul was lively, animated and went by too fast. One treated her like a child, the other like an interesting adult. She hated to see the turn-off to the house come up so quickly.

“I’m sending Betts and Carrie to a seminar in Houston. With all the new ideas about formats and rising technology being tossed around, they decided a brushing-up is due. How would you like to go along? It’ll get the creative juices flowing. Who knows, you may get the newspaper itch.”

Lilly’s heart jumped. “Are you serious? I’d love to! I didn’t know ‘gofers’ got the chance to travel!” Her honesty and enthusiasm were equally matched.

“How do you think Carrie got her start? Worked her way from what you call a ‘gofer’ to a top-notch reporter. You have worked hard, Lilly, and from what we can determine, learned a great deal. It also appears to the three of us that you have what is called a ‘fresh outlook, budding talent, and a knack for writing.’ Anyway, I’m meeting with Betts tomorrow so she’ll be in touch. And don’t worry about Bertha. Betts will talk with her on Sunday, and she’s the only person I know who can be more persuasive than your mother!”

The car stopped at the cattle guard. Exiting, Lilly turned to thank him, controlling the urge to fling herself across the seat and hug his neck. 

“Thanks so much, Mr., uh, Paul. I really appreciate both the ride and the opportunity to go to Houston. I can’t wait. I really do thank you—all of you.” She closed the door and started toward the house: calm on the outside, complete jelly within.

Her next meal and exchange with Bertha would indeed prove interesting!