Color the Sidewalk for Me (47 page)

I nodded solemnly. Gathered my nerve. “Mama. Maybe you and I can take a walk together later.”

She gave me a look. “We can't leave your daddy alone.”

“Oh, right,” I said, “I'm not thinking. Well. Maybe we can . . . bake something together this afternoon. Something for Daddy. An apple pie.”

“Maybe.” Her tone sounded cautious. “I'd need to go to the store, buy some good apples.”

It was a small step, yet for Mama a very large one. Maybe it had nothing to do with me; maybe she was reaching out merely for Daddy's sake. Still, she was trying. I managed a slight smile.

“Sure. Or I could go.”

“I suppose I have enough cinnamon,” she added. “And sugar and flour of course we've got.”

The mending of our lives, discussed through the ingredients for pie.

Daddy's therapy went poorly; his heart was not in it.

“I'll talk to Mama this afternoon,” I told him as I pulled out her dresser drawer. “I'm really going to try, I promise.” He squeezed my arm with his left hand. “Hey,” I exclaimed, “I feel some strength there! Maybe you'll make that basket today.”

“Maaybe.”

He tried ten, fifteen times in a row but still couldn't bounce the ball hard enough. “Ah, well,” I said with a shrug. “Guess I'll just have to stick around another day. Come on now, you need to walk some.”

The walker's wheels squeaked down the hall, across the living room and back again. I watched them turn and thought of John's arms encircling me.

“Good going, Daddy.”

“He loves you,” Melissa's voice sounded in my head.
“You ruined him for me. You, of all people.”

I glanced at the clock. In two hours I had my clandestine appointment with Bobby Delham. Tired as I was, I wish I hadn't scheduled it.

I wondered how it would go. Other than my brief phone call, I hadn't talked to Bobby since that night years ago on the country road. He had tried and tried to talk to me in the following week, even stopped by our house, but I had refused to see him. And after Kevy's death I couldn't bear to see anyone.

Daddy crossed the room another time and announced he was ready to rest. I helped him get settled on the couch.

“Lookin' foward ta that appul pie tunight,” he said with a slow wink.

Bobby Delham had given me directions to a coffee shop on the outskirts of Albertsville. I sensed it was a place where he believed we would not be seen. One person from Bradleyville spotting us was all it would take to turn the town on its ear. Bobby, I imagined, could handle that well enough, but his children didn't need to hear any gossip.

I chose the booth farthest from the door.

“Celia!”

I stood to greet him and he gave me a brief, hard hug. “Let me see you,” he said, pulling away, his hands on my shoulders. “You look wonderful. Just the same except for your shorter hair. I'd have known you anywhere.”

I felt a rush of affection, meeting his gaze. Loyal, kind Bobby. His face was thinner than in the photograph on the Westerdahls' mantel, the curve of his mouth airbrushed with a quiet sadness. His dark hair was still thick, his mouth generous. I found him handsome in a brooding sort of way.

We ordered coffee. He launched into questions about me, and we talked briefly about my life in Little Rock and my therapy with Daddy. “But how are you?” I asked, touching his arm. “I'm so sorry to hear about Melissa. I didn't know she was sick, Bobby. Believe it or not, I didn't even know you two had married.”

He accepted my condolences with a nod. “I'm doin' okay.”

Melissa fought the cancer hard, he told me; she was courageous and trusted God to the end. Many of the things her parents had said, he now echoed, as though they had become a mantra to soothe his pain. I watched his face as he spoke of her, and reflected on the paths our lives had taken. If I had married him, we would still have each other. Now we were both alone.

“But I'll tell you,” he said with a brief smile, “even with everything, it's been worth it. We had sixteen years, each one of them better. Until she got sick.”

He looked away at nothing and we were silent.

“You know, Celia,” he said slowly, “I want to tell you this. When you left Bradleyville—just up and disappeared—I thought you'd run off to Danny. For a while I hated you—because I cared for you so much, if that makes any sense. I wanted to run, too. I even thought about leaving and looking for you. It was hard here, knowin' I'd hurt Melissa like you'd hurt me. And a course people were talking a blue streak. I kept asking your folks if they'd heard from you, but they always said no.

“Then one day about two months after you left—and they'd been right bad months for me, I'll tell you that—I just sort of woke up. Maybe it's because it hit me that you weren't comin' back. I took a good hard look at my life and my future. I knew God had forgiven me, but what was I supposed to do with that forgiveness? And then I realized that right here in Bradleyville was a wonderful girl who loved me in spite a what I'd done. That if I had any sense at all, I'd go to her on my knees and beg her to take me back. And that's what I did. It was hard at first because I felt so bad inside, wishing she was you. But in time something started changing. God helped change my heart. Your face faded; meantime she was always there. And I fell truly, deeply in love with her.” “I'm glad for you, Bobby,” I said quietly, rubbing a small bump on the handle of my coffee cup. “I'm so sorry I broke you two up. I'm happy to hear it wasn't for good.”

He waved away the apology. “I was just as much to blame as you.” His expression changed. “But enough about me. I never got the chance to tell you how sorry I was about Kevin. I know you must miss him very much.”

“Yes.”

His empathy for my pain in the midst of his own warmed me. I was surprised to find myself telling him of the argument that had led to Kevy's death, and my final, hateful words to the little brother who had loved me so much. “It's another regret—my heaviest—that I've carried ever since.” He smiled sadly. “I know about guilt, Celia. I also know Jesus can heal all the guilt you carry and more. But let me ask you somethin'. What makes you think the guilt is all yours in the first place?”

The question startled me and I couldn't find a reply.

“Think about it. If you take a hundred percent of the blame for some-thin', what you're really sayin' is, you made it happen all on your own. And that's—well, heck, that's a lot of power for one person to have.”

I rubbed my cup in silence. His words may have been rational, may even have carried the wisdom of ancient oracles, but they couldn't touch my heart. The tremors of a guilt-ridden conscience could never be quelled by mere logic.

On the drive home I mourned that regardless of what Bobby believed, God could not seem to quell them, either.

chapter 55

A
fter lunch Daddy rested as usual. Mama had bought the apples. We peeled them side by side at the kitchen sink, the pie pan ready, flour out for the crust. I watched the blade of my peeler whisk back and forth, back and forth across the green skin. My actions were methodical, ever so efficient, and my tongue was numb with fear. I sensed the same in Mama as with affected concentration we made small talk, passing observations about the fruits' firmness and the preheating oven. I thought of the hundreds of times we had stood in that kitchen, I washing dishes and she putting away food, our current argument frothing silently between us. How life circled, situations different but meanings the same.

The apples cut and precooking on the stove, Mama's hands dusted with flour, I pushed together the peelings in the sink, collected them, and threw them away. I wondered if John was missing me, alone in his cabin. I wondered where Danny was at that moment. “Mama”—I pulled out a wooden spoon to stir the apples—“I don't want to fight anymore.”

“I don't, either. I never wanted to fight.”

I glanced at her profile, so absorbed in the making of the dough. Her comment struck me as accusing, and I pushed away the proclivity to defend myself. “I just want to say I'm sorry. I thought work was real important to Daddy, so I . . . did what I did. I guess I shouldn't have.”

“No, you shouldn't.” She was patting out the dough on a floured cutting board. “But I know you did it out of concern for him.”

At least she wasn't intimating I did it for spite.

“So how much longer are you staying?” she asked. The rolling pin glided between her hands, flattening the dough.

“I don't know. I mean, I did promise Daddy I'd get him back to work, however long that takes. If that's what you two decide you want.”

“It's up to him.”

“You don't mind?”

“I don't mind if he's able. I just don't want him hurt. I'm worried about him.”

“There are alternatives these days, you know.” The fragrance of cinnamon rose from the pot as I stirred. “He could do a lot of the work from home by computer.”

“I don't know about such things. Neither does your daddy.”

“He could learn. It would give him something new to try. And it would keep him close to you while he worked, at least part of the time. I'll bet Mr. Sledge would be negotiable.”

“Maybe. We'll see.” She sent the rolling pin in another direction.

The dough began to form a circle.

“Anyway, there can be compromises. It doesn't have to be black and white.”

She glanced at me meaningfully. “Few things are.”

The comment touched on so many things that I couldn't follow it. I cleared my throat. “How long do you want me to stay?”

“That's up to you.”

“You don't care?”

“That's not what I said.”

“Well, that's what I'm asking.”

The circle was complete. She set down the rolling pin and pulled the pie pan close. “I want you to be happy.”

I repressed a laugh.
It's alittle late, Mama.
“Here, let me help.” We each picked up a side of the dough and placed it over the pie pan, its edges hanging over. She began to tear off the excess, crimping the rest between her fingers. “I'll be happy just to see Daddy's life back to normal.”

“And what about you?” she pressed. “Your life?”

I gathered the extra dough lying on the counter. “I'll go back to the ad agency in Little Rock. And my volunteer work.”

“Those things don't make you happy.”

She was placing the dough in the oven to prebake before adding the apples, her back to me. I stared at her grayed bun, a piece of hair straggling from it. “They keep me busy.”

She made no response.

Ten minutes later, the crust lightly browned, we added the apples and returned the pie pan to the oven. It now needed to bake, and cleaning the pot and the few other dishes didn't take long. I poured us both some iced tea and we sat at the kitchen table. Seeing Kevy's empty chair, I thought of how he used to love her pies.

Kevy, get away from me!

“Daddy walked well today,” I commented. “And he's talking so well, too.”

“You've done a good job with him.”

“He's done all the work. I've just coached.”

The kitchen was filled with silence and the smell of baking pie. I waited for her to say something and she waited for me, the ice in our glasses shifting as we drank. Apparently, we'd made all the headway we were going to make in one day. We'd need to do far more. If we were ever truly going to reach out to each other, we'd have to gather enough courage to talk about the past. The thought scared me to death. Still, for the little we had accomplished today, I was grateful.

The kitchen clock read 1:15. Less than twenty-four hours until I'd be with John. I wondered what I would wear.

“Well, you can stay here as long as you like, you know,” she offered.

“Thank you.”

The pie baked and the clock ticked. I examined my fingernails and she brushed at her apron. We discussed the weather, various people in Bradleyville. I mentioned how cute Tammy's Café was. And weren't her cookies delicious?