Hidden Scars (18 page)

“I understand now more than before we got married. I’ll be with you, Morgan. Right beside you. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

The threatening tears took over and streamed down my cheeks. With all my heart, I never wanted to see them again. The relationship between me and my parents was damaged beyond repair, but out of respect and love for Chuck, I reluctantly agreed. He had to see for himself what Mom and Dad were capable of.

Long before we made it to the city limits of Greer, lifelong fearful emotions surged through me, dousing the peace and hope the past five days had brought. Now, surrounded by Chuck’s grandmother and his two aunts, I nodded, smiled, and sipped iced tea, hopefully hiding the turmoil raging inside.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat?” Chuck’s grandmother’s kind eyes and pleasant smile reminded me so much of my own Gram.

“No, thank you. I’m—”

“Lock the door and hide the cake.” Chuck passed me his empty plat and pushed himself from the couch. “Here comes trouble.”

High-pitched squeals and laughter entered the house long before two little girls scampered inside. Their voices rose several ear-piercing octaves when Chuck jumped from behind the door and grabbed them, winning all three a scolding from their Aunt Helen.

“I can’t help it.” Bright blue eyes—surrounded by mounds of copper, short, springy curls—peeked from behind her big brother. “He gets me all twisted up inside.”

“Yeah,” the older of the two agreed.

“Come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.” He tugged the urchins and bribed them with slices of his grandmother’s cake, until they stood in front of me, staring more at their feet than at me. “Beth. Amy. This is Morgan.”

I dipped my head, trying to make eye contact. “Which one’s which?”

Neither of them said a word. So bashful, so cute, and clearly adored by their brother, they didn’t have to. Chuck had already told me all about them. Amy, the youngest—four, curly copper-colored hair, skin as pale as her favorite baby doll. And then Beth—five, freckled faced, long strawberry-blond hair, with arms and legs like Olive Oyl.

I could have spent the rest of the afternoon getting to know them better. But all too soon, Chuck reminded me of the phone call I had to make and led me to his old bedroom. “No one will bother you in here.”

He had no idea.

“Would you like me to stay?”

Maybe if he did… I nodded, picked up the phone, and dialed my parent’s number.

“Hello?”

I couldn’t collect enough courage or the air to speak.

“Hello?” Mom repeated, her voice calm and polite.

“It’s me…. Morgan.”

“Well, well, it’s about time. Where are you?”

“I’m at… We’re at Chuck’s grandmother’s. Chuck thought… W-we thought maybe we should talk.”

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? I can’t believe what you’ve done.”

What did she want me to say? I cut my gaze up at Chuck. What did
he
want me to say?

“Tell her we can be there in five minutes.”

“Mom, Chuck says—”

I heard him,” she snapped. “Five minutes.”

The dial tone hummed through the line.

Chuck eased the phone from my hand. “They can’t stay mad forever.” He placed his forehead against mine. “Besides, somebody has to make the first move.”

Three minutes later, my stomach rolled at the sight of their house…the place I’d promised myself I’d never return to. I knotted my hands together, yet they still shook.

“Remember, they can’t hurt you ever again,” he promised.

Neither his words nor my memory verse gave me an ounce of courage. The breath squeezed from my lungs as he helped me out of the car.

Chuck stopped me from opening the storm door leading into the den. Instead he knocked.

“Come in,” Mom shouted when he knocked again.

Chuck and I entered, with him firmly holding my hand.

“We’re in here,” Dad growled.

They sat at the kitchen table.

Chuck tugged me forward. My gaze locked on the cigarette Dad held. He lifted it to his mouth and inhaled. With every step, I watched, knowing that the second he laid it down, his wrath would be unleashed.

“Mr. Selby. Mrs. Selby.” Chuck nodded to each of them.

“Let me make one thing clear,” Dad started in on us, “the only reason you two are here is because of this woman.” He jerked his thumb toward Mom, who sat motionless, glaring at me. He still clutched the cigarette.

Dad scanned Chuck with squinted eyes and took several puffs while we settled in the chairs across from them. Then he placed the cigarette in the ashtray and exploded, using an entire arsenal of horrible words. He even used names no man ever wants to hear about his mother. Chuck’s expression never changed. He showed no signs of fear.

Then Dad turned to me. “You’ve cheated, lied, connived, and God only knows what else. You two deserve one another.”

Chuck squeezed my hand.

The small motion drew Dad’s attention back to Chuck. “If you and I ever have any kind of relationship, you’ll have to come one-hundred percent of the way.”

“No, sir.” Chuck locked eyes with Dad. “I’m willing to come fifty, but if you and I ever have any kind of relationship, you’ll have to come the other fifty.”

Dad picked up the cigarette and sucked on it, as if attempting to regain strength, along with nicotine.

“And another thing,” Chuck glanced at Mom then back to Dad, “you’ll never mistreat my wife again.”

Chuck and Dad stared at one another. Dad’s face flushed and twisted. Chuck’s still showed no signs of anger or fear. A rush of pride surged through me.

“If you have nothing more to say, we’ll be leaving now.” Chuck stood, pulling me close beside him, and led me out.

On our six-month anniversary Chuck had something special planned, but he’d only hint, “Dress casual.”

I inventoried the closet. “How casual?”

“Well, I’d say jeans, but you don’t own any,” he hollered from the bathroom.

I’d never thought about it before. Why didn’t I wear jeans? I tried to visualize myself in a pair and couldn’t. So I removed one of Chuck’s Levi’s from the hanger, slipped it on, then stood on the bed to get a full view in the dresser mirror.

Rubbing his smooth-shaven face, Chuck ambled into the room and laughed. “What are you doing?”

His aftershave reminded me of sun-dried linen. The bed moved beneath my feet as I wobbled toward him. “What do you think?”

“I think they’re about eight inches too long, and if you don’t get down from there, you might break your neck.”

With a smile, I refused to budge.

He grabbed my waist with both hands and lifted me from the bed to the floor. “Now hand ’em over.”

“Make me,” I teased and lunged for the door. My right foot remained in place, causing me to lose my balance.

Chuck caught me. His lips twitched. “All right. If that’s how you want to play.”

He’d firmly planted his foot on a portion of the excess pant leg. I began laughing. “That’s not fair. You almost made me fall.”

“No, I didn’t. I had you. I’ll always have you.” He drew me close for a quick kiss and a slap to my bottom. “But we’ve got to get going. We’ve got a long drive.”

I slipped out of his jeans and tossed them on the bed. “Please tell me we aren’t going to Greer tonight.”

“Okay, we’re not going to Greer tonight.”

I hoped not.

Since the confrontation with my parents, we’d only been back three times—to pick out and complete a bridal registry, to attend the shower, and to visit at Christmas.

It seemed like the whole town went all out for us. I’d never known a couple to receive so much stuff. Janet said Chuck and I were the Romeo and Juliet of Bradford County. I reminded her their plans didn’t work out so well. They both ended up dead.

More precious than the gifts, were the words of one of the women who hosted the shower, “We’re doing this for you and Chuck, not your mother.” Not that I wanted anyone to mistreat Mom, but I’d always been led to believe, by her, that I held no value or respect in the tiny community. True to her word, the women didn’t allow my mom to control the night, but Mom flitted around like we had the perfect mother-daughter relationship. Chuck’s mother, on the other hand, said little more than “Hi.”

Chuck’s kiss on the back of my neck erased the visions and memories momentarily. “Come on, Morgan. Enough primping. You look great.”

I did a quick scan to make sure my pants and shirt matched and I had on the right shoes.

Chuck stuffed his billfold in his back pocket and scooted me out of the house. He’d not forgotten how to open the car door for me—the honeymoon wasn’t over.

We headed north on Interstate 55, toward Memphis. I exhaled. “When are you going to let me in on the plans for tonight?”

Chuck smiled and faced straight ahead.

“What’s the big mystery?”

Still nothing.

“Okay, fine. I won’t ask another question.” And I didn’t until we arrived in Memphis and he maneuvered the car into the downtown area. Then I sat up and locked the doors. “Are we lost?”

“Nope.”

“Chuck, I’ve sat over here and played along with your secret mission about as long as I can stand it. You need to tell me what you’re up to.”

“Remember several weeks ago when Marvin and I bragged on Grandmother’s cooking? Specifically, her barbeque ribs?”

“Yeah, I remember. I told you I’d never eaten ribs.”

“Well, after tonight, you won’t be able to make that statement again. You’re going to taste the finest barbeque ribs this side of the Mason-Dixon line.” He licked his lips. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve only eaten at Big Daddy’s Barbeque once, but it can’t be beat.”

I studied his face for a hint of teasing. His expression didn’t give one.

After taking a right on Beale Street, Chuck slowed and scanned the storefronts. “I think we’re getting close.”

I still hoped he’d announce, “just kidding.” But then I saw it, all lit up in big red, flashing letters: Big Daddy’s arbeque. The B no longer glowed.

He found a parking space and pulled in. All excited, he jumped out of the car, came around to my side, and waited for me to unlock the door. “We’re making memories tonight, Mrs. Mathews.” He grabbed my hand and escorted me across the street.

I hoped we’d live
through
the night. Some of the storefronts appeared vacant. Streetlights were scarce. A man staggered to the curb and drank from a container covered with a brown paper bag.

We entered an old warehouse-like building and walked down a small flight of stairs. The dim lights obscured the dining area. Still, the pictures of Junior Parker, B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Willie Nix, and others grinned down at me. We scooted past them on wide plank boards, stained dark from years of wear. Blues music drowned out the patrons’ voices and laughter. Sweet pungent scents and undetermined spices mixed with burning wood permeated the room.

They had a simple menu: pulled pork, steak, or barbeque ribs. Of course, we ordered ribs. Within minutes, a Ball canning jar of iced tea, extra napkins, utensils, and a plate piled with food sat in front of us. After Chuck gave thanks for our meal and our marriage, we dug in.

One bite, and I was hooked. “Where’s the barbeque sauce?”

Chuck swallowed and wiped his mouth. “They’re dry rubbed. They don’t use sauce.”

It didn’t make sense to me, but I couldn’t dispute the fact that the juicy bite of meat breaking apart in my mouth had the most wonderful, spicy taste. And the baked beans, made up of three different varieties of lentils, had a unique flavor of their own—hot, sweet, tangy, and downright delicious.

“Are you disappointed, Mrs. Mathews?”

I reached over and wiped smears from around his mouth. “Not at all. These last six months have been the best part of my life.”

“Glad to hear it.” He chuckled. “But I’m talking about the ribs.”

“They’re perfect, too.”

November 20, six days before our first-year anniversary, the Senate passed Nixon’s draft lottery plan. Many referred to it as Nixon’s lottery scheme, which did nothing to calm my raveled nerves.

I didn’t understand it all. Chuck kept telling me not to worry and reminded me that God was in control. “We’ll be fine,” he’d say whenever I’d ask questions.

Then on December 1, 1969, the lottery system, to determine the order of men born between 1944 and 1950 to be called up for military service in Vietnam, aired live. We sat glued to the TV. One by one, a capsule, holding a month and day, 366 in all, were drawn from a large glass container. The first capsule contained September 14. The date was then placed on a large board in the number one spot.

God, please, don’t take Chuck from me
, I cried silently to myself. A prayer I’d prayed for weeks.

As they announced each date and placed it on the board, I remembered to breathe, thanked God, and continued to pray. Then the sound of a man’s voice reading, “October twelfth,” took me to my knees. The TV blurred as he posted Chuck’s date of birth in the seventy second spot.

I reached for Chuck. He got up and turned off the television, then pulled me from the floor and held me close. We didn’t say anything. We didn’t have to. Vietnam was inevitable.

How could anyone watch our military men—dirty, afraid, mangled, or dead—then with the flip of a hand, turn the visions off with the TV? I hadn’t watched the news in months. The images ran nonstop in my mind.

The second week of December, Chuck came home from work and tossed his lunch pail on the kitchen counter. “I’ve given my two weeks’ notice. I don’t know how soon I’ll get my orders, but I’ve got to get you settled in Greer.”

Anger seethed inside me much like a bottle rocket. Only for me, the fuse had lit the first night of December. “Don’t you think you should’ve talked to me first? I’m not moving. I’ve got a job…”

He reached for my hand and rubbed its back. “You can’t stay here, baby. You don’t make enough money. Besides, I’ve got to know you’ll be okay and with family…my family.”

I jerked away from him and began to cry. “I’ll get another job. I’ll get two! But I’m
not
moving to Greer. This is our home, and when you come back, it’ll still be our home.”