Homefires (8 page)

When MawMaw abruptly rose and went into the house, Papa closely trailed her.

I didn’t follow because I knew that MawMaw’s grief, though heavy, did not begin to approximate mine. And while her reactions held, to some degree, choices, mine did not.

“I wish they wouldn’t do that.” The gray night soaked up Gabe’s quiet words. Blinking fireflies punctuated them in a surreal way. He’d not been as preoccupied as I thought.

“What?” Kirk asked, his silhouette in the darkness lean and long and tense. I’d discussed little of the family war with
my husband, hoping it would go away, not wanting to give him place to take sides, knowing I’d be hurt further.

“Not letting loose of – things,” my soft-spoken uncle replied.

After long moments, Kirk replied. “Yeah.” I realized then that Kirk knew. He could not know me and
not
know.

Despite Daddy’s compulsion to air his in-law grievances within earshot of anybody who’d listen, I still trusted Kirk to not allow my –
our –
turf to be polluted by it all. He’d sensed my desperation and remained as impartial as possible. A difficult thing, especially on those long afternoon male-bonding drives with Daddy. He must have felt torn many times.

I swallowed an egg-sized lump and lay my head back against the oak headrest, rocking harder and snuggling Heather, now swaddled in her blanket, nuzzled to me like a second skin. Seemed my kin were destined to hate. In that moment, I grieved for the joy and contentment of young years, when love was a fact and flowed freely among family.

Oh, how I
despised
their hatred, one that now tainted my affections with guilt, choking spontaneity and pleasure.

Under all that lay the jagged rawness of my
insignificance
that rendered me invisible and soundless in their war arena, where I wailed and howled forlornly for family solidarity. It was a horrible, suffocating place of fetid emotions. A place where Daddy and MawMaw and Papa never
saw
nor
heard
beyond their vendettas and principles
.

So there, on that little porch, with Biltmore Castle glowing like a thousand Christmas trees from the black velvet distance, helplessness snaked its way inside me, and on the wings of fireflies, my hope – that forgiveness would restore my family – took flight.

CHAPTER FOUR

 

Looking back, I can’t recall exactly when Kirk’s peaceful surface began to ripple. Certainly, one parallel change was that Kirk stopped wanting to go to church. Oh, occasionally we went, but when we did, Kirk wasn’t really
there.
His resistance deeply affected my own commitment. Nobody can wordlessly resist as
vigorously
as Kirk Crenshaw. Perhaps the restiveness had always been there, just on the perimeter of our happiness, but the wonderful love and laughter we shared, and now, little Heather, all had somehow kept it at bay.

Ironically, it was the laughter that began to unearth it, little by little.

Kirk one day dropped a pan of leftover rice on the floor as we cleaned up, then skidded and fell butt first into the heap of it. I leaned to help him up and burst into giggles.

It wasn’t until he shook my hand from his arm as though it were a spider that I realized something was wrong. When I saw his stormy face, I nearly panicked.

“Are you hurt, honey?” I asked, standing awkwardly aside, paralyzed by insecurity.

He didn’t reply, just set his icy gaze straight ahead and, gripping the sink ledge, hoisted himself up onto his feet. I began to brush the seat of his pants, but he elbowed me aside and peeled off his jeans, marched to the bedroom closet and tossed them into the laundry hamper.

“Kirk?” I approached him cautiously, as is my nature in the wake of a storm.

He looked at me then, his green eyes aglitter and fierce. “Don’t ever laugh at me.” This he said in a near whisper.

“But honey – I wasn’t laughing
at
you. I was – ”

“Just don’t do it again.” His granite face relented not one whit.

I blinked, thinking I was hallucinating looney toons gone tragic. Moments earlier, we’d been laughing over silly things, now we stood squared off, my husband looking as though prepared for mortal combat.

“Kirk, you
know
I’d never make fun of you. I love – ”

He spun on his heel to tread succinctly away from my declaration of devotion, back straight, gait proud, to our closet for starched, freshly pressed slacks and plaid button-up shirt.

Numb, I watched him briskly dress, then slam through the front screen door to his car and drive away. I slouched down on the couch and fumed for long moments. I’d never, in all my days, seen such offense taken over something so – so
piddly.

Sure I had. My brother, Chuck, had erupted with Daddy over things as trivial.

Kirk stayed gone an hour, a bewildered interval, etched in the shimmery terror of abandonment, and I met him at the door, trying to read from his face some sense into the strange episode.

“Kirk?”

He walked past me, hesitated, then turned, looking hollow-eyed and exhausted. “Janeece,” he ran a hand through his tousled hair. “I just – I can’t stand to be laughed at.” He shrugged limply, looking so miserable my heart went out to him. And I knew.

His pain spawned from a darkness unknown to me, where drunkenness and violence and betrayal pilfered anything humane and kind, where one learned to hide hurts and walk through storms alone.

I silently went to him, slid my arms around him and felt his slowly encircle me, then tighten. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, though why I felt I should apologize, I wasn’t certain.

He didn’t say a word. Just kissed me and soon, made me forget the weird incident.

From there, things spiraled downward. I called Kirk’s angry lapses “black moods” where nothing I said seemed right. His scrapping experience was eons ahead of my own, which was practically nil. So, mostly, I backed off. I loved peace
too, too
much, I suppose, because I kept making excuses for my husband’s sharp edginess until that Christmas Eve, when Kirk pushed me too far. He and I had each opened one of our gifts from one another. Mine was
Estee Lauder’s Youth Dew
cologne, for which I’d shamelessly hinted. I’d spent hours looking for Kirk’s
gift before finally making a selection. I was not prepared for his reaction. He was livid.

“You mean you went and bought me a
hunting coat
when I’d bought one just months ago?” He glared at me as though I had rocks for brains.

“But Kirk, I didn’t know you’d bought – ”

“I
told
you, Janeece.”

He
had?
I honestly didn’t remember it. “I do
not
remember you saying a word.”

He paced to the window and back and braced hands on hips, staring me down. “You don’t
listen
to me.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but the words fizzled. Suddenly, I was so weary I could hardly stand up, much less respond to something so…. So
what
?

“What, exactly, are you angry about?” My voice seemed to come from far away.

His nose nearly touched mine. “Because my wife can’t even go out and buy me a Christmas present right.” His words were quiet. “I work hard. I deserve more.”

That quiet timber told me how despicable he considered me.
Unloveable…unloveable.

I turned, went to the gifts piled underneath the tree and pulled out one.

“Here,” I said numbly, holding it out to him. He seemed ready to refuse but then glumly snatched it from my hand.

I turned and went into the bedroom, pulled out a little overnight bag I’d used for my hospital stay and into which I quickly stuffed underwear and a change of clothes. Then I grabbed seven-month-old Heather’s diaper bag and packed in extra diapers.

She was asleep, but I bundled her and was at the front door when Kirk spoke.

“Where you going?” His voice didn’t sound so certain any more. I didn’t give a tinker’s damn.

“To Dad’s.”

“Why?”

“Because, being so obviously
beneath
you, I don’t deserve to be under the same roof as you.” To my horror, my eyes puddled. I angrily swished them away. I could just hear him lambasting
his mother…. “
Mama cried over everything…I never believed the tears were real.”

I turned and dashed out the door.
Unloveable…unloveable… unloveable.

“Janeece!” he called. “Don’t do something you’ll be sorry for.”

I didn’t look back.

I had to hand it to Daddy and Anne. They treated my barging in, red-eyed from crying, at ten-twenty on Christmas Eve night, as a common occurrence. They asked no questions, thank the good Lord. Trish took Heather to her bed and soon the baby slept again.

I bedded down on the couch. Through tears, I watched the tree lights twinkle and run.

Why, I wondered, was Kirk so angry? Was I so difficult to love?
Still?

Apparently so. I tried to squash down the terrible, terrible gut-crush of rejection. I tossed over and knotted up, staring at the ceiling. Exhaustion won out. I dozed.

At twelve-ten, a rap on the door brought me awake and upright, trembling. I pulled Trish’s yellow robe around me and padded barefoot across the pine floor. “Who is it?” I asked.

Silence. Then, “Kirk.”

I hesitated, then unlocked the door and flipped on the porch light. He looked as miserable as I felt. “Come on in,” I said stiffly and stepped back to let him pass.

I turned from the door and his arms were
there
, open and without warning, pulling me into their embrace. I stiffened for long moments, still
stung
from his hateful words, and then I felt him trembling. “Oh, Neecyyy,” he sobbed against my neck. “I can’t live without you.”

Crying?
Kirk
? I tried to pull back and look, to make sure, but he wouldn’t loosen his grip.

I felt my neck grow wet. “Ah, Kirk,” I whispered and slid my arms around him. “Don’t.”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured against my shoulder. “I’m sucha – a….”

“
Butt,”
I flatly finished for him.

He lifted his head, gazed at me, tears dripping and all, and said, “The
worst.
When I opened that last gift” he stopped for a moment to pull out his handkerchief and wipe his eyes and nose. Then I saw fresh tears and the way he was trying to swallow them and failing. I reached up to touch his cheek.

“I felt like the worst scum on the face of the earth. Please,” he stepped toe to toe with me, “forgive me, honey? It’s not you.
Never you.
The demons are all
mine.
God couldn’t have given me a better wife than you.”

In answer, I pulled him to the couch and down beside me. That’s when I heard the crinkle of paper and cardboard from beneath his jacket. He pulled out the still sealed box – my present to him.

Chocolate covered cherries.