The Way Back to Happiness (22 page)

“W
hy don’t we go out for dinner?” Alabama said.

Bev was tempted. The week had been exhausting. She’d never realized how much in life hinged on having a nose in good working order. Noses were essential not just for breathing, but for pretty much holding the entire face together. Even sleeping with her nose swollen required effort—pillows propped at precisely the right angle, ice cubes at the ready for the inevitable two a.m. nasal blockage. Talking to people and teaching became a chore. By the end of the week she could pinpoint the exact moment when a student’s attention to her words fizzled and he or she began to focus solely on the nose.

But she hadn’t taken time off. Today she’d dutifully done her shift overseeing the after-school detention crew, whose job it was to clean the bleachers at Jackrabbit Field. The weather had been unseasonably warm and humid, and what they’d found under those bleachers was enough to put a person off her dinner altogether. Even the idea of sliding a casserole into a hot oven didn’t appeal to her. Given her druthers, she would have stayed collapsed on the couch, and maybe gotten up later to make a sandwich. But she had Alabama now.

“We could get hamburgers at Lewanne’s,” Alabama suggested.

That decided it. Lewanne’s Dinner Bell on the highway was her favorite eatery in New Sparta, and she and Alabama hadn’t been there since the summer. Going out would make a nice change. “All right.”

Getting back in the car, she felt a little jauntier. Maybe this was what she needed. And it seemed a good sign that Alabama had suggested going out together.

After they’d seated themselves at the restaurant, the waitress sped by and slapped two menus on the table. A gasp jerked Bev’s attention up to the young woman’s face. “Hey, Miss Putterman!”

Bev didn’t recognize Mandy Newman at first. “Well, hi. I didn’t know you worked here.” She introduced Alabama. “Mandy took my class . . . was it five years ago?”

“Five years, a lifetime, something like that.” The young woman twisted her lip self-deprecatingly. “This isn’t exactly the future I imagined back then.”

“A good waitress can always find a job,” Bev said. “But no one says you have to stay in this job forever. It’s never too late to become what you might have been, you know.”

“Oh . . .” Mandy shrugged and, taking out her pad, forced a smile. “But guess what? I still wear that kimono I sewed in Home Ec Two. Remember that?”

Bev couldn’t recall the specific result—only the assignment—but she was tickled all the same. “That’s terrific.” If only she had a tape recorder so she could play this conversation back to Lon Kirby.

Alabama ordered a cheeseburger, which Bev usually loved but couldn’t manage herself today. Her health class had just finished the “trace a cheeseburger” unit, and the very thought of hamburgers called to mind enzymes and digestive track diagrams. She asked Mandy—who seemed to be trying hard not to stare at the nose, which was still yellowish and veiny—for the large chef salad and a Tab.

When Mandy was gone, Bev cast about for a topic of conversation and asked Alabama, “Did you go to Stuart’s house this afternoon?”

“Yeah . . .” Alabama’s lips turned down. “What was that you said to her? ‘It’s never too late to . . . something’?”

“To become what you might have been. It’s a quote from a writer, I think.” For the first time, Bev noticed that Alabama looked troubled. “Is something wrong?”

Alabama shrugged.

Mandy whisked back with their drinks.

When the waitress was gone again, Alabama took a sip of the soda she’d ordered, and then cleared her throat. She pulled a letter out of her pocket and slid it across the table toward Bev. “This came today.”

Warily, Bev picked up the note and read it.

“You sent her a picture?” Bev asked as she scanned the note again.

“A couple of weeks ago. After we got our school pictures back.”

Dot probably loved that.

Thanksgiving in Houston. Bev had plans to bring her mom and Wink down for a day in New Sparta. Spending the holiday with the Jacksons didn’t appeal to her at all. It would be awkward, and the company would be bad, and the whole experience was bound to churn up memories that had already bubbled to the surface too often lately.

“Can I go?” Alabama asked.

“Do you want to go? I’d planned on asking Mama and Wink to spend Thanksgiving with us.”

Alabama’s forehead scrunched. “Instead of Las Vegas, you mean?”

Bev was lost. “Who’s going to Las Vegas?”

“Gladdie and Wink. Over Thanksgiving.”

At first Bev thought Alabama was kidding. But her expression remained matter-of-fact.

“How did you find this out?”

“Gladdie told me when I spoke to her on the phone the other night. Remember? You said you didn’t feel like talking.”

Because she didn’t think there had been anything to talk about—except her nose, which was a subject she’d wanted to avoid. “I didn’t know she had news!”

Alabama shrugged as if it was no big deal. “Now you do. It’s nothing to flip your lid over.”

“I’m just upset because no one tells me things anymore.”

Alabama sucked on her drink. “The deal is, Wink won the trip from an easy listening radio station in a quiz contest. Kind of like
Name That Tune
. For the final question, he guessed ‘Can’t Smile Without You’ by Barry Manilow from
two
notes.”

“That’s incredible.”

“Gladdie’s real excited. She wants to see Liberace.”

It sounded like fun . . . as long as it didn’t end with her new husband—still a relatively unknown quantity—losing all their money at the gambling tables. Or running off with a showgirl. Suddenly, so many disastrous “lady beware” scenarios presented themselves that Bev looked out the window to distract herself.

“Gladdie was saying that they should’ve waited to get married,” Alabama continued. “That they could have had the ceremony in Vegas. And you know what Wink said? He said it couldn’t have happened that way, because marrying Gladdie was what brought him luck.”

The words barely penetrated. Bev’s gaze was riveted on two people getting out of a truck in the restaurant’s parking lot. It was Derek . . . and some woman. A very young woman. They walked arm in arm toward the entrance. Bev flinched as they passed right by her window, inches from her but not seeing her. In the second or two between when they disappeared from sight and the cheery ring of the bell over the door that announced new customers, Bev’s mind raced. Was it too late to escape? The restaurant’s back exit was through the kitchen, but she couldn’t get there without being seen. And she couldn’t very well hole up in the bathroom for an entire meal.

And then Derek and his date were inside, chatting with Lewanne behind the register. The owner gestured for them to take stools at the counter.

Alabama, who was facing away from Derek and the woman, fixed a worried gaze on her. “Aunt Bev?”

Derek hadn’t spotted her yet. Thank God. But of course, he was so wrapped up in his date that he probably didn’t have eyes for anyone else. Even someone glaring daggers at him from across a restaurant.

When their food came, Bev leaned toward Mandy. “The couple who just came in—who’s that girl with Derek?”

Mandy looked over. “Oh, that’s Dee Flowers. She graduated a few years ahead of me. Those two have been coming in for takeout for the past few weeks. Evidently, Dee’s condition”—Mandy arched a brow significantly—“makes her crave Lewanne’s chicken-fried steak.”

Bev’s gaze lowered, and for the first time she noticed the telltale bump.
Weeks,
Mandy had said. They’d been coming here for weeks. All those weeks Derek had been “working in Waxahachie.”

And a person didn’t become visibly pregnant in under a few months....

Alabama twisted and saw them. “What’s
he
doing here?”

Bev ripped into a packet of saltines. “It’s a free country.”

“Yeah, but that girl he’s with is practically my age.”

“Hardly.”

“Closer to my age than yours,” Alabama said. “Yuck.”

“Shh.” Bev looked down at her salad, but her appetite was completely gone. Now that the shock was lifting, anger rose in her throat, choking her. Why had he strung her along? This affair with Dee Flowers had obviously been going on for months and months. For all she knew, it had started before they were together. Maybe she herself had unwittingly been the other woman.

Although looking at Dee, she doubted it. Men didn’t risk a relationship with a nubile twentysomething to have a fling with an almost-middle-aged schoolteacher.

But why hadn’t he broken up with her? Did he just want someone in reserve for when Dee wasn’t available?

Her stomach churned.

At the register, Lewanne was handing over two large takeout bags. Bev stared down at her plate, heart drumming as she listened to the familiar dings of the cash register, the cheery thank-yous and good-byes, and the tinkle of the bell over the door as the couple exited.

Her gorge rose, and she leaped to her feet, half intending to dash to the restroom. Instead, her feet carried her toward the front of the restaurant.

“Aunt Bev?” Alabama called after her.

Bev didn’t stop, and was almost running when she hit the door, heedless of the other diners.

She caught up with them at the truck, as Derek was handing Dee into the passenger side. Like someone in the “polite behavior” illustrations from an antiquated homemaking text.
A gentleman always opens the door for a lady and helps her in and out of automobiles.

A gentleman. That was a laugh.

“Hey!” she called after them.

The two looked up, and for a moment a comical mix of guilt and surprise flashed across both their faces. So Dee had known about her—at least enough to feel shamed when confronted.

“What do you want?” Derek asked her.

“From you? Nothing.” She focused all her anger on Dee, intending to uncork the vitriol inside her at her erstwhile rival. But when she looked into Dee’s eyes, all the ire burbling inside her shifted. Alabama was right—Dee was so young. Only a little older than most of Bev’s students, who she considered babes when it came to the realities of life. A swell of protectiveness rose in her chest.

She pointed to her nose, purposefully drawing attention to what she’d been desperate to hide all week, hoping that Dee would be repulsed by the hideous glob on her face. “
He
gave me this.” She indicated Derek with a curt, accusatory nod.

Dee’s brows drew together, taking in the nose . . . and what the bruised, nasty state of it implied. Alarm showed in her eyes for a split second and then flickered out. Her lips pulled into a smile. “Really?” She cupped her bulging abdomen. “He gave me
this.
”

Circling around to the driver’s side, Derek smirked at Bev. He got in, slammed the door, and revved the engines with a roar. Then he squealed out of the parking lot, leaving her in a cloud of exhaust.

Alabama ran up behind her, stopping at her elbow. “Are you okay?”

Are you insane?
she might very well have asked.

And Bev wouldn’t have been sure what to answer. All through the years, she’d worked hard to rise above life’s indignities. Teasing in school, a boyfriend drought that had lasted from third grade till Tom, always working hard and yet feeling second best. And yet, by and large, until recently, she’d managed to keep herself on an even keel. All that effort—tossed away in the parking lot of Lewanne’s Dinner Bell.

Or maybe not. Maybe no one had actually noticed. She straightened her shoulders and peered off into the distance, where Derek’s truck had disappeared. Hopefully that was good-bye, Derek. Forever. And good riddance. A banged-up nose and a little embarrassment were a small price to pay to own up to such a huge mistake.

“I’m perfectly okay,” she answered, and then turned.

All at once, she was reminded that she lived in a small town. In the windows of the diner, faces turned toward her, hamburgers forgotten, ogling to see what she would do next. The sight should have sobered her, but the seated chorus line of goggle-eyed curiosity made her toss back her head and laugh.

Alabama studied her, worried. “Maybe we should ask for to-go boxes.”

T
he morning of the talent show, Alabama awoke to her aunt’s cry of panic. “You’re not even up yet!”

Bev, on the other hand, loomed over her, out-the-door ready. Her cavernous purse was slung over her shoulder, and she also carried her usual tote bag of extras taken from the piles of craft supplies tucked all around the house. A few sheets of rolled-up poster board were wedged under one arm.

Alabama shot to sitting and gaped at the flip numbers on her alarm clock.
7:28.
She flopped back down. She’d never make it to school in time.

“Are you sick?”

“No, I just couldn’t sleep.”

The explanation came out automatically, and there was no retracting it, unfortunately. Being sick would have been an excuse to stay home and miss the talent show. Now she’d tossed away a legitimate reason to skip school.

Nerves had kept her awake almost till dawn. Out of panic, she’d practiced her dance routine the night before—once even getting up and going through it in her pajamas—but she couldn’t see herself performing it before an auditorium full of people. She would have to be nuts. She would have to be Stuart.

The only question now was, would it take more courage to go ahead and perform in the talent show, or to confess to Stuart that she was chickening out? Even though they’d been mad at each other lately, he’d done so much to get her ready.

“I’d have thought you’d be up with the birds this morning,” Bev said. “You and Stuart have been planning for today practically since school started.”

Alabama groaned. If only Halloween had fallen on a Friday. It was so much easier to make an idiot of yourself when you had the entire weekend to recover your dignity. But this was Thursday, which meant she would have to go back tomorrow and live through the consequences of whatever happened today.

“I don’t want to go,” Alabama said. “I can’t do it.”

Bev shook her head. “
Can’t
never accomplished anything. You’ve got to step up the stairs, not stare up the stairs.”

As the axioms came at her, Alabama took her spare pillow and pretended to smother herself with it.

Bev pulled it away. “Look at me. Did I stay home after the nose incident?”

“No.”

Maybe it would have been better if she had. Alabama had heard all sorts of whispers and snarky comments around the school. At first, everybody had been sympathetic about the car accident. Then word about the incident at Lewanne’s Dinner Bell must have seeped out, and dots began to be connected.

Not that anyone really cared about Bev’s personal life. Alabama wouldn’t have been interested if she hadn’t been trapped inside it herself.

Bev gave her leg a firm pat of encouragement. “I know it’s hard, but some days you have to buck yourself up and do what you planned.” She glanced at her watch. “But you’ll have to buck yourself up quickly if you’re going to ride with me. I needed to leave five minutes ago.”

“That’s okay,” Alabama said. “I’ll walk.”

Her aunt’s brows rose. “You sure?”

She nodded.

“You aren’t going to skip, are you? Because that won’t solve anything, and you’ll end up in detention.”

Alabama rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to skip, but I need time to get ready. I might be a little late.”

Bev looked at her doubtfully, then stood. “I guess I’ll see you at school, then. And if I don’t get a chance to say it before assembly, break a leg!”

Alabama could think of worse outcomes. Much worse. In fact, if she could break a leg
before
assembly, that would solve all her problems.

After the front door closed and Bev drove away, Alabama reluctantly crawled out of bed. But as she showered, more positive thoughts came to her—maybe Stuart was rubbing off on her. What was the worst that could happen? If she went through with the dance routine, it would be done and forgotten by lunch. Who cared?

It felt weird to be alone at Bev’s house on a weekday morning. In her towel, she padded to the kitchen, slopped some Rice Krispies and milk into a bowl, and settled in front of the television. She stopped the dial at something called
Peppermint Place
—a man in a candy-cane-striped suit was talking to a puppet named Muffin. She sat back to watch, and then mid-bite she boomeranged back in time to when she was a tiny kid in the seventies, watching this same Mr. Peppermint at Gladdie’s house. She’d forgotten all about that. That’s when her mother had been “in the hospital.” Or so she’d been told. The time they’d visited her mom, the facility hadn’t seemed like a hospital. More like a country club, from her perspective back then. She remembered she’d felt jealous because they’d had Pong in the recreation room.

Afterward, her mother had only referred to it, rarely, as
that place,
somewhere she didn’t want to go back to. How long had her mom stayed there, and how long had Alabama lived with Gladdie? She couldn’t remember now. Long enough to have absorbed a knowledge of Mr. Peppermint. Long enough for her mother to spend the rest of her life in dread of
that place.

Encouraging his audience to face the day with a peppermint smile, Mr. Peppermint signed off, which jogged Alabama out of her thoughts. Oh God. She’d already missed homeroom. No way would she make first period.

She dressed quickly, caking on the makeup Stuart had given her to create an appropriately ghoulish look. Then she put on her costume, which, thanks to her tardiness, she would only have to wear for one period before mid-morning assembly. She stowed her old tap shoes in a shopping bag, along with her change of clothes for after the talent show. The shoes—actually her mom’s—were too tight. While she could, she might as well wear the Vans knockoffs she’d bought at Walmart.

Finally came the beehive wig that she and Stuart had bought and spray-painted gray. She tugged it on and topped it off with the veil.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she grinned. Stuart’s vision of a mod Miss Havisham stared back at her. He’d really done a fantastic job.

She put on her courage and a peppermint smile and left the house.

 

When she arrived at school, classes were changing, so she was able to scoot into algebra without much fuss. Most people stared at her, but she was used to that by now. And a few other kids were in Halloween costumes, too. The student council raised money by charging a quarter for not dressing up. The fine resulted in a lot of lame costumes, like kids just wearing a hat. But Jeff Sessions had mummified his head in toilet paper, Mary Margaret Mayer made a passable Princess Leia, and Tommy Clark had a plastic ax buried in his scalp and had gone nuts with some fake blood. Even so, Alabama’s costume was the most elaborate.

But where was Stuart? Maybe he’d asked permission to help Mr. Hill set up for the show.

She’d expected him to be there for moral support. Instead, as the minutes of second period ticked by, her courage faltered. While she was at the blackboard solving an equation, her wig went askew. Then, on the way back to her desk, she tripped. Her nerves began to stall out entirely—if she couldn’t remain upright walking across a room in sneakers, how could she hope to execute a dance routine in too-tight tap shoes? Also, the wig was hot. Even sitting at her desk, sweat poured off her.

Toward the end of class, she asked permission to go to the restroom. Once outside, she sprinted to the auditorium and scratched her name off the list. After that, she hid out in the girls’ bathroom until the last minute, only joining the assembly when there were no seats left except in the back of the section where the freshmen sat.

Mr. Hill was standing outside the little room where the light panel for the stage was run, cuing a kid named Jason to run the lights. First up was Tanya Waters doing an interpretive twirling routine to Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Alabama frowned. Stuart should have been the first. She looked around, but didn’t see him in the audience, which meant that he had to be backstage. Was he wondering where she was, or would he just assume she’d bugged out?

“I’m not going on,” she whispered to Mr. Hill.

She must have looked frantic, because he put a calming hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure? Everybody gets a little stage fright, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Did you scratch your name off so Mr. Kirby won’t call your name?”

She nodded.

“Then it’s okay. Relax.”

If only she could. But there was still Stuart to worry about.

Next, a kid from the sophomore class played “Time in a Bottle” on guitar. He wasn’t bad, although a certain element of the audience was starting to get restless. Heads bent together in whispered conversations, and at one point, laughter could actually be heard over the song.

The laughter made her glad she’d chickened out—but it also made her more nervous for Stuart.

The principal announced Dawn Halsey, who came out to dutiful applause and started to play some classical piece. Halfway through, she switched tempo to a boogie-woogie beat. If this had been The Villas, she’d have won first prize on the spot. But even for a tough audience like this one, the number was a crowd-pleaser. By the end, people were stomping and clapping.

Alabama turned back to the lighting booth. “Why hasn’t Stuart gone yet?” she asked Mr. Hill.

“We decided to go backward up the list. He was the first to sign up, so he’ll be the last to go.”

Dead last. Poor Stuart. He would be a nervous wreck.

Next up, a freshman named Marty got up in a cape and a construction paper top hat to perform tricks. Everyone knew Marty had asked permission to use the school mascot in his magic act, but the principal had turned him down, because having Bugs would prejudice the audience in his favor. Watching, it was obvious that he needed
something
going for him. Instead of pulling a rabbit out of his hat, he was attempting to do card tricks with a regular playing deck. Sadly, no one beyond the second row could make out the tiny cards, so there was lots of heckling. Mr. Kirby was forced to intervene and quiet everybody down.

“Now, we’ve got just a few more contestants, and I want you to give them the respect and attention you’d expect if it was you up here,” the principal lectured them.

The auditorium of restless teenagers sat stony-faced through a girl playing something classical on the flute, and then woke up when two of the varsity cheerleaders did a dance routine to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” By the end, kids were whooping so hard, there was no question who would come in first place.

And then it was Stuart’s turn.

Alabama felt sick. She caught glimpses of his purple tunic in the wings as he waited for the Cyndi Lauper music to end and then for the clapping to die down. When it did, the principal announced him, and then he came out to silence, standing center stage in his purple-and-gold outfit, his skinny legs encased in black tights. Titters rippled through the student body. As the lights dimmed, leaving Stuart in a spotlight, someone in the back wolf whistled. Stuart kept his head bent in concentration.

Her insides felt as if they were folding in on themselves. Poor Stuart. Would Mr. Kirby have to intervene on his behalf, too?

Finally, he began to speak—in a surprisingly strong-sounding voice. “To be or not to be . . .”

Alabama squeezed her eyes closed.

After a moment, she realized that she couldn’t hear anything but Stuart—no rustling, no laughter. When she’d helped him run his lines once, they had made fun of the speech, remembering the episode on
Gilligan’s Island
where Gilligan sang it. But the strange thing was, until now, she had never really listened to the words before, or absorbed them.
To be or not to be ...
The character was talking about killing himself, wasn’t he? He was debating life and death, envisioning a never-ending sleep. Now, phrases stuck with her, and the beautiful words caused a painful wrench in her chest.

She opened her eyes. In his costume, with the spotlight on him, Stuart seemed to take up more space than he did when you were talking to him face-to-face. No, he seemed to
command
more space. She forgot to be nervous for him, and just watched, and listened. Not all of the words made sense by themselves, but she managed to understand, and she guessed from the attention they were paying that a lot of the other kids did, too.

When he finished, she was stunned to hear a big hand of applause for him, and even a boy in the back hollering, “Way to go, Stu-loo!”

She turned to Mr. Hill. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

He was clapping, too. “He did a great job.”

Excited, she didn’t even wait to write down her vote and slip it into the box. She hurried to the back of the auditorium so she could exit, circle around the outside of the building, and meet Stuart as he was coming out the back way—the stage door.

Unfortunately, she ran into Bev first.

Angry Bev.

They both stopped in the empty corridor. Alabama had assumed her aunt was inside the auditorium with all the other teachers. Where else would she be?

Patrolling the hallways, evidently.

Bev’s gaze traveled up Alabama, from the tips of her sneakers to the rat at the crown of her veil, and Alabama knew she was in trouble.
Crap.
Why hadn’t she changed back into her regular clothes?

She decided to brazen her way through. “Hey! Did you miss the show?” Bev didn’t say anything for a moment, and Alabama’s face started to burn. “Stuart did great.”

“What are you wearing?”

Alabama looked down at herself, as if she needed a reminder. “I’m supposed to be like Miss Havisham . . . you know, the old jilted bride in the Dickens book . . . ?”

The words
jilted bride
acted on her aunt like a poker.