Unto These Hills (29 page)

“I’d planned to move back soon in a few months.”

A longer silence ensued. I felt gutted. My voice drifted from far away. “I can’t afford to
feel
, Daniel. And seeing you, hearing you…makes me feel.” The words were strangled. “I cannot feel and
survive.”

“Sunny —”

“Goodbye, Daniel.” I dropped the receiver onto the cradle.

I was trembling like a dead leaf in a December squall.

But I wasn’t crying.

Good
. If I was lucky, I never would again.

Chapter Fifteen

The Tucapau Hotel’s demise in the fifties was traumatic for me. And for Francine. The beautiful structure was the first of our village landmarks to go and, for once, Francine’s sentimental attachment rivaled my own.

“
Dadgummit!
There ain’t
nothin’ sacred,”
she lamented, smoking as if it were her last cigarette before execution. We stood frozen to the sidewalk across the street, watching the wrecking crew smash the formidable edifice. Each section that toppled and exploded into fragments of wood and dust ripped through my heart like a jackhammer.

“They don’t need it no more,” monotoned common-sense Nana, back at the house, where Francine and I continued to wallow in our angst. “Everybody’s got cars now and can live anywheres. They can drive to work here. No need fer a hotel.”

I knew it and so did Francine. But that didn’t ease our sense of loss. Nana’s forbearance did not, for a long time, seep in and aid in our acceptance. But I still had a trace of youthful optimism at that time. Overcoming was much easier then.

And, after all, the remainder of our little village remained intact.

~~~~~

Four weeks after Tack’s death, Francine’s paramour, Martin Black, moved in with her. “I ain’t marrying no more,” declared Francine. “If I do, I’ll lose Tack’s military pension and social security benefits.” That was, then, and remained thereafter, the bottom line for Francine: money.

I reminded myself to shut my gaping mouth as my sister, still lovely in her middle years, padded barefoot across her creamy white carpeted floor and settled on the snow-white sofa as gracefully as a leopard. And just as regal. She gazed at me with a trace of defiance.

“Not marry?” I peered at her, bewildered. “I mean, it’s too early with Tack just being buried and all — but what will folks say, Francine?” I finished on a plaintive note, knowing deep in my heart that I groped in vain for anything
solid
in Francine to which I could appeal.

“Y’know, Sunny,” she purred, examining her Cherry Red toenails, “what folks think of me stopped mattering a long time ago.”

“Did it ever?” The words were out before I knew them to
be
. But I was angry at how carelessly she tossed caution and character to the four winds.

“Not really.” She stretched her long bronze legs, sheathed in red stretch capris and regarded me dispassionately. “Life’s too short to worry ‘bout things like that, Sunny. Martin’s been with me a long time and I love ‘im. He loves me. We want to be together. People live together now without getting married. What’s so terrible about that?”

“It’s not right; that’s what’s so terrible about it.” I gazed long and hard at her, trying my best to glimpse something —
anything
to make her realize the import of character and integrity.

“Get over it, Sunny.” She slid to her feet, strode languidly to the kitchen, and peered in the refrigerator. “Want a Coke?” Her way of saying the conversation was over. I experienced the same desolate acceptance as I did with Muffin. Those two sure shared some genes.

“No. I’m off. Walter’s got a doctor’s appointment. His annual checkup. He’s not been feeling well for months now and I’ll feel better when he’s run through some tests.” Unruffled by my disapproval, Francine hugged me goodbye and I left with a terrible, sick feeling in my gut. Disappointment flailed away inside me and I thought how with Tack, at least Francine had been
married.
To cohabit like this, was like throwing muck in respectable villagers’ faces.

In my face.

Will I ever live all this down?

And even while doubt badgered me, a tiny, tiny glimmer of hope remained alive.

~~~~~

In those coming years, Francine surprised us all by remaining, by all standards, faithful to Martin Black. She even named him the sole beneficiary in her will. At first I resented her total commitment to a man who’d abandoned his own family to unlawfully join himself to her.

When I’d initially reprimanded Francine for being a home-wrecker, she raised those perfect eyebrows at me and drawled, “Why, Sunny, you can’t break up somethin’ that’s glued together real tight, now can you?”

Francine remained shameless.

And I remained dismayed. Yet…time has a way of muting such things, softening the rough edges. And through the years, I came to accept, as much as possible, the union. I realized that, in the end, I had no say-so anyway so why let it bother me?

Sheila? After marriage number three ended in a bitter divorce she emulated Francine by moving in with a “rich dude from Jacksonville, Florida.”

“He ain’t no Burt Reynolds but,
honey-chile
, all that money makes up the difference.” Her beauty, like Muffin’s, was slowly fading. A harsh lifestyle quickly jaded the dewy skin and dulled the clear eyes to faded October grass.

None of family, including Sheila’s three daughters, glimpsed her for several years.

~~~~~

“Walter’s been a bit unsteady on his feet at times,” I told Emaline over coffee in her cozy little parsonage kitchen.

Over the past ten years, the church had upgraded all the appliances and laid new shiny white, vinyl tile flooring. Most of the fresh coconut cake she’d made the previous weekend had disappeared, what with the two of us dashing back and forth between houses for our impromptu coffee klatches.
Whoever’s
fresh cake of the moment served as refreshment till its demise. Emaline’s appetite was hearty but she’d applied restraint all the way back and remained weight-cautious, eating only tiny slivers while my chunky portions rivaled that of any truck driver’s.

“Reckon it’s his sinus problem?” Emaline ventured.

“Don’t know. It just seems to get worse over time. The doctor wants to do an MRI.”

“Heard from Daniel at all?”

Her question, out of the blue, caused my pulse to quicken. “No.” I pressed my fork into lingering crumbs, gathering them for one last bite, then found I didn’t want it. My fork clattered to the dessert dish. “Why should I, Emaline? There’s still nothing there for us. You know that. I wish he wasn’t insisting on retiring here in Tucapau.” I rolled my eyes in a hopeless gesture.

“Perhaps not what you want.” Emaline gazed at me, her great heart in her eyes, a heart that, with every beat, throbbed
love
. “But, Sunny, you and Daniel
can
be friends. After all, weren’t you close friends
before
the romance blossomed?”

She knew we had been. My sweet friend was just reminding me. Something warm and wonderful gushed through me at her words. And
warm and wonderful
was so alien to me by now that I nearly swooned as blood rushed to tinge my cheeks. “Yeh.”

“There’s no reason you can’t go back there, Sunny. Not if you do it right, the way our Father orders it.”

“Our Father?” I gave her a crooked, self-deprecating smile. “You breathe, eat, and sleep
Him
while I rarely give Him the time of day.” I lowered my gaze in shame.

“He understands,” insisted Emaline, not put off by my heathenish misgivings.

I looked at Emaline, hope flailing about in me. “I mean — could I really just feel —
platonic
toward Daniel?” Doubts swirled like crazy confetti in March winds, drawing my brows nearly together.

“All things are possible,” she whispered, “when we get our priorities in order.”

She reached across her kitchen table to take my hands in both hers and gave me her wonderful
blessing
smile, one that disarmed me of bad and negative thoughts. One that sometimes made me feel I could soar over mountains and hurdle wide rivers. “I mean — wouldn’t the effort be worth it? After all, he
is
moving back home soon. You must remember that this is the only real home he’s had.”

He planned to move into the Stone’s house, where Doretha still lived.

I smiled back, happy that, in Doretha, he’d found a sister.

“I’ll give it some thought.”

~~~~~

“Mama, I love you and Daddy but this is the last straw.” It was the day after Christmas that year. My Libby pulled on her gloves, then gazed at me with love gushing like a raging river from her cornflower blue eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is. But when Muffin not only didn’t show up for our Christmas family get-together but
spent
her kids’ Christmas money from you and Daddy, that hit rock bottom. I know how tight things are for y’all.”

Libby’s mouth slid into a grim line and the warmth left her eyes. She stared at the wall as though she wanted to pick it apart with a machete. “Mama, when she
‘tried on’
Kara’s new designer jeans outfit, then sashayed out the door, promising to come back
‘in a
few minutes’
then didn’t come back
at all,
that broke Kara’s heart.”

She looked at me then, magnificently maternal. “ Kara
adores
her Aunt Muffin and went all out buying her favorite expensive cologne — since nothing but the
best
pleases Muffin — with money saved from her little allowance….” She gazed soulfully at me, truly astounded. “Mama,
How could she!”
She swallowed her hurt and rage, hugged me tightly and whispered, “I’m sorry. You and Daddy are welcome in our home any time but we’ll not be back here until I see a real change in Muffin.”

The front door slammed in the wake of her abrupt departure, leaving me reeling like a child’s wind-up top. My thoughts echoed Libby’s.
How could she?

Only joy I’ve had through the years is when Libby and her family come visit for holidays. Only time I feel even near ‘normal’ and validated and cherished by someone.

And Muffin blows it away as nonchalantly and succinctly as a danged sneeze.

Indignation roiled in me. Then protectiveness. I rushed to the phone and punched in Libby’s cell phone number. “Hi honey,” I said, “the minute Muffin walks in the door, I’ll collect Kara’s clothes and overnight them to you. Tell Kara not to worry.”

“She’s been trying to get Muffin on her cell phone. Muffin’s not answering. Am I surprised?
No!
Am I disgusted?
Yeh!
You tell Kara, Mama.”

The acidic tone didn’t set well upon Libby, whose nature was usually sunny and warm and magnanimous. But
, oh
, how I empathized.

The rustle of phone changing hands, then, “Hello, Mema.” Her voice was thick and wobbly from tears.

“Hello, Baby. Now, don’t you worry, you’ll get your clothes back. I’ll overnight them as soon as Tara peels them off. Okay?”

A snub, then a snuffle. “Okay, Mema. I love you.”

“Love you, too, sweety-pie. Bye.”

Twenty-six hours later, Muffin appeared, eyes puffy, skin gray, long blonde hair in knotty disarray, the new jeans and layered shirts hanging soiled and wrinkled on her scarecrow frame like she’d slept in them. Which, no doubt, she had. She held up a hand before I could speak.

“I got Kara’s and Libby’s messages. Okay?
Christ Jesus, it’s only jeans and shirts!
Just leave me alone. I’m exhausted.” This, she spoke over her shoulder as she literally dragged herself up the stairs, gripping the banister rail.

At that point, I had no desire to talk to her. I simply waited fifteen minutes, hoping she’d undress before she crashed into bed. When the bumping and thuds grew quiet, I tiptoed into her cluttered room, holding my breath, praying that she had shed them — and there they were, in a discarded heap on the stained carpet.

I snatched them up and quietly retreated. Downstairs, I checked the jean pockets for her kids’ Christmas money, only salvaging a quarter, a nickel, and some pennies. My heart felt like ice, knowing how disappointed Gracie and Jared were. I couldn’t replace our gift to them and it broke my heart.

My phone rang. I rushed to get it. It was Libby. “Mom, Scott said for you not to worry about the kids’ Christmas gift from you and Dad. He’s mailing you a check to cover it —”

“No,” I said, tears puddling suddenly. “That’s not —”

“It’s done. It’s in the mail. We
want
to do it, Mama. Gracie and Jared are precious,
good
kids and don’t deserve this. I mean — their
Mama didn’t even show up for Christmas with them.”
A long moment of quiet. “Over some
sleazy
guy,
according to Kara. Did she ever show up?”

“Just an hour ago. I grabbed Kara’s outfit and will launder it —”

“No. Just mail it. Kara said she’d launder it. And — thanks, Mama.”

I sighed, thankful that I could do something,
anything
to ease my family’s disappointment. Because I knew how heavily disappointment sat.

Seemed I’d lived with it forever.

~~~~~

Strange thing, when Muffin finally called Kara, she and her nineteen-year-old niece, who bore a striking resemblance to her Aunt Muffin — save her dark hair — wept together over the somewhat wasted holiday weekend.

“Libby won’t talk to me,” Muffin confided tearfully, surprising me with her contriteness. While I could bank on her reactions to
me
, I never knew what to expect when it came to other family members. “Kara did. I think she forgives me for wearing her clothes. I mean, I only
borrowed them! La de da!
You’d think I’d —”

“She wanted to wear them the next day for the holiday party the family is giving for friends, Muffin,” I reminded her, cutting short her careening emotions. For once, she didn’t leap down my throat. “They were her
Christmas present from her parents,
for goodness’ sake!”

The starch melted from Muffin. She slumped dejectedly at our kitchen table, uncharacteristically penitent. “I
know
.” Her haggard face reflected regret and my heart, still cool from its own sting, began to thaw.

“Give Libby time, honey. She’s got a good heart.”

“She’s a
b----
,” Muffin murmured, but without real force.