When Horses Had Wings (13 page)

TWENTY

D
uring one of my many nighttime telephone conversations with Anthony, he said, “Since we don’t work so close together anymore, we can take the same sick days, and nobody’ll suspect anything.” I was glad, right then, that he couldn’t see my face.

“And do
what
?” I asked, as if I didn’t know what he had in mind.

“Whatever we want. Maybe go to the lake or something.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “The only time I ever tried that, I got caught by a truant officer.”

“A truant officer?”

“Yeah, it was one of those harebrained schemes teenagers cook up. Skipping school. Last week of the year, too. I didn’t see any harm in it. We’d all left at lunchtime and gone to the lake. And before we’d even roasted our first weenie, we got caught.”

Anthony snickered. “I think we’re a little too old to worry about truant officers.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But I still have a husband to hide from.”

For a second, we both reflected on that statement before Anthony spoke. “If you weren’t married, would you do it?”

He’d cornered me, and I had to decide. Already I’d earned the title of Fornicator. I didn’t need an Adulteress tag to go along with it. I might not have always chosen correctly between right and wrong, but that didn’t necessarily mean I wanted to continue my moral vacation. The sins I’d committed hadn’t shaken my belief in monogamy. Contrary to Neta Sue’s opinions, I was
not
like my daddy.

“If I wasn’t married, I’d do
lots
of things. You’d be surprised.”

The line grew dead quiet. Maybe the connection had been broken. I waited to hear a dial tone.

Anthony’s voice broke the silence. “Then why do you stay with him? Why don’t you leave?”

How many times would I need to hear this question before I found an acceptable answer? “I’m leaving him soon...as soon as I save up enough money.”

“Good God, Renee.” Anthony’s voice went high. “Is
money
all that’s keeping you from doing it?”

My gaze shifted from a watermark on the ceiling to my sleeping child. “Yeah, money and thinking about Sean.”

“I’ve got cash, right now,” Anthony said, his speech accelerating. “How much do you need?”

I sighed. “I don’t know.” I realized I truly didn’t have any idea. How much would it take to live normally, with adequate space, standard utilities, and a super-strength deadbolt? “Enough to feel safe.”

If I left Kenny, no amount of money would protect me. I knew that, but didn’t say it. Kenny would hunt me down and shoot me, as he’d threatened multiple times. That stern realization kept me from accepting Anthony’s offer, but it had zero effect on my lustful desires.

I said I had to go before the conversation heated up any further, and my shorts caught fire.

I pictured myself sitting in a boat next to Anthony, our bodies rocking gently in time with the lapping waves. I could feel the sun warming my skin, sense its searing rays heating me through. Anthony’s imaginary kisses sent a white heat burning deeper inside me. “Burn me up,” I said to no one. “Let me smolder into ashes that the winds will carry far from here.”

~

A severe drought and repeated whirlwinds freed the white rock dust to travel for miles. The summer of ’76 tested the perseverance of every living plant and creature within the bounds of our powder-coated community. I could practically hear the weeds in our yard choking for breath.

By late June, our lawn had ripened to pale hay. Corn ears roasted in place in the fields, singed beyond any hope of harvest. Area well and lake levels fell so low that you couldn’t drink a glass of water until you’d first set aside the liquid and waited for the silt to settle.

Due to the weather conditions, Limestone County proposed outlawing fireworks for that year’s Fourth of July festivities. Considering what my empty-headed husband accomplished with a Roman candle, it was a crying shame local government didn’t follow through. Townies were to blame. They kicked up such a ruckus that the fireworks stand was permitted to open in its usual place—ten feet past the White Rock city limits sign.

I looked forward to Independence Day because the holiday reminded me of the stock from which I’d come: determined people, idealists, folks willing to fight for their freedom and confront the unknown. Somewhere, if only I could look back far enough, my ancestors had included fearless men and women who deserved to be celebrated.

Momma probably had ulterior motives for doing it, but she agreed to orchestrate a July Fourth shindig of sorts. She’d use any excuse she could find to gather what was left of her family. “Ya’ll bring little Sean and we’ll have a picnic,” she suggested. So after the town parade was over, we collected at the park behind Momma’s place next to the public landfill. The only apartment units in White Rock hadn’t exactly been built on the choicest of lots.

“Looks like we got lucky,” Kenny said, sniffing. “Wind’s out of the right direction today.”

I turned my head and giggled. What a joke. There wasn’t any wind. Besides, Kenny’s smeller had quit detecting those odors a long time ago.

Underneath the shade of an ancient cottonwood tree, we choked down bologna and cheese sandwiches and guzzled old-fashioned root beers. Sean insisted on playing on the merry-go-round, but the darn thing was too hot to touch, so I kicked around a medicine ball with him instead. Kenny and Ricky wandered off down by a dried-up creek bed, probably to go smoke pot. More often than not lately, Ricky had those incriminating bloodshot eyes, a droopy posture, and an I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude about most everything. Mentally, Kenny and Ricky were the same age. Both their IQs combined would come up short of a triple-digit number.

It didn’t take long to reach a consensus that it was too hot to be outdoors. Regrouped inside, we hoped to pour the last of our sodas over some of Momma’s homemade vanilla ice cream. She’d churned the dessert for hours, but when we opened the container its contents looked like regular milk.

Momma stared inside the ice cream freezer the way a child might study a broken toy. “I can’t imagine what happened,” she said, her hands resting on her hips. “I ran out of rock salt, so I used a little from the shaker.” Momma pointed at a ceramic hen on the kitchen table. “You don’t think that would have done it, do you?”

“Naw,” Kenny said. “In the winter, we use table salt all the time at work. Breaks up the ice real good.” He burst out laughing, and Ricky hee-hawed. They were obviously high.

Momma looked dismayed.

Kenny and Ricky were still snickering about Momma’s freezer failure when they left to go buy fireworks. “Don’t spend all our grocery money,” I called after them, fully expecting Kenny to ignore me. Stoned, he thought he was a millionaire. Sober, he suspected I was a thief.

Anytime Kenny couldn’t account for money that he spent, he’d shout, “Goddammit, Renee! You’ve been in my wallet again. Where’s the twenty I had in here?” Then he’d find my purse and empty its contents: a brush, lipstick, some gum wrappers, and sometimes a few hairy pennies he’d leave in pile on the floor.

Momma and I sat at her oak dinette, a gorgeous piece she kept hidden underneath an ugly tablecloth. “It’s not practical to eat right on the wood,” she’d explained. Maybe not. But the gingham checked vinyl cloth Momma had thrown over the table hid its beautiful wood grain patterns. For all anyone knew, that furniture could have been made of cardboard.

Sean played on the shag carpet beneath our feet. To keep him occupied, I’d brought along some of his MatchBox Cars. I didn’t want him listening to what I was about to tell Momma. Now was the perfect time for me to fess up, to admit how much I wanted to ditch my marriage and find the kind of release Momma had gained but resented.

Daddy had been gone for over a year, yet divorce remained a touchy subject. Possibly Momma was too ingrained in religious doctrines to hear me out. I’d have to be delicate with the facts when I told her what a creep Kenny was. She’d want the precise details of my dissatisfaction. Then I’d have to explain why, if Kenny was all that bad, I’d remained with him for nearly five years. I hoped she’d be sympathetic.

Before I could begin, Momma asked, “Ya’ll been doing okay financially?”

The perfect opening.

“Better...now that I got this new job. But Kenny still spends way too much on stuff we don’t need.”

Momma frowned as though she’d expected me to say I’d opened a college savings account for Sean. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Like
fireworks
and eight-track tapes and twenty-two shells and dual mufflers.” I shook my head. “And here Sean is, don’t even have his own bedroom. And he’s not ever gonna have one if we don’t start saving somethin’.”

“Oh…” Momma’s mouth hung open. “So that’s why you’re having your credit union statement sent here? You’re trying to save money without Kenny knowing it?”

I felt a catch in my throat. “Please don’t say anything about that in front of Kenny.” If she ever divulged that account, Kenny would think I’d been violating more than his billfold. And he’d make me pay in ways too horrible to imagine.

“Said I wouldn’t, and I won’t.” Seemingly annoyed, Momma left the table and strode into her kitchen. From inside the top drawer next to her sink she withdrew an envelope. She dropped the packet onto the table in front of me.

I opened the letter and checked the statement balance: $520.00. With one hand, I slid the form across the table. “Just file it with the rest of them.”

Momma scooted her chair forward. “You heard from your daddy lately?”

Once again, our conversation had taken a turn in the wrong direction. How did she do that every time? Momma had a knack for centering any discussion on her pain, her loneliness, life’s unfairness, and Daddy’s fall from grace. No wonder I never told her about Kenny’s terrible temper. She never gave me the chance.

I sucked on my straw. “Not recently. But can I tell you something?”

Momma nodded vigorously, probably thinking I meant something about Daddy.

There was only one way for me to say it. I leaned forward onto my elbows and blurted, “I’m thinking of leaving Kenny.”

Momma’s body stiffened. Her chin jutted out. “You’re leaving him?” She loosened the paper towel underneath her drinking glass and pressed it to her mouth. “I knew it! Your daddy’s corrupted you.” She shot me a disapproving look. “You think what he’s done is okay, don’t you? Think it’s perfectly fine to shun responsibility, throw away God’s law and make your own.”

She’d done it again, circled right back to Daddy, the way she always did.

“What Daddy did was different. He didn’t even have a reason for leaving. But I’ve got about nine million. Wanna hear ‘em?”

Momma set down her damp towel. “No, I don’t.” She drew her lips into a tight thin line. “Divorce is wrong, Renee Ann. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Says it right there in the Bible—”

Momma was not the person to appeal to for help. In her opinion, unless a man was cheating, stealing, drinking, or gambling away everything he owned, a wife had no justification for ending a marriage. That was why she’d stayed with Daddy for so many years, despite the demands he’d put on her and the lashings he’d given me and Ricky. Several times Momma had watched Daddy take his belt to us, open-ended, as if he were whipping buggy horses. She’d stood there and looked on in silence with the same indifference she now showed me. I would never make her understand how much my heart hurt to be loved by someone—anyone—how my ribs ached to be hugged, how I longed to be held in something other than a chokehold, to be kissed by a clean-shaven man who saw me through adoring eyes—someone who listened to me as though I could offer something of value, other than a place to park his penis.

“You mean, divorce is wrong, even if your husband beats you?” I squawked.

Momma stared at me, dead on, the way Daddy used to do whenever I questioned his authority, which, to be perfectly honest, wasn’t all that often. “You’re telling me Kenny beats you?”

I could see she didn’t believe me. Already she’d drawn a dividing line, and I was standing on the wrong side of it. “Yes.”

She folded her arms in front of her. “Then how come you never mentioned it before now? How come—”

Momma’s apartment door swung open. In like a crazed posse marched Ricky and Kenny, their arms loaded with fireworks. Kenny boasted, “We done got us a fu—a shit-load of explosives!” He plopped down onto Momma’s maple sofa, spilling out a grocery bag full of bottle rockets, Roman candles, sparklers, and Black Cats. But all I saw scattered across Momma’s scratched coffee table was our next month’s grocery budget.

Ricky dived for a fistful of bottle rockets. “Can I shoot these here ones?”

“How many you got?” Kenny asked, considering Ricky’s request.

“Maybe four dozen.”

Kenny squinted like he was working hard to recall something. “Yeah. I reckon. I bought a gross of those.”

I gave Momma a sidelong look. “Guess we’ll be eating with you next week.”