Absence of Grace (7 page)

“I doubt he’d appreciate being compared to a Brussels sprout.” And if she could focus on the image of Paul rendered rotund and green, she might be able to make it through not only lunch but whatever came next.

“At least think about the abbey?”

Clen nodded because that was easier than saying “no” and having Maxine continue to push the idea. Besides, Maxie was right. There were probably few places more peaceful than an abbey.

After Clen told Maxine about her separation from Paul, she called her parents. “Mom.” She managed only the one word, but that was okay, because Stella McClendon was never one to let a pause go to waste.

“Michelle. I was just telling your dad we should give you a call. It’s been awhile.” It was her mom’s way of letting Clen know she’d once again failed the dutiful daughter test.

Clen pulled in a breath and spoke quickly. “I’ve left Paul.”

“What? But why?”

“Short answer? He cheated on me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Oh, Michelle, I’m so sorry to hear that. I thought he was perfect for you.”

“Well, he’s certainly made it clear I’m not perfect for him, which makes him being perfect for me a bit of a problem.”

“Now, there’s no need to be sarcastic. From everything you’ve told us
,
I think I can be excused for assuming you were happy.”

Clen rested her elbows on the hotel desk with the phone receiver tucked into her ear. Was she ever happy with Paul? Although, her mother was right that she’d painted rosy pictures. Probably because it was harder to admit to parents you’d made a mistake then it was to admit it to yourself.

“So where are you, hon?”

“I’m still in Atlanta. At the Peachtree Plaza.” She recited the phone number. “I won’t be here long, though. I turned in my notice. I’m just finishing out the week.”

“Then what?”

That was
The Question
. There was Maxine’s suggestion of the abbey. Not that it had any appeal. Probably best if Clen stuck with the driving-at-random plan. Or maybe she could book a trip to somewhere exotic. The Great Barrier Reef, Machu Pichu, Mount Fuji. Have adventures.

Anything was possible, which was perhaps why she was having such a hard time making a decision.

“Hon, are you still there?”

“I was thinking about your question.” Although thinking about it made her feel panicky.

“Why not come home for a visit? We’d love to see you, and you and I can go shopping, get our hair done.”

“I’ll go shopping with you, if you agree to call me Clen.”

“Oh, Michelle, you are such a kidder. We’ll drive to Denver, and have Nancy join us. We’ll have a good time.”

“Nancy?”

“Jason’s girlfriend. She’s a sweetie. You’re going to love her. We’re expecting Jason to pop the question any day now.”

“Don’t you think I’d put a crimp in things?”

“Of course you won’t. It’s times like this you need your family.”

But did they need her? Standing around casting a pall because of a Paul? The unexpected pun made her glad she hadn’t spoken the thought aloud. Her mother never did seem to get her sense of humor.

“Just come home, sweetie.”

The mere thought of that brought on the restlessness that became her constant companion within twenty-four hours of proximity to her mother. Sticking to small doses of each other’s company was best for both of them. But, if she didn’t going home, where was she going?

Before she saw Paul at the airport with the Lady in Red, Clen had thought her life settled, stable. Now she knew her life, like a complex pattern of carefully stacked dominos, had just been waiting for a nudge to topple it.

And after the collapse, there’d been the rush of activities—the cleaning up and clearing away—until now, finally, everything was finished and all that remained was the decision of where to go.

That question poked at her, turning food into something she had to force herself to chew and swallow, and sleep into a place she could no longer locate. In desperation, she grabbed a piece of hotel stationery and a pen, ready to write any thought that came to mind.

Nothing.

Okay, McClendon. Focus.

All she needed was a first step. Something simple. How about—when she left Atlanta, which direction would she drive: north, south, east, or west? She opened the atlas she’d bought at the bookstore. Clearly the direction that offered the greatest scope was northwest. She shrugged, setting the atlas aside. As good a plan as any.

She purchased a compass, attached it to the car’s dash, and, as Atlanta receded in her rearview mirror, refined her plan further. She’d stick to back roads and drive no more than four hours, then she’d stop at the nearest town, no matter the size, and stay the night.

Joseph-and-Marying, her father called the approach one family vacation. Then, they’d hoped for adventures, but what she mostly hoped for now was that wherever she laid her head each night, sleep would find her.

Following the prompts of the compass, Clen took a series of roads that meandered north and west. She passed near or through a litany of small towns with intriguing names—Cedartown, Mudslide, Hokes Bluff, Arab, Tooks Corner. At the end of her first four hours of driving, she reached Ethel Green, Alabama. The town was small but large enough to have both a gas station and a motel. The motel’s vacancy sign, a weathered strip of clapboard, looked like it had been hung the day the motel opened and not moved since. The proprietor, a heavyset woman with tired eyes, showed little curiosity as she collected the night’s rent and turned over the key. Clen suspected a lack of curiosity wouldn’t always be the case in a town this size.

After eating in the town’s only diner, she strolled the downtown, eventually turning on a side street to explore what kind of houses the people of Ethel Green had built. Most were of modest size, shaded by large trees, but two blocks from the main street, she encountered a row of shacks with clotheslines strung in straggly yards. In one yard, clothes hung limp in the quiet air like pages of a book picked out of a puddle. A door banged, and a black girl came out carrying a basket on her hip. She set the basket down, lifted her arms, and began unpinning a row of diapers and tiny shirts.

Transfixed, Clen stood watching, wishing she’d thought to bring along her sketchbook. The girl suddenly noticed her and stopped moving. Clen smiled and raised a hand in greeting, but the girl turned abruptly away, grabbed the basket, and hurried into the house. Feeling uncomfortable, Clen walked back to the motel. There she pulled out her sketchbook and began to draw the girl from memory.

Slowly the picture expanded. The side of the shack with its ramshackle porch, the rows of washing—not just tiny garments, but larger shirts as well—the girl’s slender arms raised to unpin the wash, the basket at her feet.

When she lifted her pencil from the page, she was surprised to discover it was nearly midnight. Even better, she was sleepy.

In towns too small to have motels, Clen discovered that asking about a night’s lodging at a gas station or diner always yielded information about someone who had a room they were willing to rent. In a tiny hamlet in Tennessee, that room was in the house of an elderly woman named Mag.

When Clen asked Mag for suggestions of where to eat, her hostess chuckled. “Not much of that sort of thing hereabouts. But if you won’t turn your nose up at home cooking, I’d be happy to fix us both something.”

“I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. Kind of nice to have someone to feed. Not much fun cooking for just myself. You can help if you like.”

With Mag directing, Clen chased down a chicken and Mag chopped off its head. Grimacing and trying not to sneeze, Clen plucked it, then Mag showed her how to cut it up. By that point, Clen wasn’t altogether certain she’d be able to eat the thing, but she didn’t share the thought with the old woman.

Mag hauled out an ancient electric frying pan and plunked a cube of butter, a cube of margarine, and a large dollop of shortening into it. She set the heat on low and, while the grease warmed, she dredged the chicken pieces in flour. After she added them to the gently bubbling grease, a delicious smell began to fill the air.

“Now, we let it cook nice and slow while we sit,” Mag said, pouring two glasses of iced tea and leading the way to a small front porch shaded by white clematis. As she rocked, Mag began to talk. Clen listened, alternately sipping tea and sketching.

“Started out in Pennsylvania, my family did. Granddad was a farmer but my father was a shopkeeper. After he married my mother, they moved west, looking for better opportunities, I suppose. I was their second child. My mother always had a preference for my older sister, Helen. Real pretty, Helen was. Blonde curls, blue eyes. Delicate looking.”

Although Mag was short and dumpy with eyes a pale washed-out blue, Clen found her so appealing, it was hard to believe the mother preferred the beautiful sister.

“One Christmas we both got dolls,” Mag continued. “I’d been wanting a doll for as long as I could remember. And oh my, how I loved that doll. I named her Annie, and I took her everywhere I went. Helen mostly ignored her doll. Didn’t even give her a name, and one day she left it out in the yard. The neighbor’s dog got hold of it. And my, that old dog did go to town. Shook that doll something fierce. When Helen discovered it, she went crying to our mother and Mother made me give Annie to Helen. Helen never even played with her but she wouldn’t let me touch Annie.

“Never forgot that. Funny how something that happens when you’re six can stick with you your whole life.” Mag stopped talking and Clen’s hand moved quickly, trying to transfer to the page what she was seeing in Mag’s face—an ancient sorrow that was still causing pain even though it happened more than eighty years ago.

Mag shook herself and stood abruptly. “Time I checked on that chicken.”

“You need help?”

“No. No need for you to get up.”

After a minute Mag returned. “How’s that picture coming along?”

“Good. If you keep telling me stories, I’ll finish in no time.”

“Where was I?”

Clen was too angry with Mag’s mother to answer.

“Well, let’s see. Suppose I tell you about the cooking. I started cooking when I was twelve, after Mother died in childbirth. Helen was older, but she was useless in the kitchen. At first, there were only six of us, but then Father remarried. That meant more babies. Ended up we added three half brothers and two half sisters. An even dozen for dinner every night.

“I liked it well enough, cooking for a crowd. Made for a change when I married Lou. Then we only had three children, so I never did cook for a crowd again. Lou was a good eater, though. He always said I was the best cook he ever met. That it was why he married me.” Mag rocked and chuckled, then went silent.