Authors: Lisa Wingate
Dandelion Summer (21 page)
Anticipation filled me, seeming almost overwhelming. “Well, not mine, please. I haven’t much left.”
She jittered impatiently, leaning closer as I managed to trip the lock and prepared to throw open the lid. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .”
But as the trunk began to creak open and the odor of must and yellowed paper wafted into the hall, Epiphany grabbed my arm. “Ssshhh! J. Norm, hold still.” She cocked an ear toward the stairway, as if she’d heard something. A moment later, I caught it, too. The sound of the front door locks turning, then the door colliding with the security chain. “Deborah!” I whispered, and Epiphany nodded. I stood up and started down the stairs. “Drag that into Roy’s room and stay there with it.” I pointed down the hall. It was too early to explain Epiphany’s presence here on a Sunday, and most certainly I couldn’t let Deborah know that Epiphany had been here overnight. Deborah would be suspicious, concerned that I was getting in over my head, letting myself be taken advantage of. She’d feel the need to involve herself, perhaps discuss the issue with Epiphany’s mother. My best hope was to be as agreeable as possible and send Deborah on her way quickly.
I descended to the entry, surprised to find that the door had been pulled to, and Deborah was no longer trying to breach the security chain. Perhaps she’d decided to come in through the garage. Moving to the parlor window, I pulled the sheers aside. A car was rolling up to the curb out front—the older-model sort that didn’t belong in this neighborhood, and Deborah had started across the lawn. From her body language, it was clear that the driver had called her over.
A young man with some sort of scarf tied around his head leaned out the car window and flipped a hand haughtily toward the house, as if he were demanding information. Deborah, being Deborah, undoubtedly answered him curtly, then pointed toward the street in a way that indicated he should move along now. She glanced toward her vehicle in front of the garage, where my math professor son-in-law, a laid-back fellow not given to unnecessary socializing, appeared to be unbuckling his seat belt. My daughter was a confident woman, accustomed to ruling over college-age research assistants and graduate students, but even Lloyd recognized that neither this young man nor his behavior belonged here.
Lloyd opened his car door as Deborah pointed toward the street, telling the young man in the car once again that he should move on. Finally, he withdrew through the window, then slung something out. It skittered across the driveway, and he bade it farewell with an obscene hand gesture before leaving the premises with a squeal of tires. On her way back to the house, Deborah scooped up his discard, and I recognized it as Epiphany’s backpack. Clearly the boy in the car was the infamous DeRon, and he hadn’t come to apologize.
I unlocked the front door and let Deborah enter on her own. Lloyd, who had probably intended to wait in the vehicle, followed her into the house. He hovered in the living room doorway, seeming wary of potential family drama as Deborah dropped the backpack on the sofa. “How late did your little helper stay last night?”
“Why do you ask?” I replied, and then exchanged morning pleasantries with my son-in-law.
Deborah’s brow furrowed. “Well, apparently Epiphany didn’t come home last night. There was someone . . . either a brother or a boyfriend outside just now, looking for her. He wasn’t very nice about it, and he didn’t want to take no for an answer. Sounds to me like she’s in some sort of trouble.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.” I rushed the words out, and then realized they sounded callously unconcerned. “Undoubtedly, she stayed over with a friend and forgot to leave word. You know how teenagers can be.”
Deborah rubbed her arms, and I could see the wheels turning. She was thinking that this arrangement with Epiphany might not be a good idea any longer. “You didn’t see the way that boy was acting out there. If she has . . . issues, I don’t want her here.”
I shifted quickly to damage control. “Nonsense. She’s been very reliable. She already called this morning to confirm that she was coming again today to work on her school project. She’s writing about the rocket launches. She’ll be here later this morning.”
Deborah smacked her lips irritably. “You’re going to church with us today, remember? They’re having a special luncheon after the service. They’re dedicating the paving stones in the memory garden, including Mom’s.” Since Annalee’s death, Deborah had become a regular in church again, and active in the project of paving the sidewalks in the memory garden with stones dedicated to members who had passed on. Deborah felt she owed this to her mother, I supposed, as Annalee had always been the driving force behind our involvement with the church. Annalee would patiently endure my long work hours and the months I was away in foreign countries, but she would not stand for taking the Lord’s name in vain or missing service on Sundays. These days, I could not bear to set foot in that place without her, and in truth, God and I didn’t have much to say to each other. We’d ceased to be on speaking terms. Aside from that, Deborah’s foremost mission on any trip out of the house was to drag me by the Villas.
“You and Lloyd go ahead without me. I’m not up to it today.” I turned away to avoid seeing her disappointment. She was proud of the memory walk project, of course.
“I knew I shouldn’t have bothered.” Deborah’s words were sharp edged and bitter. In the doorway, Lloyd winced and looked at his feet.
“I’ve had a difficult night,” I added, attempting to soften my posture a little. “It isn’t a good time.”
“It never is.” She proceeded toward the door, her dress shoes clicking across the entryway in a rapid tattoo. Lloyd gave me an apologetic look.
“Tell her I’m sorry. I simply don’t feel well,” I said, a damper falling on the morning. Why was it that Deborah and I could never avoid treating each other badly, nipping from opposite sides of the fence?
“I will.” Lloyd said good-bye and followed Deborah out the door.
After they were gone, I proceeded upstairs and tried to leave the trouble with Deborah behind me.
Epiphany was sitting in my office, doodling on a notepad. She angled a frown my way. “She left kinda quick. What’d she want?”
“To drag me off to church,” I answered, the sour mood clinging to me, flavoring everything.
“You could’ve gone. I would’ve waited.”
“I have no desire to go,” I said, surprised that Epiphany’s mind wasn’t squarely on the trunk. “Next thing, those people would begin coming around with casseroles and inviting me to domino games again. I don’t want the bother of it.”
Epiphany responded with a sardonic look. “Geez, J. Norm. People are just trying to be nice. You might try being nice back once in a while.”
“I think I’m beyond needing the counsel of a sixteen-year-old.” The comment was harsh, and I regretted it, but couldn’t bring myself to say so.
“You know . . . whatever.” Setting down the pen, she stood up behind the desk. “But I’m not the one going around with some big ol’ frown on my face, hating everybody. Maybe you’d be happier if you’d eat a few casseroles and go to some domino games. Just sayin’.”
“I’ll renew my attendance in a house of worship the day they wheel me through in a coffin.” The words were meant to shock the conversation to a standstill. Deborah would have found them horrifying, but Epiphany only scoffed under her breath, as if she knew I hadn’t the courage to face my own death when the moment came.
“Seems like that’s a bad time to start back to church,” she said blandly.
Any appropriate retort escaped me. “I’ll thank you to stay out of my personal life.”
“Pppff!” She rolled her eyes. “What personal life?”
“There is a history between Deborah and me that you know nothing about,” I countered. Deborah had been heaping her resentments upon me for as long as I could recall. She blamed me for ruining her life, for being indirectly responsible for Roy’s death and Annalee’s, for moving the family to Dallas when Deborah was fifteen and forcing her to leave behind her friends, for her difficulty forming lasting relationships with men, for the fact that she’d devoted herself to work rather than having a family, for her struggle with a midlife marriage. Every problem in her life hailed back to my inadequacy as a father. It was all my fault.
Never once had she been the least bit grateful for the sacrifices I’d made, for the work I did to provide a comfortable future for her—good neighborhoods, private lessons, expensive schools, clothes, and cars, and country club memberships. A man sacrifices his life for those things, and then everyone criticizes him for it.
“Sure, whatever.” Epiphany looked away, her smile dimming. I’d wounded her this time.
Silence fell over us, and the office seemed claustrophobic. I felt compelled to say something. “Did you hear Deborah when she came in? That boy, DeRon, was outside. She saw him.”
Epiphany’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open. Her hand slid upward unconsciously, touched the place where the strap was missing on the shirt underneath the one that was Annalee’s. “DeRon was here? What did he want?”
“You,” I replied. “It would appear that he went by your home last night looking for you.”
Slapping a hand to her stomach, she clenched her fingers over the shirt and turned her attention to the street outside the window. “He knows I didn’t go home. . . .”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t,” I pointed out. “I don’t like the look of him—the way he acts, the way he behaved toward Deborah. In front of my home, no less. He has a nerve coming here, making demands. I think we should have the police go by and give him a talking-to.”
“No!” she snapped almost before I could finish the sentence. “Leave it alone, all right? You’ll make it worse.”
“I don’t see how putting the boy on notice can be a bad idea. He should understand that such behavior won’t be tolerated—that other people know about it, and aside from that, a bully doesn’t operate well in the light of day.”
She faced me, her lips tight with fury. “I said
no
, all right? Just leave it alone. I got a personal life, too, all right? I can take care of myself.” She picked up the piece of paper and pitched it in the trash. “Let’s just go open the stupid trunk.”
no
, all right? Just leave it alone. I got a personal life, too, all right? I can take care of myself.” She picked up the piece of paper and pitched it in the trash. “Let’s just go open the stupid trunk.”
“All right,” I agreed, but the problem of DeRon remained in the corner of my mind like a spider on a web as we proceeded to Roy’s room. Epiphany moved to the trunk, placing her hands on her hips with an impatient expression. I remembered Deborah, a little girl with a big mind, stomping her feet and assuming the same stance, her hair bouncing from side to side as she directed her brother in games of playing house, or Simon Says, or freeze tag. It was no wonder she was successful in her career. She’d determined herself ruler of the world from the very start. In the wake of the thought came a sensation of profound emptiness. Why were those memories usually so far away from me? Why was it so much easier to see the bitterness between us, the same resentments, stale and musty like the air rising from the old trunk as I lifted the lid?
Epiphany leaned over my shoulder, fanning her nose as the contents came into view. A tattered quilt lay on top—a baby quilt made of blocks embroidered with terrier puppies in faded blue and red. I slid a hand over the fabric, felt its crusty threads beneath my fingers.
In my mind, the fabric became new, soft, comforting. I smelled washing soap, the fresh air of the clothesline, saw the way light passed through the weave. I was hiding underneath the quilt. A man thundered past in the hallway, his voice rising, a wire rug beater striking his pants leg and scraping the wall, the sound echoing through the house.
“J. Norm? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Epiphany’s fingers touched my arm, and I jerked away.
“No . . . no . . . I only . . . I remember this blanket.” Never, under any circumstances, would my father, a dignified, self-controlled person who put most of his efforts into his business, have behaved in such a manner. Never would my mother have left me in a house in which I was not safe—even under the care of a neighbor, a friend, or a relative. A mother who wouldn’t even allow her child down to the corner for a sidewalk game of marbles would never do that.
She wouldn’t have left me in the house with the seven chairs. Nor would she have abided the ranting and threatening, the drunken slurs of a man. My mother was a formidable woman, tall, rawboned, stately, direct, not to be trifled with.
She loved me to distraction.
Would she have kept some part of my history secreted away all my life?
Would she have crafted falsehoods, convinced me to believe things about myself that weren’t true? Would she have lied about who I was? Could there have been a time when I wasn’t with her? Could there have been a life before?
But what could account for the baby pictures hanging in the hallway of our home when I was young? There were black-and-white photographs of her holding a chubby-cheeked cherub in a long white christening gown. I knew all the details of our life in Houston, before my father had moved his offices to Dallas. Mother spoke often of our home there, of the magnolia trees and how I loved to play under them, of our little summerhouse by the seashore where I ran about in the waves. I remembered those places. I knew exactly how they looked. I remembered the towering palms in front of the original beach house, the one that had been swept away by a hurricane when I was young.
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