Color the Sidewalk for Me (48 page)

At supper we each had a piece of our creation, Daddy looking from Mama to me and declaring with fervency that it was the best pie he'd ever tasted. I remarked that it could have been a touch sweeter, and Mama said another apple would have made it complete.

“But it's good,” I added hastily, seeing his disappointment.

“Yes,” Mama agreed. “It's good.”

That night I dreamed of being swept away by a rapid river current toward treacherous rocks. Mama screamed on the bank, afraid to dive in and help. The rushing water grew louder in my ears, turning into ocean waves as I called to her. I sank beneath their force.

With a start I awakened, sweat on my forehead, my chest damp. I kicked back the covers, breathing hard. The green glow of my digital clock read 2:12. Further sleep eluded me. After an hour I arose in frustration, pulling on a light robe and padding softly into the kitchen, where I turned on the light above the stove. I made myself a cup of hot tea, pulled out a chair and sat. It was 3:20. Eight hours or so and I would be with John. I wondered if he was awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking about me.

I'd drunk half my tea when I heard a noise from the hall. Mama appeared in the doorway, dressed in a white gown, her hair in a long, loose braid down her back. “Thought I heard you,” she said.

My shoulders lifted. “I tried to be so quiet.”

“You hit a squeak in the floor. I was awake anyway.”

“Did I disturb Daddy?”

“No. He's snorin' a bit.”

We laughed softly.

I surveyed her. “Want some tea? There's hot water left.”

“That would be fine. I'll get it.”

I watched her drop a tea bag into a cup, pour water over it. She added a spoon of sugar. Her chair rattled gently as she pulled it out from the table, glancing at my mug. “You're about done with yours.”

“Maybe I'll get some more in a while.”

Our fingers curled around our cup handles. Iced tea in the afternoon, hot tea at night; hadn't we done this before? We appeared no less awkward at it, despite the practice. She looked away, gazing through the window at the black beyond. Her eyes were puffy.

Silence.

And then she blurted it out.

“I was supposed to marry Henry Bellingham.”

Henry. Mr. and Mrs. B.'s son, killed in the war. Her words hung above the table, waiting for me to absorb them. I could not.

“God is giving me the strength to tell you now,” she said, voice hushed. “Finally. All these years I've been so bound up in my own pain, I just didn't believe he could heal it. And that unwillingness to trust him—I'm afraid I've passed it on to you. But now all this worryin' over your daddy has driven me to my knees. It's a miracle, really. After I admitted to William that you and I hadn't managed to talk much this afternoon, he came down on me hard. Said it was about time I asked God's forgiveness for the way I've been toward you all these years. And finally,
finally,
I found myself ready to do that. I'm just too tired of it all. So I did. Now I need to ask yours.”

She took a deep breath. “I'd like to explain everything, if you'll hear me out. Not to try to convince you I was right in the way I've been.

But just so you'll understand a little more. There's a lot to tell you. Probably too much for one night.”

“It's okay, Mama.” I couldn't take my eyes from her face. I was afraid to move for fear of breaking the spell.

She managed a weak smile. “So. Henry. He was seventeen when we fell in love. I was fifteen. Both of us knew there would never be anyone else. Then the Korean War started. Your granddad, ever ready to fight, signed up and encouraged Henry to ‘do his duty.' They went off to war when Henry was eighteen, two proud men, leavin' Mama and me and Eva behind. I was devastated, both for losing Daddy—again—and losing Henry. I blamed Daddy for leaving Mama when he'd promised he was home for good. He'd been back less than four years since World War II. ‘You're too old, Thomas; you don't need to go,' Mama cried, but he wouldn't listen. It was bad enough, him walkin' out the door that day, Mama falling to her knees, sobbing. But to see Henry go with him. I hated Daddy for taking him away from me. He promised me Henry would come back safe. Daddy came home after three years, wavin' his third medal. Henry had already come home in a box shortly after my seventeenth birthday. Daddy was heartsick, but nothing like I was. I just wanted to die.”

How could I not have known this? I marveled. I tried to imagine Mama at sixteen, loving and losing as I had, and wondered what I could possibly say now. “Was Granddad with him when he died?”

She shook her head. “Henry was sent off to a different troop or whatever. They were stormin' some hill. Hardly any of them made it.”

“What about Mr. and Mrs. B.? Did they blame Granddad?”

“No. They were always such good Christian folk. They told your granddad that if Henry hadn't signed up, he'd probably have been drafted anyway.” She looked down at her hands. “And maybe so. But maybe not so soon. And maybe he wouldn't have ended up in that battle.” Steam rose from her tea. She picked up the cup, put it down again. “Daddy always thought travelin' the world and fightin' was so glorious. He volunteered for service when he was eighteen, and by World War II he was almost forty. He didn't need to go but he did. He left when I was nine and he didn't come back till I was thirteen. Every night I lay in bed wonderin' if my daddy was alive or dead. The nightmares were terrible. I used to be a happy child before that. While he was gone, I counted the days and weeks and months and years, worryin' about him so much that I'd get sick over it. Mama too. I can't tell you how hard those times were. Finally Daddy came back. But the minute somebody else's fight started in a foreign land, he was off, and Mama and I faced it all over again. He just wouldn't see how much he was hurtin' us. All he wanted was more medals. Which he got.”

The thought of her pain at so young an age overwhelmed me. “How old were you when Granddad came home from Korea?” I whispered.

“Not quite twenty.” She still did not look at me. “I was dead inside with Henry gone. I became the Bradleyville old maid, not courting, just workin' behind the counter in the Albertsville dime store. That's where I eventually met your daddy.”

A realization dawned upon me, the cycles of life more enveloping than I could have dreamed. “But you hadn't gotten over Henry.”

She looked up at me slowly, sorrow filling the lines on her face. “No.”

“And you married Daddy anyway.”

“What else was I to do?” She raised her shoulders. “I was twenty-five when I met him, still livin' with my folks. It took me three years to say yes. I'd never have Henry back. I told William everything; I wanted to be honest. He told me he'd take care of me. And that in time maybe I'd forget.”

“But you didn't,” I said softly.

She sighed deeply. “Time has a way of healing things you never thought could be healed. I'm not sayin' the hurt completely goes away, but life goes on.” She gazed at me. “Don't think I don't love your daddy; I do. I've been with him so many years now, I'm scared to death to think of being without him. But Celia—” She hesitated. “There's so much for you to understand. Maybe I should've told you long ago, but you were too young then. Soon after we married, I got pregnant with you. I was still so sad. Henry had been dead eleven years by then, but it was like it was yesterday. Watchin' Daddy and Henry go off to war had changed me. I was determined that nobody was going to make decisions over my head again. Your daddy was always easygoing and quiet. But then you came along, feisty, stubborn, talkin' your own mind practically the day you were born. We just got off on the wrong foot from the very beginning. I prayed and prayed about it; I tried to be the Christian mother that I should. But my prayers just seemed to fall to the ground. I couldn't find much in myself to give; my heart had closed up. By the time you started school, things were set between us.”

My tea had grown cold. I had no taste for it now; her story flowed bittersweet. I remembered Mama arguing with me over Danny, and for the first time pictured the scenes in a new light, their shadows dispelled by a warm, amber glow. “You knew how I felt about Danny.”

Her smile was sad. “You were the same age I was when I fell in love with Henry. Oh yes. I knew.”

“Then why wouldn't you let me be with him?” The question spurted from me, streaked with hurt.

“I tried, don't you see?” She leaned toward me. “That's why I let you see him at the river every Saturday, when I never should have, even with Kevin nearby. That's why I had him over for supper; that's why I gave him a chance when I knew the whole town was talkin'. I saw how much you loved him, and I saw that Danny had grown into a good boy, despite his daddy's drinking. But then he started talking of travel. And when I saw that yearning in his eyes, I knew he'd hurt you. Maybe he wouldn't run off to war and get himself killed, but he was goin' to leave you someday for the world and medals of his own, whatever form they took. I wanted to spare you that. Because I, of all people, knew the pain.”

I picked up my mug and swirled the tea. “You fought me so hard. It hurt so much.”

“I never meant to hurt you. God forgive me for what I did; I only meant to help!”

Her voice was tinged with desperation, and discernment stunned me as I looked into her soul. She had carried guilt for years, as I had. Seeing this, even so I couldn't quell my bitterness. “You wanted me to marry Bobby when I didn't love him! You were assigning me the same kind of life you had with Daddy.”

“And I was heartsick over it. But Celia, after what you'd done, it was the only right thing to do. I could only pray that God would bless that marriage and you'd learn to love him, as I'd learned to love William.”

No, I couldn't believe that. “You knew Henry would never come back, Mama, but it was different with Danny! I dreamed of finding him; I dreamed things would change. I had just lost him, Mama; think of it! I was dead inside, like you were dead when you heard about Henry. Could you have married Daddy then? It took you eleven years to get to that point!”

“Celia, believe me, I was tryin' to spare you those years. And I'm so sorry!” Her voice trembled. “You don't know how often I've asked God for a chance to tell you so. I set things in motion and we all paid for it. Most of all Kevin.”

“Kevy?” No, no, I thought. She could have her guilt for withholding love from me, for fighting about Danny, but she could not claim the guilt over Kevy's death. That was mine alone and I would not share it. A tear fell on her cheek. I felt rooted to my chair. I had so rarely seen my mama cry. “If I hadn't been yelling at you,” she said, her voice breaking, “if I'd only paid attention to Kevin instead, our whole lives would have been different.”

“Mama”—disbelief etched my words—“what are you talking about? I did it; I'm the one who yelled at him! You blamed me for that; I saw it in your eyes.” My own filled with tears. “I had taken Kevy away from you. If anyone had to pay, it should have been me, but it was him. I couldn't face you after that; that's why I left.”

Her cheeks blanched. “I thought you blamed me,” she said, choking on tears. “I took Kevy from you, and you wanted to punish me for it. So you waited until we were at his funeral, for God's sake! We came home already dressed in black to find our only other child gone, and for six years we didn't even know if you were alive or dead! Maybe I deserved that, but your daddy didn't.”

“No, that's not true.” I leaned forward with intensity, clasping her arm. “I wasn't even thinking about you when I left; I was in shock. Then the longer I stayed away, the harder it was to pick up the phone. Finally that Christmas I just . . . did it. And you sounded so distant, I thought you still hated me.”

“Distant?” She snorted a laugh. “I'd just learned my only remaining child was still alive! I can't begin to describe my feelings. I thought that call would never come. I'd blamed God for years for losin' you. But Celia, by the time you did call, you'd hurt me so much, I couldn't let you hurt me all over again. I had to hold back.”

Hold back. Is that what we had done our entire lives? I from her, she from me, our miscommunications intertwining until they squeezed our very hearts? “Oh, Mama.” I slipped from my chair as she rose from hers, and we reached for each other. “I'm sorry,” I said, sobbing, and she said it, too, crying. I didn't know all the things she was crying for. I cried for a colored sidewalk and Granddad's medals, for Kevy's abandoned fishing pole, for no more suppers with Danny, for a child's unreturned I-love-you's, and misunderstandings and chilled silences. I cried for her pain, too, for her nightmares while her daddy was off to war, for burying the man she loved and burying her son, for enduring Granddad's tales of the very war that had taken Henry from her, for living one life and dreaming of another, as I had done the past seventeen years.