Forgivin' Ain't Forgettin' (32 page)
I
’m glad you came to see me.”
“I’m having a good time.” Cassidy smiled as she glanced out the front window at the layers of mountains in the distance.
“I never thought I’d say it, but I’m happy here with my son.”
According to Oliver Toby, the father and son had grown closer now that they were living together again. Oliver Toby’s son even attended church with him, and Oliver Toby believed it wouldn’t be long before his son accepted Jesus Christ as his personal Savior.
Cassidy returned to the sofa and sat next to Oliver Toby. The afghan that his neighbor, Ramona Bucci, had crocheted for him draped his knees. Ramona, eleven years younger than Oliver Toby, still possessed some of her natural brunet hair and was in excellent health. The matriarch of a strong Italian family, Ramona, with something home-cooked in tow, stopped in to check on Oliver Toby each weekday while his son was at work. Cassidy thought Ramona was one of the sweetest women she’d ever met. In many ways, she reminded Cassidy of Odessa. Several times, Cassidy had teased Oliver Toby about how pretty Ramona was and what a cute couple he and Ramona would make. Humor flashed in Oliver Toby’s eyes and through his voice as he assured her that he was too old for marriage and too young for death and that living with Ramona full-time would kill him.
Oliver Toby said gently, “Don’t keep holding it inside, Cassidy.”
She looked him in the eyes, then directed her surprised gaze toward the television, its volume set on low.
“Behind that smile you’ve perfected, there’s pain. I’ve told you before, I can see it.” Oliver Toby gave her consideration, a solemn but sensitive expression on his face. “Some memories need to stay just that—memories. But sometimes there are memories that can’t be kept secret—especially if the memories are memories you can’t handle on your own. And from time to time, life hands us things we can’t handle on our own. We need God’s help, and sometimes He sends that help in the form of others.” With tear-framed eyes, Cassidy tenderly regarded her friend. He squeezed her hand with the strength his frail muscles allowed. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve tried running from God a few times myself. Eventually, you get tired, though, and if you’re smart, you stop and do things God’s way.”
Trevor parked and hurried to the house, his heart racing with relentless dread. The door stood open, and he rushed inside. Trudy immediately jumped up from a chair that had part of its stuffing hanging out. Blood droppings had stained her shirt, and she clutched a homemade ice pack to her mouth. “Look at what Derek done did,” she yelled. “I told you he ain’t no good. Ain’t never been no good.”
“Where is he?” Trevor’s question jabbed the air.
“What you worried ’bout
him
for?” Trudy snarled. “What about me? I’m the one bleedin’ to death.”
“Where is he?” Trevor insisted with more urgency.
“He upstairs. I told him he better stay up there ’cause if he come down here, I’m gon’ call the cops on his no-good—”
“Derek!” Trevor shouted, and started up the wooden flight of stairs to the second floor as Trudy blurted cusswords.
“In here.” The muffled response came from the end of the hall. Trevor twisted the knob and pushed open the door to Derek’s room. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Derek was okay, at least physically. Trevor neared Derek, who was sitting on the edge of a bed without a headboard. Animosity raged in Derek’s expression as he exhaled chopped breaths through his nostrils. “She kept callin’ me names”—he shook his head—“and I just lost it and swung at her.”
“Where are your little brothers?” Trevor asked, realizing how quiet the house was.
“Their father came and took ’em this morning. He ain’t suppose to bring ’em back till tomorrow.”
Trevor looked around the one-window room. A large dresser sat opposite the bed, the only two pieces of furniture. Several posters of professional athletes were taped to dingy walls. A closet door hung open. “Do you have a suitcase?”
“No.”
“Start taking your clothes out and put them on the bed. I’ll go down and get some trash bags from the kitchen. They’ll have to do for now.”
Trudy, seated at the kitchen table in front of an open bottle of liquor and an ashtray, tapped her cigarette and put it back to her bruised lip. After releasing a puff of smoke, she said, “Boy ain’t got no respect. I shoulda called the cops. Let ’em put him in the same hole with his daddy.”
“Where do you keep your trash bags, Miss Hines?” Trevor addressed Trudy with a dignity she had not earned.
She glared at him long and hard. She finally said in an unassertive voice, “Look in the cabinet ’neath the sink.”
Trevor pulled three large bags out of a no-frills-brand box and faced Trudy. “I’d like to take Derek with me.”
“Why?” Trudy leaned her head back and fogged the air with another cloud of smoke. “You ain’t his daddy. Wish you were, but you ain’t.”
“But I care about your son, Miss Hines, and I don’t think it’s wise for the two of you to remain under the same roof. Either you or him are going to get hurt much worse if things continue like they are.”
Trudy’s harsh chuckle was followed by a ring of coughs, and it sounded like she had ash in her throat. “Didn’t I tell you day was gon’ come when you was gon’ want me to do somethin’ for you?” She muttered something unintelligible, and Trevor began to pray. It would take God to give him favor with Trudy. Before Trevor could end his private prayer, Trudy pushed her fingers through her uncombed hair. “Take him,” she said flatly.
Trevor gave God a word of praise and then said to Trudy, “Thank you.” He paused. “And thank you for calling me.” She had been the one to call, screaming that Derek had attacked her and she was about to cut him with her butcher knife.
As Trevor helped Derek pack his belongings into the truck, he considered that Cassidy might find it unfair of him to ask her to take in Derek when he’d been so firm on his stance regarding Herbie. Trevor needed God to give him the sentences to say to Cassidy to convince her to let Derek stay with them, so Trevor began to pray again as he drove to the park. The court was empty. He strode around to the passenger side and opened the door. “A little b-ball always helps me unwind,” he said to Derek. “Why don’t we run a couple of games?”
Derek remained a statue on the seat, his fists clenched on his knees. “Trudy makes me so sick, always preachin’ I’m going to prison.”
“
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you . . . thoughts of peace, and not of evil.
”
Derek turned his glare toward Trevor. “Shakespeare?”
“No. It’s what God says in the book of Jeremiah. Now it’s up to you whether you’re going to choose God’s blessing or your mother’s curse.”
Trevor and Derek studied each other. Some of the anger left Derek’s face, but not the heartache. “It’s all right to cry,” Trevor said, and Derek’s stiff jaw slackened a bit. “Being the man of the house at such a young age is a tough job,” Trevor continued, remembering how tiring it had been, always trying to stay strong after his father died so that his mother wouldn’t have the added burden of worrying about him. “But even tough guys hurt and feel pain.”
“Don’t tell the guys from the team.” His watery eyes begged. His voice cracked under the weight of the tears. “Promise you won’t tell.”
“I promise,” Trevor said, and Derek bowed his head to his knees and flushed his soul with sobs.
“I’m sorry, God,” Derek wept. “I’m sorry I hit my mom.” Soon Derek’s cries softened, and he stuttered to Trevor, “Where . . . where I’m gonna live?”
“You’ll stay with me until something else is worked out,” Trevor said, knowing he had yet to discuss any of this with his wife.
“But,” Derek started, then snorted and wiped his face with his shirt. No tissues in the vehicle, Trevor had to let Derek fend for himself. “But Mrs. Monroe,” he finished, “she don’t really like me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Just seem like she don’t.”
“It will only be until I can find him another place.” Trevor was explaining Derek’s situation to Cassidy while Derek practiced his game on the court in the nearby park.
“It’s fine,” she said agreeably.
Trevor asked again just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“I don’t mind,” she said, and surprised him more by asking, “Has Derek had dinner?”
Trevor had eaten a late lunch, and a big one, so he hadn’t thought about Derek being hungry. He checked his watch. It was after eight, two hours since they’d left Trudy. “He’s probably starving by now.”
“I’ll prepare something,” she said.
Derek gobbled the turkey burger, mashed potatoes, and sautéed string beans Cassidy had fixed.
“I’ll show you your room.” Cassidy smiled and led Derek upstairs, Brittney and Brandi following.
Trevor cleaned up the kitchen, thinking it was nice of Cassidy to go to the trouble of cooking for him and Derek so late in the evening and on a night off. This morning Trevor had told her he wouldn’t be home in time for dinner, and Cassidy’s response had been that she wouldn’t cook tonight but rather take the girls out for dinner.
Trevor encountered Cassidy in the second-floor hall on her way to the guest room, a pillow in her grasp. “Derek might want an extra one,” she said. “Tomorrow I thought Derek and I might work out a tutoring schedule for the fall. He asked me to help him with his schoolwork last year and, well . . .” Her voice faded.
“Thank you for welcoming him into our home,” Trevor said.
“Derek’s a good kid, and I despise the way Trudy treats him. He doesn’t deserve it. No child does.”
“I told Derek he had you pegged wrong.” Trevor smiled lightly. “The boy thought you didn’t like him.”
“I’ve always liked Derek”—Cassidy clutched the pillow lengthwise—“but I haven’t done a very good job of showing it.”
Trevor gazed into Cassidy’s eyes, looking for explanation.
“Derek looks so much like Minister that I actually see Minister when I look at Derek. But that’s my problem, not Derek’s.”
Trevor had heard the name “Minister” from Cassidy only once. He was somebody she’d met in college, a first serious boyfriend.
Now the instinct in Trevor’s gut and the conflict in Cassidy’s eyes suggested there were more chapters to the story about Minister. Trevor eased one of her hands from the pillow. “Would you like to talk about him?” he asked.
Cassidy clasped his fingers tighter, focused on his eyes, and parted her lips preparing to speak as Brandi let out a playful yelp. Trevor felt disappointment as what Cassidy was about to reveal sprinted back to the place where she kept her secrets. “I should get the girls out of Derek’s room so he can relax,” she said quietly, and walked away from Trevor and the question.
S
ummer moved forward with sunny mornings, stormy afternoons, and humid nights. With Trudy’s permission, Trevor had sent Derek on the church youth retreat, a two-week stint in the wilderness that would afford Derek a change of routine, the right to breathe something other than city air, a chance to make new friends, and an opportunity to grow deeper in God.
Gripping the newspaper, Trevor retired to the living room, which Cassidy had redecorated in contemporary style. He sank into one of two plush and spacious chenille-fabric chairs that matched the sofa, love seat, and a huge ottoman. Brittney perched on the wide chair arm and leaned against his shoulder, and he opened the newspaper to the sports page. Cassidy and Trevor’s wedding portrait hung above the piano. Odessa’s rocker, which Cassidy kept in the guest room, was the only other piece of furniture Cassidy had brought along from her old house. Everything else had been donated to a local mission.
Cassidy joined Brandi on the piano bench. Brandi swung her small feet, excited about her lesson. As Brandi mastered “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” Trevor peeked over the edge of the open newspaper and regarded his wife. The majority of her braids were pinned up, but she’d left a few waterfalling along the side of her face. Her feet were bare, and she wore jeans and a short-sleeved shirt.
“Daddy, you’re not paying attention.” Brittney tapped him on the shoulder. They often took turns reading the paragraphs, and she reminded him, “Take your turn.”
He kissed her cheek. “Sorry. Where are we?” he asked. He followed her finger to the printed spot, read his part, and returned his thoughts to Cassidy. Although she’d committed to attending the marital counseling session with him and the pastor tomorrow, she hadn’t given any clues as to whether she’d changed her mind about seeing a therapist.
Trevor frowned as he worried about Cassidy. Most nights, she cooked the low-fat meals she preferred and he was growing accustomed to, yet she still wasn’t eating enough, the kids having more on their plates than Cassidy had on hers. Trevor didn’t know what Cassidy had eaten while in Denver, sure that if she ate there like she nibbled here, Oliver Toby had reprimanded her about it.
Brittney poked him with her elbow this time, and he took his turn, but if he’d been tested on his comprehension of the subject matter, he would have flunked. While Brittney read, Trevor clamped another glance on Cassidy and his younger daughter. From day one, Cassidy had loved and accepted the girls, referring to them as her daughters instead of her stepchildren. Cassidy’s maternal instincts were as natural as her beauty, and Trevor couldn’t think of anything more precious and holy than creating a child with her. During premarital counseling, she’d sanctioned the idea of having children with him. Now she was saying no to the prospect of pregnancy, and it left him feeling betrayed and rejected and worn-out with more questions. Why would Cassidy not want to have his baby? Was there something about him that led her to believe he was not a good father?
Brandi’s lesson normally lasted thirty minutes, but this evening it was chopped to fifteen as someone leaned a finger on the doorbell.
“I wonder who that is.” Brittney jumped down from the chair and sped to the front door.
“Do not open the door without looking out first,” Trevor called behind her.
Brittney looked through the side window and grinned. “It’s Auntie Kendall,” she screamed, and Brandi squealed as high as her vocal cords would take her.