Read The View From Here Online
Authors: Cindy Myers
The View From Here (12 page)
“At least now you don't have to worry about him asking you to take him back,” Barb said. “You're well rid of him.”
“Barb! I thought you liked Carter.”
“I love you and you loved him, so I learned to put up with him, but I always thought he was much too concerned with his image and his own comforts. You know good and well the only reason he's with Francine is because she has all that money.”
“We don't know that,” Maggie said. “Maybe he really loves her.” She coughed, trying to clear the knot in her throat.
“Carter only loves himself. Getting rid of him is the best thing that ever happened to you, you'll see.” She patted Maggie's arm. “Let's have some more wine.”
“The bottle is almost empty.”
“Then we'll open another.”
Â
Lucille was minding the counter at Lacy's, but she had on her mayoral hat. She'd spent the morning trying to reach someone from the state to get an explanation for a letter she'd received that, as far as she could tell, reduced funding for highway maintenance in the areaâagain.
“That's Eureka,” she said to the third person to whom her call had been transferred. “In Eureka County. This is not merely a local issueâwe have thousands of tourists driving these roads every year, and the state's happy to take their cut of the sales tax money from them. I don't think it's asking too much to get part of that money back to maintain the roads.”
To which the bureaucrat informed her the person to whom she needed to speak was out of the office for the week.
Lucille slammed down the phone and was massaging the bridge of her nose when the string of cowbells on the back of the shop door jangled and Olivia walked in. Lucille had scarcely seen her daughter since she'd arrived in town. She worked most nights at the Dirty Sally. When she wasn't working, she was there as a customer, or off somewhere else with the new friends she'd made. She was asleep when Lucille and Lucas left in the morning. Though she'd managed to get the boy enrolled in school, Lucille was the one who drove him there on her way to work. She'd told herself this was an opportunity for her to get to know her grandson better, but Lucas answered her questions with grunts and single syllables. He wasn't sullen or irritable, merely uncommunicative.
“I just got a call from the school,” Olivia said by way of greeting. “Lucas is in trouble.”
Lucas? In trouble? The boy was so quiet. Not the type to fight . . . but he did have a smart mouth on him. “I'm sorry to hear that,” Lucille said. “Are you on your way to the school now?”
“Yes, and I want you to go with me.”
Lucille wondered how much those words had cost Olivia. She had never been one to ask for help, especially not from her mother. “Of course I'll go. Though I'm not sure what I'll be able to do.”
“You live here. You're the mayor, for God's sake. You ought to have some influence.”
Lucille laughed. “You wouldn't think that if you could have heard me on the phone with the state just now. In Denver, they don't even know where Eureka is.”
“The people at the school will know you. Maybe they'll listen to you.”
Olivia drove, Lucille in the passenger seat of the big black SUV. The seats were leather and the vehicle still smelled new. “Have you heard from D. J. lately?” Lucille asked.
Olivia's hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No.”
“So he has no idea you have his car.”
“Let it go, Mother. I don't want to talk about it.”
Lucille pinched out a brief flame of anger. No sense starting an argument she couldn't win. At school they found Lucas sitting in the front office, reading a book. He looked fine. No black eyes or signs of tears.
“What happened?” Olivia asked.
Before he could answer, the door behind him opened and the principal emerged. Dennis Kinkaid was a slim, balding man with a salt-and-pepper goatee and the perpetually exasperated look of a man who dealt with teenagers for a living. His gaze flickered over Olivia, then shifted to Lucille, eyes widening in surprise. “You know this boy?” he asked.
“Lucas is my grandson.”
Kinkaid held the door wide. “Come into my office.”
The three of them filed inside. “I want you to tell me what happened,” Olivia said.
Kinkaid sat behind his desk, his expression grim. “I don't know about the situation where you lived before,” he said. “But we don't tolerate troublemakers at our schools in Eureka.”
“Lucas is not a troublemaker.” Olivia's spiky hair practically vibrated with indignation.
“He disrupted his classroom this afternoon. We won't stand for that.”
Olivia turned to her son. “What happened?” she asked.
“The teacher was wrong.” He looked stubborn.
“Wrong about what?” Lucille could keep quiet no longer. She looked at Kinkaid. “What exactly happened?”
“Lucas's teacher, Mr. Brewster, was teaching a history lesson. Lucas apparently didn't agree with his explanation.”
“He was wrong,” Lucas said. “He said the Spanish were the first to mine gold in the area, but that's not right. The Ute Indians knew about the gold before the Spanish ever got here. I told him so.”
Lucille could imagine how Lucas had told him. The boy was nothing if not blunt.
“You can say what you want about your school, Mr. Kinkaid,” Olivia said. “But I'm not impressed when my son is smarter than his teacher.”
“The smartest thing about your son is his mouth,” Kinkaid said, his face reddening. “He was rude to Mr. Brewster in a classroom full of students and he owes him an apology.”
“Why should I apologize when I'm right and he's wrong?” Lucas protested.
Olivia put her arm around Lucas's shoulder and Lucille knew she was gearing up for another defense of her son. Lucille put one hand on each of them. “Lucas, you owe Mr. Brewster an apology because he is your teacher. He may have been mistaken about this one matter, but he deserves your respect. If you believed something wasn't right, you should have addressed him in a respectful manner.”
“I don't thinkâ” Olivia began.
“We can discuss what you think later,” Lucille said. She focused on Lucas. “Part of getting along in this world is recognizing when something is worth a fight and when it isn't.”
“A teacher is supposed to know better.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Don't tell me you've never made a mistake.”
“I think Lucas and I should talk to Mr. Brewster.” Olivia glared at her mother. “Alone.”
Between Olivia's short fuse and Lucas's reluctance to sensor his own emotions, their “talk” with the teacher was likely to be a disaster. “I don't think that would be a good idea,” Lucille said.
“I didn't ask your opinion.”
But she'd asked Lucille to come with her this morning. Why? Because she'd thought Lucille would back her up in her determination to thwart authority?
Mr. Kinkaid ushered Olivia and Lucas out of the office, presumably to meet with Mr. Brewster. When he returned, Lucille was pacing the small roomâfour steps across, four strides back, her head pounding.
“Your daughter has some very definite opinions about how things ought to be done,” he said.
“Olivia has always been headstrong. Not that that's always a bad thing.” Having done her own time as a single mother, Lucille knew the kind of strength and courage that took.
“No, I'd say she comes by her stubbornness honestly.” He seemed to be trying not to smile.
Lucille stopped in front of him. “Lucas was wrong to call out that teacher,” she said. “But what are you doing hiring teachers who don't know their subject matter better than a seventh grader?”
“I think it's safe to say Lucas is not your average seventh grader. Mr. Brewster is a good teacher. But even good teachers can't be experts in every area.”
“I know Lucas needs help with his social skills,” Lucille said. “He's had a . . . a difficult childhood.” She had very little idea what kind of childhood he'd had, but it certainly couldn't have been easy. Olivia had moved a lot, and been involved with several different men. “He hasn't had a lot of stability.”
“Maybe now that he's here with you he will have that stability.”
“I hope so. I don't know how long Olivia plans to stay.”
“It can be tough on everyone when grown children come home again,” Kinkaid said. “I hear it's happening more and more in this economy.”
“I'm glad to have her here, but I don't know how happy she is.”
“Maybe the town will grow on her, if she can figure out how she fits in. The boy is smart; he just needs to learn how to get along with people. You can help him with that, I'm sure.”
Lucille wasn't sure about that at all. She had done a poor enough job with Olivia; whatever the girl had made of herself had been as much in spite of Lucille as because of her. “I'll do what I can to help Lucas,” she said.
Kinkaid was called to the phone, leaving Lucille the option of either resuming her pacing or sitting. She sat and looked out the window at a grove of aspen trees, like dancers in lacy green skirts. Summer came to the mountains in a rush of breathtaking brilliance, the hills awash in twenty shades of green, wildflowers like jewels scattered everywhere. It was Lucille's favorite time of year, all the more precious because its tenure was so short, the warm days giving way to cold once more after only two and a half months.
The door opened behind her and she turned to see Olivia and Lucas, followed by a tall young man with glasses and a goatee so black he looked like a boy playing dress up with shoe polish on his face. “Dan, this is my mother, Lucille Theriot.” Olivia's cheeks bloomed with bright spots of pink and her eyes sparkled with an excitement that seemed out of place in this drab office.
“Hello, Mrs. Theriot. It's a pleasure to meet you,” he said, offering his hand. “I'm Dan Brewster.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Brewster.” Lucille shook his hand, but watched her daughter. Olivia tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and straightened the collar of her shirt, glancing every few seconds at the man at her side. The teacher, likewise, could scarcely keep his eyes off her. Lucille had to fight to keep from laughing out loud. Olivia and Dan Brewster might have been two teenagers, for all the hormones on overdrive in the room. She turned her attention to Lucas, who was retrieving his backpack from the corner. The dark cloud had lifted from over him and he looked less sulky.
“Did you get everything worked out?” Lucille asked.
“I'm going to do a special project,” he said. “On mining in the Eureka district. I'll present it to the class when school starts next fall.”
At his age, Lucille would have seen classwork over the summer as punishment, but Lucas seemed pleased with the idea. “Whose idea was this?” she asked.
“Mr. Brewster suggested it. He thought since I was so interested in the subject, I should share my knowledge with the class.”
“Did you apologize to him?” Lucille asked.
“I said I was sorry I called him out in front of the class. We agreed next time I thought he was wrong about something, I'd talk to him after class. Man-to-man.”
She glanced at the teacher again, who was engrossed in conversation with Olivia, both of them smiling, eyes locked together. He might look like a boy to her, but he'd figured out a way to reason with her obstinate grandson.
Lucas shouldered the backpack. “I have to get to English,” he said.
“I'll see you tonight, then.” Lucille patted his shoulder awkwardly, then watched him shuffle out the door. He was still thin and long-limbed, but not really as odd looking as she'd thought when they'd first met.
“Are you ready to go?”
Lucille turned and found Olivia next to her, jiggling her keys. “Where's Mr. Brewster?” Lucille asked.
“He had to get back to class.” Her lips curved in a sly smile, showing no teeth. “He's coming to take me to dinner later.”
“To talk about Lucas?”
Olivia's smile broadened. “I'm hoping he'd rather talk about me.”
Chapter 11
M
aggie struggled into consciousness, wondering if she was back in college, awakening after a night of partying at the sorority house. Her head throbbed like a sore thumb, and her mouth tasted like a wet doormat. She rolled over and looked at Barb, who laid like a corpse on the other side of the king-size bed, on her back with her arms folded across her stomach, a pink satin sleep mask over her eyes. She looked entirely too serene for a woman who had drunk more than her share of two bottles of wine the night before.
aggie struggled into consciousness, wondering if she was back in college, awakening after a night of partying at the sorority house. Her head throbbed like a sore thumb, and her mouth tasted like a wet doormat. She rolled over and looked at Barb, who laid like a corpse on the other side of the king-size bed, on her back with her arms folded across her stomach, a pink satin sleep mask over her eyes. She looked entirely too serene for a woman who had drunk more than her share of two bottles of wine the night before.
Maggie crawled over and poked Barb in the ribs. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said.
Barb groaned. “Go away,” she mumbled.
Maggie prodded harder. “Wake up,” she said louder.
“Not now, Jimmy. You know I'm not in the mood before I've had my coffee.”
“I love you, Barb, but not in that way.” Maggie shoved her again. “Wake up.”
Barb lifted one corner of the sleep mask and glowered at Maggie with one bloodshot eye. “You look like hell,” she said.
“You look like you're laid out for the undertaker.”
“God, how much did we drink last night?” Barb draped one arm over her eyes.
“Too much.” Maggie lay back on the pillow, but the room spun dangerously, so she opened her eyes and forced herself up onto her elbows, jaw clenched, fighting nausea.
“It must the altitude,” Barb moaned. “I never get sick when I drink.”
“So it had nothing to do with the
two
bottles of wine.”
two
bottles of wine.”
“We should call that handsome Jameso and ask him to bring us coffee.”
“We don't have a phone, and the last thing I want is for Jameso to see me looking like this.”
“See, you really do care about him.”
“It's a small town, Barb. If Jameso came up here and found us in bed together looking like something the dog threw up, he could start all kinds of awful rumors.”
“Which do you think would be worse: the rumor about us being lesbian lovers or about looking like something the dog threw up?”
“I'm getting up now. If you don't come down soon, I won't save you any coffee.”
Holding on to the stair railing for support, Maggie dragged herself down the stairs to the restroom just in time to lose last night's dinner in the toilet. Stripping off the old T-shirt and jeans in which she'd slept, she turned on the shower full force and stepped under the scalding flow. Maybe Barb was right and the altitude did make a hangover worse. She hadn't felt this bad in at least two decades. Even her divorce hadn't seemed worth working herself into such misery.
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the shower feeling slightly more human. She dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that had belonged to her father and thick cotton socks. By the time she had the coffee brewed, Barb had crept down the stairs.
“I can't believe this is how you repay me for going to all the trouble to come visit,” Barb moaned. Holding her head with both hands as if she feared at any moment it might fall off, she carefully lowered herself into a chair at the table.
“What are you talking about?” Maggie asked. “Repay you how?”
“I drive all the way up here and you get me drunk.” Barb's voice was wet, as if with tears.
“It was your wine.” Maggie set a cup of coffee and two aspirin in front of her. “Drink that. You'll feel better.”
Two cups of coffee later, Barb did seem to feel better. She stared out the window across the living room. “This must be what it's like to go hang gliding,” she said. “Without all the wind and cold and the danger part of it.”
“Other than that, it must be just like it,” Maggie said.
“Oh, sure, be all blasé about it,” Barb said. “For a flatlander like me, it's really something.”
“It's really something for a flatlander like me, too,” Maggie said.
Barb turned back to her. “I meant what I said yesterday. You look great. You look . . . happier.”
“I'm not unhappy. I guess you were right. It was good to get away from Houston and Carter and all the memories. This has been a good distraction.”
“Have your learned a lot of good stuff about your dad? Do you know what he was up to for the last forty years?”
“He came to Eureka seven years ago,” Maggie said. “I've learned some things about his life since then, but nothing about the time before that. He apparently never talked about it, and there aren't many clues.”
“What are the clues?” Barb asked. “I love a good mystery.”
“I have a letter from my mom in which she hints that he came to the mountains because Houston reminded him too much of the jungle. The jungles of Vietnam, I guess.”
“What else?”
“That's really about it. Something happened in the war to upset him or change him so that he felt he couldn't be a husband and a father anymore.”
“And you have no idea what that was.”
“No idea.”
“What about his life in Eureka? What do you know about that?”
“He made a lot of friends and a few enemies. He could be a great guy and a real son of a bitch. He made his own rules and broke some others. He had money in the bank that no one knows the source of.”
“Oh my gosh. This is so exciting.”
“No, it's confusing. I don't know what to think about him.”
“Do you have to think anything? Can't he just be an interesting character you know a lot of stories about?”
“It would be easier if he could, but he can't.”
“Because he's your dad.”
Maggie sighed. “Yeah, because he's my dad.” She traced one finger around the rim of her coffee cup, around and around, wondering if her dad had drunk from this same cup. In the picture Danielle had had at the memorial, he had a moustache. Carter never had much of a beard and remained clean shaven throughout their marriage. She had no idea what it would feel like to have a man with a moustache kiss her cheek, as a father might have done to say hello or good-bye.
“When I was a little girl, I spent hours and hours imagining what my dad was like,” she said. “What he looked like, what he sounded like, what he'd say to me if he were there. I'd have imaginary conversations with him and tell him about my day, and he'd push me on the swing or take me riding in his Cadillac and buy me hot fudge sundaes from Dairy Queen.”
“A Cadillac?”
She nodded. “A Cadillac. My friend Celia's grandfather had one and I thought it was the most wonderful car I'd ever seen. So, of course, my father drove one. “
“And bought you hot fudge sundaes.”
“Of course. And gave me silver dollars for my allowance and rode with me on the roller coaster at the fair and walked me down the aisle at my wedding.”
“He did all the things a father is supposed to do for his daughter,” Barb said.
“Yes, and he was perfect.” She glanced at her friend. “I knew reality wouldn't be perfect, but I didn't realize the truth could be so unsettling. The more I know about my father, the more I see his flaws. And that makes me wonder which of those flaws he passed down to me.”
“Sweetheart, I understand the arguments for nature versus nurture, but you can't honestly believe your father passed on a tendency to break rules or get into fights or any of the other unsavory things you've learned about him.”
“No, but maybe I
do
have some of those traits, only they manifest in other ways. He ran away from a marriage and I ran away from my divorce.”
do
have some of those traits, only they manifest in other ways. He ran away from a marriage and I ran away from my divorce.”
“You didn't run away from a divorce. You made a fresh start.”
“I spent my whole marriage letting Carter make all the decisions. I almost never spoke up.”
“Which sounds like the opposite of your father, who apparently wasn't ever afraid to express an opinion.”
“They're both ways of avoiding responsibility,” Maggie said. “If Carter made all the decisions, it was never my fault when things went wrong. If my dad talked loud enough about how he didn't like the way things were being done, he divorced himself from the responsibility for the outcome, too. He could stand back later and say, âI told you so.' ”
Barb put a hand on Maggie's arm. “I think all that wine you drank last night hasn't worn off yet. You are way overthinking this. So let's start over. What are we going to do this morning?”
Maggie took a deep breath. Barb was right. She was getting worked up over nothing. Her friend was here. It was a beautiful day. She should stop worrying about her father and focus on Barb. “What would you like to do?” she asked.
“I want to see the town,” Barb said. “But first I want to see the French Mistress Mine.”
Maggie blinked at Barb's pronouncement. “You do know mines are cold, dirty, and underground,” she said. She studied the Michael Kors ensemble her friend had chosen for this morning, complete with matching kitten heels. She tried to picture Barb crawling through some filthy mine tunnel, but it was impossible.
“I'll change into old clothes,” Barb said. “You must have something I can borrow.”
“There's a locked gate over the mine entrance. I'm not even sure we can get in.”
“Don't you have the key?”
“I have a whole bunch of keys. I just don't know which one opens the lock on the gate.”
“We'll try them all. And if that doesn't work, bring a hacksaw.”
Maggie couldn't hold back a laugh. “I never saw you so anxious to get dirty.”
“I've never had a chance to see gold up close and in its natural state.” Barb fingered the gold hoops in her ears. “Maybe you'll let me chip out a few nuggets, as a souvenir.”
“We don't even know if there's gold left in the mine. There probably isn't.”
“Don't you want to find out? I'd think you'd be dying to know. Instead, you're doing your best to talk meâand yourselfâout of looking.”
Maggie pressed her lips together. “I just get, I don't know, nervous whenever I think about it.”
Barb put a comforting hand on her arm. “What are you afraid of? We're just going to take a look. We won't do anything dangerous.”
That fear thing again. Maggie took a deep breath. “I guess I'm afraid of being disappointed.” God knows she'd had enough of that emotion to last the rest of her life. “That there won't be anything of value in the mine and I'll be the proud owner of a big empty hole in the side of a mountain.”
“Then maybe you can use it to grow mushrooms or raise bats or something.”
“Raise bats?”
Barb shrugged. “I read an article about some guy in Texas who made a fortune selling bat guano out of caves for fertilizer.”
“Bat guano?”
Barb grinned. “Just think. You could be the bat-shit queen.”
Laughter bubbled up despite Maggie's best efforts to suppress it. “The bat-shit queen!” she repeated between guffaws. “Then Carter could tell everyone his ex-wife was truly bat shit.” As crazy as her life had been lately, it was almost appropriate.
“Gold or guano, what difference does it make if you end up rich?” Barb said.
“Or it could just be an empty hole,” Maggie said, sobering.
“Why would someone bother putting a locked gate over an empty hole?”
“Because it's dangerous. I'm sure there's all kinds of liability issues if a hiker or someone got trapped in there.” Maggie shuddered. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.” Barb gave her a gentle shove. “Now find me some old clothes.”
Half an hour later, the two women started out. Barb wore Maggie's oldest jeans while Maggie donned a pair of coveralls that had belonged to her father. She had to roll the sleeves and the pant legs up, and had cinched a belt around her waist to gather in all the extra fabric. “All that's missing is a pair of big shoes and a red nose,” Barb said, surveying her. “You could be the clown at the circus.”
“And you could be the ring leader. I can't believe I let you talk me into this. I just hope to God no one else I know sees me like this.”
“No one will care how you dress when you're a millionaire.” Barb picked up the foot-long flashlight Maggie had given her. “Let's go.”
They started toward the door, but on the porch Maggie turned back.
“What now?” Barb called after her.
“I forgot Winston's cookies.” She crammed half a dozen Lorna Doones in the pockets of the coveralls. “If he sees us and decides he wants cookies, we'll have to bribe him to let us pass.”
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