Читать книгу The Object Of Love - Sharon Cullars - Страница 6

“Where do you want this, sweetie?” Mrs. Hampton asked, standing in the kitchen doorway holding a steaming tureen of her special gumbo in both hands. Lacey smelled the trace of cinnamon and heavy peppers that joined a medley of other smells emanating from containers, plates, pots of donated food sitting on the kitchen counter and table.

Estelle got up from her chair and took the tureen from Mrs. Hampton, one of their mother’s oldest friends. “We got a little space right here.” She nudged aside the covered plate of knishes that Ellen had brought over before the funeral. Calvin used to love how Ellen flavored the beef with garlic. She pictured the sauce dribbling down his cheek as he sloppily bit into one. Lacey shook the image away.

She knew she was hiding here in the kitchen, that she should make the rounds of mourners in the living room, but right now she didn’t have the strength.

Mrs. Hampton beelined around the table, bent to gather Lacey’s shoulders in a hug, placed a dry kiss on her cheek. “You hang in there, all right? God’s going to see you through this.”

Lacey smiled, touched the hand on her shoulder. “I know He will.”

She knew no such thing. Didn’t know how she was going to get through the next few hours, let alone the next days, months. The intense emotions that had overwhelmed her at the funeral were ebbing back to a small trickle, but she was constantly aware of the pain.

Her mother was in the living room, playing hostess, giving Lacey a reprieve. But it was time to get on with the business of living. She stood up.

Mrs. Hampton and Estelle watched her carefully as she headed out of the kitchen. Both had witnessed her breakdown, and were treating her with more care than she could deal with. She stopped at the foyer, keeping to the shadows as she spied into the living room. Her feet refused to move and she didn’t feel impelled to make a grand entrance as the grieving mother. The crowd was thinner than it had been a half-hour ago. Mostly neighbors and friends sitting or standing in groups. Calvin’s friends had left to catch flights or clear out of hotels. She watched the guests eating their food, sipping their soda, some talking animatedly. There were even a few smiles. It seemed strange that life was indeed going on, while her son was only a few hours in his grave, cold and alone. Her sadness seemed an intrusion to this parody of a party.

A lone figure caught her eye. Her uncle Joe had parked himself in the big leather chair in front of the television. He had it turned to the news, and seemed engrossed with whatever report was being broadcast. Yet she knew the TV was only a distraction. His weathered expression mirrored her own pain. He seemed shrunken somehow, as though someone had lopped off several feet from his usually six-foot-three frame. Joe had been Calvin’s father figure since Darryl died nearly ten years before, leaving her a widow with an eleven-year-old child.

She spotted her mother standing near the window next to Ellen and Sol. Both women were nodding at something Sol was saying. His hands gesticulated as he stressed a point, a habit Lacey always found annoying. Feeling stronger, she stepped further into the room. Immediately, a hand touched her forearm, and she turned to see another neighbor, Raymond, standing alone at the fireplace. The mantel was lined with pictures of Calvin, Darryl, and her. She avoided looking at them directly.

“How’re you holding up?” he asked. “Was a little worried about you at the cemetery.”

“I’m really sorry about that, Ray. I didn’t mean to carry on so. It’s just everything caught up with me at that moment and I caved. I should’ve been stronger.”

Raymond shook his head. Tight gray curls peppered his otherwise black hair and moustache, yet his smooth, dark skin belied his fifty-plus years.

“There’s nothing to be apologizing about. You’re allowed to cry, to scream—hell, to fall out if you need to. Nobody’s judging you on that. I just want you to know that I’m next door anytime you need to talk. Don’t matter whether it’s day or night. Feel free to call me.” He took her hand, held it in his.

Lacey nodded with a stiff smile, withdrew her hand tentatively. Although she appreciated the sentiment, she half suspected that beneath his solace was a tacit offer for something more. Since Ray’s wife June died a couple of years ago, he had turned his attention on Lacey, which often manifested in a variety of gifts: fresh catfish from his fishing trips; turnips, collards and carrots from his garden; fat, pungent strawberries that he planted every spring. She accepted the gifts with wary appreciation, not wanting to hurt his feelings and yet not wanting to encourage him.

“I think I’ll go check on Mama. This whole thing has been really hard on her.”

Lacey walked over to her mother, now talking to a woman Lacey recognized as one of her mother’s friends. Contrary to what she had told Ray, her mother was holding up quite well. Despite an attack of arthritis that had laid her up recently, Mrs. Dolores Coleman stood her full height. At nearly six feet, she was not a shrinking violet. Although her hair was gray, it gleamed with a sleek metallic sheen that highlighted still-luminous skin. The height was courtesy of Ibo ancestors brought to the South Carolina islands. The cheekbones spoke of Cree and Apache patriarchs who had taken up with a couple of runaway slave women; the slightly slanted eyes came from a particularly industrious Chinese immigrant brought over to work on the continental railroad, who later married a great-great-grandmother and established a business of his own. These traits were from strong genes that never got muted no matter whose line they married into. Calvin’s eyes had been similar to his grandmother’s; her own were less so. Still, she had the height and bones.

Her mother smiled as she approached. “You feeling better?”

“Wish everyone would stop asking me that,” she said softly, knowing she sounded bitter, and totally unconcerned about her mother’s friend still within earshot.

“We’re going to worry whether you want us to or not. Don’t forget, I lost a grandbaby, Estelle a nephew, Joe a great-nephew. We’re hurting, too, and we can imagine, if only a little bit, what’s going on with you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so…” Lacey stopped.

“Angry?” her mother offered, taking her arm, guiding her to an unoccupied corner. Once there, her mother reached out a finger and touched her cheek. “That’s normal, Lacey. Still, maybe you should talk to somebody, someone other than family.”

“You mean a psychiatrist?”

“Or at least a grief counselor. And don’t pooh-pooh the idea before you’ve had a chance to think it through. This isn’t going to go away just by going through the motions. Lace, you need to speak with someone about the whole grief process, not only what you’re going through today, but how you’ll be feeling a month from now. And I suspect anger is only a small part of it. As much as I loved Calvin, he was your son. I’ve never lost a child, can’t even begin to imagine it.” Her mother’s eyes welled up. “Oh, my sweet baby.” She grabbed Lacey into a tight hug.

The air seemed stagnant, stifling all of a sudden. Despite the chill outside, the room felt as though someone had turned up the thermostat past eighty. She needed to get away from this room with everybody fawning over her like a child. An irrepressible need to scream was growing in her belly, threatening to erupt. She was scared she was going to lose it again. If she did, her mother wouldn’t just be recommending a psychiatrist, but an actual stay in a mental facility.

“I’m going to step out back, get some air,” she announced unceremoniously as she freed herself from her mother’s arms and strode away. She cut through the living room, ignoring the curious looks. The kitchen was empty; she didn’t know where Estelle and Mrs. Hampton had gone. There were so many rooms in this house where people could disappear to. She and Darryl had bought it over twenty years ago with the hope they would fill every room with children. That hadn’t happened.

Lacey opened and closed the back door behind her, immediately regretting not grabbing her coat. Still, the biting air chilled the hysteria that had been about to overtake her again. She stood there on the wraparound porch, breathing in cold air, grateful for a moment of solitude. The wooden gate along the large yard’s perimeter provided some privacy. She gazed at her daylilies, planted just a few weeks ago along the foot of the gate. They were starting to wilt with the cold snap.

She took in another deep breath and realized she smelled a whiff of nicotine. She turned in the direction of the odor. Around the corner of the porch, a white trail of smoke drifted above one of her rose bushes.

“Hello?” she called out.

For a few seconds, she thought the person either hadn’t heard her or was refusing to answer. Then a figure stepped from around the corner. She stared as Sean approached the porch, the offensive cigarette not evident. She hoped he hadn’t thrown it in a bush.

From the vantage of the porch, she felt much taller than he, as though no years had passed since he was a ten-year-old coming over to ask if Calvin could come outside. He had been a beautiful child, with an adrogyny that could have gone too far to the feminine except for strong bones and a constant surliness. The illusion of the ten-year-old was quickly dispelled as Sean climbed the steps two at a time. Standing next to her, he easily had the advantage of a few inches. No longer gangly, he wasn’t overly broad either. He had that combination college-surfer boy look that probably drew many girls (and women) to him. She noted that he was still beautiful without the androgyny that had marked his early years. The surliness was gone, too. But the light blue eyes were the same, so pale they were almost slate. He seemed bulkier in the short woolen coat he wore over his dark suit.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” she said, self-conscious that she was out in the cold without a coat. She wrapped her arms around herself.

“Are you OK?”

“You know, I wish people would stop asking me that!”

He shrugged. “Maybe they’re only asking because they don’t know what else to say. There’s nothing meaningful you can say, especially when…well…” He dug his hands in his coat pockets, focused his eyes on a point behind her. That was so Sean-like, not ever really looking people in the eye.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I just feel like everyone’s judging me because of what happened at the cemetery. Like I’m some loony toon.”

“Nobody even thought that. You were grief-stricken, that’s all.” A pause. “I’m…I’m sorry I wasn’t here when…I’m sorry for a lot of things.”

He seemed so sad right then, as though he were about to cry. But then he sturdied his posture, visibly throwing off the grief.

Now, she felt the need to comfort. She reached over and touched his arm. “Sean, Calvin considered you a good friend. I don’t know what happened…what argument or falling-out you two had, and it doesn’t matter now. I’m sure if Cal was still here, he’d be so glad to see you.”

Instead of the sadness easing, it seemed to deepen, causing his eyes to darken, pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said, so softly she wasn’t certain she had heard him right.

“Sean, what did happen between you two? Did you fight over some girl?”

He pulled his arm away, not abruptly but firmly, indicating his unwillingness to answer or be queried any further. She thought he would head back into the house or just leave the porch, but he stood there looking uncertain, still not looking at her.

“How’s Joan doing?” she asked, realizing she hadn’t seen Sean’s mother at the services or the burial.

“She’s fine. She told me to tell you she’s sorry she couldn’t fly in. She’s a manager at a health-care clinic in Vancouver. It’s pretty hectic right now, so she couldn’t get the time off.”

“I understand. I do miss her, though.” She smiled. “I especially miss our coffee clatches. She made the best coffee cakes.”

A corner of his mouth went up. “Yeah, she still likes to bake. She does a lot of it when she’s not at the clinic. She’s put on some weight, too.”

“Now, you know better than to mention a woman’s weight. We middle-aged mothers…” She paused, remembering. “Anyway, we don’t like to be reminded that we don’t look like the svelte young chicks we once were.”

“You still do,” he said quietly.

“Oh, Sean, that’s sweet. But I’m afraid age has caught up with me.”

“I don’t think so. You’re still as beautiful as the first time I saw you.” She realized he was finally looking at her, a direct, pale gaze that seemed to skewer her to the spot. She felt uneasy under the scrutiny, as though a continued inspection would reveal the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes or the wider waistline. She wondered at her vanity; she shouldn’t even care about such things, especially not today.

“Well, I think I should get back inside. Coming with me? There’s plenty of food if you’re hungry.”

“No, I think I’ll head on back to the hotel.”

“Oh, where’re you staying?”

“At the Maple Motel just off Oak Park Avenue. I’m there for a few days, then I have to fly back to Indiana.”

“Is that where you’re going to school?”

He shook his head, but didn’t volunteer an answer. The following silence extended, became uncomfortable. He had always been cautious about revealing a lot about himself and she saw that, at least in that respect, he hadn’t changed much.

“Well, if you want to save the extra change, there’s always room here…for a couple of days.” Even as she wondered at her own impetuousness, she told herself that Joan would have done the same for her had the situations been reversed.

He was half turned to leave but paused, turned back. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Just as well, she thought. Still…

“Well, the offer is good for however long you’re in town.”

He nodded, then turned and left through the gate. The same entry he had come through and exited nearly a hundred times before.