Dwelling Places (3 page)

In fifteen minutes, they are in the car and headed for Ed's place. A mile from the house, Mack begins formulating how to get through the conversation that will start once Ed's wife is in the car. Lacy is a sweetheart, probably unable to cause real harm to anybody. It should be easy to talk, to pass the few minutes it will take to arrive at the farmhouse. Still, there is something pulling at Mack's breath. He tries to think. To calm himself, he opens the white paper bag and looks over the medications, pretending to check the names and dosages. Four squat, plastic pill bottles tumble into his lap. They rattle, and Mack senses Ed gazing at the road with effort.

“They've got a pill for everything these days.” Mack gives a sniff meant to sound like a chuckle.

“Good thing.” Ed blinks behind his sunglasses. “Think of all the folks who used to just do without, just kept feelin' bad.”

“Yeah, you've got a point.” Mack turns the labels toward him, one by one: lithium, clonazepam, effexor. “It's not a permanent thing. After a while, they wean you off of it.”

“Sure.”

Ed's farm is coming into view. Mack thinks of his own house, and how full it is this moment with the people who have been without him for days, who have endured seeing him admitted and then at times have been kept from him. He thinks of all the conversations he will need to have in the days to come, all the forms of making up to people, of getting better and doing well. The pull on his breath tightens and reaches clear down to his heart. Then the bottles in his hands blur and his chest fills with weakness. The hold on his throat loosens for a second, and he hears the air rushing into him.

The wind on his neck gets calm suddenly. Ed is slowing the car. “You all right, Mack?”

Mack wipes his eyes. “If I'd ever thought I'd have to get my peace of mind from—” He can't finish. He holds up the medications.

Ed is saying something that Mack can't quite hear. The car is stopped, rumbling in place beneath them. Finally, Ed's sounds separate into words. “It's just what you need for now. It's like taking something
for an infection, you know? When the infection's over, you don't have to take the medicine anymore.” He clamps a hand on Mack's knee. Mack looks at it and remembers a younger hand throwing him a football, the glare of lights and the chatter of the high school crowd surrounding them. He remembers Ed's hands maneuvering wrenches around stubborn tractor parts and steadying the cows on their way up the chute. He thinks of Ed's grin the day he stood up in the church as best man, of Ed cradling one baby after another, as both of them brought children into the world. Mack had a brother, who is dead now. But in a lot of ways, Ed is closer than a brother. If Mack can't trust the kindness in this hand, he can't trust anything at all.

“I know. I'll be okay.” Mack sniffs and breathes deeply, in and out, trying to turn the action into some form of comfort. Ed puts the car back into drive and his hand back on the steering wheel. They say no more, and then they pick up Lacy, and she carries the conversation over the remaining distance to Mack's home.

Jodie

For all of her life, evening has brought Jodie a few short moments of pure relief. She has always lived in the country, and many days there is a point at which the sun leaves, its pale train of light remaining in a perfectly still sky. A person has to stop at such a time and be quiet and realize that most of what was going to get done today has either gotten done or will wait for tomorrow. There are always tasks to do at night, in the house or under lights in an outbuilding. But the true energy of the day has subsided, and anyone who lives day after day with crops and creatures learns to sleep when nature sleeps and to get rest as regularly as possible, because once the sun is up the work comes back, and will always come back.

This evening she feels the need to wait for that still time, to go out in the yard and allow the smooth horizon to calm her. She knows that the sun will disappear around the time they are having dessert. She hardly ever puts on a big dinner, and when she does it's usually
the noon meal after church or a weekend birthday dinner. But today isn't Sunday and it's nobody's birthday. Mack is due home any time now, and dinner is a half-hour from being on the table. Mom isn't here yet—could that mean that her car didn't start after all? But Rita would have called if that were the case. She was over here earlier in the day, to drop off heat-and-serve dinner rolls. Jodie has checked to be sure they are fresh. Rita would give the clothes off her back, but she's a scavenger when it comes to groceries. That's how she manages to feed half the town on a fixed income. But Jodie wants fresh rolls for this meal, nothing even day-old.

The radio is on and tuned to a local station that provides, in equal doses, the weather report, the farm report, local news, and gospel music. This evening there's the rebroadcast of some church service featuring music by a husband-and-wife team, Mavis and Danny Trotter. As Jodie arranges raw vegetables on a tray, Mavis and Danny fill the room with a hymn, and Jodie sings automatically.

“By and by, when the morning comes…” She has sung hymns all her life, and for most of her life she has believed them. They are written on her memory and can't be erased, even though she'd like to do that today and has wanted to for some time.

“We'll tell the story how we've overcome, for we'll understand it better by and by.” What, exactly, must she overcome? Financial stress? Her husband's depression? Both are chronic and apparently beyond her ability to help. She listens to Mavis and Danny, and the old words sound like a foreign language.

Kenzie appeared ten minutes ago, helped set the table, and is upstairs now. But Young Taylor is missing. Jodie doesn't know when it's appropriate to worry about her seventeen-year-old disappearing, but he knows better than to be a no-show tonight. At times such as this, she wishes she had relented and let him buy a cell phone; at least she could have tracked him better. She will call the two or three homes where he often lands, but beyond that she can only hope that he shows up.

This evening needs to be special. Both the children must be here. And she, Jodie, must be glad for her husband to be home again. All of
this feels so big to manage, so impossible to bring to fruition. So Mack will arrive home after being away from them—the first time he has ever been away from them—and she'll say that she's made his favorite dessert but that, by the way, Young Taylor isn't here.

“Mom, does this skirt ride up my butt?” Kenzie stands in the doorway looking marvelous in the way only a fourteen-year-old can. With hardly any makeup, her face is full of natural blushes. She wears a silky, fitted brown shirt that reminds Jodie of the living room curtains she loved a decade ago. Kenzie twists at the waist of her cream-colored straight skirt, which hits the lower part of her thighs, to show Jodie her behind. The child is beginning to develop slight, young curves, but she is essentially slender and straight up and down. Her arms and legs just keep going.

“Uh, no. No riding. Looks just right.”

“Bekka's skirts climb up all the time, and I tell her it looks strange, but she won't listen to me.”

Jodie bends to turn on the oven light so she can check on the pies. “Maybe she wants her skirts to ride up.”

“I don't
think
so—not around the boys in
our
class.”

“Well, your skirt is fine. I love that blouse—it's the exact same color as your hair.”

“I want to put a rinse on my hair—make it darker now that summer's over.”

“Not too dark—it'll wash out your complexion.”

Jodie feels a hand on her shoulder, and a little pat. Ever since Mack was admitted, Kenzie has done this often—small, connecting touches throughout the day. A child's offering of comfort. Young Taylor's teen years have been a war, but their little girl stepped into puberty and Jesus's arms on practically the same day. She is always busy and trying to take care of people, a trait she has inherited from Rita evidently. This child is the unexpected blessing, a daily grace.

Jodie flips off the oven light but stays bent at the little window, no longer looking inside at the pies but at the glass itself and her reflection in it.

“Mom, you look fine.” Another little pat.

They hear the Dodge then, and Young Taylor comes in the door without acknowledging them and makes a beeline for the stairs, even as Jodie reminds him that supper will be ready soon. Jodie is suddenly overwhelmed with anger at her son. This happens more all the time, anger flushing her veins without warning, like a flood through gulleys. Sometimes it's anger at people and sometimes at inanimate objects, the time, or a situation. But it roars from deep down, and it makes her feel out of control, which is the last thing she needs to be. She marches up the stairs and down to the end of the hall and Young Taylor's bedroom door, which is, of course, closed.

She raps hard. “Taylor!” She hears movements and a throat clearing. The door opens, and the lanky, black-haired kid stands there like a rock star, in a fog of sweet smoke. She keeps telling herself that she should be glad the boy doesn't chew tobacco, but she can't bring herself to appreciate his clove cigarettes.

She tries not to notice the silver bone earring dangling at the bottom of an ear rimmed by a series of smaller studs. Maybe she'll say something if he jams some decorative item through both cheeks, but anything smaller can't take up space in her mind right now.

“It's almost time for dinner—Dad'll be here soon.”

“I won't eat ham.”

“There's plenty else. Why don't you wear the shirt Grandma got you for your birthday.”

The shoulders slump, but he rubs an eye and says, “Okay.”

When Jodie hits the ground floor, Rita is in the kitchen. The oven door is open, and she is placing the second pie on the cabinet, making pleased sounds.

“They didn't burn, did they?”

“Oh, no. Perfect as usual.”

“Kenzie—ice in the glasses, please.”

“Hey, look at that feast.”

Mack's quiet comment trips across all other sounds in the kitchen and brings Jodie to attention. He stands in the doorway, Ed and Lacy
Timmons just behind him. They have come in the front door, as if they are guests.

Her husband's smile warms his thin face. Gray highlights in the straight brown hair make his features look older than they really are. It occurs to Jodie that he's had that haircut since high school, semi-long but clipped away from his ears and neck. He stands in the center of the arched doorway, fists in the pockets of his denim jacket. Jodie watches the hands come out as Mack raises his arms and Kenzie nestles into him. Rita comes up close enough for Mack to kiss her cheek.

This is too fast. I'm not ready. Nothing's ready.
Jodie watches Mack, and she is stuck to the floor. Mack looks at her, the gleam in his eyes deepening.

She sees, or her memory sees, a cake pan flying past Mack's head. Did she really throw it at him? Did he anger or frustrate her that much? Was it some private comedy that they couldn't fully appreciate at the time? Or did the family put the wrong person in the hospital? Jodie feels a wave of shame at the person she has become during these hurtful times. She should have been better at understanding Mack's struggles. She shouldn't have grown angry, sarcastic, vindictive. Shouldn't have thrown things.

“Hey, Dad.” Jodie hears Young Taylor's soft voice behind her. She moves to the side and watches him, dressed in the birthday shirt, go over and hug his father.

Rita addresses the Timmonses. “Good to see you two.”

Jodie is finally able to speak. “Thanks for picking him up, Ed. Glad you could come over tonight.” She raises her face to accept Ed's customary peck on the cheek. Lacy has already pulled Kenzie into a hug. The presence of these friends allows Jodie to feel more safety in her own home. Rita starts directing everyone to the dining room.

The others move toward the table, and Jodie sees Mack's eyes fix upon her as he crosses the room to where she stands. The distance falls away and she knows that in a short moment her husband's arms will wrap around her. Never mind her former words and flying objects; Mack will always be a gentle soul who doesn't know the meaning of a
grudge. She hugged him not long ago, on her last visit to the hospital, but this is different, with him back in the house. She tries to think of how it should feel to be embraced by him, but there is no time to think or prepare.

“Hi, sweet.” His voice in her ear is like a tide lapping into a cavern.

She brings her arms up to feel the jacket as his hair presses into her cheek and against her neck. For a moment she is nearly overcome by the textures of his skin and clothing. It is impossible to do this—to be wrapped into Mack when around them everything is so public and calm. Jodie feels a dark habit take over: something within her turns hard and passive. She eases out of Mack's embrace and holds his hand as they walk to the table.

Dinner is pleasant. Ed and Lacy's latest news has to do with their daughter Alison being away at college for the first year. Lacy's telling of any story is filled with drama and hyperbole. It's good to laugh and not talk too much.

Jodie watches the evening's scenes slip by and keeps trying to hold some thought about them. What she really wants is for everything to stop long enough for her to think, to recognize something, to form a plan. But all of it keeps coming and coming and leaving her wordless.

Eventually the meal winds down; they clear the table and have pie and coffee in the living room. Then Ed and Lacy stretch and say their good-byes. Jodie and Mack walk them out to their car.

“He's looking good,” Lacy says, close to Jodie's ear. She gives Jodie's hand a squeeze before getting into the car.

Jodie nods. “Thanks for everything.” Mack comes up beside her as they watch the Timmonses leave.