Love in a Small Town (17 page)

For the remaining week, until he could cut out for home, he had avoided Josey, had never talked to her again, and had wished with all his might that he hadn’t been so stupid. The only reasons he could come up with for his poor behavior had been that he’d been awfully lonely and that he’d slept with only one woman in his life, Molly, and he guessed the curiosity of what another woman would be like had gotten the best of him. Lots of married guys talked of sleeping with other women regularly and apparently with no guilt. Also, it was true that Josey had been pressing him. Not that that was an excuse, but it was a reason.

He supposed the biggest, truest reason was that he had been twenty-one and stupid, and he’d prayed to God that if his lapse could just be covered over and forgotten, he would never be so stupid again. He simply wasn’t the kind to sleep around, and that’s all there was to it.

The years of deliberately pushing the incident from his mind had made the memory of his foolishness with Josey Hightower no more than a blur, something that seemed to have happened to someone else. The moments on the telephone with Molly were scant at best. His main memory from those moments was of his heart about to beat out of his chest and of being afraid he would have a heart attack and be discovered dead with a naked woman in his motel bed. What he remembered about sitting in the 76 truck stop was that it seemed as if he had sat there for days.

The memory of his arrival home was clear, perhaps because it was exactly like so many before and the few after, when he’d gone away. He remembered Molly coming out the front door, standing there an instant, as if holding her breath, her face bright with expectancy. She wore a flowered dress, and then her long pale hair flew out behind her as she came running, barefoot, across the yard to throw herself into his arms.

Whenever he would come home, he would always find her face all full of eagerness and love so intense that it almost overwhelmed him. He would be so glad to see her love and so pressured at the same time.

Molly’s love was a high thing to live up to. Tommy Lee always knew that if he did one thing to let her down, she would be crushed. Her love, at times, was a heavy burden to bear.

But that day when she came running at him, he had grabbed her up and whirled her around in his arms, so glad to have her and promising himself and God that he would never, ever risk losing her love again. He would cherish her because she was his treasure. He promised never to forget that.

That night Molly told him she was pregnant with Boone and cried that she didn’t want him to leave again. He told her he would give up the racing circuit. He told her eagerly, and he supposed he jumped at the decision because it was a way to bury what he had done. He sure didn’t want to have to see Josey Hightower again. And he had felt so guilty and so grateful that he would have given Molly the moon if he could have.

As the memory of his indiscretion faded, though, he had begun to miss the circuit something awful. But every time he spoke to Molly about the possibility of going back, she got this pinched look on her face. By then there were two children and house payments and doctor bills and he was in too deep to be throwing everything to the winds and following a pipe dream.

Just as the memory of his indiscretion faded, so, too, did his fervent vow to never forget how precious Molly was to him. He loved her, and sometimes he was made sharply aware of how important she was in his life, but more times the burden of her love as well as the struggles of everyday life would overcome him. How was a person supposed to keep in focus the important things when trying to support a wife, raise three kids, get a business going, and keep the wolf from the door?

Somehow romance and love got lost. Sometimes he was doing good to simply hold on to his sanity, much less his treasure.

Too many memories had been forced upon him in one day, he thought and let sleep claim him.

Chapter 10

I Know Better Now

Rennie found the back door of the cottage open and the screen door unlatched. She stepped inside.

“Molly?”

Things were messy, even for Molly. A few cups were scattered across the table, a crumpled loaf of bread and half a peanut butter sandwich. Cups and glasses were stacked in the sink. Several cups on the drain board were half filled with stale coffee. On the little stove sat the jar of generic brand instant coffee, which Molly hated. The kitchen had such a forgotten, used look to it.

Then Rennie saw the black telephone cord snaking across the floor. Her eye followed it to the door of the refrigerator. She opened the door and saw the old black phone sitting inside on the wire shelf. All by itself. The knot in her stomach tightened—a knot she just then realized was there. She closed the refrigerator door.

As she went on through the rooms, hurrying now, feeling urgent and calling to Molly, the scent of the cottage, made stronger by the humid heat of the day, surrounded her. Hardly a breath of air stirred through the opened windows.

She found Molly, wearing only her bra and panties, partially propped on pillows in the rumpled bed—the chenille spread was on the floor and the sheets in a knot, and the whole bed was littered with books, mostly hardbacks, a few paperbacks. And there was Molly, looking like an unclothed rag doll lying in the middle of those books, with a gray tabby cat lying on her bare belly.

When people are depressed they can’t get dressed. Mrs. Hinch got like that after her eighth child. After she came out of her house half naked, Mama went down to dress her every morning for weeks. Mrs. Hinch hanged herself with clothesline on her back porch.

The sight of Molly like that shook Rennie. Molly had always been the sane one of all of them. The one Rennie could always run to. It seemed strange to think that Rennie herself had to attempt to boost Molly. Molly was always the one to boost Rennie.

“Why didn’t you answer me?” Rennie asked.

“The cottage isn’t very big,” Molly said. “I knew you’d find me.” Her eyes were dull as dishwater.

Rennie breathed deeply. “You are a sight. Don’t you think you should keep that back door hooked if you’re gonna lie around half naked? I could have been an ax murderer.”

“I don’t think an ax murderer would care if I wore clothes or not.” Molly spoke lazily, her gaze back on the cat, which she continued to pet.

Rennie was a bit reassured that Molly had answered, and so logically, if strangely. But the way she continued to just look at the cat and stroke it made Rennie’s skin crawl. The black fan whirred softly from over on the trunk, stirring the curtains and wisps of Molly’s hair. There were deep shadows beneath her eyes, and her face was almost as pale as the sheet.

Glancing around for an ashtray, Rennie said, “You still should hook the door. Little boys could get in for a peek.”

Molly said, “Little boys wouldn’t have to come in the house. They could look through the window.”

Rennie went searching for an ashtray and found it beside the sink, with only two butts in it. That was a good sign; it didn’t appear that Molly was smoking a lot. Unless she was emptying the ashtray regularly. Rennie looked into the trash can. She didn’t see any butts there. She thought maybe she was grasping at good signs. Then she wished Molly were smoking; it would be better than Molly just stroking that cat.

She carried her ashtray and cigarette back into the bedroom. She had to move a pair of jeans and a shirt off the vanity bench in order to sit on it. She gazed into the mirror and raked a hand through her curls, limp from the humid air. Her gaze shifted to Molly in the mirror, and her stomach clenched. She didn’t know what to do about handling Molly. She had her own problems right now, too, and this with Molly was simply too much.

Then she looked around, sniffing. “Lordy, it smells in here.” She looked down at the jeans and then over at Molly. “Not that usual smell . . . it smells like horse,” she said, sniffing in Molly’s direction.

Molly gestured, and Rennie looked over to see a saddle sitting on the floor behind the opened closet door. The saddle pad was slung over it.

“What’s it doin’ there?”

“I put it there,” Molly answered.

“You have a tack compartment in your trailer.” Rennie slung her legs around to the opposite side of the vanity bench. “I thought you kept it in there.”

“It leaks.” Molly was scratching the cat’s forehead, and it was purring. Rennie could hear it from where she sat.

“What are you doing with all these books in the bed?” Rennie asked. “Isn’t it a little uncomfortable when you turn over?”

“I don’t turn much.”

Rennie stretched over to take up one of the books—
In Tune with the Infinite
by Ralph Waldo Trine. It looked really old. There always had been a lot of books around the cottage, and no doubt their mother had provided some. Colliers were big on books. Especially philosophy-of-life ones. That’s what this one was.

Rennie was considered the most illiterate of the Collier women because she read only novels. In her view, she could learn as much about herself and life from novels as from any of those self-improvement books. Besides, she’d had enough philosophy to last her a lifetime, being the daughter of her mother.

Once, after she’d had her miscarriage and had started drinking enough to make her worry that she might end up like her daddy, Rennie had visited a psychologist. After several visits, the whole while watching the psychologist, a thin man with a bad haircut, blink rapidly and pick at his eyebrows, one of which was almost picked out, she had decided she was more mentally stable than he was and quit going.

Later she had visited an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, where she had felt more at ease, but she never had been much of a joiner. She had, however, cut herself off from alcohol and practiced the twelve steps, which she still did each day. She had also gone on a novel-reading spree. She supposed she could say that for a while she got addicted to novels instead of drinking, most especially crazy novels about crazy people, which made her feel much more sane, or at least that she was no worse off than anyone else.

Another thing she had done at that time was to start eating quite a bit. It had sort of crept up on her—so easy to nibble while she read a novel. When she realized she was eating as much as half a bag of Oreos or a half carton of ice cream at a time, she had gotten very worried that she would turn into an obese person who had to be wheeled around in a wheelchair. This worry, however, only seemed to make her eat more. Time passed, and the worry abated because as it turned out she never did gain a pound. Not one pound, nor did any health problems occur. Rennie attributed this to both a high metabolism rate and God’s grace.

Thinking of the Oreos, she tossed aside the Trine book and stubbed out her cigarette, then went to the kitchen and found the remaining half bag of Oreos and brought them back to Molly’s bed. Flopping on her side, she ate cookies and looked over all the books, making comments: “I tried to read this”—she held up
Sanctuary
by William Faulkner—"I couldn’t understand any of it.” She picked up another old hardback,
Where the Red Fern Grows.
“Isn’t this great? Remember when Mama read it aloud to us?” She read the inside flap of the Rita Mae Brown mystery and said, “I’d like to read this one when you’re done.”

Molly didn’t have a thing to say. She just kept on petting that stupid cat, and Rennie got really annoyed.

She tossed the book aside. “Don’t you need to be countin’ people’s money or something?”

“I’m on vacation,” Molly said, still not looking up. Rennie started to get scared. She really didn’t think she knew what to do. She sat up and closed the bag of Oreos.

“Mama says you won’t answer phone calls and haven’t been out of the cottage all week.”

“I’ve been riding. And I’ve talked to you.”

Rennie thought it seemed like Molly had been abducted by aliens, who had set this stranger down in her place.

“Well, because you won’t talk to Lillybeth and Season,” she said, “I’ve had to. And you know Season makes me nervous. I never am certain what to say to Season.”

“No one is certain what to say to Season.”

Rennie waited and stared at Molly, willing her to say more. Molly didn’t even look up at her. “Well, I managed with Lillybeth and Season,” Rennie said, “but I couldn’t help Walter because I’m not the one who counts the town’s money. Walter’s worried— something about the company hired to repaint the water tower, and Kaye isn’t helpin’ him at all, because she’s busy givin’ those Country Interior parties.”

Molly just lay there and stroked that dang cat.

Rennie stood up, looked at Molly. The next instant she shoved at Molly’s feet. “Get up and get a shower. I’m takin’ you to lunch.”

The jarring of Molly’s body made the cat jump from her belly and cast an annoyed gaze at Rennie. Molly said, “I’m too tired.”

Rennie said, “When was the last time you washed your hair?”

Molly looked at her, but almost as if she didn’t really see Rennie.

“Don’t look at me like that, Sissy,” Rennie said.

Molly blinked. “I was just tryin’ to remember when I washed my hair.”

That sent Rennie practically into a fit. She gave a scream and shoved again at Molly’s feet really hard. “Don’t do this, Sissy! I can’t stand it. Maybe I should be able to, but I can’t. You’re just bein’ selfish, and you aren’t supposed to be the one to do that. I’m the one who can do that, but you
can’t!”

Rennie realized she was yelling then, clenching and unclenching her fists.

Molly said in a small voice, “I know. . . . I just don’t know how to stop.”

Rennie looked at her a long minute, then said, “I need you, Sissy. Maybe that isn’t fair, but it’s just the way it is. I need you.”

“Oh, Rennie,” Molly said.

Rennie gazed at her. Beseeched her with her eyes, and even as she did it, she thought to herself,
I am
beseeching
you,
which was one of those words she would never say.

Then Molly said, “Okay,” and slowly, as if it were a very hard thing to do, shoved herself up from the bed.