Phantom of Riverside Park (22 page)

“We will always remember you, David
Lassiter.”

He breathed a long sigh. “It’s enough,” he
said, then he backed into the shadows and she was left standing
alone in a dark room.

“David?”

There was no answer, only an eerie quietness.
Elizabeth held out her hands and groped toward her chair in the
darkness. Maybe if she sat back down he would at least turn on the
spotlight.

“I’ve come to escort you to your car.”

The lights blazed on, and Edwards stood in
the doorway.

“Where’s David?”

“Gone. He said to give you this.” Edwards
pressed a note into her hand. “I’m ready whenever you are, Miss
Elizabeth.”

What about the papers,
she started
to say. And then, as she looked at the envelope lying on the table,
she knew there was one other thing she could give David: the joy of
doing a kind deed.

“I’m ready, Edwards.”

She didn’t open the note until she was in her
own house in her own bedroom dressed in a nightshirt with the
slogan,
When life hands you lemons make lemonade
, which
she was so tired of doing she wanted to strangle the person who had
made self-help in small doses popular.

David’s message was handwritten in bold black
strokes on stark white paper:
If you ever need me--for
anything--all you have to do is call
.

Elizabeth thought of all the times life had
washed so harshly over her she’d thought she would drown. David had
thrown her a lifeline.

She tucked the note under her pillow, turned
off the light and cried.

She always cried when she was happy. Didn’t
she?

Thomas was in the bathroom shaking so bad he
felt a hundred years old, which he practically was. He was puking
up his shoe soles, to boot. Just like Lola Mae when she was
pregnant with Manny.

He reeled like a top gone mad, and he didn’t
know whether it was from the nausea or the memories that flooded
him.

Lola Mae had clung to the porch railing, so
pale Thomas could see right through her skin, while Thomas swabbed
her face with a dishtowel.

“How can something so good feel so bad?” she
said, and he cursed the day she’d become pregnant. They were too
old for kids. He should have known that.

“I’m so sorry, darling. If I’d known what it
would do to you I’d of kept my hands to myself.”

Even as white-faced as she was, Lola Mae
laughed. “Don’t you ever dare, Thomas Jennings.” She took the
dishtowel from him and tossed it over the railing, then she did
something so typical he wondered how he’d ever had the good fortune
to end up with a woman like her.

She led him back into the house, then down
the long hallway where his daddy’s tall clock marked the time and
all the way to the cool room with windows open to the spring and a
big brass bed they’d shared for twenty years.

“What are you doing?” he said when she
unhooked his overalls and started unbuttoning his shirt, though he
knew good and well what she was doing.

“Are you complaining?”

“There’s a cotton field needs tendin’.”

“So do I. Which one are you going to tend to
first, Thomas Jennings?”

“Cotton can wait.”

She was still as slim as a young girl, and
the thrill of her went straight to his heart. He’d never thought of
himself as splendid until he married Lola Mae.

“Oh, but you are splendid,” she’d said on
their honeymoon, then commenced to kissing him like she meant
it.

Thomas found it remarkable that it had taken
them more than twenty years to get her pregnant. Eighteen, if you
counted the time he spent in the war.

Now, the time he’s spent away from her is an
eternity. Hovered over the toilet, Thomas wondered if at last he
was fixing to join her.

“Are you all right in there, Papa?”

Elizabeth was standing outside the door, and
he could tell by the way she sounded that she was worried to
death.

“I’m gonna shoot that Fred Lollar,” he
muttered.

“What’s that? I didn’t hear you, Papa.”

“Nothing. I’m all right.”

He’d caught the bug from Fred, who should
have known better than to come to the park spreading around
germs.

“Thought the sun would do me some good,” Fred
had said, and now look where that got Thomas. Sick as a hound dog,
and letting Elizabeth down, that’s where.

He washed his face, then wrung out the cloth
and held it to his neck. Keep your neck cool and your feet warm,
Lola Mae used to say.

As he started out of the bathroom he caught
sight of himself in the mirror. He didn’t know that old, old man.
He looked like a Bartlett pear that had been left lying in the
orchard to rot.

Picking up his comb, he tried to make himself
presentable before he faced Elizabeth. Put on a good show, that was
the ticket. He’d been doing a lot of that, lately, acting like he’s
spry as a spring chicken when the plain hard truth was this: he
felt worn out and used up.

Elizabeth took one look at him and headed
toward the telephone.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling Celine. I’m staying home today.”

“You’ll do no such thing. She’s already mad
as a hornet about you taking off for the funeral. You’ll go right
on to work.”

“You need somebody to take care of you.”

“I’ve been doing it all my life. I reckon one
more day won’t hurt.”

Elizabeth chewed on her bottom lip, and he
didn’t have to ask to know what she was thinking.

“I can take care of Nicky, too. He’s not a
bit of trouble in the world.”

“You need your rest, Papa. I’m taking him to
the bakery with me.”

“Won’t Celine get mad?”

“As Mae Mae used to say, she has the same
britches to get glad in.”

“Lordy, don’t make me laugh. I’m going make a
mess all over myself.”

Thomas struck a lively trot, and got back to
the bathroom in the nick of time. Beyond the door he could hear
Elizabeth talking to Nicky about going to the bakery.

“Can I take my fire truck?” he asked.

“That might be a little too noisy for Celine.
Why don’t I pack up your crayons and some paper and you can draw
some more wonderful pictures.”

“Can I draw lots?”

“All you want.”

“Can I have all the doughnuts I want?”

“You can have one.”

“How ‘bout two?”

“Don’t push your luck, young man.”

Thomas dragged himself to the couch and
pulled an afghan over himself. He remembered the winter Lola Mae
made it. She would sit in the hand-carved rocking chair her daddy
had made from a lightning-struck black walnut tree, her knitting
needles flying while skein after skein of bright wool pooled at her
feet.

Memories seemed to float up out of the
coverlet, memories so strong he could almost see Lola Mae sitting
in the chair by the window. Thomas wondered if he were dying. He’d
heard tell of death-bed stories where the one passing on caught a
glimpse of a loved one who had gone before.

“It’s not that I don’t want to join you, Lola
Mae,” he whispered. “It’s just that I’ve still got too much to do
here on this earth.”

“What was that, Papa?”

He hadn’t even heard Elizabeth come into the
room.

“No. Just mumbling to myself.”

“I hate to leave you like this.”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“I’d call Quincy to come over, but she’s gone
to Tupelo to visit her daughter.”

“If I need anything I’ll call you down at the
bakery.”

“You know where the number is?”

“I’m just losing my breakfast, not my
mind.”

Thomas had a fleeting thought of the
million-dollar check they didn’t cash, of how it could have bought
those fancy iPhones for both him and Elizabeth.

Nicky raced into the room, stopping so fast
his tennis shoes skidded.

“You sick, Papa?”

“Yes.”

“You going to the hospital in a lemon
zing?”

“No. I’m just gonna lay right here till you
get back home, then I’ll be all better.”

“I’ll get Bear.”

His cowlick bobbing, Nicky retrieved his
therapy bear and tucked it into Thomas’s arms.

“You take care of Papa, you hear me, Bear?”
Nicky bobbed the stuffed animal’s head and made growly sounds. “He
said yes, Papa.”

Thomas had never seen a more beautiful sight
than that child’s unblemished smile. “Thank you, God,” he said, and
if he could have, he’d have gone down on his knees, but he reckoned
the Lord would understand that when a man reaches his age, he means
no disrespect by staying on the couch while he prays.

o0o

Celine didn’t say anything when she saw
Nicky. She didn’t even say anything after Elizabeth explained how
Quincy was out of town and how Papa and even Fred Lollar were sick,
and there was nothing else she could do but bring Nicky with her.
She just walked off, tight-lipped, and that was even worse.

Every time Elizabeth looked at her boss, she
felt guilty of some horrible crime, which just proved what she’d
known to be true all along: words can sometimes clear up a
situation while dirty looks do nothing but make it sink deeper into
the mire. Besides that, dirty looks are just plain mean.

So, there, she’d thought it. Her boss was
mean, and a skinflint, to boot, and if Elizabeth ever found the
time she was going to start looking for another part-time job,
though where she would find one was beyond her. Especially one that
would fit her hours.

Elizabeth took Nicky to a corner booth and
spread out his sketch pad and crayons. “You sit right here,
sweetheart, and be quiet as a little mouse. Okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Nicky bent over his sketch pad, his tongue
caught between his teeth and his hair hanging into his eyes. Good
as gold.

Thankfully, it was a slow morning. There
weren’t many customers about, and there was never a time she
couldn’t see Nicky out of the corner of her eye.

Not once did Nicky complain. He didn’t ask a
single question. He didn’t ask for anything.

At ten Elizabeth broke her own rule and
bought three doughnuts, making sure Celine saw her ringing up the
sale. Then she went to Nicky’s booth and smoothed back his
hair.

“You’re being so good I brought you three
doughnuts.”

“Sure ‘nuff?”

“Sure ‘nuff.”

His eyes were round and bright as silver
dollars, and his little tongue flicked across his lips in
anticipation. Then he got solemn.

“I’ll save one for Papa.”

That alone was worth spending her hard-earned
money with the old skinflint.

“You do that, sweet.”

“Elizabeth!” Celine bellowed at her from the
kitchen. Elizabeth made a face, and Nicky giggled. “I need you back
here at the mixer ... unless you got better things to do.”

“I’m coming... You stay put, Nicky. I’ll be
back before you can say Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled
peppers.”

“Peter Peck pick...Peter peeper pie...”

She left Nicky trying to say the rhyme, and
giggling.

When she returned, no more than five minutes
later, he was talking to a perfect stranger, and Elizabeth’s heart
tried to beat itself right out of her chest.

He’s just a customer, she told herself.
Still, she had the awful feeling that she’d done something wrong,
something that would have terrible consequences for all of
them.

“Can I help you?”

The man came to the counter, smiling. He was
quite handsome, really, in a dark foreign-looking way. Not at all
the alarming type.

Elizabeth silently chided herself for being
so jumpy.

“Why, yes.” He scanned the glass display
case. “These all look so good, I can hardly decide. What do you
recommend?”

“I’m partial to the cream-filled.”

“What about you, young man?” He turned back
toward Nicky. “Which kind do you like best?”

“Stwabewwy in the middle.”

The man smiled. “That sounds great. I’ll have
two dozen doughnuts with strawberry filling.”

He was a customer, after all. Relief flooded
her as she started filling his order.

“Cute kid,” he said, nodding toward Nicky.
“Is he yours?”

“Yes.”

“Does he come here often with you?”

“No, not often.”

She’d opened her mouth to tell him about Papa
being sick, then changed her mind. One of the things she loved
about living in the South was also one of the things she disliked
most intensely: everybody knew everybody else’s business, which was
fine and dandy when you needed a neighborly hand or a friendly
shoulder, but which could be a royal pain in the constitution when
you wanted to have some privacy.

Down South it was possible to spend ten
minutes in the bathroom with a perfect stranger and emerge bosom
buddies. It would all start with the innocent question, “What color
lipstick you got there, hon?” and quickly progress to intimate
revelations such as “My husband’s sleeping around with his
secretary,” which might be topped with, “I know just how you feel,
hon. Mine got me and his secretary pregnant at the same time.”

Nothing brings folks closer than shared
misfortunes. And that was well and good with adults who had the
wisdom to judge who was safe to talk to and who was not.

In Elizabeth’s opinion one of the modern day
tragedies was the necessity of teaching children that it was not
safe to talk to strangers, even somebody’s sweet little old grandma
who wanted nothing than to pat you on the head and call you a cutie
pie.

After the man left, she crossed to Nicky’s
table, slid into the booth and smoothed his hair.

“Remember that talk we had about
strangers?”

He nodded vigorously. “Don’t talk to
stwangews.”

“That’s right, Nicky. And always run to Mommy
or Papa if one comes up to you.”

He nodded so hard his cowlick bobbed up and
down.