The Ninth Step (12 page)

Even then, before she was a steady drinker, while she was still playful and fun, he’d sensed the misery in her. It was always there like a bruise that ruined an otherwise perfect piece of fruit. He would be nearly grown, and his heart would have hardened toward her, before he would know the cause. When he was just a kid, it had scared him, the way she could be laughing one minute and bawling the next. That day at the lake, she’d soaked her face with her tears. They’d dripped off her jaw, down into her shirt collar and when she’d caught him looking, she’d lifted his hands and pressed them against her wet cheeks as if she meant to print his palms with her pain.    

He’d tried to take back his hands; he had wanted to run. He wanted to run now, but instead he sat down at the table.

And she smiled as if she were pleased, as if she’d won something. “It wasn’t all bad, was it? We had some good times, didn’t we? You, me and Scotty.”

Cotton didn’t answer.

At the kitchen counter, she poured gin into each of two glasses, then picking one of them up, she extended it a little way toward him. “Ice?” she asked gaily.

Chapter 9

Charlie brought the small woven basket into the kitchen and set it on the island.

Livie looked inside. “Eggs?”

“Appears to be.”

“Where did you get them?” She cupped the basket between her hands, turning it, admiring the contents. There were six eggs in all nestled in a bed of fresh straw. Three were shades of pale blue, two were soft green and one was as delicately tinged with pink as the furled edge of a baby’s ear.

Charlie said he found the basket on her porch. “They’re Araucana eggs, aren’t they? I don’t know anyone around here who has those, but you.” 

Cotton
, Livie thought, and rued the warm sharp thrill of anticipation that radiated from underneath her ribs.

“This is twice now, in what?--four or five nights, that this--
whoever
--” Charlie’s emphasis left no doubt that he believed it was Cotton too-- “has left something. Has there been any more email?” Charlie poured his coffee.

“No.” Livie set the basket on the counter next to the sink. She didn’t know what to make of the gift, how to feel about it. Cotton knew how she delighted in the Araucanas, in finding their colored eggs that were unique to their breed. He’d said she was like a child on an Easter egg hunt. She’d said it was silly, she knew. He’d said he loved how the simplest things made her happy. Maybe he had brought her the basket filled with eggs to show her how closely he had paid attention to what she loved. But what did it matter now?

After all this time?

She wanted to know what had happened. She wanted to know how Cotton’s feelings, his dreams of making a family together, could have seemed so genuine only to collapse so suddenly, so heartlessly, for no apparent reason. Livie wished that instead of eggs the basket held answers, but even more, she wished she didn’t care.

Charlie finished his coffee, brought his cup to the sink and said he had to run into Houston and get a load of lumber. “I’m stopping by the sheriff’s office.” He dipped his chin at the basket. “JB should know about those.”

“They’re eggs, Charlie, not hand grenades,” Livie said.

#

“I was afraid you’d call and say we weren’t having it like last time.” Stella walked ahead of Livie to Livie’s car. She meant their girl’s night out and sleepover that Livie tried to make happen once a month. She loved their time together as much as Stella. Her borrowed child. Borrowed motherhood.

“Blame Dexter French,” Livie said.

“How come?” Stella wanted to know.

“He found an Italian urn, an antique, you know those things with big ears.” Livie demonstrated.

“Like the ones Mom has by our front door?”

“Uh-huh. He wanted me to set it up in one of the gardens as a fountain, but he couldn’t decide which garden.”

Stella climbed into the passenger seat.

Livie tugged the seatbelt, handing it to her. “Buckle up.”  

“That’s what took so long?”

“Yep. He made us cart that silly urn all over the place.” Livie blew out an annoyed puff of air as she checked the rearview mirror and pulled into traffic. “We’re going to the mall first, right?”

“Can we?”

“Absolutely. I don’t know why men always say it’s us women who can’t make up our minds, do you?”

“’Cause they’re simpleminded.” Stella was unperturbed. “But what happened? Did you find where to put the urn?”

“No. I finally told Mr. French he could wear it on his head for all I cared.” Livie grinned at Stella. “I told him I had a date that wouldn’t wait.”

Stella giggled.

At a kiosk in the mall aptly named Utter Nonsense, she fingered dangly earrings made from glass beads and peacock feathers.

Livie shook her head.

“How come?” Stella asked. “I have my allowance.”

“They’re forty dollars and anyway, they’re too old for you.”

Stella pursed her lips, pouting, looking so much like Kat that Livie laughed. “C’mon, little diva,” she said.

At an upscale boutique for girls, they settled on a pink baseball cap with a rhinestone initial S scrolled above the bill. Stella put it on in the car and pulled her ponytail through the back opening. “Now, I look just like you when you go to work.” She grinned at Livie.

“Stella by Starlight,” Livie said.

“That’s what Daddy calls me.”

“I know,” Livie said. “What shall we have for dinner?”

Stella couldn’t decide whether they should order in pizza or go out for hamburgers.

“It’s okay,” Livie said. “It’s too early anyway. We can make up our minds later.”

“After we do chores,” Stella said, “when Grampy Charlie comes.”

Livie stood outside the car watching her run up the front walk onto the porch. She’d yanked off her hat along with the scrunchy that held her pony tail and her sun streaked hair shifted like a tattered curtain across her shoulders. The smell of some awful perfume she’d drenched herself in at the mall lingered in her wake. She was adorable, an absolute dream.

“C’mon, Auntie Livie.” Stella pulled open the screen door. “What’re you doing anyway?”

Wishing you were mine
, thought Livie.

They fed the fish, gathered the eggs and picked tomatoes, then did their girl stuff: Livie polished Stella’s nails and once they were dry, Stella practiced French braiding Livie’s hair. “I can’t do it as good as Mommy,” she said. The mirror captured her frown of concentration, the struggle to coordinate her fingers.

“It’s beautiful,” Livie said. “It’ll be easier to do when your hands grow a little bigger.”

Stella moved to Livie’s side and held her palm against Livie’s, still frowning. “Daddy’s home, did you know?”

“Uh-huh. You’re glad, right? You and Zack.”

Stella lowered her hand. She picked up a tube of lipstick from the dressing table that Livie seldom used. “Can I?”

Livie nodded. “Stell? Things are okay at home, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She stroked on pouffy lips and stood back looking critically at the result. “It’s just they fight a lot, more even than me and Zack. Last night, he wet the bed.”

“He hasn’t done that for a while.”

“No, an’ he was in my bed.”

“They woke him up?”

“Uh-huh, they were yelling about ‘vestments.”

“Investments?” Livie watched Stella pucker her lips into a messy kiss at the mirror.

“Mommy said if Daddy wouldn’t play at the market, he wouldn’t lose all their money and Daddy wanted to know if she wanted him to play with other women instead.”

“Huh.”

“Zack came in my room and got in bed with me ‘cause he was scared, then he fell asleep.” Stella met Livie’s gaze in the glass. “I had to let him.”

“Of course you did. I used to do the same thing for your mommy.”

“She slept with you when she was scared?”

“Uh-huh.” Livie turned Stella toward her and using her fingertip, she evened out the color on Stella’s mouth. “Blush?” she said, opening the compact. “It’s hard being the big sister sometimes, isn’t it?” Livie brushed color across Stella’s freckled cheeks. “It’s like you’re afraid, too, but you have to act like you’re not.”

“If I cry, Zack just gets even more scared, so I don’t.”

I never did either
, Livie thought.

Stella closed her eyes while Livie applied pale taupe shadow to her eyelids. Livie made herself concentrate, for Stella’s sake, otherwise she would go to the phone, call her sister and say: How dare you?

Was it possible Kat could have forgotten the nights she’d crawled into Livie’s bed, when she’d cried inconsolably, convinced the noise their mother was making meant the man in her bed was hurting her? Had Kat buried those memories? Livie hadn’t. She remembered being just as terrified as Kat, but like Stella, Livie was the oldest. She’d had to pretend she wasn’t, for Kat’s sake.   

Livie cupped Stella’s face between her hands and her heart constricted with her love and her wish to protect this child and then, she was just so offended on Stella’s behalf. So angry at Kat and Tim for causing their daughter concern, for making Stella feel an adult’s responsibility for her brother. “You’re a brave little princess, do you know it?” Livie asked and her words were hard, like pebbles, pushed against the sore walls of her throat. How she would treasure being the mother of a child like Stella, or Zachary, but more and more it seemed as if it was never going to happen. She’d had her chance and lost it.

Maybe it was better, though, not to assume that love between a man and woman would deepen over time, that a commitment would strengthen without growing bitter. Maybe Livie was better off alone. At least she didn’t have to worry that the damaged parts of herself might damage someone else.

Stella touched Livie’s cheek. “Why are you crying?” she asked.

“Because I’m a silly goose and you’re my sweet, beautiful fairy girl.” Livie pulled Stella into an embrace, blinking her eyes dry.

“Anybody home?”

“Grampy Charlie!” Stella leaned back in Livie’s arms, eyes dancing.

“I heard a certain young lady might want to go for a sunset tractor cruise.” His shout rang through the house and Livie smiled, grateful for Stella’s delight and for the easy laughter in Charlie’s voice and the way it loosened the cord of sadness that was wound around her ribs.

#

Stella wanted to change clothes for the occasion and when she came into the kitchen, Charlie marveled at her full-skirted sundress that was trimmed in an eyelet ruffle, her painted-on glamour that shimmered. He offered her his elbow. “Your majesty’s chariot awaits.”

She melted into fits of giggles.

Livie turned from the sink. “Have her back before dark,” she instructed, “otherwise, the man in the moon is liable to mistake her for a star and want her for his collection.”

Stella rolled her eyes at Livie, then asked Charlie if they could check on the tadpoles down at the pond.

“That’s our first stop,” he told her, “but I bet your aunt wants you to change out of her shoes.”

Livie’s glance fell to the pair of red high-heeled sandals Stella had on her feet. “Where on earth did you find those?”

“Your closet. Is it okay? You said--”

“It’s all right.” Livie made herself smile. “I didn’t realize I still had them.” She ducked into the laundry room, found Stella’s tennis shoes and suggested a trade. She was relieved when Stella didn’t argue.

Livie followed them onto the porch and watched as Charlie boosted his tiny date onto the tractor, an antique John Deere he’d bought at auction and restored years ago. He’d modified the seat into a bench when his own grandsons were big enough to beg for rides. Now they were in college and Charlie seldom saw them, or either of his sons. Livie would have thought he’d have been out of patience for children by now, but if Stella or Zachary bothered him, he never showed it and they were crazy about him.

“Bye, Auntie Livie,” Stella yelled over the engine noise.

“Don’t wait up,” Charlie shouted and Stella collapsed against him in giggling glee.

“Oh, you two,” Livie murmured and she waved, broadly, a little wildly, as if she were seeing them off on an ocean voyage instead of a tractor ride at sundown.

#

She was outside sweeping the front steps when Delia called. Livie picked up the phone, looked at the Caller ID and had one of those moments. Even as her head was saying no, she was pushing the button, taking the call. It would leave her wondering later whether she’d been responding to some bizarre intuition. What would have happened if she hadn’t acted against her impulse? But she didn’t; she leaned the broom against the porch rail and sat on the edge of the swing.

And when she said, “Delia?” there was caution in her voice, in the slant of her spine, in the curl of her bare toes. She heard the tap of ice against glass, the sound of swallowing.

Delia speaking a slurry of syllables: “So, Livie, how’re you doing?” It was the two-cocktail attempt at pleasantry. If she’d had more, there would be overtones of sarcasm, the sullen bite of rancor.

Livie said she was fine even as her misgiving deepened. She crossed her arm over her middle, steadied the swing with her foot. A flock of small birds, sparrows maybe, or house finches caught her attention when they flew into the canopy of the old pecan tree across the road and began bickering.

“Is Cotton with you?”

Livie’s head snapped front as if she’d been jerked by a rope. “Cotton?”

“Have you seen him?” 

“No.” She wasn’t lying. She hadn’t actually witnessed him leaving the irises or the eggs on the porch. “Why? Have you?”

“Well, I--I was asleep the other night, last Sunday night, and I thought I was dreaming, but then I touched him?” Delia’s voice rose as if she were asking. There was more rattling of ice cubes, more drinking.

As if she needed more, as if more would restore her dignity, her clarity of mind. She ought to be ashamed. Instead Livie felt ashamed for her and then irritated that she assumed the burden.

Delia said, “He needed a shave, I--I remember that now.” She went on, something about his hair, that he still wore it short. She added something about there being gray mixed in now.