The Ninth Step (13 page)

Livie’s glance fell to her knees. She hoped Delia’s memory was real, that Cotton had been there, but if he hadn’t, if Delia had simply conjured his presence, so what? Hadn’t Livie done the same thing, imagined him at the foot of her bed? And she’d been sober. Poor Delia’s mind was sloshed in gin and her memory was no less pocked with holes than a wedge of Swiss cheese.

Delia was saying she’d fixed drinks for them. “We talked and laughed ‘til the wee hours. It was like old times. We used to have so much fun, you know?”

No, Livie thought. She didn’t. In reality, Delia was a terrible, worrisome drunk, a thin-lipped, bedraggled little, broken-winged bird of a drunk. When she tried to walk, she wobbled on her skinny legs; her head pecked and bobbed. She blurted inappropriate things. On the day of the wedding, she’d been sipping from a flask hidden in her handbag and Livie had been terrified she would stand up during the ceremony and say she objected, that she did not think Livie was good enough to be her son’s bride.

“Is Cotton staying with you?” she asked Delia now.

“I wanted him to; I told him I’d fix him breakfast before he went to work.”

“Work?”

“He has a job doing construction somewhere, Dove Lake--”

“Dove Lake? Where the wedding--?”

“Yes, yes, I think that’s what he said, but he was gone before I got up.” A further jostling of ice cubes mixed with the impatience of Delia’s breath.

“He probably didn’t want to disturb you,” Livie said.

“That was on Monday, I think, last Monday.”

She’d said Sunday earlier, but Livie didn’t correct her.

“I don’t know why he left, why he didn’t tell me he was going. Why he hasn’t been in touch. It’s like before.” 

“Oh, no, it can’t be,” Livie protested, but how would she know? She was the last person to guess what was in Cotton’s mind. She bit her lip. She didn’t want to be involved. Delia didn’t even like her. Why had she called?

“He’s . . . he’s not the same, Livie. I don’t know . . . I just don’t know. . . .” Delia’s voice teetered, fell into nothing.

Livie gave her a moment to recover her composure, the chance to elaborate, but then the silence was too much. “Delia?” she said sharply.

“What? Aren’t you listening? I just told you he was here when I went to bed, that’s all I know.”

Livie glanced at the porch ceiling, exasperated, hunting in her mind for an excuse to end the call, hunting vainly in the distance for a sight or sound of Charlie and Stella returning on the tractor.

“He was in his room poking around in the closet, but now he’s gone and so’s a brand new bottle of gin. I’ll have to get Max to pick up another.”

Max was a neighbor who lived down the street. Livie didn’t know what their arrangement was, but he did a lot of Delia’s shopping for her. She didn’t drive anymore, thank God. “Maybe you should lie down,” Livie suggested.

“D’you know where he’s been living?” Delia went on as if Livie hadn’t spoken.

“In Seattle, I guess, where the letter came from.”
The one you think I wrote to myself. . . .

“Well, I should have known he go there since that’s where his brother lives.”

“Scott lives in Seattle?” Livie was stunned.

Delia wasn’t. “I need some ice. Hold on, will you?”  

When she picked up the phone again, Livie said, “I didn’t know Scott lived in Seattle.”

“Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you?”

“So you’re saying Scott lives in Seattle and he’s known all this time Cotton was there and he never called? He knew what we were going through here, didn’t he? You were in touch with him? You told him?  I mean even after we got Cotton’s postcard, we--” Livie stopped herself; she saw it now all too clearly, but still, she could scarcely fathom the cruelty of it. “I’m the only one who wasn’t told, is that it?”

“No, Livie, I didn’t know where Cotton was until he told me himself, whatever you might--”

“Never mind.” Livie cut Delia off. “I don’t care.” She didn’t. Why should she? In six years, she’d moved on, hadn’t she? What possible difference did it make now who had known what when?

“Play the martyr, I can’t stop you.”

“I’m not--”

“You want the truth?” Delia demanded. “Cotton made Scott promise not to tell where he was because he was afraid you’d chase after him.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No matter what you and your mother and sister want to believe, it wasn’t me he was running away from.”

“I have to go.” Livie stood up, unmindful in her aggravation when the swing hit the backs of her legs.

“He told me why he couldn’t marry you, Livie.”

“We already had this discussion, Delia. I’m not having it again.”

“He said he could never be the man you wanted, never live up to your precious standards.”

“What does that mean?”

“You tried to make him over. You can’t deny it. You made him feel like he wasn’t good enough.”

“He said that?”

“It’s plain as day. He was doing fine, building houses, making good money, and then you come along and want him to move to the sticks, become a farmer or some such. As if there’s any money to be made fooling around with a bunch of plants.” Delia snorted. “That boy never had any interest in doing anything of the kind until you brainwashed him.”

“Oh, Delia--”

“He could have been anything. He could have been a lawyer like his friend Nix. They used to sit right here in the kitchen and talk about how rich and famous they’d be.”

“You know that isn’t true. Cotton hated college--”

“Nix saw it. He saw how you changed Cotton, how you influenced him.”

“I don’t care what Nix thinks he saw. If anyone had a detrimental influence--”

“Don’t say Nix. I’ve known that boy his whole life. He’s a good friend.”

So where has he been the past six years?
Livie couldn’t remember the last time Delia had mentioned hearing from him. But she wasn’t getting into a discussion about a man she barely knew. “The truth, Delia, is that Cotton left college because he was failing. It had nothing to do with me. We didn’t meet until later.” Livie went into the house, letting the screen door slam behind her.

“I didn’t call to fight,” Delia said. “I don’t have anything personal against you. I just never thought you were right for him.”

Livie set her teeth together.
He’ll never find anyone better.
“Well, I don’t guess that’s a cause for concern any--”

“Livie. . . ?”  A rising note of alarm in Delia’s voice brought Livie up short.

“Delia? What is it?”

“Something’s not-- Livie!” Her name was a screech. “I don’t feel right--oh--!” The syllable popped on a liquid whoosh of air. There was a crack as if the receiver--
Delia’s head?
--had slammed into something hard--
the table? the floor?
--but the line remained open and Livie kept up a fruitless repetition of Delia’s name even as she walked swiftly into the kitchen, pulled her cell phone from her satchel and dialed 9-1-1.

The operator was reluctant, even disapproving, when Livie explained she believed Delia had been drinking.

“Are you sure you need to use department resources, ma’am? Isn’t there a neighbor, a friend in the area, who could go over and check on her?”

“I don’t know of anyone I can reach.” Livie found her car keys, retraced her steps through the house and out the front door. “She’s never done this before. I know something terrible has happened to her. Please. . . .”

By the time the woman agreed--unhappily--to dispatch an ambulance, Livie had found Charlie and Stella at the stock pond skipping pebbles across the light-dappled surface. Livie was matter-of-fact as she explained; she was sure it was nothing. Charlie knew better. In answer to Livie’s question, he said he was happy to look after Stella. “As long as you need me to,” he said, but then he frowned. “You shouldn’t go there on your own, though. No telling what you’re getting into.”

“I’ll be fine.” She started to go.”

“Wait.”

She turned back.

“I stopped and saw JB this morning,” Charlie said.

She groaned. “You didn’t tell him about the eggs.”

“Some woman called him a few days ago, she wouldn’t give her name. She said Cotton was in some kind of trouble, that someone had made threats on his life.”

“Here, you mean? In Hardys Walk?”

“She wasn’t specific. JB got the impression she meant someone in the area.”

“But she wouldn’t say who?”

Charlie shook his head. “JB wondered if it was you or your fam--” Seeing Livie’s clear objection, he raised his hands. “Don’t bow up on me, gal. He thought it might be me, too.”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Livie said.

“Okay, but you be careful, you hear me? You don’t have any idea what Cotton’s into these days, but evidently somebody’s after him.”

“You worry too much,” Livie said.

“You see him, you let JB know, you hear?” Charlie called after her.

Livie waved and kept walking.

Chapter 10

Scott was in junior high and Cotton was still in elementary school the first time they added water to Delia’s bottle of gin. Like a couple of dopes, they assumed she wouldn’t notice. It had seemed reasonable to think they would save her, even that they had the power to make her quit. She’d blown up after the first swallow, chased them around wielding an old leather razor strop that had belonged to their grandfather.

It had never mattered what they did. Delia drank anyway. Then Scott left home, left Cotton behind, and one day, he’d stood at the kitchen sink alone, holding the fifth of Gilbeys, ready to top it off with water, but a voice in his head said what good would it do? He’d only get an ass whipping, so he brought the bottle to his lips instead.

Had a taste and then another and another. He remembered his mouth and tongue going numb. He’d started to laugh. He’d laughed like a freaking hyena, over nothing. He’d gotten shitfaced, blitzed, bombed, wasted.

It had been his birthday, his fifteenth birthday.

When Delia came in and found him, she thought it was cute. She poured herself a shot and saluted him.
Happy fucking birthday. . . .

Now Cotton looked over at Nikki. She was wearing her dad’s tool belt that went around her almost twice and a faded Houston Astros baseball cap that belonged to her brother. She was puttying dings in the new woodwork while Cotton hung the powder room door.

“This stuff reminds me of cake icing,”
she’d said earlier and then she’d prattled on about the plans for her upcoming birthday party.

“I can’t believe I’m almost thirteen,”
she’d said and that was when she’d asked Cotton for his best birthday memory.

A hangover, he thought, but he wasn’t about to tell her that story.  

“Cotton? Did you hear me?” Thankfully she didn’t wait for his answer. “Trev says sixteen was his best ‘cause he got his driver’s license. Then comes twenty-one when you can drink, legally anyway. Trev’s eighteen, but I know for a fact, he already drinks.”

Cotton swung the door on its hinges checking the fit. He glanced at her. “I’d advise you not to take the first swallow.”

“That’s what Daddy says. He went off the deep end after Mom died. Drank like a fish. Wasted every night. It was bad for a while. He’ll freak if he finds out about Trev.”

“I’m really sorry.” The words Cotton had test driven a jillion times through his mind were out of his mouth before he could think.

Nikki shot him a questioning look.

“About your mom, that you lost your mom,” he began and he was groping for the rest of it, teetering in total disbelief at his intention, but poised, nonetheless, on the verge of filling in the blanks when Nikki came back with, “Oh, that’s okay, it was a long time ago.”

Cotton was dumbstruck.
Okay?
Had she said it was okay? Who did she think he was?
Don’t you remember me?
he wanted to shout.
I was there. I heard your mother’s last words; I watched her last breath go out of her. Nothing about it was okaaay. . . .

He tipped back his head, feeling pissed, hostile, disturbed. It was totally unreasonable, but there wasn’t a place in his mind where reason fit into it.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. No.” He swung around, plunged his hands into his tool box, keeping his head down, desperate to hide from her, scared now of what he’d almost done. “Just don’t say losing your mom was okay,” he told her. “Not to me. You don’t ever need to waste your time making me feel better.”

She thought he was a kook; he could sense it, sense the thinner resonance of her anxiety. “It’s just you said the other day how much you still miss her.” Cotton made himself look at Nikki. He managed a one-cornered grin.

“Well, yeah, ‘cause, you know, it’s like-- I mean Dad’s the best, but--”

“He doesn’t get loaded now, does he?”

“No! He doesn’t drink at all anymore. One morning I went in his bathroom when he was shaving and I told him how bad it scared me when he like slurred his words and staggered around and stuff and he stopped.”

“Good,” Cotton said. “That’s really good.” He shifted the powder room door some more as if the way it was balanced was his major concern.

Nikki scraped the putty knife across the wall. “Doesn’t change that it was my fault.”

“What?” Cotton turned to her.

“Mom was like really mad at me that morning; she was yelling and stuff before she--before-- That’s how come we wrecked. I made it happen.”

“No way. You were just a little girl.”

“I was six,” Nikki said stoutly. “I knew not to argue with her when she was driving. She told me enough times.”

Cotton glanced through the open studio door. Humphrey was lying on the porch, on his back, belly exposed to the sun, looking foolish. He could whistle the dog over, create a distraction. But he didn’t. It was as if he were frozen in place, destined to hear Nikki out, to bear witness.

She wanted to tell him; she trusted him.

The same way her dad did--as if they knew him, knew he was an okay person, someone you could safely tell your troubles to.

“I didn’t have on the right soccer uniform,” she said.