When Horses Had Wings (6 page)

Daddy carried the pistol to the kitchen countertop and set it down. He let out a sigh. “You should have told me sooner so I could’ve put a stop to it.”

Momma studied the weapon. “With a gun? Jesse Goodchild, do you mean you’d let that man damn your soul to Hell?”

“He’s my
husband
. This...I need to go.” I eased toward the back door hoping Momma would rise to the opportunity and return me to my original doom.

Daddy stepped toward me. “I’ll take you home.”

I waved him off. “I can’t be responsible for you getting into a fight. I’m sick of fighting.”

Daddy put his arm around my shoulders. “Not going to be no fighting. I’ll take you home. I need to check on the Bug, anyway.”

~

“I’m coming in with you,” Daddy said, when he witnessed Kenny’s car parked in the dirt drive.

I shook my head, but Daddy ignored me.

“Just want to be sure everything’s okay before I leave. No trouble. I promise.”

When Kenny saw me and Daddy, he raised his Naugahyde throne upright. “Where you been?” he asked, as though I’d failed to obtain a pass for temporary leave.

“Went for a visit.” My eyes dared him to say more in front of Daddy.

“Ever hear of leavin’ a note?”

Daddy removed his feed store cap and approached Kenny. “Look here, son. I know y’all been having marital problems. But there’s a right way and a wrong way to settle differences.” With his calloused fingers, he squeezed the rim of his hat.

Kenny kept his seat, refusing Daddy any respect. “Yeah? What’s the right way? Call your daddy?”

His jaw pulsing, Daddy stared down at him. “Any man who’d strike a woman is a lowlife.”

“I ain’t never hit her. She’s a liar.”

I tugged on Daddy’s free arm. “Kenny’s never hit me. I never said he’d hit me.”

Daddy scrutinized me. “Shoving don’t count?”

I tried to think if it did. Were there different degrees of violence? Did I need to suffer a black eye or broken bone before I could call Kenny a horrible husband?

“Well, what do you call a man who cheats?” Kenny asked. “One that slips off to the motel with a girlfriend who drives a better car than he does?”

In a roundabout way, Kenny appeared to be asking questions similar to the ones in my head. I understood him to be suggesting how much worse some guys behave. Someone more astute and less concerned for her safety might have connected the dots differently. But I didn’t.

“It’s late,” Daddy said. “I’m going to leave you two alone to patch things up.”

For the moment, Kenny had escaped Daddy’s ire. However, it hadn’t felt like the hand of God in action. More like His little pinky, maybe.

EIGHT

G
ranny Henderson had a way of prying into family matters as innocently as if she’d asked for the time. “It ain’t none of my business, but if you wanna talk about it, you can.” She pushed her good foot hard against the cement, setting her porch swing in motion. The bench seat’s faded wood peeked through the final remains of cracked, cheap paint. Granny searched the pockets of her floral-print apron for a tissue. Finding one, she set it in her lap as if to suggest one of us might soon need it.

Granny Henderson and I spent the better parts of our fair-weather days sitting under the roof overhang and watching the traffic on Hawk Creek Road, a narrow county byway that bordered our drives with its two lanes of occasional use. Hawk Creek Road was Granny’s second best source of entertainment. No doubt, I was her first.

Fumbling with her tissue, Granny anxiously awaited the day’s top story.

“Not much I can say about it.” I settled into an Adirondack chair that, together with Granny’s porch swing, could have been the only property improvements any tenant had ever made to that duplex. The metal lawn chair didn’t exactly rock, but it had just enough spring in it to loosen my thoughts.

A gravel truck passed by heading toward the quarry, going too fast, as usual. Its driver craned his neck and waved like he was thrilled to discover people actually lived out in these parts.

I adjusted my denim cutoffs, ones I was proud to fit into again.

Granny’s right hand went up and around and shook in such a way that I wasn’t sure that trucker ever was clear she’d properly acknowledged him. I stared at the vacant asphalt he’d left behind.

“Well, I know your baby’s still in the hospital and doin’ okay,” she started again. “’Cause your daddy said so.”

I sat forward and gave her a suspicious look. “When did you speak to my daddy?”

“Other night.” She straightened her apron for maximum effect. “When he came a lookin’ to shoot yore husband. Least, that’s what he told me he planned to do when he found ’im.” She looked up and to her left. “Said he was gonna blast Kenny’s nuts to where they couldn’t cause any more harm.”

I gave out a snort.
My
daddy talked like that? I could hardly believe it. “Well, you can relax,” I said, after I quit laughing. “All Kenny’s parts were there when he left for work this morning.”

Granny wanted the rest of the story, in detail. To me, none of it seemed worthy of repeating. So I just sat there quietly, staring at the road, waiting for a chance to change the topic. Granny, however, didn’t let much time pass before she started up again.

“You know, I’d never wanna be accused o’ meddlin’, but if you ask me, I think maybe you oughta let your momma and daddy work out their own problems—and you and Kenny take care o’ yours.” She was in the mood to lecture again. However, that day I wasn’t in a frame of mind to listen. “You got a child of your own, now.”

Before I could reply, Granny’s screen door opened and out stepped Mr. Henderson, his thick hickory walking cane in one hand, black felt derby in the other. He shuffled past without speaking, navigated the porch steps, and staggered over to a vintage-model Chevy sedan. From the first time I’d seen that car, I’d been curious as to how an automobile that ancient could still operate.

“Would you look at that?” Granny said loud enough for him to hear. “Past Easter and he’s still wearing that winter hat. I tell you, that man ain’t got no sense at all.”

“Can he see well enough to drive?” I was more concerned with his safety than his sense of style.

“See?” Granny gave out a laugh. “Not past that front bumper. Even drives with his cane.”

“With his
cane
?”

“Yeah, with his
cane
—instead of his foot. Says his legs get too stiff.”

Amazed and happy to have found something else to talk about, I stretched this subject as far as I could. “Where does he go?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” Granny shrugged. “When a man leaves, you gotta make better use of your time than t’ spend it asking pointless questions.” She studied the Chevy as it rolled backward fifteen feet, stalled, and then headed west on Hawk Creek Road. “Maybe a gravel truck will get ’im.” She sounded as if that would make her day.

Whatever had made Granny so mad at her husband had to have been hugely memorable. If there was ever an affectionate word exchanged between the two of them, I never heard it. Mostly they just tried to stay out of each other’s way, except late at night, whenever their fights must have grown as exhausted as their decrepit bodies. Somehow they slept together in the same bed—without either of them finding a better use for their pillow.

“You drive?” Granny asked matter-of-factly.

“Sure.” I swatted at a gnat that threatened to violate my nose. “Got a driver’s license, anyway.”

“I ain’t never seen you drive y’all’s Plymouth.” Granny sniffed and scanned the roadway for any signs of traffic.

“No. I guess you wouldn’t have...and likely never will. Kenny won’t let me.”

“Anybody that don’t drive gets driven.” Granny let those words hang in the air like they held some secret meaning. “Let somebody else drive you, you never know where you’ll end up.”

I lifted a jelly jar at my feet and took a long swig of cold tea. I’d made the beverage for Kenny’s supper that evening, but I’d snuck a glass for myself. “Kenny says there ain’t no place I need to go that he or Momma can’t take me.”

Granny’s eyes narrowed and she stewed on that for a bit. “If it was me, and it ain’t, and if I had me two good arms and two strong legs like yours, I just b’lieve I’d
find
me some place else to go then.”

NINE

I
didn’t think much about driving during those first few weeks after Sean came home from the hospital, in part because Momma found about a billion reasons to visit. She’d found a crib for five dollars at a garage sale. I needed to go with her to buy some “bumper pads.” She wanted to take me to get Sean’s picture made. My baby needed more diaper shirts. And Momma needed to know that she spent more time than Neta Sue did with her grandbaby. But eventually Momma settled into grandparenthood with the same enthusiasm she’d brought to parenting, and she returned to her normal routines. That was when I caught a touch of cabin fever.

Somehow, I had to concoct a scheme to get outside the house by myself, go away someplace where I could hear my own thoughts again. I was beginning to lose them the way I’d lost most of my ambitions. Gradually. Diminishing a little more each day, until over time I couldn’t recall that I’d ever had any.

There’d have to be something in the deal for Kenny if he was ever going to let me drive. That much I could guess. So I decided to begin by asking to motor myself to the place he hated most: the Laundromat—on a Saturday. “You know, you don’t
have
to drive me this morning,” I said. “If you’d let me drive myself, you could keep Sean inside where it’s cooler. I’d be back in two hours.” I nodded toward Sean’s crib. “He’s just gone to sleep. He’ll be down for the first hour, at least. What would you think about me going alone?”

Kenny peered through the doorway between the living room and the bedroom where Sean slept. The crib took up one side of the room, and our double bed occupied the other. “I was thinking about a nap, myself.”

“Go ahead and take one, then.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “Give me the keys, and I’ll hurry back.”

“You better,” he said, handing me the permission I needed. “And you better not go anywhere else. I can’t deal with a crying baby.” He paused, then added, “And I ain’t about to change no dookie diapers, neither.”

I couldn’t have been any happier if I’d opened my front door and greeted someone from Publisher’s Clearinghouse. Not only did I regain the privilege to drive again for the first time in more than a year, but I got to listen to radio music, the kind
I
liked, and to lose myself in two hours of uninterrupted thinking. It didn’t matter that the Laundromat was filled with dozens of tired women and energetic children, or that the heat inside had pushed past the temperatures outdoors. For once, I’d driven myself where I wanted to go. Granted, it wasn’t somewhere exciting. Until I opened a dryer door.

Right on top of a pair of Kenny’s freshly laundered jeans was a crisp, hot, twenty-dollar bill. The Laundry Fairy had visited me! The money couldn’t have been Kenny’s because he never carried around bills that large. We rarely had twenty bucks to our names unless it was payday. Regardless of its origin, that bill was now mine. All mine. No way did I plan to tell Kenny about it, which was why I later hid that cash inside my sugar canister. Everything would have been hunky-dory if Neta Sue hadn’t decided to bring us a gallon of strawberries.

~

“These here strawberries don’t taste sweet,” Kenny said.

I wanted to say, “How could they? Your momma touched them,” but instead, I replied, “It’s getting late in the season. Those probably aren’t from the Rio Grande. Maybe that’s California produce.” I set the lid on a pot filled with canning jars and turned on a burner before scuttling to retrieve a glass Kenny had left on the living room floor. Sean sat happily in his playpen, so I saw an opening to do some chores.

When I returned to the kitchen to put away the glass minutes later, I met Kenny standing large in the middle of the room. He’d apparently been looking for a way to sweeten those berries. Now he faced me, pinching the corners of my prized twenty-dollar bill between his thumbs and forefingers. “You wanna explain
this
?” he asked in a way that was more of a dictate than a question.

“Where’d you find
that
?” I asked, having all but forgotten about the hidden money.

“Well, the sugar bowl was empty. So I thought I’d just get some out of
here
.” Kenny pointed behind him to the countertop where I kept a row of red plastic canisters. “Let me see, now… this one says ‘Flour.’ That one there says ‘Sugar.’ This one says ‘Coffee.’ And that one says ‘Tea.’” He turned back to me. “Tell me. Do any of those jars say ‘Money’?”

“No. Of course not.”

“So where did this come from, and why is it in the sugar bin?”

I eased past him and set the tumbler in the sink. “I found it. A long time ago. Honestly, I forgot it was even in there. I stuck it there and didn’t remember.”

“You
stuck
it there,” he repeated, making a stupid face to mock me. “Maybe I oughta just stick my fist someplace so you’ll remember not to hide money. Don’t you think I know what this means?” His voice spiraled up an octave. “Don’t you think I know what you’re up to?” He lunged, dropping the bill onto the floor. Before I had time to brace myself, he shoved me backward against the counter. With one hand, he squeezed my jaw so hard I thought his fingers would poke right through my skin. Steadily gripping me, he hissed, “Any guy who’d want to screw you would have to double-bag your face first.”

Across the room, the pot of boiling jars spewed steam into the air. I needed to turn off the burner before all the water evaporated from my Dutch oven. For some reason, that seemed critically urgent, even more vital than protecting myself from Kenny’s imminent eruption.

Kenny loosened his grip. I tried to get past him, but he caught me full-throttle. His forearm struck me across my collarbone, knocking me backward into the stove. Instinctively, I grabbed for the pot handle, but I missed fully connecting with it. My back slammed against the oven door, sending the boiler and jars crashing onto the floor.

I leaped back to dodge the falling threat.

Hot water splashed from the Dutch oven, scalding me as the liquid seeped through my jeans. Screeching, I yanked open my fly and peeled free of my pants.

Kenny tore at my clothing like it was on fire. I thought he was still raging, until he said, “Ohmigod, Renee. Omigod! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Stripped down to my bikini panties and peasant blouse, I stared at the aftermath beneath me. Miraculously, none of the glass had broken.

Kenny used a dishtowel to retrieve two escaped projectiles while I switched off the stovetop and felt along my shins for damage. Only one burn. A red streak about four inches long. Probably wouldn’t even blister.

Right then I thought about Sean. What if he hadn’t been in his playpen? What if he’d been sitting on the floor beneath me? The horrors of what could have been were too awful to imagine.

Kenny dabbed the towel over the puddle before he looked up and saw my scalded streak. To him, maybe it resembled some kind of roadmap to redemption. He clutched my ankles. Kneeling there in the middle of the kitchen floor, he kissed the burgundy mark he’d caused me to suffer. His lips soothed my sting. As he inched his way up my injured leg, tracing the line well past the point where redness faded to more neutral tones, you could say he found his destination.

It might seem crazy to want to make love to someone who has attacked you. On the surface, it
was
insanity. But I was out of my mind with grief and hurt. I wanted him to take it back, take it all back, through any means possible. And I could see no other way for him to do that.