YOU SAID HE WAS ON it,” Eugene said. “Not staying in it.”
Lee Ann pulled the wool blanket over Mother, tucked the satin edge around her shoulders and pecked her forehead goodnight.
“Shhhhhh…we can discuss this after she’s settled.”
“I’m no longer your taxi service to the gate. Drive yourself and leave your car in the turn-around.”
“Maybe you can talk to him.”
“It’ll result in a fist fight and you know who’ll come out on top. You want that? You want him beaten to a heap of slop? Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to bounce his scrawny hide off the walls of that trailer.” He nodded at Mother. “For her sake, it’s best I keep my distance.”
In the kitchen, Lee Ann collected Mother’s supper dishes off the table and ran the water.
Eugene said, “Can’t burn that trailer, bury it or sink it. What I’d like to do is plow into it, but I’d wreck my pickup. Moving it to a repo lot would take time and effort and you can be damn sure I’m not about to do his dirty work for him.”
“You don’t need to swear. And please, keep your voice down.”
He slammed his hand on the counter, rattling the plates.
She turned off the water and sat down. The air buzzed with a high, nerve-shattering frequency sending vibrations from her scalp to her toes.
“I’ll ask Lyle to have the road crew move it to the county yard,” she said.
“They’ll have to slap a warning on it first, give him three days.”
“In that case, I’m sure Walker will have moved it by then.”
“You’re always sure. One thing I’m sure of is that nothing you’re sure of with Walker ever comes to pass. Your certainty is a means of avoiding the inevitable.”
“Eugene, sit down. I’m not trying to make things worse.”
He stayed put. “Well, you do. When the happy carpenter whistles, he’s estimated wrong. That’s you, whistling away, ignoring a nightmare about to happen, denying how much you hate Walker, refusing to take a stand. You’re stuck in your faith, thinking it makes you strong, but it’s like quick-sand, pulling you under.”
The clock said 8:20. Saul Duran had tampered with a paving bid for the road to second mesa. This week she’d obeyed Harley’s request and “adjusted” the budget for the Supplemental Food Program for Needy Women, Infants, and Children. Her job might well be re-titled Commissioners’ Flunky.
She scraped a dab of crusty lasagna off the edge of the table, scratching the spot after it flaked off. Lord, Eugene doesn’t understand the power of prayer. Faulting my faith is unfair! He doesn’t see that forgiveness is the way, that changing Walker is Your job.
She rose to take his hand, but he shook her off and left. Years ago, they’d taken a picnic lunch to San Marcos Lake. After lunch, she’d fallen asleep and woke to find herself alone. The day was warm and she set up a camping chair and passed the afternoon reading No Life For a Lady, recommended by Scott, about a woman’s country life in the last century. Eugene returned in the late afternoon with a bouquet of wild asters, his first of many gifts from nature. During the winter months the gifts continued—mistletoe, a pine bough for the fireplace, a heart-shaped rock, arrowheads, and turquoise beads he discovered when cutting wood. When asked what inspired such offerings, he said, “Pops always treated Mama that way.” She kept a dried flower from each arrangement in a glass bowl on her bureau and the smaller tokens in a cookie tin on her night table, close to her dreams, first reminder of his affection each morning.
There would be no such offering tonight. She rose and walked to the sink, turned on the tap and moved the sponge over a plate’s surface, round and around, the water getting hotter and hotter. I do feel mired down, Lord.