SCRAMBLED EGGS STEAMED ON A platter. Bacon, sausage, and leftover cornbread were already on the table, coffee had been poured. Odd how men grew silent after a catastrophe, whereas women rushed to bake a cake, utter assurances, dress a wound, and send condolence cards. Eugene broke open a biscuit and asked for the jam. A stranger might think his soft-spoken manner and no-tell expression conveyed an easy-going man, an uncomplicated man. Anyone who knew him understood that long ago boundaries had been set, codes of conduct established.
“Scott will have to postpone college,” he said.
She passed the eggs to Dee’s left hand. Across the table, Manuel and Rudy said nothing as they loaded sausage and bacon onto their plates, feigning disinterest. Conversation uttered at this table would be common knowledge throughout the county within twenty-four hours.
She said, “This is not the time.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Scott said.
She shook her head. Since childhood, the limp swing of his arm tossing a rope over a colt’s head, his slow gait to the hen house to feed the chickens (detouring to chase a lizard, or inspect a spider weaving her web), and the lazy way he brushed the horses signaled boredom with ranch chores. Rural life was too small. By the time he was a teenager, he’d not only observed much of the local flora and fauna, he’d studied books about the unique species in the Galapagos, been captivated by South American parrots and poisonous snakes of Africa, banyan trees in India, creatures and plants of the sea and jungle, intrigued by information about the larger world.
Scott laid his knife across his plate and tapped his fist lightly on the table, left his food half-finished and went outside.
“He was counting on going,” Lee Ann said. “We’ll never know where this disappointment fits on the list of others he’s experienced—number ten, twenty, forty. He mustn’t be assigned an unfulfilled life.”
Dee said, “Stuff in books is always there. There’s work to do right here.”
“You don’t share his interests, Dee,” she said. “Don’t berate his passion. This isn’t a question of one endeavor being superior to another.”
“Right now, it’s a question of what’s practical,” Eugene said.
He swallowed a final gulp of coffee and took his cup to the kitchen. The others cleared their places. Dishes clattered in the sink, the back door opened, footsteps crossed the porch and thumped down the steps.
She stayed at the table, folding and re-folding her napkin. Too much space. Too many men. But friendships with women had always seemed complicated by confidences and snide insinuations. At school, girls who’d shared romantic secrets and compared beauty tips had paired off around her and she’d treated them like another species. At work, betrayals and shifting loyalties warned against bonding with co-workers and subordinates. She trusted Mother. She trusted Grace.
“I’ll be praying for a girl,” Mother had said at the news of Lee Ann’s first pregnancy, twenty-one years ago. “Boys grow up to find a woman of their own and leave their mother. A daughter stays forever.”
Lee Ann had proved her right. They’d planted and harvested together, ran errands and shopped together, sewed, cooked, and attended church together. They lived together by choice and circumstance. Together because of a promise, because of obligation, because of loyalty, family ties, soul ties, and tradition. Together—side by side, eggs in a box, cards in a deck, bread in a toaster, cherries on a stem. Mother and daughter.
Mother had been mistaken about sons. Except for his marriage and periods in jail, Walker had stuck even closer to home than Lee Ann, his bedroom the base from where he came and went as he pleased, partly to play, partly to escape, accountable to no one. Mother collapsed like a wilted daffodil when he left, jumped for the phone the entire time he was gone, and perked up when he returned. When his inane exuberance, lies, and deceit beat Lee Ann down, she worked ugly thoughts out with her Lord, for Mother had made it clear—Walker was the one person Lee Ann must never criticize.
She found Danielle on a paint-splattered stool next to the workbench in the shop, boot heels hooked on the top rung, a black cat on her lap.
“I’m sorry we missed each other yesterday,” Lee Ann said. “There was an accident.”
Danielle stroked the cat’s head.
“His name is Woolly. The other one’s Mister.”
Lee Ann leaned her hip against the table saw.
“I assume they’re fixed,” she said.
Actually, she was surprised Eugene hadn’t “mistakenly” let them loose. But, of course he wouldn’t—they belonged to Danielle. Every hair in place, gold earrings twirling even when her head didn’t move, bright red lipstick, flimsy, semitransparent tee shirt that looked like something to wear to bed. A fallen angel, or one about to fall. No bigger threat than the magic or wizardry of a gorgeous woman, and nothing more unfair.
Jesus stood behind Lee Ann’s shoulder. But I say to you that hear, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless—
She moved away from the table, away from Him.
“Please ask Walker to stack wood for you.”
Danielle lowered Woolly to the floor and whisked cat hair off her jeans.
“He wasn’t around. And I didn’t ask. Eugene offered.”
Several milk jugs filled with water lined the back edge of the table. Danielle unscrewed one of the caps. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Walker can do that for you.”
“Tell him that. Tell them both.” She retrieved the cats’ water bowl and filled it, splashing water on the legal pad beside the chop saw. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me around,” she said. “As far as Eugene is concerned, you need to take the matter up with him.”
Before the crew returned for lunch, Lee Ann stacked plates by the stove and set out pitchers of lemonade and iced tea. She left a note telling the men to help themselves, retrieved her Bible, and called the dogs, who sensed her destination and shot past Mother’s toward the mesa. Walker’s truck was gone. Typical. Bungle things and disappear.
Up the canyon, they added paw and footprints to fresh elk and coyote tracks. Often, she’d dally along this route and admire lichen or pick up interesting rocks. This morning she trudged, leaning forward as if fighting a swift wind, one arm swinging free, the other holding the Bible like a school book. Cedar branches, stripped and mangled by bull elk in mating frenzies, hung from maimed trees, droppings everywhere, the musky odor of fresh urine pungent in the stagnant air. The trail crossed an arroyo, flattened out some, and continued climbing at a steep angle, flanked by rocky walls.
Danielle, curvaceous and coy, with skin like silk and heavy lashes, was there for the asking. Eugene was unhappy. Wordless messages passed between men and women. I’m married, but it doesn’t mean anything. I’m married, too, but looking elsewhere. I have erotic secrets to share. I want to experience them. I’ll keep things light. I’ll appreciate that. I can make you feel good in ways you can’t imagine. You already do.
The narrow passage ended at a weak spring seeping from porous rock, a destination they called “the dribble.” The pebbled conglomerate oozed water into soggy muck beneath it. Panting, she turned to Proverbs 27:4. Alternating waves of dizziness and heat left her light-headed and she swayed, struggling to keep her balance. She reached to wet her palm and cool her forehead. The Bible weighed nothing, no more than a leaf, and slipped from her hand into the mud. A single note escaped from her throat and she held her ears against the sound of her own anguish. Wrath is cruel, anger is overwhelming, but who can stand before jealousy?