The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 04

I leaned back against the cooler behind me and looked at the floor. After a moment, I mumbled, "Care to share your thoughts on the matter?"

His voice went real low and a bit scratchy. "I told you it's about you now. And it's your decision and yours alone to make. I'd like to help you with it, but I won't."

I looked at him and tried to smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. "Truth be told, I'd send you out now to try and take care of all of this. God knows you're worse than useless around here today. But you should maybe take some time for some serious thought before go out and talk to any of them more, y'know?"

"Yeah," I said, going back to my work with newfound purpose. And an overwhelming number of newfound thoughts and dilemmas.

When I got done at six, I asked Ferlin for the next day off. He just grunted.

I took it as a yes.

* * * * *

I sat on the tiny patio outside my dining room door and played guitar in the brisk autumn darkness, my mind lost in thought as my left hand fingers form chords and my right hand fingers plucked out random melodies.

"Do me a favor?" she said somewhere in the shadows to my right.

"How'd you find me," I asked.

"Your address was on the divorce papers," she said, stepping into the dull glow cast by my porch light. She was hesitant and skittish, afraid to move closer.

"Oh," I said, still plucking the strings as I looked at her. I hadn't noticed it much the night before, but she looked like hell now. Her hair was put together, but just barely, and her jeans--always a solid fit to the snug side--seemed loose and baggy. "You been eatin', girl?"

"Sure," she said, but her tone indicated she wasn't really sure either way. She was chewing her lip, trying to find something to do with her hands until she finally thrust them into her pockets, which drew in her shoulders and gave her a hunched, furtive look. "Sure gets cold up here," she tried, then gave her best shot at a smile. "Still pretty warm down in Memphis right now."

"Uh huh."

She fidgeted, indecision written all over her face. "Sorry 'bout last night."

I shrugged, then started plucking out the arrangement to an old Cat Stevens tune. Moonshadow. There was something almost mystic about it that seemed to fit my mood and this whole surreal situation. Whatever it was, it calmed me.

"So you mentioned a favor."

She hesitated, then said, "Can you play me one?"

"Which one?"

"'Calico Skies,'" she said, which I knew she would. It had always been our song. Sweet and bittersweet, pretty and sad all at the same time when you know what it was written for.

"Why don't you sit down," I said, nodding to the old beat up lawn chair to my right.

"Okay." She didn't move, then she sort of took a long step and slid into the chair, like she was maybe afraid I'd hit her or something.

"How'd we get here, Sandy?" I said, my left hand warming up to the trying chord progression of our song.

"I used to think it was blind luck," she said, turning and looking at the dark clouds blotting out the moon as they swept toward us. "I mean, we got married to help out the folks, then you tried to make me love you and--poof--just when I thought you'd gotten tired of trying, I realized you hadn't and I decided to try to make you love me even more. And I kinda felt like I'd fallen into a pile of manure and found the Hope Diamond, y'know?"

"So initially I was a pile of manure?" I said softly.

She looked at me, trying to gauge my mood. I just looked back with open eyes, waiting for her to answer. "You were never a pile of manure, Mark. It just never started the way it should've. Then again, I keep telling myself that if it hadn't started that way, it probably wouldn't have started at all."

"Because I wasn't really your type, right?" I said.

She nodded, chewing on her lip again, her voice low as the breeze when she said, "But you became my type. The only type I ever want."

I nodded. "How? How'd that happen? Was it guilt, or were you just afraid of going out and finding someone else?"

She looked down, her face scrunched up in thought. "I guess it was contentment at first. Not, like, this crazy, wild passion. Don't get me wrong, we had those moments, but it was never like in the movies. But after awhile, it became like in the movies. For me, at least."

"It was always like in the movies for me," I said. "Or a fairy tale, maybe. I don't know, but it was always real to me."

She seemed not to have heard me. She continued with her eyes again on the clouds and her face somewhere faraway. "I remember pretty much when it happened. They were mocking you--Peggy and Tracy and them--about how you were always so polite and bending over backwards and . . . I don't know, how you were always just going out of your way to make me happy. And I compared you to their husbands and their lives. Their husbands were like . . . like Stevie. All macho and swaggering and one of the boys. Have my dinner ready when I get home and fuck no I'm not staying home on Sunday, I've got football with the boys. And I wondered how I could possibly envy them."

I could see the tears in her eyes glistening against the pitch black sky, and a smile curled her lips. Her thoughts were speech, and she was talking as if to herself as she remembered it all.

"Then came that damned appeal, and I hated it. I hated it and I hated you and I thought you were going to turn into one of them. One of those husbands like they had, and I didn't like it. Hell, it was three weeks before you even told me about it, and by then I figured it was someone else. That you'd met another woman and were getting set to run. Then, when you told me it was a big case, I thought you were just gonna do that fuck-you-deal-with-it thing and force me to leave you. Like you couldn't even leave me on your own, but you wanted me to be the one to leave you and you were giving me a push to do it. And I hated myself for thinking it all, because I had to admit that I really did love you by then and I really did want it to work. If I hadn't really fallen for you, I wouldn't have cared that you were trying to drive me away, but I'd fallen and I shouldn't have and I hated myself and everyone for it."

I wasn't playing the guitar anymore, spellbound by a side of Sandy she'd never revealed.

She was silent for a moment, then gave a sad laugh. "Funny thing was, I knew the moment I saw you on that television screen. It should've been your proudest moment, but you looked just plumb beat down and worn away. It was you afraid of me leaving you, not the other way around. And I remember the shame. It was overwhelming. I was in my office and it came up and a whole group of us was just gathered around watching you and they were all slapping me on the back and telling me it must be great for me. But all I saw was the look in your eyes when y'all did that group hug and that tiny little woman like to've squeezed you to death. You looked lost and afraid. I collapsed, it was so overwhelming. Like being hit with a hammer. I've never had that before, not even when Stevie died. Then I remember rushing home to be there for you, but you didn't show up. I sat there and sat there and just prayed to God to bring you home, to give me one more chance."

"And your boyfriend?"

She shook her head. "It was lunch, mostly. Just a few times . . . well, the last month, maybe four or five times we'd go over to his apartment after lunch. But the second I saw you on that screen, the second I knew you weren't trying to leave me . . . I never spoke to him again. He got the point pretty quickly and never pressed it."

"I never cheated on you," I mumbled.

"I know," she whispered. After a moment, she turned and faced me, trying to hold her face together. "I lied last night, Mark."

"How so?"

"I suspected it then. I suspected you never knew. I wasn't sure, but I suspected it."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Because I was afraid that if I said something I'd have to come clean about everything. And I was afraid that if I did that, you'd leave me. I didn't want that. Not then, not ever. I wanted to have a chance to make it up to you. To just pretend like it all never happened so we could go back to how it had been just before that appeal."

"So you considered yourself married to me for real then."

She smiled at the memory and nodded. "Yes. As God is my witness, I tried to be the best I knew how. Not for me, but for you. For us. I swear it."

Just hearing it all again made me sad all over again. Sad at what had happened and at how we'd gotten to where I thought we'd already been from day one.

"Please say you'll give me a chance, Mark. Please. I'll do whatever you want; whatever conditions you set, I'll meet them. Just come back."

"Not gonna happen," I said. "Not now, not ever."

Her reaction was immediate as she buried her face in her hands, weeping, her shoulders heaving with the force of her emotions.

I reached over and pulled her hands away and said, "I'm not saying we're getting back together, but if we do, I'm never going back to Memphis. Not even as a visitor. And I'm never going home again, either. And I'm not helping your daddy and his fucking campaign, and I'm not going anywhere near Tennessee again."

"What're you saying?" she said, frantically wiping her tears as her eyes begged me to give her hope.

"I'm still thinking about it, Sandy. But up front, you need to think about what I just said, because I'm serious as a goddamned heart attack, y'hear?"

She nodded. "No more Tennessee."

"And to hell with our parents," I repeated. "All of them. They treated me about as bad as you can treat anyone. Betrayed me and played me and used me up and spit me out. I don't give a shit who they are, they aren't people I care to spend my time with. You need to think about that, Sandy. Long and hard, you need to think about that. If I decide to give us another shot, you'll have to move up here. To this area. And I may just stay a bartender, too. And I'll definitely be playing gigs again."

A smile was forming through her tears. "Groping groupies?"

"Groping groupies."

"Not really, though, right?"

I shook my head. "Of course not really. But I wanna live my life for me for a change. Or at least do some of the things I wanted to do instead of the things my parents demanded I do or tricked me into doing."

"And you're still hesitating on us because I'm one of those things they tricked you into, right?" she said, her smile getting hesitant.

"Wrong. I'm still trying to figure out what to do about us--whether to get back together or not--remembering how happy we both were when you joined in those last three years and made it a real marriage, to hell with how it started."

"But you're not sure those last three years can overcome all the rest," she surmised. "Like the cheating."

"Yeah," I said, sagging and just looking at her.

She just looked right on back, then reached over and took my hand, squeezing. I squeezed back.

After a moment or so, she said, "Can you at least play me that sappy old song?"

I lingered letting go of her hand, then started picking out the intro.

"It was written that I would love you/from the moment I opened my eyes. And the morning when I first saw you/gave me life under calico skies. I will hold you/for as long as you like/I'll hold you/for the rest of my life."

CHAPTER TEN

It was easy enough to get Dad's phone number. Just call his Senate office and find out where he was staying. The hard part was talking to Dad, because it was Mom that answered.

"Yes," she snapped.

"I'd like to speak with Dad."

"After the way you treated both of us yesterday? After the way you let that . . . that . . . that man treat us in public? You think-- "

"Put him on or I'm hanging up."

"You'll not make demands or threats. I'm your mother, Mark Roberts, not some little trailer trash toadie."

I heard Dad say something in the background, and I heard her snap something back, but it was all muffled.

"Mark?" Dad said into the phone, Mom still yelling at him in the background. "Mark, you there?"

"Breakfast in an hour," I said. "Just you. Do not--I repeat, do not--bring her, understand?"

"Where?" he said.

I gave him the name and general location of a little greasy spoon out on the highway leading into town from the south.

When we rang off, Mom was still yelling at him in the background.

* * * * *

I was ten minutes late, and Dad was already getting his coffee refilled when I spotted him in a corner booth and made my way there. He looked rode hard and put away wet, every day of his fifty-nine years and then some deepening the wrinkles in his face and dragging his skin down. The bags under his eyes, glassy stare, and overall slump completed the picture.

"Thanks," he said as I slid into the booth across from him. "For calling me, wanting to meet with me."

"I don't," I said matter of factly. "If I could figure out another way to get the truth about Clarice Talbott, I'd do it, but I can't. So let's hear it."

He winced at the mention of her name, then slumped in resignation as I motioned for and got a cup of coffee from the wizened old waitress with her blue hair up in a bun.

"The little boy's not your brother," Dad said. "He's your nephew. He's Stevie's boy."

"Yeah, right. Because she was Stevie's secretary, right?"

It was Dad's turn to get lost in his thoughts, and the lines etched in his face and around his eyes told me they were painful thoughts.

"We were in recess and Stevie had just gotten in from school. Clarice Talbott was my personal secretary. Great kid. Bright, lively, would work from dusk til dawn and then some. I had a whole slew of campaign stops to make. Remember? I was up for re-election, and it was busier than hell."

I nodded. When he hesitated, I said, "I remember. Move along with the story."

He turned away before continuing. "You were still finishing finals, so I wasn't sure you'd really remember that much. But you know what it was like."

"Yeah," I snapped, getting impatient.

"Sorry," he mumbled, then took a sip of water before continuing. "Anyway, we were off in Chattanooga, a whole round of weekend rallies and stuff. I got back to the hotel late, schmoozing and stuff with the local bigwigs, pressing the flesh. It was just past midnight when I got back there, and I didn't really think much of it. Stevie not being there and all. We were sharing a room, and Clarice was rooming with one of the PR people. Another woman, I can't remember her name."

"And this all matters why?" I said. "Will you just get to the point?"

But I couldn't shake him from it. His eyes took on a faraway look that told me this had something to do with Stevie's death, and I began to get a chill up my spine.

"I didn't really notice her at first. I just saw the beds, and they were both empty. I figured he was just out at a club somewhere kicking up his boots or something. But then I heard this whimper in the corner, a scurrying kind of. And I flicked on the light and she was there, cowering and trying to hide in the corner on the other side of the bed. Her clothes were in tatters all around her, and she was naked. All except her bra, which was only just hanging there. She was frantic, and all afraid. I knew in an instant. I don't know how. I mean, how do you even think that about your own son? But I just knew immediately."

"Stevie raped her," I said, verbalizing what Dad could not.

His eyes found me and, after a brief hesitation, he said, "Yeah. I don't know what he was thinking. Still don't. None of us ever will, I guess. But he raped her. And I swear to God, if he'd been in that room when I showed up--if he'd been there, I'd have killed him with my bear hands."

"What happened next?"

His lips trembled as he fought to hold himself together. "I called the PR gal in the room down the hall. I got her down there immediately. For Clarice, right? I mean, what else was I going to do?"

"How about call the police?" I said.

He smiled, a smile at first bitter, but then tender. "Of course, Mark. That's what you'd have done. I know it is. And it's what I should've done, too, but I didn't. I listened to that other woman and her mind just started spitting out ideas and instructions and scenarios. I saw it all. My Senate career awash in scandal. My son in prison. All of it."

"Did you see Clarice Talbott."

"Of course I saw her," he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. "You think I'm that big a monster?"

"Jury's out," I shot back, then took a sip of my coffee. "What happened next."

"She was getting Clarice into some clothes while I tried to phone someone who'd see the poor girl. Just as I was about to give up hope, there was a knock on the door. It was the police, and they were there to tell me that Stevie had wrapped his car around an old oak tree out in the hills around Lookout Mountain."

"So you buried it all," I said. "You bought her off and hushed it all up."

He jerked his head up and down. "What good would come from doing otherwise?"

"How about some justice for Clarice Talbott?"

"Would making all of that public--and you know damned well she'd have been named in public and be the subject of all sorts of sordid gossip--would that have really served her well? You mean that type of justice? Your mother was right, Mark. You really can be such a goddamned boy scout sometimes."

"You say that like it's something to be ashamed of. Like I'm a failure because I want to do what's right, Dad. Is that really such a bad thing?"

He lowered his head and mumbled, "No."

"So when did y'all find out about the pregnancy. And why didn't she get an abortion?"

"Three months later. At first she just thought it was nerves from the . . . from that night. Later, though, as her belly grew, she . . . well, at three months or so."

"And how'd you find out? She call you?"

"I stopped in on her a couple of times a week. See how she was doing; see if she needed anything. I'd kept her on my payroll, but I was worried about her." He motioned for another cup of coffee and, once it was refilled, continued. "Anyway, I showed up one day and she said she was pregnant. I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it. Either way, she said she wasn't giving the baby up. I think she's a pretty strict Catholic, father in that Opus Dei thing and all. Anyway, this just made a bad situation for her worse, though, because I'm pretty sure her parents all but disowned her over it."

"So you decided to step in and help, right?"

"I told her she'd stay on payroll until after the baby was born. After that, we'd figure out a way to get her some support money and set her up in a job."

"And she said?"

"Not much, really. I think she just wanted to get away from us. From all of us, but especially from me."

"And the boy?"

"I don't even know his name," Dad confessed. "Her only contact is a post card whenever she changes her address, and we send her a check once a month regular as clockwork."

"His name's Schuyler," I said, glaring at my father. "Your grandson's name is Schuyler, and he plays football and he's healthy and he looks just like I did at that age. I guess he took after your side of the family. Stevie took after Mom's side, but your genes must've come through on this one."

Dad got a weird look at this, like he was trying to picture the little boy. "Schuyler?" he said.

"Schuyler. And Schuyler's living about a mile from here in a shitty little house with a mother who's still not coping all that well from what I could see. And now she's scared shitless because someone showed up at her door and said something to her and showed her my picture. So now I can't even meet her and meet my nephew. If she'll let me, that is. And not that I can blame her if she wouldn't, because she'd be more than justified in comparing me to the other two Roberts men who've gone a long way toward fucking up her whole life, dontcha think?"