Twice in a lifetime, p.16
Twice in a Lifetime, page 16
Christine lay sprawled across her bed. She was on her side, completely still, her hair covering her face. At first glance, she looked peaceful; Clara’s thoughts were anything but. Fearing that her mother had been overcome by the smoke, terrified that Christine could be dead, Clara rushed over and began roughly shaking the older woman’s shoulder.
“Mom!” she shouted, her voice panicked. “Wake up!”
At first, there was no response, so Clara shouted louder and shook harder. But then Christine sputtered awake, her eyes narrow slits, unfocused and disoriented.
“What…what’s going on?” she mumbled.
“There’s a fire!” Clara yelled. “We have to get out of here! Quick!”
“Fire? What fire? What are you talking about?”
Before Clara could respond, Christine became aware of the haze of smoke filling her room. Her eyes went wide as she turned to her daughter, then away, raising a trembling hand to cover her mouth.
“Oh, no,” she moaned. “Oh, God, please no…”
“What is it?” Clara asked, her stomach twisting into knots.
“I…I didn’t mean to…I just came up here and…”
“Mom,” Clara said softly, almost pleading. “What happened?”
When Christine looked at her, her eyes were wet. “I…I started cooking dinner…” she explained. “I put a pan on the stove…I was going to fry some onions to go with the roast…” But it was there that her story ended.
She didn’t have to say more. Clara knew what had happened next: her mother had forgotten about the stove, come upstairs, lain down, and fallen asleep while what was in the pan burned to a crisp, filling the house with smoke.
“Oh, Clara,” Christine cried, punctuating her words with a sob.
An awkward silence stretched between them, broken when Drake shouted from downstairs. “Fire’s out!” he shouted. “I’m going to open up the windows!”
“All right,” Clara answered; her voice sounded as out of sorts as she felt, as shaken by what had happened as her mother.
The worst part was the way Christine looked at her; her gaze was pleading, as if she was a child, helpless to deal with the circumstances in which she unexpectedly found herself.
“It was an accident,” Clara offered, wiping away a tear.
Her mother shook her head. “I could’ve burned the house down!”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I could have!” her mother insisted. “What if you hadn’t come home when you did? What if Tommy had been hurt? What if I got up in the middle of the night, put a pot on the stove, and killed us all in our sleep?”
Clara didn’t answer. What can I possibly say?
Suddenly, the sound of a fire engine’s siren rose in the distance; no doubt it was headed for their house. More than likely, a neighbor had called in because of the smoke. With every fevered beat of Clara’s heart, the noise grew louder.
Christine started to cry. If the fire truck was coming, that meant there would be questions; if they answered truthfully, Clara’s mother would be humiliated. For those who knew about Christine’s troubles, it wouldn’t be just a simple accident, but rather another indication that she was losing her marbles.
“I’ll take care of it,” Clara said, putting a comforting hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
But by now, Christine wasn’t listening. Her body shook as she sobbed into the mattress, overcome by shame, fear, and sadness.
Clara stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind her. The siren drew closer; within seconds, the truck would be parked right outside. Even with the slowly dissipating smoke, she took a deep breath.
She had a lie to tell.
For the next hour, Clara weaved an explanation for what had happened that didn’t place the blame on her mother, but on herself. She spoke with the firemen, wearing a sheepish smile, and told them she’d put a skillet on the stove but forgot about it when she and Drake went for a drive. When they came home, they’d found the house filled with smoke. Clara tried to look embarrassed, but worried that all it did was make her appear guilty. When Sheriff Oglesby arrived, the lights on his police car flashing, she repeated her story. The lawman took it all in, then started asking questions; when he inquired about whether Tommy or her mother had been home, Clara dug her hole a little deeper, admitting that she wasn’t sure where Tommy was, but then claiming that her mother had gone to the library. Guilt ate at her, but she managed to convince herself that her lie hurt no one; in fact, it went a long way toward protecting what little was left of her mother’s pride. She saw her neighbors watching from across the street and up on their porches, but no one came over to talk, for which Clara was thankful; she didn’t want anyone to contradict her.
Drake went along with her story, even trying to claim responsibility by saying that he had asked Clara to show him more of town. At first, she thought that Sheriff Oglesby was eyeing Drake suspiciously on account of his being a newcomer to Sunset, but the more they talked, the more it seemed as if the driver’s charm put the lawman at ease.
For her part, Christine remained hidden in her room.
“Let’s make sure this here’s the only accident we have,” the sheriff said with a wink as he got in his car and drove off.
Once everyone had left, Clara and Drake exchanged looks of relief.
Back inside, Clara went up to her mother’s room to tell her that everything was fine, but the door was locked. When she knocked, there was no answer.
Clara walked onto the porch. Night had fallen, wrapping the neighborhood in darkness; a few lights shone inside houses and from the streetlamp on the far corner, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the brilliance of the countless stars that filled the sky. Crickets chirped. Weary, she lowered herself into the porch swing and absently began to push herself back and forth, causing the hinges to squeak.
She and Drake had eaten a hasty dinner; he had gone to the grocery store and bought the fixings for sandwiches and a six-pack of beer. Together in the still smoky kitchen, they said little. Christine had yet to leave her room, so Clara had taken her a plate, setting it on the floor outside the door. Tommy still hadn’t come home. Once their meal was finished, and as Drake began to clear the table, Clara had wandered from the room and soon found herself outside. It wasn’t because she was trying to get away from Drake, or even that she wanted to be alone, but only that she had drifted, drawn by the dark and silence.
The porch swing was a familiar place for Clara to seek refuge. In the months and years after Joe’s death, after Tommy had been put in bed, after she had managed to survive another day, she would often come outside and sit. She would cry. She would remember better times. She would even talk to Joe, hoping he could still hear her, just like when she visited his grave. But of course, she’d never gotten a reply, though it was comforting all the same.
“You mind a little company?”
Clara looked up and found Drake. He held a beer bottle in his hand. When she nodded, he sat down on the railing opposite her.
“Nice night,” he commented, taking a swig.
“It is,” she answered.
After that, neither of them spoke for a while. Across the street, a couple walked by hand in hand, too far away for Clara to hear what they were saying; whatever it was, it must have been funny, since the man burst out laughing.
“When I was little,” Clara finally said, breaking their silence, giving voice to a memory that she couldn’t keep inside, “there was a girl in my class at school named Evelyn Price. Every day, she waited for me on my walk home, and no matter how fast I ran, no matter how hard I tried to get away, she always caught me. She would push me down, pull my hair, throw my books into a mud puddle, that sort of thing. I’d come home bruised and crying my eyes out, complaining about Evelyn to my mother, begging her to do something.”
“Did she?” Drake asked, taking another drink.
Clara shook her head. “Not the way I wanted her to,” she answered. “Instead of talking with my teacher or with the Prices about what their daughter was doing, she told me that I had to stand up for myself, that she wouldn’t always be there for me and that if there wasn’t another choice, I had to fight.”
“So what happened?”
“The next time Evelyn came after me, I stood my ground. She grabbed my hair and I socked her in the nose.”
Drake chuckled. “Sounds like you were a regular Joe Louis.”
“It’s the only time I’ve ever thrown a punch. It made me sick to my stomach, but it was worse for Evelyn. She took off running as fast as she could. It was the last time she ever bothered me.
“So why is it that now, when my mother needs my help, when her problems are getting worse, I don’t know what to do?” She paused, hugging herself tightly, wrestling with the day’s terrifying events. “She almost burned the house down. What do I do when she can’t take care of herself anymore? What if there’s another accident? What happens when her memory gets so bad that she doesn’t recognize me?”
For a while, Drake didn’t answer; when he did, his tone was serious. “Back on the farm,” he began, “my father thought I was one hell of a disappointment. Most days, he’d shout or shove me out of the way, complaining about some chore I hadn’t done to his liking. The only time he gave a damn about me was when we brought in the harvest. From morning to nights far darker than this, my brothers and I were like slaves to him. Sure, we had a responsibility to help our family, but whenever we complained about being hungry, cold, or tired, my father had no compassion. All he had was his belt.
“The difference between our folks,” he explained, finishing his beer and setting it on the railing, “is that yours tried and mine didn’t. So when it comes to now, to having to care for your mother, all you can do is listen to your heart and let it tell you what’s right. Even if you fail, you’ll always know that you did your best. That’s the same as your mother did by you all those years ago.”
Drake came to sit beside Clara on the swing. At first, she thought he wanted to comfort her, to pull her into his arms. But all he did was put his hand over hers; she quickly accepted his touch, entwining their fingers.
Sitting quietly beside him, Clara was nearly overcome with emotion. Tremors raced across her heart, her eyes misted, her skin grew warm. Because of Drake, she hadn’t had to face this terrible, trying day alone. He had rushed into the smoke-filled house without a thought for his own safety, remaining calm in the face of crisis. When the fire truck and the sheriff had arrived, he’d followed her lead without hesitation, helping to create a story in which the blame wouldn’t fall on her mother. And now, by telling her about the troubles he’d had with his father, he was trying to ease her burden. What she felt just then was greater than any kiss or embrace, no matter how tender. It was special. Magical. Unbelievable, even.
Sitting there, her hand in his, neither of them feeling the need to say a word, Clara suddenly realized something she wouldn’t have ever thought possible.
I’m falling in love with Drake McCoy…
Chapter Seventeen
EDDIE WALKED QUICKLY down the streets of Sunset. The early-morning sun shone brightly. He had a touch of headache and his stomach felt queasy, undoubtedly due to all the alcohol he’d drunk the day before, but he refused to let it keep him from the task at hand. While downing scotch, he’d formulated a plan: he would learn the identity of the stranger who had interrupted him and Clara.
He began by making phone calls. His newfound focus had cleared his head, although he suspected that some of his words must have been slurred. Asking around Sunset, he’d wanted to know of any recent arrivals. It didn’t take long for his efforts to bear fruit. He discovered where the man was staying: the Sunset Hotel. From there it was easy. Eddie had telephoned Edna Gilbert and learned every detail he could, beginning with the stranger’s name.
Drake McCoy…
With that nugget of information, he had made more phone calls, up and down the highways, across the countryside, all the way to St. Louis. What Eddie learned was interesting. McCoy was a race car driver, a man who pitted his skills against others’ for money; from what he gathered, McCoy won more often than he lost. How the man had met Clara was still something of a mystery. Surely it was happenstance; McCoy had stumbled across the widow, become smitten, and thought he had some sort of claim to her. And that was why Eddie was headed to what passed for a hotel in these parts.
He was going to dissuade the man.
The truth was that Eddie wanted Clara Sinclair for his wife, which meant he was insanely jealous of McCoy. What could she possibly see in such a ruffian? How could a race car driver who probably didn’t have two nickels to rub together hold a candle to someone like himself, a man who was both important and incredibly rich? The answers eluded him.
Eddie opened the front door of the hotel and stepped inside. The place was just as dingy as he remembered; the tabletops were covered in dust, the pictures on the walls had been bleached almost white by the sun, and a few windowpanes were cracked. When Eddie had been much younger, his father had gone out of his way to help Edna and her husband get the hotel off the ground and regularly brought his son with him to see how the Gilberts’ business was doing; to Eddie’s eyes, it had looked run-down even when it was new.
“Mornin’, Eddie,” Edna welcomed him from behind the front desk. The hotel’s owner looked rough, her eyes red and her hair a rat’s nest of tangles. Clearly, she’d just woken up.
“Is he here?” Eddie asked.
“Who do you mean?” the older woman answered, stifling a yawn.
“The driver! McCoy! Who else would I be talking about?” he snapped, the words coming out in a rush, startling even him with their intensity.
The banker’s anger cleared the fog in Edna’s head. She stood a bit straighter and pushed some wayward hair back behind her ear. “He and that fella with him is roomin’ up on the second floor,” she said. “I ain’t seen neither one of ’em this mornin’, so I reckon they’re still there.”
“Then call him down here,” Eddie told her.
The older woman nodded, sending her hair flying every which way, undoing the work she’d done. She reached for the phone.
Eddie folded his arms across his chest, satisfied. The last thing he wanted was to knock on McCoy’s door. He wanted their meeting to be on his terms.
It’s time the two of us had a talk…
“You don’t look so good.”
Drake put it as politely as he could. Amos sat on his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He’d been asleep while Drake got dressed, snoring loudly, and had only just woken. Amos wore a stained undershirt and a pair of boxer shorts, with plenty of wrinkled and sagging skin exposed. He slowly looked up to reveal a face that seemed as if it’d been in an accident. His eyes were narrow, watery, and bloodshot; they peeked out over the top of dark bags. He hadn’t shaved in days; a patchy beard was coming in, making him look ten years older. His mouth hung open and his lips were red and chapped. As pale as he was, if Amos had been lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, Drake might have wondered if he was dead.
“Thanks for noticin’,” the mechanic snarled without much humor.
“You want me to fetch a doctor?”
Amos shook his head, an act that looked to have hurt. “I ain’t got the time or the money. ’Sides, we gotta get the car ready to race tomorrow.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed. “You got them to agree to it?”
“Weren’t easy,” the older man explained. “By the time he accepted, I felt like I was beggin’.” He winced, closing his eyes. “That hillbilly was actin’ like he was doin’ us a favor.”
“He can think whatever he wants, just so long as we got a race.”
Amos scratched his cheek. “There’s one hang-up, though.”
“What is it?” Drake asked.
“He wants to see the cash up front ’fore we race. Probably thinks we’re tryin’ to bet with money we ain’t got.”
“No problem. Was he fine with the wager?”
The mechanic coughed and nodded at the same time. “If I hadn’t proposed it, I suspect he was gonna try to raise it himself. He thinks his boy could beat Zeus racin’ his damn chariot. He don’t believe it’s possible they could lose.”
“Then he’s in for a heap of disappointment.”
“That’s what I thought the first time we raced ’em,” Amos spat angrily. “We wouldn’t be in this pickle if you’da kept your damn head on what you was supposed to be doin’ ’stead of lettin’ it daydream ’bout some broad you just met.”
Drake struggled to hold his tongue as his temper rose; he knew that if he spoke now, nothing good would come of it.
But that didn’t stop Amos from stirring the hornet’s nest further. “I suppose you come back late last night ’cause you were with her.”
“That’s right,” Drake answered.
“I figured as much. I was hopin’ to have a word with you ’bout our upcomin’ race, but seems like you have different priorities. With the way you’re carryin’ on, maybe I oughta be worried ’bout you showin’ up.”
“Now, just hold on a second! You know damn well that—”
Amos interrupted with a wet cough that wheezed its way out of his lungs. “Damn it all,” the mechanic groaned. “You got no idea how happy I’m gonna be when we finally leave this two-bit town.”
Drake frowned. He’d been hoping for a better time to talk to Amos about his decision to give up racing and settle down in Sunset with Clara. He knew that his friend would disagree, that he would try to talk him out of it, but Drake was committed. The events of the day before, walking the streets with Clara, the scare of her mother’s accident, and then sharing a seat with her on the porch, the two of them holding hands, had convinced Drake that she was the woman he’d been waiting for his whole life. To leave now would be shutting the door on his one chance at love, and that was something he would not do. So while he feared breaking off his friendship with Amos, worried that the man he cared for like a father wouldn’t understand, he knew he didn’t have any other choice.
