Troubled Waters Read online

  Pastor Lyle was famous for putting food before God. Most of the time someone had to remind him to bless it before digging in. In his sermons, when he talked about heaven, he always in some way mentioned how much turkey would be there.

  “The ladies will be bringing the food for the reception,” he said between bites. “I’m assuming you’ll want it here at the house?”

  “That’ll be fine,” Evelyn said, chewing food she could hardly taste. “We’ve got so much food here as it is, Pastor. Tell them not to bring too much. It’ll just go to waste.” She’d said this without thinking, for food never went to waste. Pastor Lyle always took it home. Ever since his wife died, the community paid him in few dollars and lots of food, an arrangement he was perfectly fine with. At least once a week someone had him over for dinner and made extras for him to take home.

  “And you’ve made all the arrangements with Newt Castles at the funeral home?”

  “Yes, we’d already bought our plots. Right between our parents. And anyone’s welcome to come to the graveside. I want people to know that.”

  “Sure,” Pastor Lyle said, nabbing two more biscuits. Patricia refilled his water and brought him a fresh glass of lemonade.

  A quietness settled over the table, and Evelyn tried not to think too much about Jess’s painful last days. The man had believed God would heal him, up until he took his last breath. Evelyn had tried as best she could to believe it, too. Now she decided to think more about how thankful she was that she’d been able to say good-bye. How thankful she was that he was with the Lord. She only had to live without her husband a few short years. She figured she wasn’t likely to live that much longer anyway. Lately her health had been failing her. Even though her mama had lived to be eighty-six, she felt she wouldn’t make it past seventy-five. So ten years alone. Maybe she’d be lucky and the Lord would bring her home before that.

  She smiled to herself as she wondered how her daddy and Jess were getting along up in heaven. They never much liked each other down on earth. They managed to be cordial enough for the sakes of the women in their lives, but Daddy always thought Jess made too many risky decisions about the farm, and Jess always thought Daddy never trusted him enough.

  Pastor Lyle had managed three more helpings of casserole as Evelyn and Patricia were finishing off their first. Evelyn was quite sure she saw him sneak two biscuits into the pockets of his pants.

  Patricia rose from the table and went over to open the oven, revealing a new batch of biscuits. “Well, Pastor, looks as if I baked way too many biscuits. Please take some home.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Pastor Lyle recited.

  Patricia played the role. “Oh, you must. The fridge is packed. We’d just have to toss them out to the chickens.”

  “Well, if you’re going to throw them out . . .”

  “I’ll wrap up the rest of that casserole for you, too.” Patricia cleared the table while Pastor Lyle poured himself water and Evelyn more lemonade.

  The sun was lowering itself toward the horizon. It was the time of day when she and Jess would sit on their front porch in their new rocking chairs and listen to the sounds of the evening. The crickets would begin their song, the locusts compete for their place in the chorus. The sun’s orange rays met with the stars of the night, creating a sky that looked painted by God himself. Usually Evelyn would’ve made a pie, and the two of them would enjoy it silently, conversing together without ever making a sound.

  Pastor Lyle cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Evelyn, what about your daughter?”

  Evelyn looked down at the table. “I don’t know. I, um, I don’t think she’ll be here. She probably doesn’t even know.”

  “I can try to contact her if you’d like me to.”

  Evelyn couldn’t speak. She didn’t know what to do. Tears splashed onto the table, and she grabbed her napkin to try to stop them. Pastor Lyle’s soft blue eyes melted with compassion.

  “Whatever you think is best, honey. I just wanted to ask.”

  Evelyn nodded. Patricia rescued her by bringing the wrapped casserole and biscuits back to the table. Pastor Lyle accepted them graciously and then stood to leave. He hugged both Patricia and Evelyn, held the food like a newborn baby, and left the house quietly.

  Patricia wrapped her arms around Evelyn. “I’m sorry your daughter’s not here. I wish I could do something.”

  Evelyn shook her head, waving her hand at the absurdity of her reaction. “I don’t know why I expected anything else. Macille doesn’t want anything to do with us. She never has. I just thought . . . I just thought maybe God would . . .” Her voice broke and her eyes shut. She let herself cry about it a few minutes longer while Patricia held her hands.

  Patricia finally pulled out a chair and sat down. Evelyn dried her tears, looked out the window and said, “Sometimes, Patricia, God says no to your prayers, and you have to be okay with that.”

  Three

  It was almost a high for her. The busyness. The chaos. The swarms of people milling about with no regard for one another. Macey bought a salad, then seated herself near gate 7 at the St. Louis airport and watched it all. She tried to keep her mind occupied with thoughts of the network. Her dream job was within her reach, and after she returned home from Kansas, things would move forward. Now, though, she was waiting to fly to Joplin. It made no sense that the flight to Joplin would take as long as the flight from Dallas to St. Louis. She glanced at the clock, which said 11:44.

  The voice over the speaker announced her flight was ready to board and for first-class passengers to approach the gate. Macey always flew first class. She needed to be around people who recognized that a plane trip wasn’t the time to make a new friend; rather it was a time to work. She swung her carryon over her shoulder, adjusted her sunglasses, and was soon striding down the jetway with six men, all carrying laptop computers.

  During the flight Macey found herself distracted by the thoughts of returning home after so many years. It was ultimately the thought of her mother being alone that had made her choose to return. At least that’s what she guessed. Her mind had changed suddenly, and she wasn’t sure why. Deep inside her throat, a tightness still clung and threatened to escape at the most improbable moment. So she just stared out the window and admired the patterns of clouds of an approaching thunderstorm far beneath the wings of the plane.

  She wondered what her mother looked like, if she’d aged much. If the house still needed painting. By now, their old dog, Sandy, was gone. But she wondered if they had a new one. If the chicken coop still sat twenty yards from the barn.

  The memories overwhelmed her, a bitter reminder of why she’d kept herself from thinking about such things all these years. The continual clicking of the computers around her brought her mind back to the present and ushered her on to escape into daydreaming about the network again. Very few reporters and anchors ever got to work for a network. Many were intimidated by the whole prospect of it all. But Macey wasn’t afraid. She knew that by getting a job with the network and moving to New York, once and for all, she could leave behind everything that haunted her and start over.

  This trip back home certainly put a crimp in the plan, yet the humanity in her couldn’t bear to think of her mother dealing with her husband’s death alone. Her mother had devoted almost her entire life to the man. Macey intended to return home, make sure her mother would be all right, and then leave again soon after. Perhaps in the future they would stay in touch. It would be okay if that happened. As long as she wasn’t expected home every Christmas. A network job would be relentless. There would be little time for social gatherings on a farm in Kansas. She checked her watch. 1:21.

  Before she knew it, the plane’s wheels were bumping the runway in Joplin. After collecting her luggage, she went to check in at the car rental counter. Less than fifteen minutes later she was sitting in a four-door compact, the t
hick air suffocating every breath she tried. She rolled the windows down and switched on the air-conditioner, not wanting to look like she’d gone for a swim before even getting there. Flipping open her briefcase, she found her Bruce Springsteen CD. She’d thought about bringing Eric Clapton’s Reptile, but Springsteen’s Live in New York City was a double CD, and she thought she might be listening to an awful lot of music in the two days she was planning to stay.

  Without much effort, she found herself driving along on a steamy Highway 166. Her heart began pounding at the thought of the reunion soon to take place. What would she say? Thanks for the cards? Sorry I didn’t forward my address after leaving San Antonio? She sighed and realized she couldn’t prepare herself for all that might occur. She just hoped her mother understood the reasons why she hadn’t returned home for so long. Her mother was naïve and pure, but she wasn’t stupid. It had never been discussed out loud, she guessed, between her mother and her father. Even so, everyone involved knew. Macey hoped her mother knew enough not to talk about it.

  The sun shone down bright and harsh, so Macey slid her sunglasses back on. The air-conditioning on high proved barely adequate to ward off what Macey guessed to be 102 degrees or higher heat outside. Already her skin felt sticky and moist. She sat up straight to separate her shirt from her lower back.

  She turned north on Highway 169, almost without thinking. In this part of the country, she was pretty sure time moved backward. She drove by some of the familiar towns she’d once known so well: Morehead, Thayer, Earlton, and Chanute, where her aunt used to live. Barb had probably passed away by now.

  The golden wheat outside her car windows, the endless pastures, served to calm her spirit a little. It was truly beautiful here, where the land was sacred and appreciated for all it could give. It had been a long time since she’d seen so many cows.

  ———

  The drive took about an hour. She had no trouble finding the old house. There it sat, one of only seven houses in a square mile. It still needed painting and looked as if it had aged a century. Her mother had been faithful in planting some flowers, however, and the porch appeared as bright and inviting as ever.

  After turning off the engine, Macey took a deep breath and slowly opened the car door. The exhausting heat rushed in, and she felt drained the second it hit her. She pulled her shoulder-length hair up off her neck and decided to leave all her baggage in the car for now. She couldn’t leave it too long, though, or everything would melt.

  She imagined her mom hurrying out the door and embracing her with hugs and kisses. Then she imagined her mom peeking through the window, pretending no one was home. As she walked up the porch steps, she noticed two new-looking rocking chairs her father had probably made himself. He had always been masterful with wood.

  Macey knocked lightly and waited. The barn was still intact, and she was pretty sure she could smell the chicken coop, though it had apparently been moved, to someplace upwind no doubt. She knocked again and listened for any movement inside the house.

  One more knock and then she decided to try opening the door, which of course was unlocked. No one ever locked their doors around here. The knob turned but the door stuck. She had to push it with her hip till it gave way.

  The house quietly creaked, and Macey was afraid to say anything. Everything from her vantage point looked exactly the same as when she left, not surprising her at all, although she was shocked to see an automatic coffee maker on the kitchen counter. At least she could count on good coffee while she was here.

  She moved farther into the house. “Mother?” she called softly. No answer came. Macey wondered where her mother could be in the heat of the day. She walked around the house, gazing at pictures and knickknacks. It was as if she were frozen in time at the age of eighteen. It surprised her to see pictures of herself still sitting around. Had her father not insisted that all traces of her vanish?

  A framed photo of her mom and dad sat on the baker’s rack, and Macey bent closer to get a better look. It showed her father as an older man, his brow creased deeply, his eyes tired. He was almost completely bald. Her mom looked much heavier than the last time Macey saw her. Yet it was no shock to see that her mom had a weight problem. Her whole side of the family was heavy, and her mom had always insisted on cooking with lard, something Macey had found to be startling only after she’d left Kansas.

  Two different sofas replaced the ones she remembered. Both looked old. A quilt lay on the back of one of them, its colors in contrast to everything else around. Macey wasn’t sure if the TV was the same, but this one had knobs and imitation wood, so she assumed it was old. Her mother’s orange blown-glass “art” decorated the shelves and coffee table, along with fishing, hunting, and sewing magazines in a basket and the current Guideposts balanced on the arm of the sofa. In a smaller basket next to the rocking chair were her mother’s knitting yarn and needlepoint supplies. She walked to the large bay window, which displayed a perfectly manicured lawn and the edge of the riverbank.

  All seemed to be in order, dusted, arranged and in place. A feeling of sadness swept over Macey as she realized whatever homecoming she’d anticipated wasn’t going to happen now. She decided to wait to explore the upstairs portion of the house. Instead, she went out the back door and walked across the lush lawn toward the river.

  The rushing sound of the water brought her some comfort. From where she stood she could see that Stone Bridge still crossed over the Neosho River. On the other side, the old abandoned two-story house still stood, the house she used to play in as a child. Her mind echoed thoughts of children laughing and playing inside its walls. But the laughter soon faded, and her heart mourned the more recent memories. The truth was, the very last memory of that house had ruined her life.

  The coop was rather quiet, the chickens listless in the heat of the day. She strolled along the river, admiring the blueness of the water as it bounced along the riverbed. The river was down, as it always was this time of year. Still, it flowed with a strong current.

  When she finally arrived at Stone Bridge, she could see the old house across the river a little better. Tall and threatening, the house captured her curiosity, just as it used to when she was a child, guiding her feet along the smooth stones of the bridge until she reached the other side. Her heart throbbed at the thought of approaching it after all these years.

  That’s when she saw the laundry line, the articles of clothing moving up and down in the light breeze. Could someone actually be living in the old house?

  She stepped carefully around the weeds and rocks and made her way toward the house. Being daytime, she couldn’t see a thing through the windows. As she neared the back of the house, the grass became greener and shorter. The place didn’t look abandoned, but it certainly didn’t look like it should be occupied, either. The grayish brown wood siding was all cracked and dry.

  Moving around the side of the house, she gasped when she saw the obvious signs of occupancy: flowers, lawn chairs, a tire swing hanging from the old oak tree. Quickly she started to leave when she heard a loud snap. Her body whirled around just in time to see a large man wearing only a pair of overalls walking toward her. Over six feet tall, he was muscular with long hair tied back in a ponytail. The only thing missing was an ax.

  “Um, so sorry . . . I’m . . . I thought . . .” Macey took a deep breath and tried a little humor. “I thought you were a ghost.”

  “That’s funny,” he said in the deepest voice she’d ever heard, “I thought you were a burglar. If you’ll stay right here, I’ll go get my shotgun.”

  Macey blinked and swallowed, then realized the stranger was showing the hint of a smile. “I don’t look like a burglar, do I?”

  “It depends. How much do I look like a ghost?”

  Macey was soaked in sweat. Once again she lifted her hair up off her neck to try to cool down. “I’m sorry to bother you. I thought this house
was abandoned. It used to be. I used to play in it as a child.”

  The man gave her another half smile, and she noticed paint on his hands. “Well, as you can see, I live here now.”

  “Yes, again, I’m sorry.”

  He looked her up and down and said, “It isn’t often we see a lady like you dressed up like that in these parts.” His accent wasn’t as thick with laziness as she expected it would be. In fact, it didn’t really sound like a local accent at all.

  Macey smiled tolerantly. “Yes, well, I don’t plan to stay long. I’m here visiting my parents . . . my mother, I mean. Excuse me. I’ll get going.”

  “Are you Evelyn and Jess’s daughter?”

  Macey had already turned around, but she stopped and turned back. “Yes. You know them?”

  The man stepped forward. She could see that he had a few small paintbrushes sticking out of his overalls. He pointed toward her mom’s house across the river. “They’re my neighbors. Of course I know them. But I don’t know you. Why is that?”

  The man made her uncomfortable. His eyes were intensely blue and seemed to look into her soul. “You paint?” Macey pointed to the colorful smudges on his pants.

  “I do.”

  “Listen, I was noticing my parents’ house is in desperate need of some paint. I’ll pay you whatever you charge.”

  He grinned and wiped his hands on a dirty rag hanging from a front pocket. “I don’t paint houses.”

  “Oh. What do you paint, then? Cars?”

  “Canvas.”

  Macey tried not to let her mouth hang open, but she couldn’t help tilting her head to the side. If there was anyone who didn’t fit the image of an artist, it was this man. A woodcutter, maybe. But an artist, no. He must be joking.

  “It surprises you that a painter might use canvas?”