Love in a Small Town Page 2

  She thought, too, how the plate was a reflection of her marriage.

  The next instant, she lifted that plate and smacked it on the divider of the white enamel sink.

  Sounded like a ball going through a window. Molly scrunched her eyes as tiny pieces of china peppered her face and flew into the air and out across the counter and down on the floor. The bigger pieces clattered into the sink.

  Molly was shocked. She stared at the shards.

  Goodness! What had she done?

  Mortification crept in. It simply wasn’t done breaking an innocent plate, no matter that it had a glue line. It certainly wasn’t done by Molly Jean Hayes, mother of three grown children, certified public accountant, and upstanding member of both the chamber of commerce and Methodist church. The action was destructive, wasteful . . . and possibly a little deranged.

  But by golly the reckless act felt so darn good that she did it twice more with the two yellow daisy plates remaining in the sink. Lifted the plate and brought it down, felt the impact and the disintegration, and heard all the shattering, then did it again.

  There. She supposed she could break a few dishes in her lifetime if she wanted to.

  Breathing as hard as if she’d run a mile, Molly stared at the broken china. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Turning, she went to the pantry, brought back a broom and dust pan and began to clean the slivers off the floor. She cried silently, feeling totally lost and confused and alone.

  Tommy Lee came in as Molly got to cleaning the bigger pieces out of the sink. She heard the familiar thump of his Wolverines cross the back porch and enter the laundry room behind the kitchen. Quickly she sniffed back her tears and tried to gulp down her shaky sobs.

  She knew before he said a word that he was going to ask her where something was, and sure enough, he said, “Molly, have you seen my box knife?”

  “In by your chair.”

  She heard him go through to the living room and then come back again and stop on the far side of the breakfast bar. She felt him looking at her, but she didn’t look at him. She didn’t want him to see her face. Very carefully, she kept picking the big pieces out of the sink and putting them into the plastic trash basket.

  “What happened?” Tommy Lee asked.

  She thought for a moment, then said, “I broke some plates.”

  Quite possibly she should have offered him some explanation, but she refused to do so. A piece of the china bit into her finger. She pressed harder against it.

  “Is it because of what I said about lettin’ the cat eat out of the glass? Are you mad about that?”

  Molly said, “I’m not mad about that. You have a right not to like the animals eating out of your dishes if you want . . . even if it is a stupid opinion.”

  She didn’t look at him, but she could feel him looking at her, could feel his anger hitting like darts. And then he had to go and ask a really dumb question.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  It was the tone of his voice, not the question that sent smoke coming out Molly’s ears. Tommy Lee could ask the silliest questions. So many times, when Molly got up in the night to go to the bathroom, he asked, “Where you goin’?”

  For the first ten years or so, Molly had actually answered, “To the bathroom,” and then one time she finally said, “Dancing.” He still asked sometimes, and she went to saying things like “To the dentist” or “To the movies."

  Then there were the times when she would be lying in bed, under the covers, with the pillow over her head, and he would come over and lean down close, lift up the pillow, and say, “Are you asleep?”

  Lord, men could be so stupid. Molly had a private theory that the reason many women like her stayed married was that they were convinced their man needed them—like Tammy Wynette sang in “Stand by Your Man.”

  Molly at last lifted her eyes to meet his. His eyes were cool as a winter sky and slapped her the same as if he’d reached out with his hand.

  She said, “We haven’t made love in over three months, and you’re askin’ me what’s wrong?” She threw a shard of china into the trash. “I guess you askin’ that question pretty much shows just how wrong things are.”

  He did that rolling his eyes thing, and Molly wanted to smack his face. Then he said acidly, “So you’re gonna break all our dishes? Is that gonna explain things to me?”

  Tommy Lee always managed to make her feel stupid. Well, what she thought right then was You can take your f—— ridicule and stuff it.

  She pulled up straight and tall and said quietly, “It made me feel better. And I guess I can break half the dishes in this cabinet if I want. Half of them are mine."

  Pure shock crossed his face, and the next instant his pale blue eyes shot fire, and he came flying around the breakfast bar, saying, “By God . . ."

  Molly stepped backward and bumped against the counter, automatically putting her hands up in front of her. Tommy Lee had never laid a hand on her—he never physically fought with anyone—but he sure looked like he was going to kill her at that moment.

  Then he stopped and pain crossed his features, pain so strong it went right across and sliced Molly’s heart.

  “I don’t want us to fight, Molly.” He looked away, and his shoulders slumped.

  It made her ache to reach out to him, but she just stood there, feeling like her arms had turned to wood, and he stood far away from her. It was as if she were speeding back from him, watching him as she got farther and farther away.

  Half turning, hardly aware of what she was doing, she reached for the blue checked dishtowel. “I don’t, either,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper. She felt like she couldn’t breathe and that loneliness was swallowing her whole.

  “Tommy Lee, I’m not happy with the way things are between us, and I can’t go on pretending everything’s just hunky-dory when it isn’t. Not for me, anyway."

  He just stared at the countertop.

  “Are they for you?” she asked, prodding him, wanting him to say something for her to take hold of. She was willing to settle for him saying just about anything at all.

  He shook his head. “No,” he said tightly, which was a whole lot less than anything at all. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and looked tired of living.

  Molly said, “We just don’t have anything in common anymore, Tommy Lee. We don’t even know each other anymore."

  But Tommy Lee said nothing to that, either, just kept on looking tired.

  So damn tired, as if life with her was just one big trial.

  That’s when she said it, tossing down the blue checked cloth and stating, “I think I’ll go live at Aunt Hestie’s for a while.”

  At that his head swiveled up, and he stared at her, his blue eyes going wide. Her pronouncement had struck him, and she would have had to admit that she was glad to see it.

  Then he said, real tight, “If that’s what you want,” and his blue eyes got small and shot fire.

  What I want? Molly thought, every muscle rigid. He wanted to see it that way, to put it on her like that. Fine! There was just nothing she could say to that. And as if she knew what she was doing, she walked swiftly to the stairway and up the stairs.

  From the big closet, she dragged out the tapestry luggage—the set she had bought for the planned trip to Mexico City last year after they’d gotten Colter, their last, settled in college, a trip that they had never taken because Tommy Lee had bought that ‘65 Corvette instead, for which they’d had to drive to California and spend four days with a car club there. Tommy Lee had always wanted a classic Corvette, and Molly hadn’t wanted to begrudge him his precious dream. But she guessed she still did.

  She jerked clothes from the closet and pulled them from dresser drawers and stuffed the bags. Suddenly she sat down on the bed, her legs gone weak.

  Yanking a tissue from the box, she blew her nose. She tried to pray, asking God to help her get control of her anger. God. . . oh Lord, help me. . . .

  Her attent
ion veered away because she was listening for Tommy Lee’s footsteps. She listened so hard that she heard the trees rustle outside the window and the drip of the toilet.

  Oh, God, what am I doin’? I don’t know, but I do know I just can’t go on livin’ like this anymore. It hurts too bad.

  When she heard the back door slam, she jumped up and ran across to the window. There was Tommy Lee down below, sauntering over to his shop. Sauntering in that way he had of resting down in his lean hips, all those hard muscles moving along in his hell-with-you stride, swinging a can of Coca-Cola in his hand.

  Molly jerked back, dropped the blind and began singing loud and full, “You don’t even know who I am. . . ." Her tears stopped. Like turning off a faucet. By heaven, she didn’t need to stay where she wasn’t wanted.

  Moving coolly, feeling her earrings sway, she pulled off her Keds and tugged on her boots. She gave her hair a few swipes with the brush and let it go, hanging straight back past her collar. In the bathroom, she scooped up her Estée Lauder kit and toiletries and dumped them into the cosmetic case. When it wouldn’t close, she left it halfway unzipped. The entire time she was singing, went from all verses of “You Don’t Even Know Who I Am” into “These Boots Were Made for Walkin’,” just that chorus, because she couldn’t recall the rest of it, and that was all that pertained to her heart at the moment.

  Back in the bedroom, she snatched up pictures of Savannah, Boone, and Colter, grown now but her babies always, and tucked them in the big bag between jeans. She turned the picture of her and Tommy Lee, taken five years ago at their twentieth anniversary, downward with a hard bang. She grabbed up her daddy’s old Bible and her blue dumbbells and threw them into the overnight bag.

  She stopped, looked at her wedding band. It was simple carved yellow gold, all they could afford when they were first married. Tommy Lee had talked of buying her a more expensive one, but she didn’t really care for diamonds or other jewels, and any ring other than the one Tommy Lee had put on her finger when they made their vows just wouldn’t be the same at all.

  She tugged furiously at the band but couldn’t budge it over her knuckle. “Oh . . . dang!”

  Giving up, she dragged the bags down the stairs, grabbed up her purse and briefcase, with her notebook computer, and in two trips hauled it all out to her El Camino and threw it into the truck bed. She went back inside, got the pet carrier, caught Ace, and put him in it.

  She set Ace in beside the bags, slipped behind the wheel, jabbed on her sunglasses, and backed, weaving from side to side, down the drive to where her two-horse trailer sat. She had never before hooked it up alone, but she managed to get the job done. Just went to show that she could. One more thing she didn’t need Tommy Lee for.

  Still moving like an oil pumper going at full speed, she got Marker from the pasture and loaded him up, and threw a bucket of grain in beside Ace. Then, breathing hard and with sweat trickling between her breasts, Molly headed back up the drive.

  Tommy Lee, with the Coca-Cola in his hand, stood leaning in the big open doorway of his shop, watching her come. She stopped the El Camino and lowered the window. He sauntered forward. Molly’s heart was beating so hard, it was about to come out of her chest.

  Tommy Lee said, “If anyone calls, you want me to give them Odessa’s phone number?” Cold and hard as frozen steel.

  Molly said, “Yes.”

  For an instant something shone in his eyes, something mean as she’d ever seen. Then he just stared at her, and it was as if a thick plate of glass had come down between them.

  Molly shifted into gear and drove away, a lot more slowly than she wished because she had to think of Marker back there in the horse trailer—and because she was listening hard for Tommy Lee to stop her.

  But he didn’t.

  And then she was sobbing and driving along. The chickens were clucking around in the road when she passed Eulalee Harris’s place, but they had plenty of time to get out of the way, and Molly absolutely refused to think the F-word. Her life was falling to pieces, and she had to grasp control somewhere.

  Chapter 2

  Fallin’ Apart

  Tommy Lee never had believed that Molly would really leave. As he stood there, gazing through the shop window, watching the dust cloud she raised on the road, he thought, She took the dang horse.

  Then he turned and flung his can of Coca-Cola at the wall. “Goddamn her!”

  The can was still full enough to hit with a hard thunk right below the Pennzoil sign. It sprayed Coke on the wall, then landed, all dented, and dribbled the rest of its contents across the workbench. Tommy Lee grabbed a box and flung it on the floor. But it was only a box containing gaskets and didn’t give much satisfaction at all.

  He stood there, breathing hard, wishing to tear the shop apart, looking around for something to punch and at the same time telling himself to calm down and not be an idiot. Besides, there wasn’t a thing to let go on that wouldn’t break his hand, and his hands were his livelihood. That he could think so rationally in the midst of his fury made him even madder. Made him feel like life had overtaken him and worn him down.

  After another second of inner struggling, he grabbed up a steel mallet and smacked it through the wall. The act gave him a measure of satisfaction, although he immediately regretted the hole in the wall. Doing that was wasteful nonsense.

  He tossed aside the mallet and jerked up shop towels and spray cleaner and started to clean up the Coke. He sure didn’t want it drying sticky and drawing flies and sweat bees. And he was particular about his shop and tools. A well-kept shop was the mark of a man’s quality work. Just because Molly had gone crazy was no reason for him to follow.

  He should have called after her, he thought, scrubbing hard and breathing heavy. He should have stopped her.

  He looked down to see Jake looking accusingly at him. “She’s gonna come back,” Tommy Lee said.

  He threw the soiled paper towels into the trash, then jerked the Hot Rod calendar from its place on the wall and went to tack it up over the hole he’d made with the mallet.

  Then he stalked back to the house. In the middle of the driveway, he stopped and stared at the entry, listened but didn’t hear the El Camino. It ran awfully quiet, though. He’d rebuilt the engine himself.

  Jake had gone on ahead and was looking back. “You think you know so much,” Tommy Lee told the dog as he passed and went up the steps. He wiped his boots good on the bristly mat. He realized he was doing it and stalked on into the kitchen.

  Molly’s kitchen radio was still playing. His gaze went over the room—the dirty dishes on the counter, a pile of damp dish towels, the dishwasher sitting open, and the trash can with the broom propped against it. All of it left there when Molly had stormed out.

  Just like Molly, he thought. She was forever getting right in the middle of something, then going off and leaving it. She had more than once left the vacuum at the end of the stairway, where everyone could stumble over it.

  Feeling an odd apprehension, he stepped over and looked in the sink. There were half a dozen big pieces of china—the remains of the yellow daisy plates.

  Something sharp sliced across his chest. Clear out of nowhere, for an instant, he recalled Molly bringing those dishes home.

  “We got them on sale, fifty percent off!” Green eyes all bright and shining, as if she’d just brought home the world. Molly never could pass up a sale sign, and the bigger the savings, the more excited she got, as if she’d won a prize. Tommy Lee sometimes thought she could sale them right into debt.

  And then he remembered how Molly had looked at him when she’d said she had broken the plates. How her eyes had been cold and blaming, saying as clearly as spoken words, Our marriage is in the toilet and it is all your fault.

  The anger came churning and boiling up his chest like a storm out of the southwest, making him so mad that he couldn’t think. He stepped backward and jerked open the refrigerator, only to discover that there were no more Coca-Colas in there. The
re were two cans of cream soda and a bottle of vegetable juice, both of which he hated. One of the cans of cream soda was half full, and there was half a slice of peach pie, both Molly’s doing. Molly had the habit of eating half of things: half a cookie, half a doughnut, half a steak.

  She’s coming back. She will get halfway to Hestie’s and turn around and come back.

  He slammed the refrigerator door and stalked over to the pantry. There were two six-packs of Cokes sitting right in front, but he ignored those and bent down, reached far back, way back behind paper towels and extra bottles of vinegar, where his mother wouldn’t see it when she came to visit, and drew out a bottle of tequila. He unscrewed the cap, tipped the bottle to his lips and took a deep swig. It burned like fire going down and landed in his stomach like a bomb, even made him blow out a breath. He wasn’t much of a drinking man.

  He took another good swig and then looked at the bottle. There was something about holding a bottle of Mexican liquor by the neck that made him feel tough and in control of the world.

  The next instant the telephone there on the counter rang.

  Tommy Lee froze and stared at the phone. It rang again.

  His arm kind of pumped of its own accord, as he thought, Answer it. . . . no, don’t answer it. It might be Molly calling on her cellular . . . but it could be one of the kids. He didn’t want to talk to one of the kids. He couldn’t quite hear himself saying “Your mother has left me.”

  The answering machine clicked on and made him jump. After a few seconds, a voice said, “Mama, it’s me.” Savannah, their eldest, calling from Arkansas and sounding like she was right next door.

  A cold chill cut down Tommy Lee’s back. He had the strange feeling that his daughter could see him standing there holding a bottle of tequila by its neck.

  Savanna was saying, “Stephen found out yesterday for sure that he can get off, so we’ll be able to spend a few days there for yours and Daddy’s anniversary party. The doctor said it’s okay, as long as I get out and walk regular and . . ."