FIDELITY & MORTAL ILLNESS

How would you feel about your mate having an affair if you were stricken with a mortal illness and  uninterested in having sexual relations?

The usual first response for people who love their mates is that their sexual drive would die, too.  But what if your loved one was not hooked up to tubes and drains?  What if they were functioning, yet with death hovering?

In graduate school, I did an internship in a tutorial center.  My boss was a kind and knowledgeable man who loved his wife and family dearly.  She'd had two heart attacks and the prognosis was not good.  You would have never suspected it to look at her.  She was robust and cheery, the affection between them palpable.

At that time, I had no experience with grief of the death-inspired sort, but one of the tutors in our group was dying of leukemia. Everyday he appeared paler and weaker, but he still attended classes and reported for work.  "You can tell his family has made the separation," Dr. Jackson, my boss, said one day after meeting the tutor's family. Responding to my expression, he added, "It's not that they don't love him, but when you know someone is going to die, you go through grief while they're still walking and talking.  You protect yourself from the finality."

"Does that mean you become more feverish about your own life, about living, and everything that that means?" I asked.

"I hope so," he said, "but you also pull back a little.  Your love is there, but a boundary is there, too." That's when he told me about his wife, and how a hardening within him had taken place.

Over a decade later, I hooked up with a cheap bus tour of Italy. The tour was packed with Europeans. . . Germans, Irish, British.  The only Americans were a Sikh family from Silicon valley.  There was also an Iraqi couple.

But it was the Irish couple who fascinated me.  They were in their forties, possibly early fifties. Attractive in a dull, settled way.  The wife was a bit tight-lipped.  Pissed, actually.  The husband was in a constant low-key frenzy trying to please his wife.

After a short time it became obvious that there was something wrong with her.  I decided she was mortally ill, and that this vacation was supposed to be a last hurrah for them.  Not that she ever got sick in front of us.  It's just that his behavior became more frantic at the same time that she glared at all the art and beauty around us.  It looked as if she were saying angry goodbyes to everything, as if she hated the way life just went on ready to skip right by her.

I was wallowing in my European jaunt, one of the happiest periods of my life.  One night in Rome, the three of us had dinner together.  She ordered a lavish meal and didn't touch a bite of it, just jousted with me all night, looking like she wanted to scratch my eyes out.  And not because of her husband (with whom I had no attraction whatsoever), but because I was so damn cheerful.

Death had a grip on her and she had a death grip on her husband, ready to drag him into the grave with her and not because she loved him.  Because she hated that it wasn't him dying instead of her.

Those were my thoughts, then.  Now, even though she was clearly punishing him, perhaps she wasn't dying.  I don't understand the kind of negative vehemence she had, nor do I understand her husband remaining under its power.  Only if she had a death sentence would it make sense for him to stand by her side.  If he'd chosen to seek affection elsewhere, could you blame him?

Why would I think of this now?  Just finished Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, which is a treacherous tale of a sick marriage.   The wife in it reminded me of the Irish Wife in Italy and her forlorn husband.  With the passage of time and lessons learned from my own marriage (a happy one, but not without bumps), and my friends' marriages and divorces, I've reconsidered the death sentence I'd given her at the time.  Maybe they were just miserably bound for life.

CONTINUITY

The call for submissions came from SDSU's Pacific Review for their annual print anthology: “States of La Frontera” refers to the literal and figurative borderlands of space and identity: the physical, geographical, emotional, spiritual, and temporal boundaries and possibilities of being.

Author note: Borders don't exist for Olivia. Her possibilities of being are endless until she's done.

CONTINUITY

        

         I had a stroke in the garden while cursing the squirrels for nibbling my tomatoes. One tomato plant was crushed in my fall, a working part of my brain delighting in its fragrance even as I struggled to move. I dug the fingers of one hand into the rich earth and lay there wondering if Dave would think to look for me here. Probably not.

            A squirrel edged down the trellis for more tomato.

            “Fucker!” I said, only it came out Futh.

            He became a red blur in a towering mass of green. Scent was still with me. I struggled to remain alert. My name? It didn’t come to me. Brandon, my son. Dave, my husband. Olivia and Dave! Olivia. Still Olivia.

            Tired. I closed my eyes. My head throbbed. Wind rustled the trees making them sound like surf along the seashore. Dave and I had driven up the CA-1 on our first road trip up the coast to visit Brandon in Portland. We’d agreed to take our time and stay at hotels along the way, never driving more than five or six hours at a time. Dave did the research and chose the most gorgeous and romantic hotels available. He slowed down and relaxed. It was good for him. For us. We both wanted to recreate the connection we’d had and planned a return trip.

            All we’d managed was a mini road trip alongside the Columbia River. The water had curved with the road guiding us to our son in Eastern Oregon. We’d flown from Los Angeles into PDX and rented a car for the three-hour drive to Brandon’s new place. After graduating from law school he could have stayed in Portland. But he wanted a small town and accepted an offer from a four-person law firm in Pendleton. He’d rented a one-bedroom house and was hard at work planting his own garden.           

            Portland had been a fun place to visit, similar to LA but with more vegans. You could have backyard chickens and grow pot. On the upside of his move to Pendleton, our son now paid his own bills and was building a chicken coop. He’d bought used tools from a place called We Sell Stuff, including an ancient push lawnmower with rusted blades. Brandon was intent on sharpening them.  

            “Keep your cell nearby when you’re cutting or sharpening.” I didn’t like the idea of him using unreliable equipment. Amazon delivered a new saw and blade sharpener the next day.

            On the downside of his move, he had no social life whatsoever in Pendleton. He hated social media and rejected all our suggestions on ways to meet people. He gave up on the push lawnmower and bought a scythe. Thankfully, not a used one. He sent us a YouTube of three ancient Chinese guys demoing how to use it. They worked bare-chested. I had visions of Brandon severing toes, a foot, or the bottom half of his leg.

            “Wear sunblock when you scythe,” I said.

            Not sure what my husband was feeling on our drive, but I was filled with both anticipation and caution. Brandon had never been easy.

            In my garden, I tried moving again. Only my right hand seemed to work. When I got anxious worrying about my son it clenched the soil, but with happy thoughts it patted down the lumps. The river was a happy memory. It rushed headlong into its future.

            An hour into our drive to Pendleton, I turned to my husband, and said, “The Columbia is gorgeous.” Dave insisted on driving. Sitting in the passenger seat nauseated him, especially on a curvy road with me at the wheel.

            “Hmm,” Dave said. He changed the radio station. “Need to check the scores.”

            I stared across his chest to the water. “The river meanders in some places and surges in others.”

            He made no comment. I’m not even sure he heard me.

            Some women would have become disheartened with this lack of attention from a loved one. Not me. My self-esteem didn’t depend on him. Early in our marriage, I’d taken his behavior personally. Finally, I realized that though brilliant in many ways, he was clueless in others.

            He moved his visor to the window partially blocking my view.

            “I can still see the water.” Sarcasm kept me entertained.

            He turned off the radio.

            “I like the rocks, too. They’re solid. Unemotional.”

            No response.

            His ability to focus exclusively on driving and the baseball scores might make him seem insensitive, but we always had great sex. Long practice and determination lay at the heart of our carnal triumphs. Dave had researched female sexuality long before we met. He insisted I be the first to orgasm, at least once. I was experienced enough to appreciate his dedication.

            We were two independent and solitary people who loved each other. That didn’t mean he’d look for me out here. Not yet sunset. Hazy light surrounded me, like the mist rising off the river in Oregon. Brandon’s garden and his new life awaited us.  

            We checked into the Best Western that our son had recommended. Once we’d settled in, I called him at work.

             “We’re here!”

            “Great. Just have to finish up a memo and I’ll meet you at the house.” He sounded excited and pleased.

            We proceeded at an unhurried Pendleton pace to his place. Dave gripped the wheel, his knuckles turning white. He yelled at the slowpoke drivers,  “C’mon the speed limit is twenty five. At least go that fast.”

            “Relax, honey. Go with the flow.”                

            At a four-way stop, every driver waved the other on. “No, you go first,” they seemed to be saying.

            “The population is 17,000,” I said. “They probably all know one another.”

            “They need more people and to move faster.”

            “Breathe deeply, please.”

            He worried me. It was as if he sought stress no matter what the circumstances. I studied his careworn profile. Dave often repeated the mantra that the men in his family die young. Then, he’d remind me that Brandon and I would be financially secure. I once asked him if he knew what the ultimate irony would be in our marriage. He looked perplexed.

            “C’mon you were an English lit major,” I said. “Irony. Think about it.”

            He shook his head.

            “If I died first.”

            “That’s unlikely. The statistics are against it.” No smile, not even a lip twitch.

            He hadn’t always been like this. We frolicked in the beginning, chased each other naked around my condo, tackling each other onto the mattress, our wrestling seguing into caresses. There were lots of laughs, as well as a variety of sexual positions. Building his law practice drained the frolic right out of him.

            Brandon’s house sat on a corner lot with a big yard. “The house tilts to the left,” I whispered at the front door.

            The door swung open and our son gave us both big hugs. It wasn’t bad inside: big combo kitchen and dining area. He didn’t have a table yet. There were laundry hook-ups in a space with louvered doors.

            “I don’t want a washing machine, mom.” He must have seen the excitement in my eyes.

            “How many days in a row do you wear the same shirt,” Dave asked. “Don’t answer. More than once is too much.”

            Brandon laughed. Dave and I joined him, for the moment releasing parental tension.

            There was a screened in porch off the kitchen where he could store tools. His bedroom was large. One bathroom. The only heat in the house was from a gas appliance in the living room designed to look like a fireplace. Brandon hadn’t figured out how to adjust it. Pendleton gets cold in the winter.

            Dave discovered its secrets. Next, he went over and checked the smoke detector. “Get a new one.” He glanced back at the heater. “And a carbon monoxide alarm.”

            This is the other reason I love my husband.

            We walked into town. Brandon is a vegetarian so we had dinner at an Indian restaurant. “There’s a hot yoga place across the street,” I said. “You should try it.” He groaned.

            He and his dad talked about his law practice while I people-watched. When there was a lull, I asked about his co-workers. There were only four other attorneys and assorted staff.

            “They’re nice. Everyone’s real busy.” He looked away.

            We walked around downtown Pendleton, where a few people were on the streets. One or two bars seemed to be thriving. Outside one of them, a man in his 40s, muscles melting into heft, looked up from his phone and stared at Brandon. We stopped in front of a statue dedicated to Madam Stella, a brothel owner for almost 40 years. A sign next to it gave us some local history. Pendleton’s population never maxed its present size, but in the 19^th century it had been jammed with bordellos, gambling halls and hard-working Chinese who lived and worked in the underground.

            Our son showed us his office, a converted house just off the main drag. A prominent sign to the left of the door announced that smoking was prohibited. Brandon was trying to quit.

            On the walk back to his place, we passed a museum with a posted schedule of events, speakers, art shows, and various classes, all things I would have signed up for. Brandon was noncommittal.

            Warm goodbyes and hugs at the door. We made plans to go on the underground tour the next day.

            Dave and I were solemn on the drive back to the hotel. Each of us worried in our own way about Brandon. I pointed to a well-lit sports bar. “Pull over.”

            Inside were TVs up high and down low, high-topped tables lining one wall, and empty seats at the bar. A pretty blond big-girl tended it. We introduced ourselves. Her name was Cheyenne.

            She recommended a Huckleberry martini. Sounded good to me. Cheyenne shook my drink. Her upper arms were round and firm.

            “Is your name spelled like the tribe or with an A?” I asked.  

            “Like the tribe,” she said.

            “Do you have Native American blood?”

            “I wish.” She put the martini in front of me. A sugarcoated rim circled a frosty pink drink. I sipped. Sipped again.

            “Were your parents in a hippie phase?”

            She laughed. Dave even kinda smiled. “Far from it. They were very conservative. Never had a chance to ask them before they passed.”

            “I’m sorry,” Dave said.

            “I lucked out with my foster parents.”

            “Cheyenne is a very pretty name,” I said. “Unique, like you.”

            “I like your name. Olivia, Olivia, Olivia.” My name rolled off her tongue as if she could taste it. “Twelfth Night, right? I read it in high school.”

            Dave answered. “I’ve always loved it, too.” He laid his hand over mine. Cheyenne’s eyes floated down to them.

            The conversation proceeded from there. Cheyenne was almost finished with nursing school, she’d broken up with her boyfriend, and Trivia Night at the bar was tomorrow.

            “You should check it out. Bring your son.”

            Yes, we had told her about Brandon.

***************

            Brandon and Cheyenne dated and then she moved in with him. The chicken coop was finished but unused: Pendleton was not Portland—the city had an ordinance against keeping chickens within the city limits. Pygmy goats were okay, but not chickens. I encouraged my son to find out who on City Council had brokered that deal and invite him or her out for coffee. Networking might pay off in the long run.  

            Cheyenne posted happy photos of the two of them on Facebook. She and I stayed in touch, texting and speaking on the phone often. She sent me pictures of what they’d done with his place. “Olivia, what do you think of the couch over here?” she’d write in an email with a picture attached. I noticed there were air filters in every room. “Brandon is trying really hard to quit smoking,” she said.

            It was like having a daughter-in-law, or what I imagined a daughter-in-law would be like. We talked about everything. There were a number of different avenues in the health care field from which she could choose: she was interested in management. I’d been in business at one time, so she was eager to get my input.

            “It’s okay to change direction,” I said. “If you want management, don’t be afraid of leading others, of drawing them to you.”

            Brandon and I also talked about a variety of subjects, but he never asked for career advice. He was more interested in getting my input on growing asparagus.

            Cheyenne had never been to California so I was excited when they flew down for Christmas. They looked dour and tired when I picked them up at LAX. She’d put on a bit of weight.

            Dinner was cold and Cheyenne and I were on our third martini by the time Dave got home from the office. Brandon sipped a beer. He jumped up to give his dad a big hug. Dave bent down to peck Cheyenne’s cheek at the same time she rose unsteadily to greet him. She tripped over her own feet and he had to catch her.

            “Sorry,” she said.

            Dave laughed, probably for the first time in weeks. “That’s okay. I’ve got you covered.” Brandon didn’t look at her.

            “I’m sorry I’m so late,” Dave said. “Emergency at the office.” He tapped Brandon on the shoulder. “You know what that’s like.”

            “He grew up knowing what it’s like,” I said, annoyed. Every case was a crisis for Dave.  “Let’s eat. I’ll shove everything through the microwave.”

            Dave pointed up. “Just have to run upstairs and freshen up.”

            “He means he’s gonna brush his teeth before dinner,” I said.

            “Does it help you eat less?” Cheyenne asked.

            “No.” Dave laughed. Again. “But don’t worry, a few more curves never hurt anyone.” He looked at Brandon who tried to smile.

            Finally seated at the dinner table, I raised my glass. “Congratulations to Cheyenne on completing nursing school!”

            Dave clicked her glass. “What are the job opportunities like in Pendleton?”

            Cheyenne and Brandon exchanged a look. “Zero. I got a great offer in Salem. Or, I can commute to Hermiston.”

            We looked from Cheyenne to Brandon. “I think she should go for Salem,” he said. “It’s a career opportunity.” Almost as an afterthought, he reached a tentative hand across the table to her. “I wouldn’t mind visiting Salem.”

            “Would you excuse me,” she said. “I drank too much.”

            The three of us remained at the table. Brandon told us he’d settled a few cases and got to know a couple of judges. “Except for the no chicken rule, I love Pendleton.”

            “And you don’t work an eighty hour week.” I tilted my head toward Dave. “Or, claim you’re working eighty hours.”

            “I put in more than fifty, easy,” Brandon said. “Some weeks are worse than others, but I’m learning a lot.”

            “Are you and Cheyenne able to have dinner together?” I asked.

            He shrugged. “No. It’s a problem for her, but I didn’t grow up with nightly family dinners. I don’t mind eating alone.”

            “Brandon?” Cheyenne called from the hallway. He went to her.

            I finished my martini and stared at my husband. “Why were you so late?”

            Dave stood and downed his drink. “My mother called.”

            “Was it an emergency?”

            He left the room without answering and turned on the TV in the den. Furious, I followed him and grabbed the remote switching off the TV.

            “I don’t even have words for how rude you are.”

            “She just wanted to talk, okay? After a hard day it’s relaxing to speak with her. My mom is very supportive.”

            I was about to give him the finger and yell, “Support this!” when we heard Brandon and Cheyenne shouting.

            “I can’t go on like this,” she said. “Nothing makes sense.”

            “Stop it,” Brandon said.

            Silence.

            Then Cheyenne, “You have to tell them.”     

            I tossed the remote to Dave and sat down. For once, he didn’t turn on the TV. He looked startled. Footsteps down the hall.

            Brandon went outside to smoke. He came back in and pulled a chair over to face us. “We’re having some problems.” He clenched his jaw, reminding me of his father. “I’m queer and so is Cheyenne.”

            Dave cleared his throat. “You guys are gay?”

            “We go both ways, Dad.”

            “You’re bisexual,” I said, relieved. I’d rejoiced when he went to a college whose motto was Atheism, Communism, Free Love.

            Brandon smirked. “We reject that categorization. We’re non-normative, or at least I am.”

            “So what’s the problem?”

            “She wants to get married and be heteronormative.”

            He went on and on speaking in non-binary terms until my brain felt like it was going to explode. Even though his terminology was annoying, Brandon knew we’d never desert him. That night, we expressed our love and support for him and each other, embracing before saying goodnight. Dave and I both grabbed our laptops to look up all the terms Brandon had tossed out. Of course we did it in separate rooms. At 1 a.m., I shut down my computer, my questions answered for the time being.

            The next day was Christmas. We had a fine brunch, with our usual discussions of books, movies, and politics. The conversation was colorful, tinted with affectionate sarcasm and laughter. Cheyenne and Brandon spent the next two days exploring LA and then they flew back to Pendleton.

            They broke up within a week of their return.

            Cheyenne accepted the job in Salem, but she stayed in touch with me. I advised her to stay in touch with the hospitals and medical centers in Oregon, and especially in Pendleton.

            A couple of months later, Brandon started dating Oscar, a chef. Their Facebook posts were charming. They bought a house together and Brandon quit smoking. He and Oscar called us often on Sundays, laughing and teasing each other. Brandon seemed genuinely happy and in love with Oscar. Cheyenne had a series of lovers, all male. Brandon and Oscar visited her in Salem.  A year had passed when she called me to say St. Anthony’s hospital in Pendleton had offered her a promotion.

            “I went after what I wanted,” she said. “Just like you said to.”

            I smiled, staring out at my garden while we talked, feeling warmth and affection for her.

            She moved back to Pendleton.

            I patted the earth beneath me as if it were a cat. My head still hurt, but everything else was numb. The light was still with me. I could see it even with my eyes closed. I could see Dave clearly and all the colors on the CA-1 from our first drive up the coast.    

            Before we’d even booked one hotel for our second journey, I died in the garden.

**********************

            My will dictated cremation and my desire to be buried in my garden. Irony again. Brandon, Oscar and Cheyenne flew down for the party/memorial. My son put up the photos I’d taken on my one and only road trip to Oregon.

            The next day, they scattered my ashes in the garden and turned the soil. Dave saved some of me for my final journey. Oscar had to fly back for work, but my family, including Cheyenne, decided to scatter what was left of me along the CA-1.

            They told mom stories on the road.

            Cheyenne sat in the backseat with my ashes. A seatbelt secured my urn next to her. Dave drove, quiet and intense, as usual. Brandon looked across the front seat at his dad. “Remember when Mom took me on a road trip to Utah for a visit with her brother?”

            “Yeah. You had a good time?”

            “We stopped at a Dairy Queen.” Brandon began to laugh so hard, he had to stop and catch his breath. “Remember how obsessive Mom was about coupons? Well, she’d brought some along and they wouldn’t accept them. She asked for the manager, who also refused to honor them. She tore the coupons into tiny pieces and tossed them in the air.”

            “Uh oh,” Dave said. “You were only seven. Can’t believe you remember that.”

            “Everyone looked up. They floated down like snowflakes.”

            No one spoke for the next thirty miles. Dave pulled over at a rest stop and then the journey began again.

            “Your mom gave me career advice,” Cheyenne said from the backseat. She tapped Brandon’s shoulder. “You never told me about her business experience. She got me to accept the job in Salem and told me how to deal with the doctors and management. She knew about the job at St. Anthony’s before I did.”

            “Mom could network when she wanted to.”

            “She also gave me sex advice,” Cheyenne said.

            Dave groaned. “Probably more than you’d ever want to know.”

            “Olivia was funny,” Cheyenne continued. “Always willing to make fun of herself and the whole process. She was very complimentary of you, Dave.”

            Dave’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror.

            “When I was thirteen, she annotated every sex advice book we owned before handing them over to me,” Brandon said. “I paid her back by adding my comments to all her parental guidance books.”

            “I wondered whose writing that was,” Dave said.

            “You read parental guidance books, Dad?”

            Everyone laughed.

            “It wasn’t just sex,” Cheyenne said to Dave. “We talked about love. You used the word continuity when you guys were first discussing marriage. She said she learned the depth of that word from you.”

            Cheyenne stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Dave gripped the steering wheel, but didn’t look at her. “Olivia said not to expect love to solve everything: It's like a garden, and without nurture some weird shit will take over.”

            “Mom told me the same thing,” Brandon said.

            Cheyenne blew her nose. “She loved you guys so much.”

            Dave glanced at Brandon. “Your mom was smart and funny. She loved nature and life and you with all her heart.”

            “Mom loved you, too, Dad.” He reached across for his dad’s hand.

            “I loved her more than she knew.” Dave pulled the car over.

            He and Brandon got out and hugged and cried together. They talked and hugged more. Cheyenne remained in the car with me.    

            They drove on, stopping to scatter me when they recognized a place where I’d taken pictures on my first road trip.

            In Pendleton, Oscar waited for Brandon and the rest of us at their home. He’d prepared a delicious vegetarian dinner. At least I thought it was probably delicious. They’d left me in the car. I was just residue at this point, a light dust that remained on my family’s clothes and in their hair. Hugs and goodnights and plans for breakfast tomorrow. Then, Dave drove Cheyenne to her place.

            They spoke at the door. Dave covered his face with his hands. His shoulders rose and fell with strangled sobs. Cheyenne embraced him, patting his back and swaying the way you’d do with a baby. Dave quieted. He straightened up, reaching into his jacket for a Kleenex. He and Cheyenne stood quietly together, until he said goodnight and leaned forward for one last hug. She wrapped her arms around him, not letting go.

            She held his hand and drew him inside her apartment.

            My work here was done.

           

END

Hero

            The only good thing about going to her daddy’s funeral in Texas, besides the prospect of an inheritance, was that Lydia’s foot was in a cast as the result of having a bunion on her little toe removed. Texans, especially old ones, liked to talk about their operations. If her stepmother got aggressive, there might even be a sympathetic reaction–Shirley versus the bereaved, disabled daughter.

            “The funeral is in two days,” Shirley called to say.  When Lydia didn’t react fast enough, she added, “Don’t feel like you need to come.”

            Just hearing that her daddy was dead had shot Lydia down a tunnel of recollection she hadn’t anticipated. The scent of daddy-hunting in the East Texas night saturated her senses, and wet heat–heavy with honeysuckle and cigarette smoke–tickled her nose. She’d been her mom’s sidekick while they searched honky-tonk parking lots for his pickup. Parking lots? More like hard-packed dirt and weeds. When her mom spotted his truck, she’d send six-year-old Lydia into the bar to get him.

            He was always happy to see her. “Well, sweetheart, look at you,” he’d say, and sit her on top of the bar and hand her a bag of Fritos and a Dr Pepper. All the drunks would say how pretty she was, and she’d forget about her momma sitting outside in the car.

           

            Lydia heard the flick of a lighter on the other end of the telephone. “I’ll be there,” she said to her stepmother. “My daddy and I had some good times.” She hung up and called her brother in Arizona to coordinate their defenses.

            “She was sweet to me when she called,” Bill said, a barely concealed smile in his voice. “Said Daddy’d be real pleased I showed my respect if he wasn’t so dead and finally, thank the Lord above, beyond pleasure.” He laughed, his breath coming in hiccups. “She didn’t say that last part.”

            “Yeah, you folks with the penises always get on the good side of Southern belles,” Lydia said. “She told me once that she didn’t think you looked a bit like daddy.”

            “Ouch! At least she didn’t ask me for my blood type.” Bill laughed harder.

            Long before her father entered the lingering death phase of his decline, Lydia had visited the lake house where he’d retired. She and her dad and Shirley watched an episode of Law & Order where paternity was an issue. Afterward, not only had her stepmother asked for her blood type, but her father had piped up equally eager for the info. “Cause mine is AB negative and there’s only certain outcomes with that.”

            I’m not a daughter. I’m an outcome, Lydia thought.

            She’d answered that she didn’t know her blood type, but when Lydia returned home to New Mexico, she’d immediately called her mother and asked if there was any chance her daddy wasn’t really her daddy.

            There was silence on the line for a split second, and then her mom railed about what a cheating bastard her ex-husband had been.  “He tried to take me to bed every time he came out here to visit you kids!” She went on to say that she’d wanted to leave him a year earlier than she did, but he’d deliberately gotten her pregnant with Lydia’s brother.

            “So, Bill is for real his kid then?”

            A long sigh followed by her mom slamming down the phone was her answer.

           

            “Well, he’s finally dead,” Lydia now said to her brother. “All that AB negative has been drained from his desiccated body.”

            “Don’t go dark on me, Sis.” Bill had been barely one-year-old when their parents divorced; he’d never been close to their daddy.

            “Could you hear her face twitching over the telephone?” Lydia asked. They always bonded over Shirley caricatures.

            “She’s taking meds for that now, but there’ve been some side effects.”

            “Oh, goody.”

            “Try to keep a straight face when she starts.”

            “I plan on talking about my toe.”      

            They coordinated arrival times so sharing a taxi from the hotel to the funeral home would be cheaper, and agreed not to waste more than a night out there.  The countdown began, and two days later they were both in the air on their way to East Texas.

           

            Lydia had to change planes at Love Field in Dallas. She’d done this countless times when visiting her father for summer vacation. The switch to a prop plane meant a trek across an airport that had been designed by people with no land or space constraints. Spread out and take what God delivers is how a Texan thought.

            She was able to play the disabled card and hitch a ride on an electric airport cart with some old ladies, all of whom wanted to know what happened to her foot. They tsk-tsked with delight when Lydia embellished the story, saying she’d been helping her husband in his tool shed when a power tool got away from her and lopped off her toe.

            “Almost got my whole foot!”

            When she told them she was on her way to her daddy’s funeral, one plump lady with glasses that magnified her eyes like an owl’s in moonlight patted her hand and said, “You poor thing. Well, funerals can run a person ragged. You just take it easy now.”

           

            Bill was already in the hotel bar when Lydia arrived, and they had time for a quick drink before the viewing.  He called a taxi while she changed into a suit and redid her lipstick. At the funeral home, people milled around telling stories on her daddy. Lydia didn’t see her stepmother, but recognized Shirley’s braying laugh from somewhere in the middle of the group.

            A skinny old man reeking of Eau de Lifetime Smoker cornered Lydia with a story about her daddy. “After Mel’s last stroke, he decided to take up golf. I don’t think he liked the game so much as driving that golf cart all over kingdom come.” People standing around them leaned in to hear.  One even cupped his ear.

            “ He drove that golf cart to the trash bins,” a man said. He paused to take a wheezy breath.  “And to the liquor store.” Laughter and nods.

             “Let me finish my story,” the skinny man said. “One morning I was late for our game and they told me in the pro shop that he’d already gone out.” The room grew quiet. “Sure nuff, I saw his cart but Mel was nowheres in sight. I walked around it, and there he was layin on the ground, lookin at me like he didn’t have a care in the world. He’d fell down and couldn’t get up. ‘Watcha doin there, Mel?’ I asked. ‘Takin a suntan,’ he said.”

            Everyone laughed, shaking their heads like they couldn’t believe how clever her daddy was, and then like the pop of a tick with a bellyful of blood, Shirley yelled across the room, “That golf cart is for sale if anyone’s interested.”

            The skinny man laughed hard and his face turned the color of scalded flesh. Lydia’s daddy had been red-skinned, too, and had a hooknose like a nickel-Indian, but his eyes were a flirty turquoise. He could also tell a good story on himself.

            After he’d had a series of strokes they’d hired a male nurse who wore a badly fitted wig. He’d bathe her daddy and massage his twisted muscles. He was a comforting addition to their lives until Shirley discovered that the man was gay.

            “She up and fired him,” Mel said when he told the story to Lydia.

            “He was a pervert!” Shirley said.  “He might have molested you.”

            Mel winked at Lydia. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

            Now that was funny. And anyone who really knew the depth of her daddy’s hedonism couldn’t deny it. Lydia chose not to repeat the story, but remembering it made her smile, which the old folk took as permission to tell more of their PG tales. You can bet they knew more than they were saying in this mixed crowd. Shirley was his third wife, and no telling how many mistresses he’d had. He’d even gotten a vasectomy because of a paternity lawsuit.

            The preacher came up and introduced himself. “I want you to know that your daddy found Jesus before he went over,” Reverend Fuller said.

            “He prayed?” Lydia asked.

            A solemn nod. “He asked for forgiveness.”

            “Did he say for what? Specifically?”

            The preacher blinked hard. “For all his trespasses.” His lips formed a tight smile.

            “Did he mention his children, me or Bill?”

            Another blink. “No. He didn’t.”

            Lydia set her mouth in the exasperated line she’d learned from Shirley, one corner curled down. “Figures. Well, I want to take some pictures so I’m going in now.”

            “Pictures?”

            “Oh, yes. Casket shots are a family tradition. Daddy had some good ones of his own daddy and of his granddaddy.” She tapped her cheek, eyes turned upward. “Come to think of it, when his granddaddy died they posed him sitting in a chair holding his favorite mutt. They couldn’t get the dog to sit still so they killed it and had it stuffed to make the sweetest photo you ever saw.”

            Satisfied with the preacher’s stunned silence, Lydia limped into the chapel dragging her cast in an exaggerated way while she circled the casket. She was disappointed that no one had mentioned her injury. She studied her father’s corpse and touched his crossed hands. She stroked his cheek.

            He still had some hair, but he was emaciated. Shirley must have starved him. His skin was mottled with liver spots and the mortician hadn’t captured his high ruddy flush. Powder and lipstick had been artlessly applied.

            Lydia focused her camera and took a dozen pictures from all angles. When she looked up the pews were filled with an assortment of country folk who stared at her with uncomfortable expressions. She took her time getting to her seat next to her brother and stepmother, making sure to scrape the carpet with her cast. Reverend Fuller stepped up to the podium.

            She didn’t hear him, or any of the others who spoke. Lydia stared at her father’s drugstore Indian profile trying to connect this strange stillness with her real daddy. During her parents’ marriage he’d treated her like a princess and she’d adored him. She became an afterthought when they split, but he’d promised her she could come live with him anytime. In the ninth grade, she took him up on the offer, much to Shirley’s dismay.

            “He told me I’d never have to be bothered with his children,” Shirley said one day in the bathroom. She’d caught Lydia using her sacred bubble bath. While she scolded her, Shirley’s facial tics rearranged her freckled skin in a Jekyll-to-Hyde time lapse, sweet country girl to evil queen.

            The rest of that school year had been marked by her daddy’s absences. When he was home the tension in the house rose. He drank more, and had even taught Lydia how to make his bourbon and water. But mostly he stayed away. The worst event happened one night when she’d been up late.  His car pulled into the driveway. Lydia switched off the light, but he’d seen it and came into her room.

            “Just reading,” she said when he checked on her. He felt her sweaty forehead and then bent down to kiss her goodnight. All normal stuff until he stuck his pointed tongue in her mouth. It was just a split-second, but Lydia tasted the bourbon. He looked ashamed of himself when he rushed out the door. He never apologized for his behavior. For Lydia, his shame was a sign of love.

            The speeches celebrating her maybe father ended, and her stepmother stood up and announced that his boat and all his guns were for sale.

            Bill and Lydia accepted condolences and said goodbye to people they didn’t know and would never see again. At the end of it there was only the three of them. Shirley hustled over to her Cadillac without looking back.  Before she could get in, Bill asked her for a ride to the hotel.

            “Well, I’m kind of in a hurry. There’s potluck and pound cake waiting for me back at the lake house.”

            There was no hint in her voice that they were invited. Lydia’s foot throbbed. No one had asked about it. An official-looking man came up and expressed his sorrow over their loss again. He handed Lydia a card, which announced that he was Ned Byrnes, Funeral Director.          

            “This was the best funeral I’ve ever been to, Ned,” Lydia said, “I hope you’ll do the same for Shirley when her time comes.”

            Ned blushed. Bill’s lips parted. Shirley's Adam’s apple bobbed three times.

            “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been on my feet, foot, and it really hurts. We’ll call a taxi.” Lydia dug through her purse for her cell, and was surprised to see a tear plop down on the back of her hand. She hadn’t planned on crying. “My toe is gone,” she said to no one in particular. “It was just no good, but I loved it, y’know?”

            “It didn’t do much for you, but you were attached to it,” Bill said. He didn’t smile.

            “Yeah, now there’s just an empty space. No more possibilities.”

            “Meg in the choir lost her whole foot,” Shirley said. “Her voice has never been the same.” The corner of her mouth twitched once, twice and then just kept going so fast that Lydia lost count.

            Ned offered to give them a lift, but all of a sudden it was as if Shirley was on fire for them to get in the car. “We’ll manage just fine,” she said, her facial calisthenics so pronounced that poor Ned averted his eyes and scurried off.

            Lydia took a deep breath and tried to open the front passenger door. It was locked. “Oh,” Shirley said, and clicked a button at the same moment Lydia tried to open the door again, thereby nullifying the unlock command. The two women continued a furious volley and return of electronic bad timing. Shirley’s mouth-twitches progressed to neck spasms. It was probably time for her medication.

            “No one move,” Bill said. He stepped over to the car door and reached through the open window to manually unlock it and then got in the backseat.

            A truck pulled up alongside the Caddy. Inside were three ladies from Shirley’s church. “We’ll see you two out at the lake house, I hope?”

            The corner of Shirley’s mouth tugged down and stayed there, strangely still. “They’re headed back to their hotel, Ida Mae.”

            “You come on out to Shirley’s and try my apple pie now. I’ll give you a lift back to the hotel later.”

            A ghastly, and yet satisfying, array of facial tics hop-scotched across her stepmother’s face. “Of course, they’ll come. See ya there!”

            She lit a cigarette as soon as the windows were up and the a/c on. No one spoke. Once they turned off the main highway, the road was mostly one-lane, winding and unpaved. The lake house was small, but the yard in front of it was huge and packed with cars. The sound of laughter and the smell of cigarette smoke and barbeque greeted them. An American flag flew at half-mast outside.

            The crowd greeted the three of them as if they were a family.

            Everything inside looked the same. Same olive-green appliances, same vinyl couch. Lydia eased her way down the hall toward the bathroom, but got sidetracked by a small group gathered in the guest bedroom.            

            “You must have been very proud of your father!” a man said. There was no trace of irony in his eyes.  “Have you seen the memorial Shirley set up?  She’s been working on it for years.”

            A table was pushed against the wall and in the middle of it was a triangular box with a glass front.  Inside, another flag was folded military fashion.  A photo of her daddy in full dress uniform smiled out at her, his turquoise eyes sparkling. He was handsome. He was happy. He was a heartbreaker.  A picture of a youthful Shirley sat next to his.  She posed like a movie queen with her head tilted to the side and her hair falling in waves. She’d been pretty.

            The man pointed to another case with lots of ribbons and medals. “Two purple hearts.”  He looked at the others.  “C’mon folks, let’s leave the child to her memories.”

            “My daddy was a cook in the Marines,” Lydia said as they left the room.  She’d seen his war album. There were pictures of dead men in the Philippine jungle and of naked girls bathing in mud holes. All the pictures of her daddy showed him peeling potatoes or stirring a huge pot. A cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth was a permanent fixture.

            Her daddy was no hero.

            “Oh, there you are,” Shirley said. She came in and stood officiously by the table, as if she were a tour guide. “Your daddy lost or misplaced most of these medals during his roving days.” Her neck muscles spasmed with disapproval.  Lydia knew that by roving her stepmother meant the early years of her parents’ marriage, when they’d traveled the South together and lived in a silver Airstream trailer.  Bill came into the room. 

            “Did you know Daddy was a war hero?”

            “Why no!” he said, pleasant as he could be. “This is a surprise.”

            “Well, he most certainly was!” Shirley’s eyes were dry and bitter. She looked away from them and at the pictures of her young self and her young future husband. Her expression softened. “It took me a long time to get all this together,” she said, the stridency gone from her voice, her twitches quiet.

            Lydia felt a rising panic. It was urgent that the lying stop. “He didn’t–”

            “Friends warned me about him . . . about the women.” Shirley looked in their direction, but it wasn’t them she was seeing. A quiver started at the corner of her mouth. “I loved him and that’s the end to it.” The tremble stopped and she walked out of the room.

            Lydia and Bill stared quietly at the memorial.  Over the noise of the wake, they heard Shirley get back to business.  “Maybe someone can tell me what these fishing rods are worth,” she shouted.  “Mel said they were like magic wands that drew the fish to the hook.”

            “You okay, Sis?”

            “Those rods were good.”

            “They had magic,” Bill said.

            “No. It was him. He was the magician. Look at the turnout he got.”

            Bill pointed with his chin at the medals. “They’re probably Chinese knockoffs.”

            “He lied to her.”

            “Maybe he did you a favor by staying out of your life?” Bill watched Lydia with soft eyes. “It’s okay to love him. He’s your dad.”

            “Is he? Really?”

            “He’s what you got.”

 “You think Shirley would let me have one of the medals?”  

 “That Purple Heart would look good on a jean jacket.”

Lydia punched Bill on the shoulder and then leaned against him. He wrapped an arm around he. She focused on the photo of her father and his young smiling face, all his sins in an unplanned future.

“My Hero,” she whispered. She loved her daddy and that was the end to it.

Appeared in the Bacopa Literary Review, 2015