When I’d realized that Mom hadn’t forgotten my promise to bring her to Sutton Hall and wasn’t giving up on the idea of living out the remainder of her years in Louisiana, I’d feared we’d lose Lindsey, but she’d jumped at the chance to get out of Washington. In fact, she’d jumped so fast that I wondered if she was wanted for robbing banks or spree killings.
I am so relieved to have her, I don’t care.
“There used to be a rain barrel over there.” Mother drops my hand and points a finger to the corner of a wraparound porch. “That’s where Grandmere got the water to wash her hair.” Funny she can remember her grandmother catching rainwater sixty or seventy years ago but not spooning Mr. Shone last month.
“I know,” I say as we head up three wooden steps to the porch. The boards beneath our feet creak; some have been replaced here and there, but it’s just as I remember. Our luggage sits next to the double doors, painted the same green as the shutters, and just as faded.
“I don’t know what Earl will do without me.” Mother doesn’t remember the incident that got her booted from Golden Springs, but she remembers her boyfriend.
The front doors are locked, and I dig around in my purse in search of the key. When I’d given Mom the key a few months ago, she’d put it somewhere “safe”—so safe we couldn’t find it within her personal belongings, though we did find a secret money stash and a hoard of credit cards. Only one of them belonged to her. I don’t know how she got away with stealing so many, but I assume she never actually used them, or I would have been informed of her credit card fraud by now.
It took several long hours filled with hand-wringing and worry. “Wynonna stole it. She hates me and loves to steal from me,” she’d said over and over, accusing the poor woman until we’d finally found it wrapped up inside a purple Crown Royal bag.
I raise the key to the lock, but it doesn’t fit. I wiggle it this way and that, cajole and plead and curse under my breath. God, I miss the Millennium Tower concierge already. I shove the weight of my body into the door, but it doesn’t even rattle. From the moment we set foot in Sea-Tac this morning, the day has gone from bad to worse. My head hurts and I’m sweaty. My nerves are shot, and my sanity is barely hanging on. I stomp one foot in frustration, and the four-inch heel of my Manolo sinks into the old wooden porch. It sinks so far that it won’t come out when I scrunch my toes and lift my foot. I look over my shoulder at my mother, who is so close that she’s almost on top of me. “It’s not the right key.”
“That’s the key, all right.”
The humidity. The key. My shoe stuck in the porch. The flight from hell. I don’t know how much more I can take. “You try.” I shove the key at Mom, who hands it off to Lindsey.
I step out of my black pump and allow the strongest woman I know to take my place. She pushes and pulls on the door as she shakes the handle and tries to fit the key into the lock all at the same time. She slams a shoulder into it, and, for several hopeful moments, I think the hinges might give out, but the solid old door doesn’t budge. “Wrong key.”
“Wynonna must have stolen the good key. She stole my pink nightie and framed picture of Rowdy Yates.”
I feel a tiny twitch in the corner of my eye—never a good sign.
“Maybe it’s to the back door,” Lindsey suggests, and she and Mother turn and walk around the right side of the porch. They just leave me, but I’m okay with that and bend down to retrieve my shoe from the hole I’ve created. I pull at it four times before it comes free, and I stumble back a few steps. The heel is a little loose, and the leather is stripped like an inside-out umbrella. This is the second pair of ruined pumps in two months. I only packed three others. At this rate, I’ll be out of shoes by May. Well, except for four pairs of boots, six pairs of sandals, and a pair of Nikes I threw in at the last minute.
It’s getting hotter and more humid by the second, and my silk blouse is stuck to my skin. The heel of my shoe feels a bit wonky, and I put as little weight on it as possible as I follow Mom and Lindsey. I could take my shoes off and go barefoot, but I’m wearing pantyhose, and the fear of splinters is real enough to keep them on my feet.
By the time I limp my way to Mom and Lindsey, they’re standing at a door that looks very much like the one in front. In fact, the back of the house is almost as grand as the front. Or was grand at one time.
“How’s it going?” I ask as I limp toward them.
Mother is smiling, but Lindsey isn’t. Not a good sign.
“I swear, it’s just so beautiful back here,” Mom gushes.
Clearly my mother and I are not on the same planet, let alone in the same clumpy yard in Louisiana. It appears that someone has recently attempted to mow the lawn and weeds, but beyond that, the shrubs are a nightmare. Cypress trees tower over a roofless garçonnière and what is left of the original kitchen. Kudzu has nearly swallowed most of the older structures and crumbling chimneys at the far end of the yard where the bayou meanders along, filled with creepy critters. I know that somewhere behind the converted garage to my right is a cobblestone lane that leads to the old family cemetery where my mother expects to be buried.
“Why are you walking funny?” my mother wants to know.
“I broke a heel.” If I am careful and keep my weight off my shoe, I think it can be easily repaired. I might spend a lot of money on clothes and shoes, but I take good care of them so they will last.
“The key fits but the door won’t open,” Lindsey tells me.
The sun beats down on us, and I feel myself sweating like a dog, which I much prefer to pig. I shrug out of my blazer and pull the front of my blouse from my damp skin. “Let me try.” Lindsey hands me the key, and I confirm she’s right. It fits, the handle turns, but nothing. I’d put a shoulder into it, but I’ve learned my lesson. To my right, I hear a clicking sound from the overgrown shrubs that shoves my heart up into my throat. Like someone with a camera is hiding in the shrubbery, or a giant insect is preparing to launch an attack on my clammy neck. The first possibility isn’t likely, and the second makes my sweaty skin crawl and raises my shoulders to my ears.
“The doors won’t open.” Mother states the obvious. “Call someone for help.”
I close my eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath to keep my head from exploding. “There’s no one I can call.” I don’t want to explode. I don’t want to yell and scream and act crazy, but I can feel it bubbling up.
“Call Tony.”
I press my fingertips to the seam of my lips. I know Mom isn’t purposely trying to make my head explode, but she’s standing next to a powder keg with a box of matches in her hand.
“I don’t think he’s coming,” Lindsey helps me out. Over the past month, she’s heard Mom drop his name, forcing me to explain my reaction to the jerk.
“Sure he is. He’ll get the real key from Wynonna. Then she’ll be sorry.”
My foot wobbles, my ankles twists, and I slowly list to one side. “Fuck!”
My mother gasps, and I drop my hand from my mouth. She hates the f-word as much as I do. Maybe a little more. “Lou Ann! Don’t be trashy.”
She’s right. Swearing is trashy, and a bad habit best never picked up. “Sorry.” I’m sinking starboard—then snap, the heel of my Manolo shoots off into the clicking shrub. One leg is suddenly shorter than the other and sweat is running down the side of my neck. “Great! My shoe just broke.”