Dancing to the Silence

Florence, Oregon

May 26 - 28, 1987

Mr. Pib

Macy Eldridge knew something was terribly wrong even before she opened her eyes and saw Mr. Pib stone cold dead on the pillow beside her.

An odd sense of dread had prodded her into half-sleep consciousness and set her to shivering under the Pendleton blankets piled three high on the bed. Every muscle tense, she lay, eyes squeezed shut, listening, straining to hear any odd noise. Nothing but raindrops bouncing off the metal roof like a barrel of marbles dumped from the hands of some giant in the sky. A typical Oregon coast morning in May.

Maybe it was nothing more than the tacos she’d had for dinner, or coffee too close to bedtime. If she kept her eyes shut and lay still, hopefully, the creepy feeling would evaporate like a bad dream.

Not a chance. Fear curled a little tighter around her heart. Lori? Julie? Chad? Grandkids? No. No phone calls.

Surely it couldn’t be that it was her fiftieth birthday and she would spend it alone. That was nothing new. She had spent it alone even when sitting across the table from David watching him read the morning paper with the date right there, in black and white, at the top of the page.

Leave David alone. Remember what he did for you.

He never let me forget.

Stop the drama. It’s probably nothing.

Okay. Probably.

What was she doing… not only talking to herself but answering too? Bad habit, one she needed to break… but then, why should she? Who else would she talk to?

Oh, for crying out loud, Macy, stop the pity party and get on with it.

She inhaled deeply and slowly opened her eyes to see Mr. Pib’s green eyes frozen open in a blank stare. The breath hissed out of Macy’s chest like air out of a big balloon, and her heart withered into a hard little fist, barely beating. She curled onto her side facing him, lay her palm on the side of his head, and let the flash flood of tears sweep away all thoughts except that Mr. Pib was gone.

Finally, she wiped her eyes and her drippy nose on her pajama sleeve. It’s just a damn cat, she told herself and burst into tears again.

But he wasn’t just a cat. Mr. Pib—short for Pain in the Butt—first let Macy touch him sixteen years ago, on a sunny May day when the wild rhododendrons were in riotous bloom.

They were still living in the big house south of town with a view of Woahink Lake when she first saw the scrawny grey-striped tabby. He wasn’t much of a cat when he crawled from under the back deck. His fur was patchy, half an ear was missing and a yellowish pus filmed over one eye. Macy couldn’t tell how old he was for sure, but he was young and positively feral.

Seduced by a three-month daily supply of premium cat food and treats, Mr. Pib finally rubbed against her leg one day and didn’t fuss when she picked him up. It was the day David was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, and it was as if Mr. Pib knew she would need a friend.

The cat had been her constant companion ever since, a source of comfort during those long years of David’s decline. First, Parkinson’s, then a diagnosis of dementia, then congestive heart failure, and in the last year, colon cancer. It had taken David a long time to die.

But Mr. Pib was gone in an instant, without warning. Of course, he was old, and he had been slowing down for some time, but somehow, his death was a shock. Macy wiped her eyes again as a nasty little thought sneaked out, and sucker punched her right where it would do the most damage. You didn’t cry this much when David died.

No, she hadn’t. But then, zombies don’t cry. All the long years of David’s dying had day by day, shriveled her humanity until, in the end, she was an empty shell of self-control and sheer will, doing what had to be done. Otherwise, she would have been sucked under the surface of his suffering, herself drowning in his slow death. So, his passing had been a relief. That is what she tells no one.

Macy took a deep breath, threw back the covers, pulled herself out of bed, and slipped her feet into a pair of fur-lined slippers. She went to the bathroom, then dressed in jeans, a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of rain boots. Taking Mr. Pib’s favorite blanket off the end of the sofa, she carried it into the bedroom and carefully wrapped him in it.

The rain had settled into a light drizzle when Macy took a shovel from the storage shed and dug a hole at the far end of the backyard. Was a backyard cat burial against association rules? She didn’t know, but her yard was shielded entirely by a mandatory natural greenbelt between the lots. Although her neighbors were only a few feet away, the screen of wild rhododendrons, huckleberries, azaleas, wax myrtle, and other foliage was so effective she could only see the neighbor across the street from her front window, so who would know about the cat grave? Nobody but her.

The sandy soil was wet and heavy. Macy was perspiring under her rain jacket by the time she judged the hole to be the right size. She found a red metal toolbox in the shed, dumped the tools on a work table and carried the container into the house. After padding the bottom with a towel, she gently lay Mr. Pib inside, covering his blanket-wrapped body with another small towel. She carefully put the toolbox in a large black plastic garbage bag, wrapped it snugly, then repeated it with another garbage bag. The little metal container was as waterproof as she could make it.

She put the makeshift coffin into the hole, shoveled the sand back in and tamped it down. In a day or two, she would visit Woodsman’s Native Nursery and buy a rhododendron to plant on his grave. Yellow for all the happiness he had given her.

She sat on the wet ground and lay her palm on the small mound of sand. How could she leave him there, in that damp, dark hole, alone? Goodbye, cat, my good friend. Goodbye, Mr. Pib. Macy’s eyes stung from crying, and her throbbing nose delivered a dull drum-beat headache to the middle of her forehead. The rain dripped off her hat and ran down her jacket, pooling in a small lake under her bottom.

Still, she didn’t move until her legs cramped into pretzels under her. Bracing herself with the shovel, Macy stood and stamped her feet several times before trudging slowly back into the house.

After hanging her dripping raincoat and hat on a hook by the door, she turned up the heat in the pellet stove in the corner. Standing in its warmth, she quickly stripped down and changed into a pair of old sweats and slippers. Warm and dry, and fortified with a cup of coffee, she dropped heavily into a chair at the small table in front of the bay window. She gazed out at the asphalt street, glistening in the rain, dark and empty. Just like her.

Even while still lying in bed earlier, the crushing pain of losing Mr. Pib almost squeezing the life out of her, Macy had known as surely as she knew her name that trouble was not through with her this day. Her hand trembled as she lifted the cup and took a sip of coffee, willing the hot liquid to warm her insides and push away the foreboding she still felt.

Maybe it was because all her life, from the time she was a child, her time and energy had been consumed doing what had to be done for others, but now there was nothing and no one that absolutely demanded her care or attention. Had that sudden vacancy of responsibility busted the secure padlock deep inside, opening the door to the dark chasm where she had locked away all the pain and hurt so many years ago?

Macy thought she had taken care of that business for good way back then, putting it away from her heart and mind so she could live out her life in relative peace. But now the cage door was rattling, and she could hear the old fear and hurt calling her name.

Connie O’Shea

Enough of this foolishness. Macy wasn’t about to have her hard-won peace destroyed. For what? Less than nothing.

You’re fifty years old. It’s time you deal with this. Now or never.

Then it’s never. Leave me alone.

A sharp jangle made her jump and slosh coffee on the table. She grabbed the phone with one hand and a dish towel with the other.

Mom? Julie, Macy’s sunshine child, was perky and happy as usual. Happy birthday.

Thanks, baby. How are you this morning?

I’m fine, but you sound terrible. What happened? Are you okay?

Macy’s grip on the handset tightened, and she held her breath for a second. It’s not my best day. She tried to keep the sob out of her voice. All she needed was to be crying on the phone to her youngest daughter.

What happened?

Mr. Pib died. She couldn’t help it. Her voice broke.

Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved that old cat.

Yes. It was all Macy could manage.

I wish I was there to spend the day with you.

I wish you were, too.

Is Lori taking you out to dinner?

No. She’s at a conference in Bend.

Maybe you can get together with some friends.

Maybe.

How about coming out to Phoenix for a month or two?

I might but in the winter when it’s not so hot.

After Julie hung up, Macy held the handset against her chest for a couple of minutes. Her youngest, blonde and petite, like her mother, was born with a happy gene that never let her down. At least it seemed that way to Macy.

Julie had been bouncy and bubbly as a child, an out-going chatterbox who made friends with everyone, young and old, and sailed through school with good grades, seemingly with little effort. No sullen teenage angst for her. She married her high school sweetheart, Kent Wilson, the Christmas after high school graduation and settled into marriage and motherhood like she was born to it.

When Kent put his foot down and said three is enough after their last child, Julie opened a daycare center in Phoenix and spent her days nurturing and cuddling babies, toddlers, and preschoolers in addition to the exuberant love she lavished on her own kids.

How different would my life have been if I’d had a mother like that? Macy shook off the thought and poured herself another cup of coffee.

The past is what it is–no use crying over something that can’t be changed.

No, but the future can be changed.

Macy laughed aloud and almost choked on a mouthful of coffee. Yeah. I’m fifty years old. It’s a little late.

That’s ridiculous, and you know it. You’re in great health and life is out there–with or without you.

I can only hurt myself by opening up all that business again. It’s not for me. It was never meant for me… other people but not me.

So what are you going to do… sit here alone, talking to yourself until the undertaker comes to haul away what’s left of you?

Oh, God, no! I haven’t… I don’t… Macy buried her face in her hands. That was exactly what she had been doing—hiding out. For how long? But how could she do otherwise? Take a chance and be wrong? That pain all over again?

What if, this time, you’re not wrong… what if…

Leave me alone.

No. It’s time, Macy. Your last chance.

She stood so fast she knocked her chair over. Her heart beats tripped over each other as they fluttered in her chest, and breath came in shallow, like breathing through cotton. She paced across the small room and back, then righted the chair and sat again.

It was true. Her life had become like static on a malfunctioning radio, all gray noise, irritating at first, but then, eventually, not just normal, but desirable. It might be dull, but it was safe.

So, safe. That’s it? You’re going to settle for safe for the rest of your life?

I need somebody to talk to… somebody who won’t ridicule or laugh at me… somebody who’ll tell me the truth, she muttered, staring at her coffee cup as if it could come up with a suggestion.

The kids? Chad in Dublin with his Irish wife, Lori absorbed in David’s law practice and Julie in Phoenix? No. It wasn’t that they didn’t love her. They did, and she loved them—well, sometimes she wasn’t so sure about Lori. They would want to help, even Lori, but they had lives.

Macy remembered how it was when she was young and raising a family – life pulling you out of bed in the morning before the sleep was out of your eyes, demanding attention and action, one thing after another all day long. The good intentions–a letter to a friend, drop in on the widowed neighbor–all trampled under the necessities of getting through the day. Falling into bed with the dim thought you’d certainly do better tomorrow. So, no. Not the kids.

There was only one person she needed right now—Connie O’Shea.

Where was her friend now? Probably still in Gazely Creek, California. Joey’s family had been there since the beginning of time and owned a big chunk of the Santa Clara Valley. Connie had inherited the entire estate when Joey died. Macy chuckled. That must have old man Luzatto spinning in his grave. Because of Joey, Connie would view selling even one acre as a mortal sin. So, although Connie owned a townhouse in San Francisco, and a home in Carmel, her home base would still be Gazely Creek.

Macy took a frayed address book from the kitchen junk drawer and pulled a chair up to the table. She dragged the phone closer and sat for a moment with her hand resting on top of the handset.

How long had it been? Connie had been Macy’s best—her only—friend in high school. At first, after they went their separate ways, they had written regularly. Over time, contact had dwindled to birthday and Christmas cards. But their friendship still felt immediate—like they had just spoken yesterday. Macy shook her head, sighed, and lifted the handset. Do it now before you back out.

Her fingers trembled a little as she dialed the number from memory and she realized she was holding her breath as the ringtone jangled in her ear.

Buenos dias. The voice was warm with a distinct accent. Luzatto residence. Josefina speaking.

Macy exhaled. Yes, Josefina, is Connie available?

May I say who is calling, please?

Tell her it’s Macy.

One moment, please.

There was the click of another extension being picked up. Macy? Is that really you?

Macy laughed. It’s me, Connie.

You won’t believe it, but I was thinking about you this morning. Connie’s voice was gravelly from years of smoking.

Well, I was thinking about you, too, and here I am.

How the hell are you? Where the hell are you?

I’m fine and still in Oregon. I can’t tell you how good it is to hear your voice, Connie.

There was a moment of silence, then Connie said, How are you really, Macy?

Macy swallowed. I’ve been better.

The kids?

The kids are fine. Keep it together. Don’t cry. It’s me. The words came out broken like someone had whacked them with a hammer.

What is it? What’s the matter, Mace?

What to say? Macy put her elbow on the table and her hand over her eyes, gripping the handset so tight with her other hand, her fingers ached.

Macy, are you there? What the hell’s the matter? Talk to me.

I’m sorry. Macy couldn’t stop the deep sob that pushed the words out of her mouth. I thought I could talk about it on the phone. I can’t. I don’t think I should talk about it at all. I’m sorry I called.

Don’t give me that crap, Macy. Of course, you should call. What are friends for?

I’m sorry, Connie. The pain begins again.

Now, you listen to me, Mace, and you listen good. I was about to walk out the door on my way to the San Francisco house for a few days, but I’m changing my plan. My luggage is already in the car, so I’m on my way to you. I’ll be there as soon as I can, tomorrow at the latest. You hear me, Macy? I’m on my way.

Reunion

A big lavender Cadillac pulled into the driveway and parked beside Macy’s old silver Jag. It couldn’t be anybody but Connie, not driving that shiny lilac boat.

Standing in the front window, Macy watched her friend spill out of the car, red hair as wild as ever, and even from here, the freckles plainly sprinkled like specks of cinnamon on her friend’s face. Connie, one inch over six-foot tall, wore a flowing purple skirt with big white flowers, a teal pull-over tunic top, purple sandals, and earrings that could’ve been stolen from a brothel in Nevada.

Macy laughed out loud. She’d bet those California sandals would be exchanged for a pair of Oregon boots before the day was over.

Connie looked up, flashing her make-a-dead-man-smile grin, waved, and then ducked back in the car. Pulling out a colossal lime green tote bag, she slung it over her shoulder and marched up the stairs to the entry deck, grinning at Macy the whole time.

Macy met her friend at the door. Without a word, they threw their arms around each other. At five-foot-three, Macy’s face smashed right into Connie’s ample bosom. Even with her nose squashed and hardly able to breathe, she clung to Connie for a couple of minutes before pushing away.

Connie blinked back tears. Okay, Mace, lay it all on me. What’s going on?

Macy looked at the other woman and inhaled deeply. What is going on? I’m not sure. A bunch of silliness, a middle-age crisis. Now I feel stupid for getting her all the way up here. But, Lord, how good it is to see her. She let her breath out in a big whoosh. Let’s get you settled first.

Just as Macy poured coffee, Connie came out of the spare bedroom wearing a pair of red pants, a gold cotton sweater, and beaded moccasins. She plopped in a chair at the kitchen table, doctored her coffee with cream and sugar and took a sip. Neither spoke for a few seconds, then Connie said, So—

Stall. Not yet. Macy interrupted. You’re probably wondering about all this. She swung her arm to indicate the fourteen-foot wide space of her mobile home. It isn’t the house on the lake.

What happened with that?

Too big and isolated after David died.

I was so sorry to hear about him.

He was sick for years. At least I had time to prepare. Not sudden like it was for you with Joey. Macy slowly twirled her coffee cup, making a faint scratching sound on the table I was stunned. I know you were, too.

Yeah. I tried to talk him out of riding that day. It wasn’t raining hard, just a drizzle. He loved that motorcycle, and a few drops of rain wasn’t enough to keep him from a charity poker run with his buddies. Connie’s voice stumbled. He kissed me on the nose and said, ‘Stop nagging. You’re my sweetheart, not my mama, mia cara. I’ll be home before sundown and take you to Mezza Luna for pizza. She swallowed and closed her eyes for a few seconds. He never came home.

Macy covered Connie’s hand with her own. I wanted desperately to be there. You know that, don’t you?

Yeah, I know.

That was when all three of the kids came down with measles, one after the other. Between them, they were sick more than four weeks. David was in the middle of a trial. I couldn’t leave. I wanted to. I’m so sorry about Joey.

It’s okay, Macy. I understand. Connie took a sip of coffee. I'm nosy, but David was a successful lawyer. He took care of you, didn’t he?

Yes. And I have money of my own.

Connie raised her eyebrows. I thought you were Suzy Homemaker.

I was, but you know how I always wanted to write?

I remember.

Well, when the kids were little, I made up a bunch of stories about a skunk named Odorus, and his forest buddies, Squiggly Snake, Tedious Turtle, and Cranky Crow—

WHAT? Connie’s eyes widened, and her eyebrows shot up. But those stories have been made into big-time animated films. Don’t tell me you’re—

Elsie Fox. It’s my pen name.

Well, I’ll be… How did all that happen?

I wrote the stories for my kids, but one thing led to another. Macy shrugged. The whole thing was kind of an accident.

I had no idea that was you.

David wasn’t happy about it, so he was adamant that I keep a low profile. It hasn’t been easy.

I’m royally ticked off, Connie said but grinned. How could you let something so exciting happen and not tell me?

Well, the kids were little, and it didn’t seem like it would amount to anything, and then it did, but then David was sick. I’m sorry, Connie. I should have told you. But, it was a long time ago. I still get royalties, but I haven’t done anything new with it for years.

I’m kidding, Mace. I’m just so happy for you. Every kid from two to ninety-two has seen those movies. Hell, I’ve seen 'em. You must have made a fortune… so why… Connie’s eyes swept around the modest room, then out to Macy’s almost-thirty-year-old Jag in the driveway.

Macy followed Connie’s glance. Hey, I love that car. It’s got almost three-hundred-thousand miles on it and still runs good. Macy laughed. I’ll drive it until it falls apart under me. As for the mobile—the kids, especially Lori, gave me a hard time about it. David had just died, and they wanted me to buy a house in town. She sighed. I wasn’t able to explain that it wasn’t about downsizing my living space.

So, what was it about?

Macy stared at the bottom of her coffee cup, well aware Connie was intently studying her. She looked up and met Connie’s gaze. I needed to pull my life close around me so I could stand in the center, reach out and touch the boundaries and know who I am.

Macy…

Here it comes. Stall. Stall.

She tapped her foot against the floor in a drumming tat-tat-tat, then abruptly stood. Pulling a platter and a cutting board from the cupboard, and a knife from a drawer, she put them on the counter. She selected a wedge of Stilton cheese, dry salami, prosciutto, and tiny sweet pickles from the refrigerator, crackers from the pantry and an apple and orange from the fruit bowl and put it all on the counter.

Here, let me help you. Connie rolled the prosciutto into thin little tubes while Macy sliced the salami. They worked silently, preparing the platter, then Macy took a corkscrew from a drawer and a bottle of red wine from the pantry.

Grab some of those napkins and the platter and join me in the parlor. Macy threw her arms wide to indicate the sofa, chair, and TV arranged in the tight space not four feet from the kitchen.

Connie put the platter on the coffee table, kicked off her moccasins, and curled her feet under her on the sofa. Macy uncorked the wine. The bottle click-clicked against the glass as she poured. Connie was closing in; she wasn’t going to wait much longer.

Macy looked away from Connie’s steady gaze as she handed her friend the wine glass, but Connie’s scrutiny was like an army of ants crawling on Macy’s skin looking for their last meal. Macy plopped into the armchair and took a big gulp of wine.

What is it, Macy? What’s wrong?

Macy studied the red liquid in her glass as if the answer might be there. What was wrong? Could she even explain it? Now that she needed to give it a name and bring it out for someone else’s examination, it felt silly, inconsequential. How could it matter to anyone but her and should it even matter at all? She was superficial—even childish—making mountains out of molehills, as David used to say.

She had brought her friend all the way from California, and for what? Foolishness. A growing-old panic attack. Connie would think she was crazy.

"Macy, what?" The kindness and concern Macy saw in her friend’s blue denim eyes was her undoing. The locked door deep inside banged open, and the need and the loneliness exploded out of the darkness, taking Macy’s breath away. Her chin quivered as she looked at her friend through a shimmer of tears.

Oh, Connie! I’m fifty years old, and nobody has ever loved me! Macy put her hands over her face, doubled over against her knees, and cried so hard she could barely breathe. There—it was out—said, and there was no taking it back. If it was silly, of no consequence, why was the pain shredding her like wild dogs tearing into prey?

Connie knelt in front of Macy and held her as her body trembled. Macy’s sobs subsided into hiccups. She raised her head and wiped her face with her shirtsleeve. Connie grabbed paper towels off the kitchen counter and handed them to Macy, then curled back into the corner of the sofa, waiting quietly.

Macy’s eyes felt gritty and swollen, her throat sandpaper raw, and her nose like it was packed with concrete. Now isn’t that dumb? Embarrassment flushed her face a hot pink. I brought you all the way up here for this silliness.

It’s not silly, Mace. What’s the saying… wars have been fought and kingdoms lost for love? Connie’s mouth quivered on the edge of a smile, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. Love is what we all want. It’s the thing that makes us most uniquely human. Don’t be shamed by your need for it.

Macy studied her thin fingers wrapped around the stem of the wine glass. Sometimes I wonder if I was ever in love. I think I was.

Oh, Macy! What about David? You guys were married at least thirty years. Surely he loved you. Connie grinned. I love you.

I love you, too, Connie. Macy forced a small smile. But that’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. She paused. How to explain David?

David… as far as how he felt about me… I was a cog in the wheel of his existence, like his house, his car, his law practice, his kids, his golf… all the little parts that made his life flow smoothly. David just expected all his cogs to perform to his satisfaction without complaint or making trouble, and, for the most part, we did.

Well, that sounds like a real party. Connie frowned. How did you feel about him?

I respected him. Macy tapped a finger on the rim of her glass. At least I did for a long time. And I was grateful. I owed him. But there were times I was a little afraid of him.

Oh, honey, Connie said, and Macy saw the glisten of tears in her eyes. There’s more to life than that.

I know. They fell silent for a minute, then Macy continued as if talking to herself. "Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I’d whisper, please hold me. He never did. He never even heard me.

I dreamt about being kissed, you know, for real, with passion. Sometimes it was all I could think about.

Silence again. Macy glanced at Connie and saw her swallow, her eyes wide and unblinking.

I wanted somebody to say, I see you–all that you are and all you’re not. I see you, Macy Tate-Eldridge, and you are more than enough to fill me up and give my life meaning. Macy passed her hand over her eyes.

"There was this couple, a business associate of David’s that we saw socially. The way Mark said his wife’s name… Mary… I used to listen for him to say it. There was so much love in that word … Mary… it actually made the hair stand up on my arms. I saw that kind of thing in other people, too. I wished that just once David would say my name like that. Macy picked up her wine glass and took a sip. It was like watching other couples dance to music only they heard. But not me. I always danced alone to the silence."

When Macy looked at Connie, tears trickled down her friend’s face unchecked.

Am I wrong to want that? To hear the music like other people? To dance to the music?

Oh, my God, Macy! Connie picked up a paper towel and wiped her face.

What’s wrong with me, Connie?

Nothing’s wrong with you. I always thought you and Nye—

I want to believe it was that way with Nye and me, but it’s been so long ago, I can’t be sure. I wake up sometimes in the middle of the night and wish I could know if Nye loved me. I don’t think he did.

I was there, Macy. You guys loved each other. No question.

But how could he do what he did?

Maybe there was a reason… something you don’t know. I know he loved you.

Macy shook her head. He betrayed me.

Was David faithful to you?

What? Was he? Did she care? Macy leaned back in her chair. I think so. David didn’t seem to be the type to stray… but then, there was Lenore. She was single, and she was his secretary all those years. She lives in a little house north of town. I didn’t even know David owned that house, but he left it to her when he died. That could have been because she was with him for so long. I don’t know.

And you, Macy. Were you faithful?

Wham. Unexpected… like the frantic pounding on a door in the dead of night. Macy straightened in her chair. She swallowed and knew the crimson color flooding her face answered the question.

I see, Connie said.

It wasn’t like that. Macy set her glass on the table and clasped her hands in her lap. His name was Talbot Coltrain—

What? You’re kidding me? Right? Connie’s legs jerked to the floor and Macy thought she was going to stand, but she leaned forward and stared at Macy, mouth hanging open.

No. That’s his name.

"You can’t mean THE Talbot Coltrain… the biggest selling author of suspense novels in the whole world. The one who churns out at least a novel a year and just about every book is made into a movie? That Talbot?’

That’s him.

For little Miss Suzy Homemaker, you’ve had one or two adventures, Macy girl.

It wasn’t that big a deal… only four days… Macy picked up her wine glass and looked at it as she swirled the contents. It was just a fling. I regretted it. No, I didn’t.

Well, well, well… I’m going to have to hear all about that.

It really amounted to nothing. Macy’s face still burned as she drained her wine glass and went to the kitchen for a second bottle.

Connie grabbed the corkscrew off the coffee table, took the wine from Macy and opened it. She filled both their glasses, then curled back against the cushions.

Macy met Connie’s gaze. It really was nothing, she said again. There’s nothing to tell.

Okay. Connie popped a piece of cheese into her mouth, washed it down with a sip of wine and wiped her fingers on a napkin. If you say so. She stretched out her legs and propped her feet on the coffee table. I’d already left Gazely Creek when everything fell apart between you and Nye, but if I had to put money on it, I’d bet your folks had a lot to do with that business,

Yes.

Everybody thought they were really strange.

I know.

I mean, we were best friends in high school, but we never had sleepovers or anything like that. Except for that one time I slept over at your Aunt Ludie’s. I don’t think I was ever inside your house. I know you were never in mine.

They wouldn’t allow it.

Yeah, you told me. Connie covered her mouth and coughed, a deep, sandpapery sound. Even as weird as your parents were, they must have loved you.

Macy’s eyes widened as her gaze locked with Connie’s. When she spoke, her voice sounded like tires rolling slowly over gravel. No, she said. No, they didn’t.

I can’t even imagine… Connie’s voice trailed off as she set her wine glass on the table and leaned forward. What happened, Macy, with your folks, with Nye? How did they do this to you?

Macy turned away, to the window across the room where, outside, the wild rhododendrons jerk-danced in the fierce coastal wind. Could she bear to bring at all to mind again after so long? And, where would she even begin? Only one place. With Aunt Ludie Moon.

Zenith, Texas

May 27, 1949 – July 8, 1949

Family

Sweat trickled between Macy Tate’s shoulder blades, giving her an itch she couldn’t scratch. She shifted the near-empty book satchel from one hand to the other and blew a strand of pale blonde hair away from an eye. She quickened her step, thinking about the big glass of iced tea waiting for her at Aunt Ludie’s. And today, there would be a little extra surprise. Good thing, too, because nobody else would notice it was her birthday, least of all her parents.

From the time Macy could talk, she called her parents Pastor Tate and Sister Ida Pearl just like everybody else. Everybody, that is, except Aunt Ludie. She called them Rufus and Ida.

I flat out pitched a hissy fit when they said you had to call me Sister Ludie, Aunt Ludie once confided. I told them I ain’t having none of that shit. That child’s my blood niece, and she’s gonna call me Aunt Ludie. If y’all don’t like it, you can just kiss my sweet ass.

Aunt Ludie was the only person Macy knew who could get away with saying words like shit and ass. Macy really wanted to taste those words in her own mouth, but she hardly dared think them, for she was pretty sure Pastor Tate could read her mind.

But today was special. It was the last day of school for the year and her twelfth birthday. She really ought to do something brave and exciting to mark the day. Maybe just once she could get away with it. Gripping her book satchel