An American Marriage(84)

On her dresser rested a jewelry case that was a replica of the dresser itself. She opened it and retrieved a little box. She handed it to me; I shook it and was rewarded with the hard rattle of a fragment of lost bone.

“Remember that night? You had me out here trying to be Superman.”

“You rose to the occasion,” she said. “More than rose—soared.”

“I hope this doesn’t come off wrong. I know you’re an independent woman and everything. You got your own money and your daddy’s money, too. But I liked being able to save you. Chasing that kid down the street, I was a hero. Even when he kicked my tooth right out of my head.”

“He could have killed you,” she said. “I didn’t think about that until you caught up with him.”

“He could have, but he didn’t. No sense worrying about things that didn’t happen.” I took her hand. “I’m not even worried about what did happen. This is a fresh day. A fresh start.”

We cooked a late breakfast in our nightclothes. I volunteered to make salmon croquettes. She put herself in charge of grits. As she stirred the pan, a ruby shimmered dark and hot on her right hand.

The phone rang and Celestial answered it “Happy Holidays” like it was the name of a business. From her side, I could tell she was talking to her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, eccentric genius daddy and schoolteacher mama, safe in their haunted house. I missed them, all that comfort and security. I held out my hand, hoping she would pass me the phone, but she shook her head, mouthing, Shhh.

“Are we going over there for dinner?” I asked after she hung up.

“We’re kind of not getting along,” she said. “Besides, I’m not ready to bring the world into this yet.”

“Christmas is my favorite holiday,” I said, remembering. “Ever since I had teeth, Big Roy would slice up an apple and we’d share it. When he was growing up, all he would get under the tree was the one apple. He didn’t know other kids were getting toy cars, school clothes, and stuff. He was excited for what he got—a piece of fruit all to himself.”

“You never told me that,” said Celestial.

“I guess I didn’t want you feeling sorry for us, because really, it’s one of my happiest memories. After we got married, I slipped down here on Christmas morning to have my apple.”

She looked the way you do when you figure something out. “You could have told me. I’m not how you think I am.”

“Georgia,” I said. “I know that now. Don’t be upset. All that was so long ago. I made mistakes. You made mistakes. It’s all right. Nobody is holding anything against anyone.”

Seeming to think it over, she pulled open the oven, taking out a pan of toast cooked the way Olive used to make it, soft on the bottom, crispy on the top except for five dots of butter. She held the bread out for my inspection. Her face said, I’m trying. I am trying so hard.

I rummaged in the fridge until I found a big red teacher-apple. The knife I pulled from the block was small but sharp. I cut away a thick slice and handed it to her before carving one for myself. “Merry Christmas.”

She held the fruit aloft. “Cheers. Bon appétit.”

That was the first moment when it felt right, when true reconciliation seemed possible.

The taste of the apple, sweet chased by twinge of tart, reminded me of Big Roy. I pictured him all alone on this holiday. Wickliffe would be off with his daughter and grands, and Big Roy didn’t much truck with anybody else.

“Celestial,” I said. “I know I said we weren’t going to get stuck in the past. But I have one more thing I need to talk about.”

Chewing her apple, she nodded, but her eyes were afraid.

“I’m not trying to fight,” I said. “I swear I’m not. This isn’t about Andre, and it’s not about having kids. It’s about my mother.”

She nodded and covered my hand with her own, sticky with apple juice.

I took a breath. “Celestial, Big Roy told me that you told Olive about Walter. He said it killed her. Actually killed her. He said she was getting better, but when you told her about Walter, she gave up. She couldn’t see the point anymore.”

“No,” she said as I pulled my hands from hers. “No, no, no. It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” I promised her that I wasn’t mad, but maybe I was. The apple in my mouth tasted like dirt.

“I did go see her at the end. She wasn’t dying soft, Roy. It was bad. The hospice nurse tried, but Olive wouldn’t take the pain medicine because she thought it would kill her faster, and she was trying to live for you. When I went there, her lungs were so full of cancer that I could hear the clogging in her chest like when you blow bubbles in a glass of milk. She was fighting it hard, but she couldn’t win; her fingers were tinted blue and her lips, too. I asked your father to leave the room, and I told her everything.”

“Why? How could you do that? She didn’t last another day.” Olive died alone while Big Roy was off to the 7-Eleven to get her some applesauce. I missed her, he told me. I got back and she was already gone. “My mama didn’t deserve that.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You can blame me for a lot but not for that. When I told her, she shook her head, looked up at the ceiling, and said, ‘God sure is funny. Sending Othaniel to the rescue.’ Your daddy thinks she gave up, but that’s not what it was. When she knew you weren’t by yourself, she could finally let go.”