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  Boyd glared at his mother-in-law, knowing there was no sense in arguing. It was plain to see that Joan had gotten most of her good looks from her father’s side of the family. Blanche was a short, thin woman who, in Boyd’s opinion, had always had an amazing resemblance to a chicken-chasing weasel. The little woman with the graying hair and the perpetual scowl on her overly made-up face was not one of Boyd’s favorite people. Joan’s meddling mother was a bitter, self-righteous woman. She hated the earth Boyd walked on—although Boyd had never figured out exactly why—and she had done everything in her power to drive a wedge between him and her daughter since the day they were married. The matter of Boyd’s drinking and his separation from Joan had only strengthened her leverage. The situation worsened when Blanche had moved out of her apartment and into the Andrews home, shortly after Boyd’s departure.

  Boyd could sense a cruel smile hidden behind the brim of her coffee mug, which had the inscription WORLD’S BEST GRANDMOTHER printed on the side. He felt his jaw muscles tighten angrily. This hadn’t been the first time Blanche had purposely misled him and caused a mix-up that had only ended up hurting the children and damaging his credibility in the eyes of his wife. Standing there, he could see a combination of satisfaction and spite in the old woman’s beady brown eyes. She had won again, and she was fully aware of it.

  He wanted to call the woman a liar to her face, but he held his tongue. Boyd knew Joan’s loyalty to her mother, and calling her a mean-spirited, meddlesome old bitch certainly wouldn’t rack up any points in his favor.

  Instead, he turned to his wife, who sat there waiting for his explanation. “I’m sorry, Joan. I reckon I just misunderstood. I could’ve sworn she told me seven.”

  “Maybe you weren’t in the right frame of mind to understand me at the time,” said Blanche, a hint of strychnine beneath her sugary-sweet voice.

  Boyd knew what she was driving at, and so did Joan. “Is that it, Boyd?” she asked sternly. “Were you drunk when you talked to Mama?”

  Boyd’s face reddened, his anger quickly turning into rage. “Hell, no, I wasn’t drunk! I’ve told you before. I haven’t had a drop of liquor for three months. Not since the night I left.”

  Blanche laughed. “That’s a likely story.”

  “It’s the truth,” Boyd declared.

  “Maybe,” said Joan, her anger having died a little. “But that still doesn’t explain why you didn’t call before now. If you had, then maybe you’d have made it at four and Paul wouldn’t have gotten his feelings hurt.”

  “Yeah, it’s been a week since you even called,” put in Blanche. “It’s a shame when a father won’t call his children every now and then.”

  Boyd gritted his teeth. “I haven’t had time. I’ve been working that job up in Kentucky for the past couple weeks. I leave at three in the morning and get home around ten at night. By then the kids are already in bed.”

  “You’re a mighty handy man when it comes to excuses, Boyd,” said Blanche.

  “And you’d do well to just shut up and mind your own damned business, Blanche,” said Boyd, his anger finally getting the better of him.

  He knew then that he’d made a big mistake. The fury in Joan’s eyes blazed back to life and she immediately ran to the defense of her mother. “Mama’s only trying to be helpful, Boyd. In fact, she’s pointed out a few things I should’ve seen with my own eyes years ago. Maybe if I’d listened to her then, we wouldn’t have ended up the way we have.”

  Boyd’s anger suddenly turned to dread. “Joan, sweetheart, there isn’t any reason to give up on us yet. We’re just going through a rough time, that’s all. If it’s my drinking that scares you, I told you before; I’ve been on the wagon since December.”

  “The drinking isn’t all there is to it, Boyd,” Joan told him. “You’re just not as supportive of me and the kids as you used to be. You’re not as dependable. If we did get back together, you’d still be running back and forth to Kentucky to work that job and I’m not sure I could accept that.”

  Boyd almost told her he had lost his construction job, but he chose not to. Blanche and Joan were already on the warpath. The news of his unemployment would only throw fuel on the fire.

  “I can stay here in Green Hollow,” he said instead. “Hire myself out to do carpentry work and odd jobs.”

  “You’ve tried that before, Boyd, remember?” Joan told him. “You just can’t make a living on your own, at least, not in this town.”

  “Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Joan?” he asked out of pure frustration.

  The brunette dropped her eyes back to her coffee cup. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t.”

  Boyd stared at his wife and saw the mixture of hurt and confusion in her pretty face. Then he glanced at Blanche. The elderly woman gloated at the conflict she’d had a part in causing, her eyes glittering like those of a timber rattler. In turn, Boyd glared at her with a look that would have made the meanest barroom drunk back down from a fight. But Blanche wasn’t the kind to back down, not when she had her worst nemesis mercilessly on the ropes, with no chance of winning their latest battle.

  Boyd shook his head helplessly. “Joan, I don’t know what else to say, honey.”

  “I don’t either, Boyd,” was all she said in reply.

  Boyd was suddenly aware of the sack in his hand. “I’ll go and give Paul his present,” he said. “Then I’ll leave.”

  Neither woman said anything. They sat there and silently drank their coffee; one depressed and one gleefully happy over the damage she had done.

  Boyd left the kitchen and walked through the dining room. It was decorated with crepe-paper streamers and banners proclaiming HAPPY TENTH BIRTHDAY, PAUL! As he started down the hallway, he felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. His relationship with his son was already strained, due to his three-month absence, and missing the birthday party certainly wouldn’t help matters any. Paul had counted on his father being there, and although it was through no fault of Boyd’s, he hadn’t shown up. Boyd just hoped the boy wasn’t taking it as badly as everyone made out.

  When he reached Paul’s bedroom, he found the door shut. He knocked quietly.

  “Who is it?” called the boy, his voice muffled.

  “It’s Daddy. Can I come in?”

  Paul hesitated, then said, “Sure.”

  Boyd entered the room. It was like it had been since Paul was seven years old, decorated in white and orange, the colors of the University of Tennessee Volunteers. A banner that read GO, BIG ORANGE! graced one wall, while another held the rewards of Paul’s own athletic prowess. Football, softball, and basketball trophies stood on two shelves over Paul’s desk, more than most boys his age would have acquired in four short years. Paul’s excellence in sports was one of the things Boyd felt most proud of. That and the straight A’s he made on a steady basis.

  He found the boy lying facedown on his bed. His birthday presents—an NFL football, a portable CD boom box, and a radio-controlled car—sat piled on his desk, untouched since he’d put them there. Boyd was nervous. He could feel the hurt hanging in the air like raw electricity.

  “Son,” he said, trying to find the right words, “I’m sorry I missed your party.”

  “Are you?” Paul shot back, his face still buried in his pillow.

  Boyd felt a pang of remorse. “Of course I am. I just got my times mixed up, that’s all. I thought your grandmother said seven o’clock. Really I did.”

  “Wasn’t no big deal,” lied the ten-year-old.

  “It was for me,” said Boyd. He sat down on the corner of the bed and stared at his son for a moment. “Paul… could you look at me when I’m talking to you, son?”

  Paul sighed and grudgingly sat up, his back to the wall. The boy’s eyes were puffy and red. It was obvious he had been crying. He said nothing, just sat there and stared at his father with a hard look in his eyes.

  Boyd handed him the sack. “Here’s your present. Hope you like it.”

&n
bsp; Paul took the sack and poured its contents onto the bed.

  “It’s that Game Boy you’ve been wanting,” said his father. “And I bought you that basketball game to go with it.”

  Paul began to open the box, his eyes downcast. “Thanks” was all he said.

  It bothered Boyd to see such a wall between them. Before he had begun to lose work and hit the bottle so hard, he and Paul had been the best of buddies. But that had changed. He just hoped that it hadn’t changed forever.

  He reached out and patted the boy’s knee. “Seriously, Paul, I never meant to miss your party. And I never meant to upset you. I never have. Me and your mama… we’re just having some problems, that’s all. And don’t be thinking it’s your fault, either.”

  Paul lifted his eyes. “I don’t,” he said. “I know whose fault it is.”

  Boyd accepted the accusation in silence. “I’m sorry. I just slipped up, like everyone does now and then. But I’m trying my level best to do better. I swear I am.”

  The boy’s voice was small. “I hope so.”

  Boyd swallowed a lump in his throat. “I am. I wouldn’t let you down, champ. Not again, I wouldn’t.”

  After all had been said and at least a partial truce seemed to have been called, he gave his son a hug and left him behind to play with his game. Boyd stood in the hallway for a moment and then turned toward the bedroom at the far end of the corridor. The door was halfway open when he got there and stuck his head inside. “Hey there, peach-pit,” he called softly.

  “Daddy!” cried Bessie. She jumped up from where she’d been playing with Barbies on the floor and launched herself into his arms.

  Boyd caught her in midair and held her, planting a kiss on one freckled cheek. “You’re getting right heavy, girl!” he said, staggering comically. “What’s your mama feeding you, anyway? Bricks and cannonballs?”

  The seven-year-old giggled. “Aw, quit it, Daddy! I’m not that big.”

  “Well, you’re sure getting there.” He smiled, his spirits lifting at the sight of the redheaded child.

  As the two sat on Bessie’s bed, decorated with a Minnie Mouse bedspread, the child eyed her father glumly. “We missed you at the party, Daddy.”

  “I know, baby-doll,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it. Me and your grandma, we just got our signals crossed, that’s all. She said four o’clock, and, dumb ol’ me, I thought she said seven.”

  Bessie frowned. “You ain’t dumb, Daddy. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework when you called. She did tell you seven o’clock. I heard her!”

  For a second, Boyd got the urge to take his star witness into the kitchen and have her spill the beans about her grandmother’s treachery. But he knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good. Joan had her mind made up, and Boyd knew exactly how stubborn she could be, even when presented with the truth.

  “Well, maybe she just said it by mistake,” he allowed.

  “No, she didn’t,” said Bessie. “She knew what she was saying. I think she just wanted to get you into trouble, Daddy.” Bessie looked in the direction of the kitchen with distrust in her eyes. “You know, sometimes I don’t like Grandma very much.”

  Boyd ruffled her carrot-red hair with one callused hand. “Now, don’t go thinking like that, Bessie. Your grandma loves you very much.”

  “It’s just you she doesn’t give a spit about, huh?” asked the girl.

  Boyd laughed. It felt good to laugh for a change. “Yeah, you might say that.”

  Bessie looked at her sneakers for a long moment, then turned pleading eyes to her father. “Daddy… when are you gonna come back home?”

  What little joy Boyd had felt rapidly faded. “I don’t know, Bessie. I can’t rightly say.”

  “You are coming back, aren’t you?”

  Boyd forced a smile. “I sure hope to, darling. But it ain’t likely until me and your mama get things worked out.”

  “Why is she so mad at you?” asked Bessie. “Is it ’cause of that night you came home falling down and talking too loud?”

  “That’s part of it,” he told her, ashamed. “But not all. You just remember one thing, okay?”

  “What’s that?” she asked, her eyes searching his.

  “The reason I’m not here, that doesn’t have anything to do with you or your brother. You’re not the reason, and I never want you to think so. It’s between me and your mama, all this trouble we’ve had. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Bessie nodded. “Yeah, kind of.” She took her father’s hand and squeezed it. “Daddy… why don’t you tell Mama you’re sorry and you won’t do it again? Give her a big hug and kiss like you used to?”

  Boyd felt a hurting in the back of his throat. He knew he would end up crying if he didn’t leave soon. “I’m trying, peach-pit. Lord knows, I’m doing my best. Just try not to worry about it, okay?”

  A tear formed in Bessie’s eye, then rolled down her cheek. “I’ll try.”

  Boyd felt his eyes begin to moisten. He took the little girl in his arms and hugged her. “I love you, sugar.”

  Bessie’s voice was a whisper. “I love you, too, Daddy.”

  He led her back to her place on the bedroom floor. “Go on back to your Barbies now and I’ll see you real soon.”

  “You promise?” she asked.

  Boyd kissed her on the forehead. “You bet,” he said, voice cracking.

  When he was back in the hallway, Boyd stood there for a moment breathing deeply. He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and waited for the hurt to go. It eased but was still there, always with him, just as it had been for the past three months.

  Boyd regained his composure. He certainly didn’t want Joan or her mother to see him that way. Blanche especially would see his weakness and go in for the kill like a hawk after a field mouse. He squared his shoulders, then walked down the hall toward the kitchen.

  When he got there, he found only Blanche sitting at the table. “Where’s Joan?” he asked.

  “Went outside for some fresh air,” snarled the woman. “I reckon she needed it after you walked in and stunk up the place.”

  Boyd stood his ground. “I know you don’t like me, Blanche. I don’t like you much, either. But that doesn’t give you the right to interfere with our marriage.”

  “Ha!” snapped Blanche. “Never was much of a marriage, as far as I’m concerned. Didn’t even invite me or her father to the wedding. Just ran off to Gatlinburg and got married in one of those dinky chapels up there.”

  “We did it like that because we knew you’d raise a ruckus,” said Boyd. “Just like you did today. You told me seven o’clock and you know it. Bessie knows it, too.”

  Blanche grinned. “Maybe I did,” she said. Then her eyes grew ugly. “You need to get the message, boy. It’s over between you and Joan, and that’s all there is to it. I figure it’s about time for you to buck up and accept it.”

  Boyd lowered his face until it was only a few inches from Blanche’s. “Never, you old bat. I’ll never accept it.”

  Blanche’s eyes sparkled cruelly. “Then I reckon I’ll just have to work at it a little harder.”

  For a moment, Boyd got the overwhelming urge to knock the old woman plumb out of her chair. But he knew Blanche and what she was capable of. She would be on the phone to Chief Watts in a New York minute and Boyd would end up in the Green Hollow jail on an assault charge. Boyd swallowed his anger and left through the back door, Blanche chuckling softly behind him.

  Boyd found Joan sitting on the fender of her car, staring up at the sky. The night was crystal clear, glistening with a million stars and a half moon. In the glare of the floodlights, Boyd could see the shine of her eyes and he knew she had been crying.

  He wanted to reach out and touch her. Hell, he wanted to take her in his arms and never let go. But he refrained from doing so. He stood there awkwardly for a long moment and then cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m going now,” Joan,” he said.

  Joan nodded dully
. “Goodbye.”

  Boyd was walking toward his truck when Joan’s voice made him turn on his heels.

  “Boyd?”

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “I hate this, Boyd,” she said softly.

  “So do I,” he told her. “And the kids, they ain’t too crazy about it, either. So why don’t we just…”

  Joan held up her hand, not looking at him. “I can’t, Boyd. Not yet. I’ve got some things to think over. I don’t want to be rushed.”

  “Just take your time,” he said. Then he said what he had wanted to say all along. “I love you, Joan. I really do.”

  The woman reached up and wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “I know,” she said. Then she hopped down off the car and ran back into the house.

  Boyd stood there until the back door slammed shut and the floodlights winked out, leaving him in darkness. He stared at the house for a moment and then climbed into his truck. It wasn’t long before he was away from Stantonview Road and back on the main highway again. He drove through the cool spring night, tears blurring his vision, causing him to steer onto the gravel shoulder once or twice. Soon, something surpassed the hurt and anger in him. It was that nagging urge, that damnable thirst that was partly responsible for his troubles in the first place. It grew stronger with each mile he drove, and this time he was in no mood to fight it.

  Boyd headed east toward the huge swells of the Smoky Mountains. There was an old friend there he wanted to spend some time with. Or, rather, two old friends.

  Chapter Four

  After a supper of cold beans and taters, and a quarter jar of moonshine, Dud Craven stepped out onto the rickety front porch of his house. The place wasn’t much to look at, but for a bachelor like him, it served its purpose. It was a simple wood-frame house, unpainted, with a tin roof that had already rusted through in several places, despite the fact that it was scarcely twenty years old. The interior was sectioned into only two rooms: a combination kitchen and sitting room, and a cramped bedroom. The main room boasted an eating table, two cane-backed chairs, and a potbelly stove of black cast iron with a pipe leading to the rafters and out through a hole in the roof. The only furnishing in the bedroom was a bed with a missing slat and too many busted springs.