head had a bandage that covered a terrible gash that had required over fifty stitches. My sister, Joanie, was at his side, sitting on the floor, weeping uncontrollably. She was only seventeen. She looked up at us.
“Get out!” she screamed when she caught sight of J.D. “And you, too! This is your fault, Betts! Yours and his rotten family! Just get out! Both of you!”
She got up and started toward us, with her hand raised as though she was going to slap J.D.
“Joanie! Please!” I cried, reaching out to stop her. “Don’t make things worse than they already are!”
“She was so beautiful,” my father said in a whimper. “I loved her so…”
I grabbed Joanie’s hand in midair and she dissolved into tears again. I did, too, and put my arms around her and held her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I told her quietly. J.D. stepped away to the hall and picked up the telephone. Then he dialed some numbers. Who he was calling? His father, I assumed. When the doorbell rang minutes later, I saw that I was wrong. There, in torn-up jeans and an old T-shirt from an Allman Brothers concert, stood my best friend since kindergarten, Sela. Her face was streaked with tears.
CHAPTER FOUR
J.D. Remembers
W hile I drove home from dinner at Sela’s in Charleston, Valerie slept in the passenger seat. In our family we euphemistically referred to these traveling naps as sleep , but the truth was, she was passed out cold.
Her present state was a curious thing because why would two short watery vodkas and one small glass of white wine turn a grown woman into a taxidermist’s prize? But there she was. Yeah, boy. Perhaps, just maybe, the medication the neurologist gave her was not intended to be chased by a cocktail. Yes, that was a distinct possibility.
Let’s see, now. Would my wife err on the side of caution? Hell, no. What kind of side effects could the medication have? Nausea? Blackouts? Could she stop breathing? Now, there’s a thought. With my luck, she’d live. Who knew? Oh great, I thought. Was I supposed to sit up all night to see that she had a pulse? I sighed and shook my head, knowing I would be holding a mirror under Valerie’s nose until the sun came up. Common decency demanded that much. Imean, after all, I was her husband. I told myself to look up her prescription on the Internet because as sure as anything, she would ignore any warnings about alcohol and I could wind up with a comatose wife for the next twenty years. Great. Nice thought.
But there were brighter aspects to life. Such as Sela. Now, there was a great gal if ever there was one. Yes, she was fiercely loyal to Betts, and she was also my lifeline to her. Sometimes a reluctant lifeline, I’d admit. The reason Sela told me anything, other than the fact that she pitied me, was that years ago I’d bailed her out of a financial hole and solved a small legal problem. I guess she felt she owed me. So Sela would toss me little nuggets about Betts the same way I threw scraps of pot roast to my dogs. And I gobbled them up like Goober and Peanut gobbled up peanut butter on Ritz crackers.
For years I had waited for her to say that Betts was coming home. Yes, that’s right. Home . That was the curse of all Charlestonians. If you’d been born there, you could never call anywhere else home. So Betts McGee was coming back to Charleston, was she? In my mind, Betts had been living only temporarily in New York for nearly two decades. Now she was coming home. Why? I wondered. For how long and what would it mean?
I knew Sela thought Betts and I should have married despite the odds. Part of her sided with me because she understood the profundity of my feelings for Betts.
Not to cast aspersions on my dear wife, but if I had married Betts and if sexual chemistry had any relationship to fertility, shoot, we probably would have had seven kids by now. Hell, I would have had me my own football team! Well, okay, maybe we would have had four or five
“Get out!” she screamed when she caught sight of J.D. “And you, too! This is your fault, Betts! Yours and his rotten family! Just get out! Both of you!”
She got up and started toward us, with her hand raised as though she was going to slap J.D.
“Joanie! Please!” I cried, reaching out to stop her. “Don’t make things worse than they already are!”
“She was so beautiful,” my father said in a whimper. “I loved her so…”
I grabbed Joanie’s hand in midair and she dissolved into tears again. I did, too, and put my arms around her and held her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I told her quietly. J.D. stepped away to the hall and picked up the telephone. Then he dialed some numbers. Who he was calling? His father, I assumed. When the doorbell rang minutes later, I saw that I was wrong. There, in torn-up jeans and an old T-shirt from an Allman Brothers concert, stood my best friend since kindergarten, Sela. Her face was streaked with tears.
CHAPTER FOUR
J.D. Remembers
W hile I drove home from dinner at Sela’s in Charleston, Valerie slept in the passenger seat. In our family we euphemistically referred to these traveling naps as sleep , but the truth was, she was passed out cold.
Her present state was a curious thing because why would two short watery vodkas and one small glass of white wine turn a grown woman into a taxidermist’s prize? But there she was. Yeah, boy. Perhaps, just maybe, the medication the neurologist gave her was not intended to be chased by a cocktail. Yes, that was a distinct possibility.
Let’s see, now. Would my wife err on the side of caution? Hell, no. What kind of side effects could the medication have? Nausea? Blackouts? Could she stop breathing? Now, there’s a thought. With my luck, she’d live. Who knew? Oh great, I thought. Was I supposed to sit up all night to see that she had a pulse? I sighed and shook my head, knowing I would be holding a mirror under Valerie’s nose until the sun came up. Common decency demanded that much. Imean, after all, I was her husband. I told myself to look up her prescription on the Internet because as sure as anything, she would ignore any warnings about alcohol and I could wind up with a comatose wife for the next twenty years. Great. Nice thought.
But there were brighter aspects to life. Such as Sela. Now, there was a great gal if ever there was one. Yes, she was fiercely loyal to Betts, and she was also my lifeline to her. Sometimes a reluctant lifeline, I’d admit. The reason Sela told me anything, other than the fact that she pitied me, was that years ago I’d bailed her out of a financial hole and solved a small legal problem. I guess she felt she owed me. So Sela would toss me little nuggets about Betts the same way I threw scraps of pot roast to my dogs. And I gobbled them up like Goober and Peanut gobbled up peanut butter on Ritz crackers.
For years I had waited for her to say that Betts was coming home. Yes, that’s right. Home . That was the curse of all Charlestonians. If you’d been born there, you could never call anywhere else home. So Betts McGee was coming back to Charleston, was she? In my mind, Betts had been living only temporarily in New York for nearly two decades. Now she was coming home. Why? I wondered. For how long and what would it mean?
I knew Sela thought Betts and I should have married despite the odds. Part of her sided with me because she understood the profundity of my feelings for Betts.
Not to cast aspersions on my dear wife, but if I had married Betts and if sexual chemistry had any relationship to fertility, shoot, we probably would have had seven kids by now. Hell, I would have had me my own football team! Well, okay, maybe we would have had four or five
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