The Ninth Step Read online

  “My sister, the farmer’s wife, only in your case, it’s sans farmer.”

  “Cute,” Livie said.

  #

  After dinner, she sat at her drafting table with the drawings for the Bonner project spread out in front of her and tried to work, but she couldn’t get into it, and very soon, she gave it up, switched off the lamp and went through the house, locking doors. She retrieved the unopened letter from the kitchen, stopped in the dining room to flick the overhead light three times, a signal to Charlie that she was on her way to bed. Safe and sound. He insisted.

  His kitchen light flashed. He was satisfied.

  She took her shower, donned an old castoff dress shirt of Charlie’s and climbed into bed.

  Picked up the envelope.

  Studying it, trying to decide if it really was Cotton’s handwriting, wishing she didn’t care. Saying to herself: I don’t need this.

  It could just as well be junk mail, couldn’t it? Sometimes insurance agents hand addressed their fliers to snooker people into thinking it was something personal, the way Cotton had snookered her.

  Nearly six years ago, on April 29th when he’d left her standing at the altar. Well, not exactly at the altar, but in a small antechamber at the chapel where they were to have been married. In her tiara and tulle, her beaded white peau de soie gown belling at her ankles. Her mother, sister and all six of her attendants watching her covertly as the appointed hour for the ceremony to commence came and went.

  One hundred and twenty guests had been waiting to see her walk down the aisle on her brother-in-law Tim’s arm. A classical chamber ensemble had been running through the music Livie had chosen as a prelude to the actual wedding march. She would never hear Debussy’s Clair de Lune without it elevating her heart rate.

  Her gown now lay underneath Mrs. Rodriguez’s koi pond, the first one Livie ever installed. She’d cut up the silk petticoat and pieced a darling baby quilt appliquéd with a plethora of blue velvet zoo animals for her nephew Zachary, Kat’s youngest, when he’d been born three years ago. He still dragged it around. Livie’d given her tiara to Stella at the same time so she wouldn’t feel deprived. Whether or not the glittery crown was a suitable accessory for a favorite pink tutu depended on how regal Stella was feeling in the moment.

  Other monogrammed pieces of Livie’s trousseau were scattered in gardens around the countryside. Sixteen embossed linen napkins kept the ground soggy underneath Mrs. Teasdale’s clump of bog orchids and the heavy table cloth that matched them supported a bed of granite chips at the base of the fountain in front of Mitchell and Vaughn’s Funeral Home in town. The fountain was comprised of a group of cavorting nude water nymphs, which Livie thought was an odd choice for a funeral home, but then Hamp Mitchell was a little odd anyway.

  Several bed sheets, Egyptian cotton, king-size, 300 thread count, also monogrammed, underlay Livie’s own koi pond. She’d donated her wedding china and silver privately to the local battered woman’s shelter. It had suited her to recycle the gifts that her guests hadn’t allowed her to return.

  She would have buried her heart if she could have.

  Livie pushed her thumb hard under the flap, opening a ragged seam. She took out the single sheet of paper and unfolded it. Besides the opening address, Dear Livie, there were two words, I’m sorry.

  For a moment the world stopped. Her breath caught; her hand rose to her throat and she examined the shadowy corners of her bedroom as if she might see Cotton there.

  As if he might step into the light.

  #

  The sun was up, a bright yellow disc crayoned into a bold stripe of blue sky and Livie was standing at the kitchen sink eating a bowl of cereal when she heard Charlie’s truck rattle into the driveway, then the scrape of his boot heels on the back porch.

  “Livie, gal, you decent?” He always checked even though he knew from countless other mornings that she was.

  “I am,” Livie answered.

  “It’s nice out this morning. Good and dry.” Charlie found a mug, poured his coffee. “At least the weather’s cooperating.”

  “Dexter’s already called and left a message.”

  “He say what he wanted?”

  “No, and I haven’t called him back. It’ll be some alteration, widen this, don’t plant that.” Livie dropped her spoon into her cereal bowl. She encountered Charlie’s glance, that hovering question. Scooted her eyes past him. But no, she couldn’t let it go on. “Look,” she blurted the word, “I know you aren’t happy about leaving me at Bo Jangles the other night.”

  Charlie shot her a glance from under his brow. “You got home okay, that’s the important thing. I guess Joe brought you.”

  She looked at the toes of her sneakers. Joe. His last name eluded her if he’d even told her what it was. What she did remember, vividly, mortifyingly, was waking up on Saturday morning with a huge headache to find herself naked in Joe’s bed. She’d left while he was in the shower, called a cab from the doughnut shop in a nearby strip center, then prayed all the way home Charlie wouldn’t catch her, that she wouldn’t be forced to explain. She was awfully afraid she would have lied, then she’d have hated herself even more.

  “I just haven’t ever known you to drink so much,” he said.

  “I don’t usually.” I don’t know what got into me. Livie could have said that, too . . . except she did know. It happened sometimes, but not in a long while. She set her spoon on the other side of her bowl.

  Charlie leaned against the counter, drinking his coffee. Waiting.

  Livie felt it. She cleared her throat. “You know Dexter wants to open by Labor Day, but if we have to continually pull out everything and redo it, we’ll be lucky to make it by Christmas.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Charlie said.

  A dog barked in the distance and Livie thought of Razz. She hoped so much that he’d lived, that he’d made it through the night. She glanced at Charlie. “I appreciate that you were concerned about me.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “No, you were just being considerate.”

  Charlie looked relieved.

  She put her bowl down in the sink, turned on the tap. “I opened the letter,” she said over the sound of the water.

  “Was it from Cotton?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s there on the island. You can look at it, if you want to.”

  Livie turned off the tap and watched her motley crew of hens through the window, a collection of Barred Rocks, Silver Polish, White Leghorns, and her favorite Araucanas, peck at the feed she’d scattered for them earlier. The wind was out of the east, full of itself, blowing spring across the pasture where the honeysuckle bloomed wild along the fence. The air through the open window was so deliciously scented, it made her knees weak, made her think of Cotton and one long ago afternoon. . . .

  “That’s it?” Charlie sounded incredulous and Livie felt somehow gratified. “I’m sorry?”

  She turned drying her hands.

  Charlie looked at the front of the envelope. “It’s postmarked Seattle. You sure it’s from him?”

  She said she wasn’t; she didn’t know why. She said, “I don’t have anything left to compare the handwriting with.” She was remembering Cotton’s love notes. When they were dating, he’d left them for her everywhere, tucked under a flower pot on the doorstep of her Houston apartment, or poked into the pocket of her winter coat. The last note from him had been the postcard Nix had brought her, the one that had read: Tell Livie it’s not her fault. Tell her to forget me. Tell her not to look for me. I’m not worth it.

  That had come the first part of May, four days after Cotton disappeared. After they’d had search parties out slogging through the countryside hunting for him. After the police had issued an APB, after they’d posted fliers and appeared on television.

  By the following July, when the shock had worn off and her grief had hardened into anger, Livie, who’d been staying with her mother at the time, made a huge fire in the fireplace at her mo
m’s condo and burnt the card along with everything else Cotton had ever written to her.

  Her mother had come home from her bi-monthly, day-spa appointment, freshly manicured, pedicured, coiffed, massaged and made up and, without a word, she’d set the air conditioner on sixty. She’d gathered Livie into her arms, unmindful of the heat and its effect on her careful appearance and the dinner date she had later. Unmindful of Livie’s tears soaking the pearl-buttoned front of her silk shirt.

  “Well, it seems weird,” Charlie said now.

  “I wonder how he found me.”

  “Computer. Search engine. Your website, a business listing.”

  “What if he shows up here?” Livie thought how she’d used to wish for that more than anything, that Cotton would appear, that he would finally explain. Now the possibility tied her stomach in knots. She’d believed she had forgiven him, too. But looking at his letter only made her feel afraid and confused and furious all over again. He’d made a mockery of her love, her faith in him. How could he presume now that some remote, two-word, unsigned apology would make up for that?

  “Have you told Delia?” Charlie asked.

  “I haven’t told anyone. Livie hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms.

  Charlie came to the sink, dashed the dregs of his cup, ran water into it and set it in the drain. “You don’t owe her, Livie.”

  “I know, but she’s his mother. She deserves peace of mind as much as anyone.”

  “Maybe he wrote to her too. Maybe he’s home with her right now.”

  “She would have called.”

  “You think? From what you’ve told me, she doesn’t feel your sense of obligation.”

  “She doesn’t let herself feel much of anything these days.”

  Charlie clicked his tongue. “That gin is gonna kill her if she doesn’t quit it.”

  Livie shifted her glance. She thought how hurt she would be if she were to learn Cotton was home and that Delia hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone. Hurt but not surprised. The surprise was why Livie bothered with Delia. Who was nothing to her, really.

  Her almost mother-in-law.

  Livie knew people, her family, Charlie, wondered about the connection, but she refused to explain it. She was pretty sure no one would believe her anyway. Sometimes even she had trouble believing that Delia had once trusted her, had once confided matters of such a private and painful nature to Livie that it was impossible not to feel an obligation. Never mind how onerous.

  “So, do you want to ride into town with me, see the sheriff?” Charlie asked.

  Livie looked at him. “Why would I do that?”

  “You said Cotton’s buddy--Nix, isn’t it?--he told you Cotton took off because he’d done something. To me that sounds like it was illegal.”

  “What would I say? Writing a letter isn’t exactly breaking the law, right?”

  “No, but given the circumstances, who knows what he has in mind.”

  “Evidently an apology.”

  “It doesn’t bother you, the way he’s going about it? It’s not even signed, for god’s sake.”

  It did bother her; it bothered her plenty and Charlie knew it. He’d likely talk to the sheriff whether Livie went along or not, unless she spoke up. But no, she thought. Let him talk to JB if he wanted to. Maybe that’s what needed to happen. On the remote chance that Cotton might show up, maybe the sheriff should talk to him.

  “We could check on the dog, too.” Charlie made the offer figuring, rightly, that mentioning Razz would entice Livie.

  “I’d like to see about Razz, but I’m supposed to meet Dexter at Cavanaugh’s to look at rock.” Livie brushed the fine hairs that had loosened from her chignon off her face.

  “All right.” Charlie went to the screen door and paused. “But you’ll call if--?”

  “Cotton’s not here, Charlie.”

  “Just because the postmark says Seattle--”

  “Well, even if he were here, he’s not a maniac, at least not last I heard.”

  “It’s been six years, Livie. People change.” Charlie closed the screen door and stood looking in at her. “I’m just saying you can’t be too careful.”

  Chapter 2

  He called Anita from a pay phone on the side of the road. New Elm Street, according to the sign on the corner. He’d left Seattle without saying good bye and he half expected her to call him a jerk and hang up, but she didn’t. She said she’d figured he’d go at some point; she wondered where he was.

  “Some burg in New Mexico,” Cotton said. “Bus had to stop for gas. We got thirty minutes.” The wind kicked up a sudden gust and although it was a May night, and warm, he was shaking and hunched his shoulders.

  “Are you drinking?” Anita always asked.

  “Not yet.” He looked across the street at the bar he’d just left, a place called Judy’s. Where friends meet, announced a loopy neon scrawl, except the r in friends was burnt out so it looked like f iends, Where f iends meet. The lettered glow bounced off every reflective surface around him, the glass storefront, the metal doorframe, a car bumper, mocking him in parts.

  “What’s your plan?” Anita asked and her tone was inviting as if they were settling down to a nice cozy chat. Between f iends, Cotton thought.

  He told Anita about Judy’s, that he’d gone inside and ordered a shot and a beer. “I left before the bartender brought them.”

  “I’m glad, Cotton.”

  “’Nita? I’m really sorry about the other day. I had no right to go off on you like I did.”

  “You know I’d help you if I could.”

  “I wouldn’t be sober if it wasn’t for you, not that I always want to thank you for it.”

  Anita laughed her rich-as-brass laugh. The sound was contagious. It made him forget himself. Cotton had once told her, soon after they’d met, after she’d done a number on his head, that her laugh was her mojo. Her laugh and the way she had of looking at him like she could see clear through all his bullshit.

  “So, you’re going home, I guess.”

  “Yeah, I think so.” If I can stay sober, he thought. Big if, smirked a voice in his brain.

  “Will you turn yourself in?” Anita sounded so bright, so hopeful. But then she’d never made a secret of her opinion that she thought confession was his best option. In fact, if he’d followed her advice, he’d have surrendered to the cops in Seattle and instead of traveling on his own now, he’d be in the company of some lawman from Texas.

  “I may not have a choice since I wrote Livie.” Cotton still wondered what he’d been thinking. The moment he’d dropped the envelope into the mail slot, he’d wanted it back. I’m sorry? Like two words could fix what he’d done?

  “But she has no reason to contact the authorities. Last I heard jilting someone wasn’t a criminal offense. Chickenshit, yes, but punishable in a court of law?--I don’t think so.”

  “Is chickenshit a legal term?”

  “Moral, I think.” A pause fell before Anita said, “You know the first time I got sober and had to confront how bad I’d screwed up my life, not only confront it, but live every second knowing that everything I’d worked for, my career as a lawyer, my marriage, all of it, was over as a result of my love affair with the bottle, I went back to it. It was worse the second time. Coming back was worse.”

  “I can still see her, Nita, everywhere I look. You’d think six years of boozing would have killed off enough brain cells that I wouldn’t remember her, but I do.”

  “You’re talking about the little girl.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s because you’re sober now.”

  “I can tell you the color of her eyes.” Blue stained with terror. “I can tell you what she was wearing.” A maroon warm-up jacket over bright green jersey shorts with the number four printed in yellow near the hem. Cotton had wondered about her uniform, its mismatched parts; he had wondered at the smooth, round knobs of her knees that had been smaller than his fists. “I can tell you the color of her hair.”
Dark brown, the same as polished mahogany. “I can tell you her mother had on a T-shirt so huge, I figured it must have belonged to her husband.” Cotton wiped his face. “I can tell you her mother died, but I can’t tell you her name.”

  “The police will know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Listen, Cotton, you aren’t the first drunk to sober up to a boatload of legal problems and I’m serious, I’d help you in a flash, but even if I still had my law license, it wouldn’t be any good in Texas.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish you’d opened up more at the meetings and talked about your situation. The other members might have helped.” Step five, Anita meant. Admit to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. But Cotton didn’t care about step five. Or step three or seven. He couldn’t say any better now than he could have two months ago when Anita had dragged him into his first meeting what those steps said. No.

  The one he knew, the one that had jumped off the page at him had been step nine. The one about making amends. There he’d been sober for the first time in near six years with every nerve ending on fire, sitting in a room with a bunch of strangers, jittery and scared.

  Dry.

  His mouth had been so dry, his craving a thing with teeth, but somehow his eye had found that word: amends. It had been like he’d never seen it before. Couldn’t imagine the concept. That he could make it straight? Make it up? It had to be done directly, the step said, which meant in person, so long as doing it wouldn’t cause further injury.

  It had ripped him open, reading that, the possibility, the hope that glittered, the death sentence that seemed inherent. He might have howled at the way it brought it all back. He was there again, seeing her face, the little girl’s face, expression threaded with panic, chin trembling. He looked into her eyes, gone huge and dark with fright; it was the last brave thing he’d done.

  “Mommy?” she’d whispered to him.

  Cotton had lost it then.

  He’d nearly lost it again at the meeting. He’d never know how he stayed in the chair. He’d wanted a drink; he still did. The voice in his head urged him to it; the voice in his head said he was stupid to think he could go back. What right did he have to bother them? Amends? What the hell was that stacked against their loss?