The Widows of Wichita County

Thanksgiving

November 26

Some holidays are meant to be enjoyed, others endured. Helena had always thought Thanksgiving fell more into the endured category. It was too close to Christmas to really be excited about seeing everyone, and the weather often hampered, though rarely canceled, the event. For her, the only good thing about the day was that with its passing came the busiest shopping season of the year.

She spent an hour trying to convince J.D. to come along with her to Patricia's annual spread. But, as he had for years, he insisted the day belonged to her family. He would only be an outsider, unable to relate to the husbands, who called a rifle a gun, or the children who thought Martin Luther King was a general in the Civil War.

Helena laughed as she drove down Main, past stores already decorated for the next holiday. J.D. was her family, her world. How could he think otherwise? He just wanted her to go so that she could return with stories. They would open a bottle of red wine and watch the sunset as they laughed at her tales of the twins and their families.

Then, as they always did on holidays, they would make love. Maybe not wild and abandoned as they had in their fifties, but with no less pleasure. J.D. had a way of making her feel young and loved as no man ever had. While they were still breathless and wrapped around one another, he would whisper "Happy Thanksgiving" or "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Birthday," like their lovemaking was what made the day special.

Glancing over at the courthouse, Helena noticed Meredith's old Mustang parked near the side door. She had asked the little schoolteacher to dinner at Patricia's. Both of her daughters had had children in Meredith's class, so Helena knew they would not mind the extra company.

Meredith refused, saying she planned to work on the filing system over the break. She had been working at the courthouse part-time for as long as Helena could remember.

Helena made a mental note to call Crystal as soon as she got to Patricia's house. Shelby's cook was making a feast and having it delivered midafternoon to everyone who worked the Thanksgiving shift at the hospital. He could easily drop a plate off at the courthouse for Meredith.

She almost wished she had taken Crystal up on her invitation to join them. It would be a nice change from enduring Thanksgiving with her daughters. Randi was driving in from Memphis for the weekend. And as far as, Helena knew, Randi had no family of her own-that she still claimed, anyway. Her former in-laws hadn't bothered to invite her. After all, now Jimmy was dead, she was not really a part of them anymore. But Crystal had remembered her, even wiring her the money for gas.

Randi's career as a singer had not taken off as expected, but Crystal swore it would only be a matter of time. Randi wrote that she had met a manager in a bar where she worked. He was now handling her bookings. She had told Crystal the bar also sold boots along one wall.

Helena shook her head. She was only a small-town businesswoman, but she would always be able to recognize a snake. She hoped Randi could. In her opinion, a man who never went in a bar wasn't to be trusted any more than a man who called it his second home or office. And a Western wear store that had a dance floor and bar was too wild for her taste.

She pulled into the drive of her daughter's house. Patricia had a way with flowers in the spring that made the place look bright and welcoming, but in the winter the untended beds made the house look like it was sitting on a huge brown nest.

There was the usual menagerie of bikes and toys scattered along the drive and in the grass. But at least in the winter the brown circles in the grass, left by the plastic pool, did not show.

Helena's three oldest grandchildren came running out to meet her. She loved them dearly but rarely had time to see them. When the twins had been small, Helena had fought night and day to get her business going. Even when she had been home, she was usually slaving over the store's books. She had missed their childhood just as she was missing her grandchildren's-but only with a passing regret.

Climbing from the car, she reached for the bag filled with toys Mary always prepared for her. Helena might not cook, but she never showed up empty-handed.

J.D. teased her that Mary secretly hated buying the gifts and got her revenge on Helena by always including at least one toy that made noise. Last Easter, she'd found huge eggs for the boys that contained harmonicas, and plastic chicks for the girls that made chirping sounds.

It had taken J.D. and two bottles of wine to calm Helena's nerves that night. Harmonica-playing chickens even haunted her dreams.

Today, Helena was happy to find books about juggling with bags of soft balls attached. She handed them out and made her way past the husbands, who were glued to a football game on TV as though hypnotized. They were a nicee pair, but Helena could not remember having a conversation with either of them in years.

"Momma!" Both daughters hurried from the kitchen.

"Momma, you look so nice." Patricia wiped her hands on her apron.

Paula touched the wool of Helena's suit. "That's a real fine suit on you. The color makes you look younger. No one would ever think you were a day over fifty."

"She doesn't look old enough to be our mother as it is now," Patricia bragged. "When we were little, our friends used to think Momma was a model, remember?"

For the hundredth time, Helena wished her daughters could wear the sizes in her store. They had open accounts but only charged a bag or a scarf now and then. Helena felt she had a lifetime of knowledge about clothing and no one to pass it down to.

"Mary tells me you both have been helping out at the store."

They grinned, proud of themselves.

"We think you'll be pleased, Momma. We've been trying, hoping to take some of the load off your shoulders." Paula took Helena's coat and umbrella and put them by the door. "Is it raining?"

"Not yet," Helena answered. "But you know I like to be prepared."

Paula led Helena toward the kitchen. "Mary even let us do some of the ordering. We had a great time."

Helena wanted to ask more questions, but she saw that the table was already set. She was always a little surprised at what good cooks they had both become. Paula made breads and pies better than any bakery in town. Patricia managed to set a pretty table even though the napkins were paper. Holidays were important to them and therefore Helena always tried to be on her best behavior.

She surprised herself by enjoying the dinner. Nowhere in town had a better meal than the one her daughters cooked. They were both pleased when she asked for not only seconds, but thirds.

Two hours later, as they stood side by side in the kitchen doing the dishes, Helena said almost sadly, "I've had a wonderful time, but I need to start back."

Paula leaned over the sink and stared out the window. "If it rains, it might freeze after dark, but you've got a few hours yet, Momma."

Helena pulled off her apron and laid it across one of the kitchen chairs. "You outdid yourselves today, girls. This was the best Thanksgiving dinner ever. I'm sure J.D. would enjoy a plate. I'll make him one."

Neither daughter said a word as Helena filled one of the plastic plates with food. When she finished, she kissed them both and headed toward the door.

At the tiny table in the front entrance, she set the plate down and slipped on her coat. The noise from the TV would have drowned out any goodbye she wanted to make to her sons-in-law, and all the children were watching a movie in the back of the house.

As she lifted J.D.'s plate, Paula's voice drifted from the kitchen. "Don't worry about it, Pat. She's just dealing with his loss the only way she knows how."

"She's not dealing with it at all. She hasn't removed anything that belonged to him. The other day I was in her bedroom, and his reading glasses are still on the stand beside his chair."

"I did like old Doc Hamilton suggested. I've told her several times that J.D. is dead when she starts talking about him. But she doesn't seem to hear." Paula sounded like she was about to cry. "There is nothing more we can do. Our mother is taking her dead husband a plate of food and we're all acting like that's just fine."

Helena ran out the door before she had to listen to more of such nonsense.

By the time she got home, Helena felt a little out of breath. She put J.D.'s food in the kitchen and hurried up the stairs to change out of her dress clothes and into something more comfortable.

Once in her bathroom, she pushed a full bottle of blood pressure medicine, atenolol, aside, thinking her blood pressure must be low, not high, since she felt so tired lately. Tonight, she would not bother with the captopril pill, either. She really could not remember why the doctor had suggested she take it in the first place. All she needed was a glass of wine and she would feel fine.

She went back downstairs for the warmed meal for J.D. but climbing back up the stairs, Helena moved at a slower pace than usual.

"I'm tired," she whispered. "It has been a long day."

The door to their bedroom was open and she smiled, knowing J.D. was already waiting for her.

"I'm back," she yelled, and as she entered the room she could hear the cork on the wine popping.

Thanksgiving

11:00 a.m.

Courthouse

Meredith Allen sifted through the files. Cora Lee Wilson, the county clerk, had left her plenty to do during the four days the office would be closed to the public. In most small towns like Clifton Creek, the clerk's position resembled the Pope's. Once elected, the term stretched for life. Cora Lee had started passing jobs off to Meredith when she worked summers during her last two years of high school. At first it was filing, then record keeping. Now Meredith was not sure the clerk even remembered how to do some of the reports that had to be kept.

But Meredith didn't mind. She enjoyed the silence of the work. It was so different from teaching, and it offered her the extra money she needed.

Thanksgiving passed faster at work than at home alone. The cold marble and brick of the courthouse were familiar to her. She had danced in the empty halls while her father cleaned the place years ago. When she had been five, the building was her palace with huge windows that reached the sky, and wooden railings that shone as if liquid glass had been poured over them. She knew where every light switch was, every back door, every hidden cove where a little girl could hide and pretend.

She glanced out the windows she once thought were the tallest in the world. Sheriff Farrington's car was parked next to hers on the otherwise empty lot. He arrived first, but Meredith didn't stop in to let him know she was here.

In the past five years, they had developed a pattern. Whoever came in last or left first always checked in at the other's office to let them know someone else was in the building.

Only she did not want to face him this morning. Meredith knew he was here. He was always here. Sheriff Farrington once told her that he worked holidays because both his deputies were family men. In truth, she guessed he was more like her now and did not want to be at home alone.

Meredith tried to keep busy, but she could not concentrate on filing while thinking about him, only a few doors away. She probably had not crossed his mind. One-night stands were no doubt his specialty.

Closing her eyes, Meredith decided she must be the worst lover in the world. Or at least the worst Sheriff Farrington had ever known. That was why he told her they should not see one another again. Or maybe he didn't like the way she looked, or felt, or smelled. Who knows? She had spent most of her life trying to understand Kevin. It seemed far too much trouble to start over with another man now. There wasn't enough lifetime left to make any progress.

Kevin had been big. He loved hugging and cuddling. Even when they were arguing, usually about money, he would always pull her close at night, like she was a part of him.

Granger's night with her was totally different. He touched her, but she didn't feel a part of him. He knew how to please a woman but, before and after, he did not seem to have any idea what to do with her. For him, the loving was something he did to a woman, not something they made together.

Meredith decided she would just become a monk, or whatever women are called who have no sex in their life. Feeling great for a short time was not worth the hours of worrying about him afterward.

He had probably been right to end their affair the day after it started. Where could it lead, anyway? Neither were the type to sneak around which, in this town, was nearly impossible. He obviously liked being a bachelor; he'd avoided several attempts to be matched up with single ladies in the area.

The last thing she needed in her life right now was a man. It would be a long time, maybe never, before she would be able to set herself up for the possibility of marrying and then losing another husband.

He'd been wise to end it, but that didn't make it hurt any less. She felt like the only girl dumped at the prom.

Granger paced in his office down the hall. He circled his desk for the tenth time, thinking of crossing the distance to Meredith. He was glad the dispatcher, Inez, wasn't there to watch him acting like a squirrel in a cage. Inez would have laughed at him. She'd probably stop making fun of Adam, the oldest deputy, and start picking on him.

He thought of trying to call Anna Montano again. Eventually she would have to talk to him. She couldn't just send answers care of her brother, even if Carlo seemed to consider himself some kind of guard dog over his little sister. There were still questions about the accident.

Granger glanced at the hallway. Maybe he should ask Meredith about the Montano woman. At least that would give him some way to start a conversation.

He reconsidered, realizing he was acting the fool again, thinking about Meredith as if there weren't a hundred more important things for him to concentrate on. He couldn't help wondering why she hadn't stopped by when she came in this morning. It wasn't like her not to follow the rules. Even unwritten ones. He didn't even like her all that much he reminded himself. She wasn't his type, and he was far too old to let any woman get under his skin.

She was cluttery. He required an order about everything in his life. Half the time he saw her, she looked like she'd gotten dressed in the car on the way to school.

She was too short. Her legs would never wrap around his waist. He liked a woman who could do that. And her breasts were too large. Far too large, he told himself. Any more than a handful is a waste. And she wore her hair like a little girl. A damn ribbon. She had to be in her thirties, and she still wore ribbons.

He opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled the sliver of satin through his fingers. He had no reason for keeping the thing he decided as he shoved it back in the drawer.

Something his father used to say drifted through his mind. A man is pestering an idiot when he tries to fool himself.

Granger closed the drawer and headed down the hall. It was time he shook this interest before she became an obsession.

Meredith's appearance did not surprise him as he entered the county clerk's office. She wore a boxy sweater that had turkeys lined up along the border and sleeves. She had pulled her shoulder length hair back in a loose knot at the base of her neck so that the tiny turkeys dangling from her ears would show. Her skirt was too long and her shoes too practical to ever have been in fashion.

She looked ridiculous, he decided. Not a second-grader in sight and she still wore the uniform, like a clown who smeared on face paint even on his day off.

Stepping down from the chair she'd been using as a step stool, she watched him walk toward her as if she were watching a total stranger heading in her direction. He almost expected her to ask "May I help you?"

Granger tried to think of something to say. He had been hoping that she was three doors down thinking about him all morning, but from the looks of things, she had been working.

He tried to focus on the turkeys on her sweater. "I thought I'd go down to the truck stop for coffee and a burrito. You want anything?"

"Coffee would be nice." She reached for her purse. "The pot in the back is broken."

He almost told her he had a pot in his office, but somehow that seemed too personal.

She handed him fifty cents and he took it. From the beginning, she would never let him pay for anything. He did not even try to now. Men buy one another coffee or meals in a haphazard rotation, but women always want to keep everything even. Teachers were the worst. He had seen them get out their calculators and figure tax and tip down to the penny.

"With cream, no sugar. Right?"

She smiled. "Right."

He stood there for a few seconds, waiting for her to say more. When she remained silent, he walked back to his office, grabbed his keys off the corner of his desk, and his pager from the wall, then headed out into the cold. If a 911 call came in, which it rarely did, the pager would sound.

The gray day suited his mood.

The truck stop on the interstate was busy as always. You'd think people would settle down for one day of the year he thought, but the highway still flowed like a stream of ants. He circled the lot once before parking, taking note of the out-of-state license plates. Nothing looked amiss.

In ten minutes he headed back with two large coffees and a burrito that had been frozen less then an hour before. He didn't bother to stop at his office but went straight to hers.

He almost expected her to be gone, but she was still there, working at her desk in the back corner. When he set the coffee down, he noticed the sandwich she must have brought from home. Times were tight for her he bet, wishing he'd insisted on buying her coffee.

Without a word, he pulled up a chair and sat down at the corner of her desk. He unwrapped his burrito and pulled off the lid to his coffee without looking at her. If she did not like him staying long enough to eat, she was going to have to say something. Neither of them would get over their night together hiding in separate rooms. And it might only be a burrito and a sandwich, but they might as well have Thanksgiving lunch together.

"Think it will snow?" She opened her coffee and poured in both the creams he had brought, then looked around for something to stir with.

It occurred to him that he might be the only one trying to get over anything. She did not even look like she remembered their night together. Maybe she had forgotten it. Maybe she thought it was a dream. Who knew about women? He'd been seeing one of his Sunday ladies off and on for two years, and she still got mixed up and called him George now and then.

"I doubt we'll see snow. Might get rain later tonight." He tried to sound as casual as she did. Leaning back, he took a drink and frowned.

"Something wrong?"

"I can never get the coffee back here while it's still hot," he mumbled.

She pointed with the fork she had found in her desk drawer and had been using as a stir stick. "There's a microwave next to the sink over there." She pointed with her head toward the corner.

While he waited for his coffee to warm he said, "The only thing that seems to work around this place is you. The janitor told me the other day that if Cora Lee Wilson didn't move a little faster, he was going to have to start dusting her."

"I like to keep busy."

The microwave dinged and he reached for the thin cup. As he lifted his drink, the bottom of the cup caught the lip of the tray and splashed coffee across his hand.

Granger swore, tossed his cup in the sink, turned on the water, and plunged his right hand into the cold stream.

Meredith rushed to his side, pulling at his arm, trying to see if he was hurt. "Let me see where you're burned!"

"It's nothing," he said between clenched teeth. "Only a scald."

He rolled his sleeve up with one hand as water splashed over the cuff of his uniform.

She moved closer.

He jumped away, as if her touch burned deeper than the coffee.

Before she could react, he put the length of the desk between them. "It's not important." Granger fought to keep his voice calm. "There's no need for you to worry over it."

"Let me…" She reached toward him.

"No. Don't touch me."

Meredith stopped in midstride. She didn't say a word, but stood perfectly still, staring at him as though she had no idea what kind of creature he was.

Granger left the office in a hurry, no longer aware of his throbbing hand. He had told her it was nothing. Why did she have such a problem listening? What was wrong with the woman? Couldn't she understand that some people do not like to be fretted over, smothered with patting and pampering?

He rushed out the side door and walked to his car. Without a backward glance, he drove off the parking lot and headed toward the campus. There would be no one there today. He would cross through the streets of town until he calmed down and forgot about the way Meredith's face looked, all hurt and disappointed.

She was not his type. Not tall, not long-legged. Cluttery. Not what he liked. She was mothering. The kind who would tie strings around a man until he could not move.

After an hour he turned into the truck stop and told them the burrito was so good, he'd come back for a full meal. He took his time eating and visiting with the manager. When he returned to the courthouse, Meredith's blue Mustang was gone. He made himself finish his paperwork and, about nine, finally figured he was tired enough to get to sleep without thinking about her.

But despite his plans, he circled by her house on his way home. A fog had moved in, and he needed to see that she got home safely. With that piece of junk she drove it was always a question.

Every light in her place was on. The air, thick with rain, made her windows fuzzy against the dark wood of her house.

He pulled up and waited for ten minutes before he finally turned off the engine and climbed out of his car.

He knocked twice before she answered.

She opened the door and stepped back, letting him in without a word.

As always, her place was warm. He took a deep breath, wondering what he would say.

She walked to the center of the living room and crossed her arms over her funny-looking bedspread robe. "How's your hand?" she said calmly. He saw slippers with bunny rabbit heads peeking out from beneath her robe.

"Fine." He held up his left hand. "I drove around with it hanging out the window for a while." That was not what lie had come to say. He had no idea why he had come, but talking about his hand was definitely not it. He should have just circled Frankie's Bar and headed home as usual.

"I have some lotion that might help." She did not move to get it.

He didn't want to talk about his hand or lotion. She was not one of his Sunday girls; she deserved better. "Look, I'm sorry.

"So am I," she answered.

He smiled. "What the hell have you got to be sorry about, Meredith? I'm the one who swore and bolted out of your office." It made him mad that she was slicing off a piece of his "I'm sorry."

Walking to the bar, he deposited his hat and noticed the counter was as cluttered as ever. "I'm not some kind of pervert or anything." He shifted, not wanting to discuss the subject but knowing he had to. "I just don't like people touching me. I hate it when someone slaps me on the back or shakes hands longer than necessary." This was not a topic up for debate; it was just the way he had always been.

He faced her. She hadn't moved. The woman stood so still she must have grown roots.

"If you're waiting for some sad story of me being slapped around by my old man or something, you're out of luck. No deep-seated short circuit, just a preference. My parents are normal people. My dad's an accountant who might bore someone to death one day with his love of numbers, my mother keeps a spotless house and plays bridge."

"What about you touching others?" She tilted her head slightly.

He saw where she was headed. "I never offer a handshake first, but in my line of work there are times I have to handle folks." He thought of the night at the hospital when she had crumbled and he held her to keep her from falling.

"Look, Meredith, this is more than you probably care to know about me. I just came to say I'm sorry about blowing up like that in your office. I know you were only trying to help." He picked up his hat, absently dusting it off.

"What about me?" She asked directly. "Did you like touching me or was it just one of the things you have to do sometimes `in your line of work'?"

"I enjoyed the other night. Better than I've enjoyed anything in a long time. I felt like you were the first real person I've been around in years." He remembered the softness of her body, the way she was rounded with curves. He liked the feel of her more than he wanted to admit. She was different from other women-she did not act as if she had been handled by many men. With her it was pure feeling, not just some way she had learned to behave.

"So this isn't a two-way street with you? You like touching, but you don't like being touched."

He did not even try to follow her logic, but he nodded. He had never really thought about it. Most women just accepted his terms, without trying to define and analyze them.

"What about kissing?" She took a step toward him. "Where do you stand on that?"

"Kissing's all right, but there are better things to do."

"And holding hands?"

"A waste of time. I'd never bother with such a thing." He thought of adding something like "A lawman needs to keep both hands ready to reach for his gun," but she was far too smart for that corny rookie line. She deserved more.

Problem was, the "more" was more than he wanted to give.

She moved to within a few feet of him. "Thank you for explaining things to me, Sheriff."

He watched her as she played with the belt on her robe.

"I have a plate of food Crystal Howard's cook brought over just after you left." She did not meet his eyes. "I could warm it, if you're hungry."

He set his hat back on the counter, not the least interested in the offered meal. "How do you feel about shaking hands, Meredith?"

She finally looked at him. "It doesn't bother me."

"And kissing?"

"I could use a little more of that in my life."

"And touching?" He hooked his finger around the belt of her robe and pulled her a step nearer.

"That, too," she answered.

He tugged at the belt and the robe parted slightly. Leaning down, he pressed his mouth against hers. Dear God, she tasted of hot cocoa.

It had been so long since he had just kissed a woman, he was afraid he had forgotten how. He felt her bottom lip tremble.

"I want you." He whispered words that had never failed.

No line, no sweet talk, just honesty. His hand slipped beneath her robe and felt the fullness of her breast.

She stepped away so quickly, he swayed forward a few inches.

"And I want more." She gulped the words as she pulled her robe together.

Granger was more shocked than angry. He straightened as he retrieved his hat. She was turning him down. The little schoolteacher with the too short, too rounded body was turning him down.

"Good evening, Mrs. Allen," he said as if he were just checking on her safety.

He was at the door when he heard her say, "I want a man who'll hold my hand in front of God and everybody."

"Grow up, Meredith," he mumbled as he closed the door behind him.

He barely heard her whisper, "I'm through settling in my life."

In the early days of cattle ranching, cowboys were hired for "forty and found." Forty dollars a month and what they found on the table to eat.