The House on Olive Street

  “I can’t do that with my child, however,” she said.

  “Whatever it is you have to do, it’ll come to you. You’ve been talking about never having seen his grave. You’re ready for something. Who knows what it is, but it isn’t going to be scary, Sable.”

  She grasped his hand. “How can you be so sweet? Shouldn’t you be more cynical, given the kind of work you do?”

  “Naw, just the opposite. My job is really about making people feel safe. It might involve all kinds of locks, cameras, wires and whistles, but it always starts one on one. I just listen to what people say makes them scared, then we work on handling the scary things.”

  “There isn’t a lock you can put on this one,” she said, shivering with fear that she might collapse when she saw Thomas Adam’s little grave.

  “I think you’re missing the point here, Sable. This time we’re taking the lock off to find safety. It’ll be okay.”

  Two hours later they were pulling through the iron gates and into the cemetery. She had expected it to be horrid and bleak, since she hadn’t had any money with which to bury him. It was a pauper’s grave, for the forgotten. But it wasn’t depressing. It was well-groomed and clean. There weren’t many headstones, monuments or statues, which made it look a little less like a cemetery. “Is it far?” she asked nervously as Jeff drove along the winding road, farther and farther into the trees. He had found the grave for her in advance of her first visit, so they wouldn’t have to go searching for it when she was finally ready to see it.

  “Not far,” he said. “It’s pretty back here, isn’t it? A nice place to rest, really.”

  “Oh please,” she groaned, her stomach twisting inside.

  “I bet it’s glorious in the fall, when the leaves are changing. We’ll have to come and see it then.”

  “Jeff, really—”

  “Here we are. It’s over there, about fifty yards. Come on.”

  “Maybe I should go alone,” she suggested, already feeling as though her legs wouldn’t hold her up.

  “I don’t think so. You’ve been alone long enough.”

  Before she knew it, she was staring down at it. It was a flat plaque. It said:

  Thomas Adam Parker

  Beloved Son

  Rest, Little Lamb

  There was a carved silhouette of a small child’s head, bent in prayer on the plaque. Remarkably, it looked as Sable remembered him—a little tuft of hair in back with bangs over his forehead. Instinctively, she knelt to touch the plaque, to caress the face. Jeff knelt too, a little behind her.

  “You can’t imagine how precious he was,” she said. “Or how smart. He would have gone so far, if I hadn’t lost him.”

  “I bet he was beautiful.”

  “He was, which was a miracle in itself. I was too homely for words, and Butch wasn’t that much to look at. But Tommy was incredible. Angelic. Adorable. He should have been the Gerber baby.”

  “You never thought about marrying again? Having more children?”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I had pelvic inflammatory disease, one final gift from Butch, left untreated for so long that by the time it was found, it was too late. I was sterile. I struggled with the left-over symptoms for a few years and then finally had a hysterectomy. That was over ten years ago now.”

  “That’s a shame. You should have had a second chance. Of course, there was always adoption.”

  “I wasn’t up to it. I didn’t really want more children after Thomas Adam. I think you can only survive that kind of pain once in a lifetime. I just went on to other things.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “It’s hard to tell what would have become of me if he had lived. Or him. What could have become of him? Years of crippling abuse that I managed, somehow, not to see?”

  “You never said—did Butch beat you?”

  “Sure,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “But I didn’t know it. He was a son of a bitch who could get ugly when he drank. Not always, but often enough that I should have been able to see it coming. He knocked me around, but I didn’t know he was beating me. I thought he was losing his temper, losing his cool. I never thought he’d touch the baby. How could I have been that stupid?”

  “You were young. You didn’t know anything about that.”

  “Sometimes even when you know, you don’t know. You should talk to Beth for a while. She’s worse than I was. She doesn’t even have the excuse that she’s uneducated about battered wife syndrome. She knows about it and still thinks it has to do with other women. Oh, she’s slowly coming around, changing her thinking. But I get the sense that she’s staying away from Jack through sheer willpower, not because she knows in her heart that he’s dangerous to her and her child.

  “God, if only I could go back in time and do this differently,” she said, her fingertips brushing over the silhouetted face. “If I had it to do again, smarter, I’d have run to Gabby when I found out I was pregnant. I wouldn’t have even told Butch or my mother. I should have run for my life, to people who would have brainstormed some ideas with me, shared some survival skills. There were agencies, even then. There was help available, but you have to at least look for it. It’s like trying to look up a word in the dictionary when you don’t know how to spell it, a part of you thinking it just won’t be there. I didn’t even think there was a place to look for what I needed. I didn’t know what I needed, but I should have tried. I could have found a way to stay in school, at least part-time. I could have had my baby, gotten an education, found a decent career and raised my son in some kind of safe environment.

  “He would be nineteen now,” she mused. “I can’t even imagine how handsome, how smart. Sometimes I wish I’d run away from Butch and given Thomas Adam up for adoption. I might not know him now, but somewhere out there would be this young man who might, someday, for some reason, try to find me.

  “There should have been an intervention somewhere,” she said, turning to Jeff, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Somewhere along the line someone should have picked this grubby, slutty girl with the bad attitude out of the trash heap and said, ‘Listen up, you idiot! You don’t know how bad it will get if you don’t try doing this differently!’ God, how I wish someone had tried to reach me when there was still time.

  “But it wasn’t their fault, whoever they are. I was completely deaf. I didn’t know my mother had a disease—I thought she was a drunk. I didn’t know I was being abused—I thought Butch was a normal guy and guys hit when they’re mad. And I didn’t know I had a disease that complemented my mother’s disease. Denial, Elly says, always ends in death. I just didn’t know any of that.”

  “Things are getting better in that area,” he said. “Kids are learning about alcoholism and abuse in school now. And birth control, et cetera.”

  “I know, I know, but is anyone taking that individual kid and saying, ‘Come here, sit with me a while. Let’s talk about it all. You can stay here the night…the weekend…sleep in clean sheets…while we figure out what it’s going to take to get you out of the quicksand.’ Do you think anyone is doing that?”

  “I think so,” he said. “But I don’t think there’s a surplus of them.”

  She looked back at the little face on the grave. “Oh, Tommy, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry….” She began to cry harder and harder, until she was wailing. She began to feel that inner collapse take her over, but yet it didn’t overtake her. Jeff held her against his solid chest and she let it run out of her, like releasing the toxins of pent-up grief. She wept and wept and felt the hatred and regret and distrust leaving through her tears. Minutes passed and she did not quiet or calm. She cried so hard and for so long, only vaguely aware that Jeff didn’t make her stop, that he didn’t say, “All right, that’s enough, now.”

  Finally, her wails and choking sobs began to ebb and she wept softly. That, too, slowed to a sniffle and hiccup. At long last she pulled away from Jeff’s soaking shirt and looked at his eyes. “How long have I been crying?” she asked him.
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  “I’m not sure. I haven’t been timing you.”

  “Oh God,” she murmured, “I’m exhausted.”

  “That’s all right. It’s the hardest work you have to do today.”

  “I need to have some flowers,” she said. “Can we find some flowers?”

  That was easily done. They went to the car, Sable walking weakly with Jeff’s support, and drove to a supermarket in Fresno. By the time she arrived at the store, she was already feeling stronger. She purchased a bunch of fresh flowers in a vase and they took it back to the cemetery. They stayed only a little while because Jeff said, “It’s hard to do it all in one visit. You’ll have to come back, probably, and I’ll come with you anytime.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “I’ll have to come back because you do think of things once you’re there, things you have to think to that person. It’s remarkable.”

  She slept in the car all the way back to the Sacramento area and beyond. Jeff stopped at a fast-food restaurant and woke her. He told her to take a minute to wash her face, comb her hair, and maybe have a soft drink and then they would press on to her house to see Art and Dorothy.

  One look in the mirror told her she had better pull herself together; she wouldn’t want to frighten the little old couple. Her eyes were red and swollen and she felt groggy. She’d had the foresight to bring along a little makeup, not because she expected to have cried all hers off, but because she planned to spend a very long day away from Gabby’s. It came in handy when she realized that she’d left most of her makeup on the front of Jeff’s shirt.

  When she came out of the rest room she found him sitting in a booth, waiting for her with a cold drink. He’d managed to wipe off the front of his shirt so that it was hardly smudged. He seemed to know exactly what to do, no matter the circumstances. The fact that he hadn’t bought food, though they hadn’t eaten since breakfast, was perfect. She could hardly handle the smell of greasy food, much less the taste. But she needed the cold drink, and a moment to collect herself before seeing Dorothy and Art. “I’m nervous. Is that silly?”

  “I don’t think so, but you’ll be fine. It’ll be good for you to see that everything is all right at your house.”

  “I’m embarrassed to face them,” she said.

  “Of course you are, but you needn’t be.”

  “But what if they think the worst of me?”

  “What if they do? Whose loss would that be?”

  Ah, yes, that was what he did for her. He made her feel like a valuable treasure. That he could do that while she was as slick and cool as porcelain was one thing. But he could manage that when she looked like an unmade bed and was as unstable as a house of cards.

  Art came out of his cottage at the sound of the car door. As Sable walked toward him, she saw Dorothy peeking out through the curtain. Funny, she’d never been in their little house since she gave it to them. “I’m sorry about all the trouble, Art. I hope you’re all right.”

  “It weren’t that much trouble, Miss Sable. Jeff’s boys kept the place free of pests till they all lost interest and went away. And me and the missus, we been keeping it up pretty good. Just like you was off on vacation or something like that.”

  “I really appreciate it, Art. I don’t want you to worry about it too much. I’m not going to pop in here unannounced and do an inspection. I’d like you to tell Dorothy—”

  “Now wait there a minute, I’ll just get her….”

  “You don’t have to trouble her. If you’ll just—”

  But he was already walking toward the house. Sable felt her spine grow tense and was conscious of her palms becoming damper at the prospect of seeing Dorothy’s grim expression. And there it was, suddenly, as she came out of her little house. Dorothy protectively drew her sweater around her, though it was in the eighties and humid, and the corners of her mouth drew down in her perpetual frown. But Sable was too drained to be angry. It only made her feel more tired looking at Dorothy’s scowl.

  “Hello, dear,” Sable said kindly. “I’m terribly sorry if you and Art have been bothered by all the publicity and fuss. I just wanted to come here personally to tell you that I’m staying with friends for the time being. I feel a lot better being around people who I know love me than I would feel here, mostly alone. Here’s a number if you need anything,” she said, handing Dorothy a small envelope. “Your check for June is there, too. Are things all right with the house, Dorothy?”

  She nodded. “The house don’t change much, day to day.”

  “Well, don’t knock yourself out,” Sable said. “As I told Art, I have no intention of popping in here unannounced and giving it a white-glove inspection. I don’t expect you to spit and polish an empty house. Are the two of you all right about staying on with me, even after all the terrible publicity about me?”

  “Oh my, surely yes,” Art said emphatically. “That don’t matter to us in any way, Miss Sable. And we don’t say anything to anybody about your business, not even to our kids. We just mind our chores and worry about our own business here.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Art,” she said, though she couldn’t imagine what dirt they could possibly share about her. This was where she was perfect, after all. “Then I’ll be going. Call me if you need anything from me, and thank you for all your good work.”

  She turned to leave, taking Jeff’s arm and walking toward the car.

  “Sable?”

  She stopped and listened for a second before turning back. Was that Dorothy? She couldn’t recall Dorothy ever willingly calling her by name in the four years she’d been there.

  “We been worried about you,” she said. Her face still looked pinched and unhappy, but her words couldn’t have sounded more sincere.

  “Thank you, Dorothy. Thank you very much. I’m really getting along just fine.”

  When she got in the car, she was smiling. “I’m starving,” she told Jeff.

  “Good. There’s a little steak place in Placerville. It’s out of the way, old and quiet. They have good food and good wine.”

  She reached for his hand and pulled it toward her lips. She kissed his palm. “You are absolutely the best employee I’ve ever had,” she said.

  He threw back his head and laughed in genuine pleasure. “Am I now? Well, just wait until you get the bill.”

  “Whatever it is, you’re worth it.” After a short pause she continued. “I think going to Tommy’s grave helped me.”

  “Sometimes it does,” he said. “Depending on what you need at the time.”

  “But Gabby doesn’t have a grave. I wonder if we should have insisted she have a grave, if only for her ashes?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said. “From what I can tell, she has something even better.”

  FIFTEEN

  Once Beth told her mother about Jack, the entire family was informed. Word traveled fast; Beth received four or five phone calls a day. It wasn’t only her siblings, but brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law also called. They seemed to have created some kind of schedule, like people do about visiting the sick and infirm, so that they didn’t all call her in one day, but every single day there were calls of support. Or pressure, depending on your perspective.

  Her mother and oldest sister wanted to fly to Sacramento at once to see her, to assure themselves that she was all right, but she held them at bay. She explained, over and over, why she was at Gabby’s house and who she was with. It would be better for everyone, especially her, if they would just be patient and wait for her to come home. “I need to stay here where I’m getting help. I have a counselor, plus I’m in a support group. I have to learn about this, Mama. There’s something in me that’s sick, too, that allows this abuse to happen. If I don’t want it to ever happen again, I have to find out what it is.”

  “I’d like to know what it is, too,” Sable said. “I am astonished that someone like you, who has all those people to love and support you, would endure abuse from anyone. You could have run home to your famil
y the first time he snapped at you!”

  “But I would have been running home in shame. A failure,” she said.

  “How could you have failed? He failed you!”

  “I guess you don’t know what it’s like to come from a perfect family,” she replied.

  “Now there’s an understatement!”

  But that was its own burden—being one of eight children, nurtured and controlled by the soft yet iron hand of Mama. Oh, she was all love and tenderness, but she had a strong will and an absolute rule. She had God and the Church on her side. Beth grew up thinking that God had personally appointed Elba Sherman to conceive and raise the Sherman children because no one else could do it properly. Elba had proven herself to be the most remarkable woman in Kansas City, Missouri, and had been given the city council’s Mother of the Year award. She had turned out eight perfect children with her gift of pride, faith, integrity and guilt—most of all guilt.

  We don’t have much, but what we do have we will keep clean, polished and perfect. Beth had learned to iron clothes at the age of seven. She had a school uniform and four hand-me-down dresses for Sunday church. There was not so much as a mended tear, stain or ravel on her. Didn’t Sister say that the way the paper looks is important? Isn’t both the content and appearance part of the grade? The children’s schoolwork was reviewed each night and, if necessary, done over. God and Mama liked A’s. Cleanliness is next to godliness. God can hear the words you’re saying and those you’re thinking, so make them decent. I don’t care what the other children do—in our home we live by the laws of God and the Church and I am responsible, as God’s disciple, to see that you adhere to both. That statement could have applied to short skirts, late hours or a messy room. In fact, that statement had to do with everything and ran up through college. We must set a good example for our friends and neighbors because we are, each one of us in this family, disciples of the Lord.