She wanted to inspect the flower beds and shrubs, to see how much had changed in three and a half years, but there was no light, no moon on a cloudy night. She walked to the side and saw Pete’s truck parked exactly where he’d left it. She knew that Joel had assumed ownership of the Pontiac. In the backyard, she inched her way through the dead grass. A breeze kicked in from the west and she shivered and rubbed her arms. The rear door to the kitchen was unlocked. She entered her home and stood in the kitchen, stopped cold by an aroma that was so thick and familiar it overwhelmed her: a mix of cigarette smoke and coffee, bacon grease, fruity pies and cakes, thick beef and venison stews that Nineva simmered on the stove for days, steam from the canning of stewed tomatoes and a dozen vegetables, wet leather from Pete’s boots in a corner, the sweet soapy smell of Nineva herself. Liza was staggered by the dense fragrances and leaned on a counter.
In the darkness, she could hear the voices of her children as they giggled over breakfast and got themselves shooed away from the stove by Nineva. She could see Pete sitting there at the kitchen table with his coffee and cigarettes reading the Tupelo daily. A cloud moved somewhere and a ray of moonlight entered through a window. She focused and her kitchen came into view. She breathed as slowly as possible, sucking in the sweet smells of her former life.
Liza wiped some tears and decided to keep things dark. No one knew she was there and lights would only attract attention. At the same time she wanted to give the house the full, white-gloved inspection to see what Nineva had been up to. Were the dishes all washed and stacked neatly where they belonged? Was there a layer of dust on the coffee tables? What had been done to Pete’s things — the clothes in his closet, the books and papers in his study? She could vaguely recall a conversation with Joel about this but the details were gone.
She eased into the den and fell into the soft leather sofa, which felt and smelled just the way she remembered. Her first memory of the sofa was perhaps the worst. Joel to her right, Stella to her left, all three staring in utter fear at the army captain as he delivered the news that Pete was missing and presumed dead. May 19, 1942. Another lifetime.
Headlights swept through the windows and startled her. She peeked through the curtains and watched as a Ford County patrol car crept along her drive, then turned onto the side road that led to Florry’s. It disappeared, and she knew they were looking for her. She waited, and twenty minutes later the car came into view, passed the house again, and headed to the highway.
She reminded herself that she was sitting in her own home and she had committed no crime. If they found her, the worst they could do was send her back to Whitfield. They would not get the chance.
She began rocking, her shoulders jerking back and forth, a tedious habit that often afflicted her and she couldn’t control. When she worried or was afraid she began rocking, and humming, and twitching her hair. A lot of the crazy people at Whitfield engaged in all manner of rocking and twitching and groaning as they sat alone in the cafeteria or by the pond, but she always knew she would not be like them. She would get fixed, and soon, and pull her life back together.
After an hour or so — she had lost all concept of time — she realized that she was no longer rocking, and the crying had stopped too. There were so many burdens to unload.
She walked to the kitchen, to the only phone, and called Florry. To confound the eavesdroppers, she said, “Florry, I’m here.”
“Who? What?” Florry was startled, and rightfully so.
“I’m at the house,” Liza said and hung up. She walked to the back porch and waited. Only a few minutes passed before she saw headlights bouncing across the landscape. Florry parked beside the house.
“Over here, Florry,” Liza said. “On the porch.”
Florry walked to the rear, almost stumbling in the dark, and said, “Why don’t you turn on some damn lights around here?” She stopped at the steps, looked up at Liza, and asked, “What the hell are you doin’, Liza?”
“Come give me a hug, Florry.”
Well, she must be crazy if she wants a hug from me, Florry thought but certainly didn’t say. She climbed the steps and they embraced. Florry said, “Again, I’ll ask what are you doing here?”
“Just wanted to come home. The doctor said it was fine.”
“That’s a lie and you know it. The doctors are worried. The kids are beside themselves. The police are looking for you. Why’d you pull a stunt like this?”
“Got tired of Whitfield. Let’s go inside.”
They entered the kitchen and Florry said, “Hit the lights. I can’t see a damned thing.”
“I like it dark, Florry. Besides, I don’t want Nineva to know I’m here.”
Florry found a switch and turned on the kitchen lights. She had visited Liza at Whitfield and, like Stella and Joel, had always been troubled by her appearance. She had improved a little, but she was still painfully thin, gaunt, hollow. “You look good, Liza. It’s nice to see you.”
“Nice to be home.”
“Now we need to call Joel and let him know you’re safe, okay?”
“I just talked to him. He’ll be here in an hour.”
Florry relaxed and said, “Good. Have you eaten? You look hungry.”
“I don’t eat much, Florry. Let’s go sit in the den and talk.”
Whatever you want, dear. She would pacify her until Joel arrived, and then they would decide what to do.
“Shouldn’t we call your doctors?” Florry asked. “They need to know you’re okay.”
“I told Joel to call them. He’ll take care of it. Everything is fine, Florry.”
They walked into the den and Liza turned the switch on a small lamp. A faint light gave the room an eerie, shadowy feel. Florry wanted more light but said nothing. She took one end of the sofa. Liza propped pillows on the other and reclined on them. They faced each other in the semidarkness.
“Would you like some coffee?” Liza asked.
“Not really.”
“Me neither. I’ve almost stopped drinking it. The caffeine doesn’t sit well with all the pills I take and it gives me headaches. You wouldn’t believe the drugs they try to stuff into me. Sometimes I take them; sometimes I don’t swallow and spit them out. Why haven’t you been to see me more often, Florry?”
“I don’t know. It’s a long trip down there and it’s not exactly an uplifting place to visit.”
“Uplifting? You expect to be uplifted when you visit the nuthouse? It’s not about you, Florry, it’s about me, the patient. The crazy woman. I’m the sick one and you’re supposed to visit me and show some support.”
The two had never been close, and Florry remembered why. However, at the moment she was willing to take some shots if that would help. Hopefully, they’d come get her tomorrow and take her back.
“Are we going to bicker, Liza?”
“Haven’t we always?”
“No. We did at first, and then we realized that the best way to get along was to give each other plenty of room. That’s what I remember, Liza. We’ve always been cautiously friendly, for the sake of the family.”
“If you say so. I want you to tell me a story, Florry, one that I’ve never heard.”
“Maybe.”
“I want to hear your version of what happened the day Pete killed Dexter Bell. I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but everyone knows it all, everyone but me. For a long time they wouldn’t tell me anything down there. I guess they figured it would just make bad matters worse, and they were right because when they finally told me I went into a coma for a week and almost died. But, anyway, I’d like to hear your version.”