Secrets at Dillehay Crossing - Chapter 13 - Hard Truths
Lilly got in her car, pressed on the gas pedal, and headed straight for the expressway fully intending to drive straight home. Just past downtown, she made a hasty decision and exited the freeway. After a few quick turns, she pulled onto Poydras Street with its narrow, one-car wide lanes and parked her car in front of Grammy’s bungalow house, stepping onto the sidewalk leading to the house. The happiness from her childhood bubbled within; and were it not for the passerby, she would’ve spun like a little girl, arms out wide and fingers spread. Instead she kept her hands in her pockets and inhaled deeply, letting the fragrance in the air take her back in time to the gentleness of her youth and summers at Grammy’s.
She walked up the front porch steps and ran her hand above the doorjamb, retrieving the key and unlocking the front door. Once inside, Lilly felt like a tortoise retracting into its shell, and her anger and troubles disappeared. To anyone else, this house was like all the others in the neighborhood, but to Lilly it was a sanctuary, a cocoon, and a place to rest and be comforted. Like a great rush of water, memories flooded Lilly’s mind—Christmases with Grammy and Aunt Ruthie, birthday parties, the smell of hot cocoa and freshly-baked cookies, and her first day of school. She sat down in Grammy’s chair, relishing the scent of her perfume lingering on the arm cushion.
She walked out the back door and plopped down on the weatherworn wooden plank that hung motionless from fraying threads beneath the sprawling pecan tree. She twisted the ropes round and round until the tether was taut with tension, the binds creaking with pleas for relief. Lilly released the strain, lifted her feet up, and closed her eyes. There was a creak from above, a cascade of small leaves, and then the swing unwound like the springs in a clock. She tossed her head back and rose her eyes toward the sky, enjoying the floating sensation as the world blended together spinning faster and faster eventually coming to a stop
Lilly looked down at her legs and feet. She was no longer a 40-pound girl but a woman three times that, and the legs that once dangled from the swing now pushed against the dirt, worn into a hollow made by years of use. Tears prickled at her eyes. Lilly wiped at them, but the feeling remained. Her lunch with Grammy had been a watershed moment, and she’d have to accept a hard truth—the fabric of her life, like the frayed ropes in her hands, was unraveling and would never be quite the same.
Lilly walked back through the house, pulling the front door shut behind her. She could almost hear the ghost of her childhood whimper as she turned the key and relocked the door, returning the key to its hiding place above the doorjamb. She climbed into her car, and instead of immediately leaving, Lilly pulled her car in the driveway and lingered there, reflecting upon her childhood. She’d spent her entire life with Grammy in this house and thought she knew her when in fact she didn’t really know Grammy at all. All the while, Grammy was hiding a lifetime of secrets, sorrow, and pain. How could you keep so much from me, Grammy? You betrayed me, and now, our relationship will never be the same. Lilly did as she sometimes did as a child when she felt betrayed, hurt, and needed comfort. She brought both her left and right arms across her chest onto her shoulders; pressed both arms into her body; and gave herself a reassuring self-hug. Even this house will never be the same for me now that I know this was the house that Jack bought. Then again, she let out a forceful breath, if there’d never been a Jack, there never would’ve been this house, and I love this house. But I despise you, Jack, for deserting my Grammy!
Without checking her rearview mirror, Lilly threw her car into reverse and stomped on the accelerator, barreling out of the driveway and almost striking a bicyclist riding down the street. She slammed on the brakes, and when she did, the contents of Grammy’s treasure chest spilled onto the floorboard. Lilly shifted her car into park and scooped up the contents—a stack of photographs, trinkets, and some of the costume jewelry she once played with when whiling away the hours in Grammy’s attic. Hidden amongst the photographs was a small envelope that bore Lilly’s name. Lilly opened the envelope, and there to her surprise was a note written in Grammy’s familiar handwriting. She began reading.
Lilly clutched the note in her hand, letting Grammy’s words wash over her. Thoughts raced uncontrollably through her mind. Her head began pounding, and she couldn’t sort through the rush of emotions storming through her body. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her head on the steering wheel, unable to stop the throbbing around her temples. She placed the note inside the treasure chest; pulled out of Grammy’s driveway, and slowly accelerated down the street, staring into her rearview mirror as everything familiar to her slipped further and further away.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Lilly exited off the freeway and headed towards Parker. Although she was emotionally spent, Lilly desperately needed answers to the questions swirling through her mind. She thought about driving straight home, retrieving the pendant she’d found earlier that morning in her attic, and comparing it to Grammy’s pendant. She wanted to locate Cousin Willie’s birth announcement and talk with Relda about his adoption. What if her suspicions were confirmed? Then what? The more she thought, the more uncomfortable Lilly became with the steady stream of questions and the countless, unknown answers and outcomes. Uneasiness churned in her stomach, tying it into knots. She held her stomach and bent forward, trying to relieve her anxiety and discomfort. She needed to do something unrelated. So instead of driving home, Lilly drove to Hickory Pines and went inside, making her way towards Frank’s apartment.
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Frank had spent most of the day at his artist’s table smoothing out the details of his latest drawing, occasionally going outside onto his patio, smoking a cigar, and downing a glass of whiskey. The meadow between his apartment and Hawkes Pond was just as he recalled it from his childhood, a glorious expanse of grass, rising and falling like a sea of green flecked with purple thistles. The wildflowers were in full bloom, bobbing and swaying in the wind, and his aunt’s beloved forget-me-nots grew uncontrollably along the edges of Dillehay Creek. Frank remembered her fondly and wondered if she still lived in the big house just beyond the trees and yearned to see her comforting smile again and hear her encouraging words. He wanted her to know that she’d made a difference in his life, for it was her face, her words, and the memories of her kindness that had sustained him inside the prison walls.
Despite his aunt’s love, the love that had been inside Frank as a boy was crushed from years of living with his father, a drunken monster who repeatedly beat Frank. The hurt he inflicted upon Frank lodged in him like a slow-acting poison rendering him powerless, and before long Frank became a “problem child” destined for a life behind bars. He hated his father for making him feel powerless, and that hatred burned deep in Frank’s heart, bursting forth in his speech, his actions, and his attitude. Soon he hated the whole damn world, only getting close to people to either take something from them or hurt them. Power at last! Eventually, his animalist nature took over, and he sought violence as a means of getting the power and control he desperately needed.
First Frank used his fists to exert his need for dominance, often instigating fights just to have a reason to beat up another person. But nothing felt more powerful than having a loaded gun by his side. One day after his father pushed him down the stairs, Frank retrieved his gun, hiding it behind his untucked shirt, and waited for his father to drink himself into a drunken stupor. He inched his way toward him and pointed the barrel of the gun at his father’s head. “You’ve got to pay,” Frank said, his voice raw and brutal.
“You don’t have the courage,” his father shouted. “Go ahead, you worthless no count of a son! Shoot me. I’ve been dead since the day Francine died giving birth to you.”
Frank curled his finger around the trigger and smiled diabolically, imagining the pleasure he’d feel in seeing his father suffer while he bled out on the floor.
“Stop, John, stop!” came a familiar, formidable voice. “He’s a scoundrel through and through, but you’ll regret killing your own father. I’m begging you, let him go.”
“But he deserves to die, Uncle Dave.”
“You’re right, son. He probably does, but not by your hand. Shooting him will haunt you and dishonor your mother. So give me your gun, son,” he pleaded, extending his hand toward Frank. “Give me your gun.”
Frank slowly withdrew the gun barrel from his father’s head, but instead of handing it to Dave, he struck his father across the face using the barrel of his pistol. “Don’t you ever strike me again,” Frank exclaimed, his eyes blazing with revenge and hostility, “or I swear I’ll kill you.”
“You need to make damn sure there is never a next time,” Dave said, his face grim with anger. You hear me, John. Nothing good can ever come of your staying here. You’ll be a man soon enough, and it’s time for you to leave. Here’s some money. It won’t get you far, but far enough.”
Frank didn’t hesitate. He placed his gun into the waistband of his pants, snatched the money from Dave’s hand, and grabbed his sketch pad and box of art pencils placing them in his satchel. With nothing but the clothes on his back, he bolted out the door, saddled up his horse and fled, never looking back. For 50 years he’d stayed away, but after his prison release he intentionally moved into Hickory Pines hoping to make some sense of his past.
Frank snuffed out his cigar and returned to his apartment, sat down in his easy chair, and stared out the window, focusing his eyes on the old dilapidated farmhouse situated along Dillehay Creek. Although he had no memory of his mother, he conjured up an image of her—the image he’d seen of her in an old photograph. Frank dreamt of how different his life would’ve been inside that house had his mother not died giving birth to him. Had she not died, his father wouldn’t have had cause to abuse him, and Frank might have been a different man. But his father did blame him for Francine’s death, physically and verbally abusing Frank as a means of expressing his own guilt, heartache, and pain. But no amount of blaming could ever undo Francine’s death. And the hard truth was his father abused Francine even during her pregnancy and he, not Frank, was solely responsible for her death.
Even now when Frank looked at the old house, he recoiled, thinking about the abuse he suffered at his father’s hand and blaming his father for how his life turned out. But no amount of blaming his father could ever erase Frank’s past or give him the peace of mind he sought. And the hard truth was Frank, not his father, was solely responsible for how his life turned out, for the choices he’d made, the sordid life he’d lived, and the anguish and suffering he now felt.
Frank looked beyond the farmhouse where Dillehay Creek emptied into Hawkes Pond recollecting how safe he felt while fishing with Uncle Dave along the shores of Hawkes Pond, his troubles disappearing into its calm waters. Although he couldn’t see it from here, he recalled the gazebo where he spent summer afternoons with Aunt Relda sketching alongside her. He dreamed of joining her at the gazebo, taking his sketch pad with him and drawing until the light drained from the sky. He wanted to show her his collection of drawings, and he longed to re-create the boy she loved, the one who could’ve become a different man had he not let his father ride roughshod over him and his choices.
Who am I kidding? That’ll never happen. Uncle Dave won’t ever let me onto the Mason property. Besides, Aunt Relda probably thinks I’m still in prison or even worse—dead!
Frank’s transitory evocation into his past ended with a sharp knock on his door. The quick transition surprised him and he sat motionless, stunned by reality as it came crashing back.
“Frank, are you there? Frank?” came a woman’s cheery voice.
Frank hobbled across the room and cracked open the door.
“It’s me, Lilly. I just thought ‘d check on you.”
“Look, sweetheart, I told you to leave me be. Go away!” He started to close the door.
“But I brought you a sack of freshly-made cheese Danish pastries from the cafeteria and some black coffee, stiff just the way you like it.”
Frank glared into Lilly’s eyes trying to measure her motives. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“You seemed to enjoy the cheese Danishes, and I just figured I could use them to bribe my way into your apartment.” She braved his eyes and smiled sweetly.
“You figured wrong!” His voice lashed at her.
“Look, Frank,” Lilly inserted her foot between the door and the door jamb. “I’m not leaving so you may as well let me in.”
“Perfect! Just perfect.” He stepped away from the door, shuffled across the room, and sat down in his easy chair. “Sit wherever you like but don’t stay long. I’ve got work to do.”
Lilly removed some old newspapers from a tattered arm chair and sat down across from Frank. “Listen, what’s a gal got to do to get some whiskey in her coffee?”
“Whiskey?” His brows lifted in surprise. “I didn’t take you for a whiskey kind of gal.”
“I’m not, but I had a really tough day and need something to take the edge off.”
“You do know whiskey’s got a burn to it,” he said questioningly.
“Don’t care. So, are you gonna give me a shot of your whiskey or not?”
Frank picked up his bottle of whiskey and leaned towards Lilly, pouring a shot of whiskey into her Styrofoam coffee cup. Using her finger, she swirled the copper liquid into her coffee breathing in its woody, earthy aroma. Not knowing that the soft amber color belied the harsh taste, she took a big squig. The whiskey burned on the way down, and she spluttered like a child. Then to make up for her apparent foolishness, she downed the rest in one gulp and leaned back in the armchair. “Edge is gone,” she remarked, struggling to gain her composure.
Frank took a cigar from the box of cigars sitting on the adjacent coffee table and cut off the tip. “Cigar?” he asked in a scoffing tone.
“No, thanks! I’m not a cigar kind of gal.”
Frank lit his cigar, drew in the smoke, and held it in his mouth, savoring the flavor before releasing it go into the air. Lilly caught a whiff of the smoke as it billowed in the air and immediately recognized it. “Your cigar smells kind of familiar, like maybe a Cuesta-Rey.”
Frank threw her a startled look. “If you’re not a cigar kind of gal, how do you know what a Cuesta-Rey smells like?”
“Well, it’s just that your cigar smoke smells like Granddaddy Dave’s cigars. Since Cuesta Reys are the only cigars he smokes, I figured you smoked the same cigar as he does.”
“Your granddad?” he asked, a baffling look crossing his face.
“Well, he’s not actually my grandfather. He’s more like my father-in-law. Well, to be more accurate, he’s my husband’s grandfather. He raised Nick after his parents were killed, so he’s more like his father than a grandfather. We call him Granddaddy Dave. He’s an old codger, through and through, but I rather like him. And you see all that land just beyond Hickory Pines?” she asked, pointing to the vast swath of Texas prairie just beyond Frank’s window. “Well, Granddaddy Dave owns all the land for as far as the eye can see. And although you can’t see it from here, there’s a quaint little gazebo on the other side of Hawkes Pond. Right now it’s all decorated for the Mason 4th of July shindig.
Would you like to come?” Lilly asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “It’s complete with barbeque, dancing, and fireworks at midnight. I hear tell it’s legendary. You could meet Granddaddy Dave. You’d probably really like him.”
Frank recalled the last shindig he attended, and a hollow feeling filled his chest as he thought about all the shindigs, notable family events, and get togethers he’d missed during the past 50 years. Suddenly he was faced with an opportunity to reconnect with his past, just as he’d hope, but Frank wasn’t accustomed to getting what his heart desired and didn’t know how to react. His fears took over, and he imagined showing up only to be told to leave the premises, and Frank couldn’t face having his hopes dashed.
“Hell no!” he snarled, smoke curling from his lips. “Why would I want to do that?”
“I just thought…”
“Well, you thought wrong, sweetheart. I don’t like people, and people don’t like me! I’m getting mighty tired of entertaining you,” he said clenching his fists. Don’t you have someplace else you’d rather be?”
“No, not really, but I seem to have worn out my welcome.” Lilly stood up, but before walking to the front door, she paused. “Frank, I was hoping you’d show me a couple of your drawings.”
“Oh pshaw!” he grimaced slightly shaking his head. “You’re one gutsy gal. I’ll give you that.”
“Must be the whiskey!” she smiled, revealing a small dimple in her right cheek, a dimple that melted Frank’s heart and took him back in time.
That dimple, he thought, looks just like hers. And those pearls. They look familiar too. What if?... “Alright,” he conceded, his face like iron. “Just don’t waste my time asking me a lot questions about them. I have work to do.”
“Yay!” Lilly exclaimed with childlike delight in her voice.
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