Authors: Brandilyn Collins
The
San Jose Mercury
newspaper had been laid on the kitchen table, front page up. Facing Baxter’s chair.
Melissa moved to the cabinet of plates and pulled one out. Selected a fork from the silverware drawer. “Here.” She set them on the counter beside the cook top.
Linda glanced her direction. Her eyes looked red. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” Melissa eased back to lean against the tile. Waiting. When the butter heated up, Linda would have to turn around for the whipped eggs.
Linda moved the butter around with the corner of the spatula. A hand-painted clock on the wall ticked in the silence. Melissa thought of her mother and all the heavy silences that had hung between them. Some angry, some despairing, some so full of Melissa’s will to not care that they practically dripped defensiveness on the floor. If you took all those moments and strung them end to end you’d have a lifetime. Melissa’s life.
“Hand me that bowl, would you?” Linda’s head moved slightly. She shuffled left as if to force Melissa to her right. But Melissa crossed behind to her other side. She set the bowl down, throwing a look at Linda’s cheek. Linda raised her hand, pretending to smooth hair away from that side of her face. But too late. Melissa saw reddened skin, in the shape of fingers.
She stepped away, then sauntered toward the table and sprawled into a chair. “So. What’re we going to do today?” She glanced at the newspaper, upside down to her.
Linda poured the whipped mixture into her pan. Sizzling arose, and the smell of eggs and butter. “I’m going to plan a dinner party for Saturday night.” Her voice lilted, ever so light. “Maybe you can help.”
“I thought we were going to see some play on Saturday.”
“Oh.” Linda raised a shoulder. “I asked some friends about it, and they didn’t have very good things to say. I just think you’d be bored.”
Melissa ran her tongue across her top lip. “How many people are coming? To your party, I mean.”
“I haven’t decided that yet.”
“Oh. Who are you thinking of inviting?”
“Haven’t decided that either. I’ll do that today.” Linda moved to the refrigerator and pulled out a container of orange juice.
If there had been one thing more prevalent in Melissa’s past life than silence, it would be the lies. So many lies. The world was a wretched place to navigate when you didn’t know false from real.
Melissa curled her fingers around the edge of the wooden table. “Think maybe the Weekses will come?”
“Probably not.” Linda grasped the pan’s handle and tipped it one way, then the other.
“I thought Joanne’s your best friend.”
“She is. But this dinner’s more for Baxter’s business associates.”
“You like doing that? Putting on business dinners for him?”
“Oh, it’s great. I love it.”
Not once had Linda looked up from her work. In a crazy second Melissa imagined herself stomping over to Linda, pointing at her reddened cheek. Screaming at her to “Stop lying!” Instead she sat in the chair, jaw working back and forth.
One truth about the world? If something looks too good to be true, it probably is. How naive she’d been.
Melissa focused on her pink nails. Linda had taken her to a beauty salon yesterday, and they’d both had manicures. Melissa’s nails looked so perfect. Long and painted, with flowers on her ring fingers. But her nails weren’t perfect. They were fake.
Linda concentrated on the omelet, carefully folding it over with the spatula. “There.” With a satisfied smile she flicked off the gas burner.
As if an omelet would change what had just happened in her bedroom.
Melissa rose and pushed the chair up to the table—just so, like she’d found it. Her eyes burned, but her insides burned more. How bad would this get once the Jacksons got tired of doing their “marriage made in heaven” thing? Would Baxter end up hitting her too?
“I’d live with them in a shack,”
Nicole had said at church.
“Everybody in town loves them, you’ll see.”
Melissa watched as Linda slid the omelet onto its plate, then placed the pan in the sink. Every move she made kept her back or right profile to Melissa.
“How long have you and Baxter been married?” Melissa blurted.
“Seven years.” Linda squirted dishwashing liquid into the pan and began to scrub. “Why do you ask?”
Melissa focused on Linda’s hands as she cleaned the pan. Linda’s nails wouldn’t break making any dirty thing shine. They were hard and fake like Melissa’s.
“Just wondered.”
Baxter entered the kitchen in suit and tie, ready for his work day. He could have been three men entering, for the energy he brought into the room. Melissa straightened. “Well, hi, Melissa. You’re up early.” His voice sounded as kind and warm as ever. He shot her a winning smile.
Something inside Melissa loosened, even as she knew it shouldn’t.
Linda made no comment. She was too busy rinsing the clean pan and reaching for a drying towel.
“Morning.” Melissa smiled back. “I just…woke up early. I’ll probably go back to bed.”
“Sounds good to me.” Baxter gave her a wink. He walked to the counter and picked up his omelet and fork. “Thank you, sweetie.” He aimed the words toward Linda. “Looks great.”
“You’re welcome.” Linda dried vigorously. Her reply sounded flat.
Melissa faded away from the table as Baxter approached and took a seat. She needed to get out of the kitchen. The last place she wanted to be right now was between these two. Suddenly all the years of seeing her mom whacked around didn’t seem so bad. At least Melissa knew what she was dealing with. At least in the trailer a wolf looked like a wolf.
She faked a yawn. “I’m going back upstairs now. Linda, when I get up I’ll be happy to help you plan your dinner party.”
Baxter’s fork, speared into a large bite of omelet, stopped midair. Just for a second. “That’s nice of you.” He popped the fork into his mouth and chewed, no guile whatsoever in his expression. He drew the newspaper toward him and focused on the front page.
“That’ll be great.” Linda kept her head down as she turned to replace the pan in the cabinet. “See you in a few hours.”
Melissa left the room.
Halfway up the stairs she lingered, leaning over the banister toward the kitchen. But she heard no voices. She imagined Baxter finishing his omelet. Would Linda turn to him, defiantly display her red cheek? Was she whispering a threat to tell?
Not a sound.
Melissa hung there for a moment, staring at nothing, then trudged up the stairs. Who would Linda tell anyway? And
why?
She had everything. A mansion to live in, beautiful clothes, a BMW. All the money she wanted. And she didn’t even have to work for it. Who wouldn’t put up with some bad stuff for all that?
Who wouldn’t lie and pretend everything was A-okay?
Melissa padded down the long hall, reached her bedroom, and shut the door behind her. The sun had risen higher now, the room glowing a warm blue. Her eyes fixed on her desk chair, sitting where she’d left it—under the heater vent. Melissa hurried over to the chair, picked it up, and returned it to its proper place. Then stood in the middle of the room, mind churning. What if Baxter had noticed her open door at this end of the hall? What if he’d come in here, seen the chair? He’d figure out in a heartbeat she’d been listening.
But then, even if he knew, he wasn’t about to let on, was he? His knowing would just be one more part of this game.
Melissa thrust her hands into her hair and sank upon her bed. She focused on her knees, pulling her whirling thoughts together. Okay. Fine. So this new reality wasn’t quite what she’d dreamed. So what? She could handle it. She’d survived her entire miserable life, hadn’t she? Would she rather go back into the system, take a chance on another foster home? It would likely be way worse than this.
She’d just have to be more careful. Watch her back. Make sure she did everything necessary to keep from getting kicked out.
Melissa sat up and raised her gaze toward the heavens. Really, how was this any different than what she’d been doing ever since she’d gotten here—pretending to be what they wanted her to be?
Let Baxter and Linda play their game. She’d beat them both at it.
FEBRUARY 2010
Baxter Jackson. Outside my house.
I shoved from my chair, heart tripping into overdrive. My hand flew up and hit the water bottle. It tipped over, spilling onto the desk, then rolled off and hit the floor with a plastic
glug
. I snatched it up and set it aside. Grabbed the computer mouse and minimized my HM file screen.
Steps sounded outside. And men’s voices. Baxter wasn’t alone.
The doorbell rang.
I shrank into the middle of the office, away from the window. Looked around wildly.
A knock sounded at the door. “Joanne? You home?”
Pastor Steve’s voice.
My hands pressed against my cheeks. Pastor Steve’s presence was good news. He’d never want to hurt me. But he and Baxter together here—on a Sunday morning? Steve would be preaching at the church service at 11:00.
What
was
this?
My feet moved me toward the door. Before opening it I shoved back my shoulders, steeled myself. Caffeine and fright zinged through my veins. My face felt hot.
I opened the door and somehow found my voice. “Hi, Steve.” My eyes remained on my pastor. “Baxter.”
Steve shot me a smile. “Sorry to show up on your doorstep like this, Joanne. Baxter and I met early at church this morning before service to talk over…the issues at hand. After some prayer and discussion we thought it would be a good idea to come see you.”
Prayer and discussion? A fly on that wall would have drowned in Baxter’s honeyed words.
Baxter spread his hands. “May we come in?”
I dared a look at his face. He surveyed me with his unique mixture of serenity and power.
I’m being a good Christian—or I’d squash you.
Pain edged the expression. His face looked thinner. He’d lost weight since Cherisse’s death.
“Sure.” I stepped back and ushered them into the hall. Twelve hours ago I’d done the same for two policemen—in the dark. I felt no less shaken now.
I closed the door and faced the two men, my hands laced in front of me. An awkward silence followed. Clearly they expected me to invite them to sit down. I would not.
Baxter glanced into my office at my computer screen. Thank goodness all he could see was the desktop. His eyes flicked away.
Steve cleared his throat. “Baxter, you want to…?”
“Yes.” Baxter faced me, his lips curved in pious forgiveness. “I wanted to talk to you before church. You know the Bible says we’re not to worship God if someone has something against us. We’re to go make things right with that person first. I know there’s this…problem sitting between us, and I hoped we could resolve it.”
I’ll just bet he did. In front of his pastor, of course, so he’d have a witness as to his gracious character.
I looked from him to Steve. “Whose idea was this?”
“Baxter’s.” My pastor’s tone was firm, as if the answer alone supported Baxter’s claim.
My arms folded. “I see. Baxter, why couldn’t you do this alone? Why bring Steve? As I remember, the passage you’re talking about also says to go to the person quietly, by yourself. And if that doesn’t resolve the problem,
then
take a witness along.”
Steve hesitated. What could he say? He knew I was right.
“You’ve been so against me, Joanne.” Baxter raised a hand in supplication. “Frankly, I didn’t know if you
would
talk to me alone.”
He had that right. I’d have never opened the door.
Baxter saw my hardening expression and flicked a glance at Steve—
see what I mean?
My cheeks grew hotter. Here stood this detestable man in my house—this wife beater, this
murderer
, and all the while his voice dripped with feigned hurt at my shortcomings. I couldn’t imagine how Linda survived living with such a hypocrite.
Oh, wait. She hadn’t.
“Joanne.” Steve shifted on his feet. “Can we resolve this?”
“What’s to resolve?”
He tilted his head. “You’ve made some pretty strong allegations against Baxter publicly—”
“I did
not
make them publicly. They were overheard, and a reporter printed them. That was never my intent.”
“Okay. But now that’s happened, the allegations are out there.”
“So talk to the reporter.”
Surprise flicked across my pastor’s face. He’d never seen me act like this—toward him or anyone else.
“We came here to talk to
you
, Joanne.” Baxter’s voice remained ever so calm, his eyes gleaming with sincerity. “I just want to reassure you that I never did anything to hurt Linda or Cherisse. I mourn the death of both my wives more than you can know.”
“Jackson will kill you if he finds out.”
My arms shook. I wanted to punch out Baxter’s lights. This man was the reason I’d been driven from my own home last night, why I was now afraid to sleep here at all. How dare he come here? Even for Baxter Jackson, this was over the top.
“This involves more than just you and Baxter,” Steve prodded. “Many in the church are upset about it. I just hoped we could talk it out.”
A horrifying thought spun through my head. What if Baxter was doing more than playing righteous in front of his pastor? Inside, he had to be livid. If something bad did happen to me after that newspaper article, surely someone would raise Baxter’s name as my only known enemy. Now he had a witness that he’d never want to do me harm. That he’d been so forgiving, despite my transgressions.
Fear intertwined with my anger. That combination—and the caffeine and no sleep—prickled my whole body with heat. I glared at Baxter, my eyes telegraphing that I knew the truth. He’d sent someone here last night. He would do anything to silence me.
His disgusting charade was over.
My finger raised, pointing at Baxter. I turned narrowed eyes on Steve. “
This
man beat his first wife.” My voice trembled, but I didn’t care. “I don’t know about Cherisse, but I know about Linda. She showed me the bruises, Steve. Big, purple. On her back, where no one else could see. She sat right here on my deck, raised her shirt, and showed me.”