James Bell - Deadlock

Royal popped the trunk and started getting Millie’s bags. A noise made Millie look up, toward the roof. The sun was behind the house and she had to squint. But there was definitely something moving on top of the house.

Her first thought was that a TV reporter had managed to precede them. He was lying in wait until the car came, ready to get his exclusive. She almost ducked her head. Then she noticed the ladder against the house. Whoever was up there must be a worker of some sort.

“Hey there, Ethel,” the worker said, leaning over the edge of the roof.

“Come down offa there,” Ethel said. “Meet my daughter.”

Terrific. All Millie wanted to do was go inside, into her old room where her mother still kept a bed, and sleep. She was not in any mood to talk to strangers.

But this was her mother’s house. She would follow the rules. A quick greeting, then inside.

The worker came into focus now. Millie first noticed his denim work shirt splotchy with sweat. He had a leather tool belt around his waist and wore blue jeans.

As he descended the ladder she noticed that his tanned arms, glistening with perspiration, were strong. This was a man who did not shy away from hard work.

When he turned from the ladder Millie was greeted by a friendly pair of eyes with a set of hard wrinkles at each corner. His hair was dark with a hint of gray at the temples. He looked about her age.

His face was not that of a construction worker, but of an academic. Strange, but he looked like a young Thomas Riley, her colleague on the Court. And everyone said when Tom Riley was a young lawyer in Wyoming, he was the spittin’ image of Gary Cooper – solid, rugged, quintessentially American.

“Howdy,” he said, taking out a red bandanna and wiping his hands. He extended it. “I’m Jack Holden.”

Millie caught sight of her mother grinning off to the side. She shook his hand. “Millie Hollander.”

“Welcome home.”

She forced a smile and a nod, but felt the slightest bit put off by the sentiment. Who was he to welcome her to her own childhood residence?

“That’s Pastor Jack,” Ethel said.

Oh no, Mother, Millie thought, you didn’t. You didn’t set me up to meet this man, did you?

“So nice to meet you,” Millie said without enthusiasm. Then she noticed what looked like a string of faded, colored beads around his neck. It reminded her of the hippies in the sixties.

“Heard a lot about you,” Holden said. “Personally I’d like to say it’s a privilege to meet you. I visited the Supreme Court once.”

“How nice.”

“Didn’t hear an argument, though. Wondered what I’d do if I ever had to make one.”

Millie wanted to get inside the house.

“Will you stay for dinner?” Ethel said.

No! Millie’s mind screamed. She was about to say something about being tired when Holden spoke.

“Now, Ethel, your daughter’s come a long way, and I’m sure she’s tired. Probably doesn’t feel much like socializing.”

“Maybe after church on Sunday,” Edith said.

“I’d love to,” Holden said.

A firecracker of pain went off at the base of Millie’s neck. “Mr. Holden,” she snapped. “I am here just to get some rest. Excuse me.” She turned and walked into her childhood home.

Royal brought in her two suitcases, with Ethel close behind.

“Millie,” Ethel said, in a way that made Millie feel like she was ten years old.

“Not now, Mom, please.”

“He’s my pastor.”

“I know, it’s just – ”

“You could try to be pleasant.”

“Mother, I’m sorry. I just want to go lie down.”

“Then you do that,” Ethel said. “Just remember, a tree doesn’t fall too far from the fruit.”

Millie had no idea what that meant. But she was no longer in any mood for talk. Her head was starting to pound like a gavel on a judge’s bench.

She dreamed of dark clouds.

In the dream, Millie sat in her judicial robes, in her chair on the Court. The courtroom was empty. And the walls had been taken away.

Black storm clouds rolled in, like an advancing army. She tried to get out of her chair but found she could not move. It was going to start raining soon. She had to find shelter.

The rain came. Lightning flashed. Peals of thunder exploded around her. She could not get away. There was no shelter. And then she saw something on the horizon. Help. Someone coming to help her.

But as the figure got closer she realized he was in black, and sticking out of his robed sleeves were long, slithery fingers, like snakes…

She woke up breathing hard, her ribs protesting. Muted sunlight filtered in through the window, indicating late afternoon. She lay there several minutes until her breathing was back to normal, then carefully got out of bed.

Ethel was preparing a meal in the kitchen. When Millie entered Ethel barely looked up from the peas she was liberating into a Tupperware bowl.

“Have a little sleep?” Ethel asked.

“A little,” Millie said. She was not going to mention the dream. “Can I help you with those?”

“Grab yourself a handful, why don’t you?”

From the big bowl of rich, green pea pods Millie scooped up a healthy portion and set them in front of her. When she was a girl she’d always liked cooking with her mother. The love of cooking was the one thing they shared in common.

“How are you feeling?” Ethel asked.

“A lot of sore spots still. When I first get up it hurts most.”

“I mean inside.”

Millie pushed out three raw peas into the Tupperware bowl. “Inside?”

“That’s what I said. I want to know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“You goin’ back inside your turtle shell, huh?”

Millie looked away. “I haven’t heard that in a long time.”

“You been in fancy Washington, D.C., is why,” Ethel said. “You remember the first time?”

Millie did, very much so. But her mother had on her storytelling look, and Millie let her go.

“You were nine years old.” Ethel said. “You came in from school with red eyes, like you’d been crying, and you ran in past me. I was cleaning or something. But I went right after you. And when I got to you, you wouldn’t tell me what happened. You remember that?”

Millie nodded.

“I kept asking and asking,” Ethel said, “but that old stubborn streak in you was a mile wide, even then. And you said you were going into your turtle shell. You took to your room with a book, like usual, and wouldn’t talk about it.”

A stab hit Millie between the ribs. She well remembered that day. Three fourth grade girls had approached her at recess.

Your mom’s a goody-two-shoes, they said.

Millie tried to get away, but the girls grabbed her arms.

Nobody likes you or your mom, you Bible thumpers. That’s what you are. Why don’t you dry up and blow away?

“I told your father about it,” Ethel said, snapping Millie back to the present, “and he laughed and said ‘She’s your girl.’ And whenever you used to crawl away with a book, not talking about things, I’d say to myself, ‘She’s going back in her turtle shell.’ ”

“Mom – ” Millie stopped herself. If only her mother had ever told her she approved of Millie, even though she had rejected her childhood faith, maybe they could talk more openly now.

“Why don’t you take a walk?” Ethel said.

“Walk?”

“Like you used to. Can you? I mean, with your ribs.”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Cross told me to walk.”

“Down to the square. You used to like to do that. Go on. I’ll have dinner for you when you get home.”

As Millie strolled, dusk dropped its red and orange cloak over the valley. She followed a dirt path lined with rabbit bush and scrub oak that wound its way from the back of Ethel’s home into town. Millie could see across the valley to the Santa Lucia range, where the legendary mountain, the Sleeping Giant, lay. The outline of the mountains, from around Henderson up toward the 232 highway, gave the impression of a man sleeping on his back if you looked at it just right. It was the only tourist attraction in the town of Santa Lucia.