Deadlock

Millie wanted to get inside the house.

“Will you stay for di

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.

3

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 di

4

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.

Climbing a small rise, Millie came to the outskirts of town. Santa Lucia looked the same to Millie. It was as if a dome had been placed over it, preventing any aging. There were paint jobs, of course, and some sprucing up. City Hall had a new flagpole, with a grand, golden eagle on the top.

If there was any difference it was that fewer people seemed to be out at this time of day. She could remember balmy summer evenings when the streets were teeming with families. That was in the early sixties. When cable TV got to the valley, people stayed indoors more. They could watch the tube, and also avoid the bad things they thought might float down from San Francisco or up from Los Angeles.

Millie found a bench facing the town’s only fountain – a double decker erected by the Rotary in ’59 and dedicated to the fallen heroes of World War II. She settled into the bench and opened the book she’d brought with her, On Death and Dying. There was barely enough light to read.

“Howdy.”

Millie looked up. Jack Holden stood there, dressed in casual blue jeans and a T-shirt – as if he were a rancher or a farmhand. He still had that odd bead necklace on. She hoped he would not ask to join her.

“May I join you?” he said.

She nodded reluctantly.

Holden sat down. “Saw you over here and thought I’d apologize for earlier. I think I sort of hit the wrong note.”

“Thank you. I apologize, too. I was a little tired from my trip.” You can go now.

“See, I’ve got this little problem. People sometimes think I’m a little, what’s the word I’m looking for…”

Obnoxious?

“Persistent,” Holden said. “I get a little carried away sometimes, especially when I talk about the church. But it saved my life, you see, so I guess that’s why.”

Millie gave him a quick nod but said nothing. She did not want to invite further conversation.

“So,” Holden said. “What are you reading?”

Millie placed her hand over the cover of her paperback. “Oh, just a little book.”

“Like to read myself,” Holden said. “Wish I had more time for it.”

Shifting uncomfortably – her blouse was sticking to her back – Millie cleared her throat in a way she hoped would finally end the conversation.

“May I ask you a question that’s a little personal?” Holden said.

No. “Personal?”

“I don’t mean to be… persistent. You can tell me to go jump in the lake if you want to.”