Confessions: He's The Rich Boy / He's My Soldier Boy. Lisa Jackson
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feet crunched on the gravel strewn between the asphalt road and the ditch. The night was humid and thick, but she kept walking. Soon she’d be at the lake. It would be cooler near the water. And Hayden. He’d be there. He had to be. She crossed her fingers.
The first indication that something wasn’t right in her parents’ marriage had happened soon after they’d moved.
Nadine remembered the day vividly. It had been one of those hot, lazy summer Sundays when the whole family had planned to be together. In the past those days had been wonderful. The entire family picnicked in the backyard and feasted on Mom’s fried chicken, potato salad, berry pie and watermelon.
But that particular Sunday things had started out wrong. Ben and Kevin had been fighting, wrestling in their room across the hallway, and Ben, in an attempt to restrain his older brother, had thrown a punch that landed through plasterboard separating the boys’ room from the staircase.
Dad had been furious and threatened the boys with his belt. Her mother, horrified, had blanched at the size of the hole in the wall and had fought a losing battle with tears. Nadine had stood and stared at the wall, while her father had rounded up the boys, forcing them downstairs. “We may as well go get that firewood today anyway,” he’d said to his wife, as he’d herded Ben and Kevin to the pickup.
Mom hadn’t said a word, just watched from the back porch as the old truck had rolled backward down the lane. Then, without glancing in her daughter’s direction, had said, “You’d better get ready for church, Nadine.”
Nadine, staring longingly after the plume of dust in the drive, had been about to protest, but her mother’s eyes had narrowed quickly. “Now, don’t give me any back talk. I’m not in the mood. I’ve got a headache coming on and we’re late as it is, so hurry on upstairs!”
Nadine hadn’t argued. She’d thrown on her one good dress and had pulled her wild red-brown curls into a ponytail. Her mother had hardly said a word as she’d driven into town. Her thoughts had obviously been miles away, but as she’d parked the old Buick wagon in the church lot, she’d turned her head suddenly and stared at Nadine so intently that Nadine had wiped her cheek, sure there was a smudge on her face.
Donna’s eyes had been moist and red. She’d forced a trembling smile and touched Nadine’s hair. “Take my advice,” she’d said, fighting tears, “be careful who you marry. Don’t believe in fairy tales.”
Nadine had wanted to ask why, but had known from her mother’s expression that the question was better left unspoken. Later, after listening to the Reverend Osgood’s blistering sermon on the wages of sin, and catching a few curious looks from Mrs. Nelson, Donna had driven home without bothering to switch on the radio. She’d been so lost in thought, Nadine had been certain that she hadn’t even seen the road in front of them.
At home, after changing into faded slacks, Donna had baked a strawberry pie and started frying chicken, but she’d cooked as if with a vengeance, ordering Nadine to fetch her the oil, and the flour and whatever else she’d needed. Worst of all, she hadn’t sung. Not one solitary note. As long as Nadine could remember, Mom had sung while she worked in the kitchen. Just as she’d sung in the church choir, she’d sung while she’d hung up the clothes on the back porch, she’d sung with the radio when she drove to her part-time job at the town library and she’d hummed while flipping through magazines and dreaming. Music had always been a part of their lives. But that horrible Sunday, while prodding the sizzling pieces of chicken, Donna’s lips had been tightly compressed and deep lines had furrowed her usually smooth brow.
Later, when her father and brothers had returned, Mom’s grim expression hadn’t changed. The chicken had simmered in the frying pan on the stove, the pies had cooled on the kitchen counter and Donna, frowning, had swept the back porch as if she’d thought her life depended upon it, only looking up when she’d heard the familiar crunch of gravel under the battered old pickup’s tires.
The lines around her mouth had become firm and set, but she hadn’t stopped sweeping. Nadine, whose job it had been to take the potato peels to the compost pile, had stopped dead in her tracks.
George Powell had seemed to have forgotten his sons’ bad behavior. He had whistled as he’d parked the old pickup near the carport. His thick red hair had been wet with sweat, his face flushed. Kevin and Ben had torn out of the cab of the truck and found the hose. After taking long drinks, they’d taken delight in spraying each other and even casting a shot or two in Nadine’s direction.
“Smells good,” George had told his wife as he’d mounted the stairs and brushed her cheek with his lips. “Lord, am I hungry.” He’d tried to wrap his grimy arms around his wife, but she’d sidestepped his embrace.
“Supper’ll be ready in an hour.”
Rebuffed, Nadine’s father had rubbed a sore spot in his back and rotated his neck until it creaked. He’d caught sight of his daughter and winked. “You’re the lucky one, gal! You won’t have to work with your back, ever!”
“Don’t talk nonsense to the children—”
With a wide grin, he’d grabbed hold of his daughter and scooped her into his strong arms. “You, missy, might just be the first woman president.”
“I said, ‘Don’t talk nonsense to the children.’”
“Your ma’s no fun,” George had whispered into Nadine’s ear before setting her on her feet. “We’ve all got us a little investment plan.”
“With Garreth Monroe,” his wife had pointed out, scowling as she’d swept the floor so hard, Nadine had wondered if the broom handle might snap.
“And Thomas Fitzpatrick,” her father had defended, wiping the sweat from his ruddy face.
“With the money we had from that house of ours.” Her lips had turned white. “Rich people don’t make a habit of sharing their wealth.”
“Well, you might be surprised.” George had ignored his wife’s disapproval and managed to wrestle the hose from his sons. “You’ll see,” he’d told them all with a conspiratorial smile as he’d twisted off the faucet and sauntered into the carport where he kept a case of beer in a rattling old refrigerator. “When you kids are famous lawyers and surgeons, we’ll just see. Why, I might even buy your mother a new house or take her on a cruise.”
The lines around Donna Powell’s mouth had deepened. “That’ll be the day,” she’d mumbled under her breath, and Nadine had wondered why her mother was so cruel, why she didn’t believe in Daddy’s dreams. “I’ve never yet seen a Monroe or a Fitzpatrick doing a favor for anyone.”
“Garreth Monroe’s my boss. He wouldn’t sell me short.” George had wrenched the cap off his beer, set his boot on the fender of the family’s old Buick and taken a long swallow. “Yes sir,” he’d said, squinting at the small backyard. “We’ll move out of here...maybe get one of those fancy houses on the lake. How’d ya like that, honey?”
Donna had stopped sweeping for a moment. She’d leaned on the handle of her broom and the lines around her eyes had softened a little. A smile had teased her lips, and Nadine had been taken with how beautiful her mother was when she wasn’t worried.
“You’d have fancy dresses and jewelry and you wouldn’t have to run around in this rattletrap of a station wagon.” He’d kicked on the bumper to add emphasis to his words. “No way. We’d buy ourselves a fancy sports car. A BMW or a Mercedes.”
“A Cadillac,” she’d said. “One with leather seats, air-conditioning and a sunroof.”
“You got it!” George had said.
As if she’d been caught being frivolous, Donna had scowled suddenly and shoved the broom over her head and into the corner of the porch roof, jabbing at a mud-dauber’s nest. The wasp had buzzed frantically around its attacker’s head, but Donna hadn’t given up, she’d just kept poking the worn straw of the broom into the rafters until the dried mud nest had fallen