Momma Grizzly #6
Entry 6 of 39
Continuing the memoir of Kelly Clegg. - Parce
On our way out of the museum, Garrett stopped to tap his father on the arm. “Thanks for the assist, Dad.”
The pastor nodded. “By my watch, you’ve got forty minutes until the next group. Go take a breather. I’ll warn the next group up front to keep it to the myth.”
“Sounds good.” Garrett turned his uneven gaze to me. “What do you want to do?”
“I need to get back to work,” I answered. “I’ve been hanging around next to the VFW where all the action is. Luckily, the food’s there too. You hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you happen to let Phil know you were here?”
“No.”
I pulled my phone from my jacket pocket. “Alright. Let me text Sammie then. She said Phil’s dying to see you.”
We walked across the street, arm in arm, following the smoke and the smell of the barbecue. Emma Lee waved to us from the lawn, looking like a dancer in her frilly mint-green dress. Her mother and father noticed us a second later.
“Finally decided to drop by, Clegg?” Phil Hagen surged out in front of Sammie and Emma Lee to greet us. He leaned forward with a big, ruddy smile to shake hands. At the last second, he switched out his right for his left to accommodate Garrett. Their palms clapped together.
“Figured I’d better show my face around here every once in a while,” Garrett growled.
“Really? I wouldn’t, if my face looked like that.”
Both of them howled with laughter as we reached a picnic table. Sammie and I took Emma Lee to get in line for food, leaving the men to catch up.
I was about to crack a joke at their expense when something hit me in the shin. It was a red, white, and blue pinwheel being swung by a strikingly pretty toddler with a freckled face. She looked to be about a year younger than Emma Lee. Her curly red air froze me in place for a second. I’d never met this child before, but I recognized her in an instant. She could only be—
“Laylah!” A short, stout woman with identical red hair plucked the girl off her feet. “Don’t hit people, baby, that’s…” She trailed off when she saw me.
“Hi, Rachael,” I said.
Her face turned cold. “Hi.”
“How are you?” Sammie offered.
“Same.”
Sammie gestured. “Would you… like to join us at that table?”
“No. We were just leaving.” Rachael turned and walked off with her daughter.
Sammie sighed. “I don’t know what I expected. She doesn’t want to talk to us.”
“I can’t blame her,” I said. “But I miss her.”
“Me, too.”
We both looked back at the table. Phil was tall, lanky, dressed like a proud cowboy with his sharp Stetson hat and big belt buckle. He made for a striking contrast with short, broad Garrett with the muddy boots and grease-stained jeans. They laughed and poked fun at each other, but there were lulls, little pauses where they weren’t sure what to say.
No one else in the world would know anything was wrong, but Sammie and I did. The third man was missing, the one who bridged the gap between them.
A few minutes later, we returned to the table. Each of us had filled two plates. Sammie sat down with one for herself and handed the other to Emma Lee. I had mine and Garrett’s.
Phil’s eyes bugged out. “How do you like that?”
“You can get your own damn brisket,” Sammie said with her mouth full.
He jerked a thumb in her direction. “See how I’m treated? You had the right idea, Clegg. This is why you don’t marry local girls.” He was already leaning away so Sammie’s playful swat missed his shoulder. He stood up to get in line.
Garrett snickered as he prodded his food with a plastic fork. “Thanks, babe.”
“No problem.” I turned on the bench to face my husband. With Phil away and Sammie occupied with Emma Lee, we had a minute to talk. “How long are you staying?”
“Until I’m done at the museum. Too long, in my opinion.”
“Well…” I swallowed hard. “OK.”
He dropped his fork and turned to me. His left eye looked at me as intensely as it had in high school. His right eye, scarred over, only pointed in my general direction.
“Sitting around here won’t fix anything,” he said. “I have a job to do. I never asked you to wait around for me. If you wanted to move on, I wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t blame your parents, either. You can hand me that ring right now and walk away, no hard feelings. I mean it.”
“That’s not it, Garrett.”
“Yes, it is. Your mom and dad never forgave me for getting their sophisticated city girl to stay out here in the sticks. It’s fine. I’m going to do what I do. You know I’ll always want to see you. I love you. But there’s a need out there.”
“It’s not about me. I’m fine here. What about you? Haven’t you done enough?” My hand settled on the plastic cuff around his right forearm. “Haven’t you given enough? When do you get to rest?”
“When the job’s done.” Garrett wolfed his plate and stood up. “Just think about what I said, Kelly. Thanks for meeting me. I got to get back to the museum.” Without a word to Sammie, he headed back across the street.
I turned away and rubbed my face with both hands. I hated this. I hated being angry with him. I hated that he was so driven to be away from town. Part of it was his sense of duty that had been so attractive and mysterious when we were seventeen. Part of it was the heartbreak he and I shared. Part of it was the brain injury. I never knew which part I was arguing with.
Phil returned with a plate piled with various meats and nothing else. “Where’s Clegg?”
“Had to go back to the museum,” I muttered at my untouched plate. I took a deep breath and shook it off, as I had done so many times before. “What are y’all going to do with your afternoon?”
Sammie gestured at her husband with her eyes. “Jarhead here wants to go fishing at Canyon Lake.”
“It’s the perfect day for it. The bass eat like crazy when it gets this cold.” Phil took a bite of pork rib. “Want to come with?”
I smiled. “No, thanks. I’ve got work. I have to write up an article about today.”
“Suit yourself. We’ll be back tonight if you want to hang out. Sammie won’t let me bring a tent.”
“I said we’re not camping out there,” said Sammie. “You do whatever you want.”
Phil grinned.
After wishing the Hagens a safe trip, I stayed at the table and watched the crowd thin out. The air grew a little colder as the warmth of the celebration left the main street. Soon I’d be alone with the hanging shadows.
I forced my thoughts back to work. I really didn’t want to write an article where Pastor Cotton was the star. Martin Vintner was long gone. I couldn’t get over my annoyance at the preacher for elbowing in on the traditional mayoral speech. That wouldn’t have happened a couple of years ago.
I could almost see the lightbulb appear over my head. I could get enough material for a full article and enjoy some passive-aggressive vengeance. All I had to do was write my piece from a more historical standpoint, relegating Cotton to a footnote. And I knew exactly where to get the background information I needed.
Suggested Listening: Lori McKenna - “My Love Follows You Where You Go”