How We End Up

By Douglas Wells

BEING RESCUED IS NOT THE SAME AS BEING SAVED.

Jackson Levee, a professor and writer, plucks two drowning twin girls from the Gulf of Mexico. Their attractive single mother has her own ideas about how to thank the hero. Jackson and their family go from being complete strangers one day to intimate friends the next. Jackson soars to literary fame after writing about his rescue of the twins, while the girls mature into beautiful but troubled young women. Over the next twenty-five years, everyone’s recklessness in love, marriage, and life produces wild and devastating results, forcing the three of them to struggle as they try to realize their destinies and find balance in life. 
Douglas Wells crafts an intoxicating story teeming with passion and exhilaration to danger, addiction, and despair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TouchPoint Press
• Release date: Mar 20, 2018
• ISBN: 194692038X

Douglas Wells

We all have our fantasies when we are young. We dream about what we want to be when we grow up and how we will became rich, or famous, or somehow change the world. Douglas Wells was no exception. Growing up in Omaha, Nebraska in the 60´s and 70´s, he dreamed of being a rock star and played in countless garage bands. He wrote dozens of songs and made numerous basement tapes, never dissuaded by the fact that no famous rock bands ever came from Omaha, or that the real music industry existed 1,500 miles away. He did his best to ignore his parents’ insistence that he "get a real job" and continued playing and writing songs all through high school. After graduating from Westside High School in 1981, he had to move out of his parent´s house and that meant finding a job to support himself and his music habit. He went to Dallas, Texas where he worked in a lumberyard by day and practiced in a rental garage by night. After a year and a half of living in abject poverty, his parents finally convinced him to come back and attend the University of Nebraska. Seeing this as another opportunity to continue his pursuit of "The Dream", he studied business to satisfy his parents while putting together another band that he was sure would go all the way this time. Unfortunately, graduation came before the big record deal and once again, Douglas was tossed back into the real world. He soon found that a Bachelor´s Degree was no guarantee of a good job and after weeks of pounding the streets of Omaha with hundreds of other business grads, he was on the brink of despair. Luckily, his parent´s engineering firm had a need for a bookkeeper so he took the job and spent five years crunching numbers and printing financial reports. During that time, he hooked up with a Country Rock band and so began a double life; bean counter during the week and stage musician on the weekends. But even Douglas´ boundless optimism began to fade after the weekends in the smoky, small-town bars, followed by harsh Monday mornings under the fluorescent lights of the office, began to blur together. Clearly it was time for a change, but where to go? After many nights spent drinking and brooding, Douglas decided to follow the path of his Uncle, who was a Peace Corps Volunteer in the 60´s. Ever the idealist, Douglas signed up for a two-year stint in 1992 and was assigned to a newly established post in Estonia. He found himself once again searching, this time for the elusive "Peace Corps Moment" that is the subject of this book. The Peace Corps service on the remote island of Hiiumaa led to two years as a United Nations Volunteer in Estonia´s capital, Tallinn. It was there that he caught the eye of the Estonian Foreign Ministry and was offered a job as an administrator at the Estonian Embassy in Washington. Douglas spent more than a year there while working his way through the U.S. Foreign Service examination process. Now, he is once again overseas in the service of the U.S. State Department. As a going away present (or parting shot, depending on how you look at it), the Hiiumaa folks created a gently satirical "Douglas Site" at www.hiiumaa.ee/douglas.

Book preview

How We

End Up

Douglas Wells

Our nature consists in motion; complete rest is death.

—Blaise Pascal

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Relax Read.Repeat.

HOW WE END UP

By Douglas Wells

Published by TouchPoint Press

Brookland, Arkansas72417

www.touchpointpress.com

Copyright © 2018 Douglas Wells

All rights reserved.

Ebook Edition.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. If any of these terms are used, no endorsement is implied. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book, in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Address permissions and review inquiries to [e-mail].

Editor: Kimberly Coghlan

Cover Design: ColbieMyles, ColbieMyles.net

First Edition

For my sons, Corey and Connor.

One

Reverberating with panic, the girls’ shrill squeals jolted Jackson Levee from his reverie.

The wind accelerated, forcing the surging waves into collisions of small geysers lasting no more than a few seconds. Jackson observed the phenomenon of the waves and wind as he walked along the shore in St. Brendan State Park, a one mile trek between the pier on the west end and the jetties on the east. Heading west, he passed two girls and their mother where there weren’t any other people. The boardwalks teemed with Memorial Day vacationers from Alabama and Georgia, scurrying like a riot of ants disturbed from their nest. They frolicked onto the white sand from the park in Gulf City Beach all the way to Pensacola, a stretch of beach nicknamed the Redneck Riviera. As Jackson first passed them, the girls romped on the waves ten yards out and yelped with high-pitched delight in voices that pierced the cacophonous surf while their mother lay face down on a straw mat, her face turned towards the dunes. At the end of his walk, he would spend a half hour in the water, his therapy and restoration, always recollecting his father’s dictum: salt water cures everything.

Small, puffy clouds pasted themselves against the blue sky, Least Terns swirled about, and laughing gulls cackled on the sand. An occasional pelican careened into the water kamikaze style. The jagged-top white dunes, crowned with sea oats, rose up to the north. The salty Gulf smell invaded his nostrils when the wind accelerated, switching from northeast to east southeast, churning up the waves. Near the pier, Jackson threaded his way through the throngs of beachgoers whose presence irritated him, so he turned and plowed through the sand with determined vigor, his feet sinking in the soft spots.

Then he heard the girls again.

Their mother pushed herself off the mat and yelled for them. Hadley! Haley! Come back in!

Jackson made out a muffled cry. We can’t!

Oh, God. Please! Somebody help them! she pleaded to no one in particular.

Jackson wavered. Was he supposed to go in after them? The list of would-be rescuers who drowned in the Gulf was legion. He glanced around to see if someone else was going in, but no one was near, and the mother seemed paralyzed. He kicked off his flip-flops, took his keys out of his pocket, threw them on the sand, tossed his sunglasses next to them, and plunged into the water.

An anarchy of white and blue cresting water lunged towards him. For a few seconds, disassociation struck him as if, separated from his body, he watched himself defy the breakers. Who was this who plunged in without reckoning he could drown too? As his head surfaced after diving under the first three-foot wave, a second breaker smacked Jackson in the face, the force of the water twisting his body and knocking him backward and off his feet. He spat saltwater and jumped up to see over the onrushing surf. About twenty-five yards out, caught in a rip current and in danger of drowning, the two girls screamed for their mother as they clutched the pink mattress float bobbing up and down in the Gulf of Mexico.

After recovering from the second wave and spotting the girls, he swam towards them against the breakers, the strong southeast current pushing him out of a straight path, forcing him to struggle to counter it. When he sensed he was close, he looked up. One of the girls had fallen off and hung onto the raft with her skinny arm. The other girl had vanished.

Haley! Haley, the girl clinging to the raft whimpered.

Jackson reached her. Easy, he said. I’m going to put you on the float.

Where’s Haley? she cried.

Jackson grabbed her by the waist and shoved her onto the float.

Where’s Haley? she cried again.

You hang on, he ordered

Haley! Where’s Haley? Get her!

Jackson scanned the surface of the immediate area but saw nothing. He submerged and opened his eyes in the stinging saltwater, the world under water a blue blur, a world of dull noise. He whirled around three hundred and sixty degrees, or so he thought. He couldn’t quite orient himself under water. He came up for air.

Did you find her? the girl cried through wet strands of blond hair.

He sucked in air and dove down on a trajectory to the bottom, forming himself into a ball to sink faster like his father taught him to do when Jackson was a boy. On the bottom, he opened his eyes. Nothing. No girl. Now Jackson felt dread, the throb of failure. He looked around as long as possible. Then he began to ascend when his right foot kicked against something fleshy. He turned and saw the vague form of a child. He had kicked her in her buttocks. She hovered there, motionless, her flaxen hair billowing, her arms spread as if welcoming. Jackson wrapped his right arm around her waist, and with his left arm paddling and his feet kicking, he carried her to the surface, back to the other world.

They came up a few yards from the southwards drifting raft. He swam Haley over.

The other twin, Hadley—he suddenly realized her name—registered heartrending ecstasy when they arrived.

Haley! You found her!

Jackson hoisted a limp Haley onto the raft. Okay, he said. Can you kick?"

Yes, Hadley responded.

Kick! Hold on to your sister too.

Hadley draped her thin arm across her sister’s back and clutched her shoulder.

The rip current had played out, so Jackson placed his hands on both of their backs and kicked, the waves propelling them. He saw a park ranger’s truck and a sheriff’s beach patrol SUV on the shore. Two men waded out to them, one in a ranger’s green uniform, the other clad in a blue shirt. The deputy in the blue shirt reached the float, and Jackson let go of the girls. He could stand now. The ranger approached him.

Are you okay?

Yeah, fine, Jackson replied, taking deep breaths.

The ranger assisted him to the shore where the deputy worked to revive Haley as Hadley, her mother, and several onlookers gathered around, their faces all masks of trepidation.

I’m sorry, mama, Hadley said in tears. I let go of her hand. I tried not to.

Please help her, her mother pleaded with the deputy, her Georgia accent steeped in dread.

He said nothing while he compressed Haley’s chest.

Jackson moved away a bit, collapsed onto the sand in a sitting position, wiped the water from his face, and watched.

The deputy turned Haley on her side, whacked her back, and she coughed up a beaker full of Gulf water. She coughed a second time without emitting water as an ambulance pulled up. Two EMTs hopped out of the vehicle.

Will she be all right? the mother asked the deputy.

She needs to go to the hospital. She spit up water, and it might’ve gotten into her lungs, the deputy explained to the EMTs. He turned to the mother. That’s serious."

Please, the mother said. Please. She sighed loudly and bent down to caress her daughter, whose eyes were open but glazed and unfocused.

One of the paramedics rushed to the back of the truck and returned with a stretcher while the other listened to Haley’s chest with a stethoscope. 

I tried not to let go of her hand, Hadley said to her mother, trembling. I tried not to.

How old is she? the EMT with the stethoscope asked, indicating Haley.

She’s nine. They’re both nine.

What’s her name?

Haley.

The EMT took Haley’s right hand in his and bent his head down close to her. Haley. Do you hear me? If you do, squeeze my hand. Haley did not respond. The EMT tried again. Haley, squeeze my hand. Nothing. Okay, let’s get her to the ER.

She’s all right, isn’t she? the mother cried out," her voice quivering.

The EMT stood. They deal with this kind of thing all the time there, he said. You and your little girl can ride with us. He and the other EMT positioned the stretcher, eased Haley onto it, and carried the stretcher to the back of the vehicle. The mother grabbed her swimsuit cover-up and pulled it overhead. When she neared him, Jackson, rose, and she hugged him. She smelled of Coppertone and cigarettes. He hesitated, his arms hanging at his sides; then, he loosely hugged her too, feeling the sweat on the back of her cover-up.

Oh, thank you. I couldn’t have gone out to them. You saved my girls. You rescued them. I don’t know how to…

It’s all right. I’m glad I could help. I hope she’ll be okay.

She nodded, hugged him again, and then swung around to go back to Hadley.

Ma’am, the deputy said. I’ll gather your things and bring them to you at hospital. I have to get information from you for my report.

Yes, the mother replied absently. She and Hadley walked to the back of the ambulance and climbed in with one of the paramedic’s help.

The deputy took Jackson’s information. A reporter from the local newspaper showed up. He talked to everyone. The deputy pointed Jackson out to him.

I’m Larry Summers, he said, introducing himself. "With the Gulf Times. Can I get your name and what happened?"

Jackson recounted the incident, making sure he told it in unembellished words, devoid of gallantry. Summers snapped a photograph of him and wrote it all down.

Jackson went home to his rented house. The living room and dining room were one room, really. The small galley kitchen opened into it. A loveseat sofa and two mismatched chairs occupied the living area. They came with the house. His stereo system perched on a table against the main wall. One bedroom was Jackson’s; the other he used as a workspace with an IBM Selectric on a simple desk with four drawers.

Jackson Levee was twenty-six, five-feet-eleven, with puppy dog hazel eyes and light brown, wavy hair laying a forelock over his right brow. He wrote poetry. Although, like all poets, he did not earn his living from wordsmithing. He taught English at Coastal City College, the local institution of higher education, his first teaching job after graduate school. He walked on the beach to conjure ideas that would become poems, his success moderate so far. He published a few poems in his graduate school’s literary journal, and he currently submitted two more to American Poetry magazine. If the magazine published him, he fantasized that the feat would earn him critical acclaim. Becoming an accomplished, respected poet was his dream, his holy quest. He was a little too self-absorbed and humorless about it and with an edge of arrogance.

Academia didn’t suit Jackson, nor was he a very good teacher since he tended to be remote and preach to his students the religion of literature, the worship of poetry, crying out in the wilderness where he converted very few. An academic position was a means to an end, that’s all.

The excitement and adrenalin had subsided before he left the beach, so now pride and satisfaction rose up to greet him. He saved two lives, two nine-year-old girls whose stories didn’t end today. The grief, he had prevented. He had pulled Haley from a dark realm into one of light. He had experienced fear, near catastrophe, but had overcome them. The whole thing to him was linked to fate, an ontological episode hinting at his destiny. The idea would form into words, which would form into phrases. He had a poem he could write.

He took a shower and then went straight to the typewriter on which he hammered out a rough draft of the first stanza, stopping there to allow the thing to percolate in his head. He ate the remaining half of a Cuban sandwich he bought the day before. Afterwards, he sipped two Irish whiskeys with ice and a splash of water as he sat on the sofa with his notebook. For a couple of hours he half-listened to Bach Cello Suites, feverishly jotting down all the scattered words and phrases that burst out of him like shrapnel. Every now and then, the image of Haley suspended upright under water revisited him. He hoped she would recover, but he’d seen the looks on the deputy’s and the paramedics’ faces.

The next morning, Jackson drove to campus. A small four-year school, Coastal City College served about fifteen hundred students. The college occupied several acres of bay front property with a view of the rusted steel-girded bridge that connected to Coastal City Beach to the southwest and a vista of the large bay to the west and northwest. Before his first class, one of his colleagues, Adam Storyck, burst into Jackson’s office with the Gulf Times He pointed at the front page. Next to an article about President Reagan reminding some critics in congress that his administration ended the recent recession, a photo of Jackson appeared in a small box to the right. The headline stated:

CCC PROF PULLS TWINS FROM GULF.

Storyck was taller than Jackson but a little stooped and ten years older. His beard covered acne scars. Storyck’s dark hair and full beard inspired Jackson to think that if Storyck wore a shtreimel, he would pass as one of the Hasidim, so he called Storyck Rabbi. Storyck was raised Catholic, but he considered it funny and played along.

When Jackson first commented on Storyck’s resemblance during their very first conversation, Storyck said, Well, they are God’s chosen people, although I’m not sure what they were chosen for.

So far, suffering, Jackson had said.

That was at the beginning of the academic year. Now, when Storyck stepped in with the newspaper, Jackson greeted him. Morning, Rabbi.

Shalom, my son. You’re a mensch, a hero, he declared.

I was running late and didn’t pick up my paper from the driveway. Can I see that? I wonder if it says how the one girl is doing. She looked pretty awful on the beach.

Storyck handed him the paper. It just says she was being treated. I suppose they didn’t know how she turned out before the deadline.

Jackson scanned the article. They even spelled his last name correctly, but they called him a professor of English when he was only an instructor. Nevertheless, the article did make Jackson seem heroic. He handed the paper back to Storyck.

Instead of teaching a summer class to make more money, Storyck said, chuckling, you should be a lifeguard. Better environment. No papers to grade. When you’re not pulling fat people from the Gulf, you can dream up some poems. Don’t forget all the scantily clad babes galore on the beach during spring break either.

There are scantily clad babes galore here on campus.

Not as scantily clad as babes in bikinis.

True, Jackson said. Does your wife know you fantasize like this?

Sure. I fantasize aloud to her. It gets her all worked up. Words influence Eros, you know. Wasn’t it C.S Lewis who said love was the invention of poets? That’s your area of expertise.

Jackson nodded his head. He liked Storyck. Jackson did not make friends easily, and he preferred to limit himself to one to minimize personal contact. Adjectives used by his colleagues to characterize him included aloof, distant, chilly, and condescending. 

I don’t write love poetry, Jackson said. The best love poems to me are dirty limericks. No. What happened yesterday has given me an idea, something lyrical, transcendental. His voice attained the seriousness of tone he always used when talking about his poetry. An exploration of worlds.

Storyck broke in. Science fiction?

Ha ha.

Storyck adopted his rabbinical demeanor. Listen, my son. I will be happy to read your poetry, but I don’t want to hear about it beforehand. I will read it with all due attention. I am a very adept critiquer of literature.

Critiquer?

"Show it to me when you’re done. Seriously. I’ve got to get ready for class. Tempus fugate."

Time flies.

No, it really means ‘time flees.’ The idea is that time is always running away from us. Haven’t you ever heard of the ‘arrow of time?’ Basic physics. It’s kind of hard to string a bow and let fly an arrow behind you. Storyck clasped his hands in front to his chest. Ah, well. My hero, he said in a girlish voice and disappeared.

Once he got home that afternoon, Jackson first reviewed his notes, and then he sat at the typewriter and stared at the draft of the first stanza he’d written the night before. Putting the words into the form of lines just wasn’t coming, so he decided to outline the poem’s structure. He couldn’t be sure how long it might turn out to be. He strove for conciseness in his own work, although he admired some poets for their ornate imagery, the ones who could pull it off without sounding phony or over-the-top. The poem would run to the length it needed. He obsessed over how to write it through the evening, during sleep—waking sporadically---and into the next day.

Just as he entered his house after class, the telephone rang. He hesitated then thought it could be the editor from Poetry calling to say they had accepted one of his poems. Maybe both poems.

Hello?

Mr. Levee? a woman’s voice drawled.

The voice seemed familiar.

"Yes?’

Oh, good. This is Dee Ann Waddell. You know, I’m the mother of the two girls you saved yesterday.

Okay, he replied dumbly.

I called your college and talked the nice lady into giving me your number. I hope you don’t mind. I was pretty determined.

No, it’s all right.

Well, listen. I want you to know Haley is all right. They let me bring her home this morning. I thanked you on the beach, but that’s hardly enough. I, I mean we, Hadley and Haley too, want to invite you for dinner.

I’m glad she’s okay, but you don’t have to do that.

Oh, I know. But we really want to do something nice for you. The girls feel bad that they didn’t get a chance to thank you. They really want you to come so they can.

Well, sure. I’ll be happy to do it, he lied. When did you have in mind?

Tomorrow night? I’m not the greatest cook in the world, but I swear I won’t poison you. Dee Ann laughed.

I’m not worried, Jackson said.

Is there a Mrs. Levee? She’s invited too.

Jackson said there wasn’t a Mrs. Levee.

Oh. The way she pronounced it, elongating the vowel, finishing it in a higher pitch, told him she was not displeased.

Dee Ann gave him the time, the address, and the directions. She told him they originally planned to spend a week here, and they could see no reason to let the incident change that.

The house was in an older neighborhood a half mile inland from the park, one of those Florida developments consisting of stucco houses painted green, pink, yellow, or light blue. The twins met him at the door, all smiles, giggling, wearing matching yellow sleeveless tops and blue shorts decorated with fish and crustaceans. Dee Ann called from another room, the kitchen, he guessed. Bring him in, girls!

Jackson stepped into the living room. The house was decorated in homogenous beach décor, seashells, sand dollars, two prints featuring generic Gulf scenes in pastel. The aroma of cooking food permeated the air. Dee Ann came in from the kitchen wearing a snug fitting, low cut halter-top and shorts, her exposed parts tanned dark brown. Her dark hair was cut to just below her ears, and her deep-set green eyes gleamed from her caramel-colored face. She was full bodied, her breasts and hips ample, triggering an erogenous flash in him.

Hey, she said, her accent extending the vowel. Welcome. Did the girls curtsy when they met you? She laughed.

Mama, we don’t curtsy, one of the twins said. Jackson didn’t know which one was which yet. They so closely resembled each other. Both had curly blond hair down to their shoulders, blue eyes, straight noses, and pink skin from the sun.

Hadley, didn’t I tell you two to curtsy?

No. You said to let him in when he came, that’s all.

I guess I did, didn’t I? I should have had you curtsy. A curtsy would’ve been very proper. She glanced at Jackson, a twinkle in her eye. She liked to kid around. It made him feel suddenly at ease. He looked carefully at Hadley then at Haley, who stood off a little, smiling shyly. He could distinguish between them now. Hadley’s mouth turned up ever so slightly at the corners, while Haley’s corners were parallel, even though she was smiling. Both girls were beautiful, and Jackson wondered what they would look like when they matured. Probably like blond magnets for boys.

Would you like a glass of wine?

Yes. That’d be great, he answered out of politeness. He drank wine, but he preferred whiskey, Irish whiskey, Bushmills at home, Jamesons in bars, whiskey being the drink of almost all of the great drunken poets: Swineburne, Thomas, Crane—especially Crane, his favorite, who threw himself off the stern of a ship in the Florida Straits. Alcoholism, the occupational hazard of the writer, that and madness. Jackson drank, but he rarely committed himself to drunkenness. He considered drinking whiskey as maintaining a tradition he was obligated to venerate.

Holding a glass herself, Dee Ann brought a glass of white wine to him. 

Thank you, Jackson said.

Dee Ann raised her glass. Come here, girls; bring your cokes. We’re toasting to Mr. Levee.

Please call me Jackson. He felt a little embarrassed.

To Jackson. The girls brought their Coke cans over. Okay, everyone touch glasses or cans.

The girls reached up, and they all touched their drinks. To Jackson, she repeated. Thank you for saving us. Can you say that?

The girls repeated it in their little girl voices. Dee Ann smiled at Jackson and touched her glass to his again. I am so grateful you were there and you went after them. The horror of thinking you might lose your children…I was helpless. She paused. Well, let’s drink, shall we?

They all took a sip. You sit here with the girls while I check on dinner. I’m cooking shrimp. She went around the corner into the kitchen. Do you like shrimp? she called from there.

Who doesn’t? Jackson replied.

Our daddy didn’t like shrimp, Hadley announced. Our daddy is dead. He died in a wreck."

I’m sorry about that.

It’s okay. It was two years ago.

The policeman said I almost drowned, Haley said with a faraway look. She glanced up at Jackson. What did I look like underwater?

You were just hanging there. Your arms were open. That’s about all I could tell.

We’re going to be princesses when we grow up, Hadley declared out of the blue. We’re both going to marry a prince.

That’s something to look forward to.

We’re almost just the same, but I’m a bump on an L.

Jackson looked at Hadley curiously. A bump on an L? The letter L?

Yeah, Hadley said proudly. The d is an L with a bump on it. Haley. Hadley.

Jackson nodded.

Dee Ann entered the room to announce that dinner was ready.

The conversation during dinner centered on the girls, their school, things they did in Redbank. Jackson had little exposure to the chatter of children, but he found it didn’t annoy him. The twins were animated and entertaining. Dee Ann made the twins perform the general cleanup. Then she said the greasy pans could wait until morning. Hadley and Haley presented him with artless colored drawings depicting Jackson rescuing them on which they scrawled Thank You. Both girls wrote their names on the back of their drawings, so he’d know which one drew it. They went into the living room to watch television while Jackson and Dee Ann sat out in a screened-in Florida Room where Dee Ann could smoke. They took the bottle of wine with them.

Dee Ann told Jackson she was born Dee Ann Barber to evangelical parents in Camilla, Georgia. Like many girls with strict parents, she rebelled. At sixteen she began sneaking out to meet other girls to smoke cigarettes and talk about sex, exchanging notions of what it must be like since none of them had sex yet.

She seemed eager to talk about herself. I moved on to drinking at parties. I went behind my parents’ backs, she confessed with a giggle. I would tell them it was just a sleepover at another girl’s house. Typical teenage girl stuff, huh? After high school, I moved with a friend to Redbank and worked as a receptionist at a Ford dealership. That’s where I fell in love with the owner’s son, Braxton Jr. Dee Ann took a last drag on her cigarette, exhaled, and stubbed it out in the ashtray on a side table. God, he was too handsome and tall with golden curly hair and a big wide smile. We got married six months later. Things were good, but Braxton liked to drink beer, a lot of beer, and he kept drinking more of it as the years went by, she said, shaking her head. After the twins were born, he got jealous of them because I tended to them so much and neglected him. That’s what he thought. He never really helped me with them. Then things got worse. He started talking ugly to me and even slapped me one night when he came home drunk and I wouldn’t—you know, she added, a little embarrassed at the revelation.

Jackson nodded in sympathy. That’s too bad.

Well, Dee Ann continued, Braxton Sr. died, so Braxton Jr. inherited the dealership. He would have bankrupted the dealership through drinking and negligence except I went back to work there and managed the money.

One of your daughters told me he died in a car wreck.

Dee Ann swallowed some wine. Oh, yes. When the twins were seven, Braxton was driving home one night from this bar he went to all the time. He flipped his F-150 four times. He got thrown out because he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, and a car ran over him. The Highway Patrol said he was likely already dead when it hit him. I got the dealership, and I’ve been running it ever since. We do pretty well. You can sell a lot of trucks in Southwest Georgia, you know, she said with a wink. She told Jackson she had not remarried, and she did not consort with any of the men in Redbank. She already married one local boy, and that was enough. My life is all about the twins and the dealership. Braxton Senior bought this house years ago, and I got it too. I bring the girls down to the beach for a week every Memorial Day.

She’d been refilling Jackson’s wine glass from a liter-and-a-half sized bottle every time she