“May we come in?’’ I asked. “The neighbors will wonder why we’re talking to a door.’’
She stood aside to let us by, then turned and stalked away. “Suit yourselves.’’ Her tone was hard. “I suppose you’ve come to gloat.’’
The newspaper was on Delilah’s otherwise spotless carpet, open on the hurricane story.
“We’re not gloating,’’ Mama said. “We’re women, just like you. We feel for what you’re going through.’’
A sniffle came from Delilah’s direction. The hard shell was beginning to crack. “Would you like a cup of coffee?’’ she asked in a softer voice. “I was just about to make myself a pot.’’
Before I could scream “No More Coffee!” Mama said, “We’d love a cup. That’s very nice of you, Delilah.’’
As she busied herself preparing the pot, Mama and I took seats at the table. Images of butterflies were everywhere. They fluttered across the curtains. They danced on the coffee cups. They formed a butterfly bouquet in a vase on the table. The way Delilah’s words stung, she was more like a wasp than a butterfly. And she was big, like a hawk. Yet, deep inside, she seemed to identify with the most fragile of winged creatures.
Or, maybe she just liked butterflies.
She poured a coffee for each of us. My bladder tightened in protest.
“I may as well get right to it, Ms. Dixon. Mama and I read the story in this afternoon’s Times. Is it true?’’
She looked into her coffee cup, avoiding our eyes. A tear plopped onto the table, and her shoulders began to shake.
“I don’t know if the newspaper has it right or not.’’ Sobbing, she took off her glasses and slipped them into a pocket on her housedress. “Like I said, Bob takes care of all the financial matters. But …’’ she stopped, raising her light brown eyes to ours. Hers were filled with tears.
“But what, honey?’’ Mama stroked Delilah’s thick arm.
“He’s definitely gu … guh … gooonnnne.’’ More sobs. “He cleaned out all his drawers and his side of the closet. He even took the envelope the cashier at the grocery gave me yesterday. It had fifty-six dollars the store collected for the hurricane fund. I left it on the hall table until Bob could get to the ba … buh … baaaank,’’ she wailed.
Mama pulled a boysenberry-colored handkerchief from her purse. She patted and murmured. I envied her ability to let bygones go, comforting the same woman who’d razzed her about her jail stint. I hold onto a grudge tighter than Midas with his money. I’m not saying I’m proud of it.
Her sobs finally subsided into hiccups. “The whole thing is my fault.’’
“Why?’’ I asked.
“Don’t be silly.’’ Mama jumped immediately to Delilah’s defense. “What could you possibly have done to make your husband do an awful thing like this?’’
I said nothing, withholding judgment until I heard her answer.
“I don’t think this would have happened if I hadn’t pushed Bob beyond his limit. He’d already been under a lot of stress because his plans to grow his ministry weren’t working. And then I come along and …’’ she couldn’t finish the sentence. “I’m so ashamed to admit it …’’
“Honey, there’s not a one of us pure enough to cast a stone,’’ Mama reassured her. “We’ve all done things we’re sorry for. Go on and say what you need to say.’’ She brushed the well-coiffed hair from Delilah’s forehead.
“It’s all because of me that Bob wasn’t thinking straight.’’ Delilah fiddled with her teaspoon. “You know that woman Emma Jean came into the church shouting about? The woman who was having an affair with her man?’’
We nodded.
“Well, that was me. Lord forgive me, I was cheating on my husband with Jim Albert.’’
Mama actually gasped. I kept my mouth shut, processing Delilah’s confession.
She was silent, too. Staring out the window, she traced the wings of a butterfly on her coffee cup. Maybe she wished she were outside, floating peacefully from flower to flower on her trellis of Confederate jasmine.
“Why didn’t you say anything the night Emma Jean came to Abundant Hope?’’ I asked.
Her head snapped around, and I thought for a moment she was going to slap me. She might be hurt and humiliated, but there was still a slice of mean in Delilah Dixon.
“What should I have said? ‘Excuse me, everyone. I’m the wicked woman Emma Jean is yelling about.’ I couldn’t do that. I’m the pastor’s wife. I’m supposed to be a model of propriety.’’
I wasn’t letting her off that easy. “You just stood there, as each of those fine churchgoers looked with suspicion from woman to woman.’’ I flashed on the pretty soprano. The way Emma Jean had stared, even I’d suspected her. “That’s not right. It’s not Christian.’’
Mama put a warning hand on my wrist. “Hush, Mace. Delilah knows she’s done wrong. But she’s got all sorts of trouble right now. Her husband’s gone. So is the hurricane money. She doesn’t need you piling on.’’
Delilah got up for the coffee pot. She raised her eyebrows to me. Not unless you want me to pee right here on the butterfly-covered cushion of your kitchen chair, I thought. But I just smiled and shook my head.
“No, Rosalee. Your daughter’s absolutely right. I wanted to confess. I really did. But I simply couldn’t get out the words that night in front of everyone. I prayed and prayed about it, asking God to help me do the right thing. I’d decided to ask Emma Jean for her forgiveness, but she vanished before I could do it.’’
We sat, listening to the tick of a butterfly clock over the kitchen sink. A Monarch hovered at twelve o’clock; a Swallowtail at six. As I studied the specimens for each hour, a mini lepidopterology course, Mama eyed a store-bought package of pecan cookies on the counter.
“Delilah, honey?’’ She licked her lips. “Would you mind if I took a couple of those cookies? I never had lunch today.’’
She glanced over her shoulder at the bag, but made no move to get up. She seemed completely defeated. “Of course, Rosalee. Help yourself.’’
Mama started struggling with the indestructible packaging. She put it between her knees and tugged. She turned it this way and that, trying to find a tab to rip. Delilah took the cookies without thinking, as if she was accustomed to being the one in the house who opens lids and unsticks drawers. The tendons in her forearms flexed like steel cables as she forced open the bag.
“You’re awfully muscular, Delilah. Do you exercise a lot?’’ I asked.