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When the Tide Turns

By Kay Chandler

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Chapter One


Foggy Bottom, Alabama
February, 1940

“I know how you hate deceit, Mack, but honestly, what good could come from telling a child her father is an unknown rapist?” Dabney Foxworthy, nursemaid to Parson Mack Pruitt’s ten-year-old granddaughter, reached across the table and gently placed her hand on her employer’s arm
“Unknown? Somehow, Dabs, I’ve always had the feeling he was unknown to me, but not necessarily unknown to you. However, it’s probably best I don’t know. I’m afraid of what I’d do to the scumbag.”
Her face flushed hot when his eyes met hers. Maybe it was because of the strong desire to stand, walk around the table and embrace him in her arms. Not in a romantic way, but the way a loving mother comforts a hurting child. She swallowed hard. What would she know about a mother’s love? Alexandra wasn’t her child, and all the pretending wouldn’t make it so. Dabney would never have imagined it possible to become so attached to someone else’s child. Yet, neither could she have fathomed that she’d still be living in the Pruitt household ten years after little Alexandra was born. With Zann’s death following the baby’s birth and the parson’s mentally incapacitated wife locked away at Bryce’s Insane Asylum, Dabney had continued to live with the Reverend, serving as Alexandra’s surrogate mother. But a lot of things happened in the past decade she could never have imagined. The phone shattered her thoughts. “Shall I answer it, Mack?”
He shrugged, dismissively. “No, thanks, I’ll take it.” He lifted from his chair and walked into the hall. “Parson Pruitt’s residence.”
Calling the preacher by his first name came natural, now; yet, when he first suggested she drop the Parson title, Dabney couldn’t seem to call him anything other than, “Hey you.” It didn’t seem proper to address her employer in such a familiar manner. But through the years, he’d become much more than just her employer. Not that she could verbalize, even to herself, exactly what type relationship they shared. She only knew there was nothing in the world she wouldn’t do for the man. Legal or moral, that is. She’d long ago given up the notion of marriage, but if she ever did find someone, he’d have to be kind, considerate and loving . . . like Mack. And the odds of finding such a man seemed nil. Mack Pruitt was one-of-a-kind.
Dabney sensed from the one-sided phone conversation that it was a call from Bryce Insane Asylum in Tuscaloosa. She hoped the doctor simply wanted to give Mack a positive progress report on Mrs. Pruitt’s condition. Though it had been ten years of ups and downs with back and forth trips from the hospital, the dedicated husband never gave up hope that with proper care and medication, his mentally ill wife would one day be well again.
His somber expression when he lumbered back into the kitchen told her the news was not good. Without a word, he opened the screen door leading to the porch, and from the window, Dabney could see him leaning against the railing, his shoulders drooped. The past year had taken its toll on him. His appetite had waned and Dabney could hear him walking the floor at night. She’d altered the waist of his slacks until the belt loops were practically touching. If he continued losing weight, he’d be nothing but skin and bone. She swallowed the pain in her throat, watching his thin body convulse in steady sobs. She glanced at the clock above the stove when the front door slammed. Three-fifteen, already? Where had the time gone?
Alexandra came tripping into the house, yelling, “Dabs? Where are you, Dabs?”
“In the kitchen, hon. How was your day?”
“Good. No, I take that back. It was better than good. It was really, really swell!” She returned Dabney’s hug, and then waving an envelope in the air, said, “Guess what? I got my report card today and I made all A’s. Where’s Daddy Mack? I want to show him.”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you. But I have an idea. Why don’t you wait until supper, and we’ll turn your Daddy Mack’s plate upside down, and when he turns it over, he’ll see that excellent report card. It’ll be a fun surprise.” Dabney silently praised herself for quick thinking.
Alexandra jumped up and down with her hands clasped together. “That’s a super-duper idea, Dabs.” She opened the door to the pantry, then her smile quickly faded. “Didn’t we have any oatmeal-raisin cookies left over?”
“You’re looking in the wrong place, sweetheart. They’re in the pie safe. Have a seat at the table and I’ll pour you a glass of milk to go with them.”

The parson ambled into the house and seeing his granddaughter, feigned a smile. Alexandra ran and threw her arms around his waist. “Daddy Mack, I have a surprise but you can’t see it until suppertime. It’s a great surprise. Right, Dabs?”
“Absolutely. But we won’t give it away, yet. If you’ve finished with your snack, please go pull off your good school clothes and put on your jeans.”
Mack managed to hold the smile, though his jaws ached from forcing the uncooperative facial muscles to respond. He patted his granddaughter’s head. “Sounds good, Ladybug.” He abruptly left the room and headed toward the parlor.
Alexandra grabbed two more cookies from the pie safe. “Dabs, can I go catch tadpoles after I change clothes?”
“May I . . .”
“Sorry. May I?”
“Yes, but make sure you’re home before dark.” Dabney puttered around the kitchen, hoping Mack would mention the phone call. Not that it was any of her business, but in the past he’d been so open and willing to share his thoughts. For the past few weeks, however, he seemed to be sinking into a deep depression. Perhaps if he could express what he was feeling, it wouldn’t seem so overwhelming. She carried him a cup of hot coffee, sat it on the table beside his chair and reluctantly turned to walk out.
“Wait, Dabney.” He patted the couch cushion beside him, urging her to take a seat. “Where’s Alexandra?”
“She just ran out of the house on the way to the pond. Shall I call her back?”
“No. I don’t want her to hear what I have to say.” He twisted his hands together, then pulled on each finger, popping them one by one with a swift jerk.
Dabney learned long ago to recognize the nervous habit as a precursor to unpleasant news.
“The phone call was from the hospital.”
“I figured as much.” Not wanting to press him, she waited, giving him ample time to get his thoughts together.
He caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Dabney, my Dora won’t be coming back. Ever.”
“You don’t know that, Mack. Maybe after a few more treatments—”
Not letting her finish, he shook his head. “But it’s true.”
Taking a cue from the pain in his eyes, she asked the question he seemed to be waiting for. “So what did the doctor suggest?”
“It felt more like a command than a suggestion. I suppose working in such a horrible environment would tend to make one callous, but the ruthless doctor’s cold words keep playing in my head like a broken phonograph record. He said, ‘Parson, it’s time to put her out of your mind.’ Then he snickered and said, ‘It’s a fact you’re no longer on her mind. Your wife is hopelessly insane. She doesn’t remember you and never will, so the best thing you can do is to get on with your life.’”
“Surely, you misunderstood. Maybe he blew his nose and it only sounded as if he snickered. Or it could’ve been static in the connection.”
“I promise you, I heard what I heard.” Mack reached for the coffee cup and took a sip. “You know what I told him?”
The lump in her throat prevented her from answering.
“I told him if he couldn’t help her, I’d bring her home and I’d take care of her myself.”
Dabney clasped her hands together in her lap to hide the trembling. “So, is that what you plan to do?”
“Unfortunately, no. It seems according to the law, I no longer have a say-so in what happens to my wife. I never should’ve let them take her away. Now, they won’t release her. It was bad enough six years ago when I learned they sterilized her without my permission. There was no call for that. It was cruel. She’s not an animal, and it’s not as if we—"
His face reddened slightly. “Forgive me. Dabney. I have no right to talk to you about such a private, sensitive subject.” He stroked his chin with his hand. “I’m obviously having trouble thinking straight. But for the life of me, I can’t believe the man would have the gall to sit up there in his white coat, behind his big fine desk and tell me what to do, when he has no idea the struggles I’m dealing with. He’s Dora’s doctor, for crying out loud—not mine, and he doesn’t even have a clue what to do for her. ‘Get on with your life.’ That’s what he said. ‘Get on with your life.’ That’s easy for him to say. What life?”
His moist eyes pleaded for help, but Dabney had none to give. “I’m so sorry, Mack.”
He stood and walked over to the fireplace with his back to her. “Insane,” he mumbled.
“I beg your pardon?” The peculiar look on his face when he whirled around, caused chills to run up her spine.
“Insane. There, I said it. My wife is insane.”
She walked over and stood beside him. “She’s sick, Mack, but sick people get well.”
“No. You know better and so do I. The doctor said I was afraid of admitting the truth. Maybe he’s right. I’ve called it stress, exhaustion, nerves—anything but insanity, because the truth hurts.” His eyes welled with tears.
Her instinct told her to take him in her arms and let him know it was okay to cry, but she’d learned long ago not to trust her instincts. “Mack, he was wrong. It wasn’t fear, but love that kept you from wanting to admit it. I know how much you love her.”
His face distorted. “Do you, Dabney? Do you really know, because I’m not too sure anymore if its love or pity I feel for Dora. I did love her. Once. But it’s difficult sometimes for me to distinguish the Dora I married from the Dora who now looks at me with terrifying eyes. For ten years, she’s been a stranger to me. I made a vow ‘til death do us part, and yet now we’re parted by something far worse than death. Forgive me for wallowing in pity, when Dora is the one to be pitied. No human should endure the kind of treatment forced upon her at that horrid hospital. The inmates are treated like wild animals. Who wouldn’t go crazy in a place like that?” He grimaced and rubbed his chest as if doing so could soothe a broken heart.
A peculiar curiosity stirred within her when his eyes focused on her mouth, causing her to quickly swipe her lips with the back of her hand, assuming she had something on her face. His gaze trailed down, then up, and back down again, as if searching her intently from head to toe. Dabney quickly dismissed the absurd thoughts scrambling for a place to rest. He was a preacher, for crying out loud, and a married one at that. “Why don’t you lay down before supper. You look exhausted.”
“I think I will. But I know as soon as I close my eyes, the dream will return.”
“A nightmare?”
“Of the worse kind. Every night I dream I’m swimming in dark, murky waters, fighting frantically to stay afloat to keep from drowning—yet the shore is nowhere in sight. I’m out there all alone. Then a lifeboat comes close, and I can see two hands reaching down to help me. I want desperately to reach up and grab them . . . but for some unknown reason, just as our fingers are within an inch of touching, the boat invariably drifts a little further away and we’re unable to connect.” His voice cracked. “If only the boat would come close enough for me to grasp those helping hands, but I always wake up and realize nothing will ever change. Ever. We’ll never touch. So I get up and walk the floor to keep from going back to sleep and reliving the same terrifying nightmare.”
“Mack, I’m certainly not a dream interpreter, but do you suppose the dream represents a subconscious feeling you have that Mrs. Pruitt is reaching out to you for help and you’re understandably distraught, because regardless of how hard you keep trying to reach her, she keeps drifting away?”
“No.”
The coldness in his blunt answer caught her by surprise. “As I said, I’m no dream interpreter. It was just a thought.”
“Dabney, I can see the hands and they don’t belong to my wife. I know those hands. I see them daily, preparing my meals, washing my clothes, making my bed, carrying for my grandchild.”
A lump formed in her throat. “It’s just a dream, Mack.”
He had a faraway look in his eyes. “Yes. A dream.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Dabney . . . if things had been different, do you suppose . . . ?”
He ran his hands through his thick brown hair.
“But things aren’t different, Mack. They are what they are, so who am I to speculate about something I have no way of knowing?”
He shrugged. “You’re right. I was just rambling. Tired, I guess. Call me when supper’s ready. I think I’ll go lay down for a few minutes.”

Mack Pruitt kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, but with so much conflict stirring inside, he couldn’t rest. He recalled the countless sermons he’d preached, declaring that temptations only became sin when acted upon. Now, he wasn’t so sure. If the thought wasn’t sinful, why did he carry such guilt? He shuddered at how uncomfortably close he’d come lately into turning a thought into an action.
He got up, reached on the top shelf in the closet and pulled down a hat box that held Dora’s keepsakes. It felt somewhat sneaky going through her personal belongings, but by sifting through the paraphernalia hidden away in that large pink box, he might somehow recapture the good times that were slowly fading from his memory. He had to hold on, somehow. He’d made a vow to God, a vow he couldn’t break. Nineteen years of a happy marriage came to a screeching halt the day they buried their eighteen-year-old daughter. A part of Dora died along with Zann that day. He pulled out a small snapshot made on their wedding day. The young couple in the picture looked happy enough. Could that really be him, grinning from ear to ear, with his arm around a woman he could barely remember? The beautiful young woman in the photo looked nothing like the wild-eyed, frightened creature locked away at Bryce’s.
Mack clinched his eyes tightly and lifted up a prayer. Oh, Lord, please help me. I need my wife and I need her well. This situation at home is becoming too much to bear. I don’t like these thoughts I’m having. Deliver me, Father from these vain imaginations.
Piece by piece, he lifted the contents from the hat box. There were old newspaper clippings of their wedding, souvenirs from their vacation to Warm Springs, a small velvet bag with a lock of their deceased daughter’s curls, saved from her first haircut. But it was his darling daughter’s school pictures that brought a rush of tears to his eyes. “Why, Lord? Why my sweet Zann? Why not me?”

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