Springer Mountain Bride

"That will make my mom happy at least," Molly said as we got back into the car. "She always warned me that I'd have a daughter exactly like me someday. Now she can say 'I told you so'."

"Oh yeah? That used to be my mom's favorite thing. She said the lessons you learn the hard way are the ones that stick with you, but that's still no excuse for not listening to your mother."

"I think my mom would have liked your mom," she laughed. "Who are you texting?"

"Oh, my big sister Angelica. I'll score a few points with her if she's the first to know we're having a girl. It's a good idea to stay on Angie's good side."

"Good to know... So any thoughts on names?"

"Hmm, I'm pretty open on names... Nothing biblical or religious, though."

"Really, Christian?" she deadpanned.

"Hey, that was Mom and Dad. I didn't pick it myself."

"Alright," she conceded. "What do you think of Olivia?"

"It just makes me think of olives. How about Emma?"

"Ugh. Too trendy, and so done. What about naming her after your mom?"

"Dorothy? Dottie? Ehh..."

"Yeah, that's not great," she agreed. "Maybe as a middle name?"

"Yeah, I suppose Dorothy could be a suitably embarrassing middle name. What about your mom's name?"

"You can't name a baby after a living person. It's bad luck," she insisted.

"Really? I'd never heard that. Is it bad luck for the baby or the person the baby's named after?"

"I don't know," she frowned. "I just know you're not supposed to do it."

"Huh. Must be an Ohio thing."

We tossed a few more names back and forth as we drove to the other end of town. Nothing really stuck though.

At the Walmart, we filled a cart with maternity clothes. It took a while for Molly to finally let me buy her anything more than just an outfit or two that fit right now. She eventually relented, and we found clothes to see her through the next four months.

Even though it was Walmart, buying Molly a whole wardrobe cost more than I was expecting. I suppose I'm going to have to get used to a tighter bank account sooner or later though, and this was money well spent.

I don't think Molly got out of the house much. Even if it was just a couple of hours, I think the "retail therapy" did her good. As we crossed the sprawling parking lot back to the car, she hopped on the end of the cart and I pushed her faster and faster until she was screaming with laughter. Of course, I went past her car and had to turn around and push her all the way back. Uphill. It was worth it to see her smile.

It was another forty-minute drive to her parent's house in Endicott.

"Alright, prep me for the interrogation," I prompted. "What should I know about your parents?"

"Alright, well, my dad was a machinist at the factory before it closed down. He works as an exterminator now."

"That's rough. When did that happen?"

"Uh, my first semester of college. He was unemployed for a couple of years, but my folks refused to touch my college savings."

"Blue collar and proud. Ok, he sounds a lot like my dad. I can work with that. You once said he taught you to fish? What else does he do for fun?"

"Well, fishing's his big vice. He ties flies and services high-end reels as a side business. He gets together with his buddies for a big annual trip when he can afford it. It's usually West Virginia or the Great Lakes, but occasionally they splurge and go down to the Gulf."

"Good to know. How about your mom?"

"She's a part-time administrator at a church in Morton Downs, and the coordinator of volunteers for the county board of elections. That keeps her pretty busy, but she likes game shows and baking and jigsaw puzzles. And she's been writing a novel since... I dunno, I think I was in high school when she started it."

"What's the novel about?"

"I don't know," she confessed, shaking her head. "She won't let anyone read it until it's done. Every few months she tells me she finished another chapter."

As we crossed a bridge and turned onto Main Street just after sunset, I got my first look at Molly's home town. A faded sign read "Welcome to Endicott, Established: 1947" and there was a blank space next to the word "Population:" that looked like it had been empty for a long time.

Nearly every storefront we drove past was boarded up. The only lights on the street were the neon signs in the window of a dive bar called "Eddie's". Otherwise the street was dark and deserted. The streetlamps were off, but in the twilight, I could still see that the town square was overgrown and in disrepair. Molly weaved between potholes in the crumbling asphalt.

One of the churches we passed appeared abandoned. The other had a well-kept lawn and a light shining over the front door, but the paint was cracked and peeling, and a broken window pane had been patched with cardboard.

Looming over everything stood the empty five-story edifice that had once been the local economic engine. The factory stood dark and silent, like a grave marker for the entire town.

We turned off Main Street into a grid of cookie-cutter homes on postage stamp lots that had been built by the factory to sell to its workers so they could be close to the job. This had been a nice little post-war company town once. But once the company left, there wasn't much need for the town.

There were at least a dozen "For Sale" signs in front of houses on Molly's street alone. Some of them looked to have been there for years.

The porch light was on over the front door of Molly's parents' house though, and it looked to be well cared for. We pulled into the driveway behind a light duty pickup truck.

"Just leave the Walmart bags in the trunk," Molly instructed as I pulled my overnight bag out of the back seat. "We'll come back out for them later."

She took my hand and led me up to the door, which opened as we climbed the front stoop. Her parents were waiting in the foyer.

Show time.

"Mom, Dad—this is Chris," she introduced me with an excited smile as the door was closed behind us.

Molly's parents are younger than mine were. That shouldn't have been a surprise. She's two years younger than I am, and my oldest sister was fourteen when I was born. I hadn't thought it through though, so meeting them came as a bit of a shock.

Her father is a tall, lanky man who had a few inches on me. He used every one of them as he loomed over me glowering. "So you're the young man who got our Molly in trouble." It wasn't a question.

"Yessir, I suppose I am," I laughed, figuring he was just giving me a hard time.

"That's funny to you?"

"Oh, uh... No, no sir. Sorry, I suppose I'm a bit nervous," I apologized, offering my hand. "Chris Novak. It's nice to meet you Mr. Williams."

"Mm-Hmm," he replied, shaking my hand coolly.

I offered my hand to Molly's mom as well. "Ms. Williams, how do you do?"

"It's Mrs. Williams," she answered sourly, ignoring my gesture. "The guest room is made up for you; you can put your bag in there. Supper will be at seven."

So that's how it's going to be.

"I'll show you the way," her father said flatly, picking up my bag and taking a long stride toward the stairs. "Molly, go help your mother."

She gave me an apologetic smile and a sympathetic shrug as her fingers brushed across my arm and she followed her mom towards the kitchen.

As I started up the stairs, Mrs. Williams called back "Shoes!" without turning. I hadn't noticed that Molly had slipped hers off as we came in. I hastily pulled off my sneakers and caught up to her father waiting at the top of the stairs.

I figured I was walking into the same man-to-man talk I'd gone through with Aimee's dad all those years ago, but Mr. Williams simply dropped my bag on the room's one twin bed. "Keep the door open, if you don't mind," he instructed. "The bathroom is across the hall."

And he left. I was starting to feel just the tiniest bit unwelcome.

Wandering the house on my own didn't seem likely to improve my situation, so I passed the time in my cell. One wall was painted corner to corner with a mural of a mountain landscape. There were tiny details hidden everywhere—campers and rock climbers and hikers, cougars and wolves and bear, moose and bighorn sheep and deer. Down in the corner, it was signed "Molly" and the year. She'd painted it when she was fourteen.

Another wall was filled with photos of her father's fishing trips. Each one was labeled with the date and the location. There was a small desk in the corner with an old computer sitting on top and printer underneath. I'm guessing that's where her mom wrote.

At seven, Molly knocked on the door frame.

"Dinner's ready," she announced clearly. Then in a whisper she added "I'm sorry, I don't know why they're being so weird. Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," I assured her quietly. "It's an uncomfortable situation for everyone."

She led me to the dining room just off the foyer. Her parents were seated at the table looking at us as impatiently. I pulled out the closest chair for Molly, then took the last seat across from her.

"For the food we are about to receive," Mr. Williams began as soon as my butt hit the chair, "to the nourishment of our bodies, we are truly thankful. In Jesus' name we pray. Amen."

"Amen." Molly and her mother repeated, and I was quick enough join them.

Mr. Williams silently doled out portions of spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic bread, and tossed salad and passed around plates one at a time, starting with me. He served himself last, and everyone began eating.

That seemed like the time to try again.

"I saw that picture upstairs of the marlin you caught down in the Keys, Mr. Williams. How much of a fight did he put up?"

He looked at me for a long second with a blank expression, then turned to face his wife.

"Young man, we're eating," she told me in no uncertain terms.

I looked across the table at Molly. She was clearly embarrassed, but I wasn't sure if it was me or her parents that had embarrassed her. She shook her head subtly, and I got the message—no talking during dinner.

I didn't know if this was their custom, or some kind of mind game they were playing to make me uncomfortable. Molly didn't seem freaked out by it, so I played along and ate my dinner in silence.

After we finished—which didn't take long with no conversation—Mr. Williams told Molly to help her mother with the dishes and invited me to the living room for a chat. He gestured me towards the sofa and settle himself in an armchair next to the fire place.

"Christian Novak, huh?" he asked, after looking me over for a moment.

"Yes sir. Just 'Chris', if you don't mind." He ignored that.

"You went to college?"

"Yes sir. Frostburg State."

"Never heard of it."

Most people haven't. That was probably for the best. Frostburg had a reputation as a party school when I was there; that's why I was there. "It's a small school in western Maryland."

"Did you finish?"

"Yes sir, I got my bachelors in psychology."

"Psychology?" he scoffed. "You some kind of shrink?"

"No, um... after college my Dad got me a job driving a forklift." I didn't think he'd be impressed by the year I spent making fancy coffee drinks after college, but I was hoping my years in the warehouse might earn me some blue collar cred.

"Oh yeah? What did your old man do?"

"He started out as a longshoreman for the Port of Baltimore. Worked his way up to heavy equipment operator and eventually foreman. Served as union treasurer for a while."

"It sounds like you wasted four years and needed your father to bail you out."

"Daddy!" Molly objected from the kitchen.

"I wasn't talking to you, sweetheart." He didn't even look away—just kept boring into me with his eyes, daring me to prove I was good enough for his daughter.

"I suppose that's one way to look at it," I admitted. "Psychology didn't turn out to be a very employable degree." Honestly, I only became a psych major when I noticed the male-to-female ratio in that program was way off balanced in my favor. But I wasn't about to admit that.

"You still driving forklifts?"

Molly tried to come to my aid again, calling from the kitchen "Dad, I told you--"

"I want to hear it from him, Molly," her father cut her off brusquely.

"No sir, I went back to school. I got my MBA with an L&SCM focus from UMCP, got a job as an APM, and then got my PMP cert at UMBC. I'm a senior PM now, and pretty good at it." I used the acronyms deliberately. I know it was a dick move, but I was getting annoyed, and I wanted to make him feel a little ignorant.

"I'm afraid I don't know what all those fancy letters mean," he conceded. "They sure sound expensive, though. Did the forklift job pay for all that?"

Dammit, he did it again. He managed to take an accomplishment I ought to be proud of and make it sound like a screw up.

"No," I sighed. "My company paid for my certification, but I took out student loans for the MBA."

"Which means you're in debt," he concluded.

"I still have some student loan debt and my mortgage. But that's it. The car and credit cards are all paid off."

"You own your own place?"

"Yes sir. A little house on the Back River just outside of Baltimore. Waterfront property, good resale value." I wondered how he was going to turn that around.

"Lot of bad news out of Baltimore these days."

"Yeah, we've hit a rough patch, but Baltimore always bounces back. Things will turn around again. They always do." I realized that probably hadn't been the Williams' experience living in Endicott and was waiting for him to tell me so. He changed the subject instead.

"Molly tells us you're divorced."

"That's right." I knew this was going to come up, so I was ready for it.

"You have any kids already?"

"No, sir."

"You didn't want 'em?"

"No, I want kids. My ex-wife does too. But Aimee and I both realized pretty quickly that we weren't right for each other. We tried to make it work for a while, but I think we both knew we were going to split up eventually. Neither of us wanted to make it more complicated."

"Then you should never have gotten married. That was dumb."

He was clearly trying to provoke me, but I still wanted to make a good impression.

"I suppose we got engaged too soon; that was a mistake. But neither of us was willing to admit it, and it was just easier to go through with it than to try and call it off. Molly was smart enough to dodge that bullet with Bryan." That last comment may have been a little snarkier than was strictly necessary.

"Hmph," he snorted, "You think you're better for Molly than Bryan?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I never met the guy. But that's kind of up to Molly, isn't it?"

I managed to score a point with that one. Mr. Williams didn't have an immediate response and leaned back in his chair to consider his next line of questioning. Nonetheless I was irritated. The man was being deliberately insulting and confrontational.

He probably blamed me for Molly breaking up with Bryan and wanted to take that frustration out on me. That might be a reason, but it was no excuse.

Molly and her mother must have finished with the dishes. They came out and sat with us in the living room. Molly sat next to me on the sofa and her father's expression hardened.

"Young man," he began again, leaning forward in his chair, "it seems to me that you get a lot of second chances. And you wouldn't need 'em if you made better decisions the first time. You just don't strike me as very bright, no matter what all your fancy letters say."

"Dad, that's not fair," Molly defended me.

"No, it's alright Molly," I swallowed my anger. Even though I could feel it seething in my chest, no good would come from losing my temper. "I have been fortunate. But I'd like to think I've also learned from my mistakes."

"You think that's better than getting it right the first time?" he asked, giving the screws another turn.

Before I could answer, Mrs. Williams decided it was her turn to have a go at me. "What do your parents think of all this?"

"Oh, uh, my folks passed away about three years ago, ma'am," I told her. That even seemed to soften her husband a bit.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mrs. Williams consoled. Molly put her hand on mine. "How did it happen?"

"Car accident. They were driving home from DC up the parkway late one night," I explained. "The police think Dad swerved to avoid a deer. The car went down an embankment and hit a tree. They both died instantly.

"Mom always said that car was a death trap," I added with a wry smile. "In the end she was right."

"What kind of car did your old man drive?" Mr. Williams asked. He seemed genuinely curious and a bit less confrontational. Molly hadn't said her dad was a car guy, but maybe this was my way in.

"Dad had this huge '75 Buick Electra coupe with the 7.5 liter V8. It was the only car he ever owned," I recalled. "He loved that car like it was one of his kids—spent every weekend tinkering on it... Dad used to say modern cars had no soul—that they were just corporate packaging designed to sell bells and whistles. And God, he hated minivans.

"Dad would put five of us across the back seat, and the three little ones between him and Mom up front and drive around the neighborhood after church every Sunday just as proud as he could be. As long as we all fit and he could keep it running, Dad said it was all we ever needed.

"In hindsight, I guess airbags would have been nice," I mused.

"I guess those kind of bad decisions just run in your family then," Mr. Williams observed with a sneer, and I saw red.

"Dad, what the Hell?!" Molly gasped.

Pick my life and my choices to pieces but leave my parents out of it. I was on my feet in the space of a heart-beat, and bad idea or not, I let my temper fly.

"Oh, fuck you!" I spat down at him, "I'm not the one stuck in the backwater town that got flushed down the toilet, ok? People trust my decisions with multi-million dollar projects. They pay me a six figure salary with profit sharing and performance bonuses because of my 'fancy letters'.

"I am not some seventeen-year-old punk who got careless with your daughter in the backseat of his car, and I'm done being treated like one. I can take care of Molly and our daughter a damn sight better than you, and I think you fucking know it!"

He stood up, unfolding himself slowly from his armchair, and towered over me again, his face flushed, his jaw set. For a second, I thought he was going to take a swing at me, and I wanted him to. I wanted an excuse to knock the bastard on his ass.

Mr. Williams glared at me for a moment or two and I stared right back unblinking, lip curled, fists clenched.

"I won't be spoken to in that tone of voice in my own home," he finally declared through gritted teeth.

"Fine." I turned towards the door. If he wanted to take this outside, I was happy to oblige.

Grabbing my coat and shoes, I left without looking back. He didn't follow though, and I found myself alone out on the front stoop. I could hear raised voices inside, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. These old houses were built solid.

As I sat on the bottom step tying my shoe and trying to decide on my next move, I heard the door open behind me and turned to see Mrs. Williams. She came down the steps and sat next to me.

"Molly gets her stubbornness from her father, you know," she told me quietly.

"Is that so?" I was beyond caring and went back to my shoe laces.

"If you can stand up to him, I suppose you'll be able to stand up to Molly. She needs that—someone to tell her 'no' from time to time."

"Wait... Is that what all this is about? Was this all some sort of sick test?" I asked, feeling my temper start to flare again.

"Oh, it wasn't so much a test as it was... inevitable, I suppose," she replied. "We're not happy about this situation."