Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

  “It’s not just military culture,” our mother said. “It happens in families, too.”

  Meg shot our mother a quick, troubled look from down the table.

  But our father ignored the interruption. “It’s not a problem for me. It doesn’t stop me from doing my job.”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said. “I just thought you could drop in and give your perspective. Since you’re going anyway.”

  Wait. What?

  “Going where?” I asked.

  “The military caregivers’ conference in D.C. next month,” the captain said.

  “Perhaps if you weren’t so busy in the kitchen you would be able to follow the dinner table conversation,” my father said.

  I scowled. I could follow the conversation just fine. He was leaving. For D.C.? Five and a half hours away.

  “You can’t go,” I said. “Not now.”

  All those faces swiveled toward me. Like I’d yelled out shit in church or something. I couldn’t believe I had to explain. I looked at Beth, but she was staring at her plate. If she wouldn’t say anything . . . And Mom wouldn’t say anything . . .

  “Mom needs you here,” I said. “She’s sick.”

  My father looked more like a saint than ever. A martyred missionary, maybe, forced to reason with rebellious natives. “It would be unthinkable for me to withdraw. I am one of the organizers.”

  Right. Mission first.

  My chest burned. “But—”

  “Don’t fuss, Jo,” Mom said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine by then. The conference is weeks and weeks away.”

  An awkward silence fell.

  I wanted desperately to believe her. But before we even served dessert, she needed to go upstairs. She shuffled toward the stairs, leaning heavily on Beth.

  “Let me help you, ma’am.”

  A rough, bearded soldier came forward to take her arm. Beth flushed and moved away.

  “Thank you,” my mother said.

  I glanced at our father—was he really okay letting some strange man walk Mom to their bedroom?—but he was still deep in conversation with the captain.

  “Well, at least we have enough dessert,” I said glumly to Meg as we cut and plated pie. “These look great, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Dinner was delicious,” she added kindly.

  “The soufflé fell.” It sat on the counter, looking like a deflated football at the bottom of the dish. I should take a picture of that for the blog.

  “The twins loved your mac and cheese.”

  I snorted. “They’re two-year-olds. They would have loved Kraft from the box.”

  “They love mac and cheese in the box. Which makes it even more impressive that they liked yours. John, too. And Dad.”

  That was my sister, always making everybody feel better. Her words salved some of the sting I felt, that sense I got whenever I was in Bunyan of being judged and found wanting. Visiting home as a starving grad student or a rising journalist in the Big City hadn’t been so bad. I’d had a purpose, a direction, then. “Writers change the world,” my father used to say. Food bloggers? Not so much.

  I hated disappointing him. Maybe I wasn’t writing the Great Southern Novel. My advisor told me kindly that the stories I’d written for my master’s project were “sentimental” (not a compliment). But at least I hadn’t quit.

  I cut another wedge of pie. “I can’t believe he’d go off like that and leave Mom.”

  Meg dolloped whipped cream onto plates. “Who, Dad? He goes away all the time.”

  “Not to D.C.”

  “That’s not until after Christmas,” Meg reminded me. “You’ll be back home by then.”

  “Only for a couple days.” Assuming I could even get that much time off after skipping out on Thanksgiving.

  Meg didn’t say anything.

  “And you’re here,” I said, reassuring myself.

  “I’m always here.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “I did not. It’s not.” She loaded dessert plates onto the special tray our mother used to bring us meals when we were sick in bed. “I’m taking these in. You coming?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not leaving the kitchen until Aunt Phee is gone.”

  “Coward,” Meg said, picking up the tray. “Slacker.”

  “Hey, I’m doing the dishes.” But I felt a wriggle of guilt anyway. Not about Aunt Phee. But Meg definitely did more than I did to help out our parents. On the other hand, it was her decision to live so close to home. I had to go back to New York.

  “Great pie,” Trey said from the doorway.

  “Meg made it.” My sister’s dessert choices, like everything else in her life, were sweet, traditional, and family approved. There was a lesson there somewhere.

  “John’s a lucky guy,” Trey said.

  “Thank you.” Meg dimpled. “Tell him he should bring you home for dinner sometime.”

  “I’ll do that.” He stood aside to let her through to the dining room.

  I turned on the water in the sink.

  “So, you got any more?” Trey asked.

  I glanced at him over my shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re still hungry.”

  Trey assumed an injured look. “It’s for Granddad.”

  I sighed. “Fine. Pumpkin or pecan?”

  “Both, please,” he said meekly. “To go. I’ve got to get the old boy home.”

  I wiped my hands. Grabbed a knife.

  He held up both palms. “Don’t stab me.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” I cut two large wedges and covered them with foil. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” He accepted the plate from me. Paused. “Jo—”

  “Am I interrupting something?” Amy asked from the doorway.

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Trey said at the same time.

  I scowled at him. “What do you need?” I asked Amy.

  “Oh.” She took a step forward, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “I just wanted . . . I came in for . . .”

  “More pie?” I asked.

  “Whipped cream.”

  “In the fridge.”

  Trey shifted out of her way. She grabbed the bowl and left.

  “Why don’t I swing back later?” Trey said. “Take you out for a drink.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “There are actually bars open in Bunyan on Thanksgiving Day?”

  “There’s Alleygators.”

  A dive bar on the river near the trailer park. “Ha. No, thanks.”

  His mouth curved. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  “Please. I live in New York. I can take care of myself. Which means I’m not hanging out with the drunk and desperate on a holiday weekend.”

  “We can go to my house, drink up Granddad’s whiskey.”

  I crossed my arms against temptation. “I really should stay home tonight.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  He was too used to getting his own way. And too old for me to let him get away with it anymore. “I go home tomorrow. Back to New York,” I added, in case it wasn’t clear to both of us that’s where I belonged.

  “So soon?”

  Not soon enough. “I have to work.”

  “I’ll see you at Christmas, then.” Trey moved in. Mr. Smooth. This time I didn’t turn my head fast enough. His kiss landed squarely on my mouth. His warm lips lingered. Whispered. “It’s no good you trying to avoid me, Jo. I’ve got my eye on you.”

  I laughed and pushed him away. “You are so full of it. I am not avoiding you. I have things to do, that’s all.”

  He continued to smile, his dark eyes somber. “That’s what you always say.”

  Boy, did that bring back memories.

  * * *

  Junior year. Trey sprawled on my narrow dorm
bed, six feet of lean, frustrated male.

  “Come on,” he wheedled. “They’re showing The Half-Blood Prince at the auditorium tonight.”

  I hunched over my laptop. “I have to finish this paper.”

  He unfolded from the bed to read over my shoulder. “‘Love and gluttony in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.’ Aren’t you acing that class anyway?”

  “So?”

  “So you can afford to slack off. It’s one paper out of thousands.”

  Right. Easy for him to say. Trey had charm, he had his grandfather’s money, he had a job waiting for him when he got out.

  I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out how to swing grad school without asking my parents for help. My only hope was to earn a fellowship.

  “No, I can’t. This is due tomorrow. Why don’t you ask . . .” I tried to remember the name of his current flavor of the month. “Brittany to go with you?”

  “We broke up.”

  “Which explains why you’re here. And in such an excellent mood, too.”

  “Wow. You could show a little sympathy.”

  I grinned. “Maybe if you weren’t such a man whore, I would. Trey, I really do need to work now.”

  “All work and no play . . .”

  “Means I might actually get a stipend next year.” The Creative Writing Program at NYU awarded all incoming students departmental fellowships. The prospect of doing nothing for two whole years but concentrate on my writing seemed like heaven to me. The MFA program even had a writers’ residency workshop in Paris. Not that I could afford that. But to get in, I needed more than an offer of half-tuition remission. I needed a full ride.

  I resecured my ponytail. Trey’s pacing was getting on my nerves. “You know, it wouldn’t do you any harm to study now and then.”

  His face clouded. “You sound like my grandfather.”

  “I like your grandfather.”

  “Because he respects you. He doesn’t tell you that you’re worthless and irresponsible.”

  My own grandfather—my mother’s dad—died when I was little, leaving behind a faint, comforting impression of tobacco and whiskers and strong, callused hands. I never knew my father’s father at all. But in his pictures, he looked a lot like old Mr. Laurence—same ramrod posture, same pride and privilege, same clean, white, ironed shirt.

  Trey might have a job waiting for him upon graduation. But . . . Well, he’d be working for his grandfather, right? Mr. Laurence was proud of his grandson, no doubt about it. But he must be over seventy now, a generation older than my parents. A tough old bastard. It wasn’t always easy for Trey, growing up as the sole focus of his grandfather’s attention and ambition.

  “What happened? Are you two fighting again?”

  Trey gave me a smoldering look. “He said no to my study abroad next semester.”

  “Oh, Trey.” I closed my laptop. Paper or no paper, we were friends. And friends sympathized with each other’s disappointments. I knew how much he’d been looking forward to spending a semester in Italy. “I’m sorry.”

  “He threatened to cut off my tuition.”

  I winced. Ouch. “He’s afraid of losing you.” Like he lost your father, I thought.

  “I should just drop out.” Trey flung himself on the bed. “Go anyway.”

  I sighed. “Don’t be stupid.” I sat beside him on the bed. “At least wait until after graduation.”

  “Is that what you would do?”

  “You know I want to go to New York.” As much as I wanted to travel, my student loans wouldn’t wait while I backpacked across Europe. Over the summer, Aunt Phee had hinted she might come through with a nice graduation check. But I’d already earmarked that money for grad school. “Anyway, we’re not talking about me.” I took his hand. “It’s only another year or so. You just have to make the best of things until then.”

  Trey’s hand tightened on mine. “I wouldn’t mind so much if . . .”

  I squeezed encouragingly. “If?”

  He turned his head to look at me. “If I had a reason to stay.”

  Oh.

  Our eyes met. My throat went dry. Trey was my friend. The best friend I had, next to Meg. I needed to keep him that way. Because if I didn’t . . . And then we broke up . . . Well, I’d seen how rapidly he discarded his old girlfriends.

  He kissed me.

  Surprise, curiosity, compassion held me still. My thoughts churned. My stomach fluttered. It was not, after all, like kissing my brother. If I had a brother. Which, much to our father’s disappointment, I didn’t. Oh, I did my best to fill the role—the family tomboy, the son he never had. We didn’t watch football together or shop for power tools or anything. But he’d taught me to stand up for myself and encouraged me to read. When some parents petitioned to have The Handmaid’s Tale removed from the AP English curriculum, Daddy was the one who went with me to the school board meeting to defend my reading choices.

  I remembered how scared I’d been. Not of the grown-ups seated behind the long table, but of letting him down. And then my father caught my eye from the front row of folding chairs, smiling faintly the way he did when he was pleased. He looked so handsome in his uniform, the cross of his chaplaincy on his lapel, and my whole body flooded with courage.

  Hm. Apparently my brain wanted to think about anything but this kiss.

  The truth was, sex wasn’t really my thing. Not that I’d taken a vow of celibacy or anything. But unlike Meg, who dreamed of love and romance, or Amy, who thrived on drama, I wasn’t looking for love. Sex made things messy.

  I tried to focus as Trey kissed me again, with more confidence and tongue. Giving him a chance. Giving us a chance. It was . . . nice. Not that I had a lot to compare it to, but it was better than in high school.

  He drew back. His gaze met mine, his eyes dark and expectant.

  I cleared my throat. “Pretty good.”

  “Thanks.” He leaned in again.

  I leaned back. “Must be all the practice.”

  “Don’t hold it against me.”

  My cheeks started a slow burn. “I don’t. The thing is . . . I don’t think you should practice with me.”

  “Not with you. For you.” His eyes held mine with dark, disconcerting sincerity. “Everything I’ve ever done . . . It’s all for you, Jo.”

  My heart lurched. “Trey, stop.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve told you before. We’re too young.”

  “We were too young. We’re twenty now.”

  “Exactly. We have the rest of our lives ahead of us. Places to go. Things to do.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  * * *

  The memories followed me to bed that night, clustering like shadows in the corners of my attic room. Eventually, I sat up, my back against the wall, and scrolled through the day’s blog comments. Thirty-four little notes, pictures from cell phones and cries for help, including some guy in New Jersey who had failed to defrost his turkey in time and wanted to know if he could quick-thaw the bird in the dishwasher. Um, no. Honestly, hadn’t these people ever heard of the Butterball Turkey hotline?

  I responded to every comment, congratulating, commiserating, offering thanks and advice, grateful for the distraction, for every post reminding me that I had readers, friends, and followers outside Bunyan, North Carolina. I had an identity: Jo March, the Hungry blogger, biting into everything life had to offer.

  I typed “Gusto” into my browser, immediately noting the Times review near the top of the search results. I clicked and read eagerly. The restaurant was an unpretentious oasis, the monkfish seasonal, stylish, and straightforward, the quail with fig puree uninhibited and presented with flair. Yay! Not that one review would change Chef’s opinion of food critics, but . . .

  On impulse, I sent a message to chef@gusto.com:

  Som
ething to be thankful for.

  With the link.

  And waited.

  No answer.

  I closed my hand on disappointment. Well, what did I expect? It was barely midnight. The last orders would be trickling into the kitchen at Gusto, the cooks already packing up their mise en place, scrubbing down their stations, snapping towels and cracking jokes and counting the minutes until they could all go out drinking. Plenty of bars open in New York at the end of the night, even on Thanksgiving. Chef would stay behind, calculating portions and proteins and the night’s receipts. He wouldn’t be wasting his time checking the restaurant’s e-mail accounts.

  I tossed back the quilt and padded half a flight down to the bathroom, feeling my way in the familiar dark, my feet wincing from the cold plank floor. Trying to soothe myself with rituals like a child, one more drink of water, one more trip to the potty, before I returned to bed.

  A message lit my phone screen. I snatched it up.

  He ordered the fish, Chef had typed.

  I grinned foolishly. In the hustle of service, I’d missed the orders going out to the VIP table. They always do, I typed back.

  I climbed into bed, staring at the little screen, my heart beating unaccountably fast as three dots appeared, followed by, How was your dinner?

  Not a terribly personal question.

  Good, I replied. Thanks for the time off. I hesitated. I’d read the restaurant menu: turkey two ways and planked salmon, grilled lobster and roasted root vegetables, brussels sprouts with lardons.

  I made green bean casserole, I confessed.

  A pause.

  With the little fried onions on top?

  Yep.

  A longer pause. I pictured him sitting alone in his office as the clamor of the kitchen faded, surrounded by paperwork, the task lists and shopping lists for the morning.

  My ex makes that. The boys love it.

  Aw. The boys. His sons, Bryan and . . . Who was the other one? Alex? Alec. They must spend the holidays with their mother. I wondered if he missed celebrating with his family or if he was glad to be in New York, cooking dinner for paying guests with discriminating palates. But then why bring up his sons at all?