by Mae Wood
Well, at least if that happens Grady won’t be surprised. “I’m not sure about that. Not yet at least, but I do want to talk with you about the holidays.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me while his brow furrowed in confusion. “Christmas,” I offered.
“Yeah. You want to bring your boyfriend? I mean, it would be a little weird for him to be in the house, but you could rent a house nearby—”
“No. We’re talking about spending the holidays together. Thomas and me. He’s older than us. He has twin girls who are both in college and a son who is in medical school, so he takes his kids skiing. They’ve invited me and Grady.”
“You want to go?”
“Would I be talking to you about this if I didn’t?”
“So it is serious?”
“Yeah. I guess this is supposed to be our Brady Bunch experiment. See how the kids get along and how his kids like me.”
“No pressure, then.”
“On me, a ton. On you, no. I thought we’d make it Grady’s call. Let him pick.”
I watched Bert process my idea and then down half a beer. “Omni—” he began.
“Please no Greek or Latin,” I pleaded. This was the part about Bert that I didn’t know that until we were married. That his love of ancient myths wasn’t about the stories of monsters and war. It was part of his old soul.
“Sorry,” he said, focusing his attention at the label of the beer bottle that I knew was going to be in scraps on the top of the bar by the time we left.
“I know you can’t help it when you get like this.”
“And I know how annoying it must be. Any way, it’s Ovid. ‘All things must change but nothing perishes.’”
“You’ve been an amazing father. Were a good husband, too,” I said softly.
“So, you talking the whole week?”
“Well, they go to Deer Valley. He rents a chalet there.”
“A chalet? Not a cabin?”
“He’s not as pretentious as the word chalet sounds.”
“I’ll reserve judgment. How does Grady seem with him?”
“Pretty good, actually. It’s been a little awkward for a couple of weeks now because—”
“I heard about the sleepover.”
“Yeah.” My eyes widened and cheeks flushed, remembering my shame. Bert rambled on about college applications, but because I’d put my Thomas cards on the table, I wanted to see what his cards looked like. Even though I was in a happy place, a part of me couldn’t help but pick at that scar on my heart. “Grady said you have a girlfriend.”
“I wouldn’t go that far with it,” he huffed.
“You don’t have to hide dating from him. He’s actually happy that you were seeing someone. He worries about you. Worries about what you’re going to do when he goes off to college.”
Bert finished off his beer and resumed picking at the tattered blue label. “He shouldn’t worry. That’s silly. I’ve got the restaurant and sports with the guys.”
“And an empty house. I think it’s sweet he’s looking out for you. I know we reversed traditional gender roles when he was growing up with you staying home with him, so it makes me smile that he’s kinda mothering you now. You should date. Good for you, makes Grady happy, and I know you’ll do anything to make him happy.”
“You about done with your beer?”
“Almost.” That he didn’t deny he had a girlfriend made me happy for him. He played close to the chest with most things and I hoped his lack of words signaled good things for him. “I want to talk about college. I know our agreement is that you’ll pay for it, but my practice is doing well and I want to pay for it,” I said, going for broke in this visit to the Belmont Grill.
“No.” The last of the label broke free from his brown bottle.
“I’m tired of you doing penance for our life. We’re going halvsies on it. Plus, if you somehow think you’re going to make him ‘normal’ by continuing to pretend that you and he don’t—”
“I’ve told him.”
“So, does he know there’s a trust for him, too, or did you just fess up to yours? Money isn’t the root of all evil, Bert. We’ve both seen our share of listless Trustafarians. He’s not going to be like that. I know your sister is less than a stellar role model, but she’s—”
“Don’t bring Fischer into this,” he cautioned.
“I’m not,” I said, raising my hands in a show of surrender. I wasn’t about to bring up his precious baby sister in any way that wasn’t nice, but I focused on my point, which had somehow moved from me paying for some of Grady’s college to doling out life advice to my ex, like my weekend in New Orleans had certified me as a happiness expert. “I’m just saying that she and Molly are fine, and Rosemary is as perfect as she’s always been, and I think your friend Trip finally has his act together from what Grady says. Listen, I’m so thankful for your family. I’m not trying to rehash the past, but don’t want it to hold you back. You’re a good guy. Date. Go to the Maldives. Buy your own beach house instead of borrowing your parents’. Pig and Barley was a great start. You won’t ruin Grady by doing what you want for a change.”
He didn’t respond to my serious overstep, but didn’t concede college, telling me flatly that my money was no good and that when he agreed to provide for all of Grady’s education, he meant all of it. “Amy,” he called, as we got in our cars, and I looked over at him. I still didn’t have an answer but knew I’d probably get one by text message in a couple of days. “Maybe you should buy your own beach house. If Grady wants to go skiing, he goes skiing.”
32
Thomas
Growing up, one of the boys I knew from 4H had divorced parents. His dad lived on the family farm and his mom lived in a small apartment in our two blocks of a downtown. I thought it was cool that he lived in town when I lived in our little one-story white clapboard house with only my grandparents’ house within shouting distance. What I didn’t appreciate was the shuttling he had to do. Bouncing between lives, as his mom waitressed in the diner and his dad raised hogs. I understood that, but what I knew and imagined I knew about Curt’s experience would float into my mind from time to time, as Amy had to swing by her house some weekday mornings because she’d forgotten something essential, like the only hairbrush she said would work on her curls or the other half of her pair of shoes that went with the outfit she had brought.
I didn’t like it. I wanted her all the time and was a bit ashamed of my greediness. I wasn’t competing with Grady and intellectually I knew that. But my heart didn’t know that. It didn’t understand the times when I had to kiss her goodbye instead of good night. Rationally, there wasn’t a lot of difference between the two, but damn, if that small difference didn’t feel like the end of the world every Friday night when I’d kiss her on her front porch just before Grady’s eleven o’clock curfew.
And it didn’t get better until I settled in across the table from her at The Blue Plate Café on Saturday mornings. What had begun as happenstance became the polestar of my week. Wake up, work out, and an hour that passed too quickly with Amy before she was off to do her thing and I went to my office.
While Amy was with Grady on his college visit to Duke, I got a hankering for shrimp and grits. And there was only one place to get my fix—Pig and Barley. And this time I thought I was prepared. I snagged an empty seat at the bar early on Friday evening, well before happy hour got underway. Was I being a glutton for punishment? Was curiosity going to kill this cat? How pissed would Amy be if she knew I was here? And if she knew I was here on yet another reconnaissance mission? Pretty pissed was my guess, but I was here.
“Hello there, friend,” greeted Fischer. She was really pretty, smart, and friendly. The idea of bringing Miller to the restaurant with me to meet her had crossed my mind a time or two, but now that I knew who she was, that idea was off the table. She was Grady’s aunt. “Haven’t seen you around much.”
“I’ve been busy, but I’m here now,” I replied, grabbing a few
cheese crackers from the dish she’d set in front of me.
“Not a moment too soon. A dirty, dirty martini for ya’?” she asked.
“You know it. Thanks.” A nod that made the piled-up bun on the top of her head bounce and turned to fix my drink. I casually scanned the sparse happy hour crowd for my objective.
He found me first.
“Hey, Fischer, I’ll handle this,” said Bert from across the bar, his eyes drilled on me.
“Whatever, Bubs. Thomas, holler if he becomes a pain in your ass,” she said, as she shrugged and set my martini on the bar in front of me.
Bert didn’t say anything to me. He studied me, looming large across the bar. Even though he was standing and I was sitting, we were at eye-level. I met his gaze and didn’t flinch. “Bert,” I said in acknowledgement, lifting my glass in slight toast before taking a sip.
“Thomas,” he replied coolly. “How’s Amy?”
And there it was. No pussyfooting. No preamble. We were at the heart of the matter, and I wasn’t sure how we’d gotten there, but we were there. My guess was that Grady had told his dad about me. I met his thrust with a parry. “She’s good. We just got off the phone. She said that Grady sat in an intro to logic class this afternoon and was raving about the professor.”
“You’ve spent time with Grady?” he asked, truly curious.
“Only briefly. He seems like a good kid. Protective of his mom.”
Bert’s left eyebrow raised and a tense smile crawled across his lips. “You don’t know protective,” he growled, his shoulders inching across the bar in my direction.
“Hey, man,” I said leaning back and holding up my hands. “Let’s start over. You want to grill me? Do it.”
My openness surprised him, but I didn’t have anything to hide from him or anyone else. Amy and I weren’t doing anything wrong. I wasn’t a creep or serial killer. Other than an arrest for a public intoxication when I was twenty, there were no skeletons in my closet. “Going to ask my intentions toward her?”
“Should I?”
“My intentions are that Amy is a really wonderful person and I’m going to keep seeing her. We have a good time together.”
“Amy is not just a good time.” Bert’s cold stare turned arctic.
“Let me clarify. We enjoy going to movies and hanging out. She’s funny.”
Bert’s head tilted at my use of the ambiguous word “funny.” “She’s got a great sense of humor,” I clarified my words again, steeling my spine even though I felt myself falling back on my heels. “What do you want to know about me?”
“What I can’t find out from the hospital’s web bio.” He reached under the bar, pulled out a short glass and fixed himself a bourbon and soda, keeping his eyes trained on me through much of his task.
“Fair enough,” I said, returning his hard stare. I gave him my life in a nutshell. My childhood, Laurie, the kids, my move to Memphis, even my damn cat. “And I live a few blocks from your parents.”
“You know where my parents live?”
“Amy pointed it out. I’m down the street. Bought it from the Guilfoiles.”
“Nice house,” he said with a nod.
“It is,” I confirmed, continuing the conversation but giving him space to process. After a beat, he spoke.
“Amy tell you that our house wasn’t far from there?” A small smile danced on his face and he swallowed down more of his drink.
“No, she didn’t,” I said, my turn to be curious.
“Yeah, we had a little bungalow on Angelus,” he said, swirling the dregs of his drink before tossing it back. “Don’t fuck with her, man.”
“That’s not the plan.”
“I understand that’s not your plan, but I don’t care about your plans,” he spat. “I care about what you do. And don’t fuck with her.”
“Loud and clear, sir,” I said, biting back an inappropriate smile. Amy’s two guard dogs—father and son. Both had bared their teeth to me, but neither had bitten. And that was a win.
He rapped the knuckles of his fist on the bar and called out down the bar. “Fischer, you’re back on duty.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him settle in at the end of the bar, slicing citrus, the tension in his shoulders from our conversation still present.
“You cut my brother off with your car while he was on his bike or something?” asked Fischer, wiping her hands on a towel.
“No. I’m Amy’s boyfriend.”
Her brown eyes formed circles in surprise. “And you came in here? Hell, next drink is on me.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I replied. “You have the best shrimp and grits in the city. Couldn’t stay away. Let’s get me fed before the crowd shows up.”
I ate my dinner at a reasonable pace, enjoying the food and chatting with Fischer about neutral topics while avoiding all of her many questions about me, Amy and Grady. I didn’t want Bert to think he’d scared me off but when I saw him forcefully toss his apron on the bar and tug a blonde about Miller’s age down the hall after him, I knew I’d overstayed my welcome. I paid my tab and left. This time I wasn’t sure I’d ever be back.
The next morning, I went to breakfast. Sat in what had become my usual spot and texted her a picture of her empty chair across from me. As I dug into my omelet, my phone buzzed with a picture that made me happy and sad at the same time. Her wild morning hair and sleepy warm face, eyes closed and pink lips pursed in a kiss.
I texted her back, humming as I typed: I think I could stay with you. For a while, maybe longer.
Doctor Amy: Ha. That song is Amie, not Amy, btw.
Me: Talk to G about skiing?
Doctor Amy: I will today. XOXO. Flight gets in at seven.
I pulled an extra paper napkin from the dispenser and snagged a pen off our waitress, and I made lists and sketched as I scarfed my breakfast, no reason to linger without Amy there. Instead of heading to the office as I usually did, I headed back home.
First stop in the house was my bedroom. Making room for her should have been easy. The tiny turn of the century closets fought back and I hauled two bags of old clothes to my car to be donated. Bathroom was simpler. She had a toothbrush already, but she needed more to be at home here with me.
An hour later, I was in the shampoo aisle of Target, opening and sniffing every green bottle I could find.
“Can I help you?”
I turned and expected to be interrogated by a red shirted employee about my shampoo kink, but instead found a woman with a baby strapped to her chest and a toddler strapped in the cart. A single bottle of shampoo and a bunch of bananas in the basket.
“Um, yeah. So, I’m looking for this shampoo that is in a green bottle and it says something about curly hair on it and it smells like rosemary.” She looked at me like a third eye had sprouted in the middle of my forehead. “It’s for my girlfriend,” I added.
“Oh.” Her face softened. “That’s sweet. You say it’s for curly hair?”
God bless Southern hospitality. But I’d been in the city long enough to realize that she wasn’t helping me purely for my own good. This was now going to be an amusing story at a church social, t-ball practice, or cookout. I didn’t care.
“It’s green. It says ‘curly’ on the front and it smells like rosemary.”
“Hold on a second.” She pulled out her phone and tapped on the screen. “Carrie, you got a sec? There’s this guy in Target with me who’s trying to buy his girlfriend the shampoo she uses but he doesn’t know which one. He says it’s green, says ‘curly’ on it, and smells like rosemary.” A pause and she looked at me. “What color green?”
I stared at her.
“Like Seahawks green or Packers green?” she prompted.
“Seahawks.”
“Seahawks,” she repeated back into the phone.
“Okay, it’s called Be Curly. But it’s not at Target. There’s a salon in Laurelwood that will have it.”
“Be Curly!” I snapped my fingers, cursing
my inability to recall that obvious name. “Thanks.”
“Good luck,” she called as she walked away.
Out of the salon with a bottle of some Cassie-level expensive shampoo, conditioner, and other nice smelling things the woman at the front desk had convinced me to buy, I swung by my house to change clothes before I started my next project. After a quick sandwich for lunch, I pulled up in Amy’s driveway, popped my car’s trunk and pulled out the pansies, forget-me-nots, ornamental cabbages, and every lush autumn plant the garden shop had in stock. I’d sketched it out on a napkin at breakfast, modified it on the fly, and now it was time for the installation.
My knees and hands in the dirt, I worked. Scraping out mulch. Digging up her spent summer begonias and impatiens and geraniums. In Wisconsin, I would have changed out the flowers a month ago, right after Labor Day. Despite my complaints about the summers in Memphis, the warmer weather gave me more time to spend in the garden.
Giving her beds a nice turn and amending with the rich black compost from my own garden, my head cleared. Gardening forced me to slow down. Rushing a planting—digging a hole too shallow or too narrow, not having carefully observed the way the land lay, the way the sun hit, the composition of the soil, the way water drained—resulted in disaster. I was far from meticulous, always pushing forward, pushing myself, pushing others. But in the garden, I didn’t set the deadlines. Nature did. It rewarded my patience and planning at its own whim. I could set things in motion, but the outcome wasn’t entirely in my hands.
My phone rang and I pulled it out of my pants pocket, swiveling to sit my butt on her front walkway. I didn’t recognize the number, but knew the area code. Philadelphia. “Thomas Popov.”
“Thomas, Chester Lawrence. Sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I thought it would be better to catch you now than during the week.”
“I’d take your call anytime.”
“Thought you might. Listen, it’s down to you and another candidate. Going to ask you to come up, meet some folks, get a sense of what we’ve got going on and how you’d fit in with the team.”