Dear Carolina

by Kristy W Harvey

  Daniel rubbed his hands together and said, “Well, so far, the Raleigh airport is one of the nicest I’ve been to. Is the rest of North Carolina that great?”

  “Sure,” I said, thinking about how backwoods and undeveloped Kinston would look to someone from Manhattan. But the slow pace and quiet moments were what we loved most about our little map dot. And our farm, no matter where you were from, was something to be proud of.

  “Hey, Dan,” I said, “I’m just reminding you that if you had flown into Greenville or New Bern this ride home would only have been thirty minutes.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But then I would have had to switch planes and risk my life during two flights.”

  Graham winked, and I shook my head.

  An hour and a half later we turned up the tree-lined driveway to the double wraparound front porches that had recently graced the pages of Southern Living.

  Daniel whistled. “Wow . . . I see why you ditched New York for this place. It’s amazing.”

  “Wait ’til you see the inside,” Graham said. “I didn’t know how bad I was living ’til this little lady spruced me right on up.”

  Graham was always complimentary, but I knew he was trying to make me feel better after my heartbreaking morning. I didn’t know how I was possibly going to get through the next two days with Daniel, shopping and chatting and acting like everything was normal.

  Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to do much talking that night because we were having family dinner at Mother and Daddy’s—a big, gracious, country “welcome” for my city friend. Daniel politely kissed Mother, shook Daddy’s hand, returned Pauline’s bear hug, and nodded to my sister, Virginia, and her husband, Allen. But when they had turned their backs to go to the table, he said, “Holy hell. Is this place going to be in your next book?”

  I looked around the entrance hall, with the grand double-branched staircase, the intricate woodwork seeming slightly less formal and definitely freshened for a new decade by the sisal runner. The casually covered, French-framed love seat and chairs in the foyer had been almost a harder sell than getting rid of the dark Oriental and Persian rugs that, to me, made somewhere cavernously huge seem dark and stuffy.

  I nodded to Daniel and said, “It only took me a decade to convince Mother to let me get my hands on it.”

  “It was worth the wait.” He smiled, letting me walk before him to the living room, proving that, no matter what my daddy told me, Yankees do have manners. My brother-in-law Allen, on the other hand, a native Southerner, showed over dinner that it doesn’t matter how many grits you ate growing up; some people simply have no class.

  I assume the half-dozen beers he had before dinner contributed to his foul mouth that night. But why he would think it was appropriate to tell the story he did I’ll never know. As we sat down across from him, my sister’s husband was saying, “So that stripper was as butt-ass ugly as you’ve ever seen—”

  I could feel the table vibrating from Virginia kicking Allen, and Graham interrupted him saying, “So, Mrs. Mason, did Rider’s arrange these gorgeous flowers for you?”

  It was a clear ploy to get Allen to stop talking. He was either too dense or too drunk to get the hint. “Man, I’m telling a story here,” he said, slurring slightly. “So, one of my friends went upstairs, found her purse, and stole all her money.” He banged his hand on the table, making the crystal water glasses spill over onto the linen place mats. He snorted and said, “Isn’t that the best damn thing you’ve ever heard?”

  Mother pulled her chair back from the table and walked into the kitchen. The rest of us just sat there, a stunned silence filling the room like the smell of frying chicken. I raised my eyebrows at Daddy, who rolled his eyes and shrugged. Virginia was looking down at her hands, her face the color of the pickled beets Pauline was whisking through the door.

  “So, Daniel,” Daddy said. “Tell us the truth. How is it working with my Khaki?”

  Daniel said behind his hand, “Does he know your name is Frances?” Everyone laughed, breaking the tension in the room.

  Graham rubbed my shoulder and said, “A little nickname for a little farm girl.”

  Daniel nodded, put his arm around me, and said, “You know, I owe everything to your daughter. She’s taught me all the tricks of the trade. I love her like family.”

  I leaned my head on Daniel’s shoulder and said, “Aw, thanks, sweetie.” Then I picked my head up, looked at him, and said, “But I already told you, you aren’t getting my office.”

  Mother reappeared, apparently having composed herself from Allen’s totally inappropriate story time, and said, “Virginia, I think your children need you at home.”

  Virginia looked at me helplessly, but I didn’t rush to her defense. I loved her, sure, but I couldn’t stomach Allen. I remembered how happy Mother and Daddy had been when he proposed to Virginia. Allen was Daddy’s right-hand man on the farm, so it was one of those great Southern alliances from which everyone could benefit. But I wasn’t fooled for a second. I’d always found him to be crass, mannerless, and unfit for my sister.

  Tonight was no different. “If it’s a kid thing, you’re the woman,” he said. “You go. I’m having a good time.”

  “I think you better go on home with your wife, Allen,” Daddy said gently.

  When I complained about Allen, Graham used to tell me that I would never think anyone was good enough for my family. He didn’t say that anymore. As it turned out, I had been as right about Allen as I had about cornice boards. They were both fine as long as they weren’t in my house.

  As the front door slammed, Momma said, “Daniel, I am so very sorry for my son-in-law’s behavior. There’s no excuse, and I hope you weren’t uncomfortable.”

  Daniel, fortunately, had a quick wit and a way of making others feel at ease. “No problem. I ride the subway. Strippers are nothing compared to my morning commute.”

  Graham raised his glass and said, “I’d like to propose a toast. However we create them, here’s to our families.”

  We clinked glasses, and, though Graham might not have known it at the time, that toast was more of a mouthful than any of us would ever have believed.

  I snuggled into Graham when we got home, amazed at how just the smell of him could still render me spellbound all these years later. I sat awake in bed thinking about that poor stripper who was probably a single mom with two kids at home just trying to make ends meet, being robbed by one of Allen’s idiot friends.

  That night, I made love to my husband for the first time in a long time where I wasn’t thinking about the end result, about the baby I hoped and prayed we’d made. In those moments we shared I thanked him for not being like Allen, for not being like Ricky, but, most of all, for being like him. I told him that he was the rock in my life, that his steadiness and steadfastness, the way he had loved me without question for decades, was the only thing real and true in my life.

  It’s a puzzling dichotomy, but, though I can write all day long about duvet covers and contemporary art, expressing my feelings to the people I truly love eludes me like a golf ball on a dark fairway. While other men in my life have pushed me for that reassurance, Graham never has. And that’s the magic of our relationship, the fairy dust unraveling from the wand. I say to him what needs to be said through my body, not my mind. And it’s a language he always understands.

  Jodi

  NEARLY STARVED IN THE YARD

  Coming up, I used to eat so many carrots my skin turned right orange. I’d run on out into the field behind Grandma’s, yank one of them green stems, and crunch away. Then, one day, I got to where I no more liked eatin’ carrots than my momma liked cleanin’ the trailer. Crunchin’ on ’em hurt my teeth, the taste turned my stomach inside out, and that fresh-from-the-ground craving quit real quick.

  The same thing when I was pregnant with you, only, praise the Lord Jesus, it were booze I quit wantin’ s
o hard. That psycho lady the state made me go talk at once a week said, “Jodi, you don’t want to drink because drinking is the coping mechanism you use when you want to run away. Somewhere, deep down inside yourself, you don’t want to run away from this pregnancy.”

  More like not craving that drink deep down in my soul was the bone God finally threw me even though He’d kept me right thirsty and nearly starved in the yard for years.

  When you’re poor like me and you come up in a small town like Kinston, people, they want to help you. The church Momma got herself to when she was sober—the one that been praying hard for her all along—they brung over a whole mess a’ stuff for you.

  That sweet old pastor, I wouldn’t never in a million years have taken a handout from him. So it was Buddy, who been working on the farm for Graham long as I known him, that came a-knockin’ at my door with two big black trash bags flung over his shoulders.

  “Who is it?” I hollered.

  In the ignition crank before he answered back, I thought the damn craziest thing: It was Ricky. He was comin’ to wrap me up sweet and kiss me hard and tell me the only thing a girl wants to hear: “Baby, I’ve changed. Let’s make things right for our youngen.”

  And, oh my Lord, I had longed for him to come back like a farm boy pines for his first hunting puppy. But I wouldn’t let on. No. I’d act like maybe I’d be a little interested.

  When the voice said, “It’s Buddy,” I was still going on in my head like it were Ricky gonna be answering me. The mind is one tricky vehicle when it gets going good down a dirt road with a dead end.

  I hauled myself up off the couch where I’d been napping all day. I still got to feeling every now and then like I should be working. But it’s like how that old oak tree at the trailer park must’ve felt like the swing wrapped around its branches had always been there. We all just got to learn to adjust.

  Buddy dumped them giant black yard bags on the floor between the kitchen and family room with a thud like a pair a’ work boots going off over the side of the bed.

  “What’s that?”

  He shrugged. “Just a bunch a’ old junk the church sent over. I brought it in trash bags ’cause half of it will probably be going straight to the Dumpster anyhow.”

  I sat down on my knees. My mind wandered to this yoga lady I flipped by on the TV earlier that mornin’. She said this sittin’ on your knees’ll make you be able to digest so good you can eat rocks. I said to the TV, like she could hear me, “I don’t care how thick a accent you got, lady, I ain’t buyin’ that nobody can eat rocks.”

  I got to pulling things outta that bag, and I wasn’t trying to look happy or nothing, but I held a beautiful soft white cotton dress with a tiny pink bow right to my chest like it were a baby its own self.

  I kept on pulling mess out, and I got to realizing that them clothes, they were all new. I wadded them all back in the bag, scooted it across the floor, and stood up, wiping my hands on my maternity leggings.

  “I don’t need no handout from your church.”

  Buddy crossed his arms. “You got some sort of baby fund stored up?”

  I peered right hard at Buddy, knowing that he was as straight a shooter as I’d ever run across.

  I went to get a glass of water and said, “I don’t think that’s any of your dern business.”

  Buddy knew well as he knew how to drive a cotton picker I didn’t have no baby money stashed away.

  He followed me into the kitchen and said, “I think it would be nice if you would offer me a cold cup of water too.”

  “This one’s for you,” I said, shoving it at him all annoyed like. I darn near forgot about my condition for a minute, feeling that heat rising up my spine when our hands met. That was one damn fine-looking cowboy on my green linoleum.

  “So how’s you giving me a cup a’ water that you don’t need any different than the church folks giving you some old stuff they don’t need.”

  I didn’t realize Buddy was talkin’ ’bout scripture or I would’ve acted nicer. “I ain’t taking no handout even if I do think it’s a nice thing them people’s doin’.”

  Buddy sat down on the couch and said, “Instead of being so self-righteous and acting like you don’t need nobody, why don’t you write a thank-you note and call it a day?” He pointed over at them bags. “I’m sure as hell not carrying all that stuff back over there, and I doubt you can do it in your condition.”

  I looked down at my belly, remembering that we wasn’t just flirting here. I was knocked up, poor, and all alone.

  “Fine,” I said. “Motherhood’s making me soft,” I muttered.

  Buddy laughed.

  I was giving up pretty easy mostly ’cause any fool could see I worried about how I was gonna get all that baby stuff all day long.

  “You know you can come to church any time you want to,” he said. “It’s a nice group a’ folks, and we’d sure be happy to have you.”

  I nodded. But it was one of them times that life had got me down so hard I weren’t sure God even remembered my name. “So that why you came over here?” I asked. “You trying to get somebody new in your church?”

  I was baiting, but that Buddy, he weren’t biting, not one bit.

  “If you ever want to come,” he said, “just let Graham or Khaki know.” He tipped his hat before turning around. “They’ll get word to me.”

  I couldn’t keep from watching his tight backside in a pair of worn Levi’s stroll out my door. Much as I thought Jesus had forgotten about me, sometimes a slow smile from a real cowboy is all it takes to make a girl a believer.

  Khaki

  A YELLOW JACKET ON A CAN OF CHEERWINE

  One thing I always steer my clients away from is any preconceived notion about design. Maybe they think they hate pattern, but pattern is what a room needs to enliven it. Perhaps they think wood floors feel cold, but they would make the room feel grounded and sophisticated. They think black is morbid, but just a touch would make the other colors in the palette come alive as if illuminated by a spotlight.

  That’s not to say, of course, that I don’t believe in preconceived notions about other things. If you’ve never been to North Carolina, for instance, you’ve never had proper barbecue. There’s a big debate in our state about whose barbecue is better, the western part or the eastern. But it’s not much of a competition. Anyone can slop a thick, syrupy sauce over meat. When you can make a pork butt fall off the bone and melt in your mouth with proper seasoning, perfect cooking, and a little vinegar, then you know you’ve got talent.

  I was telling Daniel all about that controversy that was as big a part of Southern politics as the War of Northern Aggression as we sat across from each other at a red-and-white checked tablecloth in the middle of the lunch rush at King’s Barbecue. He put down his slaw- and barbecue-filled bun and asked, “What’s the matter, Fran?”

  I stopped my hush puppy, almost tasting the crispy, golden fried batter, right before it got to my mouth and said, “What do you mean? I’m great.”

  I was lying, of course. I’d hardly been able to raise my paddle that morning at the furniture auction we’d gone to in nearby Wilson; my head was so full of the information I’d stayed up all night reading. As it turns out, surgery for this condition I had was somewhat controversial, some saying it actually made it spread faster. I had read heartbreaking tales of women who had gone through surgery after surgery and in vitro after in vitro only to never have a baby of their own. On the other hand, I’d read about women whose doctors had discovered the disease had ravaged their insides only when they were performing a C-section for third or even fourth children. I knew already that life was unexpected, and, as I lay in bed beside my husband, iPad with tab after open tab, I made a command decision: It would hurt and it would be hard, but I was going to be thankful for my child and refuse to let what I didn’t have overshadow what I did.

  T
hat’s not to say I would give up; I simply promised myself that I wouldn’t let a struggle for another baby define Graham and me. I thought back to that Doogie Howser doctor patting my shoulder and saying, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Jacobs. We’ll get you pregnant.”

  “They’ll get you pregnant,” Graham had snickered on his way out of the office. “I’ll get you pregnant.” Then he muttered under his breath, “Arrogant ass.”

  I thought I might as well tell Daniel what was going on; he would find out sooner or later. But before I could detail my encounter at the doctor the day before, my phone rang. Graham, breathless as a boy in a game of touch football, said, “I have to talk to you.”

  I mouthed Sorry to Daniel, and he grabbed the check and went around the corner to stand in front of the same cash register that had been in the lobby of King’s since I was a little girl. I leaned back in my wooden-slatted chair and said, “What are you so excited about?”

  “It’s fate,” was all he said.

  “What’s fate?”

  “I just ran into Amy Perkinson at the farmer’s market. You know, from Cowlick Farms?”

  I laughed every time I heard the name Cowlick Farms because I thought their slogan was so cute: “No hormones. No drugs. Our cows don’t miss a lick.”

  But this time, I was too anticipatory to even laugh.

  “I was asking her about the new baby, and, out of the blue, she started telling me about how she had endometriosis. She and Bill had tried for years to have kids when she got referred to an herbalist by a friend.”

  My mind flashed back to Virginia making me go see a psychic with her one time. I felt pretty sure that going to an herbalist would be about the same thing. But Graham was so excited that I didn’t want to pop his balloon.

  “This is it,” Graham said, using the same voice he used when he wanted to get Alex pumped up to go grocery shopping or something equally boring. “This is a sign, and this herbalist is going to be the one that helps us get our baby.”