The Edge of Grace

by Christa Allan

  I waited for Julie to react. I stared. I waited.

  Whatever anxious concern she'd carried, she must have flushed it out with the tea she'd just finished.

  "Uh-huh. Go on." Julie shifted, recrossed her legs on the table, and looked at me.

  Her expression was, well, expressionless.

  A sour bubble of anxiety popped in my stomach. "Uh-huh? Go on? Go on to what? To where? What do you mean? You did hear me, didn't you?" My voice stretched so thin it grated leaving my throat.

  "I heard you. I'm just not all that shocked," she said with a tender weariness—like when I tell Ben for the umpteenth time to stop digging snot out of his nose when we're in the grocery store—and patted my hand. "Caryn, click your heels together. It's time to leave Oz. Your brother's gay. He's still your brother. The same brother you loved seconds before the phone call."

  "Seriously? You're telling me this is okay?" She couldn't be. Of all people, Julie would share my outrage, not intensify it.

  "He's your brother. Want to ignore him? Sure. Who's left? Your father married the step-monster after your mom died. That's all you've got. You're going to adopt her?"

  She was on the verge of endangering her best-friend status. "Don't be ridiculous."

  "There are some advantages here. Maybe we could think about those."

  "No, let's not," I said. "And why are you smiling? This isn't funny. At. All." I didn't need a mirror to know I wore my injured-morose expression.

  "I'm not laughing at you or your brother. I'm still surprised you didn't suspect this. In fact, I'm a bit shocked—"

  The dryer signal blared from the laundry room and startled me. It reminded me today was still an ordinary Saturday. "Julie, I'm stunned. Horrified. The thing is, this is my brother. My only brother. My only sibling. It's different somehow when it happens in your own family. I mean, how would you feel if we were talking about your brother?"

  She shrugged her shoulders, raked her bangs off her forehead with her fingers, and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. "How would I feel? I wish my brother was gay. Instead, he's unemployed, he drinks too much, and he's an idiot."

  "You don't understand. You can't understand." I rolled up the short sleeves of my cotton T-shirt. If only I could sweat out the pain and frustration. "It's not that simple. If he was your brother—alcoholic idiot or not—you'd be afraid to close your eyes because when you do, there's a snapshot of him and his other holding hands on the beach." I gulped my tea hoping it would lower my body's thermostat.

  "Okay. So in that snapshot, my brother's throwing up on the beach."

  The annoying, insistent dryer blared again. "I'm going to turn off that obnoxious buzzer of yours and get us a refill. Don't go anywhere." Julie smiled, kicked her shoes out of her way, and headed for the laundry room.

  Because I am a mother and doomed to guilt, I wondered if his gayness is my fault. If I hadn't been such a nerd in high school, I could have saved him. If I hadn't devoted my college years to Harrison, I could've spent more time with David.

  Julie returned, and my train of thought ran off the tracks. "Here you go." She placed my glass on the coffee table and sat on the sofa facing me. "Look, I suppose I haven't sounded sympathetic, but I'm sorry this is so painful for you. Thing is, Caryn, I don't feel sorry for you because you have a gay brother. Maybe it's all semantics, but I do feel sorry for your having to struggle through this. Without Harrison. Without your mom. But you don't have to do this alone." She reached over and hugged me. "Would it help you to talk to Vince? I could go with you."

  "As in Pastor Vince? No. Definitely no. It's hard enough to talk to you about this." As if I'm going to tell the pastor I barely know that my brother, who's been going to services there for years, is gay.

  "Okay," she said, but with a voice that made it sound not okay. "But that's what he's there for you know. And for all you know, Vince might already know that."

  "I know, but he and I just met last week to talk about catering his daughter's wedding. One issue at a time. Besides," I twisted my watch around my wrist to check the time, "that catering contract could be big."

  She swallowed the ice she'd been crunching. "Like the boys say, ‘Get cereal.' Get serious Caryn. Like David being gay has anything to do with your catering business." She grabbed her flip-flops and slipped them on her feet. "And don't worry about Ben. Trey wanted to take the boys to the real bowling alley. He's probably tired of them beating him on Wii."

  Julie stood and tugged the hem of her blue plaid Bermuda shorts. "Ten pounds ago, these shorts wouldn't have crawled up my legs every time I sat. It's all your fault. The white chocolate bread pudding and seafood lasagna you've been forcing me to taste test. It's all settling right here." She poked her thighs. "See?"

  "Well, when Caryn's Canapes is self-sustaining, I'll ask our accountant if I can write off a liposuction for you. In the meantime, I've got my own lumpy thigh issues to contend with." I hadn't squeezed into pant sizes under two digits since Harrison died. And lately the sizes were moving in the direction closer to my age. Not so good. But it was collateral damage in the catering business. I had to sample what I intended to serve.

  "Speaking of your accountant, he asked me to let him know if you were okay with the bowling plan." Julie tapped out a text to Trey on her cell phone. "It's not a problem, right?"

  "Not at all. Maybe he can hand out some of my cards while he's there. Could get us both closer to plastic surgery."

  Julie left not too long after giving Trey the bowling goahead. She invited Ben to spend the night at their house, so I'd have time, as she said, "to wallow in a bubble bath of self-pity and move on."

  She knew, of course, I'd back up more than move on, at least for a while. We'd been through too much together for her to think I'd wake up in "I'm all over it now" land. But even Julie didn't know how much of a foreigner I was there. Even after all these years.

  Ten years ago, the Pierces moved across the street about a month after we'd thrown away our last moving box. Trey and Julie, we discovered when we'd strolled over with a welcome-to-suburbia bottle of generic red wine, had sacrificed the ambiance of a rented shotgun home near MidCity for a residential starter home for the couple ready to "go forth and multiply." Harrison and I were still newlyweds, trying to figure out what to do with three toasters, a crystal punch bowl, and five place settings of our china pattern.

  Eventually, Harrison and Trey did their male-bonding-getting-acquainted thing, then started spending Saturdays on the golf course. Julie and I brought books to the clubhouse pool, stretched out on lounge chairs, and pretended to read. Mostly we critiqued body shapes and gave thanks we weren't the ones hustling a three-year-old out of the water screeching, "I gotta pee-pee in the baff-woom."

  On Sundays, Trey and Julie headed to Mary Queen of Peace Church and lunch with one of their parents. Meanwhile, at the Beckers' house, Harrison kept the sheets warm while I attended Grace Memorial, praying for enough rain to ruin the chances of his playing golf and sufficient forgiveness for being so petty.

  The past few years were almost equally unkind to Julie and me. My mother Lily died of cancer the year after Julie's father had a massive heart attack driving home from a New Orleans Saints football game. Julie's still trying to explain to her mother why she can't sue the team.

  I learned to gauge the depth of Julie's grief by the spike of her humor. After her dad's funeral Mass, she passed me a note she'd scribbled on an old church bulletin. "Your dad. My mom. It could happen." I blew my nose and coughed my way through a laugh.

  My reaction to grief, however, headed in the opposite direction. Plummeted to pathos. So, even as she left that morning after hearing about David, Julie knew she couldn't cushion me from the fall. No. I had to hunker down in it, like an animal rolling around in a decomposing carcass, until I gagged from the stench of self-pity. Then I'd bolt out of the putrid mess I'd made and gasp for small breaths of acceptance.

  After Harrison died, I felt as if I'd been shoved fr
om a plane without a parachute. Five years later, I still wonder if maybe I've just landed on a ledge and the real bottom, the one that's a well of crud, was still waiting for me.

  Lori. Should I call Lori? I should call her. Maybe. Why didn't I think to ask Julie? She's the self-declared queen of Google for what to do when you don't know what to do. But can you really do a web search on "what to say to your almost sister-in-law when your brother announces he is going to play for the other team"?

  I carried the glasses to the sink and finished picking up what was left of Ben's breakfast. Two crispy blistered shells of the biscuits that he'd excavated the soft doughy insides out of. I tossed them out the backdoor to feed the sparrows.

  I wouldn't endure one more phone call until I showered and changed out of my mismatched pajamas. Better yet. The bubble bath Julie suggested. A bubble bath so hot I'd have to ease into it one body part at a time. With Ben away, I could soak at leisure, let my fingertips wrinkle like raisins. Maybe some inspiration would soak in as well, and I'd know what to say to Lori when I called her later.

  My cell phone vibrated, skittering across the enamel topped kitchen table like rocks in a tumbler. David's number flashed in the display. I let it go to voice mail and headed to the bathroom.

  Vanilla Birthday Cake, Pink Grapefruit, and Apple Pomegranate. I couldn't escape food even in bathing. Julie had given me a basket of what she termed "guilty pleasures" for my birthday that seemed more fit for my pantry than my body. "The closest you'll get to buying bubble bath is that new strawberry-scented dish cleaning liquid," she'd told me after I'd unwrapped the gift. After months of caring for Harrison, the idea of a bath that didn't require sheet changing, a sponge, and a basin of lukewarm water seemed not only foreign, but extravagant.

  I eased into the spacious garden tub, the heat of the water singeing my skin as I inched down and submerged myself up to my neck. When I reached up to hold on to the sides, bubbles splished over the top. My body felt in the tub like my foot in my father's shoe when I was a little girl. I remembered Harrison asking the agent when we looked at the house if the garden tub could accommodate two people and could we see if it was comfortable. My elbow in his side and her stare happened simultaneously. He'd looked from me to her and back to me. "I meant with my clothes on, of course," he said. The day after we'd moved in, we discovered two people fit quite well if one of them didn't mind leaning against the faucet.

  Tonight, the blanket of bubbles on the water's surface crackled like leaves in a fire. I closed my eyes, breathed in the fragrance, and soaked in the promise. I willed the swirl of anxious questions—what will I tell my son about his uncle? what will happen to David's reputation in the community? what am I supposed to tell people now?—out of my muscles. I waited for them to seep through my pores, pushed out like toxins to dissolve in the heat that surrounded me.

  Maybe Dad could be the role model for Ben now. I opened my eyes and blew tunnels through the bubbles. But that didn't work out too well for David.

  3

  I called Lori's land line and not her cell phone because I hoped she wouldn't be home. Then I could leave a message, feeling quite proud of myself for having made the effort to contact her. And I could finish blow drying my hair.

  Wow. Bet the God I used to believe in heard that and "Tsk, Tsked" me in disappointment.

  Could I be any more of a wimp? Probably. But, since her machine didn't pick up the call, I wasn't going to find out now.

  "Hi, Caryn." Lori's voice sounded as if it'd been rolled over by a tractor.

  A jolt of surprise when I heard my name. Of course . . . caller ID.

  "Hi. Did I catch you at a bad time?" Great, Caryn. Nice leadin to a disaster.

  Quiet.

  "Lori?" Did she hang up on me already?

  "I'm here."

  "David called me this morning. He told me about Mexico." I leaned against the antique enamel table we used as an island in the kitchen and traced the wispy cherry red curlicue design on its stark white top with my finger. "I'm overwhelmed. I didn't know. I don't understand."

  "Wait just a minute," she said, and I heard what sounded like a door shut. "My parents are here. I walked outside so I could talk. They're trying to help, but . . . they're furious, and I just don't have that kind of energy right now."

  Six months pre-wedding, Lori's parents deserved to be a little combustible, especially since they turned down the wedding cancellation insurance. Months ago, David had told me the company, Change of Heart, covered everything except if the bride or groom had a change of heart. At the time, we all laughed at the irony.

  I stopped my invisible tracing and eyed the empty coffeepot. "Did he tell you this morning?" I found a bag of Community Dark Roast in the pantry, propped the phone between my ear and shoulder, and measured six full scoops into the filter.

  "No. Last night. We were supposed to meet my sister Nita and her husband for dinner. But David called me at work yesterday afternoon and asked if we could meet them another night. He just said he needed to talk. I should've known it was a disaster waiting to happen. Nobody says ‘we need to talk' when it involves something good." Her words were laced with tears.

  "Lori, I know what a struggle this is for you. I can talk to you later or tomorrow . . ."

  "It's okay," she said. I heard her sniffle against a backdrop of muffled voices, then silence before she asked, "Can you hold on?" It was a question tinged with impatience.

  "Sure. Of course." I poured water into the coffeemaker's reservoir, flipped the on switch, and sat on one of the cane bar stools to wait for Lori and the coffee. I heard a barrage of one word replies, "Fine. Sure. Whatever. Okay. Yes. Thanks." Like drumbeats between smatterings of untuned instruments.

  "I'm back. My parents couldn't decide if they should order Chinese for lunch or go to the grocery. I think they're doing both. Thank God." Relief echoed in her voice.

  Two cups of coffee later, I learned how Lori lost her fiancé. Her friend. Her future.

  Lori said she and David talked until after midnight. He told her he loved her, he cared for her, but he couldn't marry her. Make that, wouldn't marry her.

  "Another woman. Of course that's what I thought first. You know, somebody blonder or taller or thinner or smarter or richer. One of those '-ers,' " she told me. Lori said she was prepared to fight, to do whatever it took to win him back. Until he dropped the "G-bomb," as she referred to it.

  David told her he'd fought himself because he wanted the dream package: a wife, kids, the white picket fence and the happily ever after. But something never seemed right. He said he hoped making a commitment, the engagement, planning a wedding would make a difference. And it did. But not in the way he thought. It just proved none of those things actually made a difference in what he'd known to be the truth about himself.

  I listened, ping-ponging between anger and sadness, wishing I could press a "pause" button to ready myself to ride the next wave of revelations.

  "And then he said he was gay. I can't fight gay. I don't have the right equipment." Her words landed with the force of sandbags.

  She told the story in that "he said, then I said" narrative, draped with all those totally unrelated details we tend to summon when immersed in our own epic tragedies. Each word a brushstroke painting the scene in our brains, so we can't convince ourselves later that none of it happened. I knew the color of David's polo shirt ("that lime one I bought him at Neiman's for his birthday"), and what they were drinking ("I didn't have any wine in the house; I sipped Earl Grey tea. How pathetic."), and even the temperature of her den ("my teeth were chattering, the room was so cold; I don't know why I didn't make it warmer . . .").

  After David left, Lori told me she'd called Nita. She said her sister and Jeff must have rolled out of bed and into their car because they made the twenty-mile trip in half the time. "They slept here, then called my parents in the morning. They thought since they had to leave, Mom and Dad should be here with me." She sighed. "You'd think I was on suicide watc
h."

  Lori must have caught my strangled "Oh" because she snapped back quickly. "No, I've not gone there. I won't. But if my mother and father don't leave soon, I might be on murder watch." Her voice dropped to a whisper, so I figured they must have returned from their food buying frenzy.

  "It sounds like you have company again. Call me after they leave . . . or whenever." I walked over and turned off the coffeemaker and carried the empty carafe to the sink. "I'm as blown away by this as you are. It's like suddenly I have a new brother. I don't even understand who this David is or why."

  "Guess I didn't either. And that scares me. All these years thinking I knew how I'd spend my life, then it disappears. Who would have thought . . ."

  "I understand. I really do," I said, reminded of the familiar knot of loss laced so tightly I doubted it would ever unwind.

  "Yes, I suppose you do understand more than anyone in my family. But I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring back memories of Harrison."

  I couldn't tell her it wasn't just remembering Harrison. The life I thought I knew as David's sister was disappearing too.

  After talking to Lori, I regretted sending Ben away for twenty-four hours. This was a time I could use a distraction or at least a legitimate reason to stand in line to buy tickets for a Disney animated film.

  I cleaned the glass carafe, then dumped the wet coffee grounds in the garbage. Not very eco-friendly of me, as David once reminded me. One weekend when he stayed to help take care of Harrison, David told me I could use the grounds as an organic flea dip rub or mix them with egg whites to make facial mud packs. "If this is the helpful info you're including in those real estate e-newsletters you're sending out, don't be surprised to find your client list dwindling," I told him. Not long after that, he bought one of those snazzy single-cup brewing systems. Guess convenience trumped being green.