Beyond the Pale

by Jennifer Millikin

  Agua Mesa might belong to the well-to-do, but a tiny fraction of it is inhabited by people who don’t drive luxury cars and cultivate their appearance like it’s a second job. People like me, and Finn. Although Finn is even more of an anomaly than me. He ended up in our school because of zoning. At some point in time, someone in the city planner’s office drew some lines, and those lines put Finn's run-down neighborhood inside the boundary of Agua Mesa public schools, much to the dissatisfaction of its high-class residents.

  Teetering on the edge of ritzy Agua Mesa is the small mobile home park Finn called home. When we were younger, we didn’t know or care where Finn slept at night, but as the years passed, it became something notable, and the chip on Finn’s shoulder grew and grew.

  My exit comes up and I take it, driving slowly, as though the whole town is a giant, coiled, sleeping snake, but at any moment it might wake and strike.

  My house is in between Finn’s and Brady’s, nearly exactly at the mid-point, which is almost funny. It might as well be a metaphor for our whole relationship. Them on either side and me smack-dab in the middle.

  I pull into my neighborhood with the nearly identical front yards, the manicured patches of grass surrounded by gray and tan rocks. My heart twists and I realize I miss Dallas and its big trees. Here, the trees are Palo Verdes, and they’re spindly and sparse. I can see through them and it depresses me.

  The car rolls to a stop in the driveway. I peer out through the windshield, taking in the tan stucco, the big front door made of dried Saguaro ribs. Made from a cactus, my stepfather said, Like living off the fat of the land, and then he rapped on the front door with two knuckles. I was almost eight, and it was my first time at his house, which was to become my new house in only two weeks. I didn’t like him yet, and I liked his house even less, but I knew better than to say that to my mother. She had already told me how her new boyfriend was going to become her husband and save us, and there was no room for discussion.

  Grabbing my purse, I hop out of the car and go to the back, pressing a button and watching the trunk open for me. I wrestle my heavy suitcase out of the back, then press the button and watch the trunk close. It’s amazing the conveniences money can buy.

  At the front door, I search my purse for my house key. I’d had to dig through a box of old things in my closet just to find it and add it to my keyring, along with Laine’s key fob. Hopefully my mother didn’t have the locks changed the second I left. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  She didn’t. The key turns and I let myself in. Stepping into the home is like stepping back in time. Like Agua Mesa, it doesn’t appear anything in this house has changed. To the left, the living room looks untouched, and there are still lines in the carpet from the last time it was vacuumed. An over-sized wedding photo in a gaudy gold frame sits on the fireplace mantle, and fake greenery runs the length of the remainder of the space.

  I walk in farther, my suitcase noisy on the ivory floor tile, and try not to smell my mother. It’s a pointless endeavor; her scent is everywhere. It fills my nostrils, making them burn. It’s her hairspray. Her overpowering, choking hairspray. She used it when she was a trashy whore in the middle of nowhere, and she used it when she was a pious, God-fearing woman. That hairspray accompanied my mother through each iteration of her life. Maybe she should be buried with a can of it. It might be the only thing she truly loved.

  I pass the stairs, my finger running the length of the banister until it grows too tall for me, and my hand drops off. Moving into the kitchen, I walk to the small butcher block island and look around. There is a half-empty bag of bread with the remaining plastic bag tucked under itself to keep the bread from going stale. The twist tie lies on the counter beside the bread.

  I move on, opening the fridge, pushing aside the contents and reading labels. I’m learning who my mother was in the past eight years. Who she was without her husband, and without her daughter. Three months separated my stepfather’s death and when I left for Dallas, but I didn’t spend any time with her. And that was for a good reason, too.

  Before I leave the kitchen, I pull open the door leading to the back yard and peek outside. I’m looking for her precious tomato plants. If she had been told to get rid of everything in her life except for three things, those stupid fucking tomato plants would’ve made the cut.

  And there they are.

  Sometime in the last eight years, she moved them from the ground into a raised bed. They have an awning now, their own personal shade. The soil is deep black, rich-looking, well-cared for.

  I spot a drip system poking out from the soil, and it feels like a slap in the face. All the mornings I spent out here, watering those tomato plants by hand. It was on my list of chores, and my mother wanted it done before school, before the sun’s heat could reach down into the soil and dry it out. The watering was done by hand, with a hose that didn’t have a sprayer. My thumb, hooked over the mouth of the hose, turned it into a sprayer. It didn’t matter to her that it hurt my thumb, or that on cold mornings my thumb felt like an icicle.

  She took better care of those tomatoes than she ever did me.

  “Fuck you,” I murmur, both to her and the tomatoes. I step back inside and let the door close.

  For a second I was feeling oddly nostalgic, but not anymore. Seeing those plants was a reminder of the daily lack of love and caring I experienced in this house. No wonder I hated her. No wonder I didn’t speak to her more than five times during my final summer here.

  I don’t know how it happened. I opened a drawer and found a picture of me and my stepfather Ted, and the next second the plate was in my hand.

  Now its shattered remains decorate the floor around me. The first plate felt so good, the explosion so soothing, that I reach for a second plate. I lift it high above my head and send it crashing to the floor. The crack, the sound of splintering china, brings me a moment of pleasure. So I do it again. And again, and again. My hands are reaching into the cabinet for a glass serving bowl when I hear my name.

  I turn around, the serving bowl clutched in my grasp.

  His hair is as dark as ever, but he’s pale now, not as tan as I remember him. His eyes look tired, the very beginning of fine lines settling in.

  Brady’s eyes follow the lift of my arms, and then he lowers them to meet mine. Our gazes locked, I bring my arms back down with force, sending the large bowl crashing to the ground between us.

  “Did that feel good?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

  I nod.

  Brady takes a cautious step forward. “Lennon?”

  I’ve always loved the way Brady says my name. His tongue caresses each letter, like each one is important to him. Every part of me matters.

  Tears unexpectedly fill my eyes. Brady holds open his arms, and I go to him, carefully sidestepping the mess I’ve made.

  He pulls me into a chest that is as unfamiliar as it is familiar. It’s Brady, but it’s not. This is Brady, the man. I’ve really only known Brady, the boy.

  This version of him is bigger, stronger, broader. Still, my soul recognizes his. He is kind, right down to his core, and I can sense that this trait still dominates. The little boy who held my hand on my first day at school in a brand-new town still resides within this man.

  Tears slip quietly down my cheeks. Brady places his hands on either side of my head and tips my face up to look at him.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  My response is a single, bitter laugh.

  Brady uses his thumbs to wipe my cheeks. “Never mind. I’m not sorry for your loss. Your mom was awful.”

  At these words, I laugh a real laugh. Brady pulls me back in, crushing me against his chest.

  “I’ve missed you, Lennon.” His words fall down around me, brushing my shoulders and trickling over me.

  “Not as much as I’ve missed you,” I whisper.

  So many nights I wanted Brady, and Finn too. Wanted the reassuring presence of my best friends, the only two people in my life who
made me feel safe. Without them, I had to go it alone, and even though learning to depend on myself was a good thing, being alone is harder than it sounds. Meeting Laine was a godsend, but there’s something about Brady and Finn that cannot be replaced.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I think so,” I murmur into his chest, then pull my head back and look up at him. “I’m not sure. I should be sad, right? But I’m not. It feels wrong not to be sad.”

  “Under normal circumstances, you should be sad. But these circumstances?” He looks around my house as if the walls could reveal what really went on inside. “They were not normal.”

  Anger and resentment rise, and automatically I push them away. I’ve been pushing them away for more than a decade, it would feel odd to stop now.

  Brady holds me so tenderly, his hand cradling the back of my head, the other on the small of my back. We stay that way, the people we’ve become while apart slowly seeping into one another, slipping and sliding into the people we were back then. My younger self taps me from somewhere inside, reminding me that no matter how hard I’ve worked to rid myself of her experiences, they are still very much present.

  From where we stand in the kitchen, I have a direct line of sight through the hallway and to the front door. The handle turns, the door swings open, and Finn steps in. Our eyes meet, his gaze still fiery and alive, as if he might tease or challenge me at any second. If Brady is the calm, then Finn is the chaos.

  Brady’s head swivels at the sound of the door closing. Finn’s eyes leave mine and lift. For a split second, a blip in time so quick it may not have been there at all, tension springs up. Just as quickly, it dissipates. I let go of Brady, and as I step away, I feel the slight tug of my T-shirt, like he tightened his grip on the small of my back but was too late.

  “Finn,” I say, a smile taking over my face. He comes to me, and I go to him, meeting in the hallway where framed enlarged scriptures decorate the walls. Right there in front of John 3:16, Finn wraps his arms around me and lifts me off my feet, spinning me around. I laugh and tuck my face into his neck. When he sets me down, I take a step away and blink twice, trying to orient myself.

  Finn points toward the kitchen, and I think he’s pointing at Brady until he says, “Did you make that mess in there?”

  I shrug, a smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. “Guilty.”

  Brady walks up, and Finn extends a hand. They shake and smile, coming in for that ubiquitous guy hug and clapping each other on the backs.

  “You been hitting the gym, Brady?” Finn smacks Brady one more time.

  Brady steps back and shrugs. “Not as much as I’d like. Work keeps me busy.”

  “Living that lawyer life?”

  “Something like that,” Brady says, his tone expressing his disenchantment.

  “Not what you’d thought it would be?” Finn asks.

  Brady shakes his head, palming the back of his neck. “Is anything what we thought it would be when we were young?”

  I snort. “Hardly. Why are you in Arizona?” My question is directed at Finn. “Shouldn’t you be in Silicon Valley giving Elon Musk a run for his money?”

  He rakes a hand across his jaw. “I’m in between things right now.”

  I frown at his evasiveness. “So what were you doing back in Arizona? And where exactly were you doing it?” I press.

  “I was up north just outside a little town. I’m building a cabin.”

  I blink. “You’re building a cabin?”

  Brady grins. “I like it. It suits you. Don’t buy a flannel, that’s what I'm getting you for Christmas.”

  I snap my fingers in excitement. “Yes! Don’t buy a banjo, either.”

  Finn scowls jokingly. “Too late. I already own both those things.” He directs his gaze to only me. “And you? How’s social work these days?”

  “There are probably few jobs that are worse.”

  Finn opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. “I’m sure whatever job you’ve just come up with is worse than mine. But trust me, my job is awful.”

  I never aspired to be a social worker, and yet I felt called to the career. Giving children the love they deserve gives me a sense of satisfaction, and every time it happens, I feel a tiny bit of healing.

  “Cool. We all either hate our jobs or we don’t have one.” Brady laughs ironically. “Let’s clean up the mess.”

  Finn steps aside and starts for the kitchen. Kneeling, he begins gathering the largest pieces of flowery china. Brady and I follow, bending to help.

  Our first day back and here we are, cleaning up my mess. That’s how it all happened that summer too. We were thrust into a mess I didn’t ask to be a part of. But this is different. We’ve been brought together by death, but this time nobody suspects one of us might be to blame.

  5

  Now

  I’m sure there’s plenty of coffee in my mom’s house, but staying in there one more second might just mean I’m going to blow a gasket. That place is full of her, and still so full of him, that it makes me want to scream.

  I had to get out, so I threw on some clothes and headed into the summer sun. I have to go find Wilma at Joyful Noise Bible today anyhow. It’s time to face what brought me back here.

  Agua Mesa might be a big suburb, but in some ways, it’s a small town. Somehow, everyone knows everybody else. There aren’t any gossiping old ladies on a park bench, but there are whispers in a chain a mile long, and if a married person is stepping out on their spouse, you can bet the secret won’t last.

  I park the car and walk into a little coffee shop attached to the clubhouse of a golf course. It’s off the beaten path and I’m hoping this will minimize the chances of me running into someone I know.

  There’s no gift card to be used here, so I order a black coffee and find a seat. As I’m lifting the drink to my lips, two hands slip over my eyes.

  My shoulders stiffen, my belly seizes.

  “Guess who?”

  His voice is warm, melting the stiffness in my muscles. My free hand lifts and covers one of his hands, pulling it away. He moves the other hand, and I turn my neck, looking up at him.

  He’s still unfairly beautiful, his face like a painting that manages to convey both his golden heart and his recklessness.

  “Hi, Finn.” A thrill runs through me at the sound of his name coming from my lips. It means I’m finally sharing the same air as him.

  He sinks into a seat beside me, takes the coffee from my hand, and sips. His eyes are on mine as he gives it back to me. Our gazes stay connected, and I find myself swallowing a huge lump in my throat.

  Smirking, he drums his fingers on the table top and says, “Let me guess: You came here hoping you wouldn’t run into anyone?”

  I tap the tip of my nose with a finger and he laughs.

  Smiling back, I say, “Thank you for helping me clean up yesterday.” He took off as soon as the mess was clean without an excuse or a reason, and I didn’t get a chance to thank him.

  “Of course.” Finn glances at the case full of bagels, muffins, and pre-made yogurt parfaits, then back to me. “Did Brady stick around?”

  I nod. Brady stayed the rest of the afternoon, then ordered dinner for us. We ate burritos beside the small pool in my backyard, dipping our toes into the water. When he left, he pulled me in close, told me I was strong, and kissed the top of my head.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.” Finn pulls my coffee over and takes another drink. “My uncle has cancer. Yesterday was a chemo day, and I told him I’d drive him home since I’m in town.”

  My hand flies to my mouth. “Finn, I’m so sorry. Is it bad?”

  He drags the pad of one thumb over his lips, nodding. “They caught it late. I can’t remember him ever going to see a doctor. He wasn’t going to do the chemo, but I asked him to. I wanted him to at least try.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I place my hand in his and give it a good, long squeeze.

  “I’m building the cabin for
him, too. To give him a place to go and live well before he dies. He’s been in that shithole for so long.” Regret and disgust fill Finn’s voice.

  My heart swells. People who didn’t know Finn thought he was a trouble-maker. Brady and I knew the truth.

  “My uncle’s not the only reason I left so quickly yesterday,” Finn admits. “Seeing you... it’s a lot.”

  “Why, Finn?”

  His eyes fall to the table. “Not a lot has changed, Lennon. Not for me, anyway.”

  I understand what he’s really saying. And it both terrifies me and exhilarates me at once.

  “Do you wish you hadn’t come?” I ask.

  “Of course not. We had an agreement—”

  “That was a long time ago.” I sound like Laine.

  “It was all a long time ago, and for me, everything is the same as it was back then.”

  My eyes fall to the top button of my jeans. Why can’t I tell him I still love him as much as I did the day I left for Texas? Because he’s not the only one I love.

  Finn’s finger touches the skin beneath my chin, lifting it until my gaze is back on his.

  I smile hesitantly. This is risky. The slope we’re standing on is slippery. We all knew what coming back here would mean. We all know the danger of confronting what we’ve been avoiding all these years. At some point, we’ll have to boil over.

  Finn releases my chin and sits back. He’s in jeans and a maroon T-shirt. His honeyed hair sticks out from under a white baseball cap.

  “I can tell you’re still a sweet talker.” I smirk as I say it.

  “Maybe. Or maybe you’ve always brought out my sweet side.”

  I give him a look. “Case in point.”

  Finn chuckles and stands. “What do you want?” he asks.

  I lift my bitter half-empty coffee. “I’m good.”