Almost Home

by Macomber, Debbie; Duarte, Judy; Lamb, Cathy; Mary Carter

  “I am so angry, Chalese. I haven’t been this angry in years. I want to pound his face in.”

  “Aiden, I didn’t want to tell you about my past, because I didn’t want it printed. I would have told you after the article came out….”

  “I am mad about you not sharing your past, for not trusting me, but I understand. I do. But damn, I’m furious about what you went through as a kid! When I was reading the reports, I wanted to smash your father. I wanted to find him and tear him apart. I am so sorry about what happened to you.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said, trying to make light of it. “But it’s over. It’s done. I have a new life. I’m chasing down goats, drawing talking beavers, and going to poker contests now.”

  Aiden rocked me back and forth. “So help me, if I ever meet this man, he will not be able to peel himself off the floor again. He was a sick man, Chalese. No sane man would ever treat his wife or a child as he did.”

  I nodded. In my head, away from him now for decades, I realized that. It was my father’s issue, not mine. But I remembered the kid I was, how unbearably hurt, how despairing, I had been.

  He stroked my back, his cheek next to mine, and I clung to him. At one point I tilted my head up, and Aiden was wiping his tears. Huge, manly stud man, toughened, roughened Aiden.

  “Aiden, it’s hurting me to see you cry.” His tears made me cry. A man who cried for what we went through! A man who cared enough about me to cry in the first place! Through all that pain, I saw this light, this golden, sparkly light.

  My lips found his. Aiden kissed me back, pulled away, kissed me again, pulled away. I knew he was fighting within himself. He was kissing me, the subject of his newspaper article.

  I should have pulled away, made it easier for him, but I couldn’t. I would have given up my yellow house with all my art and quilts before I would have given up the next hour of my life. We gave in together in a rush of passion, of bottled-up lust, of trusting friendship, of shared intimacies. My arms went around his neck, he picked me up, and we were on my bed, on my periwinkle comforter, chasing down that heaven I knew I’d find in his arms.

  I tried not to sniffle or let any more tears escape, but when I did, Aiden pulled back, kissed my cheeks, cupped my face, and told me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

  In my head I heard these words: I love you, Aiden, I do. I trust you, too. Whatever happens with this, I trust you.

  And, whew! That Aiden Bridger was indeed comparable to the mighty Zeus in the bedroom.

  “Don’t print the article, please, Aiden.” I leaned over him in bed the next morning, sunlight streaking through the French doors, and kissed his neck. Instead of responding, I felt him go rigid beneath me.

  “What?” he rapped out. “What did you say?”

  “I told you everything last night, so now you understand why I don’t want the article written.”

  He whipped back the periwinkle blue comforter, stalked to the windows, and glared at the ocean.

  “Is that what this was all about?” he shot at me, turning around, his arms crossed over that muscled chest. I had enjoyed that chest last night.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You slept with me, we made love, then you make your request with a couple of kisses thrown in.” His face was hard, completely cold. “Did you actually hope to change my mind with sex? Do you think I’m that naïve, that clueless?”

  I clutched the sheet to me. I wanted to let him have it face-to-face, but I sure as heck was not getting out of bed naked. It’s one thing to feel fat in the darkness of night, overcome with excitement; it’s quite another to parade around and about naked, bouncing bottom, thunder thighs and all. Plus, I was pissed.

  “Let’s get something straight, Aiden, before I get off-the-cliff ticked. I slept with you because I wanted to. I didn’t sleep with you because I wanted to manipulate you or your precious career. Not a bit.”

  “Somehow I’m finding that hard to believe.”

  “I don’t care what you find hard to believe, you…you difficult, rigid, journalistic prick. Things got carried away last night, and I”—my voice shook and wobbled—“I made a mistake.”

  “You made a mistake?”

  “Yes, I made a mistake. I slept with a man who woke up in the morning, and instead of saying, ‘Good morning, how are you, can I make you some French toast and coffee, want to go for a walk to the ocean?’ he accuses me of having sex with him to get something out of it.”

  “How can you blame me for thinking that? The first thing you asked this morning was for me not to write the article.”

  “Hey, Aiden, I blame you for thinking that because you know me better than that. I have never stopped asking you not to write the article. Not once. Did you think I would have changed my mind this morning because we rolled around naked? That pisses me off even more than I was pissed off to begin with! How dare you think so little of me! How dare you think I would stoop to sleeping with you to manipulate you, to get what I wanted.” The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to throw something at his head.

  “I hate this situation, I do, Chalese, but this is the way it is. I can’t believe—” He stopped, pulled himself together as his voice got deep and scratchy. “This article has been assigned to me to write. I said I would, and I will. I’ll write it with respect for you, with kindness, with care and consideration, but I’ve got to write it.”

  “You said you would, so you will,” I mimicked him. “Well, I’m going to throw this yellow pillow at your head.” I threw it. “I said I would, and I did. Here’s another one.” I shot another pillow across the room. “Here’s a third,” I yelled. “I said I’d throw it, and I will!” Another one went flying, and another.

  “Stop it, Chalese.”

  “No, you stop it, Aiden. Did you sleep with me so you could have a fuller picture? Perhaps you want to know my mind, and my boobs and butt, too? What is this—the full-body interview? Maybe you can give your readers a play-by-play.”

  He paled, white as snow. “I slept with you because…”

  “Because what?”

  “Chalese…” He swore, turned away. “You know why I slept with you.”

  “Yes, I do know why, and clearly we let passion shrink our brain cells. Get out of my house. Right now!” Two dogs named Sherbert and Mr. Green ran in, tongues lolling about. When they saw me yelling and upset, they stood in front of Aiden and growled.

  “Get out, Aiden. Go. Go skedaddle back to that newspaper of yours, tap away on your keyboard, and do your thing.” I felt a wave of depression, of black, gooey sadness, take hold. It was a sense of inevitability, a sense of dismal doom. I had been hiding for years, but the hide-and-seek game was over. The game was up. I leaned back against my wooden headboard, bracing myself for what was to come. “We’re done. We are completely done.” In case there was any doubt about what I wanted him to do, I threw a light blue silk pillow at him.

  I did not miss the shattered expression on his face. I felt it in my own heart, which was shriveling, shrinking, dying.

  “Can you quit throwing pillows and understand for one second how this is for me? I’m sorry about this—”

  “Sorry about this, Chalese,” I said, mimicking him. “You poured out everything last night, all about your childhood, and, hey, I’m sorry about blowing your privacy and about dragging up that you are Annabelle Purples, children’s writer who has a truly famous crook for a father, but thanks for the sex!” I wanted to run. Run as far as the ocean shore, then jump in and swim until I couldn’t swim, swim to the whales, swim with the whales. “Get out. Get out now.”

  I did not miss the hopelessness mixed with anger in his expression. I felt the same way. Like my life had been crushed.

  As soon as he left, I pulled the covers over my head and soaked my one remaining pink pillow with my tears.

  “Hello, Mom,” I said into the phone, muffling my weeping with a tissue. “You’re going to Los Angeles next? I received
the box of peaches and the box of kale. Yes, the natural spices from Africa arrived, too. I’ll be sure to use them liberally, as your instructions dictated. I love you, too, and yes I’ve been thinking about more designs….”

  I braced myself for the article. Each day I checked online. It did not appear.

  I kept working on my book at a frantic pace, while shoveling in orange truffles and coffee, but in my off moments, almost breathless with despair, I took a break and drew away my anger.

  I drew Cassy Cat, the presidential contender who usually wore glasses and simple clothes, in a low-cut red gown smoking a cigarette in a biker bar. Above her I drew a bubble that read, “Hey, baby, want some of this? Aiden Bridger, a little man, if you know what I mean, sure didn’t.”

  I drew Fox with his pointy nose from behind, his tuxedo coat pulled open by his sharp claws, clearly flashing a group of puppies in front of him. I put a sign on the fox’s coat that said, “Aiden Bridger: Exposing Everyone!”

  I drew the prissy Goose as a streetwalker. A fat dog with a long tongue leaned out of his truck. “How much?” he asked. The truck was a twin to Aiden’s, and the license plate said, “A. Bridger.”

  And popular humble Herbert Hoove the Horse? I drew him at a poker table, aces sticking out from his sleeve, his hat, his shoes. He had a name tag on. It said, “Aiden Bridger, Gambler.” The bubble above his head read, “I get so tired of screwing people.”

  It was my silent way of revenge. My way of getting back at Aiden while I raced to meet the deadline. A way to rebelliously cope while the tears streaked down my checks as if I had faucets in my eyeballs.

  Little did I know that the rest of the nation would be cackling their hearts out—or screaming in outrage—by the middle of the next week.

  It was announced that I had won the Carmichael Children’s Book Award. My agent and publisher began fielding calls and requests for interviews.

  All were denied.

  I wished I felt happy about the award.

  It was one of those things, though. If you don’t have that special someone to dance around with when cool things happen, the cool things don’t seem that cool.

  “I think if we grabbed your sister, the crying Christie, took off our shirts, and drove through the night half-naked, I could get rid of my writer’s block,” Brenda told me, crossing her red and white polka-dot heels on the top of my blue picnic table in the clearing of the woods. “My life would be better. I’m tired of Shane, you know. He wants me to dress up in a superhero costume, and I am so done with that.” She dropped cherries into her mouth. “I mean, how many times can you be Wonder Woman and still keep it fun?” She clicked her heels together.

  I went back to my draft of another picture for my book. I was giving one of my characters, a llama, dreadlocks. He was a hippie sort of llama.

  My hair was slung up in a ponytail, I had been wearing the same jeans for days, and I was operating on approximately four hours of sleep a night. I smelled; my hair was gross. Besides Brenda, the only person I had seen in days was Reuby, who came in to pet the cats when I walked the dogs one afternoon.

  “Wanna see my new cell phone again?” he’d asked. “It takes awesome pictures. It’s sick it’s so awesome. I can’t believe the Authority Figure bought it for me.”

  I nodded absently and shoved my bangs off my head.

  My book was quite late. Editor was threatening not one heart attack, but two. Agent was having a loud, prolonged fit. PR agent called to bite her nails over the phone.

  And in my grossness, I could also hardly breathe. I was so unbelievably…sad. It was the sad you get when your dreams are almost there…and then they’re obliterated. The sad you get when everything seems to stop and get stuck in bleakness. The sad you get when you feel you will never be in love again, never feel happy again, never overcome this giant emotional boulder in your path that seems to want to squish you.

  But I had a deadline, so I kept drawing under that clear blue sky. Must keep employed, I muttered. Must not end up as scraggly, molting woman pushing cart down street. Nutmeg Man put his head on my thigh under the table and whimpered.

  “Brenda, sit down, stifle the hysterics, and write. Don’t overthink it.” I popped a cherry into my mouth. “Write one word. One letter. Write a paragraph. Describe your costume dates, what you know about men, about life. Be funny. And leave me alone so I can finish these dreadlocks.”

  “When we were kids and sending stories back and forth to each other I never had writer’s block.” She dumped a handful of cherries into her mouth and clicked her heels together.

  “The romances you sent me were flaming funny. One of your funniest characters was Mr. Hip Swinger.”

  Brenda laughed. “Already used him in one of my movies.” She spit out a pit.

  “And Loyolita Chantal Montalshawn. She was an evil woman. A man-shredding feminist.”

  “Used her, too. Won an award for that movie.”

  We both turned as we heard the truck flying down my driveway, creaking, shrieking, rumbling.

  Gina drove off the driveway when she saw me and sped right toward us. “Please, Chalese,” she begged when she hopped out of the truck, the flowers flying from her long hair. “Don’t sue me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Inside the truck was Gina’s son, Reuby.

  “Drag your limp butt out of the car right this minute or I’ll use my slingshot against it!” Gina yelled at him.

  Reuby slouched on out.

  Brenda and I stood up. “What’s wrong?” Instant fear clutched my gut. I could tell that Reuby had been crying. Gina was angry enough to spring an intestine. “What is it?”

  Gina jabbed her pointer finger at Reuby. Stomped her foot. “Speak, you troublesome rebel son!”

  An anguished Reuby pushed back his blond curls and whined, “I’m sorry, Chalese, dude! I’m sorry. I took pictures of the drawings with my new cell phone and put them on my MySpace page. I thought they were so funny, so cool. They were the animals, dude, from all those kids’ books I read when I was a kid. The Authority Figure never told me you were the author who did the Jasmine Farm Animal books. I didn’t know! I didn’t know that you’re Annabelle Purples! But that’s sick! Sick and awesome!”

  My blood dive-bombed toward my feet. “What are you talking about? Which animal pictures?” Oh, please, not the Bridger pictures. “Where did you put them?”

  “I thought I’d show the pictures to a few dudes, that’s it! I didn’t know all this would happen. I didn’t know that you were trying to keep yourself secret! Can I still come over and walk the dogs?”

  “What?” I could hardly speak, my brain mass flogged with panic. “What pictures?”

  Reuby scuffed the ground with his army boots.

  Gina glared. “I’m sorry, Chalese. My own son may become a stray animal when I’m done with him.” She whacked him on the head. “Chalese, Reuby wandered up to your studio the other day when he was petting the cats.”

  “I couldn’t find Elizabeth I and Clover. I figured they were upstairs. And that’s when I saw all the funny pictures. Dude, you’re hilarious!”

  “Do not call Ms. Hamilton ‘dude’ one more time or you will be sleeping in the barn with the cows.” Gina yanked a flower out of her hair and threw it to the ground in anger.

  “Sorry, Authority Figure!” He pulled on his eyebrow ring.

  I found my tongue. “Are you telling me…” I gasped for air. “Are you telling me my drawings for my book are on the Internet?” Gasped again.

  Gina burst into tears, then whacked her son on the head again. Two red flowers fell from her hair. “It’s not your regular pictures, sugar, not the ones for the book. They’re the ones of…”

  “Of?”

  I heard Brenda beside me gasp and then swear, the swear word long and low and crude.

  “Of Goose as a hooker,” Reuby said exuberantly. “Man, that was clever! And Herbert with all the aces saying he’s tired of screwing everyone, and of the fox flashing the
puppies, I couldn’t stop laughing at that one, heck yeah, and Cassy Cat smokin’ in a bar—she was always my favorite character when I was a kid…”

  No breath. I had no breath in me. I squeaked out, “Please tell me you did not put those pictures on your MySpace page.” My mind about set itself on fire imagining all the possible, truly unspeakable ramifications.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, chastened. “Yes, ma’am, but I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

  I took in a ragged, rough breath before I passed out. “Take them off! Now! Take them off your MySpace page!”

  Reuby squirmed, pulled at his scraggly hair. “It’s too late,” he whispered.

  “What do you mean ‘it’s too late’?” I shrieked, my arms waving through the air. “It’s not too late! I don’t want anyone to see them!”

  “I mean, ma’am, dude, they’re on my MySpace page, but they’re also…”

  “They’re what?”

  I heard Brenda moaning as she linked an arm around my shoulder. “I’ll take you shopping in Zimbabwe, that’ll make you feel better. We’ll buy you some high heels, those lacy bras and underwear you need so bad, we’ll bring two bottles of wine—”

  “I have tequila, Brenda, in my car,” Gina hissed. “Does she drink tequila?”

  I put my face six inches from rebel Reuby’s. “They’re what?”

  I saw his Adam’s apple sliding up and down. “Dude, I’m sorry,” he rasped. “But my MySpace friends sent them to their friends, and they sent them to their friends, and now those pictures…”

  “What?”

  “They’re all over the Internet, man. They’re out there. I mean, they’re out there.” He scratched an arm pit. “Who’s Aiden Bridger?”

  I staggered away, my hands to my forehead, then screamed. And swore. And screamed again.

  My editor called, hysterical.

  My agent called, hysterical

  My public relations gal called, hysterical.

  It wasn’t good. It would get worse.