The Book of Essie

by Meghan MacLean Weir

  There are less than two weeks until Easter, which has been set as the day of the wedding, and Essie and I have one more week off from school. The fact that Easter falls late this year and, as a result, does not line up with the public school vacation was the subject of Pastor Hicks’s last sermon, which was broadcast on our flight and is apparently evidence of the nation’s war against Christians. Or something. I tuned out most of what he said and instead focused on the back of Mom’s head, which was visible in the shot. While we were away, she got her hair cut.

  Celia Hicks’s eyes flash as she looks at her daughter and then she splits her mouth into a smile.

  “I didn’t call you both here to talk about flowers,” she tells us. “I took care of all that while you were away. There will be lilies, of course, for the holiday. And with any luck, the daffodils outside will have bloomed in time for the ceremony. They should make a nice background as you step out of the church.”

  “You can’t control the weather,” Essie reminds her.

  “I know that. Don’t be foolish. The landscapers have potted daffodils set aside in their greenhouse. They’ll plant those on Good Friday if it looks like the gardens are going to be a disappointment.”

  “So what are we here for then, if it’s not about the wedding?” I ask, finding the courage to speak.

  “Yes, excellent, best to get down to it,” Celia Hicks says. “Roarke, I’m not sure you’ve met Essie’s brother Caleb, but you’ve probably heard that he’s been considering a run for Congress. Bennett Tull has announced that he won’t be seeking reelection and Caleb has been asked to run for his seat in the House. Well, of course, rumors have been flying and there have even been polls that show Caleb would be expected to do well against any of the Democratic challengers. But I told Caleb to pray on it first before he decided anything. After all, with a baby on the way, being there for his family should be his first priority, however alluring the spotlight might seem.”

  Essie snorts and then covers up this sound with a cough.

  “What does that have to do with us?” I ask.

  Mrs. Hicks lifts her cup from its saucer and sips, then sets the cup down without a sound.

  “He’s announcing the day after tomorrow at four o’clock. I’d like you both to be there.”

  Essie shakes her head. “We have an interview.”

  “Well, certainly this is more important,” Celia Hicks counters.

  “Not to me. I made a promise to Libby. I intend to keep it.”

  “My dear, this is hardly worth butting heads over. Besides, I can’t imagine the interview will take that long. You can come over to the press conference when you’ve finished. We’ll just need to figure out your wardrobe ahead of time. You can change at the studio before you leave. Politics has grown so twisted, so dirty. People need to see the sort of togetherness that old-fashioned family values brings.”

  Mrs. Hicks begins to launch into the color scheme and where she envisions each of us standing, but by then Essie is laughing so much that the coughing is not enough of a cover. I nudge her foot again, but this time it has no effect.

  “I can’t breathe,” she manages to gasp as tears begin to wet her cheeks.

  Celia Hicks looks at her daughter with thinly veiled disgust.

  “Roarke, dear, why don’t you take her out back to get some air?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say and stand to pull Essie to her feet.

  I drag her through unfamiliar rooms, rooms they must not use for taping, until I find a set of French doors that seem to lead outside. I open them and step out onto a stone patio. It feels like spring and the yard at least I recognize. There is the swing set Lissa climbed to the top of before she fell and broke her leg. The plastic seats are faded, but it looks sturdy enough. The grass is damp and my shoes sink slightly into the spongy ground as I cross the yard and lower myself into a swing. Essie hesitates, still bent over and grabbing at her chest, then follows close behind. She wipes her eyes once more and sits down as well.

  “Sorry about that,” she says.

  I shrug. “Don’t be.”

  “It hit me all at once, just how ridiculous we are. I don’t think I ever really saw that until now. I mean, I knew it, but I didn’t really know. I didn’t think about how it looks from the outside.”

  “Everybody feels embarrassed by their family.”

  “Sure, but not necessarily on quite so grand, so national, a scale.”

  “You’ve been on the national stage your entire life.”

  Essie shakes her head. “Yes, but that was all for entertainment. Even the church bits. Daddy may want to think they were something else, something that brought people closer to the divine. But entertainment is all it was. This is different. What makes Caleb qualified to run for office? Nothing. He almost flunked out of law school, did you know that? Naomi had to write his papers for him.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t suppose he’ll tell the voters that.” I pause and lean back to look up at the clouds. “We could say no,” I offer, “or just not show up at the press conference at all.”

  Essie slumps down in the swing and starts to push herself back and forth. The chains creak and then settle into a soothing rhythm.

  “What’s the point?” she says. “It’s hardly worth the risk. We can’t do anything that might really anger Mother, not before the marriage certificate is signed. After that, once the money’s ours, then we’ll be free from them. We’ll just have to put up with this freak show of a circus until then.”

  “It’s not much longer,” I try to reassure her.

  “I know.”

  “Besides, you should be looking forward to seeing Lissa, right? Not worrying about the campaign.”

  “I guess.”

  Essie is looking at her lap. I can’t see her face.

  “You don’t sound so sure.”

  “I am,” she says as she looks up. “I mean, I definitely want to see her, but there’s also a part of me that’s afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “That she won’t understand the person I’ve become. No, that’s not it. Maybe it’s that I’m afraid she will.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say, reaching out to take the chain on her swing and pulling her to a stop. “Wouldn’t that actually be a good thing, to have your sister on your side? Don’t you want her to understand?”

  There’s a long pause before Essie finally speaks. “No. I’m not sure that I do.”

  * * *

  —————

  I take the long way home and barely register the route as I turn from one street onto another. At one point I realize that I’ve missed a turn and drive aimlessly through a cluster of cul-de-sacs I’ve never been down before, a new development, until I find my way back to a street I recognize and at long last pull up in front of my house. Blake’s truck, which he bought used off of Ryan Keane when Ryan’s dad upgraded him to an Audi, is parked out front. It still looks new, unlike my sorry excuse for transportation. I glance into the cab, but it’s empty. Blake must be inside.

  I find him sitting on the couch with Mom, leafing through my baby book. She pulled out all our boxes of photographs from the attic while I was away and has been going through them, looking for the perfect snapshots to give Celia for the rehearsal dinner slideshow.

  Blake doesn’t look up as I step into the room. Instead he shakes his head and says, “Dude, you had some rolls on you when you were a baby.”

  “They were for my protection. Mom dropped me a lot when I was little.”

  My mother swipes a hand in my direction as if to swat me, but I’m too far away to reach. “Stop that. I did nothing of the sort.”

  “You ready?” Blake asks.

  I have no idea what he’s asking. “Ready for what?” I say.

  “I’m kidnapping you. The guys are meeting us at the
lake. Unless of course you’d like to stay here and let me see more of these pictures. Did you even wear clothes before age three?”

  He holds up a Polaroid in which I’m wearing a striped T-shirt but am inexplicably without underwear or pants. He waves it in the air.

  “I can’t. I have an interview and I just found out about this other thing.”

  “Are either of them tomorrow? Because your mom told me you were free tomorrow. She even packed your bag.”

  Blake gestures to my camping pack, which is leaning against the post at the bottom of the stairs. My sleeping bag sits beside it, along with a water bottle and a baseball cap.

  “They’re the day after.”

  “Good,” Blake says and moves to stand. “So you are free. We should make good use of that freedom, since you have so little of it left.”

  He slaps me on the shoulder and moves around the couch to lift my backpack.

  “I’ll throw this in the truck while you go change into something a little less Six for Hicks,” he tells me, gesturing to my button-down shirt and beige pants. “Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. Richards. We’ll have him back in time for bed tomorrow. I know he gets cranky when he doesn’t get enough sleep.”

  Blake retrieves my pack without waiting for my approval and throws open the front door.

  “Mom?”

  She stands, her fingers curling and uncurling nervously at her side.

  “Go,” she says. “Have fun.”

  I wait for her to arrange her face into a reassuring smile and then I bound up the stairs. I kick my loafers off into the closet and pull out a stained and dusty pair of boots. Soon I’m back in my own clothes and I marvel at how slipping on my jeans feels in some ways like stepping into my own skin again. I kiss my mother on the cheek and join Blake in his truck, pulling the seat belt across my chest while shooting off a text to let Essie know I may not have reception until the following night. Blake laughs and takes my phone away just as I hit Send.

  “Whipped,” he says. “You know that’s what they call it, don’t you?”

  “You’re one to talk. Didn’t Kristin Meyers have you on a pretty tight leash for almost all of junior year?”

  “Yeah, well, her brother is a lot bigger than me and he told me he would really mess me up if I ever made his sister mad. I couldn’t dump her. In the end, I had to pay Bretton King all of the money I made cutting Mrs. McCluskey’s lawn so he’d ask Kristin out and she’d finally break up with me.”

  “You never told me that,” I say. “That’s pretty messed up.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’re in any position to judge,” he says.

  He puts the truck in gear and we back out onto the street.

  “It’s not a judgment. Just an observation.”

  “Well, I’ve got some observations of my own, then.”

  “Shoot,” I tell him.

  “You look happy when you’re with her. I’ve been watching you on TV. Don’t look at me like that. I know it’s lame, but now that you’re famous, it’s the only way I get to see you. Anyway, at some point during one of your interviews she made you laugh and it was your real laugh, not the one you use when you’re pretending something’s funny.”

  “So you buy the whole ‘madly in love’ thing now?”

  “Not so fast. I didn’t say that. But if you’re happy, that’s good enough for me.”

  I don’t answer right away, but when I do I say, “I think that’s what I am.”

  I let the silence stretch again as we pull onto the highway and wait to weave our way into the left lane. I look out the window and watch as the buildings fall away and are replaced by farmland. Blake turns on the radio, but I turn it off again.

  “I’m going to get to go to Columbia.”

  “Huh,” he grunts and looks at me sideways before returning his eyes to the road. “So that’s it, then?”

  “No, that’s not it. I’m not going to apologize for wanting to get out of here and I’m not going to deny that it’ll be easier with Essie by my side. But I wouldn’t be marrying her if I didn’t believe in the things she stands for as a person, what we can choose to stand for together.”

  “What things does she stand for?”

  I laugh and turn the radio back on, crank up the volume.

  “Everything her family stands against.”

  * * *

  —————

  Reggie White, Ben Matthews, and Zach Lipton are already at the lake when we arrive. That whole piece of land used to be a summer camp—our summer camp—but it closed down a few years ago. It was called Bement. For a while it looked like no one wanted it, then some stockbroker from Chicago made a lowball offer and the bank that had foreclosed on it just wanted to be rid of it, I guess. It was supposed to be some sort of spiritual retreat, or that’s what he told Dad when he stopped into the store for a pair of shoelaces. Later that fall, he had someone sell off anything that wasn’t nailed down: the canoes, the tables and plastic chairs that were stacked up in the mess hall. But aside from that, nothing else has been done. As far as I know, the man hasn’t been back since.

  We still camp here when we want to, but it’s depressing how deserted and forgotten the place has become. Every time we go, we’re half afraid it will be our last visit, but the other half is hoping that the real estate guy has come back to bulldoze over the past. Being trapped in this sort-of in-between is just too sad. Before the camp shut down, the five of us spent every summer together on this lake from the time we were nine until we turned fifteen. Every summer, that is, except for the one when I was sent away. Blake and the other guys think I was on some dude ranch out west, though that’s something we never could have afforded. I don’t want them to know the truth, so I never said anything about it at all.

  In any case, it feels almost like coming home to be back here again. The lock on the gate across the access road has always been easy to pick, so we drive all the way up past the gatehouse and to the dirt lot behind the mess hall, where Ben’s car sits empty. The lake is visible through the pines and the gravel crunches beneath our feet as Blake and I cross the clearing where we used to gather before meals and sing songs like “Amazing Grace” or “Johnny Appleseed.” From there we jog down a short trail reinforced with railroad ties to reach the grassy beach where we know the others will be waiting. The sand is still visible in places, but without young campers to rake the beach clean throughout the summer, the natural vegetation is reasserting itself in force.

  Reggie and Ben are skipping rocks while Zach lies with his arms spread wide in a sunny spot near the Buddy Board, where the lifeguards used to hang a chip for every child in the water. One time Zach left his chip on the Buddy Board on purpose. He hid behind the changing house while the bell above the mess hall starting ringing and the counselors ran from all over camp to gather at the waterfront. Some made a line to sweep the shallow area while others dove beneath the docks. Zach later admitted to the camp director that he had just wanted a glimpse of Ellen Carpenter in a wet T-shirt and he still maintains that the way her nipples showed through the fabric made it entirely worth getting sent home early that summer.

  Blake runs down the last few steps and then jumps on top of the stone wall that flanks the swimming area and raises his arms above his head. Zach catches sight of us first and leaps up.

  “The prodigal son returns,” he yells, and Blake bends at the waist to take a bow. Zach lobs a pinecone at him and says, “I wasn’t talking about you.”

  I step over the wall and Zach throws his arms around me.

  “Congratulations, man.”

  Even Reggie, who I know hates the Hicks family more than most, gives me a squeeze and says, “They’ve got you on such a tight schedule, we didn’t know if we’d get to give you a proper bachelor party. But since none of us can legally drink, this is probably the best we’d be able to do anyway.”r />
  He gestures to a cooler that they’ve dragged beneath a maple tree to shade it from the sun.

  “This is perfect,” I tell them. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.”

  Ben hands out the beers and we lean against the cool stones of the wall and look out across the water.

  “So,” Reggie says finally, “Essie Hicks. Interesting choice.”

  Blake gives him a warning look, which I catch out of the corner of my eye.

  “I think she chose me, not the other way around,” I tell him.

  “And you just went along with it?” Reggie asks.

  “Dude,” Blake hisses from between his teeth, “we talked about this.”

  “No, it’s fine. I went along with it. I had no reason not to. My life is better with her in it. That’s all I can say.”

  There’s silence and I can tell from the look on Reggie’s face that he has more that he would like to add, but he swallows hard and looks away.

  “I heard that Aaron Carlberg busted his knee jumping out of a hotel window in Cabo,” Ben says, clearly trying to change the subject.

  “Do you think he’ll lose his scholarship to Baylor?” Blake asks.

  “His sister says they’ll know more after he’s had his surgery, but it doesn’t look good.”

  “What a douche,” Zach says. “His parents must be pissed.”

  “What did they expect, letting him go to Mexico on his own? Besides, they can afford to pay for Baylor even if he never sets foot on a football field again.”

  Ben stands up as he finishes speaking and walks behind a bush to pee. I finish my beer. The last mouthful is warm and I hold on to it in that space between my lips and my front teeth before I swallow. Ben walks back to where we’re sitting and throws himself down on the ground.

  The summer we were twelve, Ben and I were in the same cabin and arrived early enough on check-in day to claim two adjacent top bunks. Beneath me slept a boy who refused to shower for the entire camp session. I’ve forgotten his name, but I still remember the smell. Ben, on the other hand, shared his bunk with our junior counselor Noah, who was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I told myself I just thought Noah was cool; everyone did. But it wasn’t that. The following summer was the one I missed.