by Nan Lowe
“They have a strong English department.”
“You can get an English degree anywhere. Tulane and Loyola are right here. Don’t you get some kind of discount since your parents teach?”
“I don’t want to go to Tulane.” I shook my head. “Or Loyola. I don’t want to live here and have my dad on my ass about wasting time on Poe instead of studying theorems or human behavior. He teaches psychology, but he can’t have an adult conversation with any of his children. Why would I choose that?”
“Move out. Get your own place.”
“I plan to.”
“Somewhere else…” he said slowly.
“Yeah.”
“We could get a place.” His voice was calm, but those words sent my heart into overdrive. “Maybe see if Penn wants to go in. There are all kinds of duplexes in Mitchell’s neighborhood, and the rental signs go up every year about a month after the college graduations.”
“How am I supposed to pay rent and go to school? My dad sure as hell won’t pay for me to live with you.”
“He will when you remind him how much you’re saving him by staying here for school.”
“It’s not really about money with him.”
“I think you’re leaving just to spite him.”
“He won’t give a shit once I’m gone. He gets along with Ronnie better now than he ever did when she lived here.”
“Then why?”
“Does it matter why?” I asked. “Really?”
“I guess it doesn’t,” he said. I could hear him moving around, but I stayed rooted under the Christmas tree. “I’ll see you tomorrow at Penn’s.”
“Okay.”
Neither of us said goodbye, and the front door slammed behind him on his way out. I stayed under the tree, thinking of what gifts I had left to buy, Oliver, how long it would take to get responses from the five colleges I’d applied to, Oliver, what time Van would be home… and Oliver.
It always came back to him.
The parlor door opened, and the sound of footsteps and voices mingled down the hall. Miss Verity’s appointment had ended, and she was showing her guest to the door. I didn’t want to look foolish by disengaging myself from a Christmas tree in front of them, so I stayed put and hoped they wouldn’t notice.
They didn’t. The older gentleman walking alongside her had her hand on his arm and his closed over it affectionately. When they reached the door, he leaned down to kiss her cheek at the corner of her mouth. Her hand lifted and settled on the back of his head, fingers buried in his hair.
It was the last thing I’d expected to see. He wasn’t a client. That much was obvious.
She closed the front door behind him a few moments later, turned toward the kitchen, and as she passed, said, “Are you going to help me with these dishes?”
I stood up and followed her through the house. “Who was that?”
“Tank Henry.” The words rolled off her tongue as though it was common knowledge or he were a celebrity. One look at my blank face had her rushing to continue. “He was your grandfather’s dearest childhood friend.”
“Oh.”
“He stops in to check on me whenever he’s in town.”
“Is he married?”
“His wife passed a few years back,” she said.
“Is his name really Tank?”
“No. That was a nickname he picked up in the Navy. His real name’s Theodore.”
“He was very… friendly,” I said.
“We’ve known each other for years. Many, many years…”
I wasn’t in the mood to be alone, so I followed Miss Verity to the family room when we were done and settled in next to her on the couch to watch television. My mind was all over the place, though.
Mom and Dad practically fell through the front door shortly after 11:00. They were obviously tipsy, maybe even drunk, because my dad had his hands all over my mom’s ass. I hadn’t ever been unfortunate enough to witness anything like it before that night. Their bodies were flush against the door, and his mouth lowered to hers. Thankfully, Miss Verity cleared her throat before there was any tongue action.
“Sorry,” my mom said. It took her a moment to register that I was sitting on the sofa, too. “Violet? What are you doing?”
I almost laughed. That’s a question she should’ve asked a million other times, but she’d waited until I was safely tucked under an afghan on the couch with my grandmother watching TV to be concerned.
“Getting my weekly dose of SVU,” I answered with a nod at the television.
“Where’s Van?” my father asked.
“Out with some friends,” Miss Verity answered after giving me a swift look of warning. “He’ll be home by midnight.”
“But you’re not with him,” Mom said to me, taking a step away from my father.
I followed Miss Verity’s lead when I replied, “He has a lot of friends, Mom.”
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Charm bracelets and barrettes were hardly conversation pieces, so I nodded and pretended to be engrossed in the show until my parents finally made their way up the stairs. After their bedroom door slammed shut, I turned to Miss Verity.
“Why didn’t you tell them Van’s with George?”
Her eyes never moved from the screen as she answered. “That’s Van’s business, isn’t it?”
“You’re not worried?” I asked. Van was only sixteen, while George was at least twenty-one.
“Your brother’s spending time with a kind, caring, and experienced young man. There are far worse things going on in this world for me to worry about.”
Miss Verity knew better than I did about most things, so it was easy for me to trust her opinion of George Murphy. After all, I loved a boy who believed love was bullshit, so I was in no position to judge anyone else’s relationship. My situation with Oliver was a fucked up mess.
The short nap had thrown off my schedule, so I found it next to impossible to get back to sleep that night. As predicted, Van was home by midnight. He pushed open my door long enough to wave and keep going. He was talking to someone on his phone, so I didn’t try to stop him. Instead, I sat on a pile of pillows in the corner of my room for hours reading “The Oval Portrait” and “The Imp of the Perverse.” After that, I decided to give up Poe for the night, since both tales left me cold and thinking of Oliver.
The last time I looked at the clock, it was after 5:00 in the morning. Troya called and woke me up shortly after 9:00.
“You busy?” she asked.
“No,” I yawned.
“Feel like shopping?”
I felt like sleeping, but a chance to hang out with Troya alone was rare, so my immediate answer was yes. She was eating muffins and chatting with Miss Verity in the kitchen by the time I’d made it downstairs after a quick shower.
Miss Verity insisted I eat something, so I took two muffins and a bottled water with me to eat on the way. Troya grabbed her last muffin and followed me out the door. The chilly breeze dried my hair before we made it to the streetcar.
Most of the day was spent ducking in and out of shops on Magazine Street. Almost all of Troya’s purchases were small, art-related—chalk, paints, brushes, charcoal—and for Sonny.
“To keep it easy, we decided to give each other a stocking full of stuff.”
“That’s sweet,” I said. I still hadn’t decided whether or not to get anything for Oliver. I’d bought presents for everyone else, even a sketchpad for Sonny and a hardcover copy of The Stand for Penn.
“How do you shop for Miss Verity?” she asked. “It must suck. It’s impossible to surprise her.”
“She drops plenty of hints close to the holidays so we don’t have to try to surprise her.”
“What did you get her?”
“A new silk scarf for her tarot cards, some pre-bundled sage, and a cheesy romance novel with boobs busting out of a corset on the cover.”
She laughed and almost dropped her phone. “No way. Your grandma reads porn?”
>
“It’s not porn,” I argued. “It’s romance… with sex.”
“Oh, my God. You read it!” She laughed even harder when my cheeks turned pink.
“I had trouble sleeping last night,” I said. “Poe was fucking with my head, so I needed something lighter. It was a good book.”
“I’m not judging you for that. I love some seriously dirty shit, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to share it with my grandma. Plus, yours probably already knows you read it. That doesn’t gross you out?”
I had to stop to think about it for a moment before I answered. “I guess it’s still weird and interesting to you, but I’ve lived with Miss Verity my entire life. I learned a long time ago not to worry about what she can or can’t see. I’d drive myself crazy.”
“Why were you up all night?”
As much as I loved Troya, she was Oliver’s cousin and one of his closest friends. I hadn’t forgotten that, so I took a page from his book and lied. “School. I’ve sent off all of my applications and essays. Waiting sucks.”
“You applied to five schools, right?” She waited for a nod and then continued. “At least one of them will want you. What’s your first choice?”
I’d been wondering the same thing myself. I’d never been to any of the places I’d applied to, and researching a school online wasn’t the same as visiting it in the flesh.
“I don’t know. I wish my parents would let me tour a couple of them. If I had to pick today, I’d say Auburn.”
“Really?”
“All the others are in tourist cities: Nashville, Dallas, Miami, Vegas. They’re not much different than here. Auburn’s a small town. It’s bike-friendly, so I won’t have to worry about a car, and in case I need to get home quickly, it’s closer than the others. And it has a good English department. I think I’d like it there.”
“Have you asked your parents to check it out with you?”
I laughed and shook my head. “No. Why bother?”
“I’ll borrow my mom’s car, and we’ll go for a weekend,” she said without glancing up from the clearance rack of shirts she was perusing.
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.” She stopped and gave me her full attention. “It has a GPS. You’ll have to split the gas with me, though.”
“We’re not eighteen. How are we going to get a hotel?”
She shrugged. “If we have to, we’ll sleep in the car.”
“You’d really do that?”
“Sure. It’ll be fun. I’ll tell my mom I want to check it out, too. She’s always asking me what my plans are and if I’m thinking about my future. This might get her off my back.”
It was hard not to get my hopes up. Troya made it sound easy, like a real possibility. It was nice to have someone in my corner.
We shopped until our feet hurt and our arms were full of bags and presents. When we’d had enough, we caught a cab back to her house. Her mom was at work, and her dad was like mine, except hers spent all his free time in a recliner watching sports instead of being obsessed with books in an office.
Troya made sandwiches, and Sonny showed up around dusk to go with us to Penn’s. We’d had a chance to rest, which was good since it was a long walk to the party. When we arrived, the driveway was already full and cars were lining the street on both sides.
Penn came over as soon as he saw us. “It’s going to take me all day to clean this shit up tomorrow.”
“That’s the price of popularity,” Troya said.
“Where’s Oliver?” I asked, looking over Penn’s shoulder at the crowd.
“Haven’t seen him,” he answered. “He said he was stopping at Chloe’s and then he’d be here.”
Chloe Sinclair was a junior and, based on the number of times I’d seen her buying it from Oliver, really fond of marijuana. I’d never noticed if she was the type to wear charm bracelets, but it wouldn’t have surprised me.
Van turned up an hour later. He found me burning a fat one on the back patio with Troya and Sonny. He took a few hits to catch up, and I cornered him and forced him to tell me everything about his date with George Murphy the night before. Well, not everything. There were some things big sisters didn’t need to hear.
He’d had fun and was still a virgin, so it was all good.
People came and left. Troya told Sonny and Penn about our wish-list visit to Auburn, and Penn offered to tag along and help share expenses.
Celeste gave all of us “special” cookies—three each, sealed tight in a Ziploc baggie with a snowman printed on it. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
We partied until it was time for me and Van to rush home to beat curfew. My friends did a bang-up job of keeping me busy and distracted. I let them believe it was working, but it didn’t escape my notice that Oliver, who’d promised to see me there, had never shown up.
Chapter Fifteen
“Troya was a good friend to you,” Wade says.
His arms are around me, holding on. Stories of teenage Violet haven’t managed to run him off, yet.
“She was,” I agree.
“Did you sleep in the car?” His lips are turned up in a curious grin.
“We didn’t go. My parents wouldn’t let me.”
“Let you?” His hold loosens as he takes a step back to look me in the eye.
“It was different then—”
The double-action door swings open, and Patricia steps into the room with her hands on her hips. “It’s time for presents! I thought you’d be all over it.”
“We are, Mom.” Wade’s hand grasps mine, palms sliding and fingers locking.
We follow her to the tree and take spots on the floor so Jeff’s parents can have the chairs closest. Wade plays Santa, dutifully checking each tag and passing presents to their rightful owners. Based on the number of wrapped gifts between us, my haul’s almost as large as Wade’s this year.
He scores new cuff links from his grandparents; shirts, gift cards, and books from his parents; and the obligatory socks and underwear Patricia embarrasses him with year after year. Beautiful sweaters, earrings, framed prints, and books make up most of my loot. Jeff hands Wade a long white envelope with holly decorating the upper right-hand corner, and Patricia gives me an identical envelope.
Wade glances at them and then at me before hooking his thumb in the loose flap to open his.
“Holy shit,” he says.
“Wade!”
“Sorry, Grandma.” His smile doesn’t waver. “Open yours,” he says to me.
I follow his lead and pull out a confirmation of a half-season plan purchase for the Braves.
“Thank you so much,” I say.
“Most of the games are in the summer, Violet,” Patricia says. “I’m worried more about Wade’s schedule than yours, but I hope you’ll be able to enjoy these together.”
“I’m sure we will, for at least some of them. I’ll take Wren when he has to work, so don’t worry they’ll go unused.”
Wade mock-scoffs loudly in protest, making Patricia laugh. “Y’all have a grand time,” she says, resting her hand on my knee long enough to give it a light squeeze.
Jeff surprises her with an envelope of her own. It contains an itinerary for a trip to Aruba scheduled for the week of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary next year. She cries big, happy tears, squeals like a teenager once or twice, and then kisses him with an enthusiasm that makes Wade cringe, while the rest of us think it’s cute.
“Don’t you want me to still kiss you that way twenty-five years from now?” I ask, nudging his side with my elbow.
“Well, yeah, but not in front of our kids.”
“Right. We’ll keep it in our pants around our kids.”
His arm slips from the back of the sofa to land on my shoulders in a half-hug, and then soft lips press against my hair. Subtly and with certainty, possibilities morph into promises. I can see us doing this years from now, in some other house, with one or two small kids and a sea of wrapping paper. For the first time in
my life, I want those things.
As predicted, Ari shows up soon after we’ve finished, knocking on the door as she opens it. “I come bearing presents and wine.” She steps into the living room, sets a gigantic brown bag on the table, and starts pulling wrapped gifts from it. “I brought yours, too,” she says to Jeff and Patricia. “We’re leaving in the morning.”
There’s a gift for everyone except me, but I wasn’t really expecting one.
Since I could use the break, I make a quick trip to the bathroom and swing by the kitchen for a bottled water from the fridge. My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and two text notifications show up on the display. The first is from my sister, who lets me know she’s driving to New Orleans Wednesday afternoon. The second is from Wren. It’s an invitation for brunch and shopping tomorrow. There’s also a missed call from her, so I decide to call her back instead of sending a text to answer.
“Hey,” she says. “Merry non-Christmas.”
“Happy Sunday,” I answer. “What are you doing?”
“At this moment? You don’t want to know. How’s Christmas with the folks?”
“It’s good.” I pause long enough to open the back door and sneak out onto the porch. Even still, I keep my voice down when I continue. “The ex’s mom is here. She’s exchanging gifts with everyone. She even got something for Wade’s grandparents.”
“But not you.”
“Definitely not me.”
“Bitch.”
“No,” I say. “She’s not. She’s really nice. And I get it. I mean, would you buy your daughter’s ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend a Christmas gift?” Before she can answer, I add, “Don’t lie.”
“I guess not. And it’s not like you got anything for her.”
“Exactly. I’m not going to lose any sleep over this. I promise.”
“Good. So tomorrow?”
“Make it lunch instead, and I’m in.” The afternoon sunlight catches a facet on the ring, a bright reminder of news I want to spill. Telling Wren would start an internet avalanche that would end on my family’s information doorstep before I step foot in New Orleans. If Wade agrees, we’ll tell our friends after my family.
“Fine. I’ll go the gym in the morning while you’re sleeping until noon.”