The Goode Fight

by Seth King

  “Aw, don’t talk like that. And hey, Daddy,” I say as I go over and bend down to give him a hug, and I am surprised to discover that I have to use both arms to close the span of his shoulders. He’s reading the Wall Street Journal on the ottoman as usual, dressed in his New York Giants sweat suit and fretting over some insurance-related mess that he will probably be yelling about for days to come. I miss his adorable rants so much, it hurts. Technically he’s a Yankee from Connecticut, but that fact is not discussed around my mother.

  “There’s my little Duke student,” he says as he pats my head. “I’m so proud of you, baby. Are you and Miss McClellan staying out of trouble up there in Durham?”

  “Daddy, I’m only forty minutes away,” I tell him as I rest my arms on the back of the seat. Both of my parents had gone to small two-year junior colleges, so they loved to go on and on about the whole Duke thing. “And yeah, we’re fine. Cara’s been…busy lately, so I haven’t gone out with her as much.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. No boys will be able to get their paws on you that way.”

  The only boy whose paws I want on me won’t even touch me, and even if he does, there’s a chance I might die, I think as I smile down at him.

  “I haven’t been too bad, I promise,” I say.

  “Oh,” he says casually as he reads his paper, “that reminds me, I was thinking of heading down to see Father Regan this week to make a confession. Want to come with me?”

  My arm slides off the edge of the ottoman and I stumble backwards. I picture myself sitting in the tiny confession booth with the gleaming wooden walls, telling Father Regan that not only am I trying to seduce someone who has been celibate for two years, but that he is also a murderer. As I struggle to get my balance, my Catholic guilt-o-meter going off the charts, my dad looks up at me, his grey eyes suspicious.

  “Um, no thanks,” I breathe, “I’ve got a lot to do this week.”

  “Oh, sure,” he responds, not taking his eyes off me. I try to keep cool as I sink onto the stone base of the fireplace, but my heart still thumps in my ears. When he finally looks away I close my eyes for a minute, find a good position with my back to the raging fire, and then open them again. I sit taller, promise myself not to think about Stellan for a while, and then smile at my parents.

  “So – who wants donuts?”

  After I help my mom figure out how to burn a cup of cappuccino in the new machine and then sit down and eat the chicken casserole she’d spent the day making, we go out onto the porch and settle into the swinging bench with the palm-tree cushions. Thankfully my dad didn’t ask about my little meltdown during dinner, but I know him, and I know it’ll be lodged in the back of his mind for God knows how long. (As I lower onto the bench I giggle to myself about what happened the last time I’d sat on one of these.) Since our house is on top of a hill, we’re eye-level with the treetops, and slivers of butter yellow and burnt orange are just starting to show in the leaves. The sky is a perfect post-sunset shade of lavender, and the only sounds are the chirping birds and my kid neighbors swinging on their swing set next door while they giggle and tease each other. I look over at them and long for the days when my only problem was how high I could swing without falling off, before I had student loan payments and parents that circled like vultures and an object of affection that may or may not want to kill me. Don’t grow up, I want to tell the kids as they play. It’s a trap.

  “Hope you liked the casserole,” my mother says, breaking the silence. “I changed the recipe a bit, since last time I made it I thought it was way too salty.”

  “It was great, trust me. I think I ate three servings. And how are you doing, anyway? Like with your health, and your sobriety and everything?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Tay, don’t beat around the bush. I’m a lard-ass and I know it. My friend Cheryl says she’s got a real nice weight loss program in mind for me, something called Zombie dancing.”

  “Mom, it’s called Zumba dancing,” I smile.

  “Whatever. And my sobriety is going well- I’ve been going to those AA meetings with Jill from across the street. And don’t tell your father I said this, but they’re God-awful. I want to kill myself every second I’m there- it’s boring as hell, and I’m over it. The other day I was so eager to get out of there, I tripped on the leg of the card table and landed flat on my face.”

  “I guess I am your daughter,” I laugh. “But you need those sessions, so don’t quit them while you’re on such a roll. And how is Scott?”

  “Scott is…same as always. Violent. How are things with you, though? I’m glad you broke thing off with that Aussie, he looked like a total jerk in his FaceSpace pictures.”

  “Mom, it’s Facebook, not FaceSpace. And I thought I told you to stop sending friend requests to all my friends; it’s creepy. I should’ve never set up a profile for you.”

  “Stop trying to change the subject, Tay. You know, you should start thinking about settling down with someone. I’m the last one in my lunch group without photos of grandbabies to pass around the table.”

  “Grandchildren? Mom, I’m twenty-two.

  “Which is a year older than I was when I married your father.”

  “Well those days were different,” I explain. “People grew up faster. I don’t even know how to parallel park; what makes you think I’m ready to get married and have children?”

  “Oh, speaking of getting married- Debbie DeMessner told me she saw you with an extremely handsome boy at the baseball fields,” my mom says, peering down at me. “She said he was quite the looker, and very polite. You should try to get a ring from him.”

  “Mom!”

  She purses her lips and looks away. “Just a suggestion. All I’m saying is that you should start looking for someone you can see yourself ending up with, that’s all. You’re an adult now- these things should be on your radar. I swear, something is wrong with your age group. It’s like a whole generation of adult children. Glenda Rhodes’ daughter is twenty-six and still lives above the garage; says she can’t find a job for the life of her.”

  “Well I don’t blame her. It’s rough out there right now,” I say before putting up a finger. “And correction: I’m not an adult, I’m a new adult. I’m still figuring out all this grown-up stuff. Give me some time. You just don’t get it- it isn’t the ‘70s anymore, where you can just walk out the door and find a job hanging from some magical Job Tree. And the jobs that do exist have already been shipped off to telemarketers in New Delhi. All this is hard enough already without you breathing down my neck 24/7.”

  “Okay, fine. But you need to start thinking about it. You remember what I told you a few weeks ago, about how we’re going to have to cut back on how much we send you every month. By a lot.”

  She looks down and fidgets with her Rolex, yet another relic of the glory days that might be sold off soon. But when? How bad is this situation? And if it’s really bad, then why aren’t they telling me?

  In the corner of my eye I see her staring at me, her eyebrow raised. “We can discuss this more later. But baby, you’ve been staring off into space all evening, all dreamy and stuff. Is there more going on with the Nashville trip you aren’t telling me? Are you making good decisions with this boy? Is he being mean? Is he possessive or controlling or something?”

  Yes, yes, and yes, I think, and once again the whole situation presses down on me like an elephant had just sat on my head. Suddenly I get an all-encompassing urge to lay my head down on my mom’s lap, let my tears start falling, and confess everything. Crack up and then let her put me back together again. I’m desperate for the calming words I would get from her; the outside perspective that only a detached observer like her could provide. It’s like Stellan is a tornado that swept me up in his winds, and I can’t see any of the outside world through the clouds and the turmoil surrounding me.

  But I can’t tell her. I’m falling in love with a possible murderer, and there is no possible way to make that sound any less crazy tha
n it is. And plus, maybe she’s right- I’m becoming an adult. Or I’m supposed to be, at least. I need to handle this on my own. Coming back to the warmth and protection of my home for a night or two is one thing, but I can’t let myself dump all my problems at my mother’s door and beg her to fix them for me. This is something I have to face on my own.

  “Of course I’m making good decisions,” I tell her with a roll of my eyes, trying to keep my voice steady.

  “Oh, yeah,” she says sarcastically, “because it’s just totally unlike a girl in her early twenties to make a bad decision where a guy is concerned, no matter how smart she may be.”

  I nearly clap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. How’s about dating a murderer for a bad decision?

  “Is Cara being her usual bossy self, stepping all over you like usual?” she continues. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

  “Cara is…Cara. I don’t think she’s ever going to change.”

  “I don’t know why you deal with the girl,” she sighs. “I would not put up with the way she talks to you, and if I had my way she would’ve been popped silly ages ago. And if this Nashville boy is smart, he’ll snap you right up and tie you down for marriage.”

  Please don’t mention Stellan tying me up right now, I think as I get a rush of heat between my legs.

  “I don’t know about that, Mom,” I tell her. She reaches over and puts her hand on mine. Her familiar wrinkly skin on mine makes my feel all warm inside despite the crisp breeze.

  “Taylor, I know I tease you, but you are one of the most remarkable people I have ever known. I want you to know that.”

  “You’re supposed to say that. You’re my mom.”

  “I wouldn’t even be able to say it if it wasn’t for you, or say anything else, for that matter,” she tells me. “I’d be six feet under, dead from cirrhosis or a DUI crash.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Tay,” she says. “Who used to sneak into my room every night before I went to bed and steal my bottles of alcohol out of my bottom drawer and pour them into the bathroom sink?”

  I startle. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

  “Of course I did. My drain smelled like a liquor store every time I brushed my teeth in the morning. But looking back, I thank God that you took that temptation away from me. You took my keys away from me whenever I was drunk and wanted to run to the store or whatnot, you led the team that made me go away for treatment, and you cooked goodies for your father every single night while I was gone. I will never forget that you never told anyone, you never judged me for it. If I were in your shoes I would’ve run to your daddy the second I found out about the hidden bottles. I only wish I could be as empathetic as you, honey. And the way you take care of Scott…”

  A tear glimmers in her eye as she stares out at the treetops, making a realization blow into me like a summer hurricane coming in from the Outer Banks. What am I even thinking, questioning Stellan because of what I learned off one Google session? Where is my empathy? I haven’t even gotten his side of the story yet, and he may tell me something that makes the whole thing make total sense to me- or as much sense as a crime of passion can ever make. And, I mean, what if our positions were switched around? I’m not proud to admit this, but just like every other person I know, I’ve gotten behind the wheel after one too many drinks on a late night, and it’s perfectly possible that I could’ve breezed through a stop sign during one of these occasions and mowed down a late-night jogger or something, God forbid. What if everyone turned their backs on me because of that mistake? How would I feel then? I mean, granted, the situation with Stellan is a little different, but who am I to make a decision until I know all the details?

  Plus, I have my own secrets, secrets that might make him leave me when he finds out, secrets that I know will come out sooner than later if I don’t divulge them…

  “I’m not trying to cry,” my mother sniffles, “but I just can’t tell you how much I appreciate you, Tay. I want you to know it, damn it. After I got out of rehab, Dr. McCaskill told me I was under too much stress and needed to start going to anxiety therapy, but I told him, No thanks, Doc, because I’ve already got my own stress reliever at home: my baby, Taylor. You’ve brought me back from the edge many, many times, Tay, especially during all the Scott stuff, and when I say that I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through all of it without you, I mean it in the most literal way.”

  I look away before she can see my glassy eyes.

  “Thanks, Mom. God, can we talk about something else? Are we on the swing, or Oprah’s couch?”

  “Typical Tay Tay, never wanting any attention focused on you.” She wipes the tears from her cheeks and laughs, and the warm, bellowing sound makes my heart feel warm and content. “It’s time you start being prouder of yourself. Remember in kindergarten, when I had to come pick you up from the principal’s office because you got suspended for a day?”

  “At recess,” I reminisce, “Jacob Scantlan came up to this quiet girl and called her fat and ugly, and so I threw sand in his face and called him a stupid head.”

  “Yes,” she says, “you put yourself in danger to save someone. You forgot about your safety, stood up to a boy that was bigger and taller than you, and did the right thing.” She takes my hand and turns to me, more serious now. “You are a fighter, Taylor. A warrior. A winner. Don’t ever let Cara, or any boy, or whatever is bothering you right now, let you forget that.”

  A heat rises in my chest as I stare out at the last traces of the day, and I suddenly decide that she is right. I can do this. I need to get over my fear of Stellan and charge full-steam ahead into whatever’s about to happen. I want to be with him, on every level: emotionally, spiritually, and most of all, physically. For better or for worse, I’m falling in love with him, and there’s no turning back now. When I go after something, I don’t stop until get it, no matter the obstacles before of me. And is this really even that different from my past relationships? I remember thinking the other day about how terrified I was of love; how scared I was that I’d fall for someone who would break my heart. I’m still taking a huge risk either way; I guess that risk is just a little more literal in Stellan’s case. Adam had nearly destroyed my soul when he’d tossed me aside like used goods, so what’s really the difference if Stellan destroys my body? And I’m sick of being alone; of walking on the road to adulthood by myself. If I’m lost, why not have another person beside me to keep me company?

  A large bird in a nearby tree suddenly squawks, and it’s so loud it sounds like a rooster crowing. It calls again, then a third time, before flying off into the dying day. As I watch it disappear I reach over and run my finger along the belt snaking through the loops of my mother’s jeans. Made of rich brown leather, thirty little silver coins are glued to it as decorations, and I always loved it as a child and called it the “shiny belt.” The coins give off a shiny silver glint, reminding me of Stellan’s famous cross necklace, and I take a deep, calming breath as my decision sinks into my bones. Right then and there I decide I am going to find out what happened with Caitlin, and if it wasn’t Stellan’s fault, I will try to be with him. I’m just going to have to trust that he won’t hurt me, that he’s different now, and that he can be with me without killing me or something.

  And if he can’t?

  I don’t even want to think about it.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I finally tell her. “I love you. A lot.”

  “The feeling’s mutual. You know, I thank the good Lord for you every time I wake up in the morning. You’re an angel, Taylor.” She pushes herself off the swing and looks down at me. “Now if you could only direct some of that passion I just talked about towards your job search.”

  †

  The next morning I slump downstairs to find an empty house. I know Dad’s at work, and I figure Mom’s probably having brunch with her prayer group, so it looks like I have some free time. I eat an unhealthy breakfast of leftover casserole from last night and a Chee
rwine and then decide to read the new Nicholas Sparks by the fire. But before long, I start feeling fat and guilty and decide to go on a jog. It’ll be nice to get back on the familiar path I ran in high school, and maybe it’ll help me actually run longer than a mile this time. I throw on some Nike running shorts, decide on a sports bra after I can’t find any shirts that aren’t embarrassingly big on me, and start for the trail.

  My house backs up to a wooded area beside highway 540 that hugs the road for miles, and joggers and dog walkers have cut a vague trail through the underbrush. I push through some bushes and hit it at precisely 12:30. I am going to run until one o’clock, I tell myself as I clench my jaw and set off down the path, and if I don’t, I’ll force myself to eat bananas for the rest of the day as punishment.

  Or, the bad part of me thinks, maybe I could tell Stellan about how bad I’ve been and have him punish me…

  I giggle at my naughty thought as I pick up speed. The clean, woodland air is making me think with absolute clarity for once, and all I can focus on is my absolutely overpowering desire for Stellan. I don’t care if he’s a killer- my body literally aches for him. Shoving aside all I’ve learned over the past few days, I still want him more than anything in my life, even though it scares me shitless. Now that I think about it, if you take away the whole murder thing, he’s like the perfect guy. He has the style sense of James Dean, the brain of a genius, the morality of a Christian, and the sexual skills of a porn star. I couldn’t have designed someone in a science lab and come up with anyone more desirable – he’s Frankenstein with better bone structure. I had no idea how dull my life was before he came along – in fact, I don’t think I’d ever truly felt passion before last week. All that time I’d just been existing, but now I’m living, every pore of my skin radiating with joy and wonder and excitement and light. If I could put this feeling into a little jewelry box and put it up on a shelf forever so I could take it out and cherish it on rainy days to come, I would. Just thinking of him makes me want him to show up and slam me against a tree, have his way with me right here in this forest…