by Jo Barrett
What? Like Pamela is some kind of saint because she survives on berries and seeds? As if she’s never opened a can of tuna fish? Are her shoes made of plastic? Her belts of eco-friendly twine? Has she never accidentally run over a squirrel or hit a bird?
I pad back into the house. And swing the front door shut. Slam!
Carlton, by the way, was a huge Pam fan.
Chapter 8
I never thought that I’d be the type of girl who waited for some guy to marry me. It seemed old fashioned. To be that girl.
And yet a part of me wondered what was taking so long? Carlton and I were both in our thirties. We’d lived together for four years. I’d assumed marriage was right around the corner.
Of course, I wasn’t bothered by the idea of “living in sin.” I didn’t need the ceremony, the gleaming diamond ring—my girlfriends fawning over me in a sleek, white Vera Wang gown.
Carlton and I could live together for the rest of our lives, as far as I was concerned. The love between us was so great the idea of not getting married seemed terribly romantic.
We’d be modern. Like movie stars. Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins. Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell. Hugh Grant asking Andie McDowell in Four Weddings and a Funeral, “Will you promise never to marry me?”
And besides, I couldn’t complain. Behind closed doors, Carlton referred to me as his “fiancée.” As he put it, we were “unofficially” engaged.
He hadn’t asked me to marry him in the traditional way. There was no candlelight dinner. No diamond. No bending down on one knee. Rather, he’d told me late one night, and I might add—after sweaty, post-coital sex—that he “intended” to marry me.
This is how it happened:
One night, as we lay breathless and sweaty on my mattress, stark naked with the damp sheets kicked on the floor, he’d reached over to the side of the bed, grabbed my hand, and slipped a ring on my finger.
“I intend to marry you,” he said, simply. Instead of a diamond, he’d given me a simple white-gold band he’d bought at Zales.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered. I twirled the ring around my finger. I loved the way it felt, heavy on my hand.
Carlton took it off and showed me the inside.
“Read the engraving,” he said.
I peered at the ring. Then I turned and threw my arm over his chest. Kissed him full on the mouth.
“Oh Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou?” I said, my eyes misting up with tears.
“Right here, baby. Right where I want to be,” he said, stroking my hair.
I wasn’t being a complete cheeseball. There was a reason for the Romeo, Romeo thing.
A few weeks earlier, on one of those gloriously lazy Sundays, Carlton and I had been walking down the street hand in hand when an older woman started waving her cane at us.
“Your love is so bright, kiddos, I’ve gotta wear shades,” she’d called out. Then, she donned a pair of hip, funky-looking sunglasses and blew us a kiss.
“To Romeo and Juliet!” she said, in a strong voice, as she hobbled away.
From then on, Carlton had called me “his Juliet.” And sometimes, I’d call him “Romeo,” too. We both knew it was cheesy and overused, but we didn’t care.
It was our little secret.
“Thank you, Romeo,” I said, as Carlton kissed my ring finger and slipped the ring back on.
“Do you like it?” he asked. He cupped my hands in his and brought them to his chest. I felt his skin, still warm from the sex, and noticed his shoulders were a splotchy pink from all the exertion.
We lay on the bed, naked, facing each other. It was the most intimate moment of my life.
“I love it,” I said.
And he grinned.
In truth, most girls would’ve probably hated the ring. It was plain Jane. The kind of ring you buy in the mall, as an afterthought. And much too thick for my finger.
But I loved it. I wore it every day. Even in the shower. I didn’t care if Carlton ever bought me a diamond. And besides, I wasn’t the type of woman who was a Nazi about carat, cut, and clarity. I didn’t care to wave my finger in front of friends and co-workers and brag out loud, “Look what Carlton gave me,” as I flashed a huge, sparkling rock. No, what Carlton and I had was special. A special bond between us.
This ring was different.
I took it off my finger and read the engraving almost every day.
“Forever, my Juliet,” it read.
Chapter 9
I’ve got to get the hell out of Dodge, I think. I stare at my empty house. My Carlton-free Zone.
A few weeks ago, I packed up all our photographs and everything else that reminded me of Carlton, and I cried the proverbial river of tears. I boxed up everything, even a postcard he’d sent me from a trip to New York City that said, “Someone in the Big Apple loves you.” I hid it all in my garage, behind some paint cans. I couldn’t bear to throw it out. Most women probably would’ve torched the stuff, but deep down, I was a softie. I mean, sure, I’d just killed a raccoon. But that was a total accident.
It’s hard not to feel alone when you’ve lived with a man for the past four years. And then one day, that man is gone. And he’s taken your self-esteem with him.
I have only one thought on days like this. And that thought is: Get Out! Weekends are, most certainly, the worst. What I like to call my “Very Lonely Saturdays” are followed by my “Self-Pitying Sundays.” The biggest problem with weekends is they keep rolling back around.
I’ve considered flying someplace where I’d lose time. Like Costa Rica. I imagine an open wooden beach hut. A soft bed with white mosquito netting. The sounds of the waves rolling in. Me sopping up alcohol like chicken soup. Not knowing the day of the week. Not caring about the time. Maybe I’d take up surfing. And have sex with some hot, Tico guy. You never know. It could happen.
I pick up the phone to call Heather, but then put it back down. She’s probably sick of me, and besides, she’s happily married. And sometimes it isn’t healthy being around a smiling, doting couple. So I’ve got to turn to my last resort—my family.
I call my brother.
He answers with his usual flair.
“Hullo?” he says.
“Hey, what’s shakin’ bacon?” I ask, jumping in.
“Same shit, different day,” my brother says. He’s got a knack for words, that guy.
“I was thinking we could get some burgers,” I say. This tactic, the burger tactic, usually works. My brother is a sucker for a free cheeseburger. And he knows that when I call him, it means I’m the one who’s paying.
I’m paying for Ronnie Piatro’s company because I’m lonely and I’ve just killed a small animal.
“I’m kind of tied up,” Ronnie says.
“I just killed a raccoon!”
“With your car?”
“No, I accidentally poisoned it. I was trying to make these poison brownies to deliver to Carlton’s office but I ended up killing a small, innocent animal,” I say, and I realize I’m talking fast. Like a crazy person.
I hear my brother take a deep breath into the phone.
“I’m going to pray for you, Maddy,” he says. And he means it. He pauses and I can almost hear him praying for me.
We’re both silent on the phone, and I don’t interrupt. Because I know my brother is a serious prayer freak. He takes prayer very seriously.
Finally, he sighs into the phone, “I’ll meet you at The Tavern in one hour.”
Bingo.
Chapter 10
The Friday after Carlton gave me the Juliet ring, we packed up my Volvo with suitcases and drove to Houston for the weekend. Carlton’s Honda was still on the blink, but instead of buying a new battery, Carlton said he was going to splurge on our hotel.
“Houston’s expensive as shit,” he’d said, in a caustic voice. “But we’re not staying at some fucking Hampton Inn when the rest of the wedding party is staying at the Houstonian.”
Carlton’s father was getting marr
ied again. His fifth or sixth time around—I couldn’t remember which. And neither could Carlton.
“Let’s see. There was that waitress from Denver,” Carlton said, counting on his fingers. “But that only lasted a month. So I think they annulled it. That makes five,” he said, flashing me all five of his fingers.
“Getting married five or six times is a very Texas thing to do,” I said.
“Well, howdy fucking doo-dah,” Carlton replied, gunning the accelerator. We cruised down I-10, past the Katy outlet mall, the strip centers filled with Home Depots, Walmarts, Exxons, and McDonald’s—the sprawling concrete jungle that stretched like open arms into the city. A green sign on the side of the highway said HOUSTON 17 MILES.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Don’t hold it against your dad, Carlton. Some men are the marrying type.”
Carlton shook his head, a bitter look on his face. “My dad is the RE-marrying type,” he said, simply. “But at least he’s got a pre-nup that’s tighter than The Donald’s.”
“Who’s the lucky bride?” I asked.
“Some flight attendant. Holly something or other. She works the first-class section. Dad met her on a flight to New York. They spent their first weekend together at the Ritz in Central Park.” Carlton put his hand to his ear and said, “Can’t you hear the wedding bells, Maddy?”
“I’m sure she’s a very nice person,” I deadpanned.
“They’re all nice,” Carlton said. “Especially when they see the checking account.”
“C’mon, babe. Give us some credit. All women aren’t gold diggers.”
Carlton rolled his head dramatically in my direction. “Not all women. Not you,” he said. “You fell in love with me despite my Honda.”
“That’s right, Romeo,” I said, plugging my finger into his arm. “And don’t you forget it.”
An hour later, Carlton and I checked into our luxurious king-sized room at the Houstonian Hotel. We “christened” the bed first, with quick athletic sex, and then showered and got ready for the wedding.
I wore a tight aqua-blue dress I got on sale at Saks. It wasn’t ugly aqua like something a mermaid would wear; it was the softest, palest blue you could imagine. And it really brought out the color of my skin, which being a Piatro, was on the olive side.
Carlton wore his favorite Italian suit with a blue tie. When we were finished getting ready, he said, “Sorry, sweetie. I forgot your blue wrist corsage.”
I giggled and covered my mouth. “I forgot your blue boutonniere.”
He grabbed me and swung me around in a dance circle.
“We’re not too matchy-matchy, are we?” I asked, wrapping my arm around his waist and posing in front of the bathroom mirror.
“Who cares?” he mumbled. He suddenly spotted the Juliet ring on my finger. In one quick motion, he grabbed my hand and rolled the ring off my finger.
“Hey!” I said.
“Don’t wear this tonight,” he said, holding the ring in front of my nose. “I don’t want my dad to think we got engaged without telling him. This is his night.”
I smiled at Carlton and nodded. For now, the Juliet ring would be our little secret.
The entire wedding was held inside the Grand Ballroom of the Houstonian Hotel. The ceremony itself lasted four minutes. Carlton’s father recited his vows as if they were second-nature. Like a hiccup.
The reception, on the other hand, was just like Carlton’s dad. Big and bold, and a little on the wild side. A lavish, Texas-sized affair, complete with rib eye steaks the size of footballs, and strolling mariachis singing “La Cucaracha.”
Forest Connors greeted us underneath one of the sprawling chandeliers. He smiled his big-tooth, politician’s smile and waved his broad hand. He was wearing a black suit instead of a tuxedo. And black cowboy boots.
El Diablo.
“Madeline,” he said, inclining his head in my direction.
“Mr. Connors,” I replied.
“Glad you could make it, son!” he said, clapping Carlton on the back.
Carlton gave his dad an awkward sideways hug, and said, “You know I never miss one of your weddings, Dad.”
“Aw, shucks, son! Cut your old man a break.” Forest Connors chuckled.
“I read somewhere that married men live longer,” I piped up.
Forest Connors looked down his nose at me as if I were some kind of flea or tick.
“Hell, Madeline! Why would anyone want to grow old?” Forest Connors boomed. He pointed his finger and stabbed it in my direction. “Better to lead a fast life, die young, and look good in your coffin. Right, Son?” he said, nudging Carlton.
“Whatever you say, Dad.”
“Life is short, Madeline. I can always make more money. But I can’t make any more time,” Forest Connors said. He winked at Carlton and walked away.
It was disarming. The way Forest Connors walked and talked. With his snakeskin cowboy boots and Texas twang. On the outside, he had the genuineness of a pure country bumpkin—the type of guy you see driving a tractor on the side of the road. Chewing on a sprig of mint.
And yet, it was his eyes that bothered me. When I looked into his hawkish dark eyes, I saw that Forest Connors was a solid force of a man. Those eyes held sheer raw, unadulterated power.
For the rest of the night, whenever I was around Mr. Connors, I felt uneasy. When I laughed, I laughed too loudly. That type of thing. Secretly, I thought Carlton’s father believed women should be seen and not heard.
Perhaps it’s because he had a slew of ex-wives. And Carlton told me they were each less challenging than the previous.
Forest Connor’s latest addition to the Connors clan was a blonde bombshell named Holly. She was thirty-nine years old, a former Miss Texas pageant finalist, and a plastic surgeon’s wet dream.
Whenever Carlton saw her blazing toward us in her fire-engine red wedding dress, he’d look at me and say, “Holy Shit. Here Comes Holly!”
“Talk about eye candy,” I said, conspiratorially.
“Stale eye candy,” Carlton said, and we both laughed like criminals.
I know he secretly resented the silky white Mercedes convertible his father had given Holly as a wedding gift—parked outside the hotel entrance for everyone to admire, with a big red bow wrapped around it—especially since Carlton still bumped around in his rusty Honda.
But there was more to it than that, I thought.
“I don’t understand why my dad is never satisfied with one woman. I guess my old man prefers the all-u-can-eat buffet,” Carlton said, as we danced to the wedding band playing an awful rendition of “Brown Eyed Girl.” He encircled his arms around my waist and held me tightly.
“Apples don’t fall far from the tree, babe,” I teased.
Carlton smiled his sexy, sideways smile. “Don’t worry, darlin’,” he whispered. “I’m a single entree kind of guy.”
And I, of course, being the sucker that I am, totally believed him.
Chapter 11
I arrive at The Tavern early, of course. I’m dressed in wrinkled jeans and a stained white T-shirt that says, “South Padre Island.” On the back of the shirt, in tiny blue letters, it reads, STAND STRONG 2 THE WINDS OF CHANGE.
So here I am. In a smelly bar. Waiting for my brother. And standing strong to the winds of change.
The bartender approaches me armed with this smarmy smile.
“You look like you could use a drink, Missy,” is his opening line.
“Thanks, but I’ll just have a coke.”
“Sure you don’t want me to pour a shot of Jack on top?”
“It’s not even noon,” I say.
“Time is what you make of it.”
See, here’s the problem with Austin, Texas. Everyone’s a closet intellect. No one is who they seem to be. Your barman is probably a PhD in Philosophy or English Lit; your waitress, a budding filmmaker.
My closet intellect bartender slides the glass toward me. He looks a little disappointed that I’m not DRINKING drinking.
I sit on the barstool and sip my coke. Ronnie is a former alcoholic and drug addict so I never drink alcohol around him. He tells me it’s okay. “Don’t worry, Maddy. You won’t get me back off the wagon,” he says. But I figure if I was a chocoholic, I’d be pissed if someone wolfed down a Snickers right in front of me.
My brother strolls in the door. He’s wearing a Longhorns shirt, of course, because he bleeds burnt orange. His hair is messed up on top. A serious case of bed-head.
“I’ve been staring at my computer for the past nine hours,” he says, rubbing both his eyes like he used to do when he was a little boy.
“Trying to save the world again?” I ask.
He shoots me a look. “One teenager at a time, Maddy. That’s my motto.
My brother is a rehab counselor for troubled teens. And he takes the hard cases, because he used to be a hard case himself. He says he feels lucky to be alive and that the rehab business is his “life calling.”
I’ve seen him in action. Three nights a week my brother lectures for free at the local community center. He’s gotten quite a following and even started a Monday night volunteer crisis-counseling hotline—where neither he nor any of the crisis counselors get paid. They work all night long. And the phones ring nonstop.
I know because I’ve volunteered. Not a lot. But enough to know my brother is making a difference.
He counsels kids who have abused more alcohol and street drugs than anyone cares to think about. Kids with dim, weary, aging eyes. The kind of eyes that have seen too much in their short time.
My brother calls these kids his “Miracle Teens.”
“Every one of them needs a miracle,” he says.
I motion to the bartender and order a coke, two cheeseburgers, onion rings instead of fries, and extra pickles.
My brother and I have been doing this burger gig a long time.
“So, you want to kill Carlton?” my brother says, most bluntly.
“Yes.”
“With poison brownies?”
I slurp my coke out of the straw and don’t answer.