Watching the Sky Cry

by J. B. Hartnett

  “Can I invite myself and my boyfriend over for dinner tonight?”

  She stifled a laugh. “I suppose you can’t live on nachos and baked potatoes forever.”

  “Mom,” I said, exasperated. “The humble tortilla chip, much like the noble potato and its esteemed colleague, pasta, are simply vehicles for a myriad of toppings.”

  “You know…” she began, and though she couldn’t see it, I rolled my eyes. “I’m a good cook. I’m not bragging; it’s just a fact. And you’d think, like your hazel eyes and high cheekbones, that you would’ve been gifted genetically with my culinary talents.”

  “I know this is a tragedy for you, Mom. And, one day, maybe it’ll just click into place. But, to be fair, I’m really not that bad. Remember, I make great soup.”

  Nick gave me a soup cookbook for his birthday one year. I think his exact words were, “And if you screw something up, you can just toss it all in the food processor with some cream or stock and that’s it. Soup.”

  And you know what? He was right.

  “You do,” she conceded. “I think, when we’re settled into the house, we should have a cooking challenge, you and I. Each month, we’ll have our husbands choose a theme. Dad’ll choose for you, and Quentin can choose for me. Oh,” she squealed, “It’ll be wonderful.”

  But whatever she was going on about, I was still stuck on the part where she mentioned husbands…and moving in…and where was I gonna live. I got up to look out the window and saw Billy and Quentin were still talking, and then…

  “Honey?”

  “I’m here,” I whispered.

  “Honey, it’s okay,” she soothed, because it was clear she’d hit more than one trigger as she made plans for my future.

  “You decorated my spare room for Billy, didn’t you? In fact,” I said, looking around. “The whole place is for him, right?”

  “Last time we were up for a visit, Rylie, he had nothing in that place. It’s just…minimalist is a generous way of putting it. I wanted him to feel at home so he might stay.”

  I thought that was going to be it, so I stood by the window and watched the conversation below. But it was what Mom said next, her voice hushed, that really caught my attention.

  “I think he crashed that motorcycle on purpose. Dad and I have never discussed it, but he was confident on that thing. He’s not a risk-taker, not like that.”

  And when her words settled, they joined that place in my gut reserved for those moments of anxiety. Something about it made me feel nauseous, knowing that a mother’s intuition was usually right.

  And with our mom, it was always right.

  “What can I do,” I offered desperately.

  “Rylie,” she began…

  “They’re done talking. Make it quick,” I warned.

  “Be his friend. I think that’s what he’s missing.”

  I heard the door off the kitchen that led to the garage open on its creaking hinge. “What time do you want us there, and what can I bring?”

  “Seven,” she said, “And Rylie?”

  I stopped and stood where I was, taking in my reflection in the mirror above the guest room dresser.

  “You and Quentin,” she breathed, “it’s happening. Maybe you can’t see it like we can, but there’s a light in you, honey, and it’s never burned this bright. Not since you were a little girl waiting for the phone to ring or the mail to come.”

  “He loves me.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “I have to go before I start crying.”

  “See you at seven,” she confirmed.

  “Yeah. See you then.”

  I hung up just in time to see Quentin lead Billy through the door to the guest room. “Mom did this,” my brother stated.

  I chuckled. “Yeah, she did.”

  “Was that her on the phone?”

  “Osso buco, seven, bring nothing. The end.”

  “It’s my favorite,” he said to Quentin. “Right. So. I’ve been driving for, I don’t know. A while. So if it’s cool, I’d like to have a shower, take a nap, and then we can have coffee before the buco. Sound good?” he asked, not just me, but us.

  I was an us.

  “Right,” I said. “So, there’re towels and everything in the bathroom there. I have my own bathroom, so that one’s all yours. And…I think that’s it.”

  I was about to leave the room as Quentin edged out the door. “I’ll be in the garage, Rylie.”

  “I, uh…” Now alone with Billy.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” I replied. Maybe it was time to buy some more postcards again.

  “How are you feeling, Rylie? Tell me the first words that come to mind.” He opened the small duffle and began to unzip pockets and pull out various chargers. Then he moved on to the small suitcase he’d brought in with Quentin. Next came his laptop. “Password?” he asked.

  “PrincessCaliope.”

  He lifted the side of his mouth into a tired smirk. “Nice.”

  And after he entered the password on his laptop, then his phone, he raised his eyes to me and said, “Five words, don’t over think it.”

  “Happy, confused, excited, guilty…” And then I stopped, because there was one word I wasn’t sure I should say aloud.

  “Tell me the last one starts with an L.”

  “It starts with an L,” I whispered.

  “Good,” he said, his eyes back to the keyboard. “Because he’s in love with you.”

  And just like that, the light my mom had mentioned was pouring right out of me. It wasn’t like Quentin hadn’t said it or I didn’t know, but for him to confirm it during the little pow-wow he’d had with Billy, well, that right there was something special.

  Something I’d never forget.

  Something, I’d unfortunately need to be reminded of.

  SIXTEEN

  With my brother left to himself for a few hours, I went downstairs and found Quentin rifling through the boxes and piles of junk I’d collected.

  “I can’t believe I managed to accumulate all this stuff,” I said.

  “Well,” he said and paused as he picked up an oil can I’d bought it because it reminded me of the Tin Man’s oil can from Wizard of Oz.

  “Don’t,” I faux-pleaded. “I know, I know, I’m a hoarder.” I was trying to think of how I would present the idea of a potential shop to Uncle Lee as Quentin moved closer to me and stopped. “Maybe I should draw a nice sketch of what the shop could look like. You know, maybe if they could envision it, the idea might be better received.” But if I was honest with myself, I was sure they were going to wish they’d thought of it first.

  “Your aunt wants to have a heart-to-heart with Miles tonight. Her version of what happened. That’s why Billy came down. He and Miles are tight, and I guess your mom thought it might be good for him to have a friend around. Your uncle won’t be there. She wanted it to be—I don’t even know what word to use—victims only? Miles, my dad, your aunt. We’ll see how this goes and take it from there.”

  “Huh?” I was trying to get my head around it all.

  “You with me?” He pulled me closer with his hand on my hip.

  “Uncle Lee…” I shook my head, a little disappointed in him. I certainly didn’t envy him. I’m sure, if he had his way, he would have preferred to leave the past right where it was. But what surprised me most was the fact he would leave my aunt to deal with the emotional fallout that might ensue.

  “When I got here, he made it seem like…I’d just be here temporarily. Like this place was simply a stepping stone before I moved somewhere else. Now I know why. It just hit me, right now.”

  “Well, that’s not happening.”

  No, it definitely wasn’t.

  “I don’t want Miles to feel…I don’t know, singled out. I want him to feel like we’re all family. Like he can depend on us.”

  “I don’t doubt your aunt and parents are gonna do their best to let him know that, Rylie. And
even your uncle.”

  I hoped he was right.

  ****

  In the two weeks since me and Quentin had been, well, me and Quentin, the ease in which we seemed to fall into relationship-land seemed…untouchable. If you’d asked me only a few hours before, I’d have said we would be a shining, loving success. And considering what I’d endured only a few years before, I thought I deserved a little happily-ever-after in my life. But that new-car-smell was going to be tested with the stench of doubt during dinner at my aunt and uncle’s house.

  It was no secret that Miles and my brother had remained friends since we were all kids. I knew Billy kept in touch with him and came down from Washington State to visit. Not just once or twice, but usually once a year. I never asked him about his visits because I didn’t want to know about Quentin. I asked how Aunt Ardie and Uncle Lee were and left it at that. And my brother seemed to respect I’d rather not know.

  Early in the evening, Billy answered his cell, a call from Miles, who was running late but insisted dinner start without him. This was followed by a text to Quentin from his dad, apologizing that he couldn’t be there. In an effort to pass time and dampen nerves, everyone started to have a few drinks. Quentin was three beers down and onto his fourth—he’d asked the new girl to tend bar that night as a trial, and Miles stayed behind to make sure she was okay. On my right was my mom, who’d already gone through half a bottle of Shiraz, a gift from her new, local winery friends.

  As time wore on, my brother seemed antsy, irritated. He’d snapped at Mom twice, which wasn’t like him at all. But, like me, he was a little unpredictable when he was sloshed. Specifically, he lost his filter, and let it be known by turning to Quentin to ask, “Whatever happened to that woman you were living with?”

  I pretended as if my world hadn’t just hiccupped. It took me a while, but I’d been forthcoming about my marriage. I’d told him about the accident that took our child. I told him every last detail about Nick dying, for Christ’s sakes. And for good measure, I even threw in the one-night stand with the nice cop. I also told him I’d been broken in a way I knew I’d likely always be fragile. I guess I should’ve given myself more credit. You have to be some kind of survivor to move on from the devastating loss I’d lived through. But I had moved on. I’d done it, and I’d opened my heart to another I trusted with it. I felt it in my bones, the way he loved me. He was absolutely genuine in the convictions of his heart.

  However, he’d left that whole living-with-someone thing out.

  As soon as Billy asked the question and observed the look of shock on my face, I knew he regretted opening his big, fat, stupid mouth. In his inebriated state, it was just normal chit-chat, the kind of thing you ask, like, “Are you still driving that beat up VW Bus?” Or, “Didn’t you used to have a dog?”

  “How long were you together?” I asked as I set down my drink. I forced my question to sound casual as I exchanged my drink for more mashed potatoes.

  “Six years,” he replied and looked right at me when he did.

  Six years?

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” The way he replied told me he wanted to discuss it later, without the other people at the table. This night wasn’t about us, and, all things considered, my feeling slighted by him about leaving this part of his history out was nothing compared to the other shit about to hit the fan.

  I felt my mother’s hand on my thigh, a light pat to rein in my internal freak-out and possibly my temper. Luckily, I’d already contained myself as Quentin turned his attention to Billy and answered the question. “Her Dad still does the wine barrel thing.”

  “There’s a name for that, right? Miles was telling me about it.”

  “Cooperage. He’s an expert cooper.”

  I’d never heard those words in my life.

  “So, that was the business you and Miles had?” I asked. Of course, I already kind of knew this. And that was about the time a knock came at the front door.

  Dad was busy swirling wine around in his glass with an amused look on his face. “I’ll get that.”

  “That’s probably him,” my aunt said nervously. It wasn’t so much how she said it, but her body language of hand-wringing and pushing the food around on her plate gave her away.

  And when he did appear, Billy rose from his chair and hugged Miles like he hadn’t seen him in years.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said by way of greeting. “I wanted to make sure we were okay for a while at the bar. New girl’s good,” he said to Quentin. “And Roddy’s got it covered with the waitresses. Unless the place burns to the ground, we’ve got ourselves a night off.”

  Everyone kind of hesitated, what to do next, what to say, all while Miles just stood there…it wasn’t like he hadn’t been prepared. Quentin told him the basics, told him there was an affair that resulted in a child, that child being him. I figured this was Aunt Ardie’s way of telling him the door was open for him to be a part of the family. Something I knew without her saying it, she regretted not doing sooner.

  “Oh, God, look at me. Here, have a seat,” Aunt Ardie told him as she pulled out a chair. “Have you eaten? We made osso buco. It’s Billy’s favorite. It’s okay if you have, but I made my boozy carrot cake for dessert. Can you start the coffee, Lily?”

  Miles looked a little stunned as he sat down and took the beer Billy handed him. When Aunt Ardie escaped to the kitchen with Mom, he looked at all of us and said, “I don’t really understand why I’m here. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, I just…”

  Billy looked at Quentin, who looked at the doorway to the kitchen then back to his brother. “Miles,” Quentin began, leaning in quietly.

  It was at this point, I thought, being the only sober one of the bunch, I’d make an attempt to make him more comfortable.

  “We’ve all known each other for years, like family. Now, we really are family.” I smiled and hoped it would have the effect I’d intended it to.

  But when Miles sat back in his chair, looked at Billy and drank the entire bottle of beer in one go, I knew, somehow, I’d fucked up.

  “I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I don’t want to be here.” He stared at the table and I watched as his face changed. Then he lifted his head and looked right at me. “Victims, you and me, we’re the victims in all of this.”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, confused.

  Before he could say anything else, Aunt Ardie returned and made quick work of clearing the table of dinner. When she and mom finally sat down for good, she announced, “Coffee’ll be ready in a few.” The room was silent when she said, “Miles?”

  And we braced, all of us, waiting for whatever was next from her lips.

  “Lee…he’s struggled with this and that’s why I wanted to have some time with you. Tell you my side of the story. Is that okay with you?”

  He shook his head and laughed. “Now I have a choice?”

  “Miles…” My dad, who I was sure didn’t want to be there at all, wanted to keep things calm. It was his way, and, luckily, Miles listened.

  “Years ago,” my aunt began, “Lee and I wanted to have a family. We tried and we tried and then we tried some more.” Her long hair was down tonight; unusual not to see her with her signature braids. “Lost three babies. The last one though, that was the hardest. Stillborn at eight months.”

  “I’m sorry, Ardie…” Miles began, but she held up her hand to stop him.

  “Please…” she said and continued. “The last one…I stopped living for a while. I got to hold my baby and watch him grow cold. Nothing…nothing is worse than watching…that,” she choked. “And when I should’ve turned to my husband, whose love for me was immeasurable, I let him suffer alone. I pushed him away, and he tried, again and again, to reach me, to bring me back. And Lee…he suffered, too. And,” she said, her voice shaking, “I made him leave. He went to our little place, a place he went fishing at the beach, and told me to decide what I wanted.”

  Miles sat incredibly still. No one drank.
No one even breathed.

  “I don’t know who sought who out. She and Lee had a thing years before, and it was Lee who ended it. Then she married your dad, still having feelings for Lee. And then, later, they were both at a crossroads in their marriages. She, with a man who thought she made the sun rise each and every day. Lee, with me, a woman he said would be his one and only…until I told him to leave. But, for him, it was just sex. A way to forget. It was the comfort and escape he needed from a world of pain,” she breathed. “The pregnancy…that was unexpected.”

  Miles’ shoulders went back as he looked to Quentin, who nodded toward Aunt Ardie. She was there, reliving the pain of each and every word.

  “When you can’t give your husband a child, and another woman can?” Aunt Ardie shook her head, “It was worse, Miles. It was worse than losing our babies. I lost him and it took that to bring me back,” she said. “But he didn’t want your mother. He cared for her, but he loved me. So, she reunited with her husband and the four of us sat down and talked about what was next. Pete forgave her. It turns out, they’d been trying for children, too, for a long time, and, assuming the problem was with your dad, this was their chance to be a family. So he raised you as his own. Lee and I somehow moved on. And three years later, they had another child…a son.”

  Miles looked at Quentin, tears welling in his eyes as Billy reached over and laid his hand on the table, right next to that of Miles.

  “And now…” she said, her voice shaking as giant drops made their way down her face. “I know it’s a lot to ask, considering what you went through. The dementia set in quickly, but one of her last requests was to make sure you were reunited with your dad and that the three of you could…spend some time together. She wants to say goodbye.”

  “No,” he whispered, the word escaping his lips with a sneer.

  “Mom’s going downhill pretty fast, Miles.”

  “So,” he said, pinching his eyes closed tight. “So, Lee’s my dad and our whack-job mother is at the end, and she wants to make peace. Did I get that right?”

  Aunt Ardie reached over and took his hand, and, surprisingly, he let her. “Lee didn’t want this. He wanted everyone to be happy, but it was me. I forced him to make a choice between us. He’d have a child…something that would remind me of my failure as a woman.”