Walk of Shame

by ANDREA SMITH

  “Likewise,” I reply, presenting her with a stiff smile. Something about her makes me uneasy. It’s as if she can see through my façade every bit as easily as I can see through hers. Our eyes lock on one another, and I see her full lips curve into a gratuitous smile.

  “I believe Penny might like a refill of wine, Weston. Will you please pour a glass for me as well? Cab Sav if Daddy has some from Bordeaux, otherwise Merlot.”

  Darcy clears her throat, “Carson…”

  I watch as Carson turns to focus on her mother. “What is it, Mother? I’m off the pain meds. I doubt very much if Penny is going to get all judgy about my having a glass of wine or two at a holiday dinner.”

  Darcy gives her daughter a look. One that I’m sure she’s used to by now from the looks of it. “One glass. That’s it.”

  Easton Matthews remains quiet as he gives a nod to Weston, apparently his nod of approval for him to pour Carson a glass of his finest Bordeaux.

  Lives of the wealthy. It’s like being in a foreign country to me. A different language; a different place in time. It’s strange and, at the same time, it’s mesmerizing to me. If I didn’t have to participate, it would be damn near perfect.

  My attention is drawn now to Weston’s grandmother. She’s asked a question and I’ve been so caught up in Carson’s entrance, I ask her to repeat it.

  “What is your field of study, dear?” she asks, passing a tray of appetizers over to me.

  I can’t eat. I’m suddenly self-conscious about my teeth. What if they can’t handle cheese cubes, carrot sticks, celery sticks, or chunks of broccoli and cauliflower?

  “Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say, taking the proffered glass of wine he’s offered me. I take a sip and then turn back to his grandmother. “I’m majoring in socio-economics.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Sheridan replies with a wrinkled smile. “Things sure have changed since Martin and I were in college, God knows. I haven’t a clue what that major involves, but if I had to guess, I would say the focus might be social behavior and the affect economics plays in it?”

  It’s kind of a question, but I give the woman credit because she’s close.

  “Oh Grandma,” Carson says with a giggle, now sipping her dark red wine, “it’s a bit more complicated than that, am I right Penny?”

  I swallow more of my wine, and return Carson’s smile. “She’s close enough,” I reply.

  “So,” Carson continues, not taking her eyes from me, “how’s Weston doing under your tutelage?”

  I see what she’s doing, but I can’t figure out why. Is this some ploy to make sure that Weston has no interest in me aside from the fact I’m being paid to save his bacon in Early American Lit? Surely she realizes there’s absolutely no romantic ties between her brother and me. Is she feeling threatened for some reason? Or is she digging for something more?

  “He’s doing great,” I reply. “He’s made wonderful progress.”

  “That’s awesome,” she says, grabbing my half-full glass of white wine from the coaster on the coffee table where I’ve placed it. I watch as she walks over to the bar where the platters of appetizers, beverages and booze have been set out. She comes back with a bottle of the dark red wine, and a clean wine glass for me.

  “You really need to try this Cab Sav from Bordeaux. You’ll give up Chardonnay forever, I promise.

  Before I have a chance to politely decline, she’s filled my wine glass to the brim with the heady dark wine.

  “Carson,” Weston interjects, “maybe Penny doesn’t care for red wine.”

  “No…it’s fine,” I reply, taking a sip and immediately I know this is more potent than the wine I had been sipping. I can’t deny that it has a rich, dark taste that is pleasant to the palate.

  “Dinner won’t be ready for about an hour, Penny. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some appetizers to tide you over?” Darcy asks.

  I notice that Weston has a beer in his hand and has walked over to the other side of the room to chat with his grandfather. There’s a football game on the television, but the volume is turned down low.

  “No, thanks so much, Mrs. Matthews, but I uh…had a big breakfast,” I lie.

  “Please, call me Darcy. Well, if you’ll excuse Mom and me, we need to see to getting some of the side dishes going. Cooking Thanksgiving dinner is kind of our yearly ritual. Mother/daughter bonding for us.”

  Carson snorts.

  “Can I help you?” I volunteer, not that I would know shit about cooking side dishes for a formal meal.

  “No, no. You stay and chat with Carson and Weston. We have everything under control,” she replies chuckling. “But please, make yourself at home. It’s nice enough outside that if you want to sit on the deck off of the dining room, there’s a gorgeous view of the woods and hillside.”

  Easton excuses himself to take what appears to be a business call on his cell phone. He leaves the room.

  I'm finally feeling more relaxed, with less people in my face, but I can’t help but feel I’m under Carson’s scrutiny for some reason. She’s watching me. I can see that in my peripheral vision. I can’t stray from my purpose.

  I’m here to observe Weston’s interactions with his gene pool. So far, nothing extraordinary; nothing that I would not have expected for someone who was born into wealth and privilege.

  His mother is sweet, perky, and seems able to hold her own with her husband and children. Weston seems to love and respect his mother in the short amount of time I’ve been able to observe. And is civil with his father, though standoffish, which I totally get from what he shared with me that day after he came back from New York. His sister comes across a bit more complicated but, then again, she’s been through a major trauma recently.

  I’m sure that his father was, and still seems to be the classic overachiever. Driven, intelligent, maybe even controlling to a point, but to say cold and aloof? No, I don’t see that at all. I can tell in the way he looks at his wife and children, that there’s true affection there, though not publicly displayed. I’m betting he has some soft spots along with some vulnerabilities of his own.

  My reflections are interrupted when Carson pokes me. “Hey, I’m going outside to burn one, wanna join me?”

  I’m not sure what she means by that, so I quickly glance over to where Weston is still engrossed in a conversation with his grandfather. I suppose they’re catching up while watching some football.

  “Sure,” I say.

  She refills her wine glass. “Take your wine. We can have a nice chat outside. Those two will be talking or arguing about the game for a bit anyway. Welcome to the Matthews’ Holiday Gathering, Penny.”

  I follow her out to the terrace, and the view is every bit as panoramic as Darcy described. “This is breathtaking,” I say more to myself than anyone else. “Simply beautiful.”

  “Yeah, it’s alright, I guess,” Carson replies, taking a seat at the wooden patio table. She sets her glass down, and pulls a lighter and a thin plastic prescription bottle from the pocket of her jeans. She uncaps it and pulls out a joint.

  I feel my eyes widen as she fires it ups, and then puts it up to her lips taking a long drag from it. She holds it in and then slowly exhales, the smoke curling out from her mouth. She offers it up to me.

  “Whoa, I thought you meant a cigarette. That’s pot,” I announce looking around quickly.

  “Well, no shit, Penny. I don’t smoke cigs. Those things will kill you. Besides, it’s all good. I have a prescription for it. Medical marijuana. My doctor in D.C. prescribed it for me. It helps with the residual pain I still experience from my accident.”

  And now I have a dilemma here. It’s not that I don’t smoke pot because, hell, occasionally Eva and I have been known to fire up a joint. Once or twice a year maybe.

  But Penny Lane doesn’t smoke pot.

  “Thanks anyway, but I don’t smoke,” I reply.

  “Hey, no worries. To each their own is what I always say. It’s only for medicinal purposes for me.”r />
  “I hope it’s helping,” I say, trying to be social.

  “Yeah, it all helps,” she says, butting it out after blowing out a puff of smoke before she puts the remainder back inside the plastic bottle. I sip my wine and relax back in my chair, enjoying the peaceful elements surrounding me.

  “Do you like the Bordeaux?” she asks.

  “It’s nice,” I say, raising my half full glass of wine to my lips and talking a long sip. “And it’s rather potent, too.”

  “Yeah, it is. French wine is the best. So, what’s your story, Penny?”

  I choke on my wine, nearly spitting it out, and then quickly try to gather my composure. “That’s kind of an odd question.”

  “You think so? I’m just curious, I guess. Weston typically doesn’t find intelligence a turn-on. You’ve got brains and aren’t afraid to use them. I find that refreshing but, then again, I’m the family weirdo so it’s not necessarily a compliment.”

  “Don’t worry,” I reply, tossing back more red wine, “I didn’t take it as one.”

  And then, for some inexplicable reason, we both start to chuckle. The ice has been broken between us. In some way, we’ve found some common ground, but I’m clueless as to what it is.

  “Oh, don’t make me laugh,” Carson says, rubbing her side. “My rib hasn’t healed all the way yet so laughing is not encouraged.”

  “I’m really sorry. About your accident, I mean.”

  Just then Weston joins us, bringing out a tray of cheese and crackers. “Can I have a refill, Bro?”

  He arches a brow at his younger sister, places the tray in front of us, and then goes back inside to get the wine.

  “He better not go and get all uptight on me,” Carson says, grabbing some cheese cubes. “Daddy has enough of that for all of us.”

  “Aww, your dad seems great,” I reply, helping myself to a cheese cube and cracker.

  “He is great, but so damn intense at times. Times when he’s worried. Times like right now.”

  “Oh?” I ask.

  She nods, chewing thoughtfully. “My father is determined to find out who did this to me. My accident – well, it wasn’t the kind of accident you’re probably thinking of – it’s complicated.”

  “Weston filled me in just a bit. I hope that’s okay.”

  She gave a noncommittal shrug. “It doesn’t matter, I guess because nobody will ever know more than they know right now.”

  “Is that because you control the information?” I ask, as a hiccup escapes which serves to make my question seem less intrusive.

  Carson giggles. “I like that you get me,” she says, just as Weston returns and refills her glass. He turns to look at me. My glass is still half full. “Just a tiny bit more,” I say. I need to keep my wits about me.

  He nods, pouring a bit more into my glass. “That’s last call for you, Carson,” he warns. “You’ve got a buzz from your legal weed, I can tell.”

  He takes the bottle of wine back into the house and she holds her laughter in until the sliding door is shut.

  “See what a buzzkill he is? Who is that guy and what have you done with my bad boy brother?’ she asks, starting to giggle louder.

  Her laughter is contagious, and the notion that Weston is wearing some intellectual and responsible façade in my presence is pure lunacy. So, I join in with her laughter.

  As I cut loose, I notice her eyes widen in surprise.

  “Dude,” she says, giggling loudly and pointing at me, “your teeth are purple! Hey, are mine?” She stops laughing long enough to give me a wide, open grin, displaying her perfect teeth. I check them out but they’re fine.

  Oh crap! My fake teeth must be soaking up the red wine. They must be staining.

  “Uh, no you’re good,” I say, trying to talk without showing my teeth, which is kind of difficult since they’re covering my real ones.

  “So, what the hell? Don’t your teeth have enamel on them?”

  I realize that she’s being serious, so I decide to use this to my advantage. “I have a partial plate,” I say, which is actually kind of the truth. “It actually was pretty low cost. I…uh, I don’t come from wealth.”

  No lie there.

  “Aww, Penny, hey---I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m stoned, so can you overlook my rudeness?”

  I nod. “No worries. I guess that’s why I should stick to white wine, huh?”

  “No shit! But hey, will you be able to get that out, I mean, ever?”

  “Oh sure,” I reply. “I’ll just soak them when I get home.”

  “Well the cool thing is that purple happens to be my favorite color.”

  “I hope Weston likes purple,” I comment, and then the giggling starts again. Weston steps outside and I place my hand over my mouth as Carson and I share the humor.

  “Dinner’s ready, ladies.”

  I make a quick trip to the bathroom and rinse my mouth out. But the purple is going nowhere, that’s for sure.

  Oh whatever.

  He’s pretty much been ignoring me since I’ve been here. Why did he bother to invite me? And then I remember what his buddy confided that night at Big Daddy’s.

  Looks like the joke is on Weston. His family has been nothing but polite and nice to me. Maybe I can garner his attention with my new look. I giggle to myself as I wash my hands and go to join the others.

  The table is set to look like something out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine. Beautiful china, crystal, and sterling. The bird looks perfect, and I’m so damn hungry I’m tempted to put my fake, now purple, front teeth to the test. They got through the cheese and crackers okay.

  My water glass is full, and a glass of red wine is at everyone’s place setting.

  Crap. Well, how much more purple can they get I wonder.

  His grandmother asks that we all join hands as she says Grace. Afterwards, Easton stands and proposes a Thanksgiving toast to all. We raise our glasses in unison. Before he sits back down, Carson taps her knife against the side of her water glass getting everyone’s attention.

  “I’ve got a great idea. I saw this on an old movie once and I think it’s really, really cool. So, we go around the table, and each of us say something that we’re especially thankful for this year, and then toast. Let’s start at the head of the table, Daddy?”

  “Oh, that’s cheesy,” Weston growls, “Seriously, Carson?”

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea, “Grandma Sheridan says. “Go ahead Easton, we’ll go clockwise.”

  “Alright then,” Easton says, giving a thoughtful smile. “I’m thankful that my daughter is back here and safe at home with us and on the road to making a total recovery.”

  “Here, here,” Grandpa Sheridan says, and everyone raises their glasses in a toast and a sip. “Darcy,” he says, “your turn.”

  Darcy raises her glass. “I’m thankful that everyone in my family is able to be here today, and that we’ve had the pleasure of meeting Penny, and having her here with us.”

  I smile, and I get a little choked up. I raise my glass and take a sip. I feel my face flushing because she is so darn nice to me. She doesn’t seem disappointed at all that Weston brought someone like Penny to this get together.

  “Weston,” his mother says, “your turn.”

  Oh God, this should be good.

  “If I have to,” he growls, tossing a dirty look at Carson from across the table. He raises his glass. “I’m thankful that I’m cleared to start practice again and will be back on the Hardwick’s hockey team for the rest of the season. And the person I owe the thanks to for that is sitting right here next to me. Thank you, Penny. You saved my---well, you know what you’ve saved,” he finishes with a grin, raising his glass and looking over at me.

  Okay, so that was unexpected. Is he for real? Or is this part of some game to ramp up his joke? I look over at Easton Matthews to see if he’s affected by Weston’s words. He seems very affected. In fact, he is smiling
at me.

  I take a sip of my wine and when I raise my head back up, I realize all eyes are on me. Oh crap. It’s my turn.

  I’m clueless as to what I should say. I’m at a loss. What is the truth and what is a lie here? I have to go with what I know.

  I raise my glass. “And I’m thankful to be here today, sharing this holiday with all of you. You have no idea how much this means to me. I feel like part of the family.” I lean over, closer to Weston and blow into his ear. “Thank you so much, Weston.”

  He turns abruptly to face me, his eyes widen in surprise as he turns to look at me. I mean really, really look at me. I present him with a shit-eating grin, purple teeth and all, and then plant a big sloppy kiss on his lips.

  The look on Weston’s face stops me cold. It’s confused and puzzled and totally caught off guard. And the worse part of it is: he’s embarrassed. But not for him. He’s embarrassed for me.

  What the hell am I doing? I don’t belong here. This is all a sham and I’m the one to blame. I’m not sure of anything anymore. I wish to God I had never started this project! I wish, for once, I knew the truth and that goes way beyond this project. It goes back to me and my dad and the relationship we had that turned out to be nothing at all.

  I set my wine glass down, and push my chair back to stand up. “I’m sorry,” I say, tears welling up. “I – I need some air. Excuse me, please.”

  And I make haste out of the room, making a quick exit through the front door. I sit down on the edge of the front porch, pulling my knees up so that I can rest my chin on the wool plaid of my skit. I wrap my arms around my legs, and rock back and forth, the tears streaming down my cheeks.

  Behind me, I hear the sound of the front door opening.

  Oh please, don’t let it be Darcy coming out to tell me someone will drive me home.

  It’s not Darcy.

  It’s Weston who takes his place quietly beside me.

  “Hey, Penny,” he says softly. “What the hell is going on with you? Tell me, please.”

  And as I look up at him, tears streaming down my cheeks, I’m convinced finally that he really does care. He really wants me to answer him.