“The shower’s across from the master bedroom,” he said, pushing me up the stairs. “I’ll put something together for lunch.”
I headed up to the second floor, looking at the old family photographs. Fading school pictures of gap-toothed kids, family portraits that betrayed their era with wide lapels or excessive shoulder padding, old black-and-whites of Babbs gone by. I traced my fingers over a smiling anniversary picture of Morris and Trudy, taken probably around the time Morris was paying me five dollars a week to hawk his eggs at the farmers’ market. I heard the clunk of a kitchen cabinet being shut and tore myself away to get my shower.
Fifteen minutes later, feeling refreshed and calm, I hopped down the stairs, dropping my balled-up clothes by the front door. I pulled my wet hair into a ponytail and turned the corner into the kitchen, my grumbling stomach following the smell of food.
Ian was at the sink, wearing a frilly faded apron that read DON’T MAKE A MESS IN GRAMMA’S KITCHEN. I laughed, picturing Trudy surrounded by grandchildren bearing the Hallmark-sloganed fruits of a hundred Christmases and Mother’s Days. Ian smiled back at me and nodded toward the kitchen table, where he had two plates set out, filled with sausages and eggs and toast, accompanied by two glasses of orange juice. I sat down and pulled a napkin into my lap.
“This smells great,” I said, digging a fork into the eggs and stuffing in a mouthful. “I’m starving.”
“Good,” he said, walking over and putting the lid from the skillet over his plate to keep it warm. He pulled the apron off and balled it up, leaving it on the counter. “I’m going to clean up. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I nodded and watched him walk out, the kitchen door swinging absently in his wake. I took another bite and gulped down some orange juice, then sat back and took in the kitchen. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper with pictures of vegetables that looked like they came straight out of a nineteenth- century newspaper. Shelves at random heights held volumes of knickknacks: plastic plates with children’s drawings on them, old lady dolls frozen in the act of sweeping, wooden cats with paws hanging over the edge of the shelf, ready to pounce. I bet if Trudy were there, she could tell me exactly who’d given her each knickknack and what the occasion had been when she’d received it.
The door swung and Ian came back in, his hair still dripping from the shower. He grinned at me as he rounded the table and lifted the lid from his own meal.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Good as new,” I said, smiling and forking a piece of sausage.
***
“Portia.”
My eyelids flitted open. The sun was still out. I rolled my eyes up without moving my head to get a look at the clock: 4:38. Ian had driven me back home at about one o’clock, and I could barely remember making my way to the bed before falling asleep. I picked up my head and turned it to the right, where the voice had come from.
Bev was standing next to my bed, her arms crossed over her chest. She didn’t look happy. My mind stumbled in a fog, grasping at a sense of unrest that huddled in the back of my head.
“Hey, Bev.” I pushed myself up on my elbows and rubbed my fingertips over my closed eyelids, trying to generate some activity in my brain.
“Mags is going to be home soon. She was worried about you when you weren’t at the store this morning.”
The fog in my head began to clear. I had a flash of Jack, holding his arms out to pick me up while classical music played. A spear of anger shot through me. I sat up.
“Where is she?”
“Still at the store,” Bev said. She hadn’t moved, was still looking down at me like I was the bad guy here. “I came back early, hoping I’d find you first.”
“Well, you found me. Wanna tell me what the problem is?” Bev’s jaw tightened, a gesture I'd learned to read very carefully when I was a kid, as it usually meant you could get in maybe one more smart-mouth comment before the can of whoop ass was officially opened. “You ran off without telling us where you were going, for one. Mags was worried about you. We all were.”
“Then maybe Mags should have talked to me last night,” I said, getting up off the bed, trying to minimize my vulnerability to a pissed-off Bev. I had three full inches on her, and I still felt like I was about to get my butt tanned.
“Maybe you should have stayed around like a grown-up, instead of throwing a tantrum like a spoiled little girl.” Her voice was sharp. She may have raised two ditzy broads, but Bev was no one to be trifled with. I took my tone down a notch when I answered her.
“She should have told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That she found Jack. That he’s coming to visit.”
Bev narrowed her eyes at me. Instinctively, I straightened my posture.
“And why does she owe you an explanation for that?”
I stared at her. “Are you kidding me? He’s my father.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe this has nothing to do with you?”
“Nothing to do with me?” I flapped my arms in lame confusion. “Then why am I here? Why’d she fake a bad back to get me down here? Sol could sleep with an Englishman? What the hell is going on, Bev?”
“Let me tell you something, Portia,” she said, her voice low and serious. “Your mother loves you. She has always loved you, and she has raised you well. Right now she’s doing something she needs to do for her own reasons, and it’s time you stopped being her little girl and started being her friend.”
“I’ve always been her friend,” I said, anger rising in my throat, can of whoop-ass be damned. “Maybe it’s time she started being my mother.”
Whoosh. The air left the room. Bev and I stared each other down and for the first time since the beginning of time, Bev looked away first. A moment later she was gone, slamming the door behind her. I stood in the room alone, wondering what the hell had just happened.
“You’re right,” Mags said, staring down at her fingers, which were clasped on the edge of the kitchen table. Vera and Bev sat on either side of her, and me opposite. “I should have told you.” I looked at Vera. She had been the one to let it slip, knowing full well it would get back to me, and while I wasn’t going to give her up, her reaction was a point of interest. Her face was blank, staring at an invisible focal point over Bev’s left shoulder. Bev, on the other hand, leaned forward and put one hand on Mags’s arm, drawing a clear line on the battlefield.
“So tell me now,” I said. “What’s going on?”
Mags sighed, gave Bev a helpless look. Bev shook her head. “I can’t tell you yet,” Mags said finally, her voice so timid I almost didn’t recognize it.
“Why the hell not?” I said, half in fear, half in anger. There’d never been a secret among the Mizzes. This was new territory.
“I just need you to trust me,” she said. “I’m sorry; I just need that.”
“When were you planning on telling me he was coming? When I came home and saw him drinking lemonade on the front porch?” Eyes darted back and forth. I stared at them defiantly. “What?”
Mags looked up at me. “We’ve been talking about September.”
I thought of August 22, circled and starred on my wall calendar. I felt a coldness swivel down my back and I swallowed, working up the nerve to ask my next question. “Was that his idea or yours?”
Mags was silent. I sat back, feeling my chest close in.
“Are you ever going to tell me what the hell is going on here?” Mags looked up at me, her face pained. “I can’t. Not yet.” Bev’s eyes worked on mine, telling me not to make a big deal out of this. Telling me to grow up and be a buddy. I looked away.
“Fine,” I said, my voice tight as I pushed up from the table. “I’ll go get my things.”
Mags shot up. “You’re not going back to Syracuse, are you?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t go back to Syracuse. My apartment is rented. But I’m not going to live here waiting for you to spring the next surprise on me. I’m going to
the apartment over the Page.” Bev settled both palms flat on the table, fingers spread wide, her eyes on Mags. Mags looked like she was about to cry. Vera kept staring at the invisible spot over Bev’s shoulder. “That’s probably a good idea,” Bev said.
I froze. A good idea? I looked around the table. Not a one was looking at me. Not a one arguing. I couldn’t get a glass of orange juice without inciting an argument from the Mizzes. Now I was moving out and they weren’t going to fight me? “What’s going on?” I said. “What are you not telling me?” Silence. I felt a brief inclination to back down, to give in to a gnawing fear of this secretive, combat-free zone we’d just stepped into.
But a girl can’t always rise above her raisin’.
“I’ll go get my things,” I said quietly, and left the kitchen to go pack up my duffel bag for the second time that summer.
The door creaked as I opened it. The living area was large and open, with one door leading to the bedroom and another to the bathroom. The hardwood floors were dusty, as was every surface: the windows, the counter that separated the kitchen nook from the wider living area, the naked queen-size bed that took up most of the bedroom. I walked over to the kitchen nook and opened the valves under the sink, then turned on the faucet. The water, after a groan of complaint and a few sputters, was good. Clean.
“Okay,” I said to the hollow room. “Okay, then.”
I dumped my duffel bag on the floor and unzipped it enough to grab some bedding I’d taken from the house. Ian’s book was just underneath; he told me he’d signed it while I was in the shower, but I hadn’t taken the time to read what he wrote. I flipped open the front cover and looked inside.
Glad to see you can walk in a northerly direction after all.
Hope you’ll do it again.
Ian
I smiled and shut the book, placing it on the counter of the kitchenette as I stumbled into the bedroom. Tomorrow I’d make a run to the Wal-Mart in Fort Oglethorpe and get the rest of the stuff I’d need for the apartment. Tonight, there was nothing I wanted more than to fall into a deep, blank sleep.
***
I opened my eyes, focusing on the blurred movement I could see through the crack in the bedroom door. I floated my hands over the top of my duffel bag and grabbed my glasses, then pulled myself up out of bed and stumbled out into the living area. “Vera, what are you doing here? What time is it?”
“It’s seven-thirty,” she said. The kitchen counter was covered in plastic grocery bags. Vera unloaded various food supplies into the cabinets and refrigerator, taking a moment to check the eggs cooking on the stove.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said, sitting down on the bar stool by the counter, inhaling the spicy scent of the brew in my new Mr. Coffee. Vera plunked a mug down in front of me.
“I didn’t do it for you,” she said. “You need to help me in the Page today.”
“Where is Mags, Vera? What is she doing?”
Vera stuffed the last of the plastic bags under the sink and shook the griddle with the eggs on it, but didn’t say anything.
“I don’t get you, Vera. You slipped the Jack thing to Beauji. You knew she would tell me, which means you know it’s the right thing to do. So spill.”
Her eyes were sad and torn, but I knew it didn’t matter. Vera was not a woman who changed her mind once it was made up.
“What?” I said, pouring coffee into the mug. “Did the cards tell you not to tell me?”
She looked away. “You can make fun of me all you like, Portia, but those cards have never steered me wrong.”
I huffed. “I think Bridge Wilkins might have something to say about that.”
Vera’s back straightened, and she gave the eggs one violent shake before sliding them off the griddle and onto a plate. She put the plate in front of me, slid the salt and pepper my way, and nodded toward the toaster oven sitting on the counter.
“Your toast should be ready in a minute,” she said. Her eyes were watery, and I realized I’d taken it too far.
I released a breath. “Vera...”
Without looking at me, she turned her back and headed toward the door.
“I’ll see you downstairs.”
I watched her leave, then sat down at the counter and stared at my eggs for fifteen minutes before abandoning them to hop in the shower.
Chapter Five
“Oh, please,” Beauji said, tossing a bright pink alarm clock in my basket as we wandered through Wal-Mart’s home furnishings section. “She and Bridge split up like, what, ten years ago?”
“Eleven.” I put the clock back on the shelf and grabbed a plain black one. Beauji shook her head and waddled ahead of me, her yellow shirt making her look like a mama duck.
“You need color in your life,” she said.
“You are the color in my life, darlin’,” I batted my eyes at her. “Then you’re much worse off than I thought.” Beauji gave me a bright grin and kept moving. “What are you doing for furniture?”
I shrugged. “There’s a couch and coffee table and a bed in there, under about eight years of dust, and anything else I need I can pull up from the basement.”
Beauji made a better-you-than-me face. “At least it’s just temporary. Anyway, it was one little comment. You shouldn’t be beating yourself up about it like this.”
“She hardly talked to me at all today. And you know Vera—she never stops talking.”
“Why did they break up, anyway?” She held up a neon pink and yellow daisy-shaped bath mat. I allowed it. I’m not particular about bath mats.
I sighed, surprised that I suddenly felt a small impulse to cry. “I don’t know.”
Beauji rested her hands on the top of her stomach and narrowed her eyes in thought.
“You should go see him,” she declared finally.
“Oh. No. I couldn’t.” I picked up the most hideous, neon- colored shower curtain I could find, sure Beauji would love it. She scrunched her nose at me and shook her head, pulling out one with the same daisy scheme as the bath mat and tossing it in the cart.
“Y’all were pretty close, though, weren’t you? I remember he was always at your house, telling those bad jokes. He taught you to drive, God help him. You really should—”
“No,” I said firmly, taking a few steps away and pulling a pillow out from a huge bin. I turned around and saw Beauji standing right where she was, one hand on her belly, the other on the cart. I walked over and put the pillow in the cart.
“I’m sorry,” I said. She crossed her arms over her belly and gave me The Eye. I sighed. “Look, that’s just not how it is with my family. The Mizzes stick together, and that’s that.”
She twisted her mouth and stared at me. “Mmmm-hmmm. Just don’t stick so close that y’all squeeze out everyone else.” She turned around and headed back down the aisle. I watched her waddle for a minute, thinking about what she’d said, until she turned back and waved one arm at me.
“Well, come on,” she said. “You still need a bedspread and I’m surely not gonna let you pick one out on your own.”
I smiled and pushed the cart, following along like the obedient baby duck.
I managed to keep up my Mizzes avoidance for another eight days, finishing off six of the seven Tan Carpenter novels in the process. I sat on the old sofa, staring at the seventh installment in the series just lying there on my coffee table. I could dive right into it, but then I’d finish it in a day or so, and I’d have to find another author. Or, and here was a thought, actually work on my dissertation.
Or, possibly, come to terms with the fact that a grown woman of thirty years should not be hiding away in a dank attic apartment to avoid her family.
I got up, walked over to the kitchen, and checked the clock on the bottom of my coffeemaker.
3:17.
My eyes drifted to the remote control for my little TV/VCR, which I’d picked up at a garage sale just in case I needed a fix of Darcy and Elizabeth. Sitting on the kitchen counter. Right where I’d
left it. I opened the fridge. One bottle of chardonnay. Half of a deli sandwich I’d gotten a week earlier.
On top of the fridge. A bag of Cheetos.
It was time. I headed to the shower, deliberately keeping my eyes averted from any reflective surfaces. I could feel another epiphany chasing me as I cleaned up, got dressed, and grabbed my keys. I shut the door behind me, clean and ready to do something, anything, other than have another epiphany. Even if it meant taking Mags’s advice. I traipsed down the steps, hooked a left, and headed to Pearl McGee’s salon.
“I like your hair,” Ian said as we walked toward the table saw at the back of the barn. I self-consciously tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. I still hadn’t gotten used to the lighter weight of it, the flippy ends. And every time I caught the blondish highlights in a mirror, I did a double take. I was sure I’d get used to it after a few days, but for the moment, it was full-on weird.
“Thank you,” I said, running my fingers over it. “I just felt like a change.”
“Here.” Ian handed me a pair of hideous clear plastic goggles. “You’ll have to wear these.”
I put them over my eyes and laughed. “I feel silly.”
Ian lifted a long two-by-four and put it on the table. “You’ll feel sillier with a big splinter of wood sticking out of your eye.”
“Oh, come on. Like that ever happens.”
“Fine. Don’t wear them. Lots of men find eye patches terribly attractive.” He tossed a wry smile over his shoulder and slid the wood down the table, situating it under the circular blade. He showed me how to measure and mark the wood to cut at a specific angle. I watched over his shoulder and tried not to let the smell of the soap on his skin distract me. He turned the saw on and the blade whirred as he effortlessly lowered it onto the wood. When he was done, he turned off the saw and lifted the blade, removing his glasses, which left little marks below his eyes.
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