“What are you saying?” she asked.
“Start small. Start with someone safe, who you know won’t hurt you or make you uncomfortable or ask you to stand in a field and drink beer and make out. And just … talk to them. About yourself. About them. About movies. Stupid stuff.” She thought about how smart Gwen was. “Or genius stuff, whatever.” Monica thought she might pass out from relief when Gwen smiled. “What about Ania?”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “She’s the queen of the beer parties.”
Really? Monica would not have guessed.
“What about Jay?”
“He’s so annoying.”
“Boys his age are. It’s unfortunate. But he likes you, and he seems like a nice guy.”
“I guess.” Gwen nodded. “Just talk to him?”
“Just talk. He likes you, so you could probably talk about anything and he’d pretend to be interested.”
“Pythagorean theorems?”
“The language of love.”
Gwen laughed, pushing the blond hair out of her face. Monica thought about saying something about the makeup, but decided she’d played After School Special enough for one day.
“You going to tell my brother about this?”
“No,” she said, adding it to the pile of secrets she was keeping for people around here. “I won’t tell your brother. But, give me your phone.” Stunned, Gwen reluctantly held out her phone. Monica typed in Taxi and her cell number. “I have a car here, and if you’re somewhere drinking and the choice is to get in a car with someone who has been drinking or call me, I hope you’ll make the right choice.”
Gwen took her phone back like it was the holy grail. “Thanks,” she said. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands.”
Oh. God. Oh no. She was not role-model, not confidante material. She’d made every mistake in the world; no one should look up to her.
But there was Gwen, looking at her. Waiting for her to say something, to validate this incredible risk she’d taken, to offer up some modicum of respect for what it had cost her to open her mouth and talk about why she felt so different.
“My pleasure,” she said. “I’m glad you talked to someone and I’m really honored that it was me.”
Gwen walked to the cubbies and grabbed her book bag before heading out the front door. She looked back over her shoulder, lit by the powerful southern sun behind her. “You’re not a bad teacher after all.”
“Well, let’s not go overboard.”
Gwen lifted her hand in a small wave and left, the door closing behind her. Monica collapsed, folded right over, her hands on her knees, the strength totally drained from her body.
She turned looking for a chair she could die in, only to be brought up short.
Shelby stood in the hallway leading to her office, and from the look on her face, she’d seen everything.
Shelby watched Monica pull herself together, gather all her armor and her fuck-you attitude, and stand there with her chin out, pretending to be so tough.
But Shelby had heard most of that conversation, and Monica had nothing to be defensive about.
“Wait here,” Shelby said.
“Why? So you can call Jackson?” Monica grabbed her bag. “Read me the riot act for giving her advice? No thanks.”
Shelby stepped up to the low table and put down the bottle of bourbon one of the parents had given her for Christmas about a zillion years ago. The coffee cup she’d been planning to drink out of landed next to the bottle with a thunk. “I’m going to get another glass. Wait here.”
When she came back in the room with a second mug, Monica was sitting in one of the small chairs, her body curled up as she rested her head in her hands.
Shelby quickly poured the bourbon into one of the mugs and handed it to Monica.
“I don’t drink,” Monica said, staring at the glass.
“Me neither,” Shelby said, but she poured her own shot and in total disregard for the bourbon’s fine sipping qualities, drank it back in one swallow.
“Ahhhh,” she winced. “That hurts. Come on,” she insisted, pointing to Monica. “Drink up.”
Shelby had woken up this morning feeling as if the clouds had parted, the rain had passed, and she could get on with her life after the three-day meltdown she’d engaged in.
Dean was gone. Gone.
But in the three hours he’d been gone, he’d emailed her twice.
Dirty emails, about missing her. Missing her taste.
She’d deleted them. But she was unsettled. Rattled.
“I wouldn’t peg you as a drinking-in-the-workplace kind of woman,” Monica said, sipping the bourbon like a teetotaler.
“Well, it’s a day for surprises, isn’t it?” Shelby poured herself another shot and sipped it. She was already slightly light-headed from the first.
Monica laughed bitterly. “You were listening to us talk?”
“Only the last part.”
“And you didn’t step in?”
“You had it handled, and truthfully … you handled it way better than I would have. Way better.”
Monica seemed shocked at the praise. As shocked as Shelby was at handing it out, but she’d stood in the shadows, terrified, worried, feeling utterly inadequate to the scene she’d walked in on.
“I would have lectured her about the drinking, missing the point totally. And giving her your phone number? You were brilliant. In fact, I wish someone had talked to me like that when I was growing up. When I felt different. You have a knack,” Shelby said, looking at the dark-haired woman who seemed so exotic next to her own ordinariness.
“Thank you, Shelby,” Monica said after a moment. “That means a lot from you. You are a really good teacher.”
Shelby nearly snorted, doubting Monica’s sincerity, but Monica wasn’t being sarcastic. She meant it. Oh. Well.
Monica reached over and poured them a little more to drink.
“So Dean is gone,” Monica said, staring down at the whisky in her glass.
“You’re keeping a lot of secrets for people these days,” Shelby said.
“Not my choice, trust me.”
Shelby had no shortage of friends. Book club friends. Work friends. High school friends. Parents of some of the more gifted kids she’d had. Jackson. But none of them knew what this woman knew about her. That didn’t make her a friend, exactly, but Shelby couldn’t find another word for it.
“I had an affair with a man I detest.”
Monica shook her head like a cartoon character who couldn’t believe what she’d heard.
“I put my whole life here in jeopardy for a man I could barely say two words to if they weren’t dirty.”
Monica choked on the sip of bourbon she’d taken and Shelby, having uncorked herself, couldn’t shut up. “And he’s emailed me. Twice. It hasn’t even been a day and he’s talking about missing me. It’s … gross.”
“Why did you do it?” Monica asked.
“Because I’m lonely. Because no one I know would ever treat me the way he did. Because being respected and liked can be sad substitutes for being desired.”
“Did he hurt you??” Monica asked, looking like she would form a posse if one was required. Shelby was touched by her feminist venom.
“He didn’t hurt me,” she said, unable to really put into words what happened. And she was ashamed of why she’d liked him, at the nature of the sex between them. “But the sex was … not great. I think I had a psychotic break.”
Monica tipped her head back and laughed, full-throated, all out. Uninhibited. Shelby had never laughed like that—not once in her life—and she took a sip of her bourbon, made sour by her jealousy.
“I understand psychotic breaks,” Monica said emphatically.
“Jackson?” Shelby asked, perhaps pointedly. Monica sobered. Shelby would not have been surprised if Monica walked out. It was a personal question, and just because Shelby offered up her own mistakes didn’t mean Monica was going to offer up hers.
>
“How did you know?” Monica asked.
“It’s pretty obvious when you’re in the same room. The atmosphere changes.”
Once, a few years ago, Shelby told a high school student that the only reason he was a smartass was because he was so smart. And the look on his face had been this sort of dubious pleasure, as if he weren’t sure being proud of himself was the right thing in that situation.
Monica had the exact same look.
“Never mind,” Shelby said. “It’s none of my business.”
“It will end,” Monica said, “soon enough. I’ll leave town. He’ll … do whatever he’s going to do, and it will all be back to regular life.”
Shelby wondered if Monica knew how sad she sounded about the prospect of her regular life.
“Back to regular life, huh?” she said, happy about the idea, ready to shelve this person she’d been for three days.
Monica leaned over to clink her coffee cup to Shelby’s. “To real life.” They both sipped and stared up at the comic books hanging from the ceiling. “You know,” Monica said, “I really like that kid’s farting robot.”
For some reason Shelby thought this was the funniest thing ever and she bent forward, laughing.
Full-throated.
Uninhibited.
Chapter 18
Monica had gotten in the habit of waking up early and walking Reba around town along the bike path. It was gorgeous in the morning, with the mist and the sunrise and the silence. She’d taken her words to Shelby to heart and had gotten back to regular life with a vengeance. She had pages—lots of them—to send to her editor. They were full of vitriol and hurt feelings and opinions on her parents’ poor choices, and as much as she tried to take herself out of it, she couldn’t.
The story was about her, after all; it was why people would pick up the book. And so she just stopped listening to the misgivings about her work, and late last night she’d emailed her editor her first three chapters.
She circled back through town, heading toward Cora’s for her coffee, when she remembered it was Tuesday, the America Today show day, so instead she headed toward The Pour House, hoping that besides Bloody Marys, Sean would have had the good sense to make coffee.
Or better yet, let Cora make it.
Walking into the garage next to The Pour House was like walking into a wall of sound. A wall of smell. Sweat and fritters and coffee made for an interesting perfume—Eau de Bishop. The place was packed. The chairs were full, people lined the wall, and kids were sitting on the floor in front of the TV. A commercial for a credit card company was on, but the second it was over Jessica Walsh was back on the screen—beautiful in the fantasy way of beauty pageant contestants—and the room went silent.
Reba barked, no doubt her doggy brain confused, and everyone turned around to shush her. A few hands reached out to give her a pat, which Reba accepted as her due.
“Sorry,” Monica mouthed, creeping around the edges of the group over to where Sean stood behind a card table, a cooler at his feet, a coffeemaker steaming beside him.
“Hey, Sean, can I have some coffee?” she whispered. Silently, he poured her a Styrofoam cupful.
“No milk,” he said. “Or sugar. But I can make it Irish coffee if you like.”
“Black is fine. What’s going on with the show?” she asked, tilting her head toward the TV, where the weather was being discussed.
“Four of the towns have been on already. It’s just us and Alaska left to show.”
“Have we got any competition?”
“This town in Michigan. They got a real good story. Real sad and shit.”
Oh Sean, a student of the human condition.
Because she couldn’t help herself, she glanced around, looking for familiar blond hair held rigidly away from blue eyes. “Where’s Jackson?”
Sean pointed to the very far corner, where Jackson stood. Alone, but surrounded by people. That’s exactly what his loneliness looks like.
She’d avoided him all week, easing away to give him room, or maybe to give herself room. Because the friendship thing had been surprisingly harder than the sex thing.
But looking at him now, there was no place she’d rather be than filling that empty space beside him.
Reba and Monica circled the crowd again and got over to Jackson just as on the screen, Jessica started talking about the Maybream contest again.
“You okay?” she asked.
He shrugged, but she saw his fear in the set of his shoulders. The way he held his arms folded across his chest. Despite keeping some safe inches between them as she leaned against the wall beside him, she could feel his anxiety. Like low-level electricity.
“It’s Alaska,” Cora said, and someone turned up the volume as the package started.
Monica couldn’t see the screen, but the audio was enough. She could imagine through the voice-over’s description soaring snow-capped mountains crowding around a small sea inlet. A remote fishing village along the coast of Alaska that was settled during the Gold Rush. And now, the population was almost predominantly men.
“What we need,” a new voice said from the TV, “Is women. We need families. We want families.”
“In preparation for the families they want,” the voice-over said, “the men of Gershaw have gone to drastic measures.”
“We’ve built a new school and community center, and a women’s health clinic. We’ve got a doctor who lives here now, full-time.”
“All of this,” the voice-over continued, “was done through volunteer labor and community donations. But perhaps the most drastic thing they’ve done in their efforts to attract wives and families”—music played, the kind of music one usually heard in the background of porn movies—“is create a website. The Men of Gershaw.”
The people of Bishop watching the TV burst into laughter and hoots, and unable to resist, Monica stepped away from Jackson until she could see the screen.
Big, burly men, most of them in beards, were stripped down to their work pants, doing a variety of tasks. Building the new school, hiking through the forest. Fishing. Tending dogs. One guy was baking, half-naked under an apron. As the porn music played he licked a whisk and a giant dollop of batter fell into his chest hair, which was hilarious, and when the guy laughed and tried to get it out, it was only funnier.
Monica had to smile, she really did. The men looked good. But silly. And okay about being silly. All in all, it was pretty damn attractive. The website apparently had information not only about the single men, but the jobs that were available, ranging from nurse to teacher to lumberjack camp cook to fishing boat captain to police officer to mayor.
Monica walked back over to Jackson.
“It’s good?” he asked.
“Only if you like half-naked men.”
He groaned.
“You should have taken off your shirt more,” she said, which barely made him smile.
Hidden from view, she took Jackson’s hand. “It will be okay,” she said.
He opened his mouth to argue but then shut it, and instead squeezed her hand.
Intimacy, she thought, feeling that squeeze all the way up in her heart. So weird.
The citizen of Gershaw kept talking. “We’re a small town and we’re pretty remote, but there isn’t another place in this world that’s as beautiful. And the families that we have up here, they are happy. But we need more, more women, more kids. More families to make the winters warm and the summers happy. We’re a tight-knit kind of place and we want to grow.”
The voice-over went on to discuss Gershaw’s factory—a salmon-canning plant that closed before it really even opened.
The segment ended, and Sean across the room said, “A website? That’s all they got? Some half-naked fishermen? Please.”
Everyone in the room argued about it through the commercial break. It was obvious the women in Bishop thought the website was pretty appealing. And Monica had no doubt that right at this moment, it was probably spreading across Tw
itter and Facebook like a wildfire.
For a cracker company seeking out great PR, the town in Alaska was a dream.
“I missed you.” Jackson’s whisper sliced through the noise of the garage and stunned her.
“I missed you too,” she confessed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I … I’m not sure how to do this.”
“Me neither,” she admitted.
“Quiet!” Sean cried. “It’s us.”
“Our last semifinalist is Bishop, Arkansas,” the voice-over said. She saw people in the audience holding hands. Mrs. Wiggins in the back bent her head in prayer.
“You don’t want to watch?” Monica asked Jackson.
“I think I’m going to throw up.” The fact that he was holding onto her hand in a death grip meant she wouldn’t be watching either.
“Another small town hit hard by the economy, Bishop is struggling to meet the demands of the future, while still holding on to the heritage of its past.”
“Wind energy for a small town like us is a huge benefit.” It was Jackson’s voice on the TV and half the room glanced over at him. He raised the hand that wasn’t holding hers in a salute, and his smile would have been convincing if she weren’t aware of his sweaty palms. “First of all, government grants pay for the whole thing and as of 2014, our entire town’s energy will be provided by windmills. Moreover, by 2015 our surplus will be plugged back into the grid and the state will be paying us for the energy we provide.”
The segment went on to cover Cora’s, and everyone cheered. And then the art camps.
“I think what the art camps provide is a way to help a school system with limited arts availability, but it extends beyond that.” At the sound of Shelby’s voice through the speakers, the kids in the front row sat up straighter. That woman’s got powerful mojo, Monica thought. “Adults taking arts classes, teaching the art classes, bringing their kids, sticking around to help—it’s not about how good you are, but your willingness to try. What an important lesson, don’t you think?”
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