What Makes a Family

by Colleen Faulkner

  15

  Abby

  The music pounds in my ears, and I remember why Drum and I don’t go to bars, even now that the kids are old enough that we actually could, if we wanted to. It’s not that I can’t appreciate the Commodores’ “Brick House”; it’s just that the music is so loud. I can’t hear what anyone is saying. And I didn’t come for the music or the alcohol. I came to talk with my siblings without our mother listening in. It’s always been a tradition, the three of us coming together at The Gull. We do it whenever we’re all here for a family event, which doesn’t happen as often as it used to.

  Celeste hollers something to me, and I shout back, “What?”

  She makes a motion as if raising a drink to her mouth. She’s going to the bar. Which doesn’t mean she’s actually buying a round. She’ll put it on Daddy’s tab. She always does. He swaps Red Willy beer for rent. Daddy owns The Gull, or at least the land it sits on. I lost track long ago of Daddy’s wheelings and dealings with people on this island.

  “Dogfish Head 60 Minute!” I tell her. “Or Yuengling, if they don’t have it!”

  Joseph makes a face at me as if I’m an idiot. “What?” I demand, motioning with my hands. “Hope springs eternal.”

  “She’ll take a beer!” he tells Celeste.

  “At least something in a bottle!” I shout. “No canned beer!”

  Celeste holds up two fingers to me, her eyebrows, which are drawn in, going up questioningly. In her opinion, there’s no need to order one drink at a time. It’s a waste of energy to walk back to the bar so soon for the second. I hold up one finger.

  She points at Joseph sitting next to me at the high-top.

  “Surprise me!”

  Celeste sashays off in a pair of ridiculously high, sparkly heels that look even more ridiculous in The Gull. The place is the definition of a dive, with the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke, even though it’s been years since anyone could legally smoke inside. It still had a dirt floor up until ten years ago.

  I fan myself with a plastic-coated menu. The food is mostly bad, except for the crab cake. Red Willy might make the best crab cake I’ve ever eaten. Anywhere, and I’ve eaten my share of crab cakes and then some. And he won’t share the recipe. Passed on from his great-grandmother, and he swears he’s taking it to his grave, no matter how often I ask him for it or what I offer to give him in exchange. Knowing how badly I want the recipe, Celeste actually once offered Red Willy sexual favors. She was kidding, of course (or half kidding), but Red Willy wouldn’t even trade his crab cake recipe for a BJ.

  I fan myself harder, thinking I must be heading toward menopause. Which is just peachy. Where are the years going? I’ll blink again, and I’ll be lying in Mom Brodie’s bed, breathing my last breath. There’s an old air conditioner sticking out of a window, but I doubt there’s much cool air coming out of it. “I need to talk to you,” I tell Joseph when Celeste walks away.

  He cups his hand over his ear. The Commodores are winding down.

  “I talked—” I cut myself off and get up, pointing at a booth in the back, near the ladies’ bathroom.

  Joseph rises and follows me. As I slide onto the green Naugahyde bench, I spot my sister in her short skirt and flowered kimono getup. She’s facing the big mirror and a blinking PBR sign behind the bar, but I can tell by the sling of her hip that she’s talking to the old guy on the barstool beside her. By the way he’s looking at her, she’s definitely caught his eye. I don’t recognize the man. He’s clearly not local. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a silk ascot. Must be someone staying at one of the rental condos on the beach. The tourists find The Gull quaint. And they keep it in business so we put up with them.

  I tilt my head in Celeste’s direction as my brother slides in across from me. “Wanna lay money she doesn’t make it home tonight?” I say. It’s quieter in the corner because the speaker mounted on the wall behind me is dead, except for the occasional crackling sound it makes. The downside of this booth is that I can smell toilet bowl cleaner every time someone goes into the bathroom.

  “Nope.” Joseph grins and sits back. “Bad bet.”

  I lean forward on the table. My forearms stick to something, and I lift them, making a face. “So . . .” I tell my brother. Smokey Robinson’s voice fills the bar. “Tears of a Clown.” “Houston, we have a problem.”

  “You know that’s not the quote,” he tells me. “Tom Hanks got it wrong.”

  Joseph is one of those guys, like my husband, whose brain is full of useless trivia. You never want to play against either of them in Trivial Pursuit. You want to be on their team. I wait because I know that’s the only way to deal with either of them. Joseph’s going to tell me how Tom Hanks got the line wrong, and why, whether I want to know or not.

  “Haise said, ‘Okay, Houston.’ Then Swigert said, ‘I believe we’ve had a problem here.’ Then Lovell said, ‘Houston, we’ve had a problem.’ Ron Howard changed it for dramatic effect in the 1995 movie Apollo 13.” He thinks for a minute. “Although the line might have been changed before that. Apollo 13 was a remake.”

  “Probably the screenwriter, not Ron Howard,” I quip, showing him I know at least a few tidbits of useless information. I mean, I would have had to pick up a couple along the way, having been married to Drum for twenty-two years.

  “So what’s up?” he asks me.

  I shake my head, thinking about my conversation with Daddy today. Then my little chat with my sister before supper. I feel bad that I lied to her about the will, but Daddy was clear he didn’t want her told. Not yet, at least.

  This is going to be bad. I can just feel it. Bad.

  Joseph goes to lean forward and flicks something off the table to the floor. The Formica table’s not just sticky; there’s food on it. Gross. I catch the waitress’s—Sadie’s—attention. She’s been working here since she graduated from high school with me. It used to make me feel awkward coming in and having her bring me my fries, but I got over it, eventually. She’s tickled that we always tip well, and I find it nice to see her. It’s nostalgic. Her brother used to buy us beer when we were underage.

  I point at the table.

  Sadie comes right over, whipping a damp rag from her apron pocket. She’s wearing blue, sparkly eye shadow. I didn’t know anyone made blue eye shadow anymore. “Good to see you, Abby. Real sorry about your granny. She was always sweet to me.”

  Not dead yet, I think. “Thanks,” I say.

  “You want to order some fries?” she asks me, but her eyes are all over Joseph. “Hey,” she says.

  “Nothing right now. Celeste is grabbing us beers.”

  “Sadie.” Joseph smiles at her and adjusts the brim of his ball cap. “How are the kids?”

  She’s got four, all from different fathers. She had the first girl two days after we graduated high school. I remember her big belly in her graduation gown. I think she lives with her current boyfriend and his mother in my cousin’s trailer park.

  “Good.” She nods. “Roy Junior’s got a job at the chicken plant in Onancock. Full-time. Bus picks him up other side of the bridge. It’s a good job. Debeaking.”

  Joseph nods appreciatively as Sadie gives the spot on the table in front of him one last swipe. “Heard you and your wife split up,” she says. “Sorry to hear it. We should go out sometime.” She smiles a toothy grin and tucks her bar rag back into her apron.

  My brother smiles at her as if he’s definitely going to call her. He isn’t, of course. He likes his women smarter than he is and a little chubby, which makes me adore him. Poor Sadie is not, as Mom Brodie would say, the brightest bunny in the hutch, and she’s stick-thin. (And the missing tooth isn’t doing her any favors.) Joseph likes his women with meat on their bones. What’s not to love about a man who likes a little butt and gut?

  “Isn’t she with John J?” I ask when Sadie walks away. John J has got to be at least ten years older than us. He’s a crabber. “I heard she moved in with him.”

  Joseph nods. “La
st I heard. But she’s still on and off with his brother.”

  “Then why would she—” I cut myself off. Theirs not to reason why . . .

  Joseph gives a good-natured shrug and meets my gaze. “So what’s the problem you wanted to talk to me about?”

  I spot Celeste coming our way and nod in her direction. She’s dancing to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” singing louder than Diana Ross and ever so slightly off-key. I think she was nipping from her flask on our way into town, riding between Joseph and me in Daddy’s old pickup. “It must be 1970s Motown night,” I quip.

  Joseph gives me one of his killer smiles. He’s got the prettiest teeth and never needed braces like Celeste and me. “Every night is 1970s Motown at The Gull.” We both laugh as Celeste makes it to the table.

  “Cheers!” she declares, setting four open cans of Bud on the table. “Right back with the tequila shots!”

  “I am not doing shots,” I call after her as she dances away, swinging her hips like she’s a hula dancer. My shots days are long over. I push a can of Bud across the table toward Joseph when she’s out of range of hearing again. “Daddy told me this afternoon that Mom Brodie cut Celeste out of her will.”

  He’s just tipping his can, and he uprights it. “What?” He wipes a dribble of beer from his lip with his thumb and swears under his breath, using one of the words that used to get him soap in his mouth when Birdie caught him. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I shake my head.

  He shakes his head and gives a low whistle. “How much was she getting?”

  I shrug.

  He knits his eyebrows. “Who’s getting the money, then? Just you?”

  “Maybe you,” I say, though honestly I have no idea. Mom Brodie loved Joseph. I never had any doubt about that, and he didn’t either. But he was still illegitimate, and something like that never sits well in the United Methodist Women’s Circle. Ever. “I didn’t feel like I should ask. You need to talk to Daddy.”

  He sits back and takes a drink of his beer. He’s clearly upset. “Celeste will be devastated.”

  I reach for one of the beers. I hate Bud, and I hate beer out of a can worse. One of the luxuries of being in a higher federal tax bracket is being able to afford beer in a bottle. I’m not even much of a beer drinker. I prefer wine. But I like beer with pizza, and of course when I pick crabs. I drink it when I come to The Gull with my brother because it’s that or shots. The wine Red Willy serves makes me wish I could still order Boone’s Farm. I take a swallow of the beer, and it’s just as nasty as I think it’s going to be. I make a face.

  He reaches for my beer. “I’ll drink it if you don’t want it. You’re such a snob, Abs.”

  I pull the beer can out of his reach, thinking I should have had a nip from Celeste’s flask. “You need to talk to Daddy and see what’s going on. I think Celeste needs to know. I don’t think we should just spring it on her after the funeral.”

  My little brother’s thinking now. I know those fine lines around his eyes. “And let me guess, Dad doesn’t want to tell her before Mom Brodie dies.”

  “You know Daddy. He avoids conflict any chance he gets. I think if he had it his way, no one would tell her until he’s dead.”

  The thinking face again. “Do we know how much money we’re talking about?”

  “No idea,” I say. “Could be a hundred dollars. Could be ten thousand.”

  Celeste hollers to someone as she comes toward the table carrying three shots, and Joseph and I both slide back in the booth again.

  “Ain’t no mountain high enough,” Celeste sings, sliding in beside me. She smells good. And she looks pretty good, all dolled up. We had to wait fifteen minutes in the truck while she “put her face on.” “So what shall we drink to?” she asks.

  “You.” Joseph grabs his shot glass, and I resolutely reach for mine, thinking I’m going to need it to get through the next few days.

  * * *

  I would have won the bet, had Joseph taken it. Celeste didn’t leave the bar with us when we headed home at eleven thirty. She tried to get us to stay, but I’d already had enough to drink by then, and I wanted to get home to be with Mom Brodie. I just had the feeling she wasn’t going to be with us much longer, and I wanted to hold her hand. I wanted to tell her how much I love her again, and I didn’t care if she could hear me or not. I’m usually a happy drinker. Tonight, the fact that I was a little tipsy seemed to be driving me into melancholy.

  “I’ll catch a ride home!” Celeste hollered after us as we went out the door. She was dancing with two young guys I only vaguely recognized. But the old guy on the barstool had just bought her a drink, so there was no telling what the evening’s outcome would be.

  Joseph and I rode home in the old pickup, mostly in silence, except when we belted out a little Adele. We briefly discussed Mom Brodie’s will, and he said he’d talk to Daddy in the morning before he went to pick up Ainslie. Then we’d talk later. We were having a good old-fashioned Brodie crab feast tomorrow, although it would be low-key. Just our immediate family, no friends, no cousins. Lettice, the mail lady, would not be invited to stay.

  When Joseph pulled into the back driveway, he didn’t cut the engine. “Don’t you want to come in for a sec?” I ask, opening the passenger door. “Tell Mom Brodie good night?”

  “I think I’m going to head home. I’m beat.” He grips the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. “I saw her after supper.”

  I hesitate. He’s as bad as our dad. Daddy stuck his head in the door this evening to check on his mother, but he didn’t say anything to her. He didn’t go into the room; he certainly didn’t touch her. I don’t know what it is with Brodie men that makes them so scared of dying. It’s like they think if they get too close to her, they might catch what she’s got. Like cancer and old age are contagious.

  I get out, close the door, and lean in the window. I don’t have anything else to say, I just . . . I feel like Joseph and I get so little time together. And we’re almost never alone. Seeing him like this, being with him, makes me realize he’s one of my best friends. Not the kind you call to tell them that you burned the spaghetti sauce or to get a brownie recipe. He’s my friend the way Drum is my friend. The kind who knows you inside and out . . . and loves you anyway.

  I meet my little brother’s gaze. “So you’ll talk to Daddy about the will? See what he wasn’t telling me?”

  “Will do,” he says.

  I watch him back up and out. We’ve got this grand horseshoe driveway out front, and we never use it. We all pull around back near the porch. I can’t remember when the last time was that I used the majestic front door.

  Birdie’s left the back door unlocked for us. She likes the last one in to lock up. We never used to lock our doors at all, but one morning a couple of years ago, Birdie came down to the kitchen to find that someone had let themselves in and eaten half a cherry pie off of the counter. Whoever it was put his or her plate in the kitchen sink. Also had a carton of milk. Had to be some teenage boy. Likely one of the Carlton grandsons; there were four of them, each one ornerier than the other, and they lived half a mile away, if they cut across Brodie land.

  Inside the back door, I debate whether or not to throw the dead bolt. Celeste said she’d be home, but I doubt it.

  I leave it open. Hope springs eternal and all that.

  Inside, first I check on Sarah. Sound asleep in the bed we share. I brush my teeth, pull on the T-shirt I slept in last night and a pair of Drum’s pj bottoms I keep in a drawer in the room, for him or me. I walk through the dark house; I don’t need a light. This is what Mom Brodie calls our dream house. The place you dream of most. This is her dream house, too. Only when she walks the halls in her dreams, she says she sees it the way it was in the first days when she was still a teenager and it was the 1930s.

  I walk into Mom Brodie’s room a little light-headed, still feeling my beer/tequila too-old-to-be-out-drinking buzz. I’m surprised to find Birdie there, asleep in a chair.
For a moment I stand there in the doorway, looking at my mother by the glow of a night-light she’s plugged into an outlet by the door. It’s not a modern night-light like the kind we used to use in the kids’ rooms. It’s actually a lamp that takes a small wattage bulb. A lamp from my childhood that I remember well. It used to be on a table on the landing at the top of the staircase. Daddy always turned it on, last thing before he went to bed. After he came into our rooms and said good night. My father came to tell me good night until the day I left for college.

  Birdie, asleep in the chair, is wearing a sleeveless sack of a nightgown that comes past her knees. White or maybe pale pink with tiny flowers on it. Two buttons at her throat. I can’t imagine where she got the thing. I don’t think anyone has made a nightgown that looks like that in forty years. It’s the same kind of nightgown Mom Brodie wore until she turned hers in for a hospital gown. It might be the same nightgown. On her feet, my mother’s wearing a pair of pink, terry-cloth mules that look as if they’ve seen better days. Her ankles are swollen.

  I smile, touched that Birdie would choose to sleep down here in a straight-backed chair, to be with Mom Brodie. Standing here in the semidarkness looking at her, I feel a sudden sense of shame. This tiniest detail tells me I’ve missed something in the relationship between my mother and her mother-in-law. Something big.

  My mother has always complained about Mom Brodie; Mom Brodie is “domineering, haughty, nitpicky.” I’ve been hearing it since I was a kid. All true. And Mom Brodie wasn’t above throwing a criticism my mother’s way; though, thinking back, Mom Brodie was duplicitous about it. She never came right out and said my mother complained too much. She just said things like “Birdie makes things harder on herself, so quick to criticize.” But standing here, looking at the two of them, it occurs to me that maybe I’ve missed some of the nuances of their relationship.