by Tasha Fawkes
So what did I want?
I wanted Karen to feel comfortable enough around me and around herself to be just that. Herself. I knew that underneath the surface, she could be a decent human being. She'd grown so used to being on the defensive, to being treated and spoiled by her parents to think she was special, to believe that she was better than and perhaps more deserving than others, but it never hurt for people to eat some crow once in a while.
"Who are you trying to fool?" I asked my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I shaved. "You like her, don't you?"
Despite everything, I did. I couldn't decide whether I was being stupid, romantic, or utterly pathetic, but for some crazy reason, I wanted to get to know Karen better. I wanted this relationship, this partnership we had to go beyond the mere business deal and become real. Karen, despite her faults, was stimulating. She was a challenge, and I wasn't someone who typically turned away from challenges. I knew I was dealing with a human being here, and my own feelings and emotions. The truth was, my feelings for her had gone beyond mere attraction. She was a great lay, no doubt about it, but at this point, I was much more interested in what was going on in that brain of hers than what she could do in bed.
Which brought me right back to the issue at hand. What would my parents think? What would Karen think of my parents? When I had thrown out the invitation, I had expected her to decline, but she had accepted. Which meant? I wasn't sure. Meeting my parents wasn't part of this deal, this farce we were taking part of for her parents' sake. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for Karen. Maybe being around different groups of people, different lifestyles, would make her realize money wasn't everything. Then again, maybe I was making the biggest mistake of my life. Maybe she was so ingrained in her ways, so damaged by her past and the cloying yet superficial love of her parents, that she could never change. Or want to.
Anyway, I had told Karen to dress casually, that my parents were having a barbecue. I told her I'd pick her up at three o'clock, and she'd agreed. I finished shaving, tucked in my T-shirt, then walked into my living room and pulled on my boots. Boots, jeans T-shirt. Check. Nothing fancy, nothing expensive, just comfortable. I felt a little bit nervous as I left my apartment, more worried about what my parents would think of Karen and what she would think of them. By the time the cab pulled up in front of her apartment and she exited, I couldn't help but grin. She had tried to dress for the occasion, albeit with a brand-new pair of dark blue denims, white sandals, and her idea of a T-shirt, which was a loose flowing, scarlet-red silk blouse.
I got out of the cab, grinned at her, and let her slide in. "You look good," I complimented. "I just hope you don't slop any barbecue sauce on that silk shirt of yours."
She looked at me in surprise, then down at her blouse, and then offered a shrug. "No biggie," she said, lifting one of those fancy overlarge handbags she was prone to carry. "When you said it was a barbecue, I figured I'd better pack a spare, just in case."
She laughed, and I laughed too. By the time the cab dropped us off at Grand Central Terminal, I was feeling a little more confident and relaxed. The New Haven line departed every hour on weekdays, every couple of hours on Sundays. It took about an hour and a half, so we would arrive and be able to take a cab to my parent's house and arrive just in time for dinner. Usually, I left earlier and stayed longer, sometimes even going up on Saturdays after work. For now, I figured a short visit with Karen would be enough for everyone to get acquainted and enable us to leave early enough before something – anything - could go wrong.
We engaged in idle conversation on the train, the gentle rocking of the train car lulling me into a sense of relaxation. About halfway there, Karen looked up at me and apologized softly for the way she had treated me the other night at the club. I accepted her apology, thinking to myself that perhaps I was on the right track with her. I wondered if her feelings for me had begun to change a little, just as mine had for her, but I didn't want to broach the topic now. Maybe tonight on the way home, maybe never, depending on how things worked out.
By the time we got to my parent's house, my stomach was rumbling. The cab dropped us off at the curb, where I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming surge of emotion. I wasn't a mama's boy, at least not by my own definition, but the respect and love I have for my parents is difficult to explain. No matter where I was or how old I got, I knew they would always be there for me. Not hovering, not cloying, but there. As I would be for them if they needed it.
We stepped out of the cab and I carefully watched Karen's expression as she peered up at the small cape style home. It was a three-bedroom, two bath, two level home barely over fifteen-hundred square feet, probably smaller, square foot per square foot, than her own apartment in upper Manhattan. A series of stone steps led up from the sidewalk to a small landing, and then wooden steps the rest of the way. My parents had painted the exterior of the house in a traditional New England slate blue with white trim, and of course, the ubiquitous red door.
Without knocking, knowing the door would be unlocked for me, I turned the knob and entered, gesturing for Karen to precede me. She startled when I let out a boisterous shout.
"Mom! Dad! I'm home!" I shouted as we made our way through the small entryway and into the wood-floored living room with a stone fireplace flanked by two narrow windows that overlooked the backyard. To the left of the front door rose a wooden staircase to the second level. A square opening led from the living room to the left into the dining room, graced with a sliding glass window which looked out onto a large, wooden deck with white railings. I saw my dad was busy tending the barbecue.
The aroma of barbecuing chicken and pork ribs greeted me, triggering another round of rumbling in my stomach. My dad turned, waving the spatula as he gestured us outside. My mother emerged from upstairs, her footsteps preceding her as she rushed toward me, arms extended to wrap me in her typical, loving hug.
"Ben!" she beamed, as if she hadn't seen me in years. Then she released me, stepped back, and turned to Karen. Before I could even say a word, she spoke.
"You must be Karen." She smiled. "You're so lovely. My name is Nancy. And Patrick is out there tending the barbecue."
"Thank you, I'm very pleased to meet you," Karen said, almost shyly.
Now this was something new. Karen, shy? My mother grabbed one of my arms, and then wrapped her other hand around Karen's arm as she whisked us outside onto the deck, where the aroma of roasting meat and corn made me smile. It reminded me of being back home, in Oklahoma – the Sunday barbeques, the friends, the laughter...
My dad turned to Karen and offered one of his gregarious smiles. "I sure hope you're hungry, young lady, because I've made enough to feed an army platoon!"
"How was your ride up from the city?" Mom asked.
"You doing okay at work, son?" Dad asked at the same time.
Questions and answers flew back and forth while my mother seated Karen at the picnic table nearby, covered with our traditional red and white checked tablecloth and simple plate ware. A small vase of yellow daisies was the only ornament, and beside it stood a large, glass pitcher of iced tea and four glasses filled with ice.
"Ben, pour the tea, won't you?"
Karen was quiet, surprisingly so. I distinctly got the impression that she was totally out of her element, but not displeasingly so. She smiled politely and seemed to enjoy the attention my parents gave her, and looked at all of us sometimes with an almost strange expression. Like we were creatures who lived on a different planet. I wondered if she was comparing my family and my relationship to them - our bond - with hers. Maybe for her, this barbecue was bittersweet, offering something that maybe she had always yearned for and never gotten. Completely unfamiliar to her, but nevertheless something she'd always desired.
Dinner was not a fancy affair. Barbequed pork ribs and chicken, eaten with fingers of course, corn on the cob, and great-grandma's potato salad, the recipe passed down from generation to generation. I had to smile at Karen's surprise as she was
encouraged to eat everything but the potato salad with her fingers. She grew embarrassed for a moment when she was caught smiling with a corn kernel caught on her teeth, but we all laughed, gleefully baring our own teeth, also bedecked with kernels of corn. We erupted into fits of laughter, which I gauged by her expression, also took Karen by surprise.
"As you can tell, Karen, we're pretty informal around the table," I said, giving her a wink. My mom saw it and smiled at me.
It was later in the evening, as my dad and I took care of the barbecue, gathered trash, and sat outside on the patio, the sliding glass door open, that I realized that my mom had pulled Karen into the house, where they sat on the couch, talking. Their voices drifted softly outside from the open windows. My dad and I sat quietly, enjoying the evening as we often did, no conversation necessary.
I gathered from the comments that my mom was showing Karen the family photo album. I shook my head, hoping that Karen wouldn't get too bored. There were hundreds of photos in that album.
"Who's that standing next to Ben?"
"That's Jeremy, Ben's younger brother," Mom said simply.
I could tell the moment that Karen commented on the lack of photos of the two of us standing together after I was about twelve years old. I glanced at my father as my mother explained to Karen that Jeremy had died when he was ten years old. Cancer.
"I'm so sorry," Karen murmured.
I refused to go back in time, to remember those awful days. My father cleared his throat, looking up at the stars slowly appearing one by one in the night sky. A few minutes later, Karen mentioned the other dark place in my life.
"Who's that?" she asked.
I knew who she was talking about.
"Oh, I should've taken it out of the photo album, but I never could bring myself to do it. It's Ben's ex-fiancée. She broke off the engagement a couple of years ago. That's why he ended up leaving Oklahoma and coming to New York City. To start over, you might say."
I heard the photo album shut and my mother offer a short laugh. "I couldn't stand the thought of him being so far away, so I made his father sell our house and we moved over here to Connecticut. A lot different, I can tell you that, but it's nice here. Not much elbow room, but the people are nice and it's good to see Ben almost every weekend much of the year."
I can only imagine the thoughts going through Karen's head. Maybe she didn't want to get to know me more personally. To realize that I, like everybody else, had a past, and some of the events of those past were not always filled with pleasant memories. But maybe, just maybe, she might begin to see me in a new light. Not someone that she could boss around, show off, or boast about to her parents. Maybe, she might just realize that I was a good guy, and that just because I didn't have money didn't mean that I wouldn't be a good catch.
Which got me to thinking. Was that where I wanted this to head? I wasn't sure. Not sure at all. The last thing I needed was to allow myself to fall for someone who would rip my heart out and trample it into the ground. Again. Maybe, on the way home back to the city tonight, Karen and I could talk about it. If she was beginning to develop feelings toward me, then we had to reassess this plan of hers.
If not, then I'd rather know sooner than later. The last thing I wanted or needed was a one-sided relationship. I shook my head, watching the stars appear as, out of the corner of my eye, my dad turned toward me.
"She's different, that one," he said softly. "You just be careful, son. You be careful."
I nodded, not turning away from the stars. "I plan on it, Dad. Count on it."
Chapter 13
Karen
I had really enjoyed dinner at Ben's house the other night. His parents seemed like good, salt of the earth people, as they used to say. They had made me feel welcome the moment I walked in the door. But what left its greatest impact on me, the deepest impression, was Ben's history. Losing a brother at such a young age. Ben's mother had told me, while we were cleaning up the dishes in the kitchen, the Ben had been only twelve years old when his brother died. They'd been like two peas in a pod and the loss had crushed them all, and it'd taken years for Ben to recover from his loss.
Seeing the photograph of that beautiful young woman standing next to Ben and the look of pride on his face, had caused my heart to clench with pain. For him. I realized at that moment that I couldn't continue to treat him like nothing more than a toy, to use and discard however I saw fit. Needless to say, the last couple of days had been eye-opening.
It was the middle of the week, nothing terribly exciting going on. Courtney had called earlier, wanting to know if I wanted to go out clubbing with her tonight, but I told her I couldn't, that my parents had requested my presence for dinner.
"Uh-oh," she said.
Uh-oh indeed. By the time I got to my parent's house that evening, I realized I'd been ambushed. I walked in to find company there. In no time at all, I was introduced to a young man, probably a few years older than myself with a North Boston accent. Ryan Delaney, son of wealthy and well-connected parents, my mother whispered in my ear. At that moment, I knew what this dinner was all about. They had arranged a new match for me.
It took most of my effort to keep my expression calm, to not run out of the house shouting and raving at them. I did manage to back my mom into a corner of the kitchen while we poured drinks, where I accused her of sabotaging my life.
"I told you, Mom, I'm with Ben Reynolds!"
"Pish posh," she said, waving her hand. "Don't forget who you're talking to, young lady. You must know by now that we women are not in control of our destiny. We need to, when necessary, sacrifice and show loyalty to family before any of our own selfish feelings or emotions."
"Do you actually hear the words coming out of your mouth?" I hissed, doing my best to keep my voice down. "This isn't the eighteenth century, Mom. Just because you settled doesn't mean I have to!"
She turned and looked at me with such a fierce expression on her face that I took a step back. Now was not the time for an argument, and it's not like I haven't been down this road before, helpless to do anything about it, at least at the moment. I felt confused and angry, but I knew that my protests would fall on deaf ears. Besides, I couldn't cause a scene now, not with Ryan and his oh-so-wealthy parents in the dining room at this very moment.
"We'll talk about this later, Mom," I promised, reaching for the tray with the cocktails and drinks. I walked out of the kitchen with as much dignity as I could muster, my back stiff, a fake smile plastered on my face, my chin lifted, just the way they expected. The way it was always expected.
I tried to avoid Ryan's gaze, the curiosity of his parents as they watched my every move, down to how I seated myself next to their son, who rushed to stand behind my chair and push it in. Okay, so he was polite and had manners. And I'll admit that he was good-looking and was turning on the charm. Perhaps under any other circumstances, I might've been interested. Might. But the truth was, I couldn't help but compare Ryan to Ben. And the more he spoke, the more I realized that he was just filling space with empty talk, platitudes, nothing of much importance. He talked a lot about himself, how he'd spent the last year abroad, traveling Europe, attending galas, operas, and whatever. After a few minutes, I tuned him out, focusing on trying to choke down my lobster bisque.
I kept my composure even though I wanted to pick up the bowl and throw it across the room, screaming at my parents, asking them why they couldn't treat me like a human being, like I was a person? And then it struck me. All at once. They were treating me the exact same way I had been treating Ben. As an object, a possession. Do what I say when I say and don't argue. Play the role. Do your part. What you think and feel isn't as important as the perception and the persona you represent.
At that moment, my stomach felt hard as a rock, knotted to the point of nausea. Sitting around this extravagantly laid dining room table with the pristine white tablecloth in a house that my parents couldn't really afford anymore, I was suddenly astounded by how superficial it all
seemed. It was all fake. Phony. Pretend.
I compared this fancy, multi-million-dollar home to the quaint cottage where Ben's parents had chosen to live, to be closer to their son. I was overwhelmed with a sense of… I don't even know what to call it. Not homesickness, not nostalgia, but a desire to belong. A desire to be loved… truly loved. The yearning to be the person I was meant to be, not the person that my parents wanted me to be. Yes, I admitted that I wanted to be back at Ben's parents house, eating barbecue with my fingers, laughing around the table, listening to their obviously loving conversations, envying their relationship, the comfortableness of that relationship. Spending time in Ben's parent's modest home had been real. They might not have the square footage or the acreage of property in one of the most expensive parts of New York City or New Haven, but they were real. They were warm. They were a family with no hidden secrets, no agendas.
As I stared down at my lobster bisque, listening to the inane chatter going around me, smiling politely or nodding at appropriate moments, I felt a strong yearning for truth. For authenticity. For acceptance of who I was and an acknowledgment of my own desires and dreams. I had been wasting my life on stupid things.