by Mysti Parker
“Right. I mean, yeah, I could have, but she’s cute. And good at it.”
“I don’t need details, but if any other woman had asked you to do that, you’d have sent her packing. Why Avery?”
I shrug, looking out the window so I won’t have to look him in the eye.
“I know why. You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“No.” It sounds like the hesitant answer of a kid who stole a cookie from the jar.
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I don’t know. Bored, I guess. Women either just want to, you know, or try to marry me for my money.”
“Isn’t that what she’s doing?”
“Um…maybe…no, actually. She’s after the magazine’s money. We were planning to keep it all secret, have the wedding out at my place, and not tell anyone besides a few trusted friends who’d play the guests. But then her mom and sister caught me at Avery’s apartment this morning. Avery panicked and told them we had already gotten married.”
Jesse shakes his head. “You know this is going to backfire.”
“Probably. But could you play the part of best man?”
“Is this even legal?”
“Jesse.”
“Fine, so long as you promise me something.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“If you hurt Avery, that will hurt Leigh, which will hurt me, got it?”
“I think so, and I don’t plan on hurting her.”
“Well, you didn’t plan on a public fake wedding, now did you? Just…watch yourself. Don’t let her believe it’s something more than it is.”
“She knows that. I’ve been pretty clear about it.” But then I wonder if I really have been clear enough, if somewhere deep inside, she’s hoping it will be real. It would be best just to go ahead and call the whole thing off. I’m just not sure how without hurting Avery.
“But first you have to be my real best man,” Jesse reminds me.
“And before that, we have to plan a bachelor party. I know just the stripper.”
Jesse smirked. “I bet you do, but that’s not gonna fly. Leigh would rip me a new one. I have another idea, though.”
∞∞∞
The next couple weeks are about as routine as they come, with Avery and me both working overtime. Dr. Bradshaw is in New Zealand at a horse care and surgery conference, so I’m picking up his large animal patients. While collecting bull semen with electro-ejaculation isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, it’s the least I can do for my mentor. He’ll have to cover my ass when I do the wedding thing because I’m assuming we’ll be jetting off to some fake honeymoon. Whether that will be together or separate is yet to be seen.
Avery is hard at work on Leigh and Jesse’s wedding, ours, and several others. Besides a couple of quickies, we’ve not spent much time together. Before our arrangement, I’d have already had a one-night stand or two. Yet, I’m “saving myself” for my fake wife.
To make matters worse, I miss her. And the whole thing is getting out of hand, but calling it off now will hurt Avery, and I feel like an idiot for even caring.
At least I’ve done one thing right in arranging Jesse’s afternoon bachelor party, if you can call it that, at the bowling alley. I’ve never been one to hang out with the guys, unless it’s at a bar during March Madness, drunk-cheering the Wildcats with a bunch of guys I only know as clients or acquaintances.
But I owe Jesse, and that’s the kind of bachelor party he requested. Jesse made amends with every man in the county, including me, for being a douche as a teen. A dozen of the other men have gathered for the bachelor party, dividing up into teams of four per lane.
The bowling lanes themselves are immaculate, but it’s no secret that the food is barely edible, bordering on unsanitary. There’s a limit to the number of cigarette butts and fingernails you can find in your nachos before you say, “Fuck it,” and get something catered. Eugene, the bowling alley owner, wasn’t crazy about the Mann brothers catering the party, but so long as you speak his language in enough small bills, he’ll look the other way for just about anything.
We choose our bowling balls and sit down to put on our bowling shoes. I brought my own. I don’t trust what might be crawling around in the rentals. Jesse’s on the bench beside me, smiling – he smiles a lot lately, which is a welcome change from the bitter, angry young man he once was before Leigh came into his life.
Giving him a nudge, I lean in and ask, “Do you really think she’s worth it?”
“Leigh? Oh, hell yeah.”
“Good. You could do a lot worse.”
“So could you.”
“Whatever.”
Jesse cups my shoulder in one of his big hands. He took after our dad, tall with a large build. I got my mom’s moderate height and lighter build. Not that I’m scrawny, but let’s just say I’ve never beaten Jesse at arm wrestling.
“Listen, I know you haven’t, or claim to haven’t, been in love yet, but I’m telling you, when it hits, you won’t be able to deny it,” he says.
“Spoken like a true love guru.”
“You’ll see. Probably sooner than you think.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jesse chuckles and walks to the bowling ball return. I just sip my beer, munching on quite possibly the best nachos I’ve ever had, thanks to Mann Cakes catering. Jesse rolls and gets his first strike.
Garrett Mann is up next.
“Come on, boy, put some pepper on it!” his twin brother, Tanner, says while setting out some smoked sausage balls.
“What does that even mean?” Garrett asks.
“Seriously?” Tanner laughs and gestures at me. “You know what it means, don’t you, Jack?”
“Huh?” I wasn’t expecting to be part of the conversation, but I get the joke. It’s clear Garrett, however, does not.
Jesse’s face brightens. “Oh, yeah! Put some pepper on it, boy!”
“I put enough peppers in the nachos to make your eyes water,” Garrett says.
Jesse laughs, giving me a look that says he knew exactly what I was thinking. He and I, sitting on the floor of our trailer, eating corn flakes, or if we were lucky, some Froot Loops. Half the time, we either had sour milk or none at all, but it didn’t matter. Looney Tunes made us forget all that. Foghorn Leghorn was one of our favorite characters. When he tried to teach the widow hen’s son how to play baseball, he reminded us of Pa, trying and failing to teach us to be “typical” boys.
Garrett, I realized, was like the nerdy little chicken who was more Einstein than Babe Ruth.
“Lots o’ peppa, boy!” Tanner proclaims with a bad Southern accent.
Some of the guys in the neighboring lanes echo, “Lots o’ peppa!”
Garrett rolls his eyes. “Do you mind?”
“Sorry, bro.” Tanner puts a finger to his lips. “You all be quiet. My brother needs some time to calculate the trajectory.”
“I’d hate to accidentally miscalculate this ball right into your face.”
All the guys laugh at that. I’ve still got one foot mired in the past, so I retreat into my beer. Jesse nudges my shoulder and gives me a wink.
“Relax, it’s okay to have fun with the guys for a change.”
“Yeah, okay.” I’m not sure about the other guys yet, but it feels good to hang out with my brother again. We’d reconciled months ago, but hadn’t really gotten together for anything fun. It used to be him and me against the world, never letting our guards down except during fleeting moments such as Saturday morning cartoons.
Garrett grips the bowling ball, and throws up the middle finger of his free hand before doing a perfect pro-bowler approach and swing.
Just before it releases, I say just loud enough for Garrett to hear, “Put some pepper on it, boy!”
He stumbles a bit at the end of the swing, launching the ball in an ungraceful arch, before it goes kablam! on the lane, spins out, and drops into the gutter two inches before it reaches the pins. All the guys cr
ack up. Garrett turns around slowly, locking his angry glare on me.
“What? I didn’t say anything,” I say innocently. “Must be the hot peppers getting to you.”
Another roar of laughter, then Garrett himself smiles and shakes his head. “Every man’s got his weakness.”
Yeah, and mine has just sent a text: Don’t get too drunk, okay? I’ll be waiting up for you.
∞∞∞
Waiting up won’t be difficult, considering the party’s over at eight p.m. I’ve been to a couple bachelor parties before this one, and each lasted well into the night, involved more than one pair of titties, several dollar bills, and a horrendous hangover the next morning. Not this one. My brother’s acting more like a senior citizen than a twenty-something.
The low-hanging summer sun flashes through the trees as I drive up the long, winding driveway to my house. At a slow cruise, I roll down the windows and let the warm wind carry in smells of cut grass and crude oil. It’s been a while since I checked on the wells, or on the guys running the wells. Or the landscapers. When’s the last time I treated my vet techs to lunch? I haven’t even given Mrs. Gonsalves a raise in forever.
Pulling up to the garage, I see a dented 90s Camry sitting there, taillights on. It’s not Mrs. Gonsalves’s car. I don’t want to get paranoid, but some of the women I’ve been with have been a hair shy of bat shit, and if they found out I’m getting “married,” it might push them over the edge. I don’t remember any of them having such a shitty car, though. The garage faces east, so it’s dark on this side of the house, and I can’t tell if there’s anyone in the car or not.
The lights are on in the kitchen window. I can see Mrs. Gonsalves through the glass, washing dishes at the sink. She’s dancing and singing to the beat of whatever she’s listening to on her earbuds. She’s on an Eminem kick lately. Yeah, it’s weird. Don’t ask me.
But if there were any home intruders, she’d be a sitting duck.
Slowly, I get out of the car, eyes on the vehicle. It’s still running, the engine coughing like a pneumatic St. Bernard. Besides the dim dash lights, I can’t make out who’s in there, but there’s an orange glow of a cigarette. Smoke plumes escape through the cracked open driver’s window. The cigarette light turns toward me and I freeze, hand on my cell phone. I can duck behind my car and take off running if I need to. They’ll never find me in the dark woods behind my house.
But that would make me a coward. I can’t leave Mrs. Gonsalves to deal with them herself. The memory of nine-year-old me invades my mind again, hunkered down in a dark, mouse shit-infested closet, begging my brother to join me before our dad broke down the bedroom door. Jesse was the only one brave enough to face him. I won’t be a coward again.
But I keep my car between me and whoever it is, then call out, “Can I help you?”
The window rolls down, and late as usual, the motion detector lights finally decide to wake up. Their light reveals a woman’s face, but not one I’m familiar with. This woman is older, haggard, her skin sallow. Deep wrinkles appear around her lips as she takes another drag of her cigarette, and then we lock eyes on each other.
She takes the cigarette from her mouth, exhales a mass of smoke, and smiles at me. “You’re Jack, aren’t ya’? You’ve grown up good, doin’ well for yourself, I see.”
I can barely hear her through the pulse pounding in my ears. If you’d have asked me to bet whether my mom was dead or alive, I’d have put a million on dead. But she’s not. Unless I’m tripping out on Garett’s spicy nachos.
“Lori?”
She opens her mouth as though to correct me, then simply nods. She knows as well as I do that she lost the rights to the title of mom a long time ago.
“Yeah, it’s me. Mind if I visit for a little while? Your housekeeper said you’d be home soon, so I just waited out here.”
Glancing up at Mrs. Gonsalves, I’m pissed that she didn’t bother giving me a call so I’d be prepared for this little reunion.
As though she knew what I was thinking, Lori added, “I told her I’m a Jehovah’s Witness.”
Now, that I could believe. My housekeeper takes joy in seeing how many door-to-door religious folk she can spring on me. But now I have to decide whether to let my mother in or to tell her to go back to hell where I can forget about her once more. The truth is, I’ve never fully forgotten about her.
She had been a beautiful woman once. My memory brings up a picture of her smiling, laughing face, a sunny day in Central Park, swinging higher, higher, so high I thought I might touch the clouds. I’ve never fully trusted that memory, even less now seeing her sunken cheeks and eyes dulled from years of drug abuse.
Before I second-guess myself, I heave a sigh and shrug. “Okay, come on in.”
Her car door screeches as she opens it, sounds like it’s going to fall apart as she closes it. I catch a brief glimpse of a satchel in the passenger seat.
I decide to go in the front door rather than her seeing my garage access code. She follows me with her purse slung over one shoulder, her cigarette case gripped tightly in her age-spotted hand. Her baggy gray sweatshirt and jeans are faded and stained. Who knows how long she’s been wearing them?
The light’s out in the foyer since I rarely go in there. I flip it on, smiling at her sharp intake of breath behind me. I’ll admit it feels satisfying, showing her that she didn’t turn me into a junkie loser like she and Dad were.
But then I realize something. “Does Jesse know you’re back?”
She pauses her slack-jawed admiration of all the shiny things and shakes her head. “I didn’t know if he…” She fumbles with her cigarette case, trying to open it.
“Don’t smoke in here, please.”
“Oh.” She stuffs the case in her purse and hugs it against her side as though her Dorals are her lifeblood.
Mrs. Gonsalves comes in from the kitchen, drying her hands with a dish towel. She glances from me to Lori and grins.
I break the news. “Don’t get too excited. She’s not a Jehovah’s Witness.”
Mrs. Gonsalves’s smile slides into a frown. She stands there a few seconds, staring at the both of us, waiting for introductions I’m not ready to give. I nod toward the kitchen. She takes the hint and returns, giving me a dirty look over her shoulder as she crosses the threshold. I realize she may think I’ve brought another one-night stand home, but if she thinks that badly of my taste in women, she deserves thinking gross thoughts for a while.
Turning to Lori, I try to keep my voice as neutral as possible. “We can go downstairs to the den. After you.” I gesture toward the stairs at the far end of the foyer.
Her gaze lingers on mine for a moment, but then she nods and heads down, holding the handrail like she’s afraid I’ll push her down the stairs. Nope. I want to keep my eye on her so she won’t swipe things and hide them in her purse. She stole from Pa (her own father) one too many times between failed rehab stints before he told her not to bother coming back next time.
As we reach the den, Quincy performs his obscene welcoming committee routine.
“Bitches be crazy!” he squawks.
Lori turns back slowly and stares up at me wide-eyed. “What in the world?”
“Keep going. You’ll see.”
Quincy’s in fine form when we enter the den. His clawed, gray feet grip the cage as he flaps his wings and bobs his head this way and that, checking out the strange woman who’s just entered his kingdom.
“Oh my goodness, what is it?” Lori says, hand to her chest.
“It’s an African gray parrot.”
“I’m Quincy, fucker!”
Lori gasps.
“Yeah, that’s Quincy, the unadoptable parrot.”
“I can see why.”
“Fuck off!” Quincy squawks as he flaps his wings and bites the cage wire.
“That’s enough out of you.” I check to see that he has water and food, then pull the curtain over his cage. “Lights out.”
“Asswipe!”
Lori takes a seat on the sofa, perched on the edge as though she might soil it if she relaxes on it. I join her there, sitting as far away as I can. It’s uncomfortable, more so as the silence between us balloons into full-on awkward. I almost ask her if she wants a drink like I would with any normal guest, but she’s far from normal.
She clears her throat, a shaky smile on her lips. “I’m…um… How have you been?”
“Fine.” Her attempt at friendly chitchat is sad to say the least, and I’m tensing up as anger resurfaces. “How have you been? More accurately, where have you been?”
“I’ve been all over. I was working at a factory in Tennessee for the last three years. Good, steady work. But I got laid off.”
“Came in drunk one too many times?”
Hurt fills her face, and she stares down at her lap. “No. I don’t blame you for thinking that. A bunch of us got laid off. Cutbacks, you know. Jobs going to Mexico or China or wherever.”
“So you came up here to get what, exactly? Money? A roof over your head? More drugs?”
She slaps the arm of the couch and locks her angry eyes on mine. “Dammit, Jack, I’m sober, okay? I’ve been getting the newspaper from here, and I saw that your brother’s getting married.”
I blink at her for a few seconds. With a sarcastic laugh, I sit back on the sofa, ankle propped on one knee. “You really think he’d want you at his wedding?”
“I…don’t know. I thought maybe I could –”
Sitting up straight again, I grip my knees to keep my temper in check. “No, you’re not going anywhere near Jesse right now. He’s getting married tomorrow night. And he’s happy for once. Don’t ruin this for him.”
Her chin trembles. She pulls out a wadded-up tissue from her purse and wipes tears from her cheeks. Damn it, I feel like a dick talking to my mother like this, but I can’t let her screw up Jesse’s life again. Or mine.
Doing the best I can to keep the anger out of my voice, I add, “Look, you can stay here for a few nights, until Jesse gets back from his honeymoon. Maybe you can try to talk to him then. While he’s gone, you could visit Pa and get that out of the way so you won’t upset both of them at once.”