Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  Bennie is quiet for a few seconds and wrings her hands. “Then I suppose I’ll come with you.”

  “You don’t have to. You just saw them Sunday. Plus, I know you don’t like going.”

  “No, I want to. I haven’t been to the house in a while. It’s time. Besides, we’re stronger together.”

  I nod.

  “Preston,” Bennie yells across the store. “We’re stepping out. Be back in about an hour.”

  “I got it,” he says to Bennie, but his eyes stay fixed on me. I offer a small wave, and he nods back.

  Bennie and I walk in silence at first, our synchronized steps sounding off in a steady rhythm. I give the water tower a glance when we cut through the park. When the yellow neon sign for The Haystack comes into view, I remember that I haven’t told Bennie about my job.

  “By the way, you’re looking at the new part-time bartender at The Haystack.”

  “Really? Coach gave you a job, huh?”

  “It took some convincing,” I answer. “But all I had to do was mention your name. Coach got a little thing for you, Ben?”

  “Well, that’s good. Real good,” she says, ignoring my question.

  Bennie seems distracted as we near the house on Houston Street. It’s not that warm out, but she’s sweating around her hairline. Her skin is pallid, and she looks nauseous.

  “We should get you outside this summer, Bennie. You need some color.”

  She seems to relax a little and nudges my shoulder. “My color is fine. Just dreading this visit.”

  “Then why come? Why do this to yourself?”

  “Because one day it’ll be too late to visit. Besides, I’m only here for you,” she answers.

  “You know I can handle them.”

  Bennie nods and looks out at the field to our right. Crops of gold as far as we can see. It would be beautiful if I weren’t so jaded. “I know you can. You were always better at dealing with them than I was.”

  “Which is so strange to me. You grew up with them, no guidance from anyone else, no one telling you it was okay to be yourself. Yet, somehow, you found the strength to do that.”

  “It was different then. I fit into their mold. I did what I was told,” she answers, her eyes on the street. “I knew I had to make it until I was eighteen, and then I’d be free to be me.”

  “You’re so strong.”

  Bennie shakes her head and gives me a glance. “I did what I had to do to keep my sanity.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t been there for me, telling me that I could be whatever I wanted, I may have lost my mind long ago.”

  She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Who says you’re sane now?”

  “Shut up, nerd.” I sweep my foot against hers trying to trip her, but she kicks me away. “Anything I should know before we get there?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and stares at our shadows on the road in front of us. The shorter, distorted versions remind me of our younger selves, walking this same path between the park and home.

  “Nope. Nothing has changed. Same old Bob and Carol. Why the sudden interest in a visit?”

  “I don’t really know. I almost feel obligated. Like there is some lingering daughterly guilt that I should let them know I’m alive and safe.”

  “Oh. They know that. Daddy asked every time I saw him. I kept them updated when I got a new postcard from you.”

  “And Mom?”

  Bennie shakes her head.

  “It’s funny how everyone in this town connects them to us and us to them, and we couldn’t be more disconnected. Don’t you get tired of it, Ben? Tired of being Reverend Hart’s kids?”

  “I suppose I’ve grown used to it in my old age.”

  I laugh. “You’re not that old. And I don’t think I would get used to it in three lifetimes.”

  My anxiety pushes to the surface when we turn onto my parents’ street. It multiplies with every step toward that seemingly innocent house wearing green shutters. By the time I reach the mailbox with pristine new letters spelling Hart, I am a nervous wreck. Bennie grabs my hand as we step onto the porch and ring the bell.

  Through the open window, just beyond frilly homemade curtains that shift in the breeze, I recognize Red Foley’s voice crooning from their old record player. It’s a song I know by heart. And though I love his voice, and the wholesome sound of music from the fifties, it stirs something inside me that is made of hate and resentment.

  I hear voices inside and the soft footsteps approaching. Memories flood my head along with a sick feeling that I can’t hold down. Bennie squeezes my hand, and it grounds me in the moment, calming my vibrating insides. The door cracks open, and two eyes stare at us through the screen door. They look old and tired and a little more fragile than the last time I saw them. But they don’t look surprised.

  “Well, come on in.”

  My father props open the door and stands aside. He’s wearing what I call the “Reverend Hart Uniform”—light blue, short-sleeve oxford shirt, gray slacks held up with suspenders, and cowboy boots. I follow Bennie in as he calls out behind us. “Carol, the girls are here.”

  “In the kitchen,” she yells.

  Bennie and I enter the kitchen, and absolutely nothing has changed. Same gaudy wallpaper, same decor, and the same weathered Bible on the kitchen table. The maroon cover and gold foil letters are worn from decades of use. My mother is sitting in her favorite chair, shucking corn. She places the silk and husk in one bowl and the clean ears of corn in another. She barely looks up when we sit across from her.

  “Hi, Mom,” Bennie says.

  Her stare holds Bennie for a few seconds before it slides over to me.

  “Good to see you again, Bennetta,” she answers. “Wren.”

  Bennie scrunches her face up at the use of her given name. My dad comes in, pours himself a glass of water, and sits next to Mom. It doesn’t go unnoticed that he doesn’t offer us a drink. Thanks for the visit, but don’t stay long.

  The silence here is awkward. The air is stifling and stagnant and everything I remember it being. The people who sit across from me are strangers. The only things they ever gave me were strict lessons, Bible verses, and DNA. They know nothing about the girl I was or the woman I’ve become. My parents were never physically abusive, but religion and the law of God ruled our home. They always reminded me of what a sinner I was and how, if I didn’t give my life over to the Lord, I’d never amount to anything. They threw words at me instead of love, threats instead of encouragement. They were even worse to Bennie.

  “How was your trip, Wren?” Dad asks.

  “It was great,” I answer, cautious.

  “She was gone for three years, tramping around the country doing Lord knows what. I’d hardly call that a trip,” Mom interjects, never looking up from her shucking.

  “Yes, Mother, only the Lord knows what. I can give you a rundown if you’d like. Shall we start with the Rastafarians in Queens or the Whispering Pines Nudist Colony of Clearwater, Florida?”

  “No, Wren. I do not need to hear all the sordid details of your travels,” Mom says.

  “I’m sure there were good things, too. Right, Wren?” Bennie asks, tucking her hands beneath her thighs. It’s an old habit of hers—one that only appears in this house. “What about the postcard you sent from Austin? Weren’t you volunteering at a homeless shelter there?”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “No, I was living in one.”

  “My God will cast them away because they have not listened to Him; And they will be wanderers among the nations.”

  Bennie’s eyes snap to Mom, and she glares at her. While I learned to grow indifferent to their judgment, Bennie never did. Every time they lay that crap on us, it eats away at her. She lets them poke at her like a bear in the zoo. I’ve been running interference ever since I understood the notion.

  “How’s the church, Rev?” I ask, focusing my attention on the newly formed wrinkles cutting into the leathered skin around his eyes.

  “Good,�
�� Dad says. “Real good. Biggest congregation yet. We’re thinking of expanding the hall to hold more people. Imagine that. You should come by on Sunday.”

  “They all follow your father, a true man of God, to lead them from sin. The lips of the righteous nourish many, but fools die for lack of sense. Proverbs 10:21.”

  “Wise men say only fools rush in,” I say. “Elvis Presley, 1972.” Bennie grins and shakes her head at me. “What? I thought we were playing a quoting game. We seem to be incapable of actual conversation.”

  “That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble,” my mother says.

  “And I thought it would be my promiscuity and lack of respect for authority figures.” I stand quickly. The chair I am sitting in topples over and hits the floor with a loud thwack. “Well, it was great seeing you. Thrilling, as always. Bennie?”

  Daddy gives me a nod, while my mother gives nothing at all.

  Bennie stands, and we make our way toward the door. She pulls the front door open and sighs deeply. “Why do we even bother?”

  “Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you,” my mother calls out from the kitchen.

  “Honor this,” I say and flip my middle finger in their general direction. Even though I know they can’t see me, it makes me feel better.

  Bennie chuckles and pulls me out of the house. We pass the mailbox and turn left at the corner, never looking back.

  Another shared meal

  And she’s feeding me lines

  Claiming my need for order

  Is contagious

  Perpendicular and parallel lines

  Of utensils

  Prove her point

  Her truth-speak is equally infectious

  When I hear admissions slip out

  I try to catch them

  But they are water pouring through fingertips

  When they are laid between us

  A third place setting at this table

  She eats it up

  A spoonful of sugar and all

  - Preston

  Chapter Eight

  Kind of Blue

  I perch on the arm of the couch and watch Preston organize the jazz section for the third time this afternoon. Miles Davis plays through the speakers. The music is so breathtaking, so humble. Bennie sits at the front counter, flipping through a magazine. It’s such a stark contrast to the way things used to be around here. The store itself seems like an overly organized shell of the party place I knew. There used to be such a vibrant energy—disco lights and beaded curtains, music so loud the front windows rattled. Bennie and I would dance in the aisles. We’d crank up some Jackson 5 and jump around until we were breathless. These days, she barely leaves her post near the register.

  “What’s your process?” I say to Preston’s back.

  His fingers stop flipping through the stacks, and he looks over his shoulder. His profile is all Ralph Lauren model, and his body is Levi’s Vintage. The jeans that sit on his hips hang there like they’ve never belonged anywhere else. His plain white T-shirt leaves nothing to the imagination.

  “What do you mean ‘process’?”

  “I mean,” I say, walking over and standing next to him. “How are you organizing them?”

  “Alphabetically and then chronologically,” Preston answers. He returns his attention to the stacks, but doesn’t pick up from where he left off. Instead, he starts over at the front of the pile.

  “I would have pegged you as more of a subgenre kind of guy. Bebop, Big Band, Gypsy, Latin, Mainstream, Swing, Traditional.”

  Preston’s fingers freeze again. He rests his hand on top of the records, and he turns to face me now.

  “Subgenres would be too complicated. Some musicians were crossover artists. While one album would fit into one subgenre, it may complicate things for general fans of that artist. Besides, some of the subgenres can be defined chronologically. Alphabetical is concrete, it’s not subjective.”

  The deep timbre of his voice, talking all nerdy to me about music, has me flustered. His pretty face is expressionless, so I know he’s serious. His love of music and vinyl and threadbare shirts makes Preston the personification of every naughty fantasy I’ve ever had.

  “I smell what you’re cooking, so why not just alphabetize them all together?”

  I trail the tips of my fingers along the stack of records and rest my hand on top. Our fingertips are almost touching, but not quite. Preston stares at our hands, and I wonder what he sees. There’s a buzzing in my body, an electric charge that seems to reach out to him with static fingers.

  “Well, uh,” he starts, meeting my eyes briefly before returning to our hands. “Jazz listeners tend to be extroverted, laid-back, creative people with loyalty to a certain time period. While their tastes may vary across genres, their favorites are almost always from the same era.”

  “Are you using music psychology to organize these?” I ask.

  I lean my hip against the shelf, and the angle of my body allows my bra strap to slip down my shoulder. Preston notices and immediately raises his hand to correct it. I can see the moment he realizes he’s about to touch a piece of my underwear. His fingers curl in, creating a fist that he drops to his side. That familiar frustrated frown reappears. He shifts from foot to foot, swaying a bit, in front of me. His eyes stay fixed to the satin strap that happens to match my hair. Preston finally runs both hands through his hair and laces them together behind his neck. His thick biceps bulge and flex like wings above his shoulders.

  “Can you…?” he asks, nodding to my shoulder.

  I nod and slip my finger under the strap, pulling it up and tucking it under my tank top.

  “Better?” I ask.

  “And worse.” He blows out a breath through perched lips before hitting me with a crooked smirk.

  “Hmm, you give good flirt, Preston. But I’ve got to go get ready for work.”

  …

  Before heading to the Haystack, I borrow Bennie’s laptop and park myself at the kitchen table. When the search engine loads and the curser blinks at me, I type in OCD. The list of links is endless. I click on studies and published papers on the subject, but none of them unlock the mystery that is Preston.

  It’s not until I search YouTube, and find a couple of short documentaries following the daily lives of folks who deal with OCD, that I pinpoint the common threads. Every instance of the disorder is different, but seems to always be heightened by fear, and the best way to alleviate that fear is to be in control. The person needs to command as much of their environment as possible to feel safe. I lock that away for later and get dressed.

  When I get to work, the crowd is sparse. I’m thankful for it. Some whiny country song plays from the jukebox, and I’m suddenly rethinking my desire to be employed here. I’ll have to check later to see if there’s any Johnny Cash on there. Coach shows me the backroom inventory, the price list, and gives me a run-down of what to expect. It’s usually the same old people in night after night. While he seems to find comfort in that, I’m already worried I’ll get bored. He shows me how to work the beverage gun and keep tabs for the locals. After an hour, I’m comfortable enough to help my first customer.

  I throw a napkin onto the bar and give the guy my best smile. “What can I get you?”

  “Where’s Coach?”

  I look down the bar, but remember he’s stepped out to use the restroom. “He’s busy at the moment. I’m happy to take care of you.”

  “I bet you are,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. The suggestion makes me want to gag, but I swallow down the insulting words that rest on my tongue.

  “Leon, you want me to tell your wife you’re hitting on Reverend Hart’s youngest daughter?”

  I let out an exaggerated groan as Sawyer slaps the man on the back and takes a seat next to him.

  “Reverend Hart? Well, no. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Leon says, backpedaling.

  “That’s okay, old man. Buy
me a beer and I’ll keep quiet,” Sawyer says as he shoots me a wink.

  “Fine. Two Budweisers.”

  I grab the bottles from the cooler and use the bottle opener to snap the caps off. I slide them onto the bar. Coach reappears and stops to help someone.

  “That’ll be eight dollars,” I say.

  Leon slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar top. “Keep the change. Don’t want no trouble with the Reverend.”

  I ring it up and drop the change in the tip jar before turning to face them again. Leon has wandered off to a pool table, and Sawyer sips his beer. He’s so handsome, but there’s no mystery there. I know everything about him, and he knows too much about me. Logan Sawyer is exactly the kind of boy my parents want me to marry. He’s got roots in this town, goes to church, and just wants to settle down. What they want and what I want will never be the same.

  “Thanks for that. But I could have handled it.”

  He grins. “I know you could have, Wren. The girl I knew could handle just about anything. But I could have arrested him for you.”

  “Happy to see you’re not abusing your power,” I tease.

  He laughs. His white teeth are a sharp contrast to golden skin and brown hair. Still, his smile is charming with just a hint of mischief.

  “Glad you got a job here. I kind of like the idea of you sticking around.”

  I roll my eyes and ignore his flirting before sliding down to help the next customer. I throw a napkin on the bar and look up to find the redheaded diner waitress. She’s out of her polyester uniform and into a rocking purple top that makes her boobs look great.

  “Angela Louise, right? Nice rack.”

  She looks down at her cleavage and back to me before tugging at the neck of her shirt.

  “Thanks. It’s just Angela. Millie thinks it gives us that small-town feeling including our middle names on our name tags. I think we sound like damn hillbillies.”

  I chuckle and tap the bar. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll take a Stella.”

  “I’m not sure we even have that.”

  “You do. Coach stocks it just for me.”

  I grin and dig through the cooler before finding her beer. I pop the top off and set it on the napkin. “You must be a loyal customer.”