by Eva Charles
“That might be the way it is for you, but it’s not like that for everyone.” I guzzle my shake. The damn thing sat too long, and it goes down like cardboard.
“I’ll give you that. But how do you know your experience won’t be the same as mine? Maybe there’s only one person out there that’s right for you. What if Kate is that person, and you dismiss her before you’ve had the chance to find out? Are you willing to risk it?”
This is such a load of crap. I can’t believe I’m standing here listening to it. I rinse my glass and set it into the dishwasher. “I need to go. I’ll see you later.”
She grabs my arm as I pass. “Easy is for those whose appetites are satisfied with milquetoast. It’s not for people like us.” She plants a kiss on my cheek, and releases me. “Bring Kate to supper on Friday. Lally will make something special.”
“Never happening,” I toss over my shoulder before the screen door slams behind me.
17
Kate
It’s eight-fifteen. Fiona’s on her way to work. Now’s a good time to call and confess last night’s sins. Oh God. I pull the covers over my head and groan into the wrinkled linen.
In the alley.
I need a thorough postmortem on last night, and the voices inside my head are too complicit to give me an unvarnished opinion. And they’re too judgmental—especially this morning. I need to talk to Fiona. I only wish it was over a cup of coffee, instead of across the miles.
“Hey, birthday girl!” Fi says brightly, picking up on the first ring. “Did you have a nice dinner?”
“You made my birthday perfect, like you always do. I don’t know what I would do without you, Fifi.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me about your birthday dinner. I’m doing Keto until I can fit into a bathing suit without looking like some seasoned pork stuffed into a casing. I need to live vicariously through you until then. What did you eat?”
“Shrimp and grits, and chess pie for dessert. It had a bajillion carbs and about two bajillion calories. We’ll have some when you visit. But I don’t advise coming to Charleston on a diet.”
“I’m working on that visit.”
“And you don’t look like a sausage. I hate when you say things like that. Plus, diets that restrict healthy foods aren’t good for you.”
“Talk to me about it again when you’re five-two, and your body has been stretched to capacity carrying twins. What else is going on?”
What else, indeed. I rest a hand on my forehead, shading my eyes as though she can see me through the phone. “Remember Smith Sinclair?”
“The guy with the please-fuck-me-now-muscles and ovary-splitting dimples?”
“Mmhm. He showed up at the restaurant last night and sat down at my table. He knew it was my birthday.”
“And?”
“Oh God, Fi. I don’t know. He was his usual self, but in between being a complete jerk, he was a nice guy, trying to make my birthday special, too. I think so, anyway.”
“Did you have sex?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because I can hear the I’m sorry—not sorry in your voice. Well?”
I take a breath and let it out slowly. “We made out in the alley near my house, and he took off my underpants and fingered me.” No reason to spare her the lewd facts. She might as well have the full technicolor picture if she’s going to help with the autopsy. “I humped his hand like a bitch in heat until I came all over it.”
“Birthday sex with a big fat orgasm. Well, aren’t you all grown up?”
“It wasn’t sex. It was just—”
“Sex. Own it, baby. You have a thing for him.”
I do. I’m afraid I do.
I throw the covers off and dangle my feet over the side of the mattress, before asking the question that’s been gnawing at my soul since I crawled into bed last night. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me truthfully, even if you think I’ll end up in a fetal position for the rest of the day.”
“Mmhm.”
“Promise me, Fi.”
“I never lie to you, Katydid. Ask.” If only it were so simple.
“Sinclair is hard to read. But he’s not a nice guy—that’s not exactly true. I can’t put my finger on it, but something about him is dangerous. And you’re right. I am attracted to him. So attracted, it’s embarrassing. That whole thing in the alley—I’d do it again right now, in broad daylight with my neighbors watching out the window.”
“It must have been good.” She sighs. “Is he dangerous because you let yourself go around him? Because that can be a good kind of danger. Especially for you. You need more of that in your life.”
I drag a ragged breath into my lungs, and home in on my struggle. “Is this like when I was fifteen? Is it the same thing all over again? Because it feels like it.” My voice fades, leaving a long trail of regret and sadness in its wake.
“You know—letting guys take advantage of me.” It pains me to dredge up the ugly events of the past, but I do it bravely, because if I want answers, that’s what’s required. “Pass me around, because I’m so desperate for a little affection? Sinclair is an asshole. He says it himself.”
“I don’t know Sinclair, but I do know what happened with those guys—they were college boys and you were a teenager,” she says pointedly. “They were scum. They deserved to have their asses kicked all over town and I would have done it myself if they ever came near you again. Especially that Ryan.” She spits out the ringleader’s name in a tone one would reserve for Satan. “You’re a woman now. You’re allowed to have sex with whoever you want, as often as you want, wherever you want—no apologies.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself. But it rings hollow, like I’m justifying self-destructive behavior. It’s not about the sex so much, it’s, it’s just that I’ve been so lonely, and feeling sorry for myself, and Sinclair is … sin on a stick, and he makes me feel pretty, and desirable, and safe. But it’s not real. I just want it to be. This is exactly what happened before. I’m walking into the trap again, only this time, my eyes are wide open.”
“Listen to me,” she says in a voice that dares me to defy her. “What happened with those guys—I meant every word I said about them. But it wasn’t as big of a deal as your family made it out to be, and it sure as hell wasn’t your fault. None of it. Teenage girls are vulnerable. You weren’t special in that way. Dragging you to St. Claire’s in the middle of the night so you could confess to Father Tierney—that was bullshit.”
“Tommy didn’t know what to do.”
“So he treated you like you needed to have an emergency exorcism performed?”
“He meant well.” I don’t know why I defend him. Nothing I say will ever change Fiona’s mind about him. And he doesn’t deserve my empathy. It’s taken me twenty-eight years to come to terms with this, but I’m still not ready to share it outside my head.
“Tommy is an asshole with anger management problems,” she huffs. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. He’s a hair shy of exploding all over the place. Don’t get me started on how he’s allowed to carry a gun.”
The rage simmers inside, but never comes to a full boil. No one besides Fi is allowed to talk about my family this way. No one. But even coming from her, it stings. I should know better than to discuss them with her—especially Tommy.
“Jesus, Fi. I didn’t know you felt so strongly about what happened that night.” We haven’t talked about it since it happened. I did my punishment and buried the whole sordid mess while it still had a pulse. But when you bury something alive, no matter how deep the grave, it eventually comes back to haunt you.
“I’m an adult now,” she explains, “and I see it differently—more clearly. They shamed you—all of them. What teenage girl wants to have to tell a priest that she let four boys fondle her?” And that she was seconds from giving them each a blow job, and more, if the police hadn’t come by and broken up the party. She spares me that part. “I don’
t care if Father Tierney was decent about it. Your family made you feel ashamed. Tommy that night, and then your father and Sean.”
“It was so I would learn a lesson. Shame is a powerful teacher.”
“Shame is a bully’s weapon, wielded by the ignorant and the impotent. They missed an opportunity to show you kindness and compassion—and the love that you deserved. I’ll never forgive them for that.”
By them, she doesn’t mean Father Tierney. He showed me plenty of kindness and love growing up. Fiona knows this. She means my family. My father and my brothers. I don’t want to think about it anymore. “Can we leave the Norman Rockwell memories for another time, and get back to Sinclair?”
She sighs, long and deep into the silence, letting her thoughts unfurl and stretch, smoothing the rough edges into palatable words. Fiona is rarely careless with me. I stare at a speck on the ceiling while I wait, following closely as it shimmies into the light fixture.
“This is what I think about Sinclair. Men are men. Even the good ones are assholes. It’s a fundamental part of the Y chromosome.” I picture her gathering her long chestnut hair in one hand and draping it neatly over her shoulder. “It sounds like he showed some restraint last night—unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“No.” I would have happily reciprocated. “He didn’t expect a thing.”
“Take it slow. Enjoy him, if that’s what you want, just don’t give your heart away unless it’s in a fair trade. I’m pulling into the salon and the valet is heading this way. The Oribe rep is coming this afternoon. I’ll see if I can get you some samples.”
“I love that shampoo. It smells so good.” I catch myself smiling for the first time since last night. “And I love you Fi, with all my heart.”
“I’ll call you on my way home so I can bitch about how clients need to learn to take their make-up off at night if they want clear, poreless skin. I’m not a damn miracle worker. Answer your phone.”
I toss the phone on the bed beside me, and it rings as soon as it hits the sheets. Fi must have forgotten to tell me something. We do this dance all the time.
“What did you forget?” I ask before she can get a word out.
“Kate. It’s your father.”
My heart begins to pound. He never calls unless he has something to say. Maybe he has news about the promotion. “Hi, Dad. I thought you were Fi calling me back.”
“How’s my little girl?”
“Things are good.” Without thinking, I start to tell him about my birthday dinner, but I stop myself just in time. “How are things with you?”
“Same shit, different day.”
“Anything on the commissioner’s job?”
“Not yet. They’re dragging their feet. I’m beginning to think it’s in the bag for Moniz. We’ll see. Either way, I should hear something soon.”
“Good. You’ve been on pins and needles about this for too long. I’m planning on coming home for Father’s Day. It’s still weeks away, but it’s something for me to look forward to. I haven’t seen you since Christmas, and I wouldn’t mind sleeping in my bed for a night or two.”
“Bed’s gone, Kate.”
Gone? I don’t understand. “What happened?”
“We had to move it to make a craft room.”
All sorts of things flitted through my mind when he said my bed was gone. Flood, fire, ant infestation, all of it, but it never occurred to me that he got rid of it.
“Craft room? You’ve started crafting?”
“Not me.” He chuckles like it’s the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard. “Joyce. She’s crafty. Makes beautiful things. She’s really spiffed up the house with her handiwork.”
“Joyce is decorating our house?” Joyce who worked at the local bank while I was in high school. She was the branch manager, I think. The last time I saw her was on New Year’s Eve, with her arm linked through my father’s. They were headed to a house party across town. “I didn’t realize it had gotten serious.”
“With you gone, the house was too empty, and everyone kept telling me it would do me good to settle down again. You know I can’t cook, and I hate to clean.”
Most people would just hire a housekeeper if that’s all they wanted. “Is she living in the house?”
“Yeah. Tommy still stays here every once in a while. And this is Sean’s home when he’s on leave. It made sense to use your old room. Joyce loved the pretty green color. Said it felt like the most feminine room in the house.”
Of course. My room that I spent an entire month redecorating after my father begged me not to move out after college. I painted it floor to ceiling, every windowpane, every inch of molding, even in the closet. Then I installed white wrought iron shelves in just the right spot, so I could see all my treasures from the bed. I used money I’d saved to buy some sheer curtains and a new comforter, that matched the freshly painted walls.
“What did you do with all my stuff?” And Mom’s things that I found hidden in the attic when I was fourteen.
“Joyce boxed it up, and Tommy put it in the cellar.” Great. I’m sure he just dumped it all down there in a heap.
“I hope he put it on something so that it doesn’t get wet when the cellar takes water.”
“I’ll ask him. Listen, I was wondering where you left that recipe book. The one your mother made before she died?”
“You need the recipe book?”
“Joyce is a master crafter, but she’s not much of a cook. Thought she might be able to make some decent suppers if she had a straightforward guide.”
“I have it with me.” Thank God.
“Send it, would you, honey?”
“Sure.” But not the original. Those are my mother’s recipes—in her handwriting. Her family recipes. My family recipes. Joyce isn’t getting the original. I’ll make a copy at the library on Monday. “Dad, why didn’t you tell me?”
“This is still my house, and I can use whatever room I want for whatever I want.” He’s defensive about giving my room to Joyce. It’s strangely comforting.
“Not about my room.” Although that would have been nice. “About Joyce. It sounds like things are serious with her.”
“No man likes to talk to his daughter about the women he keeps company with.” He’s gruff and dismissive, but I don’t stop.
“I know, but—"
“I’ve been alone for a long time, little girl. I’ve sacrificed plenty for something that wasn’t my fault.”
For something that was my fault. He doesn’t have to say the words—the implication is crystal clear. It always is.
“I’m glad you have someone.” And I am. “I worry about you being alone. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. I’m just homesick and it gets the better of me sometimes.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve always been one to speak and act before you think. Got that from your mother’s side. That, and your pretty green eyes and burnt-red hair. Joyce is staying at the house—but she’ll never be your mother. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her.”
My heart splinters, creating millions of tiny new fractures each time he talks about how much he loved my mother, and about the grief he’s carried for all these years. “I know how hard it’s been for you, Dad. I’m so sorry.”
I’m not sure why I apologize. Maybe it’s because I’m sorry he lost the love of his life too soon. Maybe I’m sorry for the choice she made—the one that changed my father’s life, my brothers’ lives, and devastated our family. I’m not sure anymore. I’ve been apologizing for so long, it’s just a habit now.
We say goodbye after I promise to send the recipe book first thing next week.
I lie back down on the air mattress I’ve been sleeping on since I moved into this temporary apartment. My room is gone. I suppose that’s what parents do after their children leave home. They turn the space into something practical. It’s a natural progression—nothing personal.
I spend a long time making excuses, and I don’t dwell o
n the fact that my father never said you can stay in the den while you’re home, or in the front parlor that we never use. I can’t wait to see you. He never said anything resembling that. I don’t dwell on it because it hurts my heart.
18
Kate
I ring the bell at the rectory entrance and adjust my tote bag on my shoulder while waiting for someone to answer the door. This is such a vast structure in the middle of a tiny island. It must be lonely out here, especially in the winter.
The lock clicks, and the wooden door creaks open. “Kate,” Father Jesse says warmly. “So good to see you.”
“Hello, Father.”
“Come in, please.” He holds the screen door open for me. “Can I take your bag, or would you prefer to keep it?”
“I’ll hold onto it. I have a notebook inside so I can jot down your ideas for the new bulletin.”
“My living quarters are upstairs. I usually spend most of my off-duty time there. But we can have supper down here in the public space, if you prefer. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
I smile. “Upstairs is fine.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He beckons with his head. “Follow me.”
While Father Jesse leads me to the stairs, I can’t help but mull over the contrast between him and Sinclair. One considers my comfort, and the other wants to make me as uncomfortable as possible, or at least keep me off kilter. And it’s not just this. The differences between them are so stark, it’s as though they come from different species.
“How are things going at the library?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Pretty well. I have a steady stream of clients who come in for help with job applications, or for some general advice about banking and utilities. I think some of them are just happy to have somewhere to be besides the shelter, and it doesn’t hurt that Lucinda keeps a tin stocked with goodies in my office.”