by Elsa Kurt
“Funny. Very funny. Come on. Dinner, dr—”
Whirrr. Whirrrr.
“All right. All right. One of these days, Huxley. You’re gonna say—”
“Here’s your smoothie. Take it out on the patio. Your nasty sweat is going to scare the customers away. And it’s probably a health code violation.” She used her pen to push him out, noticing the mixed reactions of the toddler moms as he waved and blew them kisses. Brianna smoothed her hair and shot nervous glances at the other women. Katie blushed. Brittany gave him the finger. Elise blew him a kiss back, and Charlotte nudged Brianna, widening her eyes at her.
“Well, hey there, Rosie,” drawled Miles as he walked out onto the patio.
Mae, following close on his heels, hissed in his ear, “It’s Rosabelle, you idiot. Don’t be a dick,” before turning a smile to her. Immediately she saw that Rosabelle’s too long time outside had caused her already pin-straight hair to wilt and stick to her head. Her face was pink, though who was to say if it was from the heat or because of Miles?
“How about another water, Rosabelle?” Mae nodded encouragingly. Rosabelle blinked up at her. Mae tilted her head toward Miles and lifted her eyebrows. She caught the drift.
“Oh! Oh, yes, thank you. Water would be—”
“Woooo-eeee! It is hot out here, Rosanna! Or is it me?” Miles dropped into the chair across from Rosabelle. Both women looked at him—Mae in disgust, Rosabelle in adoration. “What?” he asked in exaggerated innocence.
Mae gave his hair a sharp tug and pronounced, “I am going to bring Rosabelle water. Would you like a menu, Miles?”
“Nah, do me up some grilled chicken breast, a little avocado, and toss it with some penne and olive oil, will you?”
“Yup. Sure, Miles. Anything else I can get you from not-on-the-menu?”
He turned his megawatt smile on Rosabelle, winked, and declared—as if Mae wasn’t standing right there—“She loves to pretend she’s annoyed with me. It’s just a cover-up for how badly she wants me, you know.”
Rosabelle’s mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish. It wasn’t a becoming look, so Mae pulled his attention away. “Yeah, sure. That must be it. Keep Rosabelle company while I get your food started. And speaking of pretending, why don’t you pretend to be a civilized human being and ask Rosabelle to tell you about her latest artwork?” To Rosabelle, “Show him that drawing you’re working on for the library exhibit.”
At the same moment, Bruce had just returned from a delivery. He scowled at the back of Miles’ head then realized he was sitting with Rosabelle and gave Mae a look that asked, “What the hell are you doing?” Mae pretended not to notice and busied herself with loading her tray with empty plates and glasses. Bruce shook his head and continued inside.
Even from outside, the shrill voices of Brianna and her crew could be clearly heard calling out, “Moose!” and “Hey there, handsome!” Their girlish giggles fluttered out onto the patio, and Mae cringed for him. She’d have to go in and save him.
Chapter 5
TODAY’S SPECIALS
It was Brianna’s turn to pay apparently, and Melina Petrova handed Mae her credit card and bill with a smirk. “Ah, only two and a half hours today. You owe me a dollar.”
“Shit, I thought for sure they’d be just moving on to ‘I couldn’t possibly have dessert…unless you want it.’” Mae chuckled.
“Nope, Mrs. O’Brien has to take one of her rug rats to a specialist—allergist this time. Mrs. Sheffield and Mrs. Martino are going dress shopping. And I don’t know what’s up with Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Asheby. Very hush-hush.” Melina waggled her perfectly sculpted-by-the-hand-of-God eyebrows and tilted her small chin.
Paulina came up behind Melina, and the song Double Vision played in Mae’s head. She resisted the urge to sing it out loud. The only noticeable thing differentiating them was Melina’s crescent-shaped scar over her right eye. She’d pointed it out after about two straight weeks of both Bruce and Mae mixing them up. Paulina said, “Is it okay if I head out early? I have a day date.”
“Yes, yes. Go on. You both can go.”
“You sure? I can finish with her if you want,” said Melina, looking back at Brianna—now sitting alone with her daughter—at the table. She stared out onto the patio with narrowed eyes and pursed lips and rapidly tapped her long, red-painted nails on the table.
“Yeah, it’s fine. There’s only one of them now. Not so bad.” Mae shrugged. The girls untied their aprons and rushed by, leaving a cloud of citrus-smelling shampoo and some fresh summer scent in their wake. Mae grinned and shook her head at Bruce, who shook his head and shrugged back. The twins were only six years younger than Mae—seven younger than Bruce—but they both felt ancient around them. “All right, wish me luck,” Mae said as she tore the credit card receipt from the machine.
Brianna was rifling through her purse and shooting daggers outside when Mae approached. She followed the seated woman’s gaze. There was only Miles, Rosabelle, and William left out there by then. William was not in her line of sight, but Miles and Rosabelle were. It appeared that Miles was conducting a monologue at a rapt Rosabelle—waving his arms and laughing. Mae looked back down at Brianna. It took a minute, but she finally acknowledged Mae.
“Sorry, I—thanks,” she said, taking the little tray from her outstretched hand and setting it down on the table. Her daughter was supine in her stroller, fast asleep.
“No worries,” Mae said. When she made no move to pick up the pen and sign the receipt, Mae added, “I…can come back for that, if you want.”
After a pause, Brianna responded. “That would be great. Thanks. I just need a—moment, thank you.” She was preoccupied with what was going on outside. Miles was still talking, and Rosabelle was bobbing her head in vigorous agreement about something.
Mae turned on her heel, ready to go back to the kitchen and make Miles’s lunch, but something made her turn back. Later, Bruce would say, “It’s your nosiness that made you turn back, Huxley,” and she would not disagree.
“Are you—is everything all right, Brianna?”
Instead of answering the question, she asked one of her own. A surprising one. “So, how long has that been going on?” She thrust her chin at the unlikely pair outside.
“You mean Miles? And Rosabelle? I don’t think that’s a—” Mae looked down at her again, this time taking in the set of her jaw, the white knuckles on her purse strap. Then, for some reason, Mae looked back at her daughter. She had a full head of golden blonde hair. Like her mother’s. Porcelain skin with two rosy cheeks, and though her eyes were closed, Mae knew they were an unusual shade of blue-green. Like Miles. That would be silly, though. Brianna is married to Ricky, her high school sweetheart and pretty much everyone’s mechanic. Sure, Miles has slept with just about every girl in town, but Brianna? Ricky’s Brianna?
Brianna looked at Mae, her eyes assessing her from head to toe in a split second. Then she said, “Right,” sharply enough to make both Mae and her daughter jump. “Of course, it’s not. I mean, Rosalind Waterman? No way, right?” She added an unladylike snort.
“It’s Rosabelle,” Mae corrected. Scalding words sat on the tip of her tongue, but Bruce’s impeccable timing stopped her.
“Mae, phone call for you.”
She nodded curtly at him and told Brianna, “You can leave it on the table when you’re done.” She might as well have been talking to herself. Brianna’s hard glint had returned to the pair on the patio.
Mae lifted the phone from the back counter and propped it between her ear and shoulder. “Hello, this is Mae.”
“Is she there?” The voice on the other end was female, raspy. Cigarette smoker raspy.
“No.” Mae straightened with a jerk, almost dropping the phone.
“Would ya tell me if she was?” A wet fit of coughs followed, then a sniff.
She didn’t answer Gina Byrd’s question. Mae waited. There was just the flick, flick of a lighter, the crackle of burning paper as she inhaled, then a slow
exhale into the receiver. Mae pictured a cloud of grey-white smoke curling out from her thin, dry lips.
“Is that it, Gina? Cuz I gotta go.”
“If you see her, tell her to get her ass home. We’re out of milk.”
Mae hung up, slamming the phone down a little harder than she intended. Bruce eyed her but said nothing. She shook her head, grabbed the water pitcher, and went outside to check on Miles and Rosabelle. Their backs were to Mae, slightly hunched over the table. Miles’s voice carried, sounding uncharacteristically genuine.
“This is really good, Rosie. You know, I’m looking to add some art to the office. Maybe you could come by and—” He stopped when he saw Mae, straightening and moving away from Rosabelle and acting overly casual. “Oh, hey Baby Mae, I was beginning to think you forgot about us out here.”
She looked at Rosabelle, who was looking at him with her head cocked and her brow furrowed. Then she hurriedly shoved her sketchbook back into her oversized bag, yanked out her wallet, and placed a twenty on the table, sliding it Mae’s way. “I—I’ve got to get going now.” Rosabelle, as if poked by a needle, stood abruptly, whacking her thighs on the underside of the table and toppling her half-full water glass.
“Whoa, whoa, easy there, killer! What’s the rush? Hot date? Come on, tell Uncle Miles.”
Rosabelle’s face pinked, and she stammered incoherently before blurting, “I have to water the dog. I mean the garden. And take the dog out.”
She was already through the gate and across the street before Mae could yell, “Thanks, Rosabelle!”
“She’s kinda cute,” said Miles. Then he caught Mae staring at him. “For a spaz,” he added. Mae slapped him upside the back of his head. “Geez, Huxley, what was that for?”
“Don’t call me Baby Mae, for one. And you know what that’s for. I told you, don’t be a dick, Miles. She likes you, and you know it.”
He waved his arms at his body, grinned, and said, “Who wouldn’t like all this, hmm?”
“Jackass. Don’t you have houses to sell or something? A shower to take, at least?”
“Yeah, yeah, in a minute.” He leaned in conspiratorially and spoke out the side of his mouth, “Is Brianna still in there?”
“I’m right here, dickhead. Are you trying to avoid me?” Brianna leaned against the doorway, stroller thrust out in front of her, and glared at Miles. It was like no one else was there. So Mae stayed.
“Oh, hey Bri. How’s it go—”
“How do you think it’s going, Miles?”
Miles chuckled nervously and said to Mae, “I, uh, I’m listing their house.” Then to Brianna, “Bri, sweetheart, why don’t you meet me at the office, say tomorrow morning?”
Her tense, hard face softened considerably, and she nodded. “Fine. Ricky will be home by then, so I can leave Cassidy with him.”
It wasn’t so much what she said but how she said it that perked Mae’s ears. So I can leave Cassidy with him—it was pointed, deliberate, and her eyes bored into his. The undercurrent of those words didn’t need a rocket scientist to figure out. These two were having an affair. Miles coughed, and Brianna suddenly remembered they weren’t alone. “Thanks for another great lunch, Mae. See you next week.”
“Oh, sure. Thanks, Brianna. You, uh, have a nice day.” When Brianna was out of earshot and eyesight, she slapped the back of Miles’s head again. “Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? Have you seen Ricky lately? He’s built like a house. And he worships the ground Brianna walks on. Don’t you remember what he did to that guy on the beach last year? And that was just for looking at her.”
“I know, I know. Jesus, stop hitting me, will you? It’s not my fault, I swear.” Then, because he could never help himself, “It’s just my animal magnetism, babe.” Mae raised a hand again. “Okay, okay. Seriously, though. She and Ricky came in about two weeks ago, looking to put the house on the market. Said they wanted something bigger—growing family, yadda yadda—I set up an appointment to come and look at it. I show up, it’s just Bri—no Ricky, kid’s taking a nap. We go through the first floor, everything’s cool. We check out the basement—all fine. Then we get upstairs. She takes me straight to her bedroom, Mae. Next thing I know, I’m on the bed, and she’s on top of me. I mean, she was like a wild—”
“Okay, I’ve heard enough. Are you saying this is the first time you’ve ever…you know with Brianna?” Miles looked away and scratched the back of his neck. He pursed his lips and squinted. “Oh my God, Miles. Seriously? When?” Mae thought again about the blue-green eyes of Brianna’s little girl.
He put his hands out, palms up. “I don’t know, maybe, like, a year ago. She said she and Ricky were separated, though.” He sounded defensive as if he had some sense of morality. She did some quick calculations then sat down hard in the seat Rosabelle had vacated.
“Miles, is Cassidy your kid?”
He scoffed and shook his head. “No! No, Mae. Of course not. She woulda told me.” Mae eyed him skeptically. “Come on. She would have told me, wouldn’t she?”
She raised both shoulders and let them drop. “I dunno, man. Small town, you know. If something like that got out? Yikes. Well, anyhow, you gotta skedaddle. We’re closing in twenty minutes.”
Miles pulled his money out from a zippered compartment in the waistband of his shorts as if he were in slow motion. The twenty-dollar bill was damp. “You know what, pay it tomorrow. Before your run.”
Mae grabbed the plates and glasses from the table and went back inside, leaving Miles to contemplate the possibilities of fatherhood, crazy married women, and hopefully, a timid, quirky woman named Rosabelle. As for Mae, she couldn’t wait to tell her dad all about today’s gossip.
Chapter 6
THE HUXLEY WAY
When Mae’s father died, Aunt Katrina—Auntie Tree, or A.T., and occasionally Trina Beana—offered for Mae to come live with her in New Haven. She owned a three-family house in a, let’s say, lively part of the city and offered to kick her third-floor tenants out for her.
“Mae-Mae, you’re too young to be on your own. Sell the house, put the money in savings. Come stay with me. You can work in the store, have your own place, it’ll be great,” she cajoled.
“Thanks, Auntie Tree, but I think I’d just like to stay in Chance. Close to…here.” The cemetery. She didn’t have to say it, Katrina knew. Mae could see the internal struggle, the battle between “what would Keith want me to do” versus “what I want to do” waging behind her heavily made-up eyelids. Her false lashes were so long, Mae could swear she felt a breeze from them every time she blinked.
She took Mae’s sun-brown hand into her plump, smooth ivory one. Her bangle bracelets clunked against her wrist, and her rings were cold on her skin. The funeral was over. It was just the two women, sitting in their white folding chairs, staring at the place where her father’s—Katrina’s twin brother’s—body rested eternally. Three funeral home staffers milled around in their somber black suits, coughing discreetly into their hands and shuffling about as they waited for them to leave. They not-looked at Katrina and Mae with a well-honed skill indicative of funeral parlor directors and workers. Mae distracted herself from her grief by trying to recall the director’s name. She knew it earlier—had even called him by it that morning—but like most things that week, it drifted out of her head like the little white apple blossoms that blanketed the ground.
Her dad had picked this spot himself. Under the apple tree, across from a weeping willow, and a shallow pond less than fifteen feet away. Mae knew when she saw it that he’d picked it for her benefit—for when she came to visit him. He wanted her to see life and beauty all around and not just death and loss.
“I figured you’d say that,” Katrina said, patting Mae’s hand. “It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t ask you, though.” She looked around and gave a small laugh. “Did your father ever tell you about the time when we were nine and he decided we needed a pond in our backyard?”
“No.” Mae chuckled. “What h
appened?”
“Well, little Keithie went into your Grampa Joe’s shed and found his shovel. Damn thing was bigger than he was, but he dragged it out into the middle of the yard anyhow. He had to use his whole, skinny body to dig up that first patch of grass, but once he got started, there was no stopping him. He knew he had about eight hours before your grandfather would be home, and he figured that if he got far enough, then our dad would have no choice but to let him do it.”
“What’d Grampa Joe do when he saw it?”
“Well, by the time he got home, your father had a crowd. All the neighborhood kids had come to watch. No one dared to help him, though. Your grampa had a reputation for being a hard-ass, you know. Anyhow, six o’clock rolls around—your dad had worked nearly straight through, from eight in the morning until our dad came around back at six-fifteen—and we’ve got a hole smack in the middle of the yard that’s, oh, about eight feet in diameter and maybe three feet deep.”
“No way,” Mae said, laughing. She’d seen pictures of Grampa Joe. He didn’t look like he’d be the kind of guy that would tolerate any shenanigans.
“Well, he just stared at your dad for a few minutes. We all looked back and forth at them—like watching a tennis match—waiting to see what would happen. Your dad was dead center of the hole, filthy and sweaty. That little shit stabbed the shovel into the dirt, leaned against it, and said, ‘Fishin’ in the summer, skatin’ in the winter. Can’t lose, Pop.’ Your grampa’s face was like stone. Then, suddenly, he laughed! He walked across the yard, and the kids parted like the Red Sea. He put his hands on his hips and inspected your dad’s work. ‘You’re gonna need to level out them edges, son. Ya need sodium bentonite clay too. Keeps the water in. You’ll have to pay me back for it. And for all the damn landscaping I’ll have to do around this thing.’ Held him to it too.”
“He never told me that story. Actually, he hardly ever told stories from his childhood.”