Jillian ran by with snowballs in her hands; Kaye waved, but Jillian wouldn’t even look at her. It made her sad that the kids had taken sides in this whole housing-war thing. Meanwhile, Ted shoveled the driveway.
Suzanne and Grant had been living with the Millers for ten days now. Ten days in that teeny little house! It didn’t seem like it could fit all six of them. Seven of them, if you counted Ted’s brother, who was there most of the time. There he was now, looking out the window at her. He waved. Kaye closed the blinds.
Kaye couldn’t stop spying on them. They made pancakes together on Sunday morning, and stayed up late playing board games and cards. It was like a Christmas special on TV.
They seemed to be the only ones in town having a good time these days. Things had gotten so ugly. Anonymous notes and toilet-papered trees were becoming a daily thing. Even the playground had scars. Someone had scrawled “Fuck the tree huggers” in shiny blue spray paint down the slide. Pro-moratorium neighbors crossed to the other side of the street when they saw her or Nick coming, and she didn’t even want to think about the nasty letters in the town newsletter this week. People acted like Nick just woke up one morning, went over to Suzanne and Grant’s, and said, “Hey, let’s rip up your house!” Maybe he’d been a little overenthusiastic, but that poor little Adam had such bad headaches.
When Kaye was growing up, her father used to say: never let the sun set on your anger. Wouldn’t he be disappointed? The sun had set on the anger in Willard Park for so many nights now. Kaye was good at bringing people together. She’d gotten an award for being the friendliest girl in her class at Live Oak High: Sweetest Senior, they called it; she still had the little bottle of perfume they gave as a prize. Maybe that was God’s plan for her. To bring the town back together. She might as well start with the Millers.
“Okay, you-all,” she called upstairs. “Let’s get out there and do some shoveling.”
No one responded. She went to Jakey’s room and turned off the TV.
“Hey!” he cried.
“Come shovel,” she said. “You can wear your new jacket! Don’t you want to get out in the snow?” She knocked on Lindy’s door. When no one answered, she opened it. “Come—” she started, but Lindy wasn’t there. Hadn’t she come up to do homework? Wasn’t that why she couldn’t help with the dishes? She’d probably snuck off to watch TV somewhere. “I’m warning you, Lindy,” she called, closing the window by her bed. An open window in winter. For goodness’ sake.
Kaye went down to the mud room for her winter things. She loved winter things, puffy coats and fuzzy gloves, things she’d only seen in movies when she was growing up. She put on a down coat as light and airy as a meringue.
Everything felt crisp and new outside, like a fresh start. The snow sparkled in the light of the streetlight. She started shoveling in front of the garage, pushing the snow to the sides. It was a thin layer and dry, so it wasn’t hard to do. She liked it, in fact. It felt good to do physical work. Ted was down at the bottom of his driveway, scraping where it had turned icy. She tried to think of something to say. “Hope the plow doesn’t push it all back again,” she said.
“What?”
“The snowplow. You know how they block driveways sometimes?”
Ted stopped shoveling. “Is that a threat?”
“No! It’s just—you’ve done such a nice job, is all. I hope they’re considerate. That’s what I mean.” She smiled hugely, to show she came in peace.
Maybe she should ask him for shoveling advice. Men liked to be asked for advice. They would go back and forth exchanging pleasantries for a while, and then she’d ask everyone over for cocoa and cookies. That would be the beginning of the end of all the anger. The garage door hummed open, and there was Nick.
“Someone to help me. Hurray,” Kaye said. “I was starting to feel like the little red hen. Remember? From the story?”
“Who?” Nick rummaged around in the garage.
“I’ve got the shovels out here,” she called. “You know, the little red hen. ‘Who will help me mill the wheat . . . then I shall do it myself.’ Remember?”
A motor started up, and Nick pushed the snowblower onto the driveway.
“No need for the big guns. There’s only like an inch here,” she called, but he started blowing snow from the driveway onto the lawn.
Ted stopped shoveling. “Hey,” he called out.
Nick kept blowing snow.
“That’s really loud,” Ted yelled, his gloved hands cupped around his mouth.
Nick kept blowing.
“Cox!”
“What?” Nick turned toward the Millers’, spraying snow on the part of the driveway Ted had already cleared.
“Cut it out,” Ted called.
Kaye reached for the snowblower’s handle; Nick steered away from her. He walked across the lawn, spraying snow as he went. The Millers’ driveway was turning white again.
Ted picked up a clump of snow and threw it at Nick. It hit his neck.
“Why you . . . ,” Nick said, blowing snow right at Ted.
“Don’t!” Kaye yelled.
Jillian and Adam had stopped packing snowballs. Ted threw another snowball at Nick.
“Don’t, Daddy!” Jillian said.
Nick picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it in Ted’s face. Ted grabbed him by the neck. Kaye shouted for them to stop. Jillian ran inside, yelling for her mother. Meanwhile, the snowblower’s motor screamed for attention. When Allison came out, the men let go of each other and looked at the ground, like kids caught in the act.
“Unbelievable,” Allison said.
Ted and the kids followed Allison inside, leaving Nick and Kaye in the dark.
“For goodness’ sake!” Kaye yelled. She stomped off to the back deck, and paced, expecting Nick to come over and apologize. When he didn’t, she took the cover off the hot tub—which was not an easy job even though she worked out. She threw her clothes into the yard—coat, scarf, gloves, shirt, bra. They lay scattered in the snow, dark against light. When Nick appeared, she threw her jeans and panties at him. “What is the matter with you, Nick?”
“With me?”
“Yes, you. All I wanted to do was to make peace, and you have to go and ruin it.”
“I’m not the one who choked me.”
“You started it,” she yelled, shivering, as he walked across the deck, toward the house. “Don’t you walk away from me,” she called, but he already had.
Kaye, rattled, slipped into the hot tub. The hot water prickled against her butt and the backs of her legs. Wasn’t there fighting enough without him having to start a brawl? People had been mad at him plenty over the years and it had never bothered him before.
Maybe it was about money. She knew he was upset that the White Elephant hadn’t sold, but it would eventually. In spring, probably. Then he could pay back his loans or what all. The ban on building would end in a couple of months, and he could tear down the split-levels and build homes on those lots, and design something nice for Suzanne and Grant. Why did he have to make such a stink about everything? If he wanted the new house to sell more quickly, he ought to fix it up, put in floors and fixtures so the buyers saw a home instead of a work in progress.
Kaye had told him so herself not long ago. He didn’t immediately quash the idea. She’d been so excited she went over to the new house the next day with a paint-sample fan, a notebook, and some decorating magazines. She imagined yellow walls in the kitchen—Amber Waves, perhaps—and Palladian Blue in the living room. Blond wood floors were popular now; she’d scatter some thick area rugs around to make it cozy. She went up the unfinished steps to the second floor gingerly. One of the rooms smelled surprisingly lemony. That room, too, would be yellow or even toward orange—possibly Sunflower! It would be a sunny house even on dark days. Even the basement had possibilities. You could put in a little kitchen and turn it into a mother-in-law suite or even an Airbnb.
She presented her ideas notebook to Nick that night when the
y were watching TV. “Maybe I could be your interior designer,” she said. Her voice was teasing, but she meant it. “Cox and Cox we could call ourselves.” He’d patted her thigh. “Let me deal with this, hon. You’ve got enough on your mind.”
The notebook had sagged in her hand. He didn’t mean to be unkind. He was just used to being the provider, that was all. She knew she ought to be grateful, having someone who wanted to take care of her and the kids. And she was. But she still thumbed through that notebook sometimes, daydreaming.
Kaye sank down in the water until just her eyes and nose were peeping out. Sometimes she felt worthless. Less than worthless. Her kids didn’t need her anymore. Her husband didn’t take her seriously. Her neighbors hated her. But who could she even talk to about it? She and her friends from Beaufort hardly even texted anymore. There wasn’t much to say. Who cared if the auction theme at Lindy’s old school was “Caribbean cruise” if you couldn’t help blend the piña coladas? And what did it matter if the girl who’d bought your house “fit right in,” down to organizing the annual block party? Were you supposed to congratulate her for stealing your old life?
She’d lost contact with all but one of the friends from the sea island where she’d grown up—Lynnette, a girl who’d gone away for years, then went back to write poetry. She sent Kaye a link to one of her poems from a literary magazine a year or so ago, a depressing thing about cancer that didn’t even rhyme. If Kaye ever were to tell anyone about her mammography paintings, it would be Lynnette. But the truth was, it was too embarrassing to tell a soul. She felt the heat rise to her face at the thought of all those painted breasts. She ought to get rid of them before someone realized what a nutcase she was.
Kaye didn’t talk to anyone anymore, not really. Not since Jillian stopped coming over. Jillian seemed to like her, really to like her, but then suddenly she was gone. Lindy went through friends like some people went through packs of gum, but it was Kaye who had ruined that friendship. That’s what Lindy said. Lindy said Allison had been so upset about the ear piercing that she wouldn’t let Jillian come over anymore. Kaye couldn’t understand why that had upset her. Why tiny little girls—even infants!—had pierced ears. She would never have signed the form if it had occurred to her that Allison didn’t want Jillian to get her ears pierced. Why hadn’t it occurred to her? The world confused her. It really did. Maybe it was because she didn’t have a mother to explain how things worked. Maybe her kids would be confused, too, since she didn’t know how to guide them through it. It made her sad to think of them going through life the same way she had.
She sank her head in the water. Her hair floated around her like that girl in the Shakespeare movie. If only she could just lie here until she froze over, like a giant ice cube. How long till Nick and the kids would notice she was gone? Summer?
She had a panicky thought. What if she threw out her mammogram paintings and someone dumped the trash on the lawn, like someone did the town hall trash last week? The Millers and the Davenport-Gardners would find them in the morning when they went to walk the dog. She imagined them all laughing together. She imagined the whole town laughing, their sides splitting. They’d tack them up on Lucy’s bulletin board as a joke. Talk about adding fuel to the Cox-hating flames.
She popped her head out of the water, into the cold air. She heard voices. Someone was talking practically right next to her, on the other side of the wooden lattice the Millers had put up between the yards.
“. . . the bastard.” That was Ted. No question who he was talking about.
“You both were acting like kids.”
“I was shoveling. How was it my fault?”
“Let it go. You’re going to have a coronary.” Allison.
“Snow in the face, WTF?”
“OMG. You sound like Jillian.”
“LOL,” he said, but neither of them did.
“I hate that guy,” he said.
“I know.”
“He’s trying to ruin my life. He is methodically trying to ruin my life.”
“So he’s taking the day off tomorrow?” Allison said.
“Who?”
“Terrance. I’m changing subjects.”
“I guess.”
“Was he suspended?”
“He had a couple leftover vacation days from last year. Dana said he had to ‘use it or lose it.’ Can you believe this? We have to go outside to get privacy around here anymore,” Ted said.
Kaye lay perfectly still. She knew the rules of politeness said she ought to let them know she was there, but it was awkward because she was naked. Instead, she breathed as quietly as she could, hoping they would go back inside before her fingers and toes got too pruney.
“Who knew a ‘night or two’ would turn into ten days,” Ted said.
“They don’t have anywhere to go.”
“Did they really think the insurance company was going to pay to put them up?”
“It still might. Mold’s a health concern . . .”
“You can’t just destroy your house,” Ted said.
“Some people learn things the hard way,” Allison said.
“Mind if I bang my head against the siding?” Ted said.
“Watch out for splinters.”
Kaye laughed. She didn’t mean to, but it was funny. Her mind was all a twirl. They’d just given her another idea about how to smooth the feathers. Funny the way He worked. How He sometimes dropped ideas right into your naked lap.
SOMEONE WAS OUT THERE. IN THE DARK. WAS IT NICK COX, COME TO mow down the rest of the Millers’ trees?
“What?” Allison said.
Ted put his finger to his lips. He peered into Cox’s yard, through the latticework. Kaye was in the hot tub. He could see the outline of her face and hair and the rise of her breasts by the little runner lights that surrounded the tub. He turned away before he saw any more of her.
Had she heard them talking? He’d heard Kaye and Nick in there often enough. It was embarrassing, the things he’d heard. He shivered. “Colder than I thought out here.”
“I told you,” Allison said.
“Let’s go back inside.”
“I thought you needed to let off some steam.”
“I feel better now.” He held the back door for Allison, then locked it behind them. Better to be back inside stifling his anger than to expose their lives to Kaye Cox, direct conduit to Nick-the-Destroyer. The television was on, loud, down the hall. Ted felt his shoulders seize up.
“You’re a pretty good sport about all this, you know?” Allison whispered.
Ted nodded. He was. He might have pitched a big fit about hosting the Davenport-Gardners for so long, but what was the use? He’d known about Allison’s weakness for foundlings before he married her. He envisioned Adam growing from boy to man under their roof. A man with headaches. Did he still have headaches? He seemed active enough these days, jumping on Jillian’s bed, banging on the piano.
Ted got a glass of orange juice as Allison headed to bed. Jillian and Grant burst into laughter.
Jillian? Ted looked into the living room. When he and Allison went outside, Grant had been alone in front of the TV, but now Jillian was on the couch, too, eating sweet potato chips and watching a cartoon. Candy sat at Grant’s feet.
Grant had brought the television up from the basement: ostensibly to entertain Suzanne, who had been to the hospital for a pregnancy-related procedure. Suzanne hadn’t watched it yet, but Grant was making excellent use of it despite lousy reception. He seemed to have nothing else to do now that Annie Get Your Gun rehearsals were on hold. “I think Jillian’s right. We really should consider getting a smart TV,” Grant said one evening. We? The guy had a lot of nerve. Terrance came over and watched with him most nights. He’d left not long ago, taking some enchilada leftovers with him.
“Time for bed, Jill,” Ted said.
“It’s nearly over,” Jillian said.
Grant cracked up at something on the screen. Ted thought of Allison, in their bedr
oom on the other side of the wall, just past the bathroom. You could hear everything through that wall. Grant reached into the sweet potato chip bag, then Jillian grabbed a handful. Allison had a rule about eating outside the kitchen.
Ted sat down on the arm of the couch. “Is this The Simpsons?”
“Dad! No!” Jillian said.
Ted sniffed. It smelled smoky. “Move over, sweetie,” he said, and Jillian moved over. Sometimes the fireplace smelled smoky, but it wasn’t that. He slid closer to Jillian and sniffed.
“Stop it,” Jillian said, nudging him away.
He leaned back, taking in a lungful of air without moving his nostrils. Not quite the smell of cigarettes. Was it that smoky tea she and Allison sometimes drank? Lapsang souchong?
“He’s the dad on the show,” Jillian said, pointing to the screen.
Ted nodded, nostrils open.
Pot, he thought. He smelled pot.
“And that’s their dog. He talks,” Jillian said.
Was Jillian smoking pot? He shifted his arm over the back of the couch and leaned toward her, to smell again.
“Daddy!” Jillian said. Ted got a whiff of her hair as she swooped to the floor to sit cross-legged. She smelled fruity. Like shampoo or lip balm or something. What a relief.
“He’s a cop,” Jillian told Ted. “The dad is. On the show. Are you even watching it? I’m going to quiz you.”
Ted sniffed in Grant’s direction.
It was Grant. Grant smelled like pot.
Ted frowned at the screen, feigning interest. Jillian was watching what appeared to be an R-rated cartoon with their stoner houseguest. “Time for bed, Jill.”
“Dad—”
“It’s late.”
She must have heard something dangerous in his voice, because she left without further protest. Ted slid closer to Grant. There was no doubt about it. He definitely smelled like pot. Ted imagined the “citizen profile” in the town newsletter featuring Grant Davenport-Gardner: Job: lawyer. Pastimes: community theater, running, getting high. Then there was the bulletin board. He could put a note up himself: Grant Davenport-Gardner is a stoner.
Grant laughed again, a real gut buster.
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