Sidetracked

by Lola Karns

  She peeled the picture off the wall and traced her finger over her six year old self as she and her mom smiled in front of the faux Eifel Tower at an amusement park. Mom had often promised to take her places, or said they would do something together, but she had rarely followed through. Her mom had gotten free tickets to the park, so she splurged on this photograph. It was in the middle of their best time. Mom was sober, between boyfriends, and working a regular job. They had lived in the same apartment for most of the school year. If someone saw only this photo, they would have assumed her mom was a good mom, the kind who made sandwiches, liked to braid hair, played with toys and never yelled. It was a photo of a dream and it crumpled in her hand.

  Anger bubbled inside her. “Stupid.” She fell onto the bed, closing her eyes against the anticipated dust cloud. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. You can’t manipulate the real world, and shape it no matter how much you want to. You couldn’t make her stay sober, you couldn’t keep her from killing Grandma, you couldn’t keep Clem from dying and you sure as hell can’t make James see a world that doesn’t exist life sized.”

  Her tiny Belkin was an illusion. Water filled her eyes, and then spilled forth.

  A ring interrupted her sob fest. Claire pulled out her cell.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey Claire, it’s Jo. Are you okay? Have you been crying?”

  She inhaled a rumble of phlegm. “Maybe.”

  “You’re still going to Walter’s right? I could get you and drop you off there. You’re breathing better.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Sandy ordered pie and I was going to ask if you could pick them up. But you got so much going on. This next month is going to be rough without Clem, if you don’t want to be alone, you can always move in with me and Kevin for a bit.”

  “If I could, I’d crawl into the tiny town and stay forever. I—Don’t let me hide out or get lost like mom.”

  “I’m giving you a phone hug, but I’m going to give you a real one soon. Sandy asked me to ask you to bring the pecan-pumpkin pie she ordered. Kevin and I are getting ready to head out in the next 15-20 minutes, so I wanted to make sure you could still pick it up. I could come by, I suppose.”

  “No. You’re giving me the kick in the caboose I need.” She glanced at her sneakered feet. “Give me ten minutes – five to dress and five to drive.” People needed her. Sandy needed her to pick up pie, Kevin and Jo needed her to help raise money for a wheelchair ramp. James needed her to get the pranks stopped for a few days. Clem needed her to keep his memory alive. The town needed her to keep the trains going and to sell a dream where the worst of the world didn’t exist.

  “You sound better already. Don’t get a speeding ticket.”

  As Claire sat up and turned toward her open shelf closet, she spied an orange sweater nestled among the green and red. It would sort of match the faded Halloween streaks in her hair that she hadn’t bothered to change, yet. “Ten minutes.”

  SHE KNOCKED ON JO’S door, which swung open before the third rap. Two sets of arms wrapped around her.

  “Eight minutes.”

  “Aunt Claire, you look like a pile of leaves.”

  She crouched to Kevin’s level. “That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day. Thank you.” She smoothed the green and brown aprons layered over a burgundy skirt.

  Jo put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “I think I’m better.”

  “Hard to tell. The orange sweater is bad enough, but you should stay away from neon lipstick.”

  “Too much?” The look of horror on Jo’s face was enough of an answer. “I’ll wipe it off in the car. I don’t want to keep you.”

  “Come in and clean up in the bathroom. Kevin and I will get the pie.”

  As Claire wiped off the orange goop, Jo popped in the open door. “Almost better. Use that stuff in the blue tube. It’s a better color for you. I know you have the trains tomorrow, and I hate to do this when you have so much going on, but I had a weird message from Dylan.”

  “How so?”

  “Kevin insisted he come up for the opening day, even though it’s not on his official schedule, which is fine, but he said he wants to talk, which is never good. What if he’s—” Jo glanced down the hall then back into the room. “Q-u-i-t-t-i-n-g?”

  “Don’t worry about what he says until he says it and you can make me take a coffee break tomorrow night so we can assess what he says after he says it. No guilt, especially since I’ll probably forget to take a break anyway. Be sure to tell Kevin to look close – I put something special in for him.” And for Jo, but she’d figure that out on her own.

  “Thanks. You should keep that lip gloss. It looks better on you than it does on me, but promise me you’ll throw out that gawd-awful orange.”

  “Fine. Why are we still here? Don’t we both have to be somewhere?”

  The three left the house together. Jo headed to her parents’ house in a different town with a car full of food. Claire took a circuitous route to Walter and Sandy’s, even though it was walking distance from Jo’s. She had one more stop to make.

  At the fading placard announcing a “Century Farm,” she turned down the gravel driveway. Half a dozen cars found haphazard parking spaces in front of George and Dinah Halberstam’s house. They hosted a big shindig for their family, including a certain elderly cousin with nowhere else to go. Claire parked on the driveway, grabbed an envelope from the passenger seat, and strode to the front door.

  One of the grandkids opened the door, but George’s daughter Lisa corralled the child. “Come in, Claire. It’s been so long.” The weight of her arms nearly threw Claire off balance. “I’m so glad you all are doing the display. Georgie talked of nothing else the whole drive from Atlanta.”

  “George will make sure his namesake gets a special tour. Glad you could come up.”

  “Are you staying? Mom! We need an extra plate.”

  She flinched at the volume so close to her ear. “No, I can’t stay. I’m due at the McKennas, but can I talk to your mom a minute? I have something for her.”

  “Sure, she’s back in the kitchen. You know the way. Prescott Thomas! You stop that this instant!” Lisa shook her head and dashed to a different room. Her triplets seemed to be living up to their three terrors moniker.

  Dinah was in the kitchen and from the look of it was trying to keep another grandkid from eating all the marshmallows destined for the yams.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Claire. Are you joining us?”

  “No. You seem to have your hands full anyway.” Every countertop surface seemed covered with food in various states of preparation. Pots simmered on the stove, giving the warm air a fragrant mix of turkey and sage and cinnamon.

  “That I do. Elodie, I saw that. Give me that bag.”

  “I’ll be quick. I wanted to drop these off, because it seems like you need them more than I do.” She held out the envelope.

  Dinah’s brows furrowed. “What is this?”

  “Take a look.”

  The mayor’s wife lifted the flap and pulled out a coupon for Irish Spring, followed by one for Dove and another for Ivory. Dinah’s face and shoulders tensed as her lips drew into a flat line. The envelope fell from her hands and she stared at it laying on the relish tray where it absorbed pickle and olive juices.

  “Of course with all the chaos here, you might want to take a weekend off, especially since the car won’t be here.”

  “How...did.... Don’t tell George.” Her whisper trembled.

  “My lips stay sealed until it happens again. Have a great dinner. It smells wonderful in here.” Claire popped a marshmallow from the bag, and winked at Elodie, whose little face was scrunched up in confusion. She passed through the other kitchen door and into the great room. She heard her name a few times.

  “Hi everyone! No, I’m not staying. I just wanted to check on a few things. George, are you wearing overalls or the suit tomorrow?”

  “The suit
. Mayor duties and all for the opening day. You could have called.”

  “Nah.” She walked across the room, “I had to drop something off, but I also wanted to see how Miss Jones was doing.”

  “I’m just fine, thank you very much.” She harrumphed. Claire walked to her chair and crouched down.

  “Don’t mind me.” After addressing the room, she turned full attention to Miss Jones. “I heard you’ve been busy lately, and spending a lot of time in the paper goods aisles. Are you planning for a lot of picnics this winter?” The wrinkles above her nose grew even deeper.

  “You bothered me for nonsense?”

  “Since the store was all out of them, I wondered if you had some plastic forks I could borrow?”

  Miss Jones’ ears turned bright red. Her face might have too, but Claire couldn’t tell because of the thick make-up Miss Jones sported. Her hands clutched her shawl, wringing it so tight it shifted back and forth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, young lady. If you need plastic forks, you should have thought ahead.”

  “I’m thinking a comfortable couch, cozy lamp and photos on a mantle are much nicer than a bench in the county jail which is, as I recall you once telling me, the place where vandalizing hooligans belong.”

  A weird sound came from Miss Jones – somewhere between a gulp and a wheeze.

  “Didn’t you need to be going, young lady?”

  “I have a few minutes to listen in case you have something to say.”

  “It’s so nice of the McKenna’s to take you in and make sure you have a place to go on the holidays. I miss my Everet more than ever this time of year. Even though we never had the chance to get married, he appreciated the holidays and this town. He had such a wicked sense of humor, but protecting the people he loved always came first. He’d be glad I’m here and glad the McKenna’s are looking after you the same way. He thinks you spend too much time in the cemetery talking to dead people, by the way. It’s the sort of hobby that gives one reputation for being batty.”

  Her tone of voice insinuated a similarity between the two of them. Claire twirled a strand of hair until it fell loose in front of her face. Any sense of superiority she held over the mischief makers tumbled out of the side of an open box car.

  WITH AN OVERPRICED glass of seltzer in front of him, James drummed his foot against the barstool as a subtle “ahem” drew his attention.

  The Maître D glared down his rat like nose. “Your party has begun seating.”

  James threw a twenty on the counter and followed the man. He’d offended him twice already, once by arriving with a suitcase and secondly by wearing creased suit jacket. If he asked the man to wait as he settled his bill, his food would contain spittle for sure.

  Uncle Daniel, Cousin Danny and his father were all seated at the table set for eight.

  “You are there.” His father pointed to the middle chair on the side. Danny was directly across from him.

  “Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model.” His voice was too loud to call a whisper, but more hushed than his usual.

  “What?” He looked at Danny.

  “My date. What’s yours?”

  James blinked. “I didn’t realize we were inviting guests.” Or objects. Danny may as well have been speaking about a car or a video game, a what not a who.

  “I win.” Danny flashed a mouthful of blindingly white teeth. James reached for a chewable antacid.

  “Here they come.” Daniel rose to his feet, as three women, two blonde and one brunette of nearly identical height approached the table. James and the other men followed suit. He recognized Illyana, who tottered toward the chair beside him on open toed sky-high sandals that had to be both cold in this weather and more painful than her usual heels. He pulled out her chair.

  “So good to see you again, James. You have been a stranger.” Something seemed off in the way she spoke, as if every word gave her discomfort. She gave him a kiss on each cheek. “Have you met my sister, Cassia?” She drew the name into three syllables.

  “I have not had the pleasure.” He walked to the other side of the table and kissed the raised hand she proffered. He took a quick glimpse of her shoes; the heels were not as high. She smiled and nodded.

  “My English not as good as Illyana. She talk nice about you. You found moving-wall with nice painting of home for her.”

  “She is too kind to give me credit, but thank you.” He’d found the triptych partition two and a half years ago, when the woman he was seeing dragged him to a friend of a friend’s art show. When he saw the piece, he had remembered Illyana’s homesickness and his father’s complaint about her clutter in the bedroom. The screen seemed like a solution to both problems. He reached further into the recesses of memory, but couldn’t recall Illyana mentioning a sister, even though the resemblance was clear.

  A cough sounded. James realized Cassia’s fingers were still resting on his hand. He stepped back “I hope you enjoy your visit to New York.” Her already wide brown eyes grew rounder. He said something wrong. Again.

  “This is Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn, my cousin James.”

  “Nice to meet you.” The brunette spoke with a Texas twang and a genuine smile reached her eyes.

  The wine steward approached the table, so James took a seat. The conversation was polite and trivial. What is on at the theater, who is getting divorced, who is getting married, what neighborhood is going downhill, and whether the Mediterranean or Caribbean beaches are better. Kaitlyn seemed as bored as he was, although she livened up the beach debate with a few stories from ocean-side modeling shoots. No-one mentioned sunsets and the pie had a soggy crust.

  “We’re going to the cigar room. Excuse us, ladies.” The once court-mandated Thanksgivings with their dads had morphed once he and Danny had turned twenty-one. The only change seemed to be the ladies to whom they offered excuses.

  James followed his dad, uncle and cousin into the smoky chamber and coughed. His father gave him a reproachful glare. He didn’t want the cigar, but at least the single malt whisky proved worth the entry.

  “Well, James, have you found a buyer yet?”

  “I have a few nibbles, Dad, but not someone interested in purchasing the entire operation.”

  Thomas harrumphed.

  “I should have an announcement by December fifteenth. The lawyers on both sides are looking over the details.” Danny’s mouth bore a new smugness. He’d changed his hair too, favoring the increased length but combed straight back look that the Fordham brothers both wore. James brushed his hand against his short hair. Danny had broadened his gut too, looking more and more like a partner, and like more of a prick than ever. “You might want to start advertising for a roommate. You know how Fordham, Fordham and Schmidt feels about dead weight. I’m not sure you’ll afford the rent once I move to nicer digs.”

  The clouds of smoke burned his lungs. He set down his glass, not wanting to add anything to his churning stomach.

  “There’s still time. I could out profit you. Different industries, right? And you have fewer regulatory bodies to deal with.”

  Danny scoffed. Thomas stared at the ceiling and Daniel sipped his whisky. James glanced around the room. The brown leather wingback chairs clustered together in groups were as bland as the conversation. Deals happened in rooms like these, cabals making decisions far removed from the world at large.

  Becoming partner meant these rooms would be part of his landscape and not merely on Thanksgiving. The parade of girlfriends and occasional wives would continue. The menus would rarely change, even if the restaurants did. The deepest conversations would boil down to money and status. If he thought the scenery in Belkin was crumbling, at least it had a reason fail. The structures of these rooms were decaying with the same speed, but the façades of wealth and power hid their rot.

  “Why must everything be a competition?” The words tumbled from his mouth before he realized what he had said. His hand twitched, ready to grab the antacids, but no. Not this time.

  “I beg
your pardon.”

  James straightened and bore his gaze into his father. “I wonder, why is it that you and Uncle Daniel have pushed Danny and I into competition? We could never work together on a school project, we always had to compete for the better award and now it’s the partnership. And the two of you are no better. Sure you cooperate at work and orchestrating rivalries but look at you two, dating sisters. Daniel covets the affection Illyana shares with Thomas so he brings her sister. Dad covets Cassia’s youth so he flirts with her during dinner and ignores his long-suffering fiancée. It’s absurd.”

  “Being in the hinterlands is not good for your temperament.”

  “There’s no place for the irrational if you want to be a success.”

  “He needs a swift kick in the ass or he’ll never be anything.” Their similar sounding voices of the Fordham men overlapped and lost all distinction. It didn’t matter who said what. They were all phrases he’d heard from this same group too many times before.

  “His mother was way too.”

  “Never applies himself.”

  “Melodramatic.”

  “As weak and useless as a woman.”

  “Second place is first loser.”

  “Never plays hard because he can’t work hard.”

  As the other Fordhams spoke over each other, an indistinct cloud of criticism swirled around him some words spoken aloud and some echoes of past declarations of his shortcomings. They wanted to destroy him in the same way they destroyed everything they touched, in the same way he was trying to destroy Adena and Belkin. He was them, all of their awfulness. If he opened his mouth to protest, he’d falter. Or vomit. He wanted to disappear into a little ball and roll away from cruelty but that would only prove their point.