by Celia Aaron
More banging cabinets and clanging pots follow, and I have to admit defeat and get out of my tear-stained bed.
“At least we got some decent snuggle time.” I pet Dingo again.
She gives me a panting doggy grin and jumps down to follow me to the bathroom.
Once I’m showered and dressed, the scent of bacon, eggs, and hash browns floats through the house. My stomach rumbles, and I make the short walk into the kitchen.
The breakfast casserole sits on the stove in an enormous cast-iron pan that first belonged to my great-grandmother. Above the sink is a commemorative plate of “Gone With the Wind,” my mother’s touchstone. No matter how many times I tell her that book and movie are better left in the past, she won’t give them up. My brother’s name is a prime example of that little quirk.
“Well, sit down and eat before it gets cold.” Mama grabs some paper plates and serves up a giant slice of casserole, plunking it down in front of me and grabbing me a fork from the dish drying rack.
“Lionel, if you don’t get in here and eat, I’m going to give your part to the dogs!”
“Lordy,” he says again, but I hear the springs in the chair creaking as he gets up. “Gable, breakfast,” he calls down the hall.
“Mornin’, darlin’.” He kisses my head and sits down as Mama continues fussing and setting the table.
I take a bite of steaming hot casserole, and my eyes may roll back in my head for a second. So good. Maybe food is the way to mend a broken heart.
“Sit.” She points her spatula at a sleepy-eyed Gable.
He does, then pops in his AirPods and is, for all intents and purposes, absent. Good. He doesn’t need to hear my tale of woe.
Once Mama has laid her apron next to the sink and sits down with her own plate, Dad says grace, and then she stares at me. The same stare that she used when I got home late, when I was lying, or when I was up to no good. The kind of stare that makes you itch and have to pee at the same time.
“Well?” The ‘well’ comes out ‘weh-yuuullll’ as she continues to watch me.
“Out with it, so she can calm down.” Dad gestures, a faint smile on his lips.
“Lionel, shut it. This is between me and Ms. Hoity Toity.”
“Mom.” I roll my eyes at her but take another big bite of her casserole. After I wash it down with some sweet tea, I start. “I needed a job. . .” And I tell it. I. Tell. It. All. Until the cast-iron pan is cool and Gable is long-gone to goof off with his friends in the woods.
When I’m done and sniffling all over again, Mama reaches over and grabs the dish cloth, handing it to me more gently than usual.
“Did you love him?” she asks.
“I hope not.” Daddy crosses his arms and leans back.
“Lionel.” That’s all the warning Mama has to give for him to get up and head out.
“Did you, Lindsay?” she asks again.
“Yes.” That only makes me cry more, a big sob welling up and catching in my throat. “I loved the man who loved me. Who was so kind to me. But he had that other side. The mean Mr. Marley. And I—” I sob so hard I can’t breathe.
Mama comes around, pulls me up, and hugs me. “Shh, now. That’s all right. Everything is gonna be all right, sweet pea.” She rocks me gently back and forth the same way she used to do when I’d come home from school crying because some mean boy or girl called me fat or ugly or both, or when they said I’d never be an actress because of how I looked. “You remember how Scarlett lost Rhett in the book, and he left because he said his bank was plum empty? But that wasn’t the end. It never is where love is concerned.”
When I finally calm my breathing, Mama steps back and holds me at arm’s length. “Sounds to me like this fella of yourn wants to be a good man for you.”
“Yes, but—”
“But he’s going to have to let go of his past if he wants a future with you.”
“Yes.” I sometimes hate it when Mama boils things down to too simple a syrup, but she has this one right.
“Would you forgive him?” She grips my upper arms and gives me the stare again. “If he truly changed, could you forgive him?”
I want to say no, that I’m done with him, that I never want to see him again. But I can’t. The piece of me that quietly stole away and hid inside him tells me those are the wrong answers. “Yes.” I nod. “I can.”
“All right then.” She pulls me back into her arms. “That’s what I needed to know.”
“Why?”
She rubs my back. “Don’t be a fool, girl. If he’s worth his salt, he’s on his way here now to get you back.”
“You think so?” I’m the one doing the stare now.
“Of course.” She gives me a wry look. “Lionel,” she calls, “you hear this fool girl of yours thinking her fella’s just gonna let her walk on out as she pleases?”
“She’s foolish, just like her mama,” he replies, a smile in his voice.
Mama laughs, he laughs, and for the first time in days, I laugh, too.
Chapter 19
Crane
“Did you drink all these?” Henry’s voice comes at me through a long, lightless tunnel. “Crane.” Someone’s hand is on my shoulder.
My eyes crack open, and I close them immediately. The sun is violent.
“Crane. Sheesh. You’ve fallen completely apart.” Henry sounds almost amazed, as if he’s stumbled on some priceless artifact.
“Piss off, Henry.” I roll over and bury my face in my pillow. “How did you get in here, anyway?”
“What?” He strips the sheet off me. “Ugh, you smell like sour whiskey and about fifty stale beers.”
“Piss off, thief,” I mumble into my pillow again.
“Get up.”
“No.” I can’t. She’s gone. She is fucking gone. Because I hurt her. Because I’m a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve to even look at her. How could I say those things? How could I? She was standing right in front of me. Her eyes big and sad as I tore her apart. I tore everyone apart. I turn my head so I can take a breath. “I told kids Santa wasn’t real.”
“All the kids were gone by that point of the crazy, believe me.” His voice is distant. Good. Go away, Henry.
I just want to lay here and wallow in misery. Misery that I caused, that I deserve. I am a monster. “A monster,” I half-yell.
“Agree.” His voice is closer now.
“Go away.”
“Can’t do that.”
Then something happens. Something wrong. I yell, my eyes opening to the sun’s full assault as I scramble up from my cold, wet bed.
Henry holds an ice bucket in one hand. “Good. You’re up.”
“Y-you ruined my bed!” I point.
“You can afford a new one.” He gestures to the bathroom. “Shower. You stink.”
“Haven’t you done enough?” I run a hand through my cold, wet hair. “You’re here to torture me some more?”
“You torture yourself. You always have.”
“He’s right,” Beverly calls from my living room.
“Jesus, who else is here?” I press my palms to my eyes.
“Just us. But I can call Higgie if you wan—”
“No!” The loud sound of my own voice is like a hammer against my brain.
“Shower.” Henry moves to the bathroom door. “I put my famous hangover remedy on the counter for you.”
That gets me moving. If anyone knows how to cure a hangover, it’s this reprobate. I grab the glass and chug down the bitter liquid inside. Standing for a moment, I grip the counter and make sure it’s not going to come back up.
“Good, now shower.”
“What do you want, Henry?” I’m tired, defeated, and I feel like the most important piece of me is gone. And she’s gone because of me. Because I’m worthless and always have been.
“You’re not worthless.”
“Did I say that out loud?” I rub my temples.
“Yes.” He walks in and leans on the counter beside me. �
�Dad did a number on both of us, okay? But you got the worst. I get that now.”
“What are you, my shrink?”
“No.” He meets my eyes. “I’m your brother.”
Why does that hit me so hard? Why do those three words seem to break off inside me and stay, but not painfully?
He sighs. “Look, there was a reason I turned my back on the company, okay? A reason I’d rather be coked up than deal with the business or Mom or Dad. Those reasons are things I need to examine, but on my own terms with a therapist. You need to do the same.”
“Therapy?” I ask.
“Definitely. I mean, you are the guy who lost his shit in Marley’s and cussed out the entire staff.” His ghost of a smile is an invitation. A way to be brothers. A way to somehow patch over the mess I’ve made. But I can’t accept. I’m too screwed up now.
“I lost her, Henry.” I hold his gaze as the most painful truth of my life rolls off my lips. “I lost her.”
“Crane,” his voice softens. “Work with me here. I know you have a big tangle of negativity in there, but we can work it out.”
“We can?” For the first time in as long as I can remember, the bridge of my nose tingles as if with tears. Because she’s gone. Because I’m fucked up. “She’s gone, Henry. The only woman I’ve ever loved. She’s gone because of what I did.”
“I know.” He opens his arms. “Bring it in.”
“No way.” I shake my head.
He laughs, and for just a moment, I almost do, too. But then I do something even more unexpected. I hug him.
“Whoa.” He pats my back. “There you are.” He hugs me tighter.
“This is dumb.” I lean on him.
“No, it’s not.”
“A hug can’t fix a damn thing.”
He sighs our mother’s long-suffering sigh. “Do you remember when my lacrosse team lost the state championship my sophomore year?”
I release him and shake out my arms, getting a whiff of my stink as I do it. “No, what?”
“You were there. Dad promised me he’d be there, but he wasn’t. My team was poised to win the whole thing, but then I drew a foul.”
“Yeah?”
He scratches his jaw. “It was an unsportsmanlike conduct. I thought one of their players had slashed me, so I tackled him and tried to beat the shit out of him. It cost us the game.”
The memory comes back to me through my hangover fog. “Oh, right. I remember. You had that big shiner.” I tap under my right eye.
He nods. “And here’s the thing. The guy hadn’t slashed me at all. I just—” He shrugs. “I snapped. I broke every rule that game has and caused my team to lose the championship all because I decided to be a prick.”
“You were a kid, and dad hadn’t shown up when he said he would.” I can’t exactly claim foolhardy youth as a defense for my bad behavior over the past several years.
“I know. But what I’m saying is, you were there. Dad wasn’t. Mom wasn’t. You saw the whole thing. You knew that I had done wrong, had caused the foul, had lost the game. But when I came to you afterward for you to take me home, you didn’t say a word. Do you remember what you did?” He looks up at me, his eyes glimmering in the low light. “You hugged me. You just pulled me into your arms even though I was sweaty and covered in grass and dirt and you were in your nice suit. You told me everything was going to be okay. And that was what I needed. And you’re the one who needs it now.”
“I remember.” I wipe at my eyes. “Yeah. I remember.”
He hugs me again, this time less awkwardly, then backs away and claps his hands.
“Okay, we’re on track. First things first, though. You smell like a barroom brawl, so how about a shower? I’ll sit on the tub, and we can talk operation Seduce Santa.”
“Seduce Santa? Who came up with that?”
Beverly’s voice rings out loud and clear. “I did. Take a shower. I can smell you from in here.”
Chapter 20
Lindsay
Christmas Day dawns cold but clear, the bright blue sky peeking through my curtains and striping Dingo with light. Mama is already in the kitchen, though she’s thankfully quieter than yesterday. I pull on my fuzzy robe and pad down the hall.
The tree blinks with red, white, and green lights, and I know there are plenty of presents underneath it that appeared overnight. Santa stops here. The thought sends me back to that horrible moment in Marley’s when Crane was yelling that Santa wasn’t real.
“Mornin.” Mama’s only got one oven, and it’s already singing. Pots cover every eye of the stove with something delicious bubbling inside each one.
“It smells so good in here.”
“You should learn how to cook.”
“I’ve got you for that. Besides, we don’t even have an oven in our apartment.”
“Lindsay, darlin’, you’re going to spend half your life trying to get out of Georgia and the other half trying to get back in.”
“Heh,” Dad agrees from the living room.
I sit down, and Mama pours me a cup of chicory. The recliner springs squeak, letting me know Dad is getting up. I blow on the hot, dark liquid for a few moments. Then the front door closes.
“Where do you reckon he’s going?” Mama peers out the kitchen window, but all we can see from here is the woods that lead up the ridge behind our house.
“Firewood?”
“Yeah, he keeps that fire hazard going all the time now. Says he’s got cold in his bones.”
“He needs an electric blanket.” I almost say ‘Crane bought ones for Grant and me.’ But I don’t. Because it hurts to remember his kindness almost as much as it hurts to remember his cruelty.
“Drink up before it gets cold.” Mama points at my chicory.
Taking a big whiff, I say, “I haven’t had this since I was here last year.”
“Shoulda had it at Thanksgiving.” She starts up, her scoldings legendary. “What sort of miser makes people work on Thanksgiving Day? I still can’t believe …” On she goes. Town legend has it that she’d been working at the doctor’s office for a few years when a new doctor showed up from out-of-town. Her fussing ran him off in under an hour, and he never set foot in Balulah again.
Gable wanders in, his eyes bleary.
“What time did you get in last night?”
He smiles, doesn’t answer, then rests his head on his forearm.
I laugh and ruffle his hair. He’s such a boy.
Big G: Merry Christmas!
Grant’s message pops through on my phone.
Big G: Get anything good?
I send him a gif of Ron getting a hand-made ‘R’ sweater in one of the Harry Potter films. It’s probably not that far from the truth.
Big G: I’ll see you later today. Mom’s already had two cups of the good egg-nog, so it’s probably about to get loud in this double-wide.
Me: I’ll be here.
Big G: Do me a favor?
Me: Sure.
Big G: Embrace the grovel.
Me: ??
Mama plops down a plate of eggs, bacon, and a biscuit in front of me, then Gable. He finally lifts up and grabs his phone.
Lil G: Where’s Dad?
I smack his arm. “I’m sitting right here. Right next to you, Gable.”
He shrugs and puts his phone down.
“I don’t know. He was in the living room, but then he went outside.”
“Just wondering.” He rubs his meaty arm where I hit him, as if I could make a dent in him. He’s about to eat double the breakfast of a regular mortal, then go out and probably chop wood. After presents, of course. We aren’t heathens.
I dig in, drowning my sorrows in homemade jam, bacon, and buttery eggs. I’ll gain ten pounds this week, but it’ll be so worth it.
I’m halfway done with my food when Gable turns to me. “Hey, you know where Dad went?”
“Am I having déjà vu, or did you get hit in the head during your last ballgame?”
“Aww. You don�
�t gotta be mean about it. I’m only asking because he got the shotgun before he went outside.”
“The shotgun?” Mama turns from the stove, her eyes narrowing. “What for?”
Gable shrugs. “There was a car out front, then Dad got the gun and went out.”
“What?” I stand, my chair falling over as I hurry into the living room. “Lead with that next time, Gable!”
“Sorry.” He follows.
I shriek when I pull the curtain aside and find my dad pointing his shotgun at Crane Marley.
Chapter 21
Crane
“I’m not here to cause trouble.” I keep my palms out toward the man with the shotgun.
“You done caused enough as it is. I suggest you get back in your fancy car and hit the road, young man.”
“I can’t.”
“You surely can.” He points the shotgun. “Right yonder is the road. Go that way.”
“Mr. Fairchild, please. I’m here to apologize to Lindsay.”
“You think words are going to be good enough?” He spits. “My daughter is worth ten of you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He steps closer, the golden retriever beside him wagging its tail.
“Yes. I’m here to tell her that and to tell her I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to her.”
“You gonna have to change, city boy. You gonna have to put her first. And I don’t rightly know if you can do that.”
The front door to the small, well-kept log house opens, and Lindsay rushes out. “Daddy!”
“Don’t worry, darlin’. He was just leaving.”
“No.” I look at her, really look at her. “I’m here to apologize.”
She pulls her robe tighter around herself in a defensive move.
“Go on, then. She’s standing right here.” Her father still points the gun at me, but I can’t look anywhere but at Lindsay.
“First.” I lean into the car and pull out the Santa boot she left behind. “You forgot this.”
“This isn’t a fairy tale, Crane.” Her face is stony.