“I’ll get lunch,” Lacy objected in surprise.
“Nope,” he said. “Go get those seats. I’ll be back.”
The past few years Lacy always bought lunch, and Aaron liked flipping the script again. He got in line for food, inching up the field of trampled grass and pine needles and squinting to see if it was the same line for beer. This was why Crystal was good for his family, he thought as he waited. He’d had terrible bosses at every job, real bad luck, and he couldn’t deal with them for longer than six months or so before he had to move on. His current boss was no exception—John the Baptist, Lacy nicknamed him, always pushing his megachurch on everybody in HR—but Aaron had kept this job for more than a year, and it was all because of Crystal. If he didn’t have to travel around laying off folks when a Texaco field ran dry, he wouldn’t have an excuse to go see her. So Aaron was providing for his family like never before, paycheck after paycheck, working down his debts, shrinking his affairs to one girl—Crystal, at the fridge—and feeling more alive than he could remember.
“Lunch is served,” he said, arriving at their table. He smiled at Lacy, and as he passed her a weapon-size turkey leg he had a revelation: he was buying her that egg, and there was nothing she could do about it.
When they finished eating, Lacy stacked the food containers and Julian spread out the festival map. “The afternoon joust starts in twenty minutes,” Lacy instructed, tracing her finger along a cartoon path. “This is probably the fastest route from here.”
“You mind heading over solo?” Aaron asked. “Me and Jules have something to do first, but we’ll meet you there.” Lacy and Julian stared across the table at him in blank unison. “It’s a surprise,” he said.
“Allllright,” Lacy eked out with suspicion. She nodded at Julian, whose face had gathered every drop of twelve-year-old outrage within him. “How long do you think it’ll take y’all?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes, tops. Save us seats. Come on, Jules.”
“I’ll be near the front,” Lacy called as Aaron hustled them out of the food court.
“What are we doing?” Julian asked sullenly, slowing down to walk behind Aaron.
“I’m buying your mom that egg she liked. So? How’s school?”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Can I get something, too?” Julian asked.
“Yeah.”
“I got a ninety-five on my algebra test and a hundred on my vocab quiz, and my world history teacher said my poster was the best in the class, and…”
Julian recited his accomplishments like a tubby Energizer bunny while Aaron retraced their steps to the shop. There were things about his son that only allowed Aaron to listen or look for so long—the high voice, the love handles and boy tits, or the way he swung his hips. Still, he didn’t agree with Crystal’s view of things. The last time they met she dropped a bomb on Aaron and said she wanted a baby with him. And when he shook his head at the idea, Crystal unloaded her theory of his family: Lacy holding Aaron hostage in their marriage with the miscarriages, years of Lacy grieving, baby crazy, pregnant again, then the whole thing on repeat until Julian was born, and if Aaron didn’t want a kid with Crystal it was because he was too beat down by Julian not being the kid he wanted—a real red-blooded boy—so why was he closing his mind to the other boy he might have someday?
“Good, Jules,” Aaron interrupted his son’s monologue at no particular juncture. “Sounds like you’re at the top of your game.”
“Well,” Julian informed him, “being valedictorian as a stepping-stone to Harvard is a plan that starts in junior high. Or else it’s simply too late.”
And this was something Crystal didn’t get. His son was the smartest kid Aaron had ever seen, and Julian brought plenty of smart friends home. He had given his son a good school in a good suburb, where a few kids went off to the Ivies every year. Julian was growing up around flower beds and oil money, not panhandle dust and white trash like Aaron, and his son would get out and go even further in life with a mind like his. If the world didn’t fuck him up first. So, yeah, Crystal was sexy and let him be the man he couldn’t be with Lacy, and it was great. But Crystal was a single woman, and before she started demanding babies she had to understand that families are complicated.
“Here we go,” Aaron said. He opened the shop door and guided Julian inside. As they were entering, Aaron noticed a couple watching them strangely from a women’s clothing shop next door—a rough guy with full-sleeve tattoos, and a grizzled Stevie Nicks type smoking a cigarette.
“Hello again!” Aaron called to the shopkeeper.
“I thought I might see you later,” the man said, scratching under his ponytail.
“That’s one irresistible egg,” Aaron smiled and turned on the charm for Julian’s benefit. “How much is it gonna set me back?”
“Birth?” said the shopkeeper.
“What?”
“Birth is the name of the piece. The dragon?”
“That one there.” Aaron pointed at the case.
“Originally three hundred, but I’ll give it to you for two fifty.”
“Let’s do it.” Aaron whipped out his Visa. “Jules?” he called and waved him over. Julian was studying a group of mermaids, but he needed to watch his dad in action: presenting the card, the growl of the carbon-copy machine rolling over it, the signature and gift wrapping. This was learning.
“Sorry,” the shopkeeper said, rummaging under the counter, “I can’t find my machine. One sec.” He disappeared behind a curtain.
Julian sighed dramatically. “I’m going outside.”
“Hang on. He’ll be right back.”
“Mom liked the egg. You’re buying it. Big deal.” Julian rolled his eyes, threw open the door, and sauntered out.
“Hey,” Aaron shouted, “shut that! There’s AC in here.” An infuriating wave hit Aaron, of Julian’s willfulness and all that it triggered. The way his son thrived on Lacy alone, leaving no role for him. The way one glance or word from Julian could twist every good quality of his son’s from a reflection of the father into his negation.
“Found it,” the shopkeeper said, popping out from behind the curtain. “I’ll box this up and get you out of here.”
“You like working these festivals?” Aaron asked.
“I’ve got a studio in Nacogdoches. And the RenFest—it’s good money fast.”
“I don’t know why folks come to these,” Aaron mumbled.
“Make-believe, you know. Go somewhere else. Be somebody else.”
“I guess.” Aaron sighed. He heard a tiny primal sound that his ear alone picked up. Julian in distress. “Stop!” Aaron heard again through the open cottage door. He dashed outside to see his son being mauled by the tattooed guy next door. Julian was covered in pale netting and ribbons as the man grabbed violently at his head. They turned, struggling, and Julian saw Aaron.
“Dad?!” he screeched, his voice as piercing as his infant cry.
“Get off him!” Aaron bellowed, and shoved the man into the path. He grabbed Julian and pulled him against his hip. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
“That faggot was trying on my wife’s veils!” the man yelled back, unrelenting. “Posing in the mirror, blowing kisses like a little bitch.” He aimed a finger at Julian. “Bridal veils. For girls. Not faggots.”
“He’s a kid!” Aaron shouted. People had gathered and were watching. Whose side they were on Aaron couldn’t tell. He grabbed Julian by the arm and tore off down the path.
* * *
It took Lacy the rest of the weekend to decide where to put the egg in the house. Her first instinct was somewhere private, to protect it, so she set it on the mantel of the faux fireplace across from their bed. She tried the top of her dresser and other places in the bedroom. She would leave the egg in a spot and go do chores, to cleanse her eye palate, and each time she returned she got the same joyful rush as when she first discovered it. The moment she saw it in the shop she had a flashba
ck to reading the Dragonriders books as a teen—the memory of young Lessa approaching her hatchling, and the bond that forms between rider and dragon, a lifelong telepathic bond that will save humankind. It was during one of these dragon reveries, while Lacy did laundry, that she changed her mind about the egg. It couldn’t be kept private. It had to be in the living room on the coffee table, where guests could be inspired by its magic. And on Sunday night, in a ceremony of one, she put it there for good.
Other thoughts crept into Lacy’s head as the week wore on. More than once at school, while lecturing a drowsy classroom on covalent bonds, she found herself playing back snippets from the RenFest. Something had been off about Aaron, in the shop and at lunch. It wasn’t like Lacy didn’t want a husband who provided; she’d been cursing his financial failures since they married. But after getting cheated on and sponged off of for so many years, Lacy at least knew where she stood when she was the one buying things. Was the egg about Aaron’s pride in having his own money, or was he feeling guilty about some new woman? She couldn’t say. In her head she repeated the mantra that kept her pride half-intact: she was strong, could handle anything for Julian’s sake, but the day Aaron hurt their son? The end.
Aaron was still acting weird when he sat down to dinner later that week. He barely gave Lacy their usual show-peck and didn’t look Julian’s way at all. He talked rapid-fire nonsense about work when Lacy asked how his day was, only stopping to breathe after he spilled a pile of Hamburger Helper on the table. “I was thinking,” he said, slower, while Lacy rounded up the mess in a paper towel. “It was nice being outdoors last weekend, wasn’t it?”
“Weather was good,” Lacy called from the trash can.
“How about a camp for Jules?”
“Like summer camp?” Julian perked up. “There’s a high school debate camp at Baylor that accepts middle schoolers, and it’s kinda sorta expensive but totally—”
“Not summer,” Aaron corrected. “We don’t have to wait till summer. A getaway camp on long weekends. Fresh air. Columbus Day weekend, maybe?”
“But with his activities?” Lacy sat down and rubbed her eyes to think. “Speech and debate Fridays, symphonic band and—do you have piano that Monday, Jules? On the holiday?”
“Well,” Aaron said, louder. He reached into his briefcase and produced a pamphlet with a gold cross on the cover. “I saw this and thought it might be nice.”
“What is that?” Lacy snatched it from him.
“What kind of camp?” Julian asked cautiously.
“It’s a Christian camp,” Aaron began, “where they teach young men Christian—”
“Where did you get this?” Lacy asked. She could feel Julian’s stare on her.
“Someone at work.”
“Did John the Baptist give you this?”
“He did,” Aaron said with intensifying diction. “John, my boss, thought Julian might enjoy it there.”
“Why was your boss thinking anything about—” But before Lacy could finish, disturbing scenarios flooded her mind. She folded the pamphlet in half and pocketed it. “We’ll talk later,” she said softly to Aaron.
“Let’s read the materials,” he persisted. “We’re all here.”
“Later.” She put a smile on for Julian. “Tell us more about this Baylor camp!”
“It’s six weeks,” he mumbled. But it was too late. Lacy watched her son’s eyes lose their sharpness and his neck wilt forward. “I’m full,” he said to no one. “May I be excused?”
“Sure, sweetie,” she said. “Clear your plate.” She could tell Aaron was itching to talk, but she refused to look at him until she heard Julian’s door close.
“I think you’re overreacting, Lacy.”
“I’ll talk to you,” she said with quiet purpose, “in the bedroom, when I’m done cleaning up the kitchen.”
“I’ll help,” he said, rising with his plate. “Pass me that bowl over—”
“I don’t need your help.”
Lacy went to the sink and rinsed the dishes, on edge until she heard the creak of the bed and Aaron flipping on the TV. The faucet wouldn’t get hot enough, or maybe she needed it to scald her out of the fog enveloping her mind. What to say to Aaron? She didn’t believe in enemies, but she was living with one. A man who could think of sending their baby to the woods to be changed? Did Aaron think it was easy for her? How many hours had she tried to reason like a scientist about the evolutionary basis for homosexuality, supplemental caregivers for the clan and so on? Or all the times she held her tongue and didn’t talk about Jules being a father someday, so he wouldn’t feel pressured or abnormal? But in the end she didn’t need Darwin to justify what her heart knew. Julian was growing before their eyes, the rarest light in a terrible world, and while she breathed no one would put out his candle.
Lacy waited in the bedroom doorway, thumbs tucked in the waistband of her sweatpants, until Aaron noticed and muted the TV. “I know about those camps,” she said, shutting the door behind her. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“We always said we wanted to expose Julian to ideas, right?” Aaron sat up and leaned toward her at a supportive angle. “Here we could expose him to—”
“I have something to say.” She steadied her voice and looked him square in the face. “I used to believe you loved him enough to put aside fitting in and people’s opinions, for what he needed. But I was wrong about you—”
“Fitting in? He could’ve killed him, Lacy! Get off your high horse.”
“What are you talking about? Killed who?”
“At the festival,” Aaron muttered. “A guy grabbed Julian and shook him—”
“Someone touched Jules?”
“I didn’t want to have to tell you.”
“Who? Why?”
“He tried on this girls’ head thing and the shop guy ripped it off him.”
“Where were you?” Lacy charged toward the bed. “You left him alone?”
“He walked out while I was paying.”
“And you weren’t planning on telling me? Was he hurt? Julian?” she called.
“Leave him be.”
“You said you got in a fight and that’s why he was quiet the rest of the day.”
“We did. Before that.”
“Before our son was attacked? Anything else you left out, Aaron? Why was he alone?”
“I wasn’t there. Neither were you. We can’t be there every minute every day.” He rose from the bed and dropped his voice. “You didn’t see that scumbag call Julian a faggot while the crowd watched. He wanted to kill him. I saw it in his eyes. He’s not the only one out there like that. We’ve got to toughen up Julian, or else…”
She hid her face in her hands.
“Lace,” he said softly.
“Not that camp.”
“Are you hearing a word I’m saying?”
“That’s a different way of killing him.”
“What then? What’s in your bag of ideas?”
“He’s not going anywhere.” She shook her head grimly. “It’s not happening.”
“Fine.” Aaron gave an angry shrug. “Sports. He could use some exercise. He’s been getting a little…” He looked her body up and down and finished the thought.
“Fine.” Her eyes watered at his ludicrous timing. “He likes swimming.”
“Football.”
“No. Too dangerous.”
“He needs a real team sport. He needs to be around other boys, not—”
“Me?” she said.
“Those band girls he’s always running around with.”
“And me.”
“Well. You think it helps with the movies you take him to see?”
“What movies?”
“The, the AIDS—Philadelphia?”
“That’s Tom Hanks,” she cried. “So this is my fault?”
“I’m not saying it’s anybody’s fault.”
“Because there’s nothing wrong with Julian. Is there.” She waited. Aaron stared at the
floor. “Is there,” she repeated.
“Soccer. It’s safer than football. A lot of running. It’ll be good for him.”
“Soccer?” Lacy took a breath, but the teacher who never blinked at the crudest behavior from her sophomores suddenly found she had nothing to say. She watched him, the father of her son, before going into the bathroom. She locked the door, and ran the faucet, and cried.
* * *
Lacy couldn’t sleep that night. Neither could Aaron, apparently, and it was past one before his snoring picked up behind her. She got metaphysical like she did lying awake in the dark, asking the big questions. How had she done it for twenty-odd years? How does anybody sleep beside a liar? By living separate lives, she figured, with their backs to each other and the focus somewhere else.
Ever since Bonnie coaxed her back to teaching and got her the job at the high school, Lacy’s world had grown. She was a cool no-BS teacher, one who kids came back to visit. And the kids? From around the world now—India and China and Korea—because the suburb was changing. She listened to their histories, asking how they got from there to Texas, and tried to make them believe they could do anything. The way Bonnie told her that her own life had a next chapter. At times it struck Lacy that the new kids were mostly the “good immigrants”—as their principal said—not the Hispanic or black ones filling up crumbling schools a half hour south on 59, and Lacy suspected larger forces at work. But she tried to do good where she was. Like last week, when she had enough of the chatter in the teachers’ lounge—“Why do the Mexicans need algebra to push a lawnmower?”—and Kim Powter from Math said, “Isn’t it funny how black kids have fancy names like presidents, like Jefferson?” Lacy smiled and replied, “So you think Thomas Jefferson didn’t have black kids?” And sure Kim was still trash-talking Lacy, and Bonnie had to run damage control, but Lacy hadn’t felt so alive in years. Grown. Standing her ground. A farm girl who learned right and wrong in church and then became an atheist. That’s how she slept at night, worried over lesson plans but sensing the fullness of her life, too.
Aaron’s snoring crested. Lacy thought of Lorena Bobbitt on the talk shows, the respect she had for that nighttime snip—unthinkable, yet so simple. Bonnie had given her the number for a lawyer years ago, when Lacy broke down and talked about Aaron’s affairs. She dreamed of calling it sometimes. Some nights she dreamed of the Mexican man who came to their house when she was a girl, and her mom let him in, and in the dream she married a man with black hair. Lacy kept the lawyer’s card tucked away in her purse but never called. Because every time divorce crossed her mind, her mother’s voice echoed after it, and though their bond was dead before her mom was, she could hear her from the grave saying, What did you expect from a man if you let yourself go like that?
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