Anywhere But Here

by Jenny Gardiner

  Smoothie crosses his arms and glares.

  “A woman. And you broke her heart. No, wait. She broke your heart.” I start to sing a song. “I left my heart, in good old Pittsburgh.” Doesn’t sound nearly as good as San Francisco.

  “You’re a hell of a singer, Mary Kate.” Smoothie shakes his head. “But how about changing your tune.”

  “Awww, come on. I want to hear about her. It must be a good story if you’re not willing to talk about it.”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s not a good story at all. In fact, there is no story. It’s nothing.”

  I notice a scenic bypass up ahead and pull in and park the car. I turn off the ignition and turn to face Smoothie. “I want to make a pact with you.”

  The sun has inched its way above the horizon and the fog is parting, revealing a glorious valley far below us. It’s time for us to reveal what we’ve been hiding, too.

  “So here’s the deal. The way I see it, we’re just two strangers who have become partners. So if we’re partners, then dammit, let’s be partners here. I’m no sooner going to judge you for things than you should me. We’re in too deep now. So it’s all or nothing. We have to just spill it all, or forget about it. That means Pittsburgh is up for discussion. Deal?”

  He shakes his head and laughs. “I don’t know what it is about you. How you can get me to spill my guts about things you don’t need to know anything about. You’re not going to like it, Mary Kate. I’m telling you.”

  I turn the car back on. “Please. There’s plenty about me you’re not going to like, either.”

  I no sooner say that than I realize I should have kept my big mouth shut. Smoothie realizes it too.

  “I can’t wait to hear it.” He winks at me before exhaling a large sigh. “All right. Here goes.”

  Chapter 10

  “So, about Pittsburgh,” I say. “What—or who—is in Pittsburgh that’s scared you away from an entire city?”

  We’re back on the road relishing the cool morning air blowing in through Smoothie’s window, which is half-ajar.

  Smoothie drags his fingers through his hair. He never did get a shower this morning, but still he looks good enough to eat.

  Did I just think that thought?

  “Her name’s Lizzie. She’s sorta my cousin. Not exactly, but a little bit.”

  I arch my eyebrow at him.

  “You see, growing up, we used to get together with my mother’s best friend, Fran—Aunt Fran—and her family. Aunt Fran and Uncle Joe had a daughter who was a couple of years older than me. Her name was Lizzie.”

  “Lizzie. Okay.”

  “We didn’t have a lot of family, so we spent a lot of time with Lizzie’s family—holidays, vacations and such.”

  “So far sounds normal enough.”

  “My mother and Lizzie’s mom knew each other since grade school. And from what I knew, Mama and Fran met Uncle Joe working at a summer camp when they were in college. Now what I didn’t know was that just before they parted ways, Mama and Uncle Joe had a little fling.”

  “They dated?”

  “I think that’s pushing it as a description.”

  “Huh?”

  “They did it. Did the dirty deed. My mama and Uncle Joe got it on behind the mess tent.”

  “Amidst the bug juice and campfire songs and the lanyard keychains.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You get it. I think it was all part of my mama’s grand plan to make some other fella jealous.”

  “So then what?”

  “They all go back to school. Senior year. Mama’s at a small Baptist school in Tennessee. Evidently Fran and Joe both went to Vanderbilt. That fall, the two of them started dating and fell in love. By Christmastime they’d gone off and eloped. I guess Fran’s family had a fit—it was just Fran, Joe and a justice of the peace.”

  “So where does Lizzie fit into this whole picture?”

  “Think back to the bug juice, Mary Kate.”

  “No! Your mother got knocked up?”

  “You got it. Mama dearest, in the family way.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “I think my mother spent the first half of that pregnancy in deep denial. I mean, what was she going to do? Here she was, all alone, at a very conservative school in the heart of the Bible belt, carrying a bastard child. She hadn’t been in touch with Frannie or Joe since they all went back to school. Of course over Christmas she learned not only were Fran and Joe an item, but they’d gone off and gotten hitched!”

  “Oh, your poor mama. What on Earth did she do?”

  “Once she learned about the wedding, she was terribly upset. Not because she held a torch for Joe, because she didn’t. I think that was just one of those things. But I guess it sort of cemented the gravity of the situation. So she went to Joe and told him about the baby.”

  “How did Joe take it?”

  “Joe’s a straight-up guy. He didn’t want to shirk his responsibility. After all, they were all friends. My mother wanted to give up the baby, but Joe couldn’t do it. He felt responsible. So Joe sat Fran down and delivered the news.”

  “Here he was a newlywed and he’s telling his new bride that they’re going to take in a baby—her best friend’s baby, no less?”

  “Exactly. So my mama went and had that baby. And it was a little girl.”

  “Lizzie?” I ask.

  “Yep. I came along just two years later, after my mama married her old high school sweetheart she’d gotten back together with. They were all living in the same town back then. A small town in Tennessee where it was best to keep your secrets to yourself.”

  “So you and Lizzie grew up together, then?”

  His face pinches up like I just stuck him with a needle.

  “You could say that. Yeah. We did grow up together. Different parts of town, but plenty of shared experiences.”

  “So what’s the big deal about Lizzie, then? You were friends. Why won’t you even venture into the same city where she lives?”

  Smoothie looks out the window, staring at the stark, jagged cliffs jutting upward from the side of the road toward the tree line of the mountain. A sound of resignation escapes his mouth.

  “I don’t know. Must have been the sins of our parents doomed to repeat themselves. Who knows. But remember, Mary Kate. We didn’t know.”

  And then it dawns on me. Sweet Jesus, it can’t be. My fingers begin playing the scales with that revelation. Incest is best. Incest is best. Incest is best. Incest is best. Incest is best. My friend Miranda used to chant that to the redneck couples who made out in the alley behind the school every afternoon. We’d giggle at it, not really thinking much about the reality of the concept. Having sex with your sister? Oh, my God.

  “So you—did it? Why?”

  “Jesus, Mary Kate. Don’t sound so judgmental. I was just this dopey kid and she was someone I’d known forever. Hell, I called her mom and dad ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle.’

  We were all on vacation together. We’d gone to the Smoky Mountains and shared a large cabin. Lizzie and I were off fishing at a creek we’d hiked to. We had a blanket spread out underneath a tree in the woods, nobody was around. We were there for hours, just talking about this and that. We always talked about everything. We knew all there was to know about each other. And so Lizzie announced that she wanted to know what it was like to have sex before she went off to college, and had decided she was going to do it with me. Remember, she was a couple of years older than me. And like I said, I was just this dopey guy. Who’d never been propositioned before. Christ, who’d never had sex before. Was I supposed to say no?”

  I shake my head at him. Men. They remind me of Miranda’s dog Bowser who used to wander the neighborhood. Bowser once jumped out of a second floor window to chase a dog in heat. I think
he sired most of the puppies within a fifteen-mile radius. I guess all it takes is a girl dangling it in front of a guy like a pork chop. Men will do just about anything to get a little. I don’t get it, though. Hell, I might jump out of a window to get to a sale at Belk Department Store—if Richard didn’t forbid me from shopping without his express approval, that is. But really, what’s all the fuss about? I think I’d be more likely to jump out of a window to get away from sex. At least with Richard.

  “Mary Kate. We didn’t have any idea.”

  “So when did you finally learn the truth?”

  Smoothie looks down at his watch. It’s a nice sports watch, with the date and time and probably the weather on the LED screen.

  “Oh, about forty eight hours ago, give or take a couple of minutes.”

  My eyes become as big as two cherries. Popped her cherry. Popped her cherry. Popped her cherry. I grip the steering wheel against my fingers’ need to express my thoughts. “You only now learned the truth about your relationship?”

  “After I left Donna, I flopped down in my mother’s house—she moved up near me years ago when I settled in Virginia. I knew she wouldn’t give me too much grief if I stayed a while. My mother’s a very lonely hypochondriac, and loves to have someone to complain to about her bursitis, her aching back, and her bunions. She’s always got some ailment.

  Well, late the other day a doctor left her a message to call him back about some blood test she’d had. It was too late to call back, so instead she fretted about it, convincing herself she had some ghastly disease that was going to kill her. She wouldn’t shut up about it. She’s gotten so bad over the years that I ignore everything she complains about. She’s like the boy who cried wolf. So I finally went to bed.

  “Well, the next morning, while I was minding my business eating a bowl of cereal and reading the paper, she said she simply had to get something off her chest because she was just certain she was going to die. Next thing you know, she’s telling me the girl I lost my virginity to is my half-sister and I’m about ready to throw up my Cocoa Puffs all over the sports page.”

  “You didn’t say anything to her about it, did you?”

  Smoothie looks at me with his eyes open wide. “Are you kidding? And kill her off for real? What would the Clay Aiken fan club do if they lost their recording secretary to a heart attack?”

  “What?”

  “My mother. The hypochondriacal Clay Aiken obsessive. When she’s not worrying about what disease she has, she’s swooning over all things Clay. She was in Asheville, North Carolina one time at a restaurant and Clay Aiken’s mother was three tables over. Mama’s friend knew the woman and offered to introduce the two of them, but my mother began to hyperventilate and they had to call an ambulance.”

  “Are you sure you’re related to her?” I’m trying to make light of things because poor Smoothie doesn’t seem to be too amused.

  “I sure as hell wish I wasn’t, at least now.”

  Wow. This is so far out of my league I’m not quite sure what to say.

  “So tell me more about your mother,” I say. Fact is, I can’t imagine giving up a baby and not breathing a word about it for the rest of your life. “Looking back on it now, do you think she treated Lizzie differently? Could you tell in hindsight that there was some kinship there?”

  “That wasn’t my mother’s way. My mama was not the queen of affection, and she dispensed it meagerly. Especially as I got older. If anything, I’d say she was even less attentive toward Lizzie, considering what I know now. I mean, yeah, she remembered her birthday with a card, maybe, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing I’d have noticed.”

  “Was there anybody else besides you at home?”

  “Nah. Even my daddy didn’t stick around too long. He was gone by the time I was in high school. Mama had a way of shrieking about her that he didn’t take too kindly to. One day he just got up out of his chair, shook my hand, told me to be the man of the house for my mama, and drove on off. Never heard from him again.”

  Well, I see Smoothie and I have even more in common than I’d have imagined. At least he doesn’t have a Lurline and a Susie Loo Hoo in his life.

  “And what happened to make your mama fall so head over heels for Clay Aiken?”

  “Maybe he’s the son she never had?” he laughs. “Oh, hell, I don’t know. But I do know this: before Clay, my mother had a tongue on her that was like flames licking from a burning building. One time before Daddy left, my mama got so mad at him for not coming home in time for dinner one night that I thought she was going to combust. Once my daddy left, she used that mouth on me. If I didn’t mow the lawn or take out the trash or do any number of chores for her, she would cuss me out like nobody’s business. I heard far more bad words from her than I ever read on a men’s room wall. And then along came Clay. Mary Kate, I’m telling you, she was like a sinner who’d found Jesus. All of a sudden, she bit her tongue and stopped her hideous tirades. It was like she was constantly thinking, WWCD or something.”

  “WWCD?”

  “What Would Clay Do?”

  “Are you serious? What caused the transformation?”

  “Hell if I know. All I know is my prickly mama used to be like jagged cliffs along the shoreline. But somehow the harsh edges of that woman were buffed down considerably through the genteel strains of an oddly-marketable Carolina crooner.”

  “Does your mother stay in touch with Lizzie still? Geeze, I wonder how she must feel about the whole thing.”

  “Christ, Mary Kate, I can’t even begin to think how she feels about it.” He combs his hands through his hair again, looking bewildered. “I fucked my sister, for God’s sake.”

  I reach over with my right hand and grab Smoothie’s hand, which is balled into a fist so tight I think it’s stuck that way.

  “I know it sounds bad, Smoothie. I mean, I won’t lie to you. That’s like something you’d expect from someone in the backwoods, like Earl, more so than you. Not that I know you that well, but I think I know you enough to imagine you’d not choose to do that consciously.”

  “I wouldn’t do that unconsciously, either.”

  I laugh. “How does your mama feel about all this?”

  “That’s the thing. She up and called her. Right after she told me, when I was thinking about heaving up my breakfast. She picked up the phone and called Lizzie.”

  I try to imagine the poor girl, realizing she’d seduced her teenaged brother all those years ago. I shudder for a second.

  “And did you talk to her?”

  Smoothie looks at me like I just asked if he was ready to go home to his wife. “Hell no I didn’t talk to her. I grabbed my duffel and hightailed it out the door. Got a ride to the highway ramp, and that’s where you came into the story.”

  “Well, Jesus, Smoothie. You gotta talk to her. You can’t leave the poor girl hanging like that. She needs to feel exonerated, and the only one who can do that is you. We have to go to Pittsburgh now.”

  Poor Smoothie makes a steeple of his fingers and buries his face in the crook of his fingers. He does not look happy.

  “Think how you can make her feel better about all this. And it’ll be good for you, too. You can see her as a real person, and you’ll be able to separate the Lizzie of today from the girl in your mind, the one you, you know’d, with.”

  “The girl I you know’d with? Urrrrrr.”

  “So?” I scrunch my eyebrows in a question mark. “To Pittsburgh, then?”

  Smoothie looks at me, his eyes squinted in resigned anguish. He sighs. “To Pittsburgh. I guess.”

  Chapter 11

  Before we go any further, I announce that I need to find some clothes to wear. “I’m fine taking an occasional shower in sulfer-infused water, but I cannot abide wearing dirty underwear.” I no sooner say it than I look over at Smoothie, whos
e eyes light up, and I know I’ll regret what he’s about to say.

  “You don’t have to wear any underwear at all, you know,” he says with a wink. I don’t dare ask him if that’s how he travels so light. It’s purely on a need-to-know basis, and while I might be a little bit curious as to what comes between Smoothie and his blue jeans, I’m just not that kind of girl who would dare ask.

  I can feel the heat of embarrassment skittering up my neck and blanketing my face. “I could just see Richard now. Mary Kate! Where in eternal Hell has your underwear gone off to? What are you up to, acting like some kind of two-bit tramp or something?”

  “Ol’ Dick would think you were a whore for not wearing underwear? That man doesn’t have much of an imagination, does he now?”

  Two bit whore with no drawers. Two bit whore with no drawers. My fingers tap along the steering wheel.

  “Mary Kate, why are your fingers always moving so much?” Smoothie asks me, staring at my hands now clutching the steering wheel.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. I try to type ventriloquist-style, like I can feel the motion of the words in my hands but won’t let my fingers move. It’s impossible.

  “Huh?”

  “Your fingers. I keep seeing them moving all the time. What, are you tapping out a song or something?”

  “Gosh. I hadn’t noticed.” God, I’m such a bad liar.

  Close call. Close call. Close call.

  “Just like that. See—your fingers tapping along. Drumming your fingers or something.”

  I have never in my life had anyone notice my typing. And I’m sure as hell not going to own up to it at this point.

  “Huh. I’ll have to pay attention to that. I sure don’t know. So, you don’t wear underwear, then?”

  Oh, Lord. From the frying pan into the fire. I can’t believe I used that one to change the subject.

  Smoothie grins at me like a poker player who knows he just bluffed his way into a pot of chips. “You really wanna know?”