I nod my head as much as I can with his hand pressing it into his shoulder and mumble a muffled “uh huh.”
I’m not good at crying. I learned long ago there’s not much point in it. But right now my body wants to release all those tears I never cried. I feel it in the way my whole self is shaking and I can hear someone gasping for air and I know somehow that’s me and I’m so embarrassed that here I am with Smoothie in a library, for crying out loud (literally!), and I’m making a scene, I know I am, but it feels so good but I hope the tears aren’t staining my new shirt but at least I don’t wear mascara, because that would be a real mess. For every exhausting sob I let out, I have to gasp in a deep breath and I think I sound like an ass. The donkey kind, not the anatomical kind. Smoothie sure is a good sport to put up with the likes of me.
I finally get control of my tears and regain my breath and I’m so embarrassed I don’t know where to look because I surely can’t look him in the eye, so I look out of the corner of my eye over at the hairy penis drawing and my finger starts to trail over it, doodling around the lines.
“That thing sure has captured your interest,” Smoothie says after a couple of silent minutes. “You got an eye for fine artwork or something, Mary Kate?”
I half laugh, and a big bubble of snot blows out my nose. I must look like a real fool.
“I have to say, as one who whiled away many a junior high school English classes drawing pictures of dicks, that sure isn’t one of the better ones I’ve seen before. In fact, looks a little scrawny. Maybe it reminds you of Richard?”
I bust out laughing at that. Even though I shudder to even think about Richard’s privates. Thank the good Lord I’m far away from them.
Smoothie smoothes down my hair and holds me at arm’s length. “You feelin’ better, Mary Kate?”
I nod my head yes. I am feeling better. Seems Smoothie has a way about him, helps me laugh at things that ought to make a girl cry.
He stands up and reaches out his arm. “Come on, my friend. I’ve got me some making up to do.”
Which I guess means Smoothie’s reconciled himself to his business at hand.
I grab hold of his hand and squeeze it real tight as he pulls me up, and we walk out together, swinging our arms like a couple of best friends in grade school.
Chapter 14
“According to my calculations, we’ve got precisely two hours till we get to Pittsburgh,” I tell Smoothie as I fold up the map. We’re dining on scary-looking cafeteria food at the Auld Dutch Haus off the interstate. If my plate of chicken and dumplings were a monster, no doubt it would be Frankenstein. It’s that frightening. I stir around the congealed puddle of gravy, staring at the globs of dumplings and the gristly chicken, wishing we’d reconsidered shunning fast food for what was supposed to have been good old-fashioned home cooking.
“You want some of this? I’m not gonna eat it.” I say to Smoothie as I scrunch up my nose, holding a forkful toward his mouth. He was wise and chose the fried chicken, which looks a little more user-friendly.
“Are you sharing or trying to punish me, Mary Kate?”
I smile. Punishment has yet to cross my mind where Smoothie’s concerned.
“Just testing your pain threshold.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little self, sweetheart. I can hang with the big boys. Bring it on.” He opens his mouth a little, those beautiful straight, white teeth greeting me. I move my fork toward his lips and can’t help but stare. He really is a specimen to behold. I almost can’t believe someone as handsome as Smoothie would talk to me, let alone take off and abandon life alongside me.
“I’m waiting!” He says, drumming his fingers, and his smile pulls me in with the force of gravity.
I slide a forkful of the pasty dumpling over his lips and he works it around his mouth, his placid expression belying the rancid taste of the food.
“Well?” I begin to spoon another helping toward him, and he opens his mouth to receive it.
“Tastes like chicken,” he jokes, but then he grabs his napkin and spits it out and grabs my napkin to finish the job.
“Jesus, Mary Kate! You can’t eat that crap!” He shifts my plate to the side and takes a piece of his own fried chicken. “Here. Try this.”
He pulls a crisp piece of honey-battered chicken from a breast and reaches across the table. I don’t immediately open my mouth, afraid the stuff will be equally unpalatable, so his finger gently presses my lower lip to cajole me into opening up. My tongue follows the trail of his finger and it tastes like freedom, like a spring day, like a new lease on life. I haven’t even noticed the chicken yet. He places it on my tongue and I almost can’t think, because I’m sitting in a cafeteria in Lord-Knows-Where, Pennsylvania, and the most handsome—and kindest—man I have ever encountered has his fingers in my mouth. I close my lips over the bite of food and the tips of his fingers and he slowly pulls his hand away. I think I will never forget the salty tang of his skin on my lips.
Smoothie stares at me and I probably turn ten shades of red as I finally stop fantasizing about Smoothie’s touch and remember to chew.
“You like it?” For a minute I’m not sure if he’s talking about the food or the close contact.
I nod my head in agreement. “That’s what I should’ve had to begin with.” Though am I referring to Smoothie or the fried chicken? “Think I can switch it out?” He shakes his head, pointing to a large sign behind me announcing one serving per customer.
“Lucky for you, sharing is caring,” he says as he slides his plate toward the center of the table and pulls off another piece of chicken, reaching it toward my waiting mouth. I hesitate to open my lips; he repeats his earlier gesture, and I reciprocate with a subtle sweep of my tongue.
“I don’t think the Colonel could do it much better, do you?” He asks, and I am left to wonder what it is Colonel Sanders was actually good at—frying chicken or turning on wayward runaway housewives on road trips.
Finger licking good. Finger licking good. Finger licking good. My fingers are just beneath the table, in my lap, hiding from plain view. Thank God Smoothie’s on the other side of me, as opposed to how Richard would be smack next to me, so at least he can’t see my fingers tapping away.
We continue to share Smoothie’s meal until the chicken is gone. Never have I craved seconds more in my life. Or savored so much of what feels suspiciously like a second chance in life as well.
I look over at Smoothie’s bowl of chocolate pudding on the corner of his tray, and glance up into his eyes, back down to the pudding, and back up again, till he gets the hint.
“I forgot to grab a spoon when I was back in the line,” he apologizes as he swoops two fingers into the pudding and offers it up to me. Oh, if only that waiter at the Old Mill Room could see me now, feeding off of my dining partner’s fingers. It would so make up for that depressing meal with Richard. Was it really just a few nights ago?
I reach my tongue out to receive the pudding, but before I close my lips, Smoothie reaches down, scoops a dollop of whipped cream and dabs it on top of the pudding on my tongue. Then he takes another dip of whipped cream and dots the tip of my nose. I may soon melt into a puddle beneath the table, what with the swoon factor going on here. Instead, I reach out, scoop up two fingers full of pudding, and return the favor, and we continue our food play until dessert is gone, and I swipe every last trace of pudding from the bowl with my finger.
“Bet your mama made you clean your plate when you were growing up,” Smoothie laughs.
“She did indeed, but she also taught me never to play with my food. It’s unladylike, you know.”
“Surely you’re learning that being a lady isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Smoothie winks at me and grabs the check.
“With a teacher like you, how could I not be a star student?” I say, and snatch the check back from him and insist on paying.
#
Smoothie decides on a cold-call, figuri
ng if he gives Lizzie advanced warning, she’ll reject his visit.
“So I’ll take you there, make sure you’re settled in, and I’ll just go hang out somewhere till you’re ready for me. You’ve got my mobile number, right?”
“Got it. And I’ll call you the minute I’m done with this,” he says with a grimace.
“I know it’s not what you want to do, but it’s the right thing,” I reassure him.
“Like eating spinach?”
“Without the nutritional benefits.”
We pull into the driveway of what we assume is Lizzie’s house, a cheerful yellow split-level. There are well-maintained flowerbeds on either side of the walkway and tall oaks towering over the house from the fenced-in backyard. Smoothie is barely out of the car when a dog begins to bark and comes charging out the front door and jumps on him just as I’m getting out of the passenger side. I rush over to make sure he’s all right, only to see the dog is licking him, and clearly there’s no need to call to animal control.
“Randy?” a tentative voice says from the door, and we both look up to see a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman with dishwater blond hair, tear-drop eyes and a smile that reminds me of someone else in our midst. Christ, obviously they’re related.
I kick him. “Randy?” I whisper to him. “Clearly she didn’t get the memo.” He looks over at me and rolls his eyes.
She steps out into the yard, looking as if she wants to run out and give Smoothie a hug, but hesitates.
“Well if it ain’t Dizzy Lizzie!” Smoothie drawls and strides toward her, grabbing her hand and pulling her into his arms. I can tell he’s fighting his instincts to hold back, under the circumstances, yet trying to give the appearance of normalcy.
I stand aside them feeling somewhat awkward. I’d planned to be away from the action before this reunion unfolded. I quietly clear my throat, hoping Smoothie will see me and I can discreetly slip away, but instead he insists on introductions.
“Oh, man! My bad,” he hits himself in the forehead. “Lizzie, I want you to meet Mary Kate Dupree.” He omits the big Doo in the Dupree.
She looks at me and extends her hand. “Mary Kate, so nice to meet you.”
We exchange greetings and I attempt to beg off.
“There’s no need for you to leave, really,” Lizzie says.
“It’s all right. I’ve got some things I could do,” I lie.
But she won’t take no for an answer. I’m sensing this is to keep from being alone with Smoothie.
She takes us into the house, which looks like it could use a good cleaning, littered as it is with kids’ stuff everywhere. We step over a pile of Legos, a fake sword, two paper airplanes. There’s a hair-matted dog bed in the corner. The place looks warm and cozy, though; it seems well-loved. There are pictures everywhere of Lizzie and her husband and her four boys. Smoothie picks up a picture and asks her about each boy.
“Eric’s my oldest, he’s a freshman at Vanderbilt—”
“Just like your mom and—” Smoothie interrupts. I think he realizes his mistake in reference as soon as he says it, and we all pause in an awkward silence.
“Yeah. That’s where my folks went to school,” Lizzie says, then hurries on. “And Justin is in tenth grade, Zack is in eighth, and Ben is our little surprise child, he’s five years old.”
I suppress the pang I feel in my heart. Four times blessed. Now’s not the time for that, though.
“Your family is lovely,” I say in the hopes it’ll get my mind off my own thoughts of children and such.
We exchange small talk for a few minutes. Lizzie insists on getting us lemonade and taking us out back to their spacious yard, complete with all the amenities a boy could want, from a bright orange and red plastic slide to a regulation soccer goal. Sports equipment is strewn about, and the dog can’t decide which ball he wants to keep in his mouth so tries to hold as many as possible.
“It’s been a while, Randy,” Lizzie begins. “I guess all sorts of things have happened since last time we saw each other. For starters, I don’t suppose you want to tell me why you’re not with Donna?”
Smoothie shakes his head. “Donna’s a thing of the past. That’s all you need to know.”
“And you, Mary Kate? Where do you fit in?” she asks. Talk about putting me on the spot.
“Mary Kate’s just a friend I picked up along the way.” Smoothie winks at me, saving me from stumbling over some strange explanation of what we are to one another.
Just a friend. Just a friend. Just a gigolo. Gigolo. Gigoligolo. Gigoligolo. Giglio. Giglio. My fingers are getting tangled up in my tongue twister. Make that finger twister. I give my bra a good tug before piping in. “Yes, Smooth—I mean Randy and I are just friends.”
“So, then, what, uh, brings you to my place after all these years then?” She interlocks her fingers and places her linked hands in her lap and leans forward. It’s as if she’s interviewing us for membership in the Junior League.
I take a deep breath, trying real hard to blend in with the aluminum siding or the redwood picnic table or the proud oak trees, something, anything, to not be part of this uncomfortable exchange.
Smoothie stands up and begins to pace. I am mentally pacing, in sympathy.
“I, uh, I spoke to my mother, Lizzie,” Smoothie begins. “She told me the news. She told me about you. About how we’re—”
Lizzie looks as if she might want to faint. I glance around in case she’s going down, to see what she could hit her head on. Of course I’d try to catch her but I’m not match for her, size-wise.
“She called me. Couple of days ago. Sprung it on me, too.” Lizzie looks none-too-thrilled.
Smoothie scrubs his hands through his hair. I ask Lizzie where the restroom is and discreetly slip away because I simply can’t be smack in the middle of this thing. Of course I do want to hear everything, so I settle down next to the dog on the plush beige carpet just out of the line of vision by the sliding glass door, my ear pinned as close to the door opening as possible.
“Look, Lizzie, I—”
Smoothie has no idea what to say.
“Randy, it’s—”
“I didn’t know, Lizzie. You don’t think I knew anything, do you?”
“Oh, God, no,” she says. “I don’t think that. Not at all. But still. I mean, you’re my—”
Smoothie groans. “Yeah, and you’re my—”
“It was a long time ago. We were just stupid kids. We didn’t know any better.”
“You can be sure if I’d have known—”
“You and me both.” She laughs uncomfortably.
“Look, I had to come here to make sure you were okay with this and not freaking out and not blaming yourself. I mean, it’s not every day you learn that, well, you know.”
“Indeed.” She sucks in a deep breath. “It’s not every day that—”
It’s weird, I think as I eavesdrop on their conversation. The two of them knew each other intimately. Literally. Best of childhood friends, and then intimate friends, if only briefly. And now they’re siblings. How does one handle instant siblinghood? It’s awkward enough going from friends to lovers. But from lovers to siblings? On top of that, it’s not as if they’ve been in touch over the years. Do they want to have some contact? I guess under normal circumstances one might be interested in that—a newfound family of sorts. But with this, does it make it all the more squeamish? “Honey, I’d like you to meet the guy I lost my virginity to, my half-brother Randy…” That wouldn’t work, now would it?
I settle back to lean against the dog, my head on his barrel chest, rising and falling with each breath he takes. It’s very soothing. I cross my hands over my stomach, but my newly-pierced navel reminds me that I practically had a dagger forced through it only yesterday, and it’s screaming at me to stop fucking touching it. Instead I reach over for the dog’s ear and roll its velvety comfort between my fingers. It soothes me like soft blankie does for a sma
ll child.
“So, uh, where do we go from here? After all, I never knew I had an actual honest-to-goodness, real live—”
“Oh, God, Randy. Don’t say it. I’m not quite ready for that idea yet.”
“But it’s true. We’re kin now, Lizzie. Flesh and blood kin,” Smoothie says, his voice cracking. “I never had much in the way of family, you know. If I get over the notion of, well, you know, I kind of like that maybe you and I can be like sister and brother.”
He said it. He actually vocalized the words that have been swirling around in his mind. Sister and brother.
Lizzie heaves out a long breath. “Shit, Randy. I mean, sure, we were always good friends anyhow. But it’s kind of weird. I mean, what do I say to everybody?”
“Did you tell your husband already?”
“Well, sure I did,” she says. “He is my husband, and I couldn’t have hidden walking around here in shell-shock like I did the first day or two.”
“Does he know everything?”
There’s silence so I peek around the door and see her nodding her head.
Smoothie sits down and puts his head in his hands. “Guess that wouldn’t make for such great family relations, then, would it?”
Lizzie walks over to Smoothie and lifts his chin with her hand. “Look, Randy. Fact is we’re all grown-ups here. I think it would be worse if we pretended this hadn’t happened. My husband is an understanding man. He’s not gonna hold something against you that happened a lifetime ago any more than he’d hold it against me. It’s just—”
“Weird?”
“Yeah. Really weird. Like Jerry Springer Show weird.”
Smoothie starts to laugh. “Christ, this is about the strangest thing to ever happen to me. Well, almost. And on top of that, I went from having no siblings to now having nephews!”
“About that—”
“You are gonna tell ‘em, aren’t ya?”
“Hell, I don’t know what to do. I mean, how do you explain this to your children?”
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