True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

George looks away.

  “You’ve got to dress the part, George,” his father says, and so Nate is gone now. Darkness embraces him and he shifts his shoulders in the space closing in. Velvet drapes hang beside him. Finally, after a long silence, he raises his eyes.

  “Clothes make the man.” Father Rossi looks closely at him from behind his black shirt and white clerical collar. “In God’s abundant love, He does forgive. Though you must not only seek His pardon, but His likeness as well.”

  Perspiration covers his body. The priest’s words from confession come to him often now; suggestions of compassion and truth always skirt his thoughts. Amy needs to know that truth. He pulls his shirttails from his trousers and unbuttons the shirt. The fabric is soaked through and his lungs drag in air.

  “You let me down, George,” he hears his own father say. “You were such a good kid. I thought you’d keep Nathan in line. He always liked to play games. Still does.” George’s eyes refuse to open. The shame of the past weeks humiliates him in his father’s eyes. “How’d you ever get involved in that scheme of his? Fix it, George. You should’ve stopped him. I would never put your mother in that situation. Do right by Amy. You can’t live like this. It’ll destroy you.”

  “But what is right?” George asks.

  “Maybe it will help to seek absolution,” the priest answers quietly.

  “Tell her, George,” his father adds.

  “If you really want her safe, George, break up with her,” Nate says. “Then the threat’s gone.”

  The voices grow louder with each sentence running into the next. Call or raise the bet. Clothes make the man, but it’s still about character. Seek absolution. You let me down, George.Seek the Father’s likeness.Character counts.George.Play your hand.Tell her.

  George extends his arms and tries to back out of their web. A new voice fights for his attention. It is a voice he respects as much as he dreads. “Your prints will be keeping company with the best. Though I’m sure the trail has been wiped clean,” Detective Hayes says. “You’re sweating, George.” He twists out of his white shirt, careful to keep the inky pads of his fingerprinted fingers from touching the fabric. You’re sweating, George.George.George.

  The alarm clock on the bedside table sounds loudly. He reaches over to silence it and falls back on the mattress, catching his breath.

  “Jesus Christ. Leave me alone. All of you.” He swings his arm over his eyes and tries to get back to sleep. Once he came home from the shop last night, he had poured himself a drink, called Amy, and at three in the morning looked at the clock again over a second glass of Scotch. Maybe the liquor brought on the dreams. Or maybe he needs to eat something. But when he thinks about everything the dreams alluded to, his stomach turns on it all.

  That’s what his life has come to. Drinking alone on an empty stomach, exhausted and afraid for Amy and her daughter. He’ll see Nate today at the summer poker barbecue. It’s time for answers. Reid or Elliott has to be behind the stalking threats. Maybe he can buy them off through Nate. He’ll dump half the cash in their laps if it’ll secure any guarantees.

  Still, something is wrong. He sits up, feeling the weight of the air pressing against his damp skin. But the air is too warm. And it is moving, puffing the curtain slightly. He slides his legs out of bed, walks to the window and holds his open palm over the radiator. Someone turned on the heat.

  * * *

  The lace on her vintage gowns brings back sweet memories. Amy stands on her back step, sets down a basket of clothespins and thinks of her grandmother, of her hands tatting lace, of the art of the old country. As she clips a frilled chiffon wedding dress from the 1980s to the clothesline and wheels it out into the sun, she wonders if her grandmother ever missed her home. If she flashbacked to Europe the way Amy flashbacks to the bank parking lot. Were her grandmother’s memories vivid flashes of rolling farmland and blue sky? After passing through Ellis Island, when she looked out her New York tenement window onto another brick building and dingy clothing and sheets hanging from a maze of rope strung between the buildings, did the old country flicker in her eyes? Maybe that’s why Amy loves her farmhouse and her life in Addison. She looks out on what her ancestor had once seen and loved and left behind across the sea. Open land and clear sky.

  There is a noise behind her and it becomes, just like that, a shoe sliding across pavement. A footstep. And so her training kicks in with a long, slow breath filling her abdomen before exhaling to ward off the flashback. Then she turns to see Grace in the doorway, watching her hang the gowns to get the wrinkles out and freshen them in the sun.

  “Well hi there,” Amy says, opening the side door. “Coming out?” The flashback evaporates and Angel runs by, a scrap of black and white fluff rolling past like a ball.

  Sometimes she has to rebuild in small victories, like warding off a flashback, especially after George’s dedication last night. She wants to be strong for him; to have something left inside, some strength to share with him. Grace follows the kitten down the two steps onto the green grass and together they sit facing Amy, beneath July’s warm morning sunlight.

  Will Grace remember this, the way she hangs newly-acquired wedding gowns in the summer sunshine? The way the lacy gowns look, strung out across the lawn as though they’re dancing their first dance, swaying in a gentle breeze? The delicate silk and tulle of the gowns ripple with gentle movement, come to life again. Is it a pleasant memory able to supplant the violence of being pulled from her mother’s hands? She has to fill Grace’s senses with simple times like this: a summer morning with long white gowns wafting in the hazy sky. Maybe this will work better than play-acting and association cards. Maybe those tactics bring back pain.

  Amy looks down at her daughter in the grass. How was trauma handled before analysis and child psychologists and medication? What would her grandmother do in her shoes? She reaches for the Onassis dress and a handful of clothespins from the basket. “Grace. Come here, honey.”

  Her daughter’s need for affection and words and connection hasn’t lessened like her voice has. Grace climbs the steps. “Help Mommy, please. Hold the clothespins.” She drops a few pins into Grace’s tiny, outstretched hands and plucks one out to pin the cream dress on the line. “That’s much better,” she says, keeping easy, undemanding words flowing between them, even if they are only her words. “You’re a big help.”

  As she wheels the rope out and clips a short bouffant veil on the line, Grace’s voice stops her mid-clip. “What?” Amy asks, every sense drawn like a magnet to the child.

  “Angel help,” Grace nearly shouts. She bends down, looking like she’ll topple right over, the sunlight catching on her wispy ponytails, and one at a time, sets two clothespins at the kitten’s paws.

  Hope, that elusive feeling of hope, touches her. Amy can’t help wondering if she pushed her daughter past a breaking point at the bank the other day. If her two words now are the beginning; that Grace has hit bottom, turned a corner and will rebuild her vocabulary one word at a time. She says nothing more, and so Amy finishes clipping the tulle veil on the rope and wheels out the clothesline, the gowns shimmering and waltzing in the sun.

  * * *

  George turns his pickup into Amy’s long driveway while listening to the tail end of a radio news update on the heist. The report confirms that the heist was not an inside job of the armored truck company. Upon stepping out of the air-conditioned cab, the thick summer heat reminds him of the furnace heat he’d woken to. Reminds him of drinking alone last night. Of the havoc indecision wreaks on his life. Of the nightmare voices calling out to him. Of hurling his Scotch tumbler at the fireplace in a rage directed at Nate and Reid and Elliott and an illicit bankroll.

  Amy watches him from behind the kitchen screen door. She wears a fitted sleeveless denim dress with a V-neck and a gold initial pendant around her neck. Still feeling his father’s shame, right now she is everything he isn’t. He doesn’t know how to deserve her.

  “You’re early,” Amy says
through the screen. “Do you want a coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” He stops right outside the door. “Where’s Grace?”

  She glances over her shoulder. “In the living room with the cat. The TV’s on.”

  “Come here.” George opens the screen door, holding one hand behind his back. “I’ve got something for you.”

  “You do?” She smiles and steps out into the sunshine. “What is it?”

  He takes her hand, walks her a few steps away from the doorway and backs her up against the house. “This,” he says, handing her a small milk glass vase with a sprig of baby’s breath and one single, salmon-colored rose in it. She takes it, and his hands hold her waist then, feeling the faded denim fabric beneath his touch.

  “George, it’s beautiful,” she whispers. “But what’s the matter? You’re quiet.”

  He raises his hands to her face, bends and kisses her. She feels delicate to his touch, her hair pure silk, her lips sweet. George deepens the kiss before ending it slowly, pulling away, reluctant to stop, his fingers skimming her face. He searches her eyes. “I love you.” His voice is low. “I love you, Amy.” He needs to say it again and again to drown out the other voices. Seek absolution. “I wanted to tell you that before we got to my brother’s barbecue.”

  “I know you do.” Her fingers light on the rose petals. “I heard your dedication last night, remember?”

  “You liked it?”

  “It was perfect.”

  “Good.” Do right by her, George. They stand inches apart. “I meant it.” He kisses her again.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  If you really want her safe, George, you’ve got to break up with her. “Yes. Why?”

  “You look pale today. Something on your mind?”

  “Well.” He looks past her to the gowns hanging in the breeze, then back at her brown eyes. “Only you.”

  She touches his cheek.

  “Maybe we’ll cut out early and come back here later,” he says. “You better get Grace. Oh, and I brought her something too.” He pulls a grape lollipop from his cargo shorts pocket.

  “You spoil her,” Amy says when she opens the screen door, glancing at him over her shoulder. “And she loves it. Come on in. I’ve just got to get her into her new polka dot sundress. My mother sent it for a summertime gift.”

  The screen door squeaks closed behind them. Walking though her country kitchen, seeing the pine cabinets and blue painted table, wicker baskets and dried flower arrangements, vintage china plates displayed on a stenciled wall shelf, he knows that this is all that matters. He has to insure this life for Amy and her daughter. And he can’t insure it if he isn’t here.

  * * *

  Since the kidnapping, scenes like this have become as fragile as a tottering house of cards. Amy leans forward and studies the yard as George parks in front of Nate’s house. Geraniums spill from a large window box on the stone front cape. The American flag hangs from the flagpole, cars line the wide driveway and noise rises from the backyard. Good noise. Adult voices talk and laugh, competing with a radio announcing the Yankees game alongside children’s voices rising in play.

  Good noise, good sights, goodness all around. Amy lifts Grace onto her hip and George carries a cooler of fresh steaks and hamburger patties. They walk past well-pruned hydrangea bushes to the backyard and a sea of guests dressed brightly in shorts and polo shirts, tank tops and sandals. A plastic wading pool is filled with clear water for the young children and a badminton volley is heating up. The picnic table overflows with guests and food.

  It is easy to recognize the friends George had described for her. His poker partners Steve and Craig man one of the smoking grills, Steve tall and thin, Craig heavyset. Already she feels affection for most of these people. They are George’s life. They are his closest friends and their wives, his old neighbors, his long-time acquaintances. They mean the world to him and from their greetings, their hugs and smiles and enthusiastic handshakes, the feeling is mutual. Those greetings spill over to her and Grace as they move through the yard.

  “How nice to finally meet you. How are you, dear? Doing well?”

  “You’re prettier than George described you.”

  “We saw you on the news. So glad you’re both okay.”

  “And who’s this little doll?” some ask of Grace.

  “My sister’s getting married. George says you sell beautiful gowns.”

  “You’ll sit with us at the table, okay?”

  Time passes easily, the way you remember sweet summer days passing beneath glints of sunlight, in the shade of leafy trees with a cool lemonade in hand. Amy drifts in and out of several conversations; at other times she quietly soaks up the sun and good feelings, walking with Grace’s hand in hers. George sits at the picnic table with them, filling their plates with burgers and potato salad and devilled eggs. When he can, he steals Amy away from the women and makes the rounds with his friends, introducing her, bringing her into his world. Then, just as suddenly, the friends’ wives Nan and Melissa nudge her elbow and lead her away to meet Chelsea, Melissa’s high school daughter. Later Amy sits in a chair at the wading pool, dipping her bare feet in while Grace kneels in her polka dot dress and drags her hands through the cool water. Across the yard, George talks intently to Nate. He leans in seriously until he takes his brother’s arm and gives a shove toward the house. His face is dark and Amy turns to watch, but then Melissa hands her a piece of watermelon.

  “Thanks,” she says, lifting her feet from the pool and taking Grace by the hand. There is still a twinge whenever she does that, her eyes scanning the crowd for any danger that might pull Grace’s hand from hers again. Caution has become its own limb now. Amy moves to a chair in the sun and holds the watermelon slice while Grace takes a sloppy bite. She dabs at the juice on her daughter’s chin when Nate comes up behind them.

  “Hi Amy. We haven’t had a chance to talk all afternoon.”

  “Nate.” She squints up at him in the sunlight, wondering what riled his brother. “Hey. Where’s George?”

  “Over at the grills.”

  “Oh.”

  Grace keeps her eyes on Nate and begins to back up, bumping into Chelsea. “Come on, Gracie.” Chelsea extends her fingers. “Let’s go blow bubbles.” Grace takes her hand and moves close to her new friend, standing behind her legs. “Do you mind, Amy? I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “That’s fine, Chelsea. She’d like that.” Amy watches them go, then turns back to Nate. His light brown hair looks a little longer than when they first met. He wears cargo shorts, a polo shirt and leather Docksiders. “It’s good to see you again, Nate.”

  He crouches beside her in the lawn chair and plucks a few blades of grass. “Same here. How are things going?”

  “Pretty good, thanks.”

  “George says you’re doing okay. No more stalking issues?”

  She looks over at him and shakes her head. “All’s been quiet. Knock on wood.”

  “Yeah, seriously.”

  She wishes then that George would head her way. It feels strained with Nate quiet beside her. “So hey,” Amy says after a few moments. “What a great day for a barbecue.”

  “Sure is. We get together with the gang every summer.” He scans the people in his yard and quiet comes between them, again.

  “Well you have a lovely place,” Amy finally says.

  “It’s home,” he answers. “George and I grew up here, you know. My parents left all this to us. All our history is here.”

  “That’s pretty amazing, to hold on to the family home like that. It’s what I want for Grace, too. A nice home, fond memories of summer days. Especially after what she’s been through.”

  “George tells me you’ve got a beautiful farmhouse. Lots of character in those old places.”

  “We love it there.”

  “You and George?”

  She looks at Nate, uncertain of what he means. “Grace and I,” she clarifies.

  “Right.”
He looks across the yard at Grace. “She’s a sweet kid. We’re going to roast marshmallows in a while, so she’ll like that. The coals are red hot on the grill.”

  “Sounds fun.” Amy turns toward the grill and sees Grace running ahead of Chelsea, blowing bubbles as she goes, her smile delighted, her blonde ponytails flyaway. And in that second, she gauges the distance between her daughter watching the bubbles rise and the red hot grill. Chelsea laughs behind her and Grace glances over her shoulder, not watching where her legs are taking her.

  Suddenly George moves into view, Amy sees this. He’s talking to Nan, but he’s distracted by Grace. Her eyes shift to Grace then, still moving toward that darn grill, Chelsea beside her waving her arm so that a stream of clear bubbles blows from the wand.

  Images, images, all frozen in her mind as she starts to rise from the lawn chair. Grace laughing and running pell-mell with her bubble bottle, her face tipped up to the summer sky. Amy knows, she just knows as she glances quickly back at Nate before loping across the lawn. “Amy?” she hears Nate call out. She knows Grace is headed straight toward that simmering grill. Images, images.

  Grace’s ponytails bouncing with each step, the wispy locks catching the late afternoon sunlight, her polka dot sundress fluttering.

  George moving past Nan, his arms pressing her aside as he begins to run in slow strides. Just in case, Amy knows, it’s just in case, as he closes the distance between himself and Grace.

  Chelsea laughing, calling for Grace to look up at all the bubbles.

  Grace turning while running, her smile wide, then fading as she senses George closing in behind her.

  A glare of sunlight momentarily blinds Amy. When she catches sight of Grace, her expression has changed. The grill is steps ahead of her and George runs faster. He stumbles, his hand touching ground as he regains his footing and rushes up from behind, a dangerous shadow and footsteps. Grace is in the bank parking lot again, Amy can see by the look on her face. She’s flashbacked. A madman is about to swoop her up in his hold.

  “Grace!” Amy calls out, trying to get her daughter to stop. Or turn. Or fall, even. Anything but run head-on into that flaming hot grill.