by Lisa Smartt
I called Aunt Charlotte on the way home and she burst into action.
November 24 8:30 am
By the time I arrived at the Millers’ house, there were already several cars. The sausage biscuits I brought were lost in a sea of blueberry muffins, egg casseroles, and pigs in blankets. Uncle Bart and Aunt Charlotte sat at the dining room table visiting with Michelle. Brother Dan was in the living room with Sandra and her mother. It was an all-too-familiar scene.
I spent the whole day at the Millers’ house or at the funeral home. I’m not sure why. Maybe I wanted to live up to what Sandra said about me. I was “always there.” I was consistent. A rock. I would never leave them in a bad situation. But my heart wasn’t in it. And that was the plan. To leave my heart out of it.
November 24 7:30 pm
Cell phone rings. I walked out to the screened front porch.
“Hello.”
“Doug, are you busy?”
“I’m fine. Carlie, how’s it goin’? Tomorrow’s the big day, right?”
“I guess. How are you doin’? Have you found out any more about your award ceremony?”
“No, I’ve been busy. I’m over at the Millers’ house right now. Sid Miller died last night and the whole community has been here helping Mrs. Miller. It’s a bad time for ‘em, Carlie. Real bad. He was only fifty-five years old.”
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I knew he had been really sick. How are they doin’?”
“As expected. It’s sad. He was a great man. He really was. He lived in this community his whole life. He made a difference too. He’ll be missed.”
“Well, I won’t keep you, Doug. I know you’re busy. Tell Sandra I’m really so sorry.”
“Yeah, she was really close to him. Visitation is Friday morning and the funeral is at noon. I’m gonna run up to the office now and try to get a few hours of work done.”
“You didn’t go to work today?”
“No. I told them I’d help with the arrangements and it took all day to get everything settled.”
“They’re blessed to have someone like you around.”
“Thanks. Have a good trip tomorrow, Carlie. Knock ‘em dead in the Big Apple.”
“I’ll try. When will I be able to talk to you again?”
“You’ll be busy with the interview and all the book stuff. I can’t imagine you’ll have time to talk on the phone much.”
“Doug, tell me the truth, are you leaving?”
“I’m right here in Sharon, Carlie. It’s where I’ve always been. It’s where I’ll be tomorrow.”
“You know what I mean. Are you leaving me?”
“Wait. You’re the one getting on a plane to fly to New York…and you’re asking if I’m leaving?”
“I may be in New York tomorrow but I know where my heart is. I’m not sure you know where yours is anymore.”
“And you think going to New York for the rest of your life is gonna help me decide?”
“No one said I’m going for the rest of my life. It’s just an interview, Doug. It’s not a job offer. Besides, if you became the King of England, I’d still know I wanted a relationship with you. It wouldn’t make me toss you aside.”
“You’re not a man, Carlie. You’ve no idea what it’s like to be a man. I’m happy for you. I am. But if you’re asking if I’m gonna wait in the wings for you…If you’re asking if I’m gonna spend my life savings flying to New York once a month hoping you’ll give me a little attention between interviews with Al Roker and Diane Sawyer…The answer is ‘no.’ I’m not. I can’t do that.”
I could hear Carlie crying and it was the worst sound I’d ever heard in my life. Worse than hearing Aunt Charlotte cry over Mom. Worse than hearing Sandra cry over her own father. I hadn’t loved them. Not like this. I was getting ready to speak when I heard the click of the phone from the other end. And she was gone. I sat on an old green lawn chair and put my head in my hands. Not one of my better days.
Sandra walked out onto the porch slamming the screen door behind her. “Doug, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just need to get to the office and take care of some work. I’ll see you at the funeral home at 10:00 on Friday, Sandra. It looks like everything is ready. Now you just have to get through tomorrow without him. It won’t be easy, your first Thanksgiving. But you’re up to the challenge. I really do have to go.”
She touched me on the sleeve. “Wait! Doug, I’m sure you know this already. But Mom and I…well, we appreciate everything you’ve done. You took charge and we needed that. It’s nice to have a man around. Thank you. What are you doing tomorrow? I mean, what are your Thanksgiving plans?”
“I’ll be at Uncle Bart and Aunt Charlotte’s tomorrow afternoon. Nothing too exciting. Buster will fry a turkey in the back yard. The standard fare.”
“Mom told Mr. Groeden not to schedule any visitation on Thanksgiving Day. Said people would feel obligated to come and change their family plans and Daddy wouldn’t have wanted that. He was selfless that way. So, I guess, well, we’ll just be hanging out here at the house tomorrow, if you want to drop by or something.”
“I know it’ll be hard having Thanksgiving without him, Sandra. But you’ll make it. You and your mom will help each other. And for the record, your dad…He really was a stand-up guy. He won’t be forgotten. I’ll see you at the funeral home Friday morning.”
“Yeah, see ya then, Doug.”
With that I walked off the porch and into a pit of sadness. It had nothing to do with Sid Miller’s death or the fact that my parents were dead or the realization that I didn’t have a date for an awards ceremony. I entered a pit of sadness because I jumped too quickly into a relationship with a girl I barely knew, a girl who so quickly outgrew me. For the first time in my life, the town of Sharon had a noose around my neck. And I was suffocating.
I drove past the office. I called Jessica on my cell phone and we drove to Jackson where I drank myself stupid. Jessica and her friends talked about designer hand bags and the “Twilight” movies while I drowned my sorrows in Jack Daniels. The problem? Jack Daniels didn’t drown the sorrows good enough. He just put them on life support. They would be fully revived in less than twenty-four hours. And life would be even more complicated than before.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Things, They Are A Changin’ (For Real)
CARLIE
November 24
When I hung up on Doug, I drove to the grocery store and bought a half gallon of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla and a bottle of chocolate syrup. It had been several months since I’d done something so ridiculous and sinful. I even lied, telling the check-out lady that my grandma was celebrating her eightieth birthday. It was 8:30 on a Wednesday night and the check-out lady should have said, “Honey, thou doth protest too much.” But she didn’t. She just smiled and said, “$7.23 ma’am.”
I couldn’t eat as much as before. I had lost eleven pounds and had gotten out of the habit of depending on food as a friend. But now I had lost my best friend and the only man I had ever wanted to sleep with. Life seemed much more hopeless than before. I wondered if the people at Harper Collins knew that their rising star was sitting on an old blue couch in northern Georgia eating ice cream like there was no tomorrow. But there was a tomorrow. A tomorrow in New York City. I fell asleep at 12:20 after watching four straight episodes of “Seinfeld.” I was George and everyone knew it.
November 25 Thanksgiving Day 11:00 am
Atlanta airport was crazy. I thought it would be less crowded on Thanksgiving Day. But, no. There must have been tons of people like me who were glad not to be with family on Thanksgiving Day, who were relieved to be able to say, “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry I’ll miss the dry turkey, but I need to travel that day for work.” Yeah. I wasn’t alone. And my new gray dress pants felt tighter now after last night’s episode. I felt bloated and dehydrated and no amount of concealer could hide the terrible bags under my eyes. I had done something stupid. And it hadn’t even helped. While sitting in an uncomfortable chair at
gate 22, I started crying. I would never kiss Doug Jameson again. I would never wait while he opened a door. I wouldn’t sit on the front porch with him. I would never hear him pray over the food or cry over his mother. It was over. He would marry Sandra within the year and they’d have beautiful little redheaded babies with curly hair. And everyone in town would say they were perfect for each other. And everyone in town would be right. Two beautiful well-educated people with beautiful children. I went to the airport bathroom and threw up. I’m sure everyone in the bathroom felt terribly sorry for me. A tall fat single girl with no prospects and a stomach virus traveling on Thanksgiving Day. If only they knew that I was on my way to New York City to do something really important. Or that’s what people kept telling me.
November 25 5:30 pm
While on the plane, I tried to fix my ailing appearance. I stopped crying and determined to think about the interview. At baggage claim, I saw a young intern from the publishing company holding up a sign that said, “Carlie Ann Davidson.” I introduced myself, retrieved my bag, and we were soon in a taxi heading for my new life. Thanksgiving dinner? Room service meatball sandwich.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Paying the Piper
DOUG
November 25 11:30 am
The hangover was maddening. Woke up on my couch at 11:00 with my clothes on and a foggy recollection of a bald bar tender and a nauseous ride home in the back of Jessica’s Trans Am. I guess Jessica found my apartment key in my coat pocket. She called my cell phone five times this morning. I deserved every annoying beep. I should have never called her last night. Now she thinks I’m interested. How could I explain that I just wanted a driver for my drunken binge? That I didn’t wanna be alone? Yeah. There was no decent explanation. That was the kind of thing a selfish eighteen-year-old would do. I threw up twice and asked God to forgive me for all of it. The excessive drinking. Using Jessica. And for acting like I cared desperately about Sid Miller’s death. Truth? I didn’t care about anything anymore. I was numb.
November 25 1:00 pm
A shower and two bottles of water helped a lot. When I pulled my truck onto the side of the gravel driveway, Buster already had the turkey fryer goin’ in the front yard.
“Hey there, Doug! It’s gonna be a good ‘un. Yeah, this here’s a real beauty of a gobbler!”
“I’m sure, Buster, I’m sure.”
“You brought pecan pies? Those are my favorite, man.”
“Yeah, mine too.”
“You can carry ‘em inside. Charlotte’s got all the desserts laid out on the coffee table. Mrs. Miller and Sandra brought some kind of red velvet cake. Somebody brought it to their house for the grievin’ so I reckon they decided to share.”
Oh no. It would be just like Aunt Charlotte to invite grievin’ folks to a Thanksgiving dinner celebration.
“Hey Doug, Sweetie, come on in the house. You look tired, dear. Are ya tired?”
“I’m fine, Aunt Charlotte.”
“You’ll never believe who I invited to Thanksgiving dinner, Doug?”
Oh, I’m sure I won’t. Let’s see…a grieving widow and her lonely single daughter? “Who, Aunt Charlotte?”
“Sandra and Mrs. Miller! I told ‘em it wasn’t right for them to be over there in that big ol’ house all alone on Thanksgiving Day. Why, no! Sid would have never wanted that. I knew Sid Miller well enough to know that he’d a wanted them over here enjoyin’ Buster’s fine fried turkey with the rest of us.”
“Yes ma’am. You’re probably right.”
“I know I’m right. Now set those pecan pies on the coffee table and come on in and visit with Sandra a while.”
Sandra had not gotten the memo about our family’s casual dress code for holiday dinners. She wore a black skirt and a bright red jacket with some kind of scarf. Her hair and make-up looked like the hair and make-up of a girl who was going on a date. I looked like a man who wasn’t going on a date. Like a man who would never go on a date again. I looked exactly the way I felt. Unshaven, tan t-shirt, and faded blue jeans.
“Hey Sandra, Mrs. Miller, welcome to the finest Thanksgiving dinner in Sharon.”
“I believe it! We were thrilled that Mrs. Charlotte invited us. It’s so hard, y’know, missin’ Daddy and all.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
“Oh…yeah…sometimes I forget that you’re, well, you’re missin’ both of your parents. I’m sorry, Doug.”
“Thanks. Uh, I’ve been meanin’ to ask how the job search is goin’. How did that work out at Obion County High?”
“It looks good, Doug. The principal said they oughta know for sure the first week of December.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ll get it. You’re definitely over-qualified. Those high school kids will be lucky. Real lucky.”
November 25 2:00
The gobbler’s end was far less glorious than its hopeful beginning. I sat with seventeen family members and friends in a small house eating dry over-cooked turkey, delicious cornbread dressing, canned cranberry sauce that made the ever-familiar sucking sound when it landed on the fake crystal serving platter, sweet potato casserole that was more like dessert than vegetable, canned corn, green bean casserole, coleslaw, and brown n serve rolls. Oh, and after two large pieces of pecan pie, I proudly rode the wave of sugar rush like a professional surfer. Thanksgiving in the South.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Little Fish In A Big Pond
CARLIE
November 26 10:30 am
The waiting room at Today’s Woman was exactly as I had imagined. Beautiful modern red furniture. Horribly ugly paintings on the wall which were supposed to be cutting edge. Lovely thin women wearing expensive clothing scurrying here and there searching for information needed to meet deadline.
“Carlie Ann Davidson.”
“Yes, I’m Carlie.”
“Follow me, Carlie. Mrs.Thomas is ready to see you now.”
“Mrs. Thomas, this is Carlie Ann Davidson.”
“Nice to meet you, Carlie. Have a seat.” The office was tiny and cluttered with file cabinets and piles of paper. It was nothing like a big editor’s office in a movie. I realized now that that really big clean oak desk is just a movie prop, not reality. Mrs. Thomas was a working woman, not a movie prop.
“Carlie, I don’t have much time and I’m not one to beat around the bush. We love your book. My staff thinks it’s fresh and honest and well-written. You’re not a cold over-achieving kind of person which is good because that is completely out right now. You’re real. People like real. Real sells magazines. Dr. Chesterton sent a glowing reference. Said your work was probably the best she’d read in fifteen years of teaching. Okay. So, you can write. That’s been established. What I want to know now is can you work with us? Can you be on a team? You can’t know the answer to that until I tell you what that means. It means working weekends sometimes. It means working late. It means being committed. It means doing stories sometimes that you don’t love. Are you ready to give us all that in order to work with the best national magazine on the stands?”
“Yes ma’am. I certainly am prepared to give it my all. I don’t do things halfway. I’m not afraid of hard work. My only question would be concerning all this book promotion set up by Harper Collins. It seems like I’ll be busy the next few months with that.”
“Certainly. But we understand that, Carlie. We want that. Every time someone interviews you, it will be said that you’re a writer for Today’s Woman magazine. That’s work as far as we’re concerned. Valuable work. Profitable work. And if this book does what we think it’s gonna do, well, you could do a lot for our magazine. And we tend to be generous with people who do a lot for the magazine. But with that said, we expect you to be working on stories while you’re doing your promotional rounds. We’ll start you on a story as soon as you get moved. We expect you to drop our name when you’re making the talk show rounds. We may also want you to sort through piles of story submissions we have and help us uncover the best new ideas.”
&nb
sp; “Yes ma’am. I’m ready.”
Mrs. Thomas scribbled something on a piece of paper and said, “Here’s where we’re prepared to start you plus a moving stipend, of course. Think about it and get back with me. You’re hired, Carlie. You have a job if you want it. But you have to decide if you want it. It can’t be that you kinda want it. You have to know.”
I looked at the paper, thought about ten years of stocking shelves, and said, “I want it, Mrs. Thomas. I do.”
She stood, extended her hand, and said, “Welcome to the family, Carlie. You won’t regret it. This is a smart career move. You won’t get any better experience or better exposure. Diane will help you find temporary housing. We want you here as soon as possible. What about the week after Christmas? Is that doable?”
“Yes ma’am. I’d already told Joan I’d be back and ready to do more promotional work on the twenty-sixth.”
“We’re good to go then. Joan is sending over some info. She said you can stay in their provided housing until the first of the year. We’ll help you find a place as of the first. By the way, be prepared to see half that salary go to housing. It’s not cheap here, Carlie. You’ll still need to be tight with your money.”
“I understand how to be tight with money. Really. You have no idea.”
“Okay then. Diane, show Ms. Davidson where her desk will be. And get Joan from Harper Collins on the line.”
Diane never spoke. She dialed the phone at the speed of sound, patched Joan through, and led me by the arm to a big open room where several men and women had back-to-back desks. Some were on the phone. Others were on the computer. And some looked like they were working on a group project for school. It looked like a place of chaos and creativity. Did those two things always go together? My desk faced a window, which made me happy. I’d always loved windows and light. But all I could see was city. Diane asked proudly, “Isn’t this a beautiful view?” I nodded. But I knew that it wasn’t. A beautiful view was a group of deer in a quiet cornfield.
