Nesting

by Renee Mackenzie

  At the next light, Cam eyed a pair of rusted gas pumps beneath a faded Schlitz sign hanging in front of a shack. On the other side of the road was a dilapidated building lettered in time-streaked black print: Petticoat Junction. For the first time since she’d gotten into the truck, she wished the old man was going slower so she could get a better look. Everything was so different from what Cam was used to in Baltimore.

  Noticing scenery was nothing new to Cam. It was a familiar thing to do, since she was always along for the ride. Starting up another hill, the truck fought the slope and Cam sat up straighter in the seat.

  The old man flipped off the air conditioner, and the truck lurched forward with the extra power. “So, why ain’t you stayed on the interstate?”

  “One of my rides said this way was quicker.” A couple Cam rode with in North Carolina had fought for miles. It got so bad, she’d asked to be dropped at a country store when they left the interstate for gas. From there she’d been zigzagged all over North and South Carolina. It seemed everyone knew a different best way to get to Augusta.

  Just past a store called Stop ’n Shop, the old man slowed down. “Ten dollars says it’s that one,” he said as he pointed a fat finger.

  “Huh?”

  He pointed toward three dogs by the road, ahead and to their left. The scrawniest, a yellow one, was sandwiched between two black dogs. “There been five dogs so far. Odds are one’s roadkill before the day is over.” Again he jabbed his finger toward the dogs. “Ten dollars says it’s the yellow one.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Cam answered, nudging the Anne Murray cassette case with her running shoe. She wondered if her aunt had any dogs. Aunt Jess had been about to get her one from the pound when Cam’s mother came and took her away.

  The old man leaned forward. “Yeah?”

  Cam sighed. “Sure.” After six years of living with her aunt, it was over just like that—no fighting to keep her, no nothing, just “I’m sorry, it’s for the best.” She wondered if her trek to see Jess in Augusta was the right thing to do.

  The old man gunned the engine and turned left, cutting off a logging truck. Cam held on and planted her feet against the floorboard. She cracked the Anne Murray case in at least two more places.

  The old man turned the truck around at the mouth of a red clay driveway and faced it back the way they had come. The dogs scattered when he accelerated. He maneuvered the truck past one black dog and swerved wide to the right. He almost broadsided the yellow dog and barely missed the second black one.

  “What the hell?” Cam’s duffle bag slid off her lap as the old man jerked the truck back onto the road. “You almost hit… What did you do that for?”

  Without looking at her, the old man held out his hand, palm up. “I missed on purpose. But you still owe me ten dollars.”

  “Are you nuts?” Cam leaned away from him and stared at the almost lineless palm of his hand.

  “A bet’s a bet. Gimme my ten dollars.” He laughed. “Or you want me to go back and finish it up?”

  Cam just stared at him, and the old man pulled off the road again.

  “Please don’t. Don’t go back.” Cam turned around and watched the dogs shuffle around the shoulder of the road.

  The old man threw the truck into reverse and backed closer to the dogs. Another logging truck raced by.

  “Paying up?” the old man asked as he stopped the truck about fifteen feet from the dogs. “Whatcha say?” He extended a fat hand to her.

  She fought the taste of bile as she shifted her hips to pull her wallet from her back pocket. Her hands shook as she fingered the ragged edge of the address she’d torn from the envelope that had contained her aunt’s letter. When she handed over the ten dollar bill, only seven dollars remained.

  The old man grinned and stuffed the bill into his shirt pocket. He pulled his glasses from his face, studied them a moment, and rubbed the lenses against the rough, stained truck upholstery. After putting his glasses back on, he jerked the truck into gear and turned back toward Augusta.

  That did not just almost happen, Cam told herself. She automatically reached for the absent seatbelt. She worried that she should have seen it coming, that she was a grownup now and should have known better.

  How could she possibly describe to Aunt Jess what had just happened? Even after her mom stopped chasing men and dreams all over the country, even after her mom returned home and ripped Cam away from her aunt, even after Cam had grown so angry at Aunt Jess for not insisting Cam stay with her, even after all that, Cam imagined telling Jess about the things in her life that mattered. She’d daydreamed of telling her aunt about the state track meet her junior year, getting her driver’s license, graduating.

  The old man chuckled. “So, he’s gonna surprise a woman, huh?”

  It took Cam a minute to remember that her ride thought she was a dude, and that he was referring to her surprising her aunt.

  “Women are funny things.” He glanced at Cam. “Yes, they are.”

  They passed a small, brick church. This Baptist Church, that Missionary Church. She must have passed a hundred of them so far, all with cutesy slogans on signs, like bumper stickers for churches. Cam wondered if the old man went to church. She sneaked a peek at him as he fiddled with the snuff in his mouth. Did his fat hands grip a leather-bound Bible every Sunday? Did the minty stink linger about him as he sang hymns?

  Cam could imagine Aunt Jess going to one of the small, white churches, or even to one of the huge, brick, neatly landscaped churches. She could picture her going to an Episcopal church, like the one where Cam had been confirmed back when she was twelve and still living with Jess. Cam would have known more about her aunt if she hadn’t thrown a temper tantrum and cut off all contact. She’d just been so hurt when Jess handed her back to her mother.

  Another church, another sign. “Fear God and you will have nothing else to fear.” At least it wasn’t another “If God is your copilot, swap seats.”

  The old man’s head jerked toward a small church. His fat fingers thumped against the steering wheel and punctuated his distracted words, “God and country.”

  Cam gave the old man a questioning look and glanced in the side mirror as a BMW came up fast behind them. A sign welcomed them to Beech Island. She didn’t feel welcomed. Aunt Jess saying she loved her was one thing, but welcoming Cam into her home was another.

  Just past a fire station, there were two more dogs on the side of the road. Cam braced her feet against the floor. She was going to be ready for whatever stunt the old man might pull with those dogs. She consciously slowed her breathing, hoping to hide her nervousness. When the dogs were flea-sized specks in the side mirror, she relaxed.

  “God, and country, and history,” the old man said.

  Cam’s stomach was doing flips and flops that got worse the closer they got to Augusta. She took several long breaths and tried to calm herself. “History is important,” she said.

  “See there, you know.” Over and over, the old man nodded his small, gray-haired head. “You know what else is important?”

  “Family,” Cam whispered.

  “Yes, family. Exactly.”

  Ahead, smokestacks ascended into the blue-gray sky and exhaled a mustard-colored breath that dissipated into the clouds. A burnt smell permeated the truck, mixing with the ever-present odor of stale mint.

  The old man drove over the bridge in the left lane, going much slower than the speed limit. The smokestacks continued their belching.

  “Is that the river?” Cam asked.

  “Yep.”

  Cam coughed as she looked down into the brown water.

  “Yep, I figured I’d drive you over, seeing how dangerous it is these days.” He poked at his glasses. “You’re a pretty good kid.”

  The river was mottled with irregular patches of rippled texture and mirrored smoothness. The smell worsened. Cam’s eyes watered. She held her breath and looked over at the old man, silently asking for an explanation for the burnt feces smel
l filling the truck.

  The old man smiled, and said, “Cricket crap.” He kept his gaze on the road. “You know, it’s the best fertilizer. Cricket crap’s even better than chicken shit. More nitrogen. Next time someone says to you that you don’t know shit, tell them, ‘Oh yes I do.’”

  Suddenly the old man put on the brakes and cut hard to the left. The car behind them laid on the horn as the truck pulled to a stop in the median. The old man announced, “Augusta.”

  Cam stepped out of the truck, and the old man called out to her, “Hey, kid.” He held out the ten dollar bill.

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks.” The old man laughed as he stuffed it back into his shirt pocket and put the truck into gear. “Don’t let anyone get you on that one again.”

  Cam hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. She closed the door, and seconds later, the old man drove off.

  Standing across the street from a sign with a cartoon cricket, Cam breathed in the smell of mound after mound of dark, acrid fertilizer and the foul, yellow breath of industry. Amazed that something smelling that awful could help something else grow, she turned away from it, toward Augusta.

  Chapter Seven

  Stoney-Faced Sea Urchin

  Macy wasn’t exactly sure why she had gone to the hospital. It wasn’t like she and Kenny were close. However, she had once been good friends with Dorianne. Her heartbeat quickened as she thought of those early days.

  “Macy, look here!” Dorianne had had a French fry stuffed up each nostril, then crossed her eyes when Macy looked at her. Macy had laughed until soda came out of her nose.

  Macy studied Kenny, his legs stretched out in front of him, the heel of his right foot balancing on the toe of his left. She couldn’t help but notice how well he’d matured.

  As she walked toward him, Macy worried that he’d tell her to leave. Palms sweating, she wondered who she thought she was, showing up at the hospital. But it was too late to retreat—he’d looked up, recognized her. She tried to feel secure in her back-up story of being there to see Michael.

  Kenny stood, glanced around. “Where’s Jeremiah? He’s okay, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Macy thought his concern was sweet. “I’m not here about J-man. He’s with my mom for the day. I’m here to see Michael, a man I’m dating.”

  “Oh.” His eyebrows knitted closer together.

  “Michael works here. Actually, he’s not working-working today. He’s with friends. His friend Jess has been in the hospital, and she’s going home today. Cancer.” God, why am I rambling on about that?

  “It’s good she’s getting out.”

  “Not really. They’re letting her go because there’s nothing else they can do for her.” Macy’s voice faltered, but she fought against giving in to grief for her new friend. “Enough about that. You’ve got your own things going on.”

  “Yeah. Dori’s having surgery today.” He gave her a puzzled look.

  “Your Aunt Eileen mentioned it.”

  Kenny nodded, and Macy motioned toward the seats. “Mind if I sit with you for a while?”

  “No, of course not.” He returned to his same seat.

  Macy sat one over, facing him. He looked better than she ever remembered seeing him, although understandably a little tired. “So, tell me about Dori’s surgery.”

  “Hysterectomy. Big word to be coming out of my mouth, huh?” He leaned forward. “Dori ain’t never gonna have kids, Macy.”

  “That’s got to be tough.”

  “It’s hell. That’s all she ever wanted. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  When they were real young, Dorianne had a thing about not forsaking old dolls or stuffed animals for new ones. The guilt of abandoning one was too much for her, so she’d have them all lined up on her bed, the ragged with the brand new, careful to give them equal attention.

  It amazed Macy to think of how little she’d thought about Dori the last couple of years. She had kept Dori tucked away, safe in an insulated compartment of her brain.

  Kenny took a deep breath. “And the doctor’s making a fuss about trying to save an ovary. Without the other equipment, what’s the difference?”

  “If they save an ovary, Dori won’t need hormone replacement therapy. Trust me, she’ll be glad for that much.”

  “You women know all about this stuff, huh?”

  “We learn it along the way—if we’re lucky and pay attention.”

  “Dori’s been on the computer looking all this up. She’s smart like that.”

  “Yes, she is. Did the doctor say anything about using a surrogate with Dori’s eggs?”

  “Dori don’t want nothing like that. She said she don’t want no baby that isn’t really ours.”

  “But it would be.”

  He shrugged. “Dori says no.”

  “What do you say?”

  “Guess it don’t matter to me anymore.” He shrugged again, then the color drained from his face as he looked toward the door. “What’s taking so long? God, I couldn’t handle nothing happening to her.” His breathing grew ragged.

  Macy took his hand. “I know, Kenny.” She didn’t know, yet she did, too. She may not have known the mature, intimate love between two adults, but she did know about loving someone so much it made breathing hard, loving someone so much it made you swear the world was spinning in a whirl of worry and wonder, heartburn, and gratitude. She wouldn’t tell Kenny how she loved her son that way, not now that he and Dori wouldn’t have kids.

  She let go of his hand.

  Kenny sighed. “It’s good to talk to someone about this. And it’s good that you understand, being a girl and all.”

  She smiled. Ever since she and Emma had taken a feminist theory class, she hadn’t been able to tolerate being called a girl. But coming from Kenny, it didn’t bother her.

  “Dori would kill me if she knew I was talking to you, of all people.”

  “Still that bad, huh?”

  He nodded. “She’d get all riled up. You know you ain’t her favorite person.”

  “Yeah, but I’m sure she’d understand that you need someone to talk to,” Macy said.

  “That girl understands a lot, but not nothing to do with you.”

  Macy felt the heat rising on her face, and she was pretty sure Kenny could see the blush.

  He gave her a weak smile. “Hey, how’s your mom?”

  “Good. She had been staying with me, but she and Harold got back together, so she’s moved back to Burke County with him.”

  “Harold. Which one’s that?”

  “Husband number three.” Macy kept it to herself that he was probably her least favorite of her mother’s husbands. And she didn’t admit how much she liked her household being back to just her and Jeremiah.

  “Ah,” he said. “Tell me about your new boyfriend.”

  “Michael’s a doctor. He’s sweet.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “The Partridge Inn.” She’d only called Michael to prove that she would. The next thing she knew, she was going out with him, trying to take it slow and make it work. She thought about the veranda, the warm breeze, the mess she’d made of her friendship with Emma.

  “You like him a lot?”

  She hesitated, trying not to let the thoughts of Emma take hold. “Yeah. We haven’t been dating long, but so far so good.”

  An image from the night before flashed through her mind. She and Michael had sat on her sofa talking, while Jeremiah watched TV in his bedroom. Michael kissed her, and she kissed him back, thinking, “This is nice.” It wasn’t lost on her that nice and I can’t get enough of you were two very different things.

  Then J-man had barreled into the room. “Mama, mama, do we need a new slicer-dicer?” Macy had laughed, knowing what was coming next. “For only nineteen ninety-nine we could get a heavy duty slicer-dicer. With its own case.”

  “No, J-man, I don’t think we need one.” She moved a few inches away from Michael.

 
“But if we act now, there’s also a knife set—for free!”

  Macy’s amusement had faded as she considered how, a year earlier, J-man would have told her his daddy would buy him one if she didn’t. Now Jeremiah barely mentioned Jack.

  “That’s great.” Kenny shifted in the narrow hospital seat. “You deserve to find someone special.”

  It took her a moment to realize Kenny wasn’t referring to a new slicer-dicer. Even though she didn’t believe that bit about her deserving anything, she smiled anyway. “Speaking of someone special, have you talked to Jack lately?”

  “Special, my ass. No, ain’t talked to him lately. I see him every now and again when I go by Uncle Russ and Aunt Eileen’s.”

  As they grew up, there had always been comparisons made between Jack and Kenny. Jack was considered the better looking of the cousins, always better at sports, always smarter. Kenny’s eyes were a little closer together, his nose just slightly bigger. But they had the same fine, light brown hair, the same quick, easy smile.

  “I see Jeremiah over there some, too. Sure is a handsome devil,” Kenny said.

  “J-man is that. He always tells me when he sees his Uncle Kenny. He really likes you.”

  Kenny stood and walked several feet away. Fumbling through some magazines, he mumbled, “He’s a good kid.”

  Kenny picked up a Family Circle and sat back down. He drummed his fingers against it in an uneasy beat while they sat without talking for several long moments.

  He tossed the magazine back onto the table. “Hell, Macy, you and me screwed up something fierce. Dori ain’t got no close girlfriends. Hasn’t, not since you, not since high school.”

  She just stared at the magazine Kenny had thrown down. Brightly colored magazine covers bombarded her. Growing up, she and Dorianne had stashed a collection of cheesy romance comics under Macy’s mattress. They’d commandeered the 1960s comics from a box of Macy’s mom’s stuff in the attic.

  “You and Dori were always together,” Kenny said.

  Locked in Macy’s bedroom, they read Romance! and First Love out loud. Their overly dramatic voices were laced with an undercurrent of giggles trying to burst up to the surface.