Charlie came over and kissed my cheek. “Behave yourself while I’m gone.”
“Whatever. Just don’t take long. They’re on their way.”
They moved through the screened in door, Jacks hot on her trail.
She waved over her back as they approached the path between the dunes, taking them through to the beach. I walked to the edge of the porch, wine slowly disappearing from my glass as I watched them make their way to the swelling tide, Jacks snapping at waves as they twisted between his legs.
Before long I heard the crackle of gravel and shell in the driveway. I walked to the front door as Amy and Nicole drove up to the house. When they parked below the steps, an excited-looking Amy jumped out first, followed by Nicole. Amy turned and whispered something into her ear, and then kissed her face.
“Being gay doesn’t entitle anyone to that much happiness,” I shouted down after them.
Amy took off up the steps to meet me on the lower landing.
“Look at you—” she erupted out of mid-sentence, throwing herself at my chest and twisting her arms around my back. Her lips met my ear. “And I’m sorry about hanging up last night.”
“Don’t be.” I pulled away and kissed her face, tasting the last cigarette at the airport. Soft brown ringlets fell off her shoulders; her hair was much longer than the last time I’d seen her but just as beautiful. A spark of excitement grew out of her eyes like candles in a window.
She shot me a wink as she started to pass inside. “Good, because I’m calling a meeting of the WFHWTC’s tonight, I expect the president to be there.” Her nose went to the air, sniffing the aroma which exhausted every crevasse of the house. “God, that smells good.” She grabbed my glass of wine off the table without asking. “And I love your candles.” And with that she passed straight on through to the porch, pulled out a cigarette and lit up.
Like daggers thrown at the assistant on the spinning wheel, her words pierced the shallow exterior around me. I smiled casually and looked politely on cue with the audience, yet somewhere deep, in that cavernous pit of a place where terrible things are sometimes thrown away, a grave feeling of unease rose over me. And I couldn’t help remembering our childhood, the one I personally set on fire, its gray ashes long scattered by the wind.
*****
“I see you haven’t changed, just gotten fatter.” Nicole strolled by with a shrewd smirk, hand pushing a large pair of Gucci sunglasses down her nose. “And who decorated this place? It looks like a Keebler elf took a shit in here.” She looked at the wood paneled walls that were at least forty years out of date.
Her red hair was pulled up into twin pigtails, and I couldn’t resist. “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong house.” I pointed down the beach. “The Pippy Long Stocking convention’s on the other end of the island.”
“Alright, we’ve gotta stop. You and I have to play nice,” she said. “Amy laid down the ground rules when we got off the plane.”
Nicole was at least eight or ten years younger than my sister and drop-dead gorgeous. Smooth, tanned skin and intense features gave her an electric quality. Her smart mouth gave her something else, but I loved it. “She did, huh?”
“Any suggestions?”
Amy could suck the fun out of a light bulb. “Hell if I know.”
I watched Nicole flip me the bird from behind her back.
“Cheater.”
She spun around, grinning. “So, where’s the high-speed connection, assbag?”
“The what?”
“The internet.” Her eyes went up in her head. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“I’m from Alabama.” I slowed down my speech to a crawl. “We only use them there cans and string.”
“Really? Alabama is coming up in the world.”
“Let me guess.” I stared at her. “Need to proof another article on the top ten ways to have sex in an elevator?”
“Actually, it’s not that elaborate.” She sprayed her words around, taking in the place. “More of a How To piece.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing I’d be interested in.”
“Only if you don’t have balls.” Nicole smiled as she placed her sunglasses into her hair, bright smoke-silver in their reflection. “That’s why I’m dedicating the piece to you.”
“Didn’t know I inspire such journalistic excellence.” I thumbed the door closed behind us.
She walked up close. Across the bridge of her nose, and offset by a small hump, was a slight scar that curled down into her left cheek. It was barely visible anymore. Several plastic surgeries had been needed to repair the damage where the butt of a gun had been smashed into her face, the effects of a struggle in not wanting to give up her purse during a street mugging. “You think you’re so smart don’t you?”
“Not as much smart, as just smarter than you.”
“That’s enough!” Amy stepped between us as she strolled back inside. “I know this might be a stretch for the two of you—what with sleeping under the same roof and all—but I really want this weekend to be civil. So the silly thing the two of you have going on, it’s not going to work. Do we understand each other?”
Nicole seized up. “I will, if he will.”
“You both will.” Amy snapped.
I looked at Nicole. “She always so testy?”
“Mostly in the morning.”
“You see how her eyes are squinting?” I pointed around Amy’s face, where a thin set of wrinkles were the only thing that suggested her age. “That’s when she’s most dangerous.”
“Cute! Real cute.” She walked over and grabbed Nicole by the hand. “You, come with me. We’ll get our stuff in the room before we eat.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “Do we have time?”
I looked at my watch. “Maybe five minutes,” I explained, perfectly aware of the fact it would be more like fifteen. Amy had no sense of time.
After they disappeared down the hall, I pulled the potatoes and ciabatta from the oven, found an electric knife and sliced the bread on an old wooden cutting board.
“What smells so good?” Charlie kicked off her sandals as she walked in. Jacks peered out behind her, coated in sand and carrying a pastel colored ball.
I saw the same twinkle of happiness I used to see in Jenn’s face before the cancer. More than ever she reminded me of her mother and I didn’t want that feeling to end. “Come here, you. I want to show you something.” I came out of the kitchen, work towel thrown over my shoulder and a glass of wine in hand, and turned the corner until I stood in front of the wall of pictures covering the foyer entrance. It took a second, but I found it. Standing in the pale dawn of an early sun was a single wedding photo of my wife. Reaching out, I slowly lifted it away. “I remember this pretty well. Fall of ’81. Amy took it the morning of our wedding. It was just daylight out.”
Nicole had snuck up behind us, putting her hands on Charlie’s shoulders. “Hey, girl!”
“Oh, my God! You guys got here. You look great.” And they hugged. “Where’s Amy?”
“She’s coming.” Nicole looked at the picture and brushed the glass with her hand. “Wow! Your mom was a looker.”
“How old was she, Daddy?”
“Twenty-one.”
“I was six years older than her, I guess.” The math came easy. “What, twenty-seven?”
“God, I wish she were here.” Charlie took the photograph and hung it back in the spot on the wall, thumb leveling it in place at the bottom.
My eyes never left Jenn. The same hollow void still stirred in my throat, one I drowned the last twenty years. It screamed for release. The answer was to pull the nearest cork and quietly push it under. We had built a relationship, the dead and I, inside of a bottle. Over the years, it was the only thing deep enough to kill the noise.
*****
Salt shell fell off the prime rib. The smell filled my head with warm feelings, like my ears were stuffed full of herb butter. With a twist of the cord on the electric knife, I began cutting sections of meat a
nd laying them on a serving plate.
“All right, everybody, pick a spot.”
With the potatoes in one hand and the main course in the other, I laid everything on the table. Charlie grabbed the dressing and began tossing the salad, as Amy grabbed the ice.
I passed the plate of prime rib to Nicole on my left as Jacks gathered under the table and sat with his head between my legs.
“Dig in.”
Food began moving with the sound of spoons and a clattering of forks; dishes went from bare to full in a few minutes.
Nicole stood up and, with a long splash of white horseradish sauce on the corner of her lip, leaned over to grab a slice of bread. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“Same place you learned to stuff your mouth.”
She opened hers mid-chew. “Where’s that, Seefood Institute of Technology?”
“You two are like children. It’s annoying.” Amy looked across the table at Charlie. “How’s school?”
“Pretty good.”
“Just pretty good?”
“Better be going great for what it’s costing,” I said.
“Yeah, about that. I’m taking the fall off next year.”
I cocked an eye in her direction. “Excuse me.”
“Something’s kind of come up.”
I rolled my eyes. “Put it off.”
Charlie stared at her plate. “That’s just it, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m pregnant.”
I shook my head as if to clear the cobwebs. “Say that again.”
“Oh, stop it, Lee,” Amy barked. “You heard her.”
“How did you get pregnant?”
Nicole patted my hand. “I’ll explain it to you later.”
“Thank you doctor.”
Amy charged on despite my shock. “Do you have any names picked out?”
“Names? What about who’s the father?”
Charlie picked at her plate. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. You’d just blow it out of proportion.”
“What? Are you getting married or something? I don’t see a ring.”
“You know him.”
“I bet I don’t.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Charlie’s eyes bored into mine. “When he’s your favorite baseball player.”
“Say that again.”
“Pick Johnson. The centerfielder for the Braves.”
I started salivating; my man-crush thing flared up. Her being pregnant suddenly pushed second fiddle to the autograph I was hoping to get.
Amy rested her fork on the plate. “Lee, close your mouth.”
Charlie grinned. “I haven’t said anything, because of the distractions. He’s got spring ball right now. We just haven’t gotten that far on the details.”
“Pick Johnson? On the cover of Sports Illustrated this month? Pick the Dick.” I was already thinking up nicknames.
“Don’t you dare call him that.” She playfully turned the fork around in her hand as though she might stab me. “And no, we don’t have any names yet. But I like Daddy’s.”
Amy bristled. “There’s plenty of better names out there than his, trust me.”
“She’s right. What in the world would you want to name him Lee for? It rhymes with pee, for God’s sake. It’s a play ground nightmare, trust me.” I waved my hand at her. “Go with something like Tom. It’s too hard for the average kid to make fun of. Best you can do is Tom the bomb. Who could hate that?”
“It’s not a popularity contest,” Charlie said.
“But a popular family.” Nicole remarked. “Not everybody’s daddy was on the cover of Time Magazine either.”
I nearly choked on my food, but managed to keep eating. The drop of a pin could have shattered the silence. My fingers wrapped around the handle of my knife, and, for a second, I wanted to pin it to her tongue.
Nicole looked me dead in the eyes. “Charlie know Amy’s writing a book?”
Amy smacked her on the leg from under the table. “I told you not to bring it up.”
“I don’t know why not. You’re halfway done. And it’s not like you haven’t been paid an advance to write the thing.”
“About what?” Charlie asked.
Amy stared at her mostly empty plate.
“It’s a memoir,” Nicole revealed. “After she told me about her childhood, I encouraged her to start outlining her thoughts on paper. She wrote two chapters. I passed them on to a friend at HarperCollins. Three weeks later, they optioned it.”
I sat there amused. Funny how alcohol and shock worked so well together. “Since when?”
“That’s why I sent it to you to read.” Amy pressed her hands down in her lap and sighed. “It was like therapy when it started. Only it took on all of our voices.”
“So, it’s not just about you?” Charlie asked.
“It’s about our childhood.” Amy turned across the table. “Everything that happened to us.”
Charlie glanced at me. “What’s she talking about?”
I bit the top of my lip, staring at Amy. “Don’t look at me for help.”
“I can’t finish it without you.” Amy locked onto me, face swelling with tears. “And you know it. What happened to Paul in prison. Chimayo. Our stepfather. No more secrets.”
I steadied my trembling hand on my wine glass. “So we can be the laughing stocks of the country? You’re not even changing the names.”
“Who’s cares? Everybody’s dead, Lee.”
“You act like I didn’t get the memo.”
“I deserve to hear this—they were my family, too!”
Panic rose up in my throat. It’s not just your history to share. If that was selfish, I could give a shit. Like a secret brand, all the hurt and heartache of my life had been burned into the fabric of my skin: the distorted reminders of a maligned youth, the deep transient purples and severe blues of emotional scars.
“Why won’t you help her?” Charlie asked.
“Listen to me.” I bounced around from face to face. “People think they don’t want to be lied to—”
“That’s not true,” Nicole said.
“You’re full of shit and you know it? The truth doesn’t set somebody free. It fucking crushes you.”
“Not everybody deals with being hurt the way you do,” Amy said. “It’s not some big mystery that you lock everybody out. Deflecting with that smart mouth of yours.”
“Yeah! Well, excuuuuse me!” I did my best Steve Martin, less the arrow through the head. “If it were any of your business, you’d know about it. You’re not the only one at this table with problems.”
Charlie threw her napkin at me. “Daddy, nobody’s attacking you here, it’s just…if there’s one thing you could stand to change, it’s that.”
I glared across the table at my daughter and started clapping my hands. “Congratulations. You’ve managed to solve all my subtle little complexities in the span of an hour. And here I thought I’d be more of a difficult read than your average dust jacket. Guess when I look in the mirror tonight, I’ll see how shallow of a story I really am.”
“Obviously, you don’t need any help, Mr. Perfect.” Charlie stood up, slamming her chair backward. “You’re doing so well on your own. It’s just the rest of us that are so screwed up.”
“You’re drunk,” Amy said.
“Figure that one out on your own, too?”
Charlie walked around the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna get some fresh air.”
“I looked out over the deck as she moved towards the stairs, Jacks right behind her. “Hey. Hey! The conversation’s just getting warmed up in here. Don’t go running off angry.”
“Don’t worry,” she yelled back. “I’m not you.” The screened-in door sounded off like a perfect exclamation.
“Finally then, I hope we’re all clear on that point—none of you happen to be me,” I directed at the table, the buzz of the wine spinning in my head.
Nicole’s face turned
red. “You selfish, closed-minded son-of-a-bitch. If you gave a shit about anybody but yourself, you’d know this was about dealing with the pain—maybe more significant—healing the scars left behind. But you can’t see that, because nobody lives in the dark like you. Turn on a fucking light and open your eyes—your stepfather raped her. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
The Weight of Glass Page 8
