Beauty and the Mustache

by Penny Reid

  Sandra crossed to me. She gripped then squeezed my shoulders. “Look, all I know is, he came up here and looked at you like he knew you. Then he looked at you like he wanted to know you better. Then he looked at you like he was undressing you with his eyes. Then, most incriminating of all, he looked at you like he hated you.”

  “Yes. I noticed it too,” Elizabeth chimed in. “He was basically staring at you the whole time. There was nothing subtle about it.” She nodded her head for emphasis, though her expression was sympathetic.

  I sputtered, floundered, and settled on saying, “You’ve got the last part right. He does hate me.”

  “Yes, he probably does.” Sandra narrowed her eyes as she stepped back and surveyed me from head to toe. “I think he does hate you…in a way.”

  I stared at them because I could do nothing else. My brain was still slippery, overwhelmed. This was not a conversation I needed or wanted to have, especially not now.

  My history with men was terrible.

  My whole life—all twenty-six years of it—could be measured in the number of times I’d allowed myself to be conned by men, my father being the first. Then came my brothers (although their normalcy and kindness now had me all mixed up). Then came my best friend in high school, Jackson James. Then came every guy I’d dated in college and graduate school. They saw a nice piece of ass and a pretty face, and heard a southern accent and assumed it meant I was low class and uneducated.

  I had a gift for attracting assholes and users, probably because every boy I knew growing up—and then every man I knew—eventually treated me like garbage. Now, working with big-ego, chauvinistic, ivy-league medical doctors was great. They served as a daily reminder of what real men were like and why my heart was safer with the fictional variety.

  Plus, I wanted to believe that Sandra and Elizabeth were both wrong about Drew. I needed to believe they were wrong. But that was hard to do when I recalled the look of complete aggravation he’d given me in the quonset hut the day before, the Nietzsche quotes he’d intoned implying that I was a cow, and the fact that he was fictionally handsome.

  Everyone knows that in real life, fictionally handsome men are vacuous vessels of Satan.

  Add to all of this the fact that it didn’t matter. How Drew felt about me was completely irrelevant. My hot and cold feelings about him were irrelevant.

  My life was in Chicago, not Tennessee. I needed to keep my head down, live through the next four to six weeks (or so), soak up as much time as possible with Momma, then get back to my peaceful and unremarkable existence reading books and knitting.

  Above all, I was going to avoid vacuous vessels of Satan.

  “I can’t deal with this right now,” I said. “I can’t even deal with the thought of it. My brain feels like it’s covered in Crisco. Time is moving too fast and too slow. I have no desire to be liked or hated by Drew or anyone else.”

  “No desire?” Sandra prompted. “None whatsoever?”

  “How can you ask me that?”

  “Well, his parts fit with your parts. And he’s here. And he’s interested. And he’s extremely easy on the eyes despite the fact that he never speaks. And you’re both alive, so necrophilia isn’t an issue.”

  “Do you really think I’m here on a man hunt?”

  “No, of course not, and that’s not what I meant. But you’re allowed to notice a hot guy.”

  “Of course I’ve noticed! How could I not? He’s like a Viking cowboy.”

  “Does he give you zings in your things?” Sandra asked this question using her best serious face.

  I groaned. “Yes, if that means what I think it means, which means he’s bad news. I have the uncanny ability to attract only users and assholes. It’s like I’ve got a sign on me someplace that tells nice men to steer clear. If what you’re saying about Drew is correct and he is attracted to me, then I guarantee you he’s a jerk.”

  Sandra studied me with curious detachment, and I knew before she opened her mouth that she was no longer my friend Sandra; she was now Shrink Sandra.

  “Why do you think you only attract users and assholes?”

  “Because I do.”

  “You’ve never dated a nice man?”

  “I did once—in high school. I dated a really nice boy named Jackson James—or at least he was nice to me until I admitted that I wasn’t attracted to him. Then he made a big, public fuss, told everyone we’d slept together, and refused to talk to me again.”

  “And…?”

  “After that, I promised myself I’d only date men I was attracted to, because I never wanted to hurt someone like that again. And since then, I’ve had my heart broken twice. The first time you know about—Grant, in college, the son of that big shot Wall Street tycoon.”

  “Sorry,” Sandra said, her expression grim at the memory. “I’d forgotten about Grant.”

  “What happened with Grant?” Elizabeth looked between the two of us.

  Sandra glanced at me and I shrugged my shoulders, indicating that I didn’t care if she shared.

  “He was an asshole. He was dating two other girls. But,” Sandra added, turning to me, “he was a smooth asshole, wasn’t he? There was no way of knowing what he was up to. And when you found out, you broke up with him.”

  This was all true. He was a really good liar. What I didn’t tell Sandra was that when I broke up with him, he told me I was trash—I was a pretty face and a nice piece of ass, but all I’d ever be was backwoods, ignorant trash. He even said he would have been embarrassed to introduce me to his family, and that no man would want me once my looks faded.

  It hurt my heart to think about it now, mostly because I was stupid enough to fall for him in the first place.

  “And Sam wasn’t your fault either.” Sandra said this as friend Sandra. “He was just a flake.”

  Sam was my boyfriend for three months in graduate school, and I’d fallen hard. He was a musician who decided that he wasn’t ready for a serious girlfriend; this was after we’d had sex, of course, and he’d told me he loved me. Six months after we broke up, he married a record executive’s daughter.

  “Do I want to know about Sam?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No,” Sandra said, and made a face like she’d just remembered what sour milk tasted like. Then she turned to me. “That’s two guys, Ashley. That’s hardly enough to make you swear off men.”

  “No, that’s three guys if you count my childhood friend Jackson. If you count my father, then that’s four guys who have broken my heart. If you count my brothers, then we’re up to ten.”

  Sandra pressed her lips together and stared at me. “Drew is smokin’ hot, got a head full of brains, doesn’t bother much with chit-chat, and will be coming by daily.”

  “But he’s also pushy and entitled, and he rubs me the wrong way.”

  Elizabeth muttered under her breath, “If you let him, I think he’ll gladly rub you the right way.”

  I stared at her, my eyeballs bugging out of my head. Then I flopped back on the bed, covered my face with my hands, and groaned. “Are we really talking about this? With my mother downstairs, sick and… she’s not going to get better.”

  Sandra sighed. “Yes, and we’re sorry.” I felt the bed depress at my side. Sandra lay next to me and threw her arm and leg over my body, hugging me. “You’re really vulnerable right now. It’s natural to want and actually crave physical comfort. Drew would likely love to provide you with physical comfort. The thing is, there’s an intensity about this guy that makes me worry for you. I just wanted to see if you returned his interest.”

  “Well I don’t. I’m not interested in Drew.”

  Elizabeth chimed in. “You have a lot going on.”

  “Exactly.” I felt Sandra nod next to my shoulder then squeeze me. “You’re a sensitive soul. You read poetry for fun! You’re a romantic. I don’t want you leaving Tennessee with two broken hearts.”

  I shook my head, opened my eyes, and faced Sandra. She looked worried.

  �
�I’ve learned my lesson, Sandra. I know better than to trust men. I’ll just ignore him.”

  She gave me a little smile. “I doubt he’s going to be easy to ignore. He strikes me as the stubborn type.”

  “He is stubborn, but he won’t make a move. Even if what you’re saying is true—which it isn’t—he won’t push me. My brothers trust him. And, more importantly, Momma trusts him.”

  “Honey, I hope you’re right.” She cupped my cheek, her smile wary and small. “But you should know, my dearest, that you don’t need to be pushed in order to fall.”

  ***

  “Tell us more about Ashley as a little girl,” Elizabeth said eagerly, her eyes darting to mine then back to Momma’s. “Was she a rough-and–tumble kind of girl, or was she decked out in pink chiffon?”

  It was Sandra and Elizabeth’s last day, and we were all sitting in the den. Momma’s weekday hospice nurse, Marissa, had also stopped by to train the weekend nurse, Tina. However, Marissa had stayed after Tina left and Joe had arrived for his shift, explaining that it was her day off and she wasn’t in any rush to leave.

  So, we all sat around Momma’s bed chatting and drinking mint iced tea. It was nice to share my friends with Momma and vice versa, like two parts of my heart coming together. Additionally, their presence was comforting in general; this was especially true after Elizabeth heard back from our oncologist friend in Chicago. In his expert opinion, nothing could be done for my mother other than make her last weeks comfortable.

  My mom sighed at Elizabeth’s question, a happy smile on her face, and her eyes lost a bit of focus as she recalled what I was like in my growing-up years. “She was a bit of both, really. She loved to run wild with her brothers—when they weren’t being big meanies.” She paused and winked at me, then continued. “But she also liked to get dressed up in my clothes and shoes. One time I found her with lipstick all over her face.” She chuckled briefly, the smile lingering behind her eyes.

  I shook my head and grinned at the memory. “I was five and thought makeup consisted of only lipstick, meaning in order to put makeup on I just needed to put lipstick everywhere and it would magically do what it needed to do.”

  Sandra leaned in close to my mom and said, “That’s how she puts on makeup now, too.” Her tone was conspiratorial and her expression serious. “We’re all too polite to correct her. It’s very awkward when we go to the circus; everyone thinks she works there.”

  Marissa and Elizabeth laughed.

  “Sandra, I’ve known you three days, and I can’t imagine politeness stops you from saying anything.” My mother grinned and winked at my friend.

  Sandra sighed. “It’s true. What is this politeness of which you speak?”

  Momma laughed but then her breath hitched, and she winced and closed her eyes.

  The mood in the room changed instantly. My hands balled into fists. Both Marissa and I stood and crossed to the bed as Joe handed Momma the remote that controlled the morphine pump. “Bethany, you shouldn’t be afraid to use the medication,” he said to her, his tone warm and kind. “It’s meant to help.”

  Momma nodded and pressed the button once. “I know.” Her voice was gravelly, unsteady. “I think maybe I’m just tired.”

  Elizabeth and Sandra exchanged looks then stood and began clearing dishes.

  “Oh, girls, don’t go yet,” Momma protested.

  “Don’t think you can get rid of us,” Sandra said over her shoulder, pausing just inside the door to the den. “We’ll be back. We’re just going to steal your daughter for a bit while we make dinner, but after that, we’re coming in to do those tequila shots.”

  “You better rest up, Bethany,” Marissa said, giving my mother a teasing look, referring to Sandra when she added, “Texas girls mean business.”

  Momma’s medicine was already kicking in when we left. Marissa offered to stay behind just in case she woke up so I could help Sandra and Elizabeth with dinner.

  We’d made it just three steps down the hall when we were stopped by Roscoe. He gave us all a warm smile. I noted that he had a vase of wildflowers in his hands. Often, over the last several days, I had mused that Roscoe reminded me of a puppy—eager to please and hungry for affection.

  “Hey! Is Momma still up?” he asked.

  “Uh, kind of,” I said. “She’s just resting now.”

  His face fell just slightly and he sighed. “Ah, well. I’ll just poke my head in and leave these by her bed, maybe sit with her for a while.”

  “What’s going on?” Billy appeared at the end of the hall and walked toward us.

  He looked like he’d just come home from work. Apparently, he worked all the time, because today was Saturday, and he’d already put in some long hours during the workweek, coming home after 7:00 p.m. every day.

  Sandra stepped forward and threw her thumb over her shoulder. “Go on in, Roscoe. Marissa is in there already; you could keep her company.” The subtle shift in Sandra’s tone had me looking at her with suspicion.

  Roscoe’s eyes brightened. “Really?”

  Billy scowled. “What’s she doing here? I thought she only worked during the week.”

  “She was training the weekend nurse,” Elizabeth said, shimmying past my brothers on her way to the kitchen. “We’ve invited her to stay for dinner.”

  Billy grumbled something then turned, and walked down the hall toward the living room, but Roscoe stood a little straighter, his eyes moving to the den.

  “Go on in, handsome,” Sandra said, giving him a little grin.

  He nodded once then walked past us to the door, tapping lightly before entering.

  I watched Billy walk away, feeling a wistful sense of regret. He made me feel a bit like a usurper, like I was down here playing a role. Or maybe his frosty attitude toward me magnified my own feelings on the subject.

  I caught Sandra eyeing me up and down, so I returned her assessing stare.

  “What?” I said.

  “What?” she retorted.

  I narrowed my eyes further as we walked into the kitchen. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Elizabeth was already bustling about the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans and vegetables.

  “Oh, nothing,” Sandra said breezily, and I noticed she was rinsing the glasses with more vigor than necessary. “By the way, did you see that you have a summer garden in the backyard?” she continued. “I asked your mother about it this morning during our one-on-one Sandra-and-Bethany coffee time. She planted the seeds a few weeks ago, but forgot about it. You have tomato plants, squash, lettuce, and green beans coming up.”

  “Okay….”

  “Where’s the good Dr. Runous? He’s been scarce these last few days.” Sandra’s topic change gave me whiplash, and I blinked in confusion, trying to keep up.

  “I…don’t know.”

  “You probably scared him away.” Elizabeth’s eyes flickered to Sandra’s and her voice was low. It sounded like a warning.

  I’d definitely noticed Drew’s absence. I’d seen him twice over the last three days and only in passing when he, Jethro, Billy, and Roscoe returned from some sort of exercise. They’d all walked in, hot and sweaty, both times. Drew had stopped to talk with Momma for a bit, but then he’d disappeared, and I’d been left with the image of a hot and sweaty Drew imprinted on my brain.

  I didn’t like that I’d noticed how very, very nice Drew looked after a period of heavy exertion. Therefore, I redoubled my efforts to push him from my mind. I wasn’t in Tennessee to ogle Drew-flavored eye-candy. I was here to take care of my mother. Besides, more and more—as he seemed to be going out of his way to avoid me—I got the impression that he had mixed feelings toward me as well.

  Sandra nodded to confirm Elizabeth’s warning. “You also have eight roosters,” she said, back on the topic of random farm observations.

  I blinked, startled by the number, and—again—the new subject. “Eight? What do we need eight roosters for?”

  “I don’t know. Betha
ny said she was planning on butchering all of them but one, but never got around to it. You really only need one rooster to keep the hens in line, and the hens are strictly for laying eggs. Can you imagine how frustrating it must be for all those roosters, hanging around, crowing up a storm, picking fights with each other? I’m surprised one of them hasn’t flown the coop. That’s why there’s that constant ruckus outside. You need to eat some of those cocks before you end up with a rooster situation.”

  I blinked at her with a deadpan expression, refusing to take the bait.

  With lightning speed, Sandra once again changed the subject. “Oh, and I like your hospice nurse, Marissa. She’s totally sassy. Your brothers are already fighting for her affections. I wish I could stick around and see who ends up on top….” Sandra paused and lifted her eyebrow for emphasis, “… of Marissa.”

  “Could you be any more gauche?” Elizabeth shook her head.

  Sandra snorted, wiped her hands, and crossed to Elizabeth. “Don’t pretend like you’re shocked. You’re a pervy perv too. And you’re wondering the same thing. My money is on Billy.”

  “Billy? He barely acknowledges her.” Sandra paused. “No, I’m thinking Roscoe. He’s very charming, and he looks like he knows how to wield his axe.”

  “Oh, my God, they’re my brothers! Ugh.” A bubble of laughter escaped me and I shook my head, trying to keep my expression stern. I recognized what they were doing. They were trying to distract me from my grief and worry by being silly and gross. It was working.

  “Everyone in this house needs some sexual healing. Marissa said she had sisters. I wonder how many she has. If you still don’t want to get on Drew, maybe she’s got a brother you could ride.” Sandra winked at me.

  “Just stop, please stop. I already walked in on the twins using their healing hands. No matter how much bleach I drink, I’ll never be able to completely cleanse my mind or forget the horror of that sight.”

  “Wait, did you say twins?” Sandra paused, glancing over my shoulder as her mind worked. She refocused her gaze on me. “Were they using healing hands on each other? Together?”

  “Sandra! That’s disgusting!” Elizabeth smacked her on the shoulder.