Beauty and the Mustache

by Penny Reid

  “Ash, Ash—come quick. Momma says she has something to tell you.” He paused just long enough to wave me forward then dashed back down the hall.

  I set the pot down and barely registered the sound as it fell to the floor behind me. I was already jogging out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the den.

  Momma’s eyes were open, and she looked completely lucid. I tucked this vision of her away, took a snapshot with my mind—because it occurred to me that this might be her last lucid moment.

  “Hey, Momma. I’m here.” I reached my hand out and she gripped it immediately.

  “Ashley.” Her eyes were wide, and the usual urgency was present. Abruptly, I worried that she would say something profound instead of her usual random bits of wisdom.

  I was terrified that this time, she would say something real and necessary and earth shattering, and it would mean the end of her.

  But my fears were assuaged when she said, “Ashley, the roosters. We have too many roosters. I told your friend Sandra about it while she was here. You need to butcher them, all but one, or else it’ll cause problems for the hens, and they won’t lay as many eggs. Roosters need a purpose. If you don’t give a rooster a purpose, they make trouble.”

  I gave her a small smile and nod, the knot of fear in my chest easing. “Okay, I’ll do that. Tomorrow I’ll butcher the roosters.”

  She nodded, relaxed back to her pillows, and sighed. “Good. That’s good. Maybe you can make some fried chicken. Also, I think I promised Julianne at the library a bird. Do you mind?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll call her this week.”

  “Thank you,” she said intently, her eyes moving between mine. Then she waited, watching me like she expected me to say something else.

  I stiffened when I realized she was waiting for me to tell her a joke, and my throat tightened when my mind went blank. The dash into the den, my worry when I found her so lucid and awake, the fear that seized me when I thought she was going to finally share something actually urgent had pushed all the jokes from my mind.

  My heart rate doubled as her eyes moved over my face, her expectant smile slipping.

  “Why did the rooster go to KFC?” Billy, standing at my shoulder, blurted this question.

  I glanced at him and, to my surprise, found that all my brothers were also in the room. Billy’s eyes flickered to mine then back to my mother as he stated the punchline. “Because he wanted to see a chicken strip.”

  We fell silent for half a second, then my momma wrinkled her nose and shook her head. But she was also laughing. “William, that is a terrible joke.”

  “I’ve got one,” Roscoe volunteered. He was standing on the other side of the bed holding my mother’s hand. “Why did the rooster cross the road?”

  “Why, Roscoe?” Her face split with a grin.

  “Because he needed to cock-a-doodle-do something.”

  Light laughter lit up the room and Duane snorted, “That’s the dumbest joke I’ve ever heard.”

  “Then you tell one,” Roscoe challenged, narrowing his eyes good-naturedly at his brother.

  “Fine, I will. And it will be awesome. It’ll blow all the rest of your sad chicken jokes out of the water.”

  “We’re waiting.” Beau pushed Duane’s shoulder.

  “Any day now.” Jethro called from where he stood by Momma’s feet, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Okay, prepare yourselves.” Duane looked at me, then Momma, and cleared his throat theatrically. “Why did the rooster cross the road, roll in the mud, and cross the road again?”

  His red eyebrows were arched over his blue eyes as he glanced around the room with cocky—no pun intended—dramatic hyperbole and waited.

  “No one is going to take a guess?”

  “Just tell us the punchline and stop egg-zaggerating,” Beau said and winked at Momma.

  “That would be most egg-cellent,” Momma said, managing to return Beau’s wink.

  “Fine,” Duane said, finally giving us the punchline. “It was because he was a dirty double crosser.”

  Most of my brothers groaned and I chuckled.

  Cletus, however, frowned and shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  This went on for a while, the boys telling terrible chicken jokes while my momma laughed and bantered. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to miss a single second. I tried to remember every laugh, every word, every smile. I was taking a video with my mind, filling myself with the memory, greedily clinging to the feeling of being surrounded by my family and sharing this happy moment.

  With every joke, my heart lifted then dropped when the laughter dissipated. I worried it would be the last.

  Sometime later, when the last joke did come, and we all looked around—at my momma who was asleep and at each other—a crushing sense of finality swept over me. The seven of us sat quietly in a stillness that felt like a punctuation mark.

  It may not have been the end of the story, but it was definitely the end of a chapter.

  ***

  That night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned on my cot, unable to get comfortable. The rainstorm should have helped, a gift of nondescript background noise, but it didn’t. The muffling of the rain made me anxious. My brain wouldn’t allow me to consider that the sound of it grated against my nerves because I hadn’t seen Drew since the rain began on Saturday.

  Around 2:00 a.m., I left the den, taking my quilt with me, and tiptoed to the backdoor. My plan was to stand on the back porch and listen to the rainstorm without the obstruction of walls.

  Rain sounded different in the Smoky Mountains than it did in Chicago. The difference between a rainstorm in the city and a rainstorm in the mountains was the difference between hearing a song over the speaker of your cell phone versus listening to a live concert.

  In the city, the sound was dull, rain hitting pavement, dumpsters, awnings, windows, and buildings. The sound was all treble with no bass.

  In the old mountains, however, rain hit the surface of every leaf, every stone, every stream. It echoed, it surrounded, it felt layered and rich and comforting.

  Paired with the smell of fresh, clean water, intermittent distant flashes of lightning, and the nearly constant gentle rolling of thunder—the soft kind that is felt in the chest and subtly shakes the ground—the storm was more than a sound. It was an experience that touched every one of my senses.

  Standing on the porch, I closed my eyes, cleared my mind, and breathed in the storm.

  And then I cried.

  I didn’t know why I was crying. Well, other than the obvious reasons. Really, the issue was that I didn’t know why I was crying now.

  I hadn’t cried since the day I found out about my mother’s prognosis. In the last month I’d come close a few times, but the tears hadn’t come. I’d been able to hold them at bay and soldier on.

  Maybe it was the rain making the world new and fresh; maybe it was the evening spent laughing with my brothers, enjoying them in a way I’d never done before; maybe it was the feeling of certainty that these next days would be full of lasts: the last time I’d laugh with my mother, the last time I’d see her smile, the last time I’d hear her voice.

  Maybe it was everything.

  “Ash?”

  My back stiffened and I rolled my lips between my teeth at the sound of Drew saying my name. His voice sounded rumbly, sleepy, like he’d just woken up.

  “Drew?”

  “Yeah.”

  I didn’t turn around. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was asleep on the couch in the family room. I woke up when I heard you come out here. Are you crying?”

  “No. I’m not crying.” I shook my head, still giving him my back. “I am most definitely not crying. Nope. Not. Crying. I’m eye cleansing…with saltwater…made from my tear ducts.” I sniffled, and I felt the corners of my mouth turn down. Try as I might I couldn’t stiffen my chin or squeeze my eyes shut enough to stem the tears.

  I knew Drew was
still there, still behind me. But I didn’t realize that he’d crossed to where I stood leaning against the wooden post of the porch until I felt his hands on my shoulders.

  He didn’t wait for me to assent to his comfort. He just grabbed me, turned me, pulled me to his wall of a chest, and encircled my body with his arms. One of his great paws was on my lower spine, the other on the back of my head, and his lips were at my temple.

  Caring not one stitch about my pride, I held on.

  I conveniently forgot all my previous objections against his offers of compassion. Instead, I immediately melted against him. I clung to his shirt and I buried my head in his chest. I pressed my body against his.

  His embrace was a forceful promise of security, full of commanding comfort. In fact, it felt desperate. If a hug could be frantic, this hug was frantic. It felt as though he needed to hold me without accepting anything in return; he needed to demonstrate that he possessed enough strength for both of us; he needed to gather me close and carry my burdens.

  Therefore, for a confusing, foggy stretch of time, I handed over my grief.

  I was far away from my friends, from the life I loved and the family I had chosen in Chicago. I was surrounded by people I’d rejected, people who were essentially strangers, and now I was regretting pushing them away and missing out on years with my brothers. I wanted to apologize and mend those fences, but I’d been a mess of distracted anguish.

  I was facing a life without my mother in it.

  I leaned on Drew and just gave in, and it felt impossibly good. He was solid and warm. He was strong. He even smelled good, like the woods and rain and man. His T-shirt was worn cotton—soft and absorbent.

  For a moment, I just let myself need someone. My hands gripped the fabric at his sides and I cried.

  Drew’s fingers threaded through my hair; his lips brushed a soft kiss against my temple and forehead.

  “Ashley…Sugar….” He whispered, and his voice was so different from the usual gruffness, or the sardonic stoicism he employed when quoting Nietzsche. I was busy crying into his absorbent T-shirt and clinging to the fleeting relief of a temporarily shared burden. I had no attention to spare. I could dedicate nothing to deciphering the meaning behind the caressing quality of his tone and words.

  “Tell me what you need,” he said between raining soft kisses against my hair, temple, and cheek. “I’ll do anything for you.”

  I heard him, but I didn’t really process his words other than at the most basic level. He wanted to help me. That was the takeaway message.

  Therefore, I wiped my nose on his shirt and said between tears, “I’m using your shirt as a tissue.”

  “That’s fine.” I felt his smile against my cheek. “It’s yours if you want it.”

  “I’ll wash it.” I still needed to wash his other shirts. This would be shirt number three.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I will worry. It’s covered in snot, very unsanitary. You could get sick. I don’t want you to get sick.”

  Drew chuckled. His hand on my back rubbed slow, soothing circles, and he gave me another squeeze.

  “I’ll let you wash my shirt if you tell me what I can do. Tell me what you need.”

  “I need….” I hiccupped. I’d cried so much that my breathing had dissolved into stop, starts, and hiccups.

  “Anything, Ashley.”

  “I need….”

  “Anything, it’s yours.”

  “I need you to tell me a joke.”

  Drew stilled, his hand ceased moving on my back.

  “A joke.” He said the words deadpan.

  “Yes. A joke. Make sure it’s really funny.” I could feel his heart beat against my cheek; instinctively, I snuggled closer as I said, “No pressure.”

  The sound of his heartbeat was eclipsed by his sudden laugh, deep and low and rumbly. I lifted my head from its comfy spot and glanced at him, his features just visible in the indigo night.

  He was smiling and he was looking down at me and his eyes were completely captivating. They traced my face with reverence and, whether what I saw was real or imagined, his eyes told me that I was precious to him.

  And then I kissed him.

  I didn’t know why I kissed him. Well, other than the obvious reasons. Really, the issue was that I didn’t know why I was kissing him now.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves.”

  ― Albert Einstein

  If Drew was surprised by my lips suddenly against his, then he hid his surprise really, really well.

  One of his hands gripped me around the waist, the other grabbed hold of my hair and he tugged, positioning my head as he liked. As though arranging me and opening me for his use…as though he’d been waiting for this…as though he’d planned and choreographed this kiss to guarantee perfection.

  It was a thoroughly tuned, tactile tango. Where he led, I followed.

  With no hesitation, he twirled us, backed me into and against the outside wall of the house. He gave me three sensual, carnal closed mouthed passes that made my stomach tighten and my chest expand with hot desperation.

  Then he nipped at my bottom lip and tasted me.

  Instinctively, I parted my mouth, my tongue darting out, seeking his. He gave it to me. He gave me his weight. He gave me the pressure of his fingers against the bare skin of my sides and stomach. He gave me a deep rumble in his chest that echoed in my head and sounded to my heart and body like more.

  More of this…more of you. Give me more.

  I was no longer sharing a burden. His entreaties had switched focus. His need to give had reversed and—with the same fervor he’d commanded my comfort earlier—he now demanded my unconditional surrender. My head was in the stars. Our bodies were heavenly instruments of careless need. Worries melted beneath us into nothing.

  I think I whimpered, my hands under his shirt, touching the hard, hot expanse of his stomach. I think I whimpered because he felt as good as he looked, better than he looked. The thought of not touching him everywhere made me feel weak, and awakened an agonizing urgency within me.

  It was a soul scorching, pride destroying, body claiming kiss. And he ended it.

  Drew abruptly pulled away. I was left in the cosmos with no map, not knowing if a return trip to Earth were possible.

  I lifted fingertips to my lips. I found them used and swollen, evidence of our frenetic kiss, and I released a short breath. My eyes searched the porch for him and discovered he was at the far end. His back was to me, and he was leaning on the railing, looking out into the night. It was so dark I doubted he could see much.

  I’d never experienced a kiss before where recovery time was necessary for one or both parties. Needing a minute to collect myself, I closed my eyes and pressed my hand to my heart. My head fell back, connecting with the wall, and I tried to regulate my breathing. My heart would not cooperate. It beat like it knew better, like it understood what this kiss meant better than the rest of me, and it was both thrilled and frightened.

  Gradually, like waking from a dream, I was once again aware of the rain and the rolling thunder and the lightning; the symphony that was a rainstorm in the old mountains.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.” Drew’s voice—the sound and the tone—startled me.

  “You have?” I lifted my head from the wall and blinked at his inky silhouette, still some distance away. “For how long?”

  “Since I saw you.”

  “Since you saw me?” My echo was a squeak.

  “Yes.” He admitted, stalking closer. His eyes glinted in the sparse light offered by a distant flash of lightning. They were focused with heated intensity on my mouth.

  I sought to clarify his meaning. “Since you saw me tonight?”

  “No. Since I first saw you. Since I first laid eyes on you and felt sorry for every beautiful thing that was made no longer resplendent—nullified by
your being.”

  I didn’t breathe for ten seconds. When I did, the air left my lungs in a whoosh, and with it departed my peace of mind.

  “Fuck….” I said, because what I was feeling deserved a remarkably harsh expletive. “You really are a poet.”

  “Ash….”

  I shook my head and closed my eyes because the memory of our damn hot perfect kiss, the vision of him standing in front of me, the whisper of his delectably distressing admission, became too much for my little heart to handle.

  “No more talking,” I begged. “I think your words aren’t safe for me to hear.”

  They’re weapons, I thought, as sure as a martial artist’s fists are weapons. With enough use, practice, and honing of skill, words were the weapons of choice used by exceptional writers and poets. Minds can be changed, hearts can be lost and broken, souls can be surrendered given the right words.

  Or the wrong ones.

  “No more talking,” he repeated, closer than I’d expected. His breath fell over my cheek and his hands slid around my waist, pressing my body to his. “No more talking.” He said again, this time as a whisper against my neck.

  “Drew….”

  “Shh.” His hand lifted and cupped my cheek, his thumb caressing my bottom lip.

  I was mixed up and turned inside out. I didn’t know what to say or do or how to move forward from this labyrinth of my own making.

  So I blurted, “Can we forget this happened?” I didn’t try to disguise the desperation in my voice. “Can’t we call it a mistake?”

  He was quiet for a long time, holding me in a full-body embrace, his hand caressing my cheek and then smoothing its way down my shoulder and arm. His fingers found mine, brought my wrist to his lips, and kissed it, his breath and beard tickling the sensitive skin.

  Then he pressed my open palm to his chest.

  At last, he said, “No, Sugar. You know I’m no good at pretending.”

  I released a shaky breath and gripped the front of his shirt. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I live in Chicago.”

  “I know.”

  “I have a life there.”

  “I know.”