It took some uncomfortable shifting, but eventually everyone got seated. Nobody seemed to want to say much to anybody else, and it was obvious that Maya and Bradley were shielding themselves with their kids—Molly at Maya’s side and Will at Bradley’s. Though they, for some reason, looked no more comfortable sitting next to each other than they might have if they’d been sitting next to one of the sisters.
In the end, they were able to artfully arrange themselves so the empty seats would fall like moats between enemies, and before long those empty seats were taken by friends of Robert’s and Elise’s that the sisters didn’t recognize. The friends brought cards and breads wrapped in tinfoil and clucked their apologies to Elise and then fell into comfortable chitchat about the farm and bugs and rain.
Julia sat next to Eli, wishing she could fall into conversation with him, but the boy never talked, and she didn’t know what to say to get him to open up. Just like always.
The salads came, and went. The crackers stuck in Julia’s throat and the dressing tasted acidic as bile and she chugged water, but was overpowered by the sulfuric taste. She tried to shut out the lulled conversations around her.
Have you thought about what you’ll do with the farm?
Well, I intend to live on it. It’s been in my family for generations.
Oh, but, honey, how will you keep it up?
I haven’t figured that out just yet. Seems like I’ve been working this land forever. I sure could use a rest sometimes. But my grandfather Mick gave everything for that plot of land. Wouldn’t be right.
My Jeffrey could help you out, I suppose. I’m sure you could work out a deal of some sort.
Of course, of course.
I have a nephew, you know . . .
On and on it went, everyone expecting Elise to have all the answers. Hell, even Julia had expected her mom to have answers, and how could she possibly have them already? Good God, her husband had only been dead two days . . . When would she have had time to think through what she might do without him? Julia swallowed, and swallowed again as she fought her urge to turn to the neighbors and tell them to shut up, just shut up, and when the desire became too much, she turned to her son instead.
“So, what do you think of this place?” she asked. Her voice sounded high, strained, as if she were trying too hard. She wished she could make herself sound relaxed, in control, not like she was scared of her own kid.
Eli shrugged. “It’s small.”
“No, I mean the whole place. The farm. The town.”
“It’s a farm and a town.” Brushed off again.
The waitress came, and began setting entrées down in front of everyone. Julia could hear Molly griping that the macaroni and cheese was “the wrong color” and Maya trying to soothe her in weary, staccato sentences. She set a huge fried catfish in front of Eli, and a grilled chicken breast, perfectly swimming in greasy french fries, in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said to the waitress, and then pointed to Eli’s plate with her fork after the waitress had gone. “You want me to bone that for you?”
He frowned, his cheeks blooming high with red patches. “No. I got it.”
“Are you sure? You know how to bone a catfish? I can do it for you.”
“God, why do you always have to act like that, Mom? I’m not an infant.”
She knew that. Oh, boy, did she know that. The more she replayed palming that sack of pills in her kitchen, the more she knew that. That’s right, she wanted to say to him. When you were an infant, you were so much easier. I could ball you up tight in a blanket and move you where I wanted you to be. I could say exactly what you did to your body all the time. I could pull you out of the way of danger any time I saw it. When you were a baby, you were all mine.
And I ruined you.
She took a few bites of her chicken, trying to will Tai’s words back into her mind—it was an idle threat, kids made them all the time, don’t take it so seriously—but she had a tough time swallowing past the lump in her throat. What if Tai was wrong? Why did she feel like he was wrong? Despite herself, she kept feeling tears collecting in the corners of her eyes and had to blink rapidly to keep them from falling over onto her cheeks. She also had to pretend she didn’t know they were there—every time she consciously acknowledged them, they got worse. She just wanted to go home. And not home to the farmhouse where all the ghosts lived, but home to Tai, and to an earlier time, when raising Eli was a no-brainer. Easy. As easy as raising an infant.
She felt a hand on her forearm, and looked up into the sagging eyes of the woman who sat next to her, a woman who’d introduced herself as Clem Hebert’s wife.
“I lost my daddy when I was nineteen,” she said around a wad of something green in her mouth. “So I understand how you’re feeling right now.”
Julia swallowed, forced a smile. “I’m just glad he didn’t suffer,” she said, because it seemed like the right thing to say. She had a list of those kinds of sayings: It was the right time. I’m grateful I can be here for my mom. It is a trying time, of course. And I’m just glad he didn’t suffer. She’d even practiced them in the shower back home in Kansas City before leaving. She wanted to sound genuine to other mourners. She wanted to make it sound like the loss of Robert Yancey was deeply felt, deeply mourned. He was a good man. That was another one she’d practiced. But she reserved it for last, in case she got desperate, because the truth was he wasn’t a good man. He was a difficult man. A mean man. A tempest of a man.
Clem Hebert’s wife leaned forward, her freckles looming large in Julia’s line of sight. “It’s okay to let those tears loose, honey,” she said, and Julia noticed Claire looking up and studying her from across the table.
By now the tears really were gone, the space filled by burning embarrassment. “I’m fine,” she whispered, and took another bite of chicken.
Clem Hebert’s wife’s attention was diverted by a conversation about taxes, and Julia was never so thankful for the government than she was at that moment. Once again, she turned to her son.
“Since we’re going to be here for a few days, what do you say we take some hikes into the fields tomorrow?”
He shrugged, but didn’t say no, which, sadly, Julia had to take as a hopeful sign.
“We can go out to the pond, though it’s probably too warm to do any skating.”
He said nothing, just continued to dig through the mushed-up mess that was his catfish. He was stroking bones into the flesh with his clumsiness, and it took all Julia had to keep from exasperatedly snatching it away from him and doing it right.
“I can show you the tree I fell out of and broke my arm when I was a kid.”
Still nothing.
Julia took a breath. “We can talk,” she said, and popped another piece of chicken into her mouth as nonchalantly as she could. As if talking was something they did regularly.
“I said I’d go with you, okay?” he answered, then pushed his plate away. “Why do you have to be so pathetic about it? I’m going to the bathroom.” He stood abruptly and strode through the restaurant so quickly that Julia barely had time to swallow her chicken.
“Eli,” she tried, but her voice felt impossibly loud, almost a yelp, coming out of her mouth, and she looked around nervously. All of the soothing Tai had given her had drained completely away, and she was once again a jangle of nerves. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and scooted away from the table. “Excuse me,” she said to nobody in particular, and followed the path Eli had taken, weaving past tables of locals, all fat and jovial in their plaid snap-front shirts and baseball caps.
Of course he’d already gone into the men’s room by the time she got there, so Julia paced outside the squeaky wooden door waiting for him, chewing on the side of her thumb to keep herself from imagining her son killing himself in a public restroom. Every time the door squeaked open and someone other than Eli walked out
, she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking if the young man inside was okay.
Finally, after what seemed like an impossibly long time, during which Julia had begun to imagine that he’d not gone to the restroom at all but had gone outside and found a bridge to fling himself off of instead, Eli emerged through the door, wiping his hands on the back of his pants. His eyes grew alarmed and then narrowed.
“Mom, God, what are you doing?”
“I was worried. I was checking on you. Are you sick? Is everything okay?” She reached over to put a hand on his forehead, because this was what worried moms did, right? But he ducked away from her touch, his glare disgusted.
“Mom, seriously. I don’t want to bond. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want you cutting up my food and I don’t want you following me to the bathroom or feeling my forehead. I just want you to leave me alone. You should be really good at that. You’ve been doing it my whole life.”
Julia was stunned into motionless silence. She could do nothing but watch as her son turned and walked away from her, shaking his head as if she was despicable. Shaking his head just like her father had been known to do so many years ago.
So it really was about that. It was about her. She had ruined her son. She had caused her son to want to die, and then had failed to recognize it until it was almost too late.
Hell, what was she saying? He was so far away from her. She really was too late. Even if he lived . . . she’d lost him long ago.
Julia rushed into the ladies’ room and leaned over the sink. She turned on the crusted faucet for the noise. Her stomach rolled and rolled and she concentrated on the gushing water to keep from vomiting. She splashed a handful of water on her cheeks; then slowly, she looked up, met her own gaze in the mirror, only to find her father staring back at her.
You are one selfish shit, Julia, he was saying. You know that? Demanding, selfish brat. I feel sorry for the man who marries you.
As if on cue, her earlier conversation with Dusty pressed in on her, ringing in the back of her mind, his voice overtaking the voice of Robert Yancey.
It’s not all about you all the time, Julia. You never seemed to get that. You have a kid to take care of. Our kid. My kid. You’re supposed to be taking care of him. This is not taking care of him. But I bet your students are totally taken care of. It’s always been like that. It’s always been all about what Julia wants. All about your career. Never about your family. Never about me, never about Eli. Why do you think I left? And, look, now Eli wants to leave you too. How long till that Chinaman of yours takes off? Not that you would care. Because it’s always about you.
Maybe they were right. She was a selfish, selfish woman. But she’d never meant to be. Surely that counted for something. Surely intent had some amount of importance.
She ripped a paper towel out of the dispenser and ran it over her face, taking a few deep breaths to clear her mind. She couldn’t do this now. Not while they were in public. She had to pull it together.
The door opened and Julia caught a familiar mess of wiry blond hair coming up behind her in the mirror.
“You okay?” Claire asked.
Julia nodded, wiped her face, gulping in a cleansing breath, all business. “Eli come back to the table?”
Claire smiled. “Yeah. He’s got Bradley boning that fish for him. Looks a little tedious at this point.”
“Well, at least he’s eating.” Julia turned the water back on, washed her hands to busy herself. Claire hung around awkwardly, looking as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know what exactly it should be. Julia dried her hands and turned, leaned against the sink. “So did you and Bradley, um . . . talk? Earlier?”
Claire’s face flushed, and once again Julia noticed how red her sister’s eyes appeared to be. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost think Claire had been crying recently. No. Not Claire. Claire didn’t do that. Claire didn’t show weakness. “Not really,” she mumbled.
Julia let out an anguished sigh. “Sometimes I envy you, Claire. I used to think your life had to be lonely—no husband, no kids, no . . . ties. But now . . . I don’t know. I love them, of course, but . . . it’s just that sometimes family life is so hard, you know? Sometimes I think back to when I was young and free and I wish I’d appreciated it more.”
And, oh, how she did. How she looked back on the freedom and ease of her life before Dusty had walked into it with that lazy, bowlegged stride of his and wanted it back with such an intensity it almost made her limbs ache. How she watched her students, arriving late, hungover, already making plans for the next night’s party, and wanted to leave the classroom with them. Leave the stacks of paper and the battered laptop case and the . . . suicide worries . . . behind and dive into a bucket of Mexican beers, her only concern whether or not her bra matched her panties, just in case she might get laid. What happened to that life? Where did it go?
Claire disappeared into a stall, a cutting chuckle echoing off the tile walls, leaving Julia at the sink alone once again. “Well,” Claire said from inside the stall, “I’m maybe not as free and easy as you like to think, Queenie. I may have a little drama left behind in my own life.” Her voice was tinged with sharp edges. “And it isn’t easy, anyhow.”
“What do you mean?”
But before Claire could answer, the restroom door whooshed open again, and Elise entered. “Oh, there you are,” she said to Julia. “You left the table so quickly we thought something was wrong.”
Julia wadded up the paper towel she was holding and tossed it in the trash bin. “I just needed some space,” she said. “I’m going back now.”
“Oh. Well, the others have gone. It’s just us now. Well, and Bradley. Maya took the kids home. Maya doesn’t seem like herself.” She touched Julia on the elbow. “Do you think there’s something else going on there?” she asked. “Between Maya and Bradley? I know Claire makes Maya tense, but—”
“I’m in here, Mom,” Claire said over the stall door, and Julia could have sworn her mom blushed.
“Oh, okay,” Elise called out, then continued in a loud whisper. “It just seems like there’s more going on between those two than . . . you know . . . the old thing with Claire.”
The toilet flushed, and Claire stepped out, pulling the bottom of her sweatshirt over the top of her shorts. “You mean the lie about Claire.”
“That’s not what I meant. You know that.”
Claire edged Julia out of the way at the sink and turned on the water. “Of course I know that, Mom, but nobody seems to say it but me. And to answer your question, even though I know you weren’t asking me, I’d say yes, it’s a fair bet there’s something else going on between Maya and Bradley. It’s a fair bet something else is going on between Bradley and someone with a boob job and a spray tan, if you know what I mean.”
Julia stepped back to avoid water droplets slinging through the air as Claire flicked her hands over the sink. “Did he say something about it out on the sunporch this afternoo—?” she said, but Claire shot her a look, causing the words to dry up in her throat. Clearly, her sister didn’t want anyone to know that she’d been with Bradley on the sunporch earlier, and while Julia believed that was because Claire didn’t want any more suspicion cast over her, a part of her—the same part that remained unconvinced about Claire’s innocence years ago, the same part that saw too many unanswered questions, too many shifty behaviors to ignore—wondered if Claire was once again covering. She shifted gears. “Maya did say something about not feeling well earlier. I thought it was an excuse to leave the room, but maybe she’s sick. Maybe that’s what we’re all picking up on and everything with Bradley is fine.”
“Well, I hope it’s not serious,” Elise said, and pushed into the stall Claire had just come out of. “I’d hoped that the two of them had gotten over everything and moved on. The children really need a happy home.”
Julia and Claire glanced
at each other, and Julia guessed that both of them had the same thought on their minds: Where had their mom’s concern about children needing happy homes been when their father was still alive?
There was a beat of uncomfortable silence, during which Julia tried not to look at Claire, tried not to catch her reflection in the mirror, tried not to listen to Elise’s noises in the stall, tried not to think about her family. Tried to pretend that everything was normal—that they were gathered together to mourn the loss of her father and that nothing stood in the way of that. But it was impossible. She knew, as she always had known, that when it came to her family, there would always be more questions than answers, more discomfort than joy, more queasy silences than laughter.
Maybe that was why she’d emotionally bugged out on Eli so long ago. In her world, emotion was a complicated and fruitless monster.
She cleared her throat and edged around Claire as the toilet once again whooshed into life behind the metal stall door. She mumbled something about needing to get back to Eli and plunged out of the stuffy restroom and back into the garish colors and sounds of Sharp’s.
At the table, Eli had eaten a good portion of his catfish and was sitting in his usual pose—arms crossed over his chest, chin pointed downward, tucked into himself, silent and brooding. Bradley was scooted sideways in his chair, one arm slung over the back of it, talking up the waitress, who was nodding and giggling like a crushy teenager. Julia could almost swear that Eli shook his head, ever so slightly, disgustedly, every time Bradley opened his mouth to speak.
Julia poked around on her plate a few times, hoping to find her appetite, but there was nothing to be had. Her chicken still looked pale and fleshy. She tossed her napkin over it and pushed the plate away, just as Claire and Elise came back to the table and scooted in.
The Sister Season Page 8
