What Makes a Family

by Colleen Faulkner

  He’s quiet for a minute as he goes to the refrigerator for another beer. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” He turns to me. “Anyone else know?”

  “Just Sarah, but she’s as good with secrets as Mom Brodie. She’ll take it to her grave.”

  He smiles, and I can tell he’s sad. He’s feeling the same loss I am, even though our grandmother isn’t quite gone yet. “You know, I almost got suspended in high school,” he recalls. “Eleventh grade. I’d have gotten kicked off the football team if I’d been expelled. School called here, and I got lucky because Mom Brodie answered the phone. She came in. Talked the principal into a bunch of detentions instead of the expulsion. I had to do weeks of housework as punishment. I think I cleaned every attic in this house, and I did several old ladies’, too. Mom B’s Methodist Circle cronies. But she never told Mom and Dad.”

  I nod and smile, and we’re quiet for a moment, lost in our own memories.

  “Where did she get it?” Joseph asks.

  I shrug.

  “Had to have been before she came to Brodie. Hell, before she was eighteen.”

  I let that slide. I might tell him later about what Sarah found out about the incorrect birthday, but not today. Not until I have time to verify the information, and, even then, I don’t know if I’ll tell anyone. Because, to what end? Again, is my grandmother’s secret mine to tell, even after she’s dead?

  He shakes his head. “I always knew she was a hell of a woman, but this . . . It adds a whole new dimension, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does,” I agree.

  He takes a sip of his beer. “Guess I best get outside. You coming?”

  “Be out in a minute.”

  After he’s gone, I slip into Mom Brodie’s room. The sun is bright coming through the window, so I adjust the blinds. Then I stand over my grandmother, holding her hand. I look at the photo of her and Grandpop Joe. My gaze drifts from the teacup to the oyster shell and the peppermints I left on the nightstand and then to her wrinkled face.

  “Can you hear me?” I say softly. Her hand is cool and seems a little . . . stiff. But she’s definitely still breathing, so that’s got to be my imagination, right?

  “Mom, it’s Abby.” Tears fill my eyes. I feel like she’s drifting away. Like I can actually feel her spirit moving away from me. I don’t know what heaven is going to be like, but I like the idea that we go to a place we want to go to. I’m not interested in puffy clouds and cherubs singing. I want to be right here on this shore, gazing out at the Chesapeake Bay. And I think she does, too.

  I wonder if Grandpop Joe is waiting for her. I’m not sure I really remember him, or if it’s something I’ve imagined from things Mom Brodie has told me. I was two when he died. But I have an image of him in a rowboat off our dock. Mom Brodie is holding my hand, and we’re waving. And he’s laughing and waving.

  Maybe he’s in that old wooden rowboat, waiting for her now.

  “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about what’s going on here. Clancy told about your will. Daddy feels like we need to follow through with your wishes. Money for Joseph and me. Nothing for Celeste. But Birdie says Celeste deserves her share, and Joseph agrees. He wants us to split the money three ways, Mom.” I exhale. “With the money you’ve left me, I think I can make all Drum’s dreams come true. If I share with my sister . . . I don’t know that I can.”

  I’m quiet for a moment. Then I ask, “What do you think?” Then I smile because that’s a silly question. I already know what she thinks. What I don’t know is what she would do if she were in my place.

  I let go of her hand and lift the sheet and cotton blanket and stare at the tattoo. It’s so beautiful, so . . . startling on my grandmother’s wrinkled thigh that I still can’t believe it’s real. Who was Sarah Brodie before she became Sarah Brodie? How did she end up with this tattoo? A bigger question than that, how did a woman with this tattoo end up on Brodie Island, married to Big Joe Brodie?

  I gently take her hand again. “I wish we could talk again. Just one more time,” I tell her. I sniff, fighting my tears. “Because I could really use some advice right now.” I squeeze her hand, hoping she’ll squeeze it back. But she doesn’t.

  I kiss her hand and lay it on the bed. I slip my phone out of my pocket and call Drum. As it rings, I go down the hall and hang a left into the big front hall. I’m just stepping out on the broad front porch that we never use when Drum picks up. I can tell by the sound that he’s in his car.

  “Hey,” he says. His voice is warm and gentle, and I seriously consider telling him to turn his little car around and start driving this way.

  “Hey,” I say, instead.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve been talking to Joseph and . . .” I stare out at the immense, green front lawn and the long, tree-lined lane that leads to the road. They’re poplars, as old as I am, tall and strong. I don’t feel tall or strong right now. “He thinks Celeste has a right to part of the money,” I blurt.

  “Which would mean less for you,” Drum says, his tone still calm.

  “Less for us, Drum. I don’t know if we can make it happen on that.”

  “What do your parents think?”

  I sit on the top step and watch an old pickup slowly make its way down the road, far in the distance. Most people don’t drive fast on Brodie, even though no one really enforces any kind of speed limit. I guess we feel like we’ve got all the time in the world to go where we want to go, to do what we want to do. Which, of course, isn’t true. Mom Brodie’s proof of that.

  “Divided. You know Daddy. Basically, he says it’s Mom Brodie’s money and she has a right to do with it what she pleases. And we should do what she says. And of course you know Birdie. She disagrees with Daddy and Mom Brodie. She thinks Celeste has a right to part of the money. I think if she had it her way, Joseph wouldn’t get squat.”

  Drum chuckles.

  I smile. “Joseph feels that if Celeste wastes the money, as I guess Mom Brodie thought she would, then that’s her prerogative.”

  I hesitate, resting the cell phone against my ear. “You’re not saying anything.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  I watch a tiny praying mantis crawl up the step’s rail. They always fascinated me when I was a kid. The way they looked like a leaf. On closer inspection I see that there’s a whole bunch of them. Hatchlings.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “About how much I love teaching, and how I could never just up and quit.”

  I laugh, but I want to cry. “There’s got to be a way we can do this.”

  “Maybe there is, but I have to go with Birdie and Joseph on this one, babe. Sorry. You have me and the kids. Joseph has Ainslie and the whole island. What’s Celeste got?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “She should get her cut of the money. Who knows, maybe she’ll do something smart with it.”

  We both laugh at that. And then we’re quiet for a few moments. The good kind of quiet that makes you feel closer to someone, not further away.

  “Should we think on this? Mom Brodie’s not dead yet.”

  “It’s your money, babe. You should think on it, but I’m not sure I can take Celeste’s money.”

  I want to holler that it’s not Celeste’s. It’s mine, mine and Joseph’s because Mom Brodie left it to us. But I can’t say it. Maybe I feel guilty that Mom Brodie always favored me over Celeste. She even favored Joseph over Celeste. The fact that Celeste has never tried to be particularly likable doesn’t really matter. Birdie’s right. Celeste is still one of us. She’s still a Brodie.

  “I was hoping you’d say ‘take the money and run,’” I tell him.

  He chuckles. “Would you do it?”

  I groan and close my eyes. The sun is still warm, and the grass smells like it’s been recently cut. When I’m very still, I can hear bees buzzing . . . and the very faint voices of my family. “I don’t know, Drum. I guess I need to think on it a few days. I just . . . I want it so badly for you.
For us.”

  “Babe, do you know how lucky we are? We’ve got kids who are healthy and smart—”

  “Smartasses,” I interrupt.

  “Smartasses,” he agrees.

  “And weird,” I tell him. “I mean, palindromes? Really? There was a time when people were put in insane asylums for walking around blurting those kinds of things in public.”

  He laughs. “We’ve got parents who are still in good health and still married.”

  “To each other,” I interrupt. It’s a joke between us because so many couples our age are already on their second or even third marriages.

  “And we’ve got each other,” he says so sweetly that it brings tears to my eyes. “I love you. All I want is you. Glassblowing is silly anyway.”

  I wipe my eyes. “I should go. Daddy brought crabs from town. Everyone’s out back. I’m sitting on the front porch, hiding. Feeling sorry for myself because I was thinking I was sort of rich for a few hours.”

  “I think you need to sit on it for a few days. Try to figure out what you really want to do. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I concede.

  “Okay. Mom Brodie still hanging in there?”

  “Yeah, I guess, but . . . I feel like . . .” I exhale. “This is going to sound silly, but I get the feeling she’s drifting away. Like . . . not as much of her is here as there was when I got here two days ago.” I pause. “Crazy?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Call me later?” I ask. “And give Reed a big hug for me.”

  “Will do.”

  I slip my phone into my pocket and go back to Mom Brodie’s room to give her hand another squeeze before I return to the loving bosom of my family.

  28

  Sarah Agnes

  Bilis squeezes my hand. “It’s going to be all right, luv,” he says in his dreamy British accent. “You don’t need him. You’re going to be all right, Sarry.”

  I hold his little hand tightly. I’m not crying so much because Henri is leaving, for good this time, but because I feel like he’s taking little Sarah Agnes Hanfland with him. Not that I blame him for taking her innocence or anything like that. Fourteen or not, I knew what I was doing when I climbed into that truck that morning and left Bakersville forever. It was my choice and mine alone. Looking back, it was certainly more my idea than his. But somehow this seems so . . . final. Like that girl I knew will never be back. It’s been a year. A year, where has the time gone?

  Henri is making the rounds, kissing the girls. He lays a big, wet one on Minnie’s mouth. He shakes hands with the men. Even Jacko pumps his hand, punches his shoulder. Henri’s always been a likable guy. No one can argue with that; what fourteen-year-old wouldn’t have fallen in love with him, in that beret he used to wear? But he’s not trustworthy. Not with your money. Not with facts. Certainly not with your heart. I learned that pretty fast. I caught him making business with enough girls over the last year to finally cut him off from business with me. And now Rudebaker’s is headed to Ohio, and Henri has decided to stay put in Tennessee. Some widow he met at our last stop, old enough to be his mother, has hired him as a handyman. Room and board included. I have a feeling he’ll be all kinds of handy around her house.

  It was Bilis who made me realize I was getting off easy here. No big breakup or blowup. No having to move from one truck to another. Jacko’s already said I can drive the tent truck and stay put, living in the back. Just wish Hank the best, Bilis told me, and he’ll be out of your hair and drawers for good. Bilis made me laugh when he said that because he rarely cracks off-color jokes. He’s the gentleman of Rudebaker’s for sure, even if he does call the coochie show. He’s a rare man, my Bilis. I learned that pretty quickly. He’s the one who protected me and looked after me for the last year. Not Henri. Bilis.

  I wish I could give back to Bilis just half of what he’s given me. A hundred times I’ve wished I could feel more for him than I do. It doesn’t seem right that I’d leave my whole life and any security I had for the likes of a loser like Henri, but I can’t love the finest man I’ve ever met. The feelings aren’t there. And it’s not because he’s a dwarf. That doesn’t bother me a bit. But I just can’t do it. I can’t love Bilis the way he wants me to love him. The way he deserves to be loved. Which makes me way sadder than Henri’s leaving me for an old widow woman.

  Henri offers his hand to Bilis, and Bilis accepts it, shakes it, but he’s still holding onto me. Then Henri is standing in front of me.

  “Mon chéri,” he coos. It’s the first time I’ve heard the French accent in a while. He’s been trying out an Italian one. I wonder which he used on the widow.

  I smile because I’m not the kind of girl who’s going to go through life carrying grudges. They get too heavy. That’s what Bilis says. I let go of Bilis’s hand, and I hug Henri, but I don’t let him kiss me on the lips. I turn my head so all he gets is my cheek. “Good luck, Hank,” I tell him.

  He steps back, winks, and makes a motion like he’s pulling a trigger on a pistol. “You too, kiddo.”

  I turn away from him first and walk off to climb behind the wheel of the big tent truck, excited to move on to the next town.

  29

  Celeste

  I turn at the front step and bestow Bartholomew with one more kiss, this one on the cheek, and then I give him my flirtiest smile.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night?” he asks. “Dinner at my place?”

  “I don’t know.” I use my breathy, sad voice. The one I used when I did that commercial selling recliners. I rest my hand on his arm. “She may not live through the night.”

  He takes my hand in the darkness. The front lights are out because we never use the front door. I’ll go around to the back after he’s gone. But I want Bartholomew to see where I come from. What it means to be a Brodie; how important we are. Of course that should be obvious to him; the island is, after all, named after us.

  “I’m so sorry, Celeste. Are you sure there’s nothin’ I can do for you?” He has a kind voice, and the slight Southern drawl makes it sexy. He seems genuine, which is a nice change from the losers I’ve been going out with lately. Who am I kidding? Most men I date/sleep with are losers. Or dicks. Or both.

  I shake my head ever so slowly. “It’s all in God’s hands, now.” I pause. Count the beats. The idea is to let what you’ve said sink in with the audience. But you can’t be quiet too long or you’ll lose their attention. “You should go.” This time I rest my hand on his chest. He doesn’t have a bad body for his age. Barely a gut. “I need to go in and sit with her.”

  He takes my hand and kisses it. Just like in the movies. I don’t think a man has ever kissed my hand. Unless there was something kinky going on along with it.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he tells me. “But if you need me, if you need anything, darlin’, call me.”

  I watch him walk to his car, this year’s E-Class sedan. He’s got a pretty good spring in his step for a man in his late sixties. He told me he works out; I think he was telling the truth. And he said he just got a clean bill of health from his doctor. No cardiac issues in his family. I got the feeling he was offering some sort of dating résumé. Which was kind of sweet, because he is twenty-five years older than me. His health would certainly be an issue if we got serious. As to whether a girl wants a man twenty-five years her senior, in good health or poor, I guess that depends on the girl and what she’s looking for.

  I stand at the door and watch him get into his car. He’s wearing his ascot again and a navy blazer. Despite the fact that it was in the high eighties today. He looked very sporty in The Gull, though. I like sporty. He told me he’d been waiting for me, hoping I’d come. And he said that he was determined to get my phone number this time. Sweet. He didn’t seem to mind my thinning hair or my crow’s feet. And he was actually interesting. He talked about something other than his ex-wife or his ED refill. He wanted to hear about my career as an actress, but he didn’t press for too many details, which made the conversation
easy. The older I get, the harder it is to keep up with the lies.

  He waves at me. He’s smitten, all right.

  I wave back, fluttering my scarf. I give him my best pose; it’s the one that doesn’t show off my double chin. I wait until his headlights show him making the turn from our long lane, onto the road back toward town. He’s staying in one of the pricey condos on the east side of the island. A client offered it to him for the week.

  When he’s finally gone, I slip off my Jimmy Choos that are killing me (corns). I go down the steps and around to the back door. I let myself in and lock the door behind me. The light is on over the stove. Birdie. I check the clock on the wall. It’s one thirty-six. Bartholomew invited me to go back to his place, but I decided to play things a little differently than usual. Draw out his anticipation. He talked tonight about making a trip to Paris. I could use a trip to Paris. Besides, I’m beat. It takes a lot of energy to look as good as I do and keep smiling.

  I go down the hall. There’s a soft glow of light coming from Mom Brodie’s dying room. I find Abby asleep in Daddy’s recliner, an ugly afghan pulled over her. I think about waking her to tell her about Bartholomew because I kind of like him. I can’t remember the last time I liked a guy. I mean actually liked him. The fact that Bartholomew has money is just a bonus.

  I decide to let her sleep. My Spanx are starting to cut off my circulation. I’m halfway up the hall when I realize I never even looked at Mom Brodie. I consider going back, but decide against it. What’s the point? She doesn’t even know we’re here. Worst case scenario, she’s dead. And if she’s dead, she’ll still be dead in the morning, and we’ll all have gotten a good night’s sleep.

  I’m about to go up the stairs when I notice Daddy’s office door is slightly open, and there’s a light on. Which is weird this time of the morning. He always shuts the door on his way out. Sometimes he locks it and takes the key. I guess he doesn’t know that Birdie and I figured out how to pick the lock years ago.