No. Hell no.
I quit painting about the time I came to the conclusion I wouldn't change things. At least not those things. In fact, if I could go back, I would've done more. Punched Luke in the face, then instead of walking away, I would take Maggie's hand and glue her to my side. For all my faults, she would have been better off with me there to protect her better than I had. But there's no going back.
Damn it.
Friday night had passed, and we were on into Saturday, if you were technical about the time. The storm that had hung heavy in the sky, pressing in around Fox River, was finally breaking. The distant heat lightning crackling closer, with real intent, as the first drops began to fall. Large splats of rain creating a cacophony of noise on the barn roof and surrounding land.
“Shit, Cotton. You sure are making a mess of things.”
I looked around the barn, at the paint on every single thing in the vicinity, while Dominic looked at me. He'd snuck up on me; sound of his foot falls lost in the rain. I dropped my brush into a bucket of tepid gray-brown water, my hands knowing they needed to be free.
“That is my specialty. What do you want?”
“I drove Maggie home tonight. After you stormed off like an asshole.”
Dominic wasn't one to point fingers. Not one to call names. He was lightest easiest one of us, with the jokes and free love. The way he stared at me was harsh. Those fat raindrops had hit him hard on his way in and dripped from his hair and nose, soaked his shirt, slicked his arms.
“Good. That's good.” I nodded and wished I had one iota of control over my own mind. The warring clash of jealousy and gratitude in my head, translated into the jerk of muscles in my arms asking for release.
No, that wasn't right. I did have some control - it was the reason I spent an inordinate amount of time running, doing mundane tasks like chopping firewood, throwing myself into painting. Hell, one time I'd built a tiny house out on the back of the property down by the stream. I kept my body busy and willed it to settle my mind. I had learned control. The thing I wished I had was the ability to change. To not fixate on things to the point of sacrificing my sanity. I would have to talk with Denver. He had the same issue; only he had managed to fully turn it toward his fiddle playing. That hadn't always been the case. And I knew for a fact he wasn't always happy about it. He was lonely even if he didn't know how to be around people. Of all my brothers, I was the most like Denver, only I was still afraid of the hair trigger on my temper.
“You know what? We'll come back to that.” Dom moved in closer and examined the frenzy of angry creative energy. “I can't remember the last time you painted something.”
“Yes, well, I prefer to take photographs. Cameras don't make near the mess paint does. However, I can't slam my camera with force. I needed to expel a few demons.” My voice remained calm. It was a wonder.
“You done?”
“Can't say.”
He nodded at me, a slight and tense movement. His jaw was tight; teeth grinding together. I noticed the curl of his fingers, hands fisted. Oh yeah, he was good and pissed. I fed off him and caught up in no time, ready for him.
“You gonna hit me, brother?” I asked with a tip of my chin, almost an invitation.
Dom recognized the challenge in my tone. He met my gaze with one of his own, a conversation that needed few words. The fight was right there, and we were skimming the surface. The joy that stood side by side with the hunger to fight in me was the reason I avoided physical altercations. I liked it too much. Dominic wasn't an unsuspecting stranger. If he picked a fight, he knew what he was getting into, and he wanted me to let loose. I was given a free pass.
Just then, I wanted it.
“Nah, but I reckon you'll hit me.”
“Why's that?”
“I'm taking Maggie out. Tomorrow night.” He pulled out his cell, checked the time, and one side of his mouth pulled into a mischievous smile. My brother checked the time, feigning interest in it, even as he shifted his weight between both his feet, ready. “Tonight.”
I hit him. Square in the jaw. Fuck. The release called to me and begged for more. This, it was a lot more effective than all the damn painting I'd done. It pushed Maggie from my mind and let me focus on Dominic. He shook off the blow and came at me with a gleam in his eye. A wicked enjoyment that he'd pushed me over the edge, that he had something to hang over my head.
We were a physical family. Affectionate. Hugs were given freely, hands clapped on shoulders, elbows nudged into ribs, hair tousled in loving jest. Aggressive. Punches thrown to prove nothing or something, wrestling matches for no good reason, powerful outbursts to settle disputes. Since we were little, it was always that way, and we'd never outgrown it.
Every punch, elbow, and kick Dominic landed on me, I took. Taking my punishment for being a shitty person was something I did well. The pain was real and alive and it anchored me. Not one to stand still, I gave him as good as I got, answering his call. In the end we'd unsettled all the paint and canvases, and we were both smeared with wet paint. Our abrasions a work of art. Paint covered skin that would ripen into equally colorful bruises.
It was a draw. Neither of us willing to annihilate the other.
I offered him my hand and tugged to pull him to his feet. Chests heaved in the aftermath, breaths coming quick as reality caught up with us. Some of the fire had gone from his eyes.
“Cancel your date, D.”
“It's not like that.” He was breathless, panting, but his lips tugged into that damn smile. Like he knew more than me, like he wanted to dangle it in front of me. Taunting and playful, even now.
“Explain yourself.”
“I offered to take her out,” Dominic lifted both hands, a sign of surrender, a means to keep me from laying him out again. “As a means of helping her feel comfortable going out with a man.”
I let his words settle. The straw that covered the floor of the barn was striped in colors, disheveled as the two of us, and when the sun rose I would take pictures of it. The aftereffects held something of beauty in the chaos. Keeping my head down, I considered his words. I had to assume she had told him as much, that she was uncomfortable going out. The aggressive way I kissed her would be one more reason she was fearful, distrustful. The truth of that shot pain, white hot, through my chest.
“You're going to fake date Magnolia Porter?”
It was impossible to keep the rage from coloring my voice. I didn't bother trying for my earlier false calm. No need with Dom. We were the closest of all of us, and being such, he knew all sides of my fucked-up-ness.
“Listen, Cotton, she's not into me. Not like that. The way I figure, it's win-win.” I lifted my face and glared at him. It encouraged him to keep speaking and explaining his plan. “I am tired of vapid girls and putting another notch in my bedpost.”
Good Lord, the mention of his bedpost in semi-reference to Maggie had me seeing red again. Thankfully, I had become adept at taking all that kicking screaming rage and balling into something else. Like framing the shots I could take of the barn in the morning and imagining the slant of the morning's sunrays across the now dark space.
“I think taking her out will explain to the ladies of Fox River why I'm not out flirting and serial dating.” He sneered the words serial dating, like it was the utmost insult. Huh. “And I think I can help her. I noticed this evening, when I was driving her home, that she relaxed with me. She wasn't looking for an escape or trying to turn invisible. I don't know that I can say that of any other guy.”
“I hear what you're saying. Rationally, I agree it's a good idea. I trust you enough to not hurt her.”
“But?”
“Ah. The but. There's always a but.” I shook my head and shook out my sore hands. My knuckles were split and bloody. “Irrationally, the idea of it makes it difficult not to kill you.”
Dominic laughed. It was a heavy dark thing, not his charming endearing public laugh. It helped remind me how much I loved him. He was my brother, and
my family was everything.
“I feel I should mention this line of talk came up in particular because Alyssa plans to set Maggie up with Vincent Berry.”
“Fuck no.” I spit the words. They were a waste because there was no one else to hit and I was done hitting my brother. I contemplated throwing things around, and even allowed myself a few seconds of imagining it. The feel of the wooden easels in my hands, the fantastic crack of splitting wood and tearing canvas as I mauled them. Then I pulled a thin breath in through my nose, and let that impulse go. “That is not happening.”
“Why? You have something against Berry?”
“I have something against ...” I was brought up short, of course, because I didn't have a damn leg to stand on. Maggie was not mine. I was nothing to her. I needed to let this go. “I need to not know about this shit.”
“You could ask her out. Then she'd be going out with you, Cotton.”
“No.”
“You're a damn broken record. I think I'll pass on the Cotton is Worthless conversation.” He walked to where I stood and gave me a hearty pat on the back. A peace offering that I accepted with a nod. “I'll let you know how it goes.”
He laughed on his way out. It was meant to hurt me. No, not to hurt me. Dominic didn't want to hurt me. It was meant to spur me into action. To convince me I should bypass my morals and date like a normal person. Not happening.
***
I didn't sleep. I counted the minutes as they passed until the sun began to rise. Then I took my camera out and took a few hundred shots of nothing. Of light and shadows, of angles and curves, of anything that wasn't alive. I preferred to shoot subjects that I could manipulate, rather than people that always thought they knew how to stand and pose. Family sessions and weddings were the bread and butter, and being the only professional photographer in Fox River meant that I was sought after for such things. On my own time, when it was my preferred way to focus my thoughts, I wandered the mountain paths and captured nature.
That night, when I knew Dominic was out with Maggie, I went full boar stupid. I had little choice. I texted Emily Doyle. I met her at her place, the little apartment above Doyle's Flowers and Gifts. I went into Emily's apartment above her daddy's flower shop where she begrudgingly worked days, and I pretended being with her would satisfy me. Like the jerk I knew I was, for the first hour I pretended I was with Maggie. Then I gave up on that fantasy because it was too far-fetched to believe. Emily was lovely, curvy and willing, and easy to please. She welcomed me into her bed, and happily escorted me to her door when she was done with me. It was an arrangement that worked for the both of us. Until that night. Despite the way I made her squirm and scream, she wasn't Maggie. Her body was wrong. Her voice was wrong. My touching her was all wrong.
I went home and punched a hole in the wall of my bedroom in the family homestead. Then I texted Dominic and told him under no uncertain terms what I thought of his plan. I threatened his life and mine and leveraged to give up everything for another taste of Maggie's sweet mouth.
Chapter Seven
Magnolia
Coffee was already made, scenting the sleepy house with its warm bitterness. Ready, as expected, when I made my way to the kitchen. My mama prepped the coffee the night before, without fail, taking comfort in her routines. Come morning, she would hover around me waiting to clean the pot. She woke early each and every morning, and had one cup of coffee. I poured two cups for myself, one in a mug and the other in a thermos that I covertly delivered to my bedroom for later consumption. My coffee procured, she was obviously relieved and set to cleanup. I had learned to live within her system. We all had our quirks.
“You have any plans today?” Mama asked with a look at me over her shoulder, hands busy washing up in the sink. Pale yellow light filled the room, the window over the sink east facing and making the little room perfect for mornings.
“No.” Then I remembered that wasn't true. I had a date that evening, though I wasn't sure yet what that would involve. “Or, yes. But not until tonight.”
I watched her rinse the coffee pot and scrub the counters, her back to me where I sat at the bar. Her hair was like mine, a thick tangle of dark brown curls. Her body was softer with age, worn down by her life. Otherwise we looked very much alike.
“I'm replanting the tomatoes this morning. They shot up overnight and got too big for their pots. They'll need little cages, if I can manage it, or I might use bamboo stakes and twist-ties.”
I smiled into my coffee as she spoke. Every year she did a little container garden. Tomatoes, bell peppers, and basil. I had offered to help her with a bed in the yard, but she liked to do it her way. Partly because with pots, she could have them up on a table and not have to bend over the work. Mostly, though she would never admit it, because she had a collection of beautiful flowerpots and she liked the look of the way she arranged them all out front. Stella Mae Porter was known for her artful eye and eccentric tendencies. I liked when I was reminded of those qualities, rather than feeling bogged down by being her daughter.
She hadn't asked about my possible plans. I hadn't expected her to, because I knew she wanted to tell me about her own plans. But I would have to fill her in, or she'd be upset when I left later without having informed her.
“Just use the bamboo stakes. They worked last year.”
Her morning cleanup complete, she turned and leaned the back of her hips against the counter. I dug into the fridge and found a cup of yogurt, then pulled almonds from the pantry, and a banana from the bunch on the counter. I combined my ingredients into a bowl while I felt my mama's eyes on me. She often studied me. Like she might miss something, or like I might disappear. It was a tendency that came about only after Luke had died, when suddenly the house had only one child remaining, and I was understanding of the habit.
“Let's go shopping this afternoon,” she suggested. “You could use a few new summer dresses. I need shorts that don't cut into my waist all day.”
“Just give it up and go with the elastic waistband.”
She hated denim, loathed wearing it, and complained about the uncomfortable nature of the material. I had always loved jeans, but she told me it was because I was thinner than her. I didn't know what to say about that, so I didn't say anything. I wasn't especially thin, but I was two sizes smaller than my mama.
“I am not ready to be a grandma yet.”
I turned and smiled at her while she rolled her eyes. Elastic waist = grandma pants, or some such thing.
“Yoga pants are for everyone.”
“Not me. And that wasn't the issue at hand.”
She was right. Elastic waist shorts were not yoga pants, but if I was picking comfortable waistbands, I was going with yoga pants. I couldn't help myself either, picking on her about the issue. She hated yoga pants too, as everyday wear. They were for lounging at home - if not for actual yoga - not for wearing in public. Again, it came back the weight thing. I assured her she wasn't too big for yoga pants, and in fact I had yet to see anyone too fat for stretchy comfortable pants. The only caveat was in finding the right size and a material that wasn't transparent when stretched. But that was true for all sizes and shapes.
“I'd be happy to go shopping with you, Mama.” I began to eat my yogurt nut fruit mix. This would be a good time to mention my plans again. “I'm not sure what time my plans are tonight. I'll need to be back in time to get ready.”
“What are you doing tonight?” Her tone was sharp, like this was the first she was hearing of my plans.
“I'm going out with Dominic. MacKenna.” I swallowed another bite while she gathered her thoughts and looked me over. “As friends.”
“Dominic. He's the youngest one?”
“Yes. He was in my class at school. I've known him forever.”
“I didn't realize you were friends.”
We aren't, or weren't, and it was complicated as of yet.
“Oh, well, you know, I ran into him last night at the jam.” My words jostled fr
ee the memory of having actually run into him. “Like I literally ran right smack into him.”
“Nice of him to ask you out after.” I couldn't tell if she was amused or on the verge of judgment.
“We all went to Prissy Polly's after the jam, and he drove me home. He asked me out then.”
The gears in her head were turning, and I was disinclined to watch. My food was suddenly interesting; I stirred the thick yogurt to fully coat the remaining nuts.
“You went to Prissy Polly's? That place is trashy. A girl like you shouldn't be hanging around a dirty bar. Now you've given this MacKenna boy the wrong idea.”
Laughter fought to come up with my throat. Problem was it would bring my breakfast up with it, and that would be a mess.
“I was with Alyssa and Jacob. It's not trashy.”
“You think I haven't spent my fair share of time at Polly's?” Oh, I was in for it now. I sighed and scraped my last bite free from the walls of my bowl. A handmade pottery bowl, my favorite of her collection. “I know exactly the type of place it is and the type of people that frequent it.”
It couldn't be said that I frequented the establishment. I did not point that out to her. I abandoned my empty bowl and looked at my mama. She was disappointed in me. Worried about me. She wasn't a bad person, a fact I bore in mind as I heard her out.
“Good girls like you, shouldn't be in places like that.” She was completely serious. “Magnolia, you are too sweet and innocent.”
Alyssa had given me a bumper sticker the day I got my car that read: I only look sweet and innocent. Obviously, I couldn't put it on my car. I kept it in the glove box, and wished I had the guts to display it. I was the good girl, and I made good choices. I was sweet and arguably too innocent. However, I wasn't completely naive.
The Guilt of a Sparrow Page 6
