Years of memories hung heavily in the air between them, countless nights of sleeping alongside each other but not together, of forced kisses and the sadness that Tom wore like his suit, always clinging to him. She tried not to see it, though she knew it was true.
They hid it well, but theirs was primarily a marriage that looked good on paper. It was all part of a long-term strategy. To be a sure thing during this neoconservative era, Robin knew she had to win the heart of the South. Tom Rutherford was perfectly cast as the prominent, but not too prominent, good-looking, but not too good-looking, companion who wouldn’t overshadow her. In a courtroom, he was most disarming, using his laid-back, almost lethargic attitude to catch defense attorneys off guard. Then he’d go in for the kill. But in his private life, he was actually averse to confrontation, doing anything he could to avoid it.
When Robin chose a political career, she had ridden in on the coattails of her father. Because the Sanders name carried so much weight in Georgia, when she and Tom married it was agreed she’d keep her family name. No one questioned her decision, not even Tom. In fact, he was the most agreeable conservative husband she could have asked for. Why then did everything feel so wrong?
She watched as he slumped on the bed. Surely he didn’t want to talk about this now? This wasn’t the time to examine their marriage. Her head was going numb from all the stress. She couldn’t handle hearing how many years he’d waited to see that special light in her eyes when she looked at him. She would never be that woman, the one who couldn’t wait to throw her arms around her man when he walked through the door at night.
What good would it do to talk about it anyway? She knew how sad she made him feel. She also knew about his liaison with Darlene McFadden, one of the lawyers in his firm. It was inevitable but…okay. In a way, it took the pressure off her. He wasn’t even careful about hiding his trysts with Darlene anymore, sometimes even meeting her at the mansion. Maybe he wanted to be caught. Or maybe he wanted to see Robin get upset, to find out if she cared.
“A real marriage?” she repeated defensively. “Does every ambitious woman have to lose her husband because her success is too much for his ego?”
“Ambition? This isn’t about your ambition. It’s about sleeping next to the ice princess night after night. Can you blame me for wondering? If you were…it would almost make sense.”
“You know how I feel about that lifestyle.” She slammed the bathroom cabinets in search of a night cream she’d never find.
“Yeah, you’ve made it the centerpiece of your campaign.”
Robin didn’t hear the tone of suspicion in his voice. She was too caught up in concocting plans for damage control, weighing and analyzing all of her options.
“Yes,” she answered flatly. “That’s why they want to use this salacious, fabricated scandal to bring me down. How ironic: the God-fearing woman is really a queer! Come on, Tom. Isn’t it obvious? It’s not even creative.”
She had a point. “So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
* * *
In the early morning hours, when Tom was snoring violently due to a deviated septum, Robin gingerly pulled back the covers and climbed out of bed. She hadn’t closed her eyes all night. Rather than waste time sleeping, she tiptoed downstairs to the library, anxious to see the news reports, to hear what they were saying about her. She checked her phone, then the TV, flipping through channel after channel, hearing the same recycled speculation. Apparently, Adrienne had made an off-handed comment to a reporter in Boston, where she now lived, and the reporter had run with it. No one had since questioned her further. But her name was now all over the news. Robin couldn’t find any new information, only the same outrageous story being told a hundred different ways: “Rock musician Adrienne Austen claims she had a lesbian affair with the governor when they were in college. The GOP isn’t likely to nominate their front-runner now.”
Then Robin changed to a channel that made her pause. There on the screen was a current photo of Adrienne. It was heart-stopping—the familiar, pointed smile, now with a few more lines around her eyes—a grown woman’s face. Her hair was medium length and styled in a modern way. She looked good. She seemed happy. And she still had that little girl grin.
Something about seeing how she looked now brought it all back to Robin—memories so real, so vivid, the kind that made you cringe if you lingered on them too long. Even after all this time, the memories were still there, waiting to be found again. They flooded into the room and threatened to drown her.
Chapter Four
My little burgundy Toyota was no match for the hurricane force winds that welcomed me as I crossed the Florida state line. A wall of rain suddenly fell from nowhere and blurred the entire landscape. It was a blinding, wrath-of-God kind of storm—the kind that made me wonder when I’d last prayed. My family never missed a service, except for last week… As bolts of lightning took turns stabbing at my car, I was too frightened to notice the irony of the rain pummeling a highway sign that read: “Welcome to Florida, the Sunshine State.”
I flipped on my hazard lights and pulled under a bridge to wait out the storm. I stared despondently at a map that was crinkled beyond recognition. I had managed to find 90 West just before Lake City, so I knew I was going in the right direction. I decided that Tallahassee couldn’t be that far away.
I checked my face in the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time, comparing myself to airbrushed actresses. What if the Florida sun caused me to age beyond my years and I came back home looking like one of those leathery-skinned, Palm Beach women who wore white lipstick? I pressed the creases of the map and folded it neatly, placing it back inside the glove compartment. Whenever I was nervous, I liked to make things neat and tidy; it gave me the illusion of control.
Suddenly, the clouds parted and a blinding sun emerged. I marveled at this surprising weather as I pulled back onto the road. It wasn’t long before university buildings popped up over the tops of palm trees in the distance.
When I finally stepped out of the car, billowing steam rose from puddles of rain on the pavement. Still wearing the denim jacket I’d put on at home, I lugged my biggest suitcase toward the stately red-brick dormitory building I’d been assigned to live in. It loomed over me with dramatic arches resembling those of a medieval castle. Inside was the musty smell of the past and pencils, a smell I’d forever associate with college. I scanned rows of students, standing in long lines like refugees, their belongings at their feet.
Eventually, I shuffled myself to the head of the line labeled S-Z and an acne-covered guy handed me a key to my room for the year. It was on the seventh floor at the end. “We’re booked full,” he informed me. “So no room transfers.”
He stared at me a little longer than at the other students who had passed in front of his desk. But I wasn’t interested in flirting. Finding the room was all that mattered now. This took about ten minutes. That’s when the full horror of his words hit me.
Chapter Five
With its barren white walls and white tile floor, the dorm room looked like a fine place to die or have a last meal before going outside to be shot.
My thoughts tended toward the macabre, especially during times of stress. And my first day of college was no exception. “Oh my God.” I set my suitcase upon one of the naked twin beds, the one on the left. As if it mattered.
The walls were made of cinder blocks, and the beds had wafer-thin mattresses. I’d somehow have to find a way to decorate this prison cell so that it didn’t look like a prison cell.
There was a knock at the door. It was probably my soon-to-be roommate. When I opened the door, I saw a husky older woman whose shadow eclipsed me. Her look was stern, her hair a mousy color with no texture—like it was some fuzz that was glued onto her head. She was poised and ready for combat. “I’m Lydia. The RA.”
“Excuse me?”
“Resident Assistant,” Lydia shouted. Her manner was gruff, but natural, a
s if she spoke to her own mother that way. “I patrol the hall, make sure nobody’s doing anything against regulations.”
“Oh. I’m Robin Sanders.” I extended my hand tentatively. I was used to people recognizing my family name at home. But here I was a stranger. It made no difference to Lydia whether I was a Smith, a Sanders or a Rockefeller.
Lydia distractedly shook my hand, then poked her head in the room. “Your roommate not here yet?”
“No. It’s just me so far.” I offered a slight smile, fascinated by Lydia’s odd brown and orange, seventies-style clothes.
“I’ll come back when she gets here. I have a few things to brief you on.” With that, she took off like a bullet down the hall. Shortly I heard the muffled sounds of her banging on a neighbor’s door, probably terrorizing her too. I closed my door and locked it, vowing not to open it again for anyone. My roommate would have another key anyway.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how empty the room was. Standing there in its starkness, I felt a fear I’d never felt before. Fear and freedom. The room was a blank canvas, and I’d have to fill it. This would be the first time I’d make my own decisions without having to consider my father’s opinion. Where to study, what to eat—I was the only one here whose opinion mattered. Growing up in a household with as dominant a personality as Jimmy Sanders, I rarely felt in control of my own life. Here I would explore what it was like to be truly on my own.
The room was much smaller than I expected. It wasn’t even as big as my bedroom back home. There was one small, grimy window opposite the door, and the head of each bed rested against the wall where the window was. There were two tiny desks and dressers beside the foot of each bed, on opposite walls.
Using my jacket sleeve, I wiped some of the film off the window, slowly revealing a view of the football stadium. Then a smoky voice startled me: “You expecting a cold front?”
I whipped around to see who was speaking. She was someone who could have been plucked right out of a music video, sporting long, wild, blond-streaked hair, cut-off denim shorts and a clinging white, sleeveless shirt. Standing a little taller than me, she was definitely stunning. When she turned slightly, I saw a small tattoo on her right shoulder. I couldn’t make out exactly what it was, probably a skull. She was a perfect nightmare.
“Oh, not exactly. Hi.” I answered self-consciously, quickly trying to wiggle out of my jacket.
“Hi,” the girl answered, extending her hand to my only available arm. “Adrienne Austen.”
“Robin Sanders.”
Our eyes locked, and momentarily I forgot where I was.
“Like the Colonel?” Adrienne was joking. I didn’t get the joke at first. “The fried chicken guy?”
How witty. I lifted my face haughtily. “It’s Robin Camille Sanders.”
“Didn’t your parents like you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sounds kinda snobby. I like your little accent though.” She was judging me already.
I didn’t have an accent that I knew of. My dad sounded like he was from the South, and I knew I didn’t sound like that. Something about this girl made me feel very defensive, like I needed to protect myself…though from what, I wasn’t sure.
“So you’re my roommate?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m probably not staying.” I’d beg for a transfer if I had to.
“Aw, come on. Dyer Hall’s worse.” Adrienne glanced out the window.
“Nothing could be worse.”
“Have you seen Dyer Hall?” Adrienne beamed with a lopsided grin and flashing, inquisitive eyes. They were almond shaped, and the color of two perfect little coffee beans.
I watched incredulously as Adrienne stuck a cigarette in her mouth and lit it. After a moment, she glanced at me, as though she had forgotten I was there for a moment. “I know. I put ‘nonsmoker’ down on the form, but I do sometimes. I don’t have to in the room if you don’t want me to.”
How strange. A polite Hell’s Angel.
“It’s fine,” I lied, slumping on the edge of my bed. I didn’t want to make waves, not on the first day. I’d never known anyone who had a tattoo before. In movies, people with tattoos were always the bad guys, violent mafia types who dunked people’s heads in toilets. Until I could find another place to live, I was going to be as nice as possible. If this girl was as dangerous as she looked, I wanted to keep from ending up on the local news.
“So where you from?” Adrienne asked, taking a puff and seating herself in one of the desk chairs.
“Georgia.”
“Ooh, that’s fucked up.”
“Thank you.” Not even a minute had passed, and I’d been insulted at least twice already. I wrinkled my nose like a rabbit and huffed to myself.
“Nah, just kidding,” Adrienne said. “I had an aunt who lived in Georgia once. She said Kansas is worse.” Her twinkling eyes danced in amusement. Was she laughing at me?
“Are you always this tactful?” I asked, trying hard not to take myself too seriously, but finding that impossible.
“I’m usually much worse.” Adrienne’s easy smile was pointed at the corners. It was the cutest smile I’d ever seen. I tried not to think about that though.
“Where are you from?” I asked awkwardly, trying to appear casual.
“A small town east of here. Just a dot on the map.” Adrienne studied me. “Don’t you ever get out in the sun?” she asked.
I looked down, suddenly self-conscious, all too aware of my pasty white skin. I couldn’t help but notice Adrienne’s smooth, bronze legs. “Well,” I fumbled, “I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type.”
“Robin Camille,” Adrienne repeated with fascination. “Anyone ever call you RC, like the soda?”
“No, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“No problem, RC.” Adrienne blew out smoke and crossed her legs.
With that one gesture, she actually scared me. It wasn’t a mortal-danger kind of fear, but a fear for my mortal soul. All those years sitting in church, listening to what I was supposed to do…only to discover now that nothing mattered to me as much as getting another glimpse of this unusual girl. I was going to hell for sure.
“I asked you not to call me that,” I said.
“If you don’t want to get your ass kicked, you might want to loosen up.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No,” Adrienne said. “I just mean you should chill out.”
I ignored her and began unpacking.
“Seriously,” she continued. “You stay this uptight and other people might kick your ass.”
I carefully took each article of clothing out of my suitcase, pretending to be consumed by this chore. Something about this girl brought out the strangest feelings in me. Everything was so confusing all of a sudden. Heat was rushing to my cheeks, and I didn’t know why.
Relying on routines comforted me. So I sorted my earth-tone clothes according to shade, trying not to be unnerved by the eyes I felt upon my back. Everything about Adrienne seemed to be laughing at me. Every insecurity I’d had since childhood came crashing in on me like thunder, while I tried to maintain a calm demeanor on the outside.
After a few moments, Adrienne left the room to get her things. As soon as I was alone, I exhaled and stared up at God, or the leaky stain on the ceiling. Of all the dorm rooms in all the colleges in America…she had to walk into mine.
“No room transfers.” The words echoed in my mind as I tried to organize things in my dresser. I was so rattled I couldn’t concentrate. I was mixing colored socks with white ones, T-shirts with skirts. God only knew where the underpants would wind up.
A banging on the door woke me from my haze. I opened it to find Adrienne, concealed by a tower of stereo equipment. “Can you…help me?” she said. Cords were twisted and wrapped around her hands. She had long, slender fingers with painted nails. I took a speaker off the top, revealing her deep brown eyes. Another speaker, and the rest of her face appeared. There was
no way around it. Hers was the cutest face I’d ever seen. I looked away and set the speakers on her bed. “Sorry.”
“I was knocking for like an hour,” she exclaimed. She brushed her hands off on her shorts.
“Sorry. I…was distracted.”
I got another glimpse of her tattoo. It was very small, like an ink smudge. She caught me staring at it.
“Know what it is?” she asked with an excited grin. If I didn’t know, she obviously couldn’t wait to tell me.
I leaned in closer. I could only make out what seemed like tiny music notes, maybe a miniature piano sheet.
“It’s the first few chords of ‘Rock You Like a Hurricane.’” She stared at me expectantly.
“Okay.”
“You know, the song?”
I looked blankly at her and shook my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“You’ve never heard that song?” The judgment was loud and accusing. “Oh my God. It’s on the radio all the time. What are you, Amish or something?”
“No.” I decided to ignore her and continue unpacking.
As the minutes passed, Adrienne’s side of the room was quickly transformed into a shrine to big-hair bands that I never listened to. When she said something about how great the Scorpions and Metallica were, I nodded as if I had a clue what she was talking about. I certainly didn’t want to get my ass kicked over my ignorance of heavy metal bands.
On my side of the room, I hung only the black and white poster of Bette Davis. It contrasted sharply with the bare, white, cinder block wall. All that was left was to put away Granny Inez’s blouses. My plan was to shove them into the back of the bottom drawer and forget about them.
“Whoa!” Adrienne held up the worst of them, the one with flower appliques all over the front. “Are you shitting me?”
“Shut up. It was a gift. I don’t wear it.”
“It looks great…for someone who’s ninety-five years old.”
“Shut up,” I repeated, biting my lip to keep from laughing. It felt good to hear someone say aloud what I’d thought about those blouses for so many years. But how could I laugh with someone who was obviously making fun of me?
Hurricane Days Page 3
