Various States of Undress

by Laura Simcox

  Margot was chewing on her thumbnail, and she avoided his gaze.

  “Are you feeling okay, Mom?”

  “I heard on the news this morning that you had a rough time at yesterday’s game,” Margot said, ignoring his question.

  “Yeah.” He paused. “It was my fault, though. Not gonna let it happen again. I’ll get in the groove and stay there, ya know?”

  Margot’s silence was answer enough—she loved him, but she didn’t believe him.

  “What else is new?” He sat on the worn, slip-covered sofa, his elbows on his knees. “Like, for instance, what’s bothering you? Because I can tell that something is.”

  Margot sat beside him. “I oughta be asking you that question, son.”

  If she did, though, he would avoid the truth. How was he supposed to tell the woman who idolized him that he was in danger of screwing up his chances to be called back up to the Cardinals? That he’d let himself get so distracted by meeting Georgia—and worried about that damn interview—that he was starting to make mistakes again? He could control how he played, and yet . . . he hadn’t recently.

  He sighed. “Mom, if you’re hinting around about the Cardinals, I didn’t get called up yet. Probably won’t happen until later in the season.”

  She shook her head. “Not what I’m talking about.”

  “Okay. Then tell me.”

  She picked up a copy of the Memphis Commercial Appeal and pulled out the sports section. With a long nail, the polish on it chipped, she tapped the front page. “You haven’t seen this?”

  Brett stared down at the picture of himself standing by the Redbirds dugout, looking down at Georgia, who held on to his shoulder. It had been taken the last night when they were standing just inside the tunnel—right after she’d thrown out the pitch. And right after she’d asked him over to her place, judging by the huge grin on his face in the photo. He glanced at the description accompanying the picture.

  “Redbirds catcher Knox to be featured by President Fulton’s daughter,” he read aloud. “Oh yeah. That.”

  She smacked his arm. “When were you gonna tell me about this?”

  “Right now. It’s why I came over.” He put his arm around his mom’s thin shoulders. “I wasn’t hiding it from you.”

  Mollified, she hugged him back. Her fingers shook when she pulled away. “This is amazing. What’s she like?”

  The memory of her lips parting under his, her soft, quick exhalation of breath just before he settled his mouth on hers, flashed through his mind. “She’s great. She threw out the first pitch at the game last night. You weren’t watching it on TV?”

  Margot shook her head. “I was at work. I’m waitressing night shift at O’Brien’s now.”

  “Good for you, Mom.” O’Brien’s was a twenty-four-hour family-style restaurant, but in the wee hours, it catered to drunks. He doubted his mom would last long in the job—who would? “You like it there?”

  “Hell no. Let’s get back to the president’s daughter. What’s she really like?”

  Beautiful. Sweet. Annoying. And scary. If Georgia ever got hold of his mom, every detail of his childhood would be up for grabs. Margot was matter-of-fact about poverty, to the point of being painful. And she loved to tell the story of Brett’s dad, Joe Knox Sr., who died while fighting a wildfire in California. “If he’d have lived,” Margot always said, “life would be different. We’d be living next to palm trees instead of moving back to Memphis and living next to a junk heap.”

  “Well?” Margot reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table but glanced at Brett’s worried expression and put them back.

  “She’s great, like I said.” he ventured. “Real nice. Hard worker.”

  “Son, you could say that about anybody. Give me details.”

  Brett cleared his throat. “Actually, Mom, details are what I wanted to talk to you about. More than likely, because she’s dead set on interviewing me, she’s gonna want to talk to you too.”

  Margot closed her eyes.

  “And I’d rather you fill her head with baseball instead of . . . the past. Think you can refrain from telling her all about Daddy?”

  “I—” Margot stared at him for a moment, and then her eyes filled with tears. Brett frowned.

  “Okay, something’s really wrong, and you’d better tell me right now.” He took her hands and waited as she bowed her head and sniffled. “Mom,” he prompted gently, “Do you need some money?”

  “No. I wish that was the problem.” She tried to laugh, but it came out choked. Brett ducked his head to look at her. The panicked expression on her face made his heart turn over. Whatever she had to say, it was bad.

  “When I woke up this morning and saw the paper, I knew I had to . . . to say something I’ve been meaning to say for a long time. Ever since you were grown.” She shook her head. “But when you walked in the house, I lost my courage.”

  What was she talking about? “Since I was grown?”

  “Yeah. I’m so afraid you’re gonna hate me.”

  He drew in a sharp breath as alarm took hold of him, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “Whatever it is, I’d never hate you.”

  She didn’t look up. “It’s about Daddy.”

  “Okay,” Brett heard himself say quietly—too calmly, almost as if his voice was detached from his body.

  “I can’t tell that story about him anymore.” Margot’s lips, furrowed from years of smoking, began to tremble. “It’s not true, Brett.”

  “What do you mean?” Brett stared at her.

  “There’s no easy way to say it, so I’ll just say it as plain as I can.” She pulled her hands away from his and twisted her fingers together. “There is no Joe Knox Sr. I made him up.”

  “Made him up.” Brett repeated her words, but he couldn’t believe them. She made him up. She made his father up? “Is this some kind of a sick joke?” he asked.

  “No. It’s the truth.”

  As the words sank in, Brett sat there, motionless, seeing nothing. “Why?”

  Margot didn’t answer; she only began to cry harder.

  Brett listened to her, but he couldn’t look at her. After a moment of sitting there, his heart racing, his fists clenched on his knees, his gaze shifted to the family picture hanging on the wall above the TV. It was small—one of those free 8×10s from a Kmart portrait studio—and surrounded by a plastic frame.

  In front of a fake autumn background, Mom sat on a wicker chair, her hair a frizzy cloud around her proud, wide-eyed smile. Joe stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. He’d been sixteen at the time and growing a wispy moustache. Brett sat next to her, safe under the crook of her arm. He was a gangly twelve-year-old with a stubborn expression on his face and was sporting a Cardinals T-shirt instead of the shirt and tie she’d asked him to wear.

  He stared at the picture for a long time, anger and confusion building inside of him like a hurricane. Why? What was the point of inventing a father? Was it because she had no idea who his father really was? Did he and Joe even share the same father? He closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep breath. And then another as he listened to his mom’s heart-breaking sobs.

  “Why? Why would you do something so . . . awful?”

  “To give you boys a father. One you could be proud of.” She let out a gasping breath. “And now I hate myself for doing it.”

  You ought to. Brett stood up, paced the small room, and focused on breathing. Coach had told him many times that if a man could breathe easy, he could handle just about anything. But Coach hadn’t been talking about being hit head-on by something like this. Brett already lived with a chip on his shoulder, and now he had to deal with the fact that he hadn’t just had an unfortunate childhood. His dad hadn’t been a hero, which made Brett what? A bastard? A stereotypical piece of trash, and he’d never even known it. He’d grown up thinking he was better than the people around him, and it was a lie.

  A fucking lie.

  Though every instinct screamed
at him to walk out of the house and slam the door, he made himself stay. If his mom was telling the truth, she was going to tell all of it. He cleared his throat. “Try to get yourself under control, okay?” His voice broke, which made him even angrier. “Quit crying,” he told her loudly. He stood there, staring at her thin body curled up on the couch, and even though he didn’t want to feel an ounce of pity for her, he realized she was the most miserable and afraid she’d ever been. Without allowing himself to think, he knelt and gathered his mom’s shaking shoulders against his chest, waiting for her to quit crying. “Shh.”

  After a moment, she took a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry I lied to you boys.”

  Brett pulled away. “I’m getting you a Coke.” He got up, walked to the cluttered kitchen, and opened the dented fridge. He pulled a can out and popped it open. For a moment, he paused, looking at the dishes in the sink and the cold cup of coffee on the table. Had this been his father’s house, then? If it had, the man was a loser because it had been a piece of shit when Brett was a kid, and it still was. He wanted to punch his fist through the wall, and the only thing that stopped him was the thought of the Cardinals. He couldn’t injure his hand: it would be like tearing up his baseball contract and throwing it in the trash.

  He needed to get out of Memphis. He needed to get out of this nightmare too, but he had to know the rest of the truth or he’d be haunted by the unanswered questions. He’d screw up everything—he’d be a loser, just like whoever the hell his dad was. Brett took a few deep breaths. When he returned to the living room, Margot was gone, but the front door was open. With a sigh, he went out to the porch and found her sitting on a lawn chair, a lit cigarette in her hand. “Here,” he said, extending the Coke.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She took it but didn’t drink.

  “Do Joe and I even have the same father?” He knew his tone was nasty, but at this point, it was all he could do to remain calm enough to stay.

  She stiffened. “You’d better just let me tell you the whole story. If I don’t do it right this minute, I’m not sure I ever will.”

  He sat down on the steps. “I’m listening.”

  “I was born in Mississippi, and when I was sixteen, I took off, thinking I could do so much better than the crappy little town where I grew up. I was gonna go all the way up to Chicago, but I only made it a hundred miles away. Memphis. By the time I was eighteen, I was pregnant and living in a dump, too ashamed to go back home. The guy I was with was much older, had a steady job, and even owned his own house, so I thought I’d be taken care of. But when he found out about the baby on the way, he dropped me like a rock.”

  Typical. Brett had known dozens of girls with that story growing up, but he’d never expected his mom to be one of them. He put his head in his hands, muffling his voice. “Why? Why did he drop you?”

  She hesitated. “Because he was married.”

  “Jesus, Mom.” Brett couldn’t hide the look of disgust on his face.

  “It gets better,” she said and let out a bitter laugh. “I managed to make ends meet—barely. Decent people didn’t give me the time of day, and I got so sick of it that when I was lying in the hospital about to give birth, I found myself telling people that I was a widow. My late husband was a hero who’d died in California. After that, I got some respect. Who doesn’t want respect, son?” she asked.

  “People who’ve lost all hope or self-confidence?” He stared at her, hoping she could read between the lines.

  She didn’t get it. “Exactly. I’ve never lost hope. I was in love with Joe’s father, and I held out hope. He strung me along for years, allowed me to think that I should have hope, and that’s when you came into the picture.”

  Brett raised his head and looked at her. “Joe and I are full brothers then.”

  “Yes. That’s something at least, right?” She actually had the gall to sound cheery. In the past, Brett had admired that quality about her—the strength to be positive in the face of misery, but today he realized the truth. She hadn’t been brave—she’d just avoided reality her entire life. And look where that had gotten her.

  “Yeah, Mom,” he said sarcastically, “That’s really something. But Mystery Daddy’s not the clean-cut man in the suit from the photo album. The one with his arm around you. You know, the only picture you have of the martyred hero?”

  Margot winced. “No. That was some guy I met when I started going to church. He took me out a few times, but when he found out I was a single mother, living in a rent-by-the-week motel, he never called again.” She glanced away. “Serves me right for lying to him, but all I was trying to do was find a dad for my boys. I never did. After I found out I was pregnant the second time, I quit trying—and I didn’t even go around your father again.”

  Brett watched as she blew out a plume of smoke and ground the cigarette out. “What happened next?” he asked.

  “You grew up.”

  He didn’t comment, but there was so much he wanted to say. If he’d stayed in the world his mom inhabited, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have had a problem yelling at her, just like all the drunks who spent most of their days sitting on broken front porches screaming out life’s frustration at the women in their lives. But that wasn’t who Brett was, and if he sank to that level, he wouldn’t be able to look himself in the mirror.

  “So now you know. Your daddy wasn’t a fireman and sure wasn’t a hero.” She let out a sigh. “And he’s . . . definitely not dead.”

  “He’s not dead,” Brett echoed. “Is he in Memphis?”

  “Yeah.”

  Brett stood up, his eyes wide. “Is he still married?”

  “Been divorced for a little while. No children.” She paused. “Well. None from his marriage.”

  “I don’t want details about the man, okay? I’ve heard enough.” Brett pulled out his keys.

  Margot held up a hand. “Wait, son. After I read that article about you and the president’s daughter, I figured that she probably has access to a lot of information. I didn’t want you to find out the truth from her. I’d have been heartbroken if she blindsided you during a live interview or something.”

  “So you blindsided me instead?”

  “What should I have done?” Margot lit another cigarette and stared at him. “Would you prefer that I hadn’t told you?”

  He sighed. “I’d prefer that you’d never put yourself in the position to have to tell me.”

  “Well, I can’t change the past. None of us can. But I know how sensitive you are about it, and if you’re being interviewed by someone so famous—”

  “You think I haven’t thought about that? Worried about it? And now I have even more to worry about.” He threw up his hands. “All I can hope for is the best. Georgia’s ambitious, but she wouldn’t stoop so low as to report dirty family secrets as if they’re news. She wants to be a serious journalist.”

  “I got the impression you’d barely met her.”

  “Never said that.” Brett paused. “I’m assuming you’re not going to breathe a word about it to her if she contacts you?”

  “No way.” Margot gazed at him. “Like you asked, I’ll only talk about baseball. If she calls, I’m going to be so nervous, though. I mean—her dad is the president of the United States.”

  “It’s a little tough for me to wrap my head around too,” he said. “A lot of things are, right now.”

  “Son . . .” Margot took a step toward him and stopped. “Do you want to know who your father—”

  “No, I don’t,” he interrupted. “But I’d better, hadn’t I? Just in case the media finds out first?” He sat back down.

  Margot set the Coke can on the porch railing and squeezed in next to Brett on the steps. “That’s probably a good idea because when I heard he was divorced, I called him up, even though I knew it wasn’t the best idea. But he was pleased to hear from me. I’ve been seeing him again.”

  “What?” Brett stared at her. “After what you tol
d me? You’ve got to be fucking kidding!”

  She shook her head slowly. “I believe in forgiveness.”

  Brett groaned. “Oh yeah. Forgiveness lasts forever. Isn’t that what you always said when Joe and I were fighting over toys? Well, this is hardly the same thing.”

  “I just—”

  “Find some self-respect, Mom,” he said. She didn’t answer. As he sat there, his breathing quickening, an ominous thought occurred to him. “Does he know about me and Joe?”

  “Yeah.” She touched Brett’s hand.

  He jerked it away. “Why? Why the hell would you tell him about us without our permission? I don’t want anything to do with the man.”

  Margot ignored him and barreled on. “He’s so tickled that he has one son who’s a Major League Baseball player and another who’s on his way to The Show. He’s proud of you boys. So proud.”

  Brett gave her a disbelieving look. “He doesn’t have sons. He fathered two kids but never acknowledged them, and now, because one of them is famous and the other one might be soon, he’s so proud. Do you realize how screwed up that sounds?”

  “I guess it does.” Margot tried to take Brett’s hand again, but he stood up. “It’s the truth, son. And I’m worried that . . . he won’t be able to hold the pride in. I’m worried he might tell somebody.”

  “Oh my God.”

  She looked uncomfortable. “He already knew that I’d had his baby. And when he came over to pick me up a couple of weeks ago, he saw the pictures and all the baseball stuff and put two and two together.”

  “And you couldn’t have made something up? You’re obviously good at that,” he spat out.

  “I couldn’t lie to him. But I asked him to keep quiet. I’m not sure that he will, though.”

  “What’s he gonna do, march down to the newspaper and declare it?”

  “No. But he’s kinda got a public platform of sorts.”

  Alarm rose, choking Brett. “What do you mean? Is he the mayor or something? Who is he?”

  “He’s a businessman.”

  “Dammit, Mom!” Brett yelled. “Just say it.”