“Okay,” she said. “Ask me questions.”
He hardly knew where to begin. What do you say to a person who has just allowed someone — well, actually paid someone — to carve up her face with a knife? Lord knows how much that must hurt. “Are you on drugs … or what?” he said.
She laughed. “You mean at the moment … or leading up to this?”
“What made you do it?”
“I needed a change.”
“What? A vacation wouldn’t do? A new haircut? Maybe a day at the spa?”
“Very funny.”
“It’s not like you, Court, to resort to knives and scalpels.”
“It’s exactly like me,” she said. “And since when did you become so conservative and condescending?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m not trying to be judgmental here, I swear. It’s just a little unsettling to see my beautiful sister stitched together and bandaged like a … a willing victim of some kind.” This was coming out wrong and he knew it. Why couldn’t he say what she needed to hear? That was why she’d invited him to come over, wasn’t it, so he could say the right thing? “What does Hastings say about this?” He tried to pass his own ineptitude off on Hastings. “He didn’t put you up to this, did he?”
“Hastings doesn’t know.”
“What do you mean he doesn’t know? Shouldn’t a man know when his wife submits her face to medical science?”
“I didn’t tell him. He’s in Scotland on a so-called golf trip. I told you that. He’ll be gone nearly a month. That was all the time I really needed.”
“A so-called golf trip?” he asked. “So-called?”
“Good ear, brother. You always did hear what wasn’t said.”
“It’s the Southern in me,” he said. “Good home training.”
“I think it’s the girl in you.” She smiled, her black eyes sealing closed in a sluggish, terrible-looking way.
“The girl?”
“Your feminine side. You weren’t a mama’s boy for nothing.” She slapped her linen cocktail napkin at him.
“Shoot,” he said. “Mama’s boy my hind foot. So why didn’t you tell our boy Hasty Pudding about your surgery?”
“He hates it when you call him that.”
“Doesn’t he have a right to know his wife is going under the knife, getting her face rearranged?”
“He has his secrets. I have mine.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” Truely gulped down a swig of wine. “Both me and my feminine side hate the sound of that.”
“Are you asking me a question?” Courtney looked at him head-on, her eyes like a couple of dimmed headlights.
“I’d say, Court, if you know Hastings has a secret, that you also know what that secret is.”
“Meghan Morehead.”
“Shit,” he said.
“My sentiments exactly, little brother.”
“Go on.” He waved his wineglass like a checkered flag.
“She’s with him in Scotland. He thinks I don’t know.”
“A big golfer, is she?”
“A personal assistant. She’s on his company payroll.”
“Lo, isn’t that a little too obvious? Just how personal is this personal assistant?”
“You met her,” Courtney said. “You and Shauna both. Last year at Christmas dinner.”
“She didn’t stand out,” Truely said. “She doesn’t spring to mind.”
“You want to see a picture of her?” Courtney asked.
“Do you want me to?” The question was unnecessary.
“It might jog your memory. Wait right here.” Courtney handed him her wine and unfolded in that catlike way of hers and headed down the hall in her sock feet.
He stood up and walked over to the windows. Below them, Saratoga was twinkling like a tiny town on a Christmas Card. He knew people of means were sitting in small, cozy restaurants, whispering and laughing and uncorking good wine. He knew that someplace down there amid the couples falling in love — or trying to — was at least one couple falling out of love, out of touch, out of luck. It happened. He sure as hell never thought it would happen to his sister and her husband. He would have put his money on their making it to the finish line — and maybe they still would. Born-again types didn’t let affairs get in the way of their marriages, did they? They forgave, didn’t they? Didn’t a divorce cancel out your born-againness? Didn’t you have to start all over after a situation like that? For Courtney, if this thing led where it might, she would have to be born again-again-again. Next thing you know she would be going for the world’s record for salvation.
Courtney came back with a stack of photos in her hand. “Here she is.” She pointed to the photo on top. “The brunette beside Hastings, see?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I remember her vaguely. Quiet. Doesn’t make much impact.”
“Well, not on you and me maybe. But Hastings is smitten.”
“Smitten? Define smitten.”
“He thinks he loves her.” Courtney dropped to the sofa without taking her eyes off Truely. “He told me so.” Courtney shuffled through the photos until she found a particular one. “Here, look at this.”
It was a shot of Hastings standing between Courtney and Meghan Morehead in their holiday finery. He had his arms around their shoulders. All three were smiling for the camera.
“What do you see?” Courtney tapped the photo with her finger. “Read the body language.”
“Come on now, Court.”
“Look,” she insisted. “His arms are around both of us, but his hand is relaxed on my shoulder, right? His fingers are loose. Now look at his right hand. See? It’s not limp. He’s gripping her shoulder.”
“Is this a metaphor you’ve got going here? I sure hope not.”
“I’m serious, Truely. Can’t you see it? Look, his head is cocked toward her too — not toward me. If he tilted his head any more in her direction his glasses would fall off.”
“I don’t know, Court. We might be taking our feminine sides to new heights here. I just see a happy guy with his arms around two happy women.”
“You just see what you want to see then.”
“Couldn’t it be that you’re the one doing that?” he said. But he knew better. It wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of refusing to see something because he didn’t like it. Jesse used to say he was devoted to ignoring the obvious. She was probably right too. He guessed you could say she more or less proved it.
“There are psychologists who do nothing but study personal dynamics using family photographs,” Courtney said. “Photographs don’t lie, Truely. Photographs can be extremely revealing.”
“If they were both naked, maybe,” he tried to joke. “Look, Court, I hope your suspicions are based on more than holiday photos.”
“The photos are just a clue,” Courtney said. “There’ve been lots of clues. I ignored them as long as I could, but I can’t ignore Hastings’ confession, can I?”
“And is it all those ignored clues that led you to the plastic surgeon?”
“Something like that,” she said. “Come on, let’s talk in the kitchen. I’ll put supper on the table.”
“Great.” He picked up her wineglass and his. “I’ll pour us more wine. I’m pretty sure we’re going to need it.”
COURTNEY HAD SET the keeping room table with their mother’s old detergent box dishes complete with the jelly jar drinking glasses. She had designed this house with a fireplace in nearly every room and had another push-button fire roaring at table-side for perfect ambience. Their mother had never been a great cook — but they hadn’t known it really. She had always worked magic with canned soup and Velveeta and they would have sworn growing up that her Cool Whip fruit salads were the best in town.
Truely watched Courtney move about the kitchen the same way he had often watched his mother when he was a boy, always a hungry boy, always ready to bow his head and mumble the blessing and shovel food — food exactly like this — onto his plate. T
hey didn’t eat like this anymore, Courtney or him, wouldn’t be right now if Hastings were with them. But damn, he was happy about it. He hadn’t felt this hungry in a long, long time. He was crazy hungry. “This is great, Court,” he said. “Man, I’m loving this.”
“You can wash up in the powder room,” Courtney said. “I’m going to slice a tomato and we’re ready.”
When they sat down, Courtney took his hand. “Let’s say grace, Truely. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Sure.” He bowed his head and waited.
She squeezed his hand. “You.”
Public praying was not his strong suit. Never had been. But under the circumstances he thought he ought to try to come through for Courtney, his surgically altered, maritally challenged sister, in any way he could. “Dear God, we thank you for this great supper before us. We thank you for this time together and I thank you for blessing me with the greatest sister a guy could have. I don’t deserve her, but I’m grateful. Let Hastings travel safely. And let Courtney’s surgery heal fast and let her be happy with the result. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” Courtney echoed. “Nice prayer.”
“It’s like riding a bike,” he said. “You never forget how.”
“Mother would be proud.” She smiled.
“Well, it never took much to make Mother proud, did it?” he said.
“I never could do it.” Courtney scooped green bean casserole onto his plate. Sitting close to her like this Truely could see the bruising around her face, the collision of tiny blue veins and black stitches around her eyes and in front of her ears. She saw him studying her.
“They put staples in my head,” she said.
“No way.”
“Yes,” she said. “Underneath this bandage. Industrial-strength staples. They used a staple gun. I’ll show you after supper if you want to see.”
“No thanks.” He was busy helping himself to chicken supreme. He watched as Courtney served herself the tiniest portions, then stabbed at them daintily with her fork. “That’s not enough to keep a bird alive,” he said.
“I don’t have much appetite — pumped full of painkillers.”
“Well, you can take my word for it then, you hit a home run with this chicken supreme.”
“I’m glad you came tonight, Truely.” Courtney’s tone was so nakedly earnest he turned to look at her. “I was afraid you wouldn’t. You know. After everything.”
“Everything?”
“Truely, I know Hastings and I acted awful when you and Jesse split up. It must have seemed to you like we were practically hateful.”
“You were self-righteous assholes, all right.” He tried to smile.
“We thought we were doing the right thing, Truely. We thought we had Jesus on our side, I guess. The Bible is clear about divorce.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Do you hate me for that?”
“I’m over it.”
“You’re not,” she said. “You’re not over our Christian exuberance — it’s so ironic now, isn’t it?” She shook her head. “We were well-meaning, Truely, I hope you know that at least. And you’re not over Jesse either. You still miss her, don’t you?”
“Jesse is a married woman,” he said, not welcoming this subject but not wanting to protest too much for fear of proving Courtney’s point. “Happily married this time. There’s another baby on the way, I hear.”
“I’m happy that Jesse is happy. I just wish you were too.”
“I’m doing fine,” he said. “Look at me. Fine. See? How about some of that macaroni and cheese?” Courtney passed him the macaroni and he took a helping.
“You should have a family too,” Courtney said. “You’d make a great dad.”
“Jesse didn’t think so.”
“Jesse was wrong.”
“I’d settle for being the greatest uncle in the world.”
“Too late.” Courtney stabbed at her food. “By the time Hastings and I decided that the time was right — we were ready — it was too late. I couldn’t get pregnant. We tried for years. We saw specialists.”
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“I wanted to adopt. But Hastings didn’t.”
He nodded to let her know he was listening. It didn’t seem to be something he should comment on. It might tempt him to reveal his own history of unrequited parenthood. He didn’t want to say anything he would regret saying.
“Hastings insisted he had heard horror stories about adopted kids,” Courtney went on. “Some adopted kid he grew up with went nuts, bludgeoned his parents to death or something. It affected him. ‘Good grief, Hastings,’ I said. ‘How many kids who are not adopted have bludgeoned their parents to death? Too many to count.’ He worried that maybe he couldn’t love somebody else’s child the way he could love his own. ‘But it wouldn’t be somebody else’s child,’ I said. ‘It would be ours.’ We went around and around. He feels guilty now. My time ran out while he was thinking things over, you know. It was too late for me. You know he built that after-school club in south San Jose? It was his project. All his philanthropy involves kids. Guilt. That’s why.”
“Hastings has done a lot of good. That’s for sure.”
“That’s the irony,” Courtney said. “Meghan Morehead has two children — boys. He’s crazy about them. You should see him.”
“So he’s decided he likes kids after all. Can’t blame him for that, can you?”
“If Hastings leaves me — he swears he’s not going to — ‘No divorce,’ he said. ‘I won’t let it go that far, Court. Trust me’ — but if he does leave me, the first thing I’m going to do is adopt as a single parent. You think I’m too old?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself here,” Truely said. “You just said Hastings didn’t want a divorce.”
“He says not. He swears he’ll never ask me for a divorce. He says he just needs some time to explore this relationship with Meghan. He believes God sent her into his life for a reason — and he needs to understand what that is. He says they have a soul connection and it’s different from what he has with me — you know, a history. ‘When you meet your soul mate, you can’t turn away, can you?’ he said. ‘I hate the timing of all this, Courtney, I swear. But there is no such thing as pure coincidence. You’re the one that taught me that. Everything happens for a reason, right?’ ”
“Damn, Court.”
“I know.”
“What is he going to think when he comes home — sees your new face?”
“I didn’t have this surgery for Hastings.” She patted the side of her ballooned face. “It’s for me — in case I am about to start my life all over — alone.”
“You won’t be alone long, Court, if you don’t want to be.”
“Why not?” she asked. “You are.”
“I’m not exactly … alone,” he said.
“Why? Because sometimes Shauna spends the night on weekends? That’s alone, Truely. That’s sad and alone.”
“Do I sense a sermon coming on here?”
Courtney shook her head and covered her face with her hands for a minute. “Sorry. I’m hardly the one to preach, am I?”
“You’ve always been the one to preach, Court.” He faked a laugh, but it was sour.
“Maybe that’s why Hastings likes Meghan. Maybe she doesn’t preach.”
“Maybe this is not really about you, Court. Or Meghan either. Maybe this is all about Hastings.”
“Something tells me you’ve been watching Oprah again.” She tried to smile. “I thought you swore off.” She was referring to his postdivorce depression, when he was working from his home office and every day precisely at three o’clock he halted everything, lay down on the couch in the fetal position and watched Oprah. For all he knew it did him some good. But Courtney was newly resaved and saw it as something to worry about. She took to calling him over and over again during the show, to distract him, make him get up off the sofa, confess to his unmanly, unhealthy pastime. But he n
ever picked up the phone. He let it ring nonstop. He got over it eventually and went back to work at his Mariposa office. Started seeing a therapist. But Courtney still saw it as his futile attempt at secular healing when, as she liked to put it, “It’s God you need, Truely. Not Oprah.”
“Maybe Oprah is one of God’s mysterious ways, Court. You ever think of that?” He remembered saying that. He remembered believing it too. Oprah was from Mississippi after all. She knew firsthand some of the same stuff he knew. He thought if they ever ran into each other at Winn-Dixie late at night — or Hardee’s early in the morning in pursuit of a chicken biscuit — they would have something meaningful to say to each other. Or at least they would have a solid starting place. He liked Oprah. She comforted him somehow.
“What do you think, Court — that I didn’t pay attention to all my postdivorce counseling? I paid attention. I got my money’s worth. You better believe it.”
“Oh Truely,” she sighed. “We’re such a pair, aren’t we?”
“Damn straight. All that hype about kids from broken homes — shoot,” he said. “They don’t tell you that being raised by happily married parents who adore you and each other — well, that can totally fuck you up in the long run.”
“You need your mouth washed out with soap,” she said.
“All I’m saying is ‘no guarantees,’ sister.” He reached to tousle her hair but she flinched and he remembered her stapled scalp and stopped himself.
“You know how I found out Meghan went with Hastings to Scotland?” Courtney picked up her fork and tapped it against her plate, tap, tap, tap. It was distracting. “I called her house.” She shrugged. “There was a time when such a thing would never have crossed my mind.” Tap. Tap.
Eat, Drink, and Be From Mississippi Page 10
