Kate Fox & The Three Kings

by Grace E. Pulliam

  “What bra size do you wear?” Billie inquired, rummaging through her underwear drawer.

  “I, uh, have no idea,” I responded, slipping on the cut-off shorts and gazing down at my bare legs about to make their public debut. Joy always threw bras at me that were too tight around my ribs and caused spillage over the cup, so I knew those were too small, but I wasn’t educated on proper sizing or even knowledgeable about what sizes were offered.

  Billie handed me a lacy black bra with stuffing in the cups. I inspected it closely before latching the back. I’d never worn a bra with padding before. I studied my reflection, appreciating the added boost to my cleavage. I couldn’t help but smile when I pulled the tank top over my head; it was hot outside and I was dressed for the heat! Today, I promised myself, I wouldn’t be miserable.

  Moments later I yanked my sleep t-shirt over my head. The tank top revealed too much at once: arms, chest, and the curve of my body since it was slim-fitting. When I meandered down the stairs, Aunt June and Billie had their heads together in deep conversation that immediately stopped when I came into their peripheral, giving me an uneasy feeling because I knew they were talking about me. They teetered around me like I was a fragile thing, eyeing me with pity.

  “We’re going to get breakfast on our way to Tallahassee,” Billie spoke up.

  “Is…is that alright, dear? Are you still feeling up for shopping?” Aunt June’s face filled with concern. “Of course, we don’t have to go today. We can take baby steps and — ”

  “No, no. I’d like to go shopping. Really,” I cut her off. The last thing I wanted was to be treated like a child.

  “It’s just you and me today, Kate,” Billie smiled, hooking her arm through mine and leading me to her jeep parked in the driveway. Aunt June followed us outside and waved as we pulled into the street and sped down the road. “Do you want to talk?...I know we haven’t seen each other in a while, and this situation is totally fucked, but you can talk to me about anything. Or tell me anything. I might not always know how to react to what you tell me, but I can sure listen. No judgment,” she lifted a hand from her zebra steering wheel and held up three fingers, “Scout’s honor.”

  I glanced over at Billie, still holding up her scout's honor salute. Her long, straight hair was tied back in a black ribbon. Her face was similar to mine, with large eyes and a pointy nose, but her complexion was vanilla and honey, a result of the Florida sun, where mine was milk and pearl. Billie wasn’t pretty like a model or a movie star; her appearance didn’t echo anything we were taught in Charms class. The details made her beautiful, like the freckles splashed across her cheeks that she didn’t try to mask with make-up, her fuller figure she didn’t attempt to cover with baggy clothes, or the way she held her head up when she walked around. Insecurity bubbled in my stomach. Billie had everything. She’d surely grow bored of me soon.

  “Can we…not talk about me this morning?” I mumbled as we drove over the same bridge I’d climbed up yesterday. I was exhausted with talking about myself. “Let’s talk about you, if that’s alright.”

  “What do you wanna know?”

  “Whatever you wanna to tell me.”

  Billie beamed and recalled the entire plot of her life. She was in her senior year at Florida State University, majoring in Biology, and she planned to apply to grad school this year, for the marine biology program. “This is the first summer I’ve taken off since high school. The last three years, I’ve lived in the dorms, but I didn’t renew my lease for senior year—trying to save up for grad school, and, lemme tell ya, renting is costly. So, I’ll be commuting from home twice a week. Hopefully, I won’t die of boredom on these car rides by myself. A couple of girls I roomed with freshman year commuted all the way from Panama City their sophomore year. Can you imagine? I’d fall asleep at the wheel,” Billie gave an easy laugh.

  I nodded, trying to interpret what she was rambling on about and attempted to chuckle whenever she did. The stretch to Tallahassee was lengthy, with the topography alternating between shorelines, swamps, and wooded areas, and Billie never ran out of chat material.

  “Why didn’t Aunt June come with us?” I asked when Billie drove up to a crowded restaurant called “Bojangles” and filed into the drive-thru line. I notice her mouth twitch as she rolled down her window to order.

  “What do you want?” she crooked her head from the menu and back to me.

  “I’m, uh, not sure. I’ve never been here. What do you get?”

  “I gotcha,” she winked at me and cleared her throat to call out our order. “Two number threes, Cajun style, and large diet cokes in Styrofoam cups, please.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have any money right now,” I blushed, embarrassed. “When I get a job, I promise to pay you back.” Billie handed me a paper bag filled to the brim with two large chicken biscuits and hash browns, and we ate as she drove.

  “If you won’t let me ask you questions about yourself today, then you have to promise me you won’t mention money again,” Billie said through a mouth of biscuit.

  “Deal,” I agreed, taking a swig of diet coke.

  “Now, since we said we were going to be honest with each other, I’ll tell you where Mom is,” her jolly demeanor darkened for a moment. “Mom was worried that the crazy folks at Blood of Christ might have followed you…or maybe they planned to kidnap you again? The woman’s gone through a million different scenarios,” Billie shot a worried glance over at me. “So, uh, don’t freak out, but she’s hiring a guy who’s a private investigator,” I opened my mouth to protest, but Billie kept talking. “And you can’t tell Mom I told you! For real, keep this between us.”

  “Fine,” I consented, disgruntled.

  “And she’s also handling your finances today. Grams and Grandpa left behind an estate, and I know they had a college fund for you, so like I said, don’t fret over money. It’s being dealt with,” Billie smiled, and parked the car in front of a massive, white building that seemed to drag on forever, lined with palm trees. “We’ve reached the Mecca. Time to depart on your spiritual journey through appropriately fitting clothing and, of course, accessories. We’re not holding back today, understand?” Billie waited for me to nod my head.

  Already overwhelmed by the time we reached the first store, my palms were sweating. A million tiny islands of clothing speckled the vast expanse, and music blasted so loud I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. Billie selected pieces off the rack, piling them into my arms, and I followed her into the dressing room. My first try-on was a summery, light pink, spaghetti strap dress that flared out at the waist and fell right above the knees. Billie demanded me to show off her first selection, but I refused to come out. She shimmied her way under the door gap, scooting her belly along the floor, which I couldn’t help but laugh at.

  “What is your freaking problem? Why don’t you like this?” she scoffed, standing behind me in the mirror, tying the ribbon in the back.

  “It shows my arms, and my legs, and my chest, and part of my back,” I wiggled out of her reach and flicked through the rest of my options, but they were no more conservative.

  “Why would you want to hide your arms, legs, chest, and back?” Billie placed her hands on her hips and raised her brow.

  “My chest spills over in whatever I wear. My arms are fat. My legs are fat,” I recited. It had been ingrained in my mind that I was too fat to show off skin. Not only too fat, but I didn’t want to tempt men with my chest and cause them to have sinful thoughts.

  Billie let out a deep breath, “Get over it.” She gathered up all the clothes and exited the dressing room. “We’re buying everything,” Billie yelled out from the other side of the door.

  It was well into early afternoon when we finished shopping. My arms were stuffed with bags of clothing, shoes, underwear, cosmetics, and various accessories. I carried a new cell phone that looked like a tiny TV in my pocket. A young black man at a cosmetics store, who I swear was wearing mascara, asked to do my make-up, and Billie insis
ted that I sit for it. He dusted powder on my cheeks, brushed through my eyelashes with dark mascara, and dabbed a bit of vanilla-scented gloss on my lips. When he was finished, Billie thanked him profusely, purchased all of the products he used, and forced me to stare in the mirror. My eyes were bright, like I’d slept on clouds for the last ten years of my life, my lips were fuller, and my face actually had some color.

  “Admit that you are feelin’ your makeover!” she jabbed me in the side as we walked into another store. The contents of the store had alarmed me. “Be open-minded. I saved the most dreaded for last,” Billie confessed, taking in my reaction.

  The floors were black and sparkly, and the walls were lined with bras, some with prints, others with lace or embellishments. Displays of underwear and tiny pajamas stood in the center. Ladies with tape measures draped across the shoulders walked around, and Billie grabbed one of them and led her over to me. “My cousin needs to be measured,” she told the employee, who smiled and inched closer to me, wrapping the tape measure around my chest.

  “Arms up!” the woman instructed, much like Mrs. Miller did during Charms class, and I complied, only this time, the number and letter she rattled off meant nothing to me. I followed the employee to a showcase of bras, and she handed me a few in my size.

  “Bingo!” Billie held a bra up to her face like she had bug eyes.

  On our way home, we enjoyed a late lunch at a shack-like establishment by the water and were seated on the back dock, leaving us with a prime view of the fishing boats tying up and the fishermen cleaning their catches. Billie ordered for the two of us again, and which I was grateful for, otherwise I would’ve never known my love of crab cakes with lemon aioli, or oysters in the half shell, broiled with butter, garlic, and a sprinkle of parmesan cheese, or fried calamari—especially the crispy tentacle bits dipped in cocktail sauce. Satisfied with our food coma, we exchanged only a couple of words for the rest of the drive.

  “Welcome back, girls,” Aunt June called over her shoulder, shoving a cardboard box of trinkets in the coat closet. “Any luck?”

  I nodded, but Aunt June couldn’t see my face behind all of the bags. My legs almost buckled from the immense weight of our shopping, and Billie held a similar size load in her hands. “Let’s put your things in the pool house,” I heard Aunt June’s voice from the backdoor. “I’ve been cleaning it out for you this afternoon.”

  Surprised and intrigued, I followed her outside with Billie in tow. Unlike the main house, the pool house was constructed of stone, and looked like a tiny cottage from a fairy tale. Aunt June opened the bright red front door, assisted us with our bags, and gave me a brief but spectacular tour. The front door led directly into the small kitchen and opened up into the quaint living room. Decorated in a shabby chic fashion, the kitchen held a fully-stocked, pale-blue vintage fridge, that Aunt June informed me was from the 1960’s. In the middle of the kitchen rested an island, with butcher-block counter tops and a gas range. The shelves lining the kitchen had glass fronts, and were lit from within, showcasing off an array of antique dishes. An overstuffed leather loveseat and armchair sat in the living room, surrounding a flat screen TV, sitting above a faux mantle, with ample lighting spilling in from the sliding glass doors overlooking the pool. Billie and I climbed up the wooden ladder on the opposite side of the room, navigating us to the loft. Billie flicked on the bathroom light, which illuminated a white clawfoot tub and waterfall shower. I sat down on the wrought iron daybed, and Billie opened the empty armoire and started to hang up items from my shopping bags.

  “You really want me to stay here? Are you sure?” I yelled down at Aunt June over the loft railing, and she grinned back at me, nodding. “It’s so…nice,” I absorbed the scenery, feeling a tinge of guilt.

  “We thought you might want to have your own space,” Billie mumbled over her shoulder, folding shirts and stuffing them neatly into the drawer. “It’s awesome, right?”

  “It’s perfect,” I said and absolutely meant it.

  “I’m having an alarm system installed later this week,” Aunt June divulged as we climbed down to the living room. “Honey, you’re going to be safe here,” she wrapped me up in her arms. “It’s going to be an adjustment for you, and some days are going to be hard, but we’re here for you. We want you to be happy,” Aunt June started tearing up again, but Billie encouraged her to “get it together” and leave us to finish putting away my new things.

  6

  The Emperor of Ice Cream

  The months that followed were ones I’d document as the happiest time in my life. The memories of Brushy Fork pierced my sleep, morphing into nightmares, and I’d wake myself with the sound of my own screams and a cold sweat. Some nights I dreamed that my life was untouched by tragedy; my grandparents were alive and healthy. I’d help bake my 18th birthday cake with Grams, whisking eggs into the batter as she cracked them, humming her favorite song. And when the oven alarm sounded and it was time for the cake to cool, I’d awake with an emptiness that punctured my core. My grandparent’s lives fizzled away with morning sun. Those dreams were worse than the Brushy Fork nightmares.

  I was treated with such kindness that, at times, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. Some weeks I’d bask in my own happiness, laughing along with my aunt and cousin as we combed the beaches for shells and shark teeth. Aunt June made sure we enjoyed a hot meal together; she was a brilliant cook and whipped up something new each night. At dinner, we crowded the kitchen table as a family and exchanged stories from our day.

  Billie and I spent the summer together. She encouraged me to apply to college and helped me fill out the application for Gulf Coast State Community College, a nearby school in the next town over, Port St. Joe. I felt ecstatic when my acceptance letter arrived weeks later, but my elation was immediately followed by embarrassment, because my placement test scores landed me in remedial classes for the fall semester. I wasn’t surprised, though. I guessed that was what happened when your high school taught science and history from the Bible and placed no value on math or foreign language.

  At times, my happiness was eclipsed by insecurity, and I questioned my family’s kindness. I’d tell myself they felt sorry for me, that it wouldn’t last long, and soon they’d ask me to leave. Aunt June was tender in the same way my Grams was: she hugged me before bed, confirmed I hadn’t skipped breakfast, and told me she loved me often. My heart ached when I was around her, and guilt washed over me each time I brushed off Aunt June’s affection, excusing myself from the room. Pangs of anger would occasionally strike, but I lashed out at myself instead of others. The only release from my anger I could salvage was causing myself pain, either by whispering to myself how worthless or ugly or fat I was as I stared into the mirror, or slapping my own face and forearms when I felt low. The pain, whether emotional or physical, jolted me back to reality—or so I believed. My self-destruction became the nicotine that propelled me through the week and kept my inner demons at bay. No one could hate me more than I hated myself, which gave me hope that maybe my family’s love was real.

  Billie and I spent afternoons sunbathing by the pool, even though we both had to slather on SPF 70 every hour. I wore a bikini in the backyard for a week before Billie conned me into wearing a swimsuit in public, which was a traumatic affair the first couple of times, until I realized no one noticed me. We met Billie’s girlfriends from college when the tide was low and the sun was high. I was awkward and shy because they were pretty and outgoing. Relief filled me when I registered that they were insecure about their bodies, tugging at their swimsuits every now and then, too concerned with themselves to comment on my stomach or thighs.

  The nerve-racking part about being around a bunch of beautiful college girls in swimsuits was that they eventually attracted the attention of the opposite sex. Billie and her friends certainly caught the eye of several guys each time we went to the beach. The men would approach with cold beverages and bold pick-up lines while I stood off to the side or decided to walk dow
n to the water’s edge. One time, a shirtless guy with shaggy brown hair and a stomach that definitely didn’t jiggle, came up to all of us sunbathing and asked me specifically if I wanted to play Frisbee with him and his friends. I didn’t understand why he singled me out of everyone and just assumed I was the butt of some joke amongst his fellow dudes, so I politely declined. Billie later reprimanded me and vowed that she’d teach me how to flirt.

  The following Saturday was my birthday, which I wasn’t going to mention or make a big deal about. Birthdays at the Smith residence were like any other day: frosting-less Pop Tarts, disgruntled stares, a church sermon, and ending the day with contraband reading material. On my sixteenth birthday, my head was dunked in the holy water tank over and over for forgetting to button the top button of my shirt, which kept popping open because the shirt was too tight around my chest. I had a panic attack after the tenth dunking, thinking I might drown, and begged for God’s forgiveness in front of the entire congregation. Joy dragged me home by my ponytail and sent me to bed without dinner.

  So, I was caught off-guard when I walked into the main house and Billie greeted me at the door with neon-wrapped gifts in hand. Aunt June called from the kitchen, announcing that breakfast was ready. I sat down as she placed a fat stack of heart-shaped pancakes with sprinkles dotting the batter in front of me. She stuck a single candle in the center of the stack and lit it.

  “Make a wish!” Billie cheered, reaching for the syrup.

  My eyes were watery when they glanced up from the blown-out candle. I excused myself to the restroom.

  “Stop it,” I gritted at my reflection, wiping tears from my cheeks before they had a chance to roll down my face. I dug my nails into my hip, releasing my anxiety with angry red marks forming at my side. Billie knocked on the door, asking if everything was okay before I jerked myself back to the present. I told her I forgot to wash my face and then proceeded to devour pancakes like nothing ever happened.