My Life Next Door

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  It feels good to laugh. “Yikes.” I plop down on the bed, pat the space next to me.

  Jase doesn’t sit. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets, tilting his head back against the wall. “There’s this one thing I was wondering about.”

  I feel a shiver of apprehension. There’s a note in his voice I don’t recognize, something that stains the sheer pleasure of having him this close to me again.

  “What?”

  He flips up a corner of the rug with the toe of his Converse, then edges it back down “It’s probably nothing. It just occurred to me, thinking about you coming over before. Tim knew what you had to say. You told him. First. Before you told me.”

  Is that unfamiliar note jealousy? Or doubt? I can’t tell.

  “He basically shook it out of me, wouldn’t let up until I did. He’s my friend.” Staring at Jase’s bowed head, I add, “I’m not in love with him, if that’s what you think.”

  He looks at me then. “I think I know that. I do know that. But aren’t you supposed to be most honest with the people you love? Isn’t that the point?”

  I come closer, tip my head to scan his clear green eyes.

  “Tim’s used to things being screwed up,” I offer, finally.

  “Yeah, well, I’m getting pretty used to that too. Why not tell me from the start, Sam?”

  “I thought you would hate me. And Clay was going to ruin the hardware store. I’d already ruined everything else. I thought it was better to leave than to have you hate me.”

  His forehead crinkles. “I’d hate you because of something your mother did? Or that scumbag threatened? Why? What sense would that make?”

  “Nothing made sense. I was stupid and just…just lost. Everything was wonderful and then everything was awful. You have this happy family and it all works. I come into it and something from my world messes it all up.”

  Jase turns to look out the window, out over our ledge to his house.

  “It’s all the same world, Sam.”

  “Not entirely, Jase. I’ve got—meet-and-greets and the griffins at the B and T and pretending everything’s okay when it’s not and just junk. And you’ve got—”

  “Debt and diapers and messy rooms and more junk,” he concedes. “Why didn’t you think that if it was your world, if you had to deal with it, I might care enough to want it to be mine too?”

  I close my eyes, take a deep slow breath, open them to find him looking at me with so much love and trust.

  “I lost faith,” I say.

  “And now?” he asks quietly.

  I extend my hand flat, palm open, and Jase’s hand closes around it. He gives a little tug, and then I am in his arms, holding on. There is no soaring music, but there is the sound of his heart, and my own.

  Then my bedroom door snaps open and my mother is standing there, staring at us.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  “You’re both here,” Mom says. “Perfect.”

  Not what I would have imagined her saying when she caught us together in my bedroom. The astonishment on Jase’s face must mirror mine.

  “Clay’s on his way,” she continues breathlessly. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. Come down to the kitchen.”

  Jase glances at me. I shrug. Mom heads downstairs.

  Once we reach the kitchen, she turns and smiles, her social we’re-all-good-friends-here smile. “Why don’t we have something to drink while we’re waiting? You hungry, Jase?” Her voice has that tinge of a Southern drawl that has rubbed off from Clay.

  “Uh…not really.” Jase is looking at her warily, like she’s an animal whose temperament he’s unsure of. She’s wearing a bright lemon-yellow dress, her hair neat, her makeup flawless. A far cry from the stunned woman in her robe with the mask of skin cream I left behind just a while ago.

  “Well, when Clay gets here, we’ll all go in the office. Maybe I should make tea.” She surveys Jase. “You don’t look like a tea drinker, though. A beer?”

  “I’m underage, so no, thanks, Senator Reed.” Jase’s voice is flat.

  “You can call me Grace,” Mom says, missing any sarcasm. Ooo-kay. Not even Nan and Tim, who have known her nearly a lifetime, are on a first-name basis with Mom. Publically, anyway.

  She walks a little closer to Jase, who’s standing very still, maybe in case she turns out to be one of those animals who strike without warning. “My, what broad shoulders you have.”

  My, what a creepy Blanche DuBois vibe you have, Mom

  “What’s going on here—” I start, but she cuts in.

  “It’s mighty hot today. Why don’t I get you two some lemonade? I think we might even have cookies!”

  Has she lost her mind? What’s she expecting Jase to say: Are they chocolate chip? With nuts? Because if so, all’s forgiven! What’s a little hit and run compared to this awesome treat?

  I take his hand, squeezing mine, stepping closer as we hear the front door bang open.

  “Gracie?”

  “In the kitchen, honey,” Mom calls warmly. Clay strides in, hands in his pockets, sleeves of his button-down rolled up.

  “Hi there, Jason, is it?”

  “I go by Jase.” Now Jase is dividing his attention between two creatures of unknown temperament. I edge closer to him and he moves forward, blocking me behind his back. I circle around, stand beside him.

  “Jase it is, then,” Clay says easily. “How tall are you, son?”

  What’s up with this sudden obsession with Jase’s physique? He shoots me a look that asks: Is he measuring me for a coffin? But still responds politely, “Six two…sir.”

  “Basketball your game?”

  “Football. I’m a cornerback.”

  “Ah—a key position. I was quarterback myself,” Clay says. “I remember one time I—”

  “That’s great,” Jase interrupts. “Could you please tell us what’s going on here? I know what happened, with my dad. Sam told me.”

  Clay’s calm, genial expression doesn’t change. “Yes, so I hear. Why don’t we all go into Grace’s office. Gracie, sugar, you lead the way.”

  Mom’s home office is more feminine than her work one, with pale blue walls and white linen upholstery on the couch and the chairs. Instead of an office chair, she has an ivory silk brocade armchair. She settles into this, behind the desk, while Clay sprawls back in one of the other chairs, slanting it onto its hind legs the way he always does.

  Jase and I move close together on the long couch.

  “So, Jase, hoping to keep on playing football in college, are you?”

  “I’m not clear on why we’re talking about this,” Jase says. “My college career doesn’t have much to do with the senator and what she did to my dad. Sir.”

  Clay’s expression is still blandly pleasant. “I admire blunt speaking, Jase.” He chuckles. “When your career’s in politics, you don’t hear nearly enough of it.” He smiles at Jase, who returns his look stonily.

  “All right, then,” Clay says. “Let’s be honest with one another. Jase, Samantha, Grace…What we have here is a situation. Something’s happened, and we need to deal with it. Am I right?”

  Since this generic summation could cover everything from the dog peeing on the new rug to inadvertently launching nuclear warheads, Jase and I nod.

  “A wrong’s been done, am I right about that too?”

  I glance over at Mom, whose tongue flicks out to lick her upper lip nervously.

  “Yes,” I say, since Jase has returned to his wary he-could-strike-at-any-moment watching of Clay.

  “Now, how many people know about this? Four, right? Or have you told anyone else, Jase?”

  “Not yet.” Jase’s voice is steely.

  “But you’re planning to, because that would be the right thing to do, am I right, son?”

  “I’m not your son. Yes.”

  Crashing the chair back to its upright position, Clay inclines forward, elbows on his knees, hands outspread as if in supplication. “There’s where, with all due res
pect, I don’t think you’re thinking clearly.”

  “Really?” Jase asks acidly. “Where am I confused?”

  “By thinking two wrongs will make a right. When you tell other people what happened, Senator Reed will assuredly suffer. She will lose the career she’s dedicated her life to, the one where she serves the people of Connecticut so well. I’m not sure you’ve thought through, though, how much your girlfriend will suffer. If this gets out, she will, as they say, be tarred with the same brush. It’s a pity, but that’s what happens to the children of felons.”

  Mom flinches at the word felons but Clay continues, “Are you prepared to live with that? Everywhere Samantha goes, people will be speculating about her morals. Thinking she must not have all that many. That could be a dangerous thing for a young woman. There are men who won’t hesitate to take advantage of that.”

  Jase looks down at his hands, which have balled into fists. But on his face there’s pain, and worse—confusion.

  “I don’t care about that,” I say. “You’re being ridiculous. What are you even saying—that the whole world will assume I’m a tramp because Mom hit someone with her car? Give me a break. They must have handouts with better lines than that at Cheesy Villain School.”

  Jase laughs and puts his arm around me.

  Unexpectedly, Clay laughs too. Mom’s impassive.

  “In that case, I guess offering you two hush money in unmarked bills isn’t going to fly, huh?” Clay stands up, ambles behind Mom and begins massaging her shoulders. “Fine, then, where do we stand? What’s your next move, Jase?”

  “I’m going to tell my family. I’ll let my parents decide what they want to do, once they have all the information.”

  “You don’t need to be so defensive. Hey, I’m from the South. I admire a man who stands up for his family. It’s commendable, really. So you’re going to tell your folks, and, if your folks want to call a press conference and announce what they know, you’re fine with that.”

  “That’s right.” Jase’s arm tightens around my shoulder.

  “And if the accusations don’t bear weight because there are no witnesses and people think your parents are just crackpots out to make a buck, that’s all good with you too?”

  Uncertainty returns to Jase’s face. “But…?”

  “There’s a witness, and it’s me,” I point out.

  Clay tilts his head, looking at me, nods once. “Right. I forgot that you had no problem betraying your mom.”

  “That line’s straight out of Cheesy Villain School too,” I tell him.

  Mom buries her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking. “There’s no point,” she says. “The Garretts will hear and they’ll do what they’ll do and there’s nothing to be done about it.” She lifts her face, teary, to Clay. “Thank you for trying, though, honey.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a handkerchief and gently dabs her lashes dry. “Grace, sugar, there’s always a way to play it. Have a little faith. I’ve been in this game a while.”

  Mom sniffs, her eyes cast down. Jase and I exchange disbelieving looks. Game?

  Clay hooks his thumbs in his pockets, coming around in front of the desk again, starting to pace. “Okay, Grace. What if you call the press conference—with the Garretts. You speak first. Confess everything. This terrible thing happened. You were wracked by guilt, but because your daughter and the Garrett boy were personally involved”—he pauses to smile at us, as if bestowing his blessing—“you kept quiet. You didn’t want to taint your daughter’s first true love. Everyone will identify with that—we all had that—and if we didn’t, we sure wish we had. So you kept quiet for the sake of your daughter, but…” He paces a little more, brow puckered. “… you couldn’t honorably represent the people with something of this magnitude on your conscience. This way’s riskier, but I’ve seen it work. Everybody loves a repentant sinner. You’d have your family there—your daughters standing by their mom. The Garretts, salt-of-the-earth types, the young lovers—”

  “Wait just a minute here,” Jase interrupts. “What Sam and I feel about each other isn’t some”—he pauses, searching for words—“marketing tool.”

  Clay tosses him an amused smile. “With all due respect, son, everyone’s feelings are a marketing tool. That’s what marketing is all about—hitting people in the gut. Here we have the young lovers, the working family struck with an unexpected crisis—” He stops pacing, grins. “Gracie, I’ve got it. You could also use the moment to introduce some new legislation to help working families. Nothing too radical, just something to say Grace Reed has come through this experience with even more compassion for the people she serves. This all makes perfect sense to me now. We could get Mr. Garrett—the wounded blue-collar man—to say he wouldn’t want Senator Reed’s good work to be destroyed by this.”

  I look at Jase. His lips are slightly parted and he’s staring at Clay in fascination. Sort of the way you’d look at a striking cobra.

  “Then you could appeal to the people, ask them to call or write or send e-mails directly to your office if they still want you as their senator. We in the business call that the ‘Send in Your Box Tops’ speech. People get all het up and excited because they feel part of the process. Your office gets besieged—you lay low for a few days, then call another conference and humbly thank the citizens of Connecticut for their faith in you and pledge to be worthy of it. It’s a killer moment, and at least fifty percent of the time, it makes you a shoo-in at election time,” he concludes, grinning at Mom triumphantly.

  She too is staring at him with her mouth open. “But…” she says.

  Jase and I are silent.

  “C’mon,” Clay urges. “It makes perfect sense. It’s the logical way to go.”

  Jase gets to his feet. I am pleased to notice that he’s taller than Clay. “Everything you say makes sense, sir. I guess it’s logical. But with all due respect, you’re out of your fucking mind. Come on, Sam. Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Fifty

  The day has dimmed into twilight by the time we leave the house. Jase’s long legs eat up the driveway and I’m nearly jogging to keep up with him. We’ve almost reached the Garretts’ kitchen steps before I come to a standstill. “Wait.”

  “Sorry. I was practically towing you along. I feel like I need a shower after all that. Holy hell, Sam. What was that?”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.” How could Clay have said all that, smooth as Kentucky bourbon, and Mom just sitting there as if she’d already drunk the bottle? I rub my forehead. “Sorry,” I mutter again.

  “It’d be good if you’d stop apologizing right about now,” he tells me.

  I take a deep breath, looking down at his shoes. “It’s about all I’ve got. To fix things.”

  Jase has these huge feet. They dwarf mine. He’s wearing his usual sneakers, and I’m in flip-flops. We stand toe to toe for a minute, then he edges one big foot in between my smaller ones.

  “You were great back there,” I say, hanging on to what’s true.

  He jams his hands in his pockets. “Are you kidding? You were the one who called him on his bullshit every time I started to get hypnotized by his wrong-is-right, up-is-down arguments.”

  “Only because I’d heard ’em all before. It took me weeks to see through the hypnotism.”

  Jase shakes his head. “Suddenly the whole thing was a photo op. How’d he even do that? I get why Tim was so mental about that guy.”

  We’re quiet, looking back at my house.

  “My mother,” I start, then stop. Despite what Clay says, that I’m a casual turncoat daughter, this isn’t easy. How can Jase ever know, really understand, all those years when she did teach us well? Or the best she could.

  But he waits, patient and thoughtful, until I can say more.

  “She’s not a monster. I want you to know that. It doesn’t really matter because what she did was so wrong. But she’s not an evil person. Just”—my voice wobbles—“not all that strong.”
r />   Jase reaches out, pulls the elastic band from my hair, letting it slip free over my shoulders. I’ve missed that gesture so much.

  I didn’t look over at Mom when we walked out. No point to it. Even before, when I did look at her face, I had no idea what to read there. “I’m guessing Mom won’t want me showing up for dinner at the B and T tonight. Or when I’ll be welcome at home.”

  “Well, you’re welcome in mine.” He draws me in close, hipbone to hipbone. “We can just listen to that suggestion of George’s. You can move into my room, sleep in my bed. I thought that was a brilliant idea the minute he came up with it.”

  “George just mentioned the room, not the bed,” I say.

  “He did tell you I never peed in my bed. That was incentive right there.”

  “There are those of us who would take clean sheets as a given. We might need more incentive.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Jase says.

  “Sailor Supergirl!” George shouts through the screen. “I’m going to have a baby brother! Or a sister, but I want a brother. We have a picture. Come see, come see, come see!”

  I turn to Jase. “It’s confirmed, then?”

  “Alice shook it out of Mom with her ninja nurse tactics. Kind of like Tim with you, I guess.”

  George returns to the screen, squashing some printout against it. “See. This is my baby brother. He kinda looks like a storm cloud now, but he’s gonna change a lot because that’s what Mommy says babies do best of anything..”

  Jase says, “Stand back, buddy,” nudging the door open wide enough for us to pass through.

  I haven’t seen Joel for a while. Where he once projected all laidback cool, now he’s edgy, stalking around the kitchen. Alice churns out pancakes and the younger kids sit at the table, watching as if their older siblings are Nickelodeon.

  We walk in just as Joel’s asking, “Why does Dad have that thing in his windpipe? He was breathing fine. Are we going backward?”