chapter Two
From the parking lot across the street, Chamberlain Episcopalian Church looks like one of those village pieces Mama collects and displays at Christmas, the kind that look cozy and inviting when in reality they’re cold, hard, and fake.
Doesn’t stop me from sitting outside like a detective on a stake-out, or more like a criminal casing a place before his next heist. I’m so lost in my miserable thoughts, I whack my knee on the dashboard when the giant front doors open and parishioners in their Easter best spill onto the sidewalk.
I spot her immediately, her red hair a beacon. My mind recalls how it felt to bury my hands in it at the back of her neck, to wrap one of her curls around my finger. I close my eyes and shake it away. Glad to see she’s growing it out again, not that it matters what I think.
Next to her, holding her hand, is the man I still think of as my best friend. Strange that at this moment I have the urge to punch him. Hard. His fingers are twined with hers, their arms close enough that they touch all the way up to their shoulders. She laughs at something he says and briefly rests her head on his shoulder as they walk away from the building. He raises their clasped hands and kisses her long, graceful fingers.
I remember those fingers. They were strong and unbending when she grabbed a fistful of my hair. Then they were soft, tentative, when she first began exploring my bare back and shoulders. They trembled the first time she took me in her hand. My eyes slide closed, and for a moment I’m there again in her piano studio, my hands on the backs of her white thighs while she straddles me on the loveseat.
When I reopen my eyes, both she and Dave are staring in my direction. Shit. I know they can’t see me through the tinted windows, but it’s clear they recognize my car. He wraps his arm around her and steers her away, but not before he lifts the other one in a middle-digit salute. A few old ladies recoil, but he’s not paying attention to them.
Despite the gaping hole that’s opened in my chest, I can’t help but chuckle. I knew Dave couldn’t hold a grudge forever. If he’s flipping me off, it means he’s angry, and if he’s angry, at least it means he isn’t indifferent. That would be worse than anything.
Someone pounds on the window near my head.
“Jesus!” My head hits the roof, but that’s the least of my worries. Standing outside my car looking like a million bucks is my high school girlfriend, Heather Swann.
“Hey,” she says and tucks a long strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Can we talk?”
“Now?”
“No, I’ve got to get home for Easter dinner, but tonight?”
I look around. Surely I’m being tricked. “Um, yeah. Sure.” Like I have any other plans. “Where?”
“What about the dive bar you used to sneak into in high school?”
She means Felix’s. No way am I going back there. Probably never step foot in there again as long as I live. I shake my head. “How about Wintzell’s? You always liked that place.”
“Still do. Sounds great. Seven o’clock?”
“Yeah. Can I ask what this is about?”
She glances around nervously. “Just something I should have talked to you about a long time ago. I can’t explain now. I’ll see you tonight. Oh, and happy Easter.”
“You too.” Well, don’t that beat all? After the ball, I figured I’d seen the last of the Swanns. Heather’s mom, Marcie, had announced to our entire mystic society that I’d slept with a student ten years younger than me. After I’d left, Dave had grabbed the microphone and told everyone that Marcie had once come on to me, Mrs. Robinson-style, but I’d turned her down. I’d been seventeen at the time, the same age Juli was when she and I got involved.
Heather wanting to talk to me feels a little like a trap, but I refuse to think she could sink as low as her mama. Nobody but the devil himself could sink that low. I realize it’s not the gentlemanly thing to do, and I would never even think it of anyone else, but I slip into a daydream where I imagine painful ways to get rid of that woman permanently.
Instead of my mama’s ham and potatoes, biscuits and beans, Easter dinner is fried chicken from the only drive-thru open between church and my house. At least dinner will be something decent, provided whatever Heather has to say doesn’t make it come back up.
I make a mental list of what she might have on her mind. Her mama, obviously. What happened at the ball, probably. The way I bolted out of the Mystics’ New Year’s party when I saw her again, very likely. She’ll probably mention her engagement to that senator’s son and make sure to flash her giant diamond, reminding me that I could never give her that kind of ring or hold on to a girl like her. No, sad, sick Ike prefers to prey on unstable girls looking for qualities he doesn’t possess. And let’s face it, I am one sad piece of shit. My daddy’s probably rolling in his grave.
I think of my conversation with Uncle Robert. The furniture polish still sits on the counter. I stare at it as I finish off my chicken. I wipe the grease on my pants, pick up the polish, and head for the piano before I lose my nerve. It’s not that dusty, but the rag makes contrasting swaths in the finish. Soon the piano sparkles. A heavy weight settles on my chest when I realize I am not worthy to sit at so fine an instrument. I misused it, abused the power it gives me over others.
No. Not yet. I’m not ready yet. Don’t know if I’ll ever be.
***
Wintzell’s is surprisingly busy for a Sunday evening, and a holiday at that. The thought of being around so many people makes sweat break out on my upper lip, but I’m determined to go through with this. Heather is waiting inside the main door when I arrive, wearing tight dark jeans and a creamy cardigan. Ten years later and she still has the same tight shape I remember too well.
“Hey there,” she says and leans forward on her toes to peck me on the cheek. We order drinks and exchange awkward pleasantries while I make vain attempts to keep my mind from wondering what color panties she’s wearing. Honestly, there’s something wrong with me that I can’t control myself for an hour or two, especially when it still feels like cheating on Juli. Heather’s lips wrap around the straw of her fruity rum Dragon Drink and I’m done for.
“So, the reason I asked you to meet me…” she begins. Her eyes flicker over the other patrons, settling somewhere over my shoulder. “This is really awkward, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a long time. Been following your career, you know. I knew you’d be successful.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“You were always very…driven. Intense. I see not much has changed.”
“Might be surprised. Seem to have lost my way, according to my family.”
She nods. “That’s kind of why I wanted to get together.” She takes a deep breath and blows it out, while the smell of rum overpowers the beer I’m sipping.
“Take your time. I’ve got nowhere to be, sweet pea.” We both are startled at the pet name that just rolls off my tongue like we were ten years younger. “Sorry.”
“About what happened at the ball. Was it true?” She peeks over the rim of her drink like it’ll protect her from truths she doesn’t really want to hear.
“Which part?”
“The stuff your friend said, that blond guy. He said my mama…um… God, I can’t believe I even have to ask this. Did she come on to you when we were in high school?”
I motion to the waitress to bring me another beer. Or three. Heather blushes three shades of pink, and damn if it isn’t the cutest thing I’ve seen in weeks.
“Yes.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Would they have believed me? Your mom, the Sunday school teacher, hitting on the gangly kid dating her daughter?”
“That’s not how I remember you. Gangly.”
“No?” I quirk an eyebrow and resist the temptation to gloat. I’ve seen the fall that goeth after pride. The waitress places another beer in front of me and brushes my fingers when she retrieves the empty bottle. I pretend not to notice.
“Shame on you, Isaac. You know what I meant.”
I do, but making Heather blush takes me back a decade. It’s definitely preferable to talking about her mama’s appetites and vices…or mine.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The wooden back of the booth is suddenly as unforgiving as her question. “Didn’t have a chance. She hid you away and I didn’t know which end was up. My mama was so mad at me, and then there were threats of charges and lawsuits and–” She cringes at the word lawsuits. “Truth is, I was scared. Hell, the woman still scares me. Half expected this to be a trap.”
Heather folds her arms on the table and leans forward. “I promise you,” she says, “this is not a trap. I feel awful about what’s happened and I know how you like to turn everything in on yourself. You haven’t changed that much in ten years. I just wish I could make things right. If I could take back what happened, I would, but you have to look at things from my perspective. After mama caught us…”
Her cheeks turn pink again, reminding me of the Georgia peaches Uncle Robert left in my kitchen. She’s just as soft and lovely as she was at sixteen, but her decidedly adult drink makes her gaze more direct. I like it, though it reminds me of someone I’d rather forget.
“I never heard from you again. I assumed you’d got what you were after and were finished with me.”
“Oh, sweet pea, no. I was eighteen. Stupid. Even stupider than I am now. They shipped me off to Boston so fast I didn’t know which way was up. Just dove into my music studies and didn’t look back. Figured you were better off anyway. From what I hear, I was right. A senator’s son, right?”
Her thumb massages her left ring finger, where I swear I once saw a giant diamond.
“We broke up, but yes, his daddy’s a senator.”
“Sorry.”
She waves it off. “Nothing to do with you.”
This beer is going down too smoothly tonight. I take a sip and let Heather gather her thoughts. There are more questions collecting behind her lavender eyes, and it’s only a matter of time before she works up the courage to ask what she really wants to know.
“How did it happen? I know this is sick, but I need to know.”
“You mean, did I respond?” She nods and averts her gaze. I lift her chin with one finger, forcing her to make eye contact. “Sweet pea, I was so in love with you that no one else existed. Your mama cornered me in your driveway and made her intentions clear. She was pretty…determined.” As much as I hate Marcie Swann, I still can’t abandon my upbringing. Talking ill about women just doesn’t sit right. Heather doesn’t need to know that her perfectly manicured mama groped her eighteen-year-old boyfriend, or that she smeared her Mary Kay lipstick all over my face when I turned away.
Heather and I had left the homecoming dance early because we knew her parents were out. One thing led to another and I had that dress off her in record time. We were so wrapped up in each other than neither of us noticed the headlights pulling into the driveway and illuminating her living room. I suppose Mrs. Swann saw my car in the driveway, saw the dark house, and put two and two together.
That woman grabbed hold of my ear and yanked me all the way through the house and out the door. Hadn’t even gotten a chance to button up my dress pants. She shoved me up against my 1997 Volvo and reached in to pick up where Heather had left off. You want to talk about confused? That right there was the single most confusing moment of my young life. Still, I managed to get some blood back up into my brain, enough that I pushed her away once I figured out what she was about.
She dropped to her knees then, right there in the driveway, and went to town. That image contrasted with the one I had of her in church helping children make arks out of Popsicle sticks and glue. I started to shake uncontrollably. She took it as a sign that I wanted her to continue, but then I began crying. She got mad. Real mad.
I’ll never forget what she said. “Son, if you live to be a hundred years old, this will still be the biggest mistake you ever made.” She zipped me up, patted my cheek, and sauntered back into her house.
I drove home like a bat out of hell, but sat in the carport for at least thirty minutes before I stopped shaking. Mama had waited up to ask me how the dance had gone. Don’t think I ever answered her.
Heather takes a sip of her drink and doesn’t say anything. Our waitress brings our food.
“Can I get y’all anything else right now?” She looks at me when she asks.
“No, ma’am, I think we’re good.” I look up in time to see her wink. She has no idea how bad her timing is.
We both poke at our food, me more out of sympathy for Heather than lack of hunger. After days of ramen and whatever scraps Uncle Robert brings over, my shrimp boil is heaven on a made-in-China plate.
“Why now?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“Why’d you want to meet with me now after all this time?”
Heather picks up her napkin and pats her mouth. “Because it’s already been too long. We should have done this years ago. I think I can speak for both of us when I say there are issues that need to be resolved.” She looks down and smiles. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound clinical. It’s just that…” Her chest rises and falls as she takes another deep breath. “I’ve thought about you a lot over the last decade, even more since February. And now, Mama’s a wreck. You know those cartoons where the bear swats down a bees nest and the angry bees swarm around, buzzing and all angry and confused? That’s my mama right now. I’ve never seen her quite like this.”
“So you’ve come to warn me that I’m the bear?”
“Not exactly.” She stabs a piece of shrimp, taps it on her plate. “I think your friend Dave might be in more trouble than you.” Her smile is meant to reassure, but it settles in my stomach like a lead weight. “Anyway, you’ve cleared up a couple of things for me tonight. I appreciate it. My apologies if I’m being forward, but I hope we can do this again.”
She looks anywhere but at me, sending a clear message to save her from the awkwardness. Even I can be a gentleman when I choose to recover that neglected part of myself. “How about Thursday evening? Will you still be in town?”
She nods and presses her lips into a tiny smile. I remember that look—it’s the one she used to give me when I’d hold the door for her at school in front of her friends. “After Walter and I broke up—the senator’s son—Mama convinced me to move back here for a while. I’m staying with her and Daddy while they figure out what’s going on with their marriage. And if you don’t think that’s uncomfortable!”
We both laugh nervously at her uncharacteristic admission. Southern Rule Number One: Do not air your dirty laundry, especially to those who could use it against you.
“Then it’s settled. I’d offer to pick you up, but…”
“Oh, heavens no! Can you imagine?” She taps my hand on the table. For a second, I wonder if she’s nervous or if she’s sending me signals.
When we’ve finished eating, I motion to the waitress to bring the check. I take it and hand her my credit card, against Heather’s protests.
“I asked you here, Isaac. It’s my treat.”
“Do you honestly believe I would ever let you pay? I’d be no kind of gentleman at all. Thursday’s on me as well. No arguments, sweet pea.”
The waitress sighs and walks away.
Outside in the cool, humid air, I lean down to quickly kiss Heather’s cheek before parting ways. She blushes as I’d hoped, and I watch her bustle down the street to her car. After I see she’s safely made it inside, I slide into my Charger and shake my head the whole way home.
The bright yellow can of furniture polish sits on the piano where I left it, taunting me as Uncle Robert knew it would. The man knows me too well. The past hour’s conversation replays in my head over and over, and the only way I know how to process things like that is to forget it for a bit, and the only way to shut off my head sits in front of me, beckoning.
Somehow, this feels less like defeat and more like triumph, though I steer clear of Rachmaninoff. I press one key, then another. Both sound tinny, out of tune—a bit like me, I suppose.
I start with Pachelbel, but then a strange thing happens. Something new trickles out. Then it pours. It’s both sad and sweet, but ends on a hopeful note, transitioning from a minor key to a major one while still retaining its overall tone. I sit back on the bench and stare at the keys. That hasn’t happened in ages. It’s been two months since I’ve played at all, and longer since I composed. I glance up at the yellow polish can and snicker. I’ll have to thank Uncle Robert.
It’s three in the morning before I get it all down on paper, but worth the long hours and effort. At work the next morning, I find myself humming different melodies while digging post holes and spreading mulch. Get a few funny looks from the guys, but no one asks about the change. I’m glad for it, because honestly I don’t want to look too closely at it either.
Hope is a funny, fleeting thing that doesn’t visit me often. If I put it under a microscope I might find that it’s false, that it’s actually another illness biding its time before it metastasizes into something sinister.
No, I leave it alone and enjoy its effects while I can, composing and transcribing each night until the wee hours. Early Wednesday morning I head upstairs to finally get some sleep, but notice a piece of yellow notebook paper stuck in the front door’s mail slot. The uneven handwriting tells me it’s Uncle Robert’s. While his language and vocabulary returned quickly after his stroke last year, his fine motor skills did not. His note is clear evidence.
Isaac, I didn’t want to disturb you, it starts. Heard you finally playing and I must say I’m pleased, though not surprised. Didn’t recognize what you were playing. Something new? Come see me soon. I have news to share—the good kind. R.
I retrieve some tape from the kitchen and stick the note to the inside of the front door so I don’t forget to stop by Uncle Robert’s on my way home. Then I remember I’m supposed to meet Heather again. His news will have to wait.