Ex and the Single Girl (11 page)

“
I did not!”
Beauji said as she smacked his knee, the only part of him she could reach without moving. Davey grabbed my glass and emptied the bottle into it, then headed into the k
itchen, throwing a wink at me over his shoulder.

“
All I know is that if that kid comes out in thirty minutes or less, I
’
m ordering a paternity test.”

“
It
’
s not just that we didn
’
t sleep together,”
I said, covering my eyes with my hand.

Beauji leaned back and shouted into the kitchen, “
Davey, there
’
s more, get in here!”

Davey skidded out of the kitchen and hopped onto the couch, still working the corkscrew into the bottle of wine.

“
I can
’
t believe I
’
m telling you this,”
I said.

“
Confessio
n,”
Beauji began.

“
Good for the soul,”
Davey finished.

I clamped my eyes tight. “
I cried.”

Beauji gasped. Davey sighed. I opened my eyes, and both of them were handing me compassionate looks.

“
Why?”
Beauji
’
s voice tightened. “
What did he do to you?”
I look
ed at the ceiling, too annoyed with myself to make eye contact. “
He said I was beautiful.”

“
Bastard,”
Davey said, popping the cork out.

“
Did he know you cried?”
Beauji asked. She, like all women, understood how being told you
’
re beautiful can make you cry.
It
’
s a sure sign you
’
re in a bad place, and every woman has been there, even Beauji, who
’
d always been loved. Even Beauji, whose men had stuck.

“
Yes,”
I said, taking another sip of my wine. “
It only lasted for a few minutes. He handled it well. I mean, he
didn
’
t run screaming from the room.”

“
I
’
ve done that,”
Davey said, nodding.

Beauji cut her eyes at him. “
Once.”

I sat up. “
But enough about me. Tell me about the baby. Have you picked out a name?”

This was a stupid question, as Beauji
’
s name had been a re
sult of her father
’
s dogged determination to name whatever came out of the chute Beau Jr., and as such she had sworn never to name a child before he or she was born, but I thought it would at least be an effective way to change the subject.

I was mistaken.

“
We still have to talk about you a little more,”
Beauji said. Davey gave her a warning look. “
Beauji...”

She cut him a look back. “
Davey, she has a right to know. Mags has probably already told her, anyway.”

“
My wife,”
Davey said, turning to me as he stoo
d up, “
doesn
’
t have any sense for what
’
s her business and what is not.”
He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “
Good to have you back, baby,”
he said. He leaned over Beauji and kissed her on the lips. “
Stay out of it.”

Davey headed up the stairs and
I kept my eye on Beauji, my heart beating a little too hard and a little too fast. I knew something was up with Mags. I could smell it. Judging by the look on Beauji
’
s face, whatever the news was, she wasn
’
t expecting a positive response from me.

“
What is
it, Beau?”
I asked. “
You have to tell me now. Is Mags sick? Is Bev sick? Who
’
s sick?”

She waved her hand at me. “
Nobody
’
s sick. But I think Mags tricked you into coming down this summer for a reason. Has she told you why?”

My eyebrows knit. “
Nothing aside
from getting extracurricular with the Englishman. Is that what you
’
re talking about?”

She shook her head. I waited a few seconds, then spit out an impatient, “
Well, what is it, then?”

“
It
’
s Jack,”
she said. “
He
’
s coming to town.”

It doesn
’
t matter who your parents are or how healthy or sick or ambivalent your relationship with them is, they will always be the most powerful people in your life. They will be the ones whose approval you will always crave. They will be the ones who hold the po
w
er to elate or crush you with a word. No matter what you tell yourself
—
that your father wasn
’
t worth your time anyway, or that your mother was too batty to really know what she was doing to you
—
your parents will always be the people who juggle knives over
your heart. If you
’
re lucky, they
’
ll know it and will juggle carefully. If you
’
re unlucky, you
’
ll be born to Mags Fallon.

“
Wake up, lady!”
I said, flicking on the light in Mags
’
s room. It was one o
’
clock in the morning. She was lying on her stomach with cu
rlers in her hair, as she had during every night of her adult life. She was wearing an old T-shirt from a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert she
’
d gone to in the mid-eighties during a brief flirtation with recapturing her youth.

“
Mags!”
I said, louder. She didn
’
t move
. I reached over and pulled the blanket off of her and shook her shoulder. “
Up, up, up!”
One eye creaked open.

“
Mmmmmf?”

“
Mags, we need to talk.”

She flopped over and pulled herself up. “
Portia? What
’
s the matter, baby?”
She blinked her eyes and squinted u
p at me. “
Is the house on fire?”

“
No.”

“
What
’
s going on?”

“
You called Jack, that
’
s what
’
s going on.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to look intimidating. “
You invited him to visit, that
’
s what
’
s going on.”

She yawned. “
Oh. That.”

“
Yes. That,”
I sa
id, getting even angrier at her lack of shock and instant remorse. I was expecting regret, sorrow, chagrin. Something that would confirm how right I was to be upset, how wrong she was to arrange a visit with my father without asking me first. I was expect
i
ng all that, which was insane, because yawning and stretching and acting like it wasn
’
t a big deal was what Mags always did, and I should have known.

“
Good night, darlin,”
Mags said, flicking off the light and pulling the covers around her. “
We
’
ll talk abo
ut it in the morning.”

“
Mags
—”

“
In the morning,”
she said again, waving her arm limply over her shoulder, shooing me away.

I stood there in the shaft of dim yellow light coming from the hallway, watching as my mother drifted back to sleep. I considered fli
cking the light back on and demanding to know what the hell she was thinking. I considered wheedling Jack
’
s phone number from her and calling him and telling him not to come. I considered getting a bucket of ice water and dumping it over her head, making
a
big ruckus until the entire house woke up, until the entire neighborhood woke up.

Instead, as Mags
’
s soft snore gained momentum, I shut the door behind me with a gentle click and headed off to my room.

I have one vague recollection of Lyle Jackson Tripple
horn, in which he plays a classical music album on the record player in our living room. That
’
s all I have: one flickering image of him carefully placing the needle on the record and then smiling at me, walking toward me, arms out, ready to dance. I remem
b
er snuggling my head into his neck and smelling his shirt as he waltzed me around the living room. I remember feeling happy and safe and loved.

But what the hell did I know? I was two.

I don
’
t remember much about the letters in the shoebox. I sealed them a
ll immediately after writing them and never looked back. Mostly, they were just stories about me growing up. What happened at the softball game. What kind of trouble Beauji and I had gotten into. What my favorite books and movies were. Some letters contai
n
ed school pictures. There were some drawings. There were questions about his life. Where did he live? What did he do for a living? Did he ever have any more children? I never asked him why he
’
d twirl me around a room so lovingly and then leave me without
s
o much as a look back. I never wanted the answer to that question.

I turned on the light in my room and went straight for my closet. I pulled the shoebox out and tossed it on the bed, then paced back and forth, unable to look at it. What was I going to do?
Open the letters, torture myself with the ghost of a little girl who was stupid enough to believe her father might come back? What did it matter, anyway? Why did I care? I picked up the box and put it back in the closet, closing the door quietly behind m
e
. I put my hand to my chest, felt my heart banging against it.

Damnit.

I was thirty years old. I hadn
’
t seen him in over twenty- seven years. I could barely remember the man. What did it matter?

I walked over to the bed and sat down. It mattered. And Mags
should have known that it mattered. It could have at least occurred to her that it might matter. What the hell was wrong with that woman, anyway?

I tossed my legs up on the bed and pulled the comforter over me. I slept in fits and starts throughout the night, until finally the clock said six, and I got out of bed and put on my sneakers.

It took me an hour to trek the five miles out to the Babb farm.
When cars passed, which wasn
’
t too often, I stepped off the road and ducked out of sight, just in case it was the Mizzes looking for me. It never was. A man in his sixties drove by in a Ford pickup, and my heart rate sped up. It could have been Jack. Wou
l
d I even recognize him now? All I had was a small handful of old pictures and a faded memory of a smiling man waltzing me around to Bach, or Rachmaninoff, or whoever wrote waltzes.

When I saw the farmhouse, I stopped walking and looked at my watch. 7:05. I
an was probably inside, writing. Doubt began to creep over me. It hadn
’
t occurred to me until that moment how it might look, me showing up two mornings in a row. On the other hand, I had forgotten to ask about the book signing, so there was a legitimate r
e
ason to return.

But not at seven in the morning.

I turned and started to walk away, then stopped. I
’
d also left my copy of
Clean Sweep
there for him to sign. I could go back for that. And he knew that I knew he started his days at six, so it
’
s not like the
hour was all that outrageous.

And I wanted to see his smile. Just for a second. Just one quick hit of warmth before I went back to face the Mizzes.

I turned around again, took a few more steps toward the farmhouse, then slowed down. I was going to look li
ke an idiot. Like a
stalking
idiot. Like...