I'm Your Girl (35 page)

T
o gel, or not to gel. That is the question.

Go natural, and maybe you’ll act natural
.

I always act natural.

Just don’t try to act too white
.

It’s kind of in my genes, you know.

Just…be careful
.

I will.

After donning jeans, hiking boots, and a green sweatshirt, I get into the car at precisely 7 A.M. and drive to Diane’s, parking behind her car at seven-fifteen. I see a tall black man in the yard, his skin Diane’s delicious color, and he wields some shears as he trims the hedges. I get out of the car, and when I shut the door, he turns.

“You’re Jack,” he says.

“Yes,” I say.

He removes some heavy gloves as he comes over to me.

Those shears look sharp!

Shh.

He extends his hand, and I shake it. “Bill Anderson.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Anderson.”

He waves the shears in the direction of the bushes. “Just tidying up a bit.”

I point at the tree branches hiding the power line. “I had planned to cut those back soon. The power company will come out, but they do a lousy job.”

Mr. Anderson nods. “I do my own, too.”

I look at the empty flower beds. “Diane and I will be planting some flowers soon.”

He nods. “Good soil around here.”

Now what?

“Um, how was your flight?”

That was lame
.

“I slept most of the way, but it was long.”

“Yeah.”

Change the subject
.

“Well, we have a beautiful day to go up the Parkway,” I say.

He nods.

“Uh, did you bring a camera? There are plenty of overlooks and lookouts on the Parkway.”

“I sure did.” Mr. Anderson turns slightly, and my eyes follow his to the window where—

That’s Diane’s mother.

She’s pretty.

Everywhere except her eyes. Jack, you are being eyeballed to death.

I know.

“Is that…”

“Uh-huh,” Mr. Anderson says. His eyes dance back to mine. “That’s Diane’s mama.”

I decide to be blunt. “Are her eyes always that…locked and loaded?”

“Uh-huh. Just try to stay out of her beam.” He laughs. “So, do you plan on marrying Dee-Dee?”

“Yes.”

“Have you bought her a ring?”

She isn’t wearing it. Why isn’t she wearing it?

Should I lie?

She must have a reason.

Well, I don’t like it.

“Uh, yes. I presented it to her Thursday.”

He looks at his feet. “I knew she had one. She kept looking at her hand last night.” He looks at Mrs. Anderson and smiles. “But I know why she isn’t wearing it.”

“Yeah.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “My condolences on your family, Jack. I don’t know how I would have reacted if it had happened to me, but I know it would have stopped me in my tracks.”

“It, um, it almost stopped me.”

He nods. “Do you love my daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. She’s precious to me, too. She never needed much tending, and she’s kind of a wildflower at heart—and picky! I never met a more picky child.”

“Um, Mr. Anderson, I want to marry your daughter. Do I have your permission?”

That took guts! It makes you appreciate your own daddy more, doesn’t it?

Yeah.

Mr. Anderson smiles. “Yes. Of course, my word isn’t worth nearly as much as…” He cocks his head toward the window, but Mrs. Anderson isn’t there anymore. He squints at my hair. “Let me tell you, Jack, it’s a good thing you aren’t wearing that stuff in your hair today.”

“It was Diane’s idea.”

“Her mama thinks it’s girly.”

I’m scared of Diane’s mama now.

Me, too.

“Um, do you have any advice for me in dealing with…” I cock my head toward the window.

“Take lots of deep breaths,” Mr. Anderson says. “I have developed some mighty big lungs from all the deep breaths I’ve taken during thirty-five years of marriage.”

“I will.”

“And say as little as possible.”

That shouldn’t be too hard.

“And try to keep a neutral face like this.” His smiling face turns, well, neutral, with neither a smile nor a frown, his eyes dead ahead. “She reads faces. One little curl up or down with your lip and…”

“Neutral,” I say.

He pats my arm. “Just be yourself, Jack.”

You’re good at that
.

He claps some dirt off his gloves. “Well, we’d better be getting inside. Diane has breakfast going.”

I take a deep breath, hold it, and let it out slowly. Then I put my best neutral face on and follow Mr. Anderson into the house.

I
’m nervous, my back hurts from a night on the sofa, and I’m grumpy because Mama is doing none of the cooking but all of the criticizing. “Those eggs aren’t hard enough,” she had said. “You aren’t going to serve that limp bacon, are you?” she had asked. “Those hash browns look raw,” she had said.

We should have eaten at IHOP.

And when Mama had told me, “He’s here,” I had nearly dropped the serving platter.

But once I had realized that Jack was talking to Daddy, I relaxed. Daddy seems to be okay with Jack, and he makes a better welcoming committee than Mama does.

God, please bless everything about this day,
I pray.
And keep Mama’s mouth in the hollow of Your hand.

When the front door opens, I yell, “Breakfast is ready!”

I plan to fill Mama’s mouth with food before she can fill it with venom.

Jack strides into the kitchen like he owns the place—with no gel? He looks okay, but he needs another haircut. “Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning,” I say. We’re so domestic!

Then he kisses me on the cheek right there in front of Mama!

“Good morning, Mrs. Anderson,” Jack says, while I try to recover. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

I look sideways at my parents. Daddy is smiling, but Mama has her stone face on.

“It’s, uh, it’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Jack,” Mama says, in her formal, “I’m-so-sorry-for-your-loss” funeral voice.

“Well,” Daddy says, “let’s eat.”

Thank you, Daddy.

Then we sit…and eat. No one is talking. All I hear are forks hitting plates and sipping sounds. Somebody break the ice!

And, oh, Jack don’t—He’s putting ketchup on his eggs and hash browns. He couldn’t just put a little dot of Texas Pete on his eggs like Daddy. I’ll hear about this later. And don’t—Lord, my man loves his sugar, but four heaping tablespoons in his coffee? And why did he wear that threadbare sweatshirt? It has to be as old as I am!

I see Mama starting to speak several times, but her mouth only opens and shuts. She’s as speechless as I am, and we both just tear at our bacon.

“Dee-Dee,” Daddy says with his mouth full, “everything is delicious.”

“Yes,” Jack says with
his
mouth full, “delicious.”

I hope Mama is seeing what I’m seeing: two grown men behaving almost the same way at the breakfast table. Maybe it’s a man thing.

Daddy swallows and wipes his lips with a napkin. “And Jack here tells me he got you a ring.”

Oh…no.

“Where is it, Dee-Dee?” Daddy asks. “I want to see it.”

I can’t look at Jack or Daddy or Mama. Is anyone breathing besides Daddy? I know I’m not. Oh, Lord, and now Mama is the last to know! I’ll never live this down.

“Excuse me,” I say, and I get up from the table, go to my purse, take out the ring, slide it on—I’ve
missed
you!—and walk back into the kitchen, showing it to Daddy first, though the gleam crisscrosses the kitchen as I do.

“My, my,” Daddy says, holding my hand and admiring the ring, “that’s a fine-looking ring. Look, Rachel. Isn’t that nice?”

Don’t look at Mama, don’t look at Mama, don’t look—I look at Mama. Her eyes—I catch my breath—are little brown dots of death!

Mama never looks at the ring, holding me in her eyes with all that death. “Yes, it is a nice-looking ring.”

I brace for, “Why weren’t you wearing it last night?” It
should
come. That’s something Mama should say while blinking those brown dots of death at me. But, it never comes.

“So,” Daddy says, grabbing the last slice of bacon, “when’s the happy event going to take place?”

Don’t answer, Jack, please don’t—

“August,” Jack says.

Mama still hasn’t spoken, but her eyes are speaking volumes. They’re saying, “I have
not
been happy; I
am
not happy; I will
never
be happy.”

And this makes me unhappy.

Lord, make her speak or something! She’s winning this argument without saying a single word! Oh, yeah. I asked You to control her mouth. When have You ever listened to me?

“Well, congratulations,” Daddy says. “Where will the wedding take place?”

I catch Jack looking at me, but I don’t lock onto his eyes. I’m focusing on a speck of egg, hoping that it’s a magic speck of egg that will miraculously whisk me to another dimension in time.

“Here in Roanoke at Diane’s, I mean, our church,” Jack says.

And that ruins all sorts of Mama’s dreams now. She had to be counting on marrying off one of her daughters in her church.

“And where will you two settle down, Jack?” Daddy asks.

“Here,” Jack says. “I’ll be selling my house as soon as I can….”

While they talk about Jack’s house and interest rates and housing slumps and all the other things involved in selling a house, Mama and I try not to stare at each other. I think she’s staring at a burned piece of hash brown. Eventually, Daddy and Jack get up and leave the table to “get some fresh air,” according to Daddy.

Yeah, the air in here has gotten pretty stale pretty fast.

“Mama, are you going to say something—anything?”

Mama shakes her head. “Oh, I’m just listening today, Dee-Dee. You accused me of not listening, so I plan on just
listening
all day long.”

She’s not fighting fair! “Well, your silence was rude.”

“How can silence be rude?”

Silence in a library isn’t rude, because I expect it. But unexpected silence from your mama after all these little bombshells
is
rude.

“Your father and Jack were having a conversation, Dee-Dee, and it would have been rude to interrupt.”

I hate it when she’s basically right. “I can tell you wanted to.”

Mama leans back, her coffee mug in her hands. “Would it have made any difference?”

“No,” I say quickly.

She shrugs and hums a little. “So what does it matter what I think? I mean, if you’re ashamed to wear his ring, who am I to judge?”

Finally, we can have an argument. “I’m not ashamed to wear it.”

“You didn’t have it on last night.”

“I didn’t want to shock you.”

She lets out a “tsk-tsk.” “Oh, child, it’s
way
too late for that. And if you don’t want to get married in your home church, well…”

“But I do! But I wouldn’t if it would embarrass you.”

She blinks. “Why would I be embarrassed?”

Shoot. I walked right into that one. Never make a statement to your mama that she can turn into a question. “Think of the shame.”

She looks away. I knew it!

“Anything else, Mama?”

She looks at me. “What do you mean?”

I feel like rolling up my sleeves and throwing hands with her. “Go ahead. Lay it all on me.”

She sniffs a laugh. “I have nothing to lay on you.”

Yes, she does. “What about the way Jack ate?”

“All men could use some manners, your daddy included today, for some reason. Both of them ate abominably.”

That didn’t work. “What about the way Jack’s dressed?”

“So he doesn’t iron. Your daddy hasn’t ironed a single thing since we’ve been married.”

Hmm. “What about Jack’s general appearance?”

Her lips twitch. Here it comes. “Well, of course, he could be darker.”

I close my eyes. “I’ll take him to a tanning booth. Will that help?”

Mama laughs. “Not in a million years, but what does it matter to me? I’m only your mama. You do what you want to do. You have your own life now. You go on and live it.”

Lord, this drive up the Parkway is going to suck!

While we drive, the only thing warming up is the weather. Daddy and Jack talk our ears off, mainly about the car, the next overlook, the last overlook, the way the fog burned off, the way the buds on the trees lean into the sun, and the lack of traffic. I should have put Daddy in the front seat so he wouldn’t have to shout. Mama stays inside the car the entire time, and no amount of Daddy’s coaxing for a “family picture” will get her to budge. On overlook number seven—I’ve lost count—I pull Jack aside.

“Can we go back now?”

“Your mom’s not having a good time?”

“No.”

“We can go back.” He winks. “Maybe Bandini’s can warm her up.”

“I hope so.”

But Bandini’s, and Mr. Bandini in particular, can’t get Mama to open her mouth for anything but her spaghetti, which she pushes around on her plate. Daddy, Jack, and Mr. Bandini, though, don’t even seem to notice, carrying on as if they were old buddies. Mr. Bandini even pulls up a chair!

And they’re beginning to piss me off! Can’t they see how miserable Mama and I are?

On the way back to my house, Jack whispers, “Have you decided about the tour?”

As a matter of fact, I have—just now. “I’m not going.”

“What’s that?” Daddy asks.

Jack, you’d better not—

“My publisher wants Diane to go on tour with me,” Jack says, “but if she takes a week off now, that would cut into the time we could spend on our honeymoon.”

That’s not the reason, Jack! It’s the lady behind me boring holes through my seat with her eyes! It’s the way you and Daddy have been ignoring the silent argument Mama and I are having!

“Where are you going on this tour?” Daddy asks.

And they’re off again. At the mention of any city, Daddy tells a story, and Jack is driving ten miles under the speed limit so he can hear all the stories. Just get us home!

When Jack stops his car behind mine, I jump out and head straight for the house, fumbling with my keys at the door. I just want all this to end!

“Next time you visit, there will be flowers here,” Jack is saying.

Where is my damn house key!

“And Mrs. Anderson,” Jack says, “maybe the next time we’ll have more time to talk, just the two of us.”

Oh, no, Jack, don’t tell her that! That’s just the opening she needs to—

“What’s wrong with right now?” Mama asks.

I drop my keys and kick them toward the edge of the porch.

“You’re right,” Jack says. “We could go for a walk.”

I look down to snatch up my keys and see…Jack holding Mama’s hands? He’s touching the beast with X-ray eyes?

“A walk will be fine, Jack,” Mama says. “I’ve been sitting for far too long.”

I turn as slowly as I can. Daddy’s eyes are dancing, Mama’s nodding, and Jack is smiling.

And I’m shaking. I drop my keys again. What I said earlier about people having trouble with keys in the movies—forget that. My hands are so sweaty right now I couldn’t use one hand to hold on to the other.

“Uh, Diane,” Jack says, “we’re going for a little walk.”

“Okay,” I say, in a tiny voice.

Mama looks hard at me. “See you around, Diane.”

She never calls me that! What does it mean? Is this some new code?

Then Mama
links
her arm in Jack’s and walks away!

I look at Daddy. “Daddy, I’m—”

He gives me a hug. “Jack can handle himself.”

“I know, it’s just—”

“Shh, shh, Dee-Dee,” Daddy says, picking up my keys. “It will be all right.”

Oh, God, I hope so!