Kate Fox & The Three Kings (10 page)

“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 insisted 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.

T
he 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 18
^th
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 down 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.

Gift opening turned out more difficult than candle blowing, but I held myself together. Aunt June procured a large, rectangular package and scooted it my way.

“Now, before you say it’s too much, you need a computer for school,” she warned as I studied my new silver laptop.

Receiving extravagant gifts was uncharted territory for me, on par with speaking Russian. Aunt June had already given me so much: use of the pool house, a debit card that drew from my grandparent’s estate, and their acceptance. “Thank you…I…I love it,” I managed an appreciative smile and moved on to Billie’s presents. The first was a framed photo of us, shot from above, grinning in the pool. I was wearing my black and white polka-dot bikini, while Billie had on a neon pink suit, with a fedora and sunglasses. We could’ve been mistaken for lifelong best friends.

“Maybe you could put it next to your bed or on the mantle in the living room?” Billie offered when I didn’t say anything.

“Yes, of course. Thanks,” I replied, setting the frame down and reaching for the other gift, which was smaller than the last. Inside the petite square box was a familiar gold filigree ring with a large emerald at the center. It slipped on my middle finger with ease.

“Your mother’s ring,” Aunt June said softly.

Everything I thought of saying sounded ridiculous in response to such generous and thoughtful gifts, so I said nothing at all and gave a nod of appreciation and a small smile. The three of us spent the day exploring the little shops in town, which were eclectic and filled with characters. We sniffed goat milk soaps at the Apalachicola Sponge Company, and purchased artisanal chocolates from the confectionary across the street. Billie bought me my first coffee, an iced latte, and we sipped our drinks and nibbled on chocolates as we walked along the dock. It was the best birthday I’d had in a long time.

My first day of classes at Gulf Coast Community College proved to be one of the most stressful days I’d ever experienced. I woke up early and refused breakfast. My stomach was jumble of nerves and dread. Aunt June allowed me to borrow her car to drive to Port St. Joe, saying she was able to walk to her insurance company, where she worked, and admitted she needed the exercise. I hadn’t stepped foot in a real classroom, with qualified teachers, real desks, real printed books, and real discussions in quite some time. My first class of the day was Art 101. Our teacher, Dr. Taylor, a well-groomed man in his early thirties, kept showing us slides of artwork on the projector. He paused on Salvador Dali’s
Persistence of Memory
, composed of a bunch of melted watches hanging out. Dr. Taylor went around the classroom, asking how the image made us “feel.”

“It makes me feel like time is dragging on, kind of like this class,” said a guy with scraggly hair and big, round black plugs in his ears.

“Life is so temporary, you know,” a blond girl in a short tennis skirt mused, twirling her hair and smacking her gum.

“As though time is arbitrary, right?” Dr. Taylor nudged. “You there,” he pointed directly at me, and I dropped the pencil I was taking notes with, wishing I were invisible. I was a ball of anxiety and could only think in fragments. “How does this painting make you feel?”

“Well, I-I,” I stuttered, scanning the disinterested faces. “Doesn’t make me feel anything.”

“Nothing at all?” Dr. Taylor chuckled.

“Nothing.”

“…Very well, then,” he replied, and I breathed out a sigh of relief. I endured my first college class.

Remedial Math,
Math 99
, was next on my schedule and passed by without incident. After nibbling on the ham and cheese sandwich I’d packed for lunch, I sat through Science 101, which was dreadfully boring, as the professor had a monotone voice and constant stutter. Finally, the day ended with
English 99
. Instead of reviewing the syllabus, as we had in the other classes, our professor, Dr. Crawford, dove straight into the lesson. Dr. Crawford was a middle-aged, bald man, with a belly that protruded just over his belt and dark-rimmed glasses he couldn’t stop fidgeting with. When he spoke, he commanded the room’s attention with his passion.

“I hope you’ve all done your summer reading,” Dr. Crawford called out to the class. Some of the students sunk low in their seats, others groaned. A required reading list was mailed out prior to the beginning of the semester, one book being
The Scarlet Letter
by Nathaniel Hawthorne. The professor picked up the class roster and began to call out names: “Daniel….Dewberry? Is that correct?” a stocky boy in the back corner of the class raised his hand.

“I go by Dan,” he grunted.

“So you do. Dan, why do you think Hester refuses to leave the Massachusetts Bay Colony after receiving the letter, being the labeled the ‘town whore’. It’s not like she’s physically tied there. She has free will. She can leave. She can forget about the past. Why does she stay?” Dr. Crawford asked.

“Because she’s a woman. Women don’t operate with any sense,” Dan replied, and all of the class chuckled except Dr. Crawford.

“I take it you haven’t done the summer reading, Dan,” Dr. Crawford silenced the class. I frowned as my palm twitched. I knew the answer.

“Yes?” Dr. Crawford raised his dark brows, “You look like you have something to say, young woman with the red hair.” The entire class whipped around.

“Me?” I asked sheepishly.

He nodded. “Is Dan correct? Does Hester not operate with any sense because ‘she’s a woman’?”

I shook my head, mustering the courage to speak. “No. If Hester got rid of the scarlet letter, and tried to pretend like her past didn’t happen, she’d, well, lose part of herself. Sin is a part of her life. She’s not going to let Chillingworth or Dimmesdale take that away or determine her identity,” I paused. “Her past makes her who she is.”

“Precisely,” Dr. Crawford beamed at me. “If you haven’t already, please finish your assigned readings before Wednesday. Class dismissed.”

Classes at Gulf Coast eventually fell into the regular swing. The first month of classes were challenging, anxiety swelled in my chest, knowing I’d be forced to participate in each lecture. The worst part was that the rest of the students already had a solid foundation of knowledge from which to draw, but I had only a rocky surface of Biblical teachings. I spent my nights familiarizing myself with the class material, pouring over books and searching the Internet to fill in my blanks.

It took a while, but eventually, I began to feel a sense of confidence and pride in my studies. I raised my hand to answer questions when the professors prompted, and I engaged in class discussions with the other students, not allowing my voice to be lost in the background. Even better, I wasn’t scolded by my professors for sharing my opinion, and though I was a woman, they seemed to genuinely value my input.

I found myself bored and restless in the afternoons, scooting around the pool house aimlessly after my studies. I asked Aunt June if there was anything I could assist with at the insurance office.

“Now why would ya want to subject yourself to such boredom?” Aunt June chuckled at my offer. “Olde Time Soda Fountain is hiring. I saw the sign in the window on my way to the office yesterday. Why don’t you go ask Mr. Hemming—he owns the place — for the job? Run over after dinner. It probably doesn’t pay much, but it’s something to do at least. And free ice cream to boot.” She smiled in her usual easy way and continued to stir the steaming pot of chili, instructing me to fetch the buttermilk and eggs out of the fridge.

“Come here, Katie. A grown woman needs to know how to make decent cornbread. It’s just as important as finding a supportive bra and learning how to drive a stick shift,” she motioned me to take a place beside her.

“First off, you need a good cast iron skillet. This one’s yours now,” Aunt June motioned to the black skillet she was greasing with some oil on a paper towel. Handing the skillet to me, I realized it was much heavier than it appeared, and I popped the empty pan in the pre-heated oven to warm up. After being told that a seasoned cornbread skillet was twice as valuable as gold, Aunt June mentioned that heating the pan prior to adding the batter yielded a crispy crust, and she doled out the wet ingredients: eggs, oil and buttermilk into a bowl, and I stirred in cornmeal flour, baking soda, a pinch of salt, and a spoonful of sugar for subtle sweetness. As I poured the batter into the heated skillet, the mixture sizzled on contact with the hot surface, bubbling and popping in a satisfying symphony.