Riding Shotgun (6 page)

“Yes.”

“I mean, really talked to you?”

“She said she’s not going with Donny Forbush. And she’s worried about Will.” Cig suppressed a flash of impatience. “We talked about this at supper. Are you suffering from early Alzheimer’s?”

Grace gulped in the sparkling air. “No.” She started to say something then continued walking. She reached the car and then called out, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Cig waved. She closed the door once Grace had started the car. A whiff of clear, cold air snuck into the room.

From the mud room window, Cig watched the silvery curlicue of exhaust from Grace’s tailpipe as she cruised down the driveway. She crossed her arms over her chest, not realizing how tightly she was hugging herself until she couldn’t breathe. She shook her head and walked back into the kitchen. Hunter was eating a huge piece of carrot cake.

“This is great, Mom.”

“I slaved hours over the stove to make that cake.” He winked at her. She returned the wink and walked into the library where she picked up the family books and papers stacked on a wide shelf next to the dictionaries. She opened the massive maroon leather book, gilt edged, and studied the cursive handwriting that cataloged births and deaths since 1860. Like so many Americans, she was indifferent to her family’s history as well as history in general. She wasn’t a total fool, she knew the past was prologue, but somehow she never got around to studying the part that the Deyhles, the Buckmghams, the Charters, the Burkes, the deVries, the Chesterfields, the Merritts, and who knows who
else had played in creating Virginia, the nation, and her own self, genetically anyway.

Hunter entered the room and read over her shoulder. “How did they do that?”

“Years of practice, plus india ink and pens with gold tips.”

“When did we stop using quills?”

“Do you really think I know the answer to that?” She laughed at him.

“You might. You know some incredible stuff, Mom.”

“Like what?”

“Like you remember Richard Nixon.”

“You remember what you lived through. I was about your age then.”

“Well, I bet quills were fun to use.”

“As long as you weren’t the goose.” Cig traced a big C with her finger. “Not that they killed them for their feathers.”

“Mom, feathers fall out—kind of like Uncle Will’s hair.”

“I swear, he’s hitting the dye pots or using Grecian Formula 44. He was grayer, I know he was.” She glanced at her own hair in the mirror. Not much gray. “Did you finish your homework?”

“I’ve got two problems left in physics.”

“Knock ‘em out.”

“Okay.” He didn’t budge.

She put her hands on her hips” “Yes?”

“Can I borrow twenty dollars?”

“Twenty dollars?” Cig’s voice rose.

“I know it’s a lot, but I want to take Beryl Smith to the dance and I’m short.”

“Hunter, I’m not made out of money.”

“Mom, it’s only twenty bucks.”

“Twenty here and twenty there—it adds up. You’ve got to get it through your head that we don’t have money like we did when Dad was alive.”

“What if I put in extra hours at the barn?”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll clean out the cobwebs, change the light
bulbs under the eaves, fix the broken washer in the wash stall. I promise… please.”

“What’s so hot about Beryl Smith?”

His eyebrows knitted together. “She’s, uh, she’s…”

“A space cadet,” Cig blurted out. “I take that back.” She sighed. “Hunter, I hate crabbing about money, I hate denying you anything, but every penny counts.”

“Mom, I swear I will keep my promise. I’ll do those chores. I’ll even wash and wax the car.”

“And the next question is, can you borrow it for the dance? Hunter, you’re transparent.” She paused, then held out her hand. “Oh, all right. Deal.”

“Deal.” He shook her hand.

“Is your sister bagging the dance altogether?”

His face blanked. Hunter’s ignorance had an artful air. “I don’t know.”

“Oh yes, you do.”

“You always tell us to be direct. You should ask Laura, not me.”

She stared at him. “You’re absolutely right.”

He bounded out of the library, happy to have twenty dollars, leaving Cig to wonder just what was going on. She heard his door close. She climbed the stairs, passed his room and heard Laura hang up the phone. She thought she heard her say, “I love you.” Cig blinked. She’d never thought of her daughter as falling in love and hoped she’d misheard. She tried to recall how she had felt at fifteen, but it was too far back or she had pushed it too far back.

“Laura?”

“Hi, Mom.” She sat at her desk.

“May I come in?”

“Sure.” Laura’s nonchalance was forced.

“Finished?”

“Mostly.”

“What’s left?”

“Have to read the last part of
Macbeth
for English.”

Cig sat down on Laura’s bed. “There’s pussyfooting going on.”

“Uh—”

“Your Aunt Grace wanted to know if we’d talked about the dance and your brother says he knows nothing, which means he knows everything. What am I missing? Is there more between you and Donny than I know or want to know?” She half-laughed.

“I don’t like Donny.”

“Are you going to the dance with someone else?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Who?”

Laura flipped through the last two acts of
Macbeth
as though it were a card deck, then quietly she said, “Parry.”

“That’s fine. There will be lots of boys who go without dates, too. In fact, it will probably be a lot more fun.” Cig brightened.

Laura drummed her fingertips on the top of the desk. “Yeah—well.”

“Honey, I think that’s a marvelous idea and I’ll drive you all there if Hunter won’t give you a ride. He’s taking Beryl Smith. Guess you know.”

“Yes,” Laura said, her eyes now firmly on her mother’s. “I want to take Parry as my date.”

“What do you mean, your date?”

“My date.”

“You mean you’re going to dance with her?” Gg’s shoulders rose then lowered. “Well, I suppose you can but I promise you there will be boys there who—”

“I don’t care about the boys.” Laura’s voice grew more firm with each exchange.

“I’m missing something.”

“Mom, I’m going to the dance with Parry. I like her more than anybody.”

Cig held up her hands. “Wait a minute. You like her or you
like
her?”

“I
like
her.”

“Ah.” Cig gripped the edges of the bed with both hands. “Like her like you want to kiss her?”

“Mom,” Laura implored, “I don’t want to go into details.”

“You have a crush on Parry. Now, have I got that right?”

“Yes.”

Cig waited a moment. “At your age I guess that’s par for the course but really, you don’t have to date the girls you have crushes on, honey. I never did.”

“But you’re straight. I’m not.”

“How do you know that?” Cig challenged Laura without meaning to do it. It had just popped out of her mouth.

“Mom, that’s something you… know.”

“You’re a perfectly normal child!”

“Mother!” Laura slammed her book shut and the dust flew off the pages.

“Now I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, it’s just that this is sudden and you’re so young and—”

“It’s not sudden. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

Cig didn’t ask what a long time was. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I talked to Aunt Grace.” Laura’s voice lowered.

“What in the hell does Grace know about a thing like that?”

“She said that I should follow my heart. She didn’t think it was such a big deal.”

“I didn’t say it was a big deal, and furthermore, Aunt Grace has followed her heart too many times.”

“You’re upset. I knew you’d be upset.”

“I’m
not
upset,” Cig lied. “It’s a little, uh, surprising, that’s all, and I think you might not want to act in haste.”

“I’m not acting in haste. I have a right to go to the dance with whomever I wish!”

Cig held up her hands for peace. “I know, but the world is hardly the liberal, wonderful place we wish it would be and you’re asking for trouble.”

“How come when gay people want to be happy they’re asking for trouble?” Laura yelled.

“Because the world is fucking unfair, that’s why! All I’m doing is telling you what to expect. I’m not saying that it’s right.”

“Well, I can take it. I’d rather be happy with Parry than accepted with somebody I don’t love.”

“Laura, you’re fifteen. Let’s not get too carried away here. Who knows what will come of you and Parry?”

“Whatever becomes of me and Parry isn’t going to change the fact that I’m gay.”

“I hate labels. It makes people sound like cans of tuna.”

“I am gay, Mom. That’s that.” Laura stopped, exasperated.

“You’re my daughter and I love you.” Cig abruptly stood up. “I’m a little confused. Let’s sort this out later.”

“There’s nothing to sort out.”

“About the dance, there is.”

“I’m going!” Laura’s jaw jutted out.

“I know. I’m not forbidding you but perhaps I’d better go along. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Hunter will be there. No one’s going to beat us up.”

“I don’t know that. It’s a crazy world.” Cig leaned against the doorway for a moment. “Laura, go slow. Take lots of time.”

“Mother, I know who I am. Inside.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us does.” Cig smiled at her. “I’ll take a little time to get used to this.”

Laura wanted instant acceptance but was smart enough to know this wasn’t a bad beginning. “Okay.”

“Just let me think about the dance, okay? I’m not saying you can’t go. Just let me think about the repercussions.”

“Okay.”

Cig left her daughter’s room, nearly tripping over Peachpaws who was lying over the threshold. She alternated between wanting to go to sleep and wanting to rip Grace’s face off for usurping her maternal role. How easy to be glorious Aunt Grace who counsels that you follow your heart, indulge in a sapphic rapture. She wouldn’t have to pay the price. Then Cig caught herself.

Damn the Benedicts! If they’d bought Hardtack Manor, she could rub money on her troubles.

Closing her bedroom door behind her, Cig flopped on her bed, covered by a faded Black Watch down comforter. Woodrow flopped down beside her. He was all set for serious interspecies kissing when he saw Cig pick up the telephone. He decided to wash himself instead.

“Hi, Will, how are you?”

“Can’t complain,” said the man who usually did. “Want to speak to Grace?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, before I buzz her—she’s in her office—I wanted to ask you why Laura turned down Donny Forbush’s invitation to the dance.”

Cig knew Will’s “can’t complain” was bull. “Will, I was a teenaged girl once, and all I can say is it’s a wildly irrational time.” Cig scrambled to think of something more original to say but originality wasn’t her strong suit.

Will chuckled. ‘Teenaged boys are worse but you might want to have a talk with her. Apparently, Donny is trashed, I believe that’s the word he used with his father.”

“It’s probably the first time any girl has ever turned him down.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, but the Forbushes are valuable friends. One can’t have enough friends in elected office, you know.”

“Will, these are kids. Surely Gene Forbush knows that.”

“Gene Forbush has a big ego for himself and for his son.” Will attempted to keep a genial tone.

“Come on, don’t pressure Laura. She doesn’t want to go out with the boy. Anyway, at that age they’re in love one day and at each other’s throats the next.”

“Umm, well, let me buzz Grace.” Will tired of the subject. “But Cig, if there’s anything you can do to change her mind I do believe it would be beneficial to all of us.”

She heard a click and then Grace picked up. “Hello.”

“Grace, what are you doing telling my daughter to be a lesbian?”

A sharp intake of breath preceded her reply. “I did not!”

“She thinks you did.”

“What I said,” Grace patiently, even patronizingly, began, “was that the leopard can’t change its spots.”