The Same Sky (16 page)

26
 

Alice

W
E DROVE TO
Jake’s parents’ house, a large brick colonial with Romanesque columns flanking the front door. Winifred, who had designed the house herself, said the style was “neo-eclectic.” We parked, and when Jake opened the door to let me and Pete out, I smelled smoke. It seemed Collin had been up early (or late) working in his own pit. “Do you smell what I smell?” I said to Jake.

“Yup,” said Jake. “Guess he’s strutting his stuff.”

I smiled, kissed Jake on his stubbled cheek. “What did you expect?” I said.

“I guess I’d hoped …,” said Jake.

“That you’d get the spotlight? Honey, please.”

“Right, I know you’re right,” said Jake. Lainey hovered nearby, pretending not to eavesdrop. “Off the record, obviously,”
said Jake, and she nodded, murmuring apologies but not turning off her recorder.

Jake’s parents were superstars. Of course, they weren’t going to let a
Bon Appétit
magazine article pass them by. Winifred answered the door with a wide smile, ushering Lainey inside with a sweep of her plump arm, squinting to locate a photographer who was not in attendance. (They would send someone for photos later, we’d been told, after Lainey’s story had been written and approved.) Winifred wore a red strapless dress and snakeskin boots, her hair piled high in a style I hadn’t seen before. (I had, however, spotted her hairstylist, Betty, driving away from the house as we pulled in. Betty was brought in to style my hair on occasion, as Winifred wasn’t a fan of my “clumpy ponytail look,” as she called it.)

“Welcome,” said Winifred. “
Bon Appétit!
I declare! We subscribe.”

“That’s great,” said Lainey. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Oh, pish,” said Winifred. “Fried deviled egg? Bloody Mary?” Before we had answered, Lupita and her daughter Chandra appeared in their uniforms, bearing silver trays. “Hope you don’t mind,” said Winifred. “We’ve invited a few close chums to brunch.”

Jake sighed, but Lainey seemed enthusiastic. She held out her recorder and followed Winifred into the dining room, which was filled with Lockhart celebrities and (it seemed) the entire Lockhart Lions football team in uniform. Lupita handed me a fried deviled egg and squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry about the baby,” she said. Tears sprang to my eyes, and she pulled me into a floral-scented
hug, then pushed a Bloody Mary into my free hand. Lupita had been with Jake’s family since he was a child; Winifred had hired her during a Cancún vacation and had liked having a nanny so much, she’d arranged to bring sixteen-year-old Lupita back to Lockhart at the end of their trip. I’d never asked the details, but Lupita had moved into the Conroe manse, freeing Winifred up to plan events and play tennis. Jake loved Lupita like a mother. (In this case, maybe even
more
than a mother. Or equally, for certain.)

Lupita had left a boyfriend behind in Cancún, and when she told the Conroes she wanted to go back and marry him, they (somehow) brought Jesus to Texas as well. A talented farmer, Jesus was tasked with growing all the vegetables needed for Harrison’s side dishes. Eventually he was hired by Lone Wolf, too, and after a long career, he had recently retired and taken up topiary gardening.

Lupita, Jesus, and their children lived next door to the Conroes in a miniature version of the columned brick home, and Jesus created whimsical hedges all over town. A Jesus Melendez garden was much prized among Lockhart society, Winifred told Lainey, leading her past the dining table to the backyard, where Jake’s father, Collin, was smoking meat alongside the Noah’s Ark topiary. “And he
just this week
added the baby pandas,” Winifred said into Lainey’s recorder. “Can you see them? Right next to the giraffes? It’s hell to keep them watered in the summer, but you do what you have to do for
art
, know what I mean?”

“Stupendous,” proclaimed Lainey.

“You might
think
you’ve tasted the best brisket in the
state of Texas, but you haven’t tasted my goddamn brisket, so you’re wrong!” boomed Collin, who I guessed had been practicing this exaltation all night.

“Oh, really?” said Lainey coquettishly.

“Goddamn right!” said Collin. “Hi, honey,” he added, in a softer voice, holding out his arm to me. I settled in for a one-armed hug; Collin was tending the meat, and I knew better than to expect him to put down the metal spatula. He kissed the top of my head. “You okay, girl?” he asked.

I nodded, lifting my chin.

He cupped his hand over the back of my hair. “God’s plan,” he said quietly. “God’s plan.”

I did not respond, but wriggled free and went around to the side yard to have a minute to myself. I sat down next to what might have been zebras or maybe horses crafted from yew, and tried to breathe evenly. How the fuck, I wondered, was it God’s plan for me to be infertile? For Mitchell’s mom to give me one night of bliss before taking him away? As Jake had asked that night, drunk with sadness and tequila, what was the point of this pain? If you believed there was a plan, then what the fuck was the end game here?

I didn’t believe there was a plan. Look at Evian, for Christ’s sake. What was the plan for her? God had given her a shitty mother, then hooked her up with someone like me, who hadn’t a clue about how to help her. What was I supposed to do? How could I change this situation? I felt angry and impotent.

But then I thought—why not? I wanted to take care of someone, and Evian sure as hell needed care. I took out
my phone and called her, readying myself to do
something
—whatever was needed. Evian answered on the second ring. “Alice?” she said.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m just checking in. How are—”

“I’m fine,” she said coldly.

“Okay,” I said. “Good, I’m glad to hear that.”

“Not that you care,” said Evian.

“What? Evian, you know I—”

“Not that you’d answer your phone when I need you.”

“Evian!” I said.

“Look, you don’t need to call me anymore.”

“Please, Evian,” I said. “Listen. Let’s plan—”

But she had cut the line.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket. I sat inside the topiary for a while.

Lunch was elaborate and delicious. Winifred had invited not only the football team but a chef visiting from Paris named Daniel, who gave Lainey a great quote as he hoisted his pork rib. “Meat with handles,” he declared in his sultry accent, “it is always a good thing.”

“Hear, hear!” said Collin, raising his Shiner.

After lunch, the guests departed, and Lainey perched on the cowhide sofa to interview Jake with his parents. I wandered upstairs, curling into Jake’s childhood bed. It was unchanged from when he was in high school, the flannel sheets smelling faintly of Polo cologne. I couldn’t get comfortable
in my tight-waisted dress, so I climbed from the bed to rummage in the bureau for a T-shirt. I slid open the top drawer, but instead of Jake’s old stuff, I saw a pale blue blanket. I took it from the drawer with a sickening feeling. It was new and impossibly soft.

I spread the small blanket across the bed and touched the white embroidery at the edge—elegant script, spelling “Mitchell.”

I don’t know how long I’d been staring at the name when Winifred pushed open the door. “Oh, honey,” she exhaled.

“Hi,” I said.

Winifred sat down next to me on her son’s bed. She wasn’t looking at me but out the window, which faced the football stadium. I thought about how awful it must have been for Jake to sit in this room, his knee blown, listening to the crowds across the street cheering for a team he wasn’t on. “I’m sorry you found the blanket,” said Winifred. “I didn’t want to … throw it away.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Well, here’s some news: we’re selling Martin the restaurant,” said Winifred. “We don’t have any more money to lose.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Don’t know if he’ll change the name,” said Winifred. “I don’t care, to be honest. The Lone Wolf! What a jackass.” She sighed. “Collin can damn well cook for
me
every night,” she said.

“Maybe not brisket … maybe Italian,” I said. She turned to me, amused, then laughed.

“Maybe
Indian
,” she said. We both began to giggle, sharing a joke few women would understand. Winifred shook her head and leaned against the wall, crossing her boots. She seemed frail, and I realized how much energy this party must have cost her. She was deflated without an audience. “There’s some good news, too,” she said. She took an envelope from her pocket and handed it to me. “It’s money,” she said. “Do with it what you will.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thank you, Winifred.”

“How much for the Mormon baby?”

“The what?”

“Didn’t you tell me about a cheap private adoption? Some Utah organization?”

“Oh, right,” I said, nodding. “Thirty thousand.”

She frowned. “Here I thought ten would solve all your problems. Thirty, well, that’s a different animal altogether.”

I smiled. “I appreciate it, Winifred, really.” I held the envelope toward her, but my fingers wouldn’t let go. I tried to be calm, but my mind was whirring—maybe we could try international again? There had to be some country somewhere that would let a forty-one-year-old adopt. Or we could find another surrogate? Maybe if we bought a bigger house and updated our file with a more impressive address? Maybe, somehow, something …

“It’s yours,” said Winifred. “I’m sorry it’s not enough.”

“Me too,” I said. “I’m sorry
I’m
not enough,” I added, surprising myself.

Winifred turned. “What is
that
supposed to mean?” she said, arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Nothing,” I said. “Forget it.”

But instead of standing up and leaving—which was her specialty—Winifred stayed next to me. “You are every mother’s dream,” she said. I snorted. “Don’t you think I see how much he loves you?” said Winifred. “Don’t you know how proud we are of what you two have made? Of course we wish we had grandbabies—I’d take a hundred, from anyplace on earth. Martin’s a damn fool with his
white baby
bullshit—can you see why I married his brother?”

I was crying, but nodded.

“I wish you had children, honey,” said Winifred. “But what you have already … that’s all I could ever hope for, for
my
baby—a love like yours. Don’t you know how lucky you are?”

And then, in her patented Winifred Conroe maneuver, she stood up and exited, leaving me in tears.

On our way back to Austin, we drove through downtown, stopping to let Lainey wander the hallways and pits of Harrison’s BBQ. She exclaimed over the famous sign at the doorway:

NO BARBECUE SAUCE
 
(Nothing to Hide)

NO FORKS
 
(They Are at the End of Your Arm)

NO CREDIT CARDS
 
(The Bank Doesn’t Take Barbecue)

NO KIDDING
 
(See Owner’s Face)

She took multiple snapshots, then wandered around, speaking softly into her phone, trying to describe the place. Though I had once thought of being a writer, watching Lainey—the way she had to slip outside of every experience to figure out how to explain it to others—made me glad I’d ended up behind the Conroe’s counter. If I tried to convey the way Harrison’s rooms smelled (smoky, salty, permanent, enveloping) or, for that matter, the way Jake’s brisket made me feel (cared for, satiated, warm, grateful), the words I came up with fell short so monumentally that it felt like shooting a bird to appreciate its feathers.

In the end, all the fetishism around Jake’s brisket was interesting, and I knew it made him proud, the way people wanted to know about his process. He worked hard, after all, alone in the night watching fire. But I thought all the details—what wood, what temperature, the chemical composition of collagen—took away from the experience of picking up Jake’s meat between your thumb and forefinger, placing it into your mouth, closing your eyes, and letting a wave—an indescribable wave—wash over you. It was delicious, sure, and you could ponder the bark all day, but that was beside the point.

From behind the counter, I got to watch the faces: Officer Grupo after a long night, a student unmoored in the
world, a grandmother nobody cooked for anymore. They chewed, and felt cared for. Their faces were children’s—all pretense sliding away, revealing the most essential needs met.
Mom’s on time to pick me up after choir. Dad’s scratching my back even after he thinks I’ve fallen asleep. I love you, from someone you dare love. I am hungry, and being fed
.

That night, after we’d dropped Lainey at the Hotel Saint Cecilia, we returned home to Mildred Street. As Jake watched baseball, Pete next to him on the couch, I went into the small garden we had planted in the back. Not much came up in summer, so I had hit the farmer’s market that morning. I went into our kitchen with a handful of arugula, turned the radio to a jazz station, and took off my boots. I cut the stalks off beets, placed them in a roasting pan, and slid it into the oven. I sliced squash, zucchini, and crisp asparagus spears, then sautéed the vegetables in my mother’s cast-iron pan (it held the seasoning of a hundred campouts) with olive oil, salt, and pepper. I divided the buttery, bitter greens from our garden into two wide bowls, added the vegetables from Mom’s pan, then broke a bit of queso fresco on top. When the beets were ready, I sliced them, the blood-red juice staining my fingers, and arranged them on the salads, adding more cheese, salt, and pepper. I poured two glasses of chilled white Burgundy.