Waking Charley Vaughan (4 page)

“Yes, Matt—Fine—whatever. I have to go.”

“Will you be---“ I hit the end button and put my phone away before he could finish. I looked around my apartment, deciding what to do.

I realized then that staying wasn’t going to work. He would just camp outside of my apartment all night if he had to. I had to hand it to him, he was relentless when he wanted something, and tonight he would want me to surrender.

I also realized that there was no way to drive anywhere—this was a fact that both Sara and I overlooked in our haste to make a plan.  My car was in the shop. I wasn’t supposed to pick it up until tomorrow.

“Damn, damn, dammit,” I said to no one. "Dammit all to--" 

Then,  I looked up and saw my bike, a classic beach cruiser, hanging next to my computer desk. It was freezing outside, and my bike had to be the absolute worst method of transportation, but it was really my only option. If I walked, he’d catch up to me. If I took my bike, I could be gone by the time he got here. I went to my bedroom, kicking off the flats I had worn to dinner, and grabbing a pair of socks from my dresser. I hustled from my room to the place in the hallway where my bike hung. I was too short. I recalled telling Matt as much when he insisted on putting my bike on that stupid hook. That was last week, and I hadn’t tried to take it down since then, having little reason to use my bike in the freezing winter temperatures.

              I ran to the kitchen—a short run-- and grabbed a barstool. I pushed the bike upward with a bit too much gusto, banging it against the ceiling with a loud
thud
.  I’d be hearing it from Mrs. Arrington in the morning for that one.

I threw my purse inside the basket on my bike, grabbed the remote to the television, and turned my surround sound system on—turning it up enough to be heard outside the door, but not so much that I would further piss off the neighbors. It didn’t’ matter that the TV wasn’t on, I wouldn’t be there to watch it. I wanted to give the illusion that I was home. Maybe it would buy me some time.  As I pushed the bike out the door, I looked down at my sock-clad feet, and realized I’d forgotten my sneakers, and more importantly, a coat. I stuffed my feet into an old pair of running shoes, grabbed both a sweatshirt and a jacket from my closet, and proceeded out the door.

After lugging my bike down all three flights of stairs and the ones outside the building, I swung my leg over, balancing the bike with my legs while I pulled my gloves and hat out of my pockets and started bundling myself up. Once I was covered in my winter gear, I began pedaling; aiming the bike down my street in the opposite direction that I thought Matt would be coming from. I had no idea where to go. All of my usual places were places Matt was sure to look for me, not to mention, many of them would be way too cold at that moment. The indoor places I loved were all downtown. I knew I couldn’t go to them, but figured that downtown was the only place I had a real chance of hiding out under the circumstances.

As I rode through my neighborhood into downtown, my phone began to ring again. This time, it was not Stevie Wonder, but Boris Karloff singing,
You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch—
my mother. I could not think of one good reason she could be calling me.  I ignored the ringing and kept pedaling, but after the third time this happened, I realized that she was probably not going to stop calling me until I picked up the phone. I stopped pedaling and reached into the basket on the front of the bike to, once again, dig for my phone. As the deep voice sang, “You’re a bad banana with a…” I found the phone and pressed the button to answer the call.

“Hello?” I said as sweetly as I could. My mother was a true southern belle, and manners meant everything, so shouting, “what the hell do you want?” the way I wanted to, would simply not have been acceptable.

I was bouncing around in an effort to keep warm as I waited impatiently for her greeting.

“Charley?” I heard her say in her thick drawl.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, even though it seemed a bit obvious that I would be the one answering my own phone. 

“Charley, I have been calling and calling trying to get a hold of you. I was starting to get worried,” my mother said in her true dramatic fashion. One more time and she might have called the FBI to file a missing person’s report.

“I’m sorry, Momma,” I said quietly, “I was at dinner with Sara, and I was just now able to get away.”

“Well, alright then,” she said, still sounding a bit annoyed. “I was just calling to confirm the mailing address you’d like me to mail your Christmas present to, honey. This is important information, and I don’t want it getting lost like the last time I mailed you a gift.” 

The last time she had mailed me a gift was when I was living in the dorms, and it hadn’t gotten lost, it had been stolen. And, it had been stolen because she mailed my gift in a box that had the name of the expensive shoe designer plastered all over the box. I hadn’t even wanted the stupid shoes, but when they were stolen, it was suddenly my fault that the perfect gift she’d worked so hard to find me had been stolen. I didn’t bother correcting her—correcting Rebecca Vaughan was a useless and painful endeavor, from which, nothing good could be gained.

“Well, that shouldn’t happen again, since I have my own place now. No one has reported a package stolen yet” This was a lie, but my tone had been so sarcastic that I didn’t think she’d catch it. I had no idea about any of the tenants in my building other than Mrs. Arrington. She and I talked all of the time, and I sometimes thought of her as the mother that God meant to give me. It made me feel better to think that Rebecca and I had just been some colossal mix up—no matter how farfetched the fantasy may have been.

I silently hoped this conversation would end soon. Holding it together wasn’t easy, and I was not about to tell my mother what had happened. “The address is 1503 Evergreen Court,” I said in an almost professional tone, “and you have the zip code,  I believe.”

“Yes, I do,” she said distractedly. I assumed she was writing down the address in the neat and elegant style that was her handwriting.

“Now, Charley,” she said a few seconds later, “you know this is a huge responsibility, and I truly hope you are not taking this as lightly as you have taken things in the past. This is serious, young lady. Very serious, and I honestly wonder sometimes if you are up to handling this.”

“Yes, Momma. I know,” I said for what felt like the 20
th
time in this short conversation. “I will work my hardest and do my very best. Thank you for agreeing to send it all to me now instead of waiting for the wedding. I promise you won’t regret it.” That last part was a lie. Nothing ever lived up to Rebecca Vaughan’s standards, most of all her daughters.

“Fine, Charley,” she said with a sigh, “I hope you are right. I just don’t want to live my whole life disappointed in my daughters.”

I just rolled my eyes as they began to fill up with tears yet again. Was that from a hallmark card? It could be. So touching.

She’d be even more disappointed in this daughter if she knew what had just happened. It was my mother’s view that adultery was the fault of the cheated
on
and not the cheater. That, among other things, was why it would be a while before I could tell her about what I had found out that night.

“I’m sorry I let you down, Momma.” Which is the only response you can give her when she makes that statement. “I promise I’ll try harder,” I recited as I had many times before.

“Well, you could start by joining the family for Christmas next year. This year is excusable given your new mysterious fiancé whom I have never been allowed to meet. But next year, I expect to see both of you at my dining room table on Christmas morning. Do you understand me, young lady?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said. I had told her a thousand times why she hadn’t met Matt before. It wasn’t me. Although, I wasn’t excited about him meeting my family, I knew it was inevitable. Matt had always made excuses for why he couldn’t, or wouldn’t go with me to Mississippi to visit. And of course, my family had never been able to inconvenience themselves enough to come here to meet him. It was my mother’s belief that her children should come to her—that is, if they had been insensitive enough to move away from her in the first place.

“I’m sorry you haven’t met him yet,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Well, it’s a bit late for that my dear. I suppose I should just let bygones be bygones.” She said annoyed.  Then she added, “Alright then, I am going to go now. I expect a call from you on Christmas day, young lady. And I will accept no excuses.”

“Yes Ma’am. I will call.” I sniffed.

“Are you alright, Charley?” she asked skeptically.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m fine,” I lied. “Allergies are bothering me.”

“Exactly why you never should have left your home,” she muttered. “Alright then. I will talk to you soon, and you will be getting your package in the next few days.”

“I will let you know when it gets here,” I said, not thinking.

“Charley Vaughan,” she snapped, “This is not a business transaction. I have delivery confirmation to tell me when it arrives. What I would like to hear from my daughter is a ‘thank-you, momma for your generosity’.”

“Thank you, Momma,” I said mechanically.

“I suppose you’re welcome,” she said, sounding put upon. “Goodbye, Charley.”

‘Goodbye, Momma,” I said quietly, and pressed the ‘end’ button on my phone’s screen.

“Uuugh!” I said out loud and to no one. That was all I had needed to make a bad night worse—a conversation with my mother.

I placed my feet back on the pedals and continued downtown: hating myself for never being able to tell her what I really thought.
In fact,
I thought as I pedaled,
Do I ever tell anyone what I really think?

I thought about it, and realized that Sara was probably the closest thing I had to someone I could be brutally honest with. Even she had to drag the truth out of me most of the time. I’d once had that with my sisters, but, not anymore. And Matt—well, earlier that night was the closest I’d ever come to honestly telling him how much his actions could hurt me.  I'd never once called him an asshole, despite him having earned the name on many, many occasions.

I’d always thought of myself as mellow, but as I pedaled through the busy downtown streets, the air cool, and the clouds threatening to snow, I realized that I wasn’t mellow, I was just a gutless. I wasn’t
not
telling people how I felt because the things they did never really bothered me. I wasn’t telling them because I was afraid to cause a stir: afraid to be like Rebecca. I was so afraid to be
like
her that I’d morphed myself into someone she and others could hurt—stomp on even. No wonder Matt had slept with Kelly. He probably really does think I’m just going to forgive him and forget all about it.

***

After pedaling around downtown for close to half an hour, and receiving  five calls from Matt, all of which I ignored, I decided to hide out in a little pub I’d spotted a few blocks over. I parked my bike next to my usual coffee shop, locking it to the bike rack, and headed down the street on foot. I walked as quickly as I could, my arms wrapped tightly around myself, and my eyes on the ground.

When I reached the outer door of the pub I had spotted, I stopped, took a deep breath, and wiped the remaining tear stains from my cheeks with my gloved hands.

I walked into the small, dark pub. It was densely populated with everything from college kids who were taking shots at the bar, to a group of men who were easily 80 years old, and hanging out in a back booth. It was a perfect place to hide. I walked over to the end of the bar furthest from the door and took an empty seat. I wanted to be an inconspicuous as possible. If Matt did poke his head in here later, I didn’t want to stand out. A tallish man with a head full of dark and disheveled curls was behind the bar. His hair reminded me of the male equivalent to my own. The textures might have been different, but unruliness had to be the same.

I was apparently unsuccessful at being inconspicuous because the guy behind the bar made an immediate move toward me.  He was only a few feet away from me when he placed both hands on the bar and leaned toward me. “What can I get you?” He asked, his green eyes looking directly into mine.

“A shot of tequila,” I said severely. I’d never done a shot of tequila, but it had seemed like a good time to start.  He looked at me, one eyebrow cocked, kind of smirking.

“No offense,” he said, still smirking, “but, you don’t look like a ‘shot of tequila’ type of girl.”

I tried my best to glare at him, having no idea if the maneuver was effective or not. “Well, thank you for your concern, but tonight, I am very much a ‘shot of tequila girl’,” I said. Then added in a mumbled tone “besides, I need time to remember what kind of beer I like.” I looked up and he was still standing there looking at me, his expression looked like he was trying to decipher a code, or put together jigsaw puzzle. I looked at him, and this time my eyebrows were raised. “Any day now…” I said hostilely.

“Coming right up” he said, grinning turning from the bar. As he did I saw what looked like a faint grin on his face.

I started to feel bad for snapping at him. At least I thought that was snapping. I briefly wondered if this guilt plagued everyone who walked around saying exactly what they thought. I wondered if my new found resolution to say what I felt would last.