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“All right, gang. We’ve got half with Shake and Bake and half without,” said my mom. She had arranged the pork chops on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil th
at was molded into separate trough-like compartments to keep the Shake and Baked pork chops from contaminating the plain ones.
“Love this Reynolds Wrap,” she continued, licking her fingers. “Makes clean up a snap.” Her hair looked big and she looked old. I began to feel queasy. Being here always made me sick.
“Patricia, goddammit, put barbeque sauce on the ones without the Shake and Bake,” said my dad. He looked at Adrian and shook his head in exasperation. Adrian gave me another squeeze.
“We’re going to look at your yard,” I said, taking Adrian’s hand and leading him outside to their spinning windmills and pint-sized wishing wells. It was the only excuse I could think of to get a minute away from them without causing offense. It was no use. My father followed closely behind us in his cloud of cigar smoke, coughing and spitting big slimy wads of yellow phlegm on the grass and melting snow piles.
“There’s not much coming up yet. Few things popping through. I wouldn’t be surprised if it snows again. Don’t let a warm couple of days fool you.”
“I know, Dad.”
My father thinks that moving to Savannah completely wiped out my understanding of how Midwest weather works.
“Do you have a garden in Savannah?” My parents have only visited us once, when they were on the way down to my aunt’s house in Florida.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?” he repeated. It was the kind of answer that made my father mad.
“Roger, are you going to grill these or do I have to do it?” called my mother. She had an oven mitt on each hand, holding the cookie sheet of pork chops, her elbows sticking straight out. She looked like a bird.
Judging by the reactions of my childhood classmates and teachers, she used to be pretty. At parent-teacher conferences, the male teachers, who often had not noticed I was even in their class, would devote a full hour to chatting it up with her. The mousy, frumpy moms would wait in line just outside the door, glaring in at us through big 1980’s tinted lenses. Little popular girls who had nothing to do with me normally would shyly say, “Your mommy is pretty” and, for a day or two until it wore off, I would be worth remembering. I was used to this treatment over Valencia, and I accepted it. I had a harder time when it happened because of my mom.
I looked back at her standing there on the patio, holding that cookie sheet like it was so, so terribly heavy. Her head cocked to one side, an expression of exasperation on her face as my dad shuffled back to her, taking his time on the stepping stone path. This was their thing, their dance, the way they lived. Doling out and accepting a lifetime of disappointments. How much of their relationship and anger was because my mother had been pretty and now was not? Despite losing Van and Valencia, I believe that was her greatest loss of all.
Even now as an adult, I am barely able to follow how it works. Why would one girl care if another girl she hates has a pretty mother or sister? Why was that enough to sometimes afford me a fleeting glimpse of kindness and respect? I did not understand it then and I do not understand it now. If Adrian and I have a baby someday, I will do my best to teach her all I know, but I will not be able to teach her this.
Chapter 17
After dinner the four of us sat huddled around the patio table, pork chop bones anchoring the Styrofoam plates from blowing away, an endless train of mixed drinks prepared by my father coming our way. We were all shivering a little but no one made a move to go inside. After months of winter, these not-quite-frigid nights were cherished. Adrian was trying to make conversation, not understanding that my parents have no interest in anything except landscaping and bowling. During a lapse in the conversation, I took the opportunity to reveal my true motivation.
“I’m going to visit Valencia and Van’s graves while I’m here,” I said. This was met with silence. My mother picked up her drink and finished it, then waved it at my father to show she needed a refill.
“I haven’t been there for a long time,” I continued. “I think I might go tonight.”
“The cemetery is going to be soggy tonight. You might as well wait until tomorrow or the next time you’re here,” said my mother.
“Can I have the keys?” I asked Adrian, holding out my hand, “I’m going to go there now.”
“You’ve been drinking quite a bit, Sweetie. I don’t think you should go anywhere,” he said.
“Give me the keys.”
“Who needs another one?” asked my dad, rising from the table.
“Adrian, give me the keys,” I said.
“I’ll take one more, easy on the ice,” said Adrian.
“She’s had too much to drink,” said my mom to Adrian, shaking her head.
“No, Mom. I have not. Adrian, quit ignoring me. Give me the keys.”
“But you’ve been drinking,” he whined.
“Actually, I haven’t had nearly as much as the rest of you.”
