Page 50 of He
“What old friend?” I asked, irritated by the euphemism for what Jackson had been to me, what we’d been to each other.
“The one you always ran about with. Jack—the reverend’s son.”
“Jackson. His name is Jackson. Jack was his father, the reverend.”
She looked at me perplexed, then nonplussed, continued, “He was here for his mother’s funeral.”
His mother died?I wondered as she paused.
“It was the darndest thing. He planned the whole thing long distance then showed up the day of the funeral. You’ve never seen so many different flowers, each bouquet more beautiful than the last. And the music—heaven! He said he wanted his mother in her death to have all the beauty she didn’t have in life. Ain’t that just the darndest thing to say? Then he gave the reverend’s house and everything in it to the church—all legal like, too. And he never stepped foot in it, not once, when he came back. Said he was through being a preacher’s kid, that it had cost him everything. Ain’t that just the darndest thing you ever heard?”
When I didn’t respond, she looked at me as if she’d forgotten I was there, that she’d been talking to me.
“I never understood whyyounever came back,” Fontella said, recapturing my attention. “Not when Reverend Jack died, notwhen your grandpa died—God rest their souls—not when your brothers got convicted and sent up to Graterford. It’s not like anyone here ever bullied you or anything…”
Did she really think that ostracizing me, whispering about me and Jackson, laying their hands on us Sunday after Sunday was a form of welcome? I was about to ask this when there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find Rio standing in front of me.
“Hi,” he said, taking my arm and leading me away. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”
I stared at him, mute. I knew what I wanted to say to him—had rehearsed my opening gambit, what would follow. My thoughts now, though, diaphanous as chiffon, were disordered.
His post-puberty mustache was now a full-blown beard. He had broadened and thickened with age. His clothes fit him a little too snugly, as if he felt not buying larger clothes would mean he hadn’t gained weight, or as if he planned to start a diet on a tomorrow that never seemed to come. He walked with a slight limp, the result of a hip in need of replacement—but the doctor says I’m too young, he’d explained—so he used a walking stick. Imagining the bulk of him on top of me, I found him sexier now than I had in high school. I unexpectedly found myself trying to tamp down my desire.
“Hey,” he said. “You look the same.”
When I simply nodded, he grabbed my arm and steered me to the bar and ordered two dirty martinis with extra olives.
“That’s not on the menu,” the bartender, a girl with messy hair and too much makeup, said.
“Can’t you make an exception for me?” Rio asked. “Pretty please?”
“Well…” she said as if she was unsure. Meanwhile, I was sure—sure that I’d catch a chill from the breeze created by the furious batting of her false eyelashes that sat below her drawn-on eyebrows like twin tarantulas. I looked over at the food table covered with trays of Ritz crackers, cubes of Cracker Barrel cheese, pimento-stuffed olives, and imitation crab dip.
“OK, I guess I could,” she said finally. “For you.”
“You’re a sweetheart,” Rio said, glancing at me. I took the hint and placed a folded twenty-dollar bill in her tip jar.
“Don’t be like that,” Rio said, handing me a glass and steering me to an empty table in the corner.
“Be like what?” I asked, perplexed.
“Jealous that she was flirting with me.” He laughed. “It got us decent drinks. Who actually drinks Rolling Rock?”
“Oh,” I said and took a greedy sip of my martini as if it was Alice’s found elixir and would shrink me so I could escape down the nearest rabbit hole.
I had thought I would stay over, perhaps at the new W, but now I just wanted to escape Rio’s unexpected affection and wash off the stench of unfulfilled promise and cigarette smoke and Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds. When I broke the news that I was leaving, Rio insisted on walking me to my car. When we got to where I’d parked, he said, “You parked next to me. That’s probably the universe telling us we belong together.”
Rattled, I asked, “Which car is yours?”
“The Subaru,” he said.
I got into my car, started the engine and rolled down the window, prepared to say goodbye. Rio settled his arms on thedoorframe and leaned in so close I could feel his breath. “What do you think?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Me, silly.”
“What about you?”