Caleb slowly opens the door as if I’m in for some big reveal. The outside of this house reminds me of Charlie’s parents’ home. They live just past Sherman in a decent neighborhood with equestrian amenities. The inside of her home is painted various shades of yellow, and no matter what time of day it is, you always feel like it’s a little too early in the morning.
“Here we go,” he whispers pushing the open door half way before offering a lazy grin. He butts his shoulder against the door until it gives a few more inches. “I’d say ladies first but, trust me on this one, you’ll want me to pave the way.”
I follow him in, and the sharp scent of aging newspapers bites my nostrils. It’s dim, and, for a moment, my eyes have a hard time adjusting, then I see it and give a little gasp.
Caleb reaches back and picks up my hand, giving a gentle squeeze as if it were an I-told-you-so and an I’m-sorry all rolled into one.
Stacks and stacks of newspapers rise like towers in the narrowed hall. Plastic shopping bags sit lopsided with their bellies full of this and that. The mouth of one bag sits open, and I can see the tags from the dollar store. Loads and loads of bags and boxes, dishes piled in random places, bowls with spoons peeking out the top are strewn out everywhere. Books create precarious leaning towers, clothes rise up like mountains as Caleb leads me through a tiny trail, small enough to dictate that one foot steps over the other. We enter the living room, and the bags and stacks and dishes expand into a city of clutter, turning this cavernous space into something just short of a landfill.
“Mom?” Caleb’s voice booms over the condensed debris filling every sacred gap in this dark, depressing home.
I want to scold him for letting her live this way. And she hasthreesons? Not to sound like a sexist ass, but had she a single daughter, this shit just would not fly.
An older woman, tall with long, gray hair—not too unkempt—comes out reasonably dressed, her features virtually unblemished by time. A small curly haired mutt, adorable as all hell curls around our legs.
“Hey, Boons.” Caleb gives the dog a quick pat.
“Who isthis?” His mother’s eyes brighten a shade of clear October sky. I can see where Caleb gets his baby blues from.
“Mom, this is Kennedy”—Caleb pauses looking back at me with a stiffer resolve as if he were putting up a wall, still unsure of what my reaction might be—“my client.”
A quick frown comes and goes. It’s the truth I suppose, and he is in the business of laying out the facts. Now I’m half tempted to bed him to see if he’ll refer to me as his fuck buddy.
“Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand, and she offers a soft-as-air shake.
“Martha.” She bites over her lip, giddy at the prospect of meeting me—hisclient, and I can feel myself blush. “And this is my dog, Boonsborough.”
“Nice to meet you, Martha—and you, too.” I glance down and wink.
“Where was the fire?” Caleb gets right down to business. “Did you call 911?”
“The kitchen and no. I managed to handle it. I don’t even know why I called. I’m so sorry to have interrupted your important day. It was selfish of me.”
“Don’t be silly,” I’m quick to reprimand. “It’s family first in my book. I’m just glad Caleb offered to bring me along so I could finally meet you.”
Her eyes steady over mine a moment before venturing up and down my body, that sweet hint of a smile never leaving her lips.
“I can’t remember the last time Caleb brought a girl to the house.” She waves a hand over the mess. “I can’t remember the last time any of you boys brought a girl to the house.” Her mood sours. “I do, however, remember the last time your father brought a girl to the house.”
“All right.” Caleb pulls her in and gives her back a quick rub. Something in that simple action warms me. “We get it. You up for lunch? Or do you have plans to the torch the rest of the kitchen this afternoon?”
She smacks him lightly over the chest. “Lunch with you, two?” She cocks her head with a nod that suggests she’s impressed. “Let me grab my purse.”
Caleb drives the three of us to a small hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant down the street where we order combination plates and sun brewed iced teas. Out here in the wild, Martha seems completely unassuming, not a hint of hoarder written anywhere on her person. I wonder how one comes to be in such a predicament—how you give up on tossing out the crap, unloading shopping bags, putting away laundry. At what point do you look around and decide that’s it, I really don’t give a shit anymore. At what point do your grown children decide that they’re going to step in and park a dumpster in front of your place? Strangely, I feel like that house is the exact representation of my mind. I’ve collected so many of my parent’s sins, so much of their heavy, lumbering baggage, their crooked towers of grief and then added my own stacks and stacks of unopened emotions. I wish someone would back a dumpster up to my brain, and I could magically shake all of the unwanted crap out of my head. I would feel so much lighter, so very clean and light—perhaps a little empty. I think that’s what scares me most of all, being empty. All of these misshapen, unfortunate mistakes have molded me and made me who I am. What happens when I throw everything away and discover there is nothing left? I am not who I thought I was, I am nothing—just empty.
“Tell me you’re following Solomon’s trial.” She leans in almost belligerently toward her handsome son.
Caleb pauses from chewing his food, knocks half his tea back before answering. “I don’t want to talk about Sol.”
She cuts a quick glance to me, taking the hint. “Oh, come on, everyone has heard of the trial. It’s all over the news. You can’t turn on syndicated television without seeing his precious face.” There’s a twinge of motherly pride in her voice, and this scares me. “Why aren’t you in that courthouse, Caleb? Your father, Abel, they’re down there every day.” She turns to me, shaking her head with the excuse before it ever leaves her mouth. “I can only tolerate small increments. The first time I saw his hands in cuffs, his feet in hobbles, I almost fainted.”
“Mom.” Caleb’s brows knit as he covertly cuts the air with his hand. “This isn’t the place.”
Her face contorts in a myriad of silent expressions as she slowly tries to decipher his resistance.
“Call me later.” She says it stern as if she were merely moments from evoking his middle name. “We’ll talk. This isn’t a subject I’m willing to negate. You’ve been acting strange from the beginning.” She takes a sip of her tea and clears her throat. “So what’s new in Loveless?” She turns to me. “What did a sweet girl like you do to need a rascal of a lawyer like him?”
I glance to Caleb and smile. “I plead the fifth.”
