The insanity of what’s happening swirls up storms of dread in my stomach. I look at him and my mother, standing just feet apart, and talking as if they’ve been neighbors for years and just getting properly acquainted.
Paul glances at me. “Thank you, Mrs. Holdren, I’d like that.”
And then it’s just all settled. Just like that. Paul’s politeness is enviable, and the way he addresses my mother with such ease makes my brain scramble for something familiar. My eyes dart around, looking for something to focus on. But then my mother smiles her tired smile and takes the Tupperware into the kitchen, leaving us alone.
I stare at him, and he stares back. Finally, he looks down, pushes up his glasses. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
Words sputter out of me finally. “What — how — what are you — what are you doing here?”
He takes a step toward me, pensive. “You left.” He clears his throat. “So I looked for you.”
He makes it sound so simple. Like he just opened up a map and tracked me down. There’s a part of me that wants to reach for him, be so grateful and relieved, and have him so close to me. But the part of me that likes to ruin things gets in the way.
“I don’t understand. How did you…?” I shake my head and look him over in that suit and tie like he’s just come from church. “How could you possibly…?” I shake my head again, but the question is clear.
He looks around the entryway for a moment, then at me. “I called the garage. Then information. There was a nice lady at the motel I’m staying at, said she knew you and your family. She gave me directions.” He shrugs. “So, I just…walked.”
There’s only one motel in our little town. It’s two miles down the road. I think of him dressed up like this, carrying that Tupperware, and coming all the way here in the heat of the day. He doesn’t look tired or sweaty or dusty. He had to have stopped at some point to rest then. Maybe brushed away the dirt from his clothes and shoes. He wanted to be presentable.
He wanted to see me.
Gratitude presents itself as anger. “You came a long way for nothing, pal.”
His cheeks blanch only slightly.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” I say. I inch closer to him and lower my voice. “This is my family, we can’t…you can’t…”
“I know that,” he whispers. “But I didn’t know what happened. Or where you went.” He pauses, lowering his voice even more. “I was worried.”
Of course he was worried. He was probably more than worried. All of this I know with perfect logic; that leaving Paul with no word would have upset him. Like it upset my brother. Like it upset my folks. But something in me doesn’t want to give it up. Doesn’t want to surrender.
And so I walk away from him and go upstairs to clean up for dinner.
The dinner he’ll be joining us for.
My mother has cooked less than she usually does.
Neighbors and community members have come by nearly every day bringing something. Cold chicken wrapped in foil. Casseroles in glass dishes. Roasted vegetables in decorative bowls. The icebox is about full and there’s so much bread that some of it has gone stale and Glen feeds it to the chickens.
Tonight my mother heats a casserole in the oven and Paul sits down to dinner with my family. It all makes me feel like I’m in a Picasso painting, everything disjointed and only an echo of reality.
My mother chats with him and Glen chats with him and you’d think the three of them knew each other from somewhere. You’d think I was the stranger among them. Yet, here I am, the common denominator between all three and I feel like a stranger.
Paul’s smile is as sweet as it can be. It’s familiar to me, and I can’t really say I didn’t miss it, because I’ve seen that smile plenty of times. Particularly when he was saying filthy things about his cock to me in French. My face burns like hot coals and I cough into a napkin. Glen turns to me, asks if I’m all right. I nod.
Paul can’t be here. It’s like trying to marry up two parts of my life; two very different andseparateparts that I’d never, ever intended to meet.
My mother is asking Paul who he’s staying with. Paul says he’s staying at the motel. My mother gives Paul that pitying, kind-hearted look she used to give children who came up the road from the homes down the hill. They used to ask if they could use our well for water because their pipes were busted again.
I know she’s going to say it before it comes out of her mouth, but I still freeze with shock.
“Why don’t you stay with us tonight?” My mother dabs at the corners of her mouth. “We have plenty of room.”
I feel my heart pound. Paul doesn’t even glance at me. He doesn’t even try to decline. He smiles and says, “All right. Thank you.”
Then it’s all settled. Again. Glen drives Paul down in the truck to get his things. My mother gets a fold-out bed from the attic and puts it in the sitting room right next to the cot I sleep in. She has me hold the bed clothes while she makes it up.
Then Paul comes back with his pastel purple suitcase, pushing his glasses up his nose, and my mother is all warm hospitality and kindly neighbor as she places the suitcase under the fold-out bed for him.
