Page 13 of Cookout Carnage
My sister speaks up, “Reminds me. We have a couple of electronics for the shoot. Will you squire them over for me, Scooter?”
One of the most honored traditions in my town’s Fourth of July celebrations is shooting obsolete electronic devices for sport. Like they’re clay pigeons. They launch old computers and printers into the air with the pumpkin chucker and shotgun them from the sky. VCRs almost shatter on impact, but they’re few and far between these days. When someone in town dies, their kin donate their devices for the in-memorial part of the shoot the next year.
My mind drifts as I top off Mr. Parson’s cup. I might be a genius, or I might be a fucking idiot. Time will tell, but the man is not marrying her tomorrow.
I haven’t been back much since my mama died. I got in late last night and was stunned by how my sister has recreated our childhood home, complete with the yellow gingham curtains from my memory. They can’t be original, and I’m not sure where she conjured that fabric from. I used to stare at them every night when I was forced to do the dishes and dream of leaving.
I lean back on the Formica counter that’s seen better and worse days, and the steam rises from my own cup. My nieces and nephew are running amok and screaming. They’re all decked out for the Fourth of July parade. Dinah, the nine-year-old, gets to ride on the Girl Scout float dressed as a Tricot cookie. The troop leader is starting the hype way early this year.
I walk towards the small back room that serves as an office and an employee lounge. Of which, I believe there are a total of five on a busy Sunday. Today it’s just us and Manny, the cook. My sister, Gwen, enters the room and instantly brushes my hair. I put my head back as the brush slides through my basic brown but super shiny, not as long as it used to be, hair. It feels nice. Today is the Fourth of July, and my goal is to stir up more fireworks than this town has seen in a while.
I’ve spent a decade running and becoming something else, only to discover I couldn’t outrun here, Fairview, Kentucky, unlike some of my family. My father left for the army when I was eight. My town threw him a parade in the wake of 9/11 when the whole country was on the same side. All we ever got in return for his service was a small pension, a flag folded in a perfect triangle, and his name in a construction-paper heart taped to the window of the VFW hall every Memorial and Veteran’s Day.
I finger some playing cards in front of me, and I’m reminded of my uncle, who left to go find fortune at the tables. My cousins and aunt moved in with us soon after. The sisters became inseparable until a man came by and pledged to change my aunt’s life. She went with him and never came back. Cancer took her as well as my mom within the next couple of years. My sister and I have been tested a lot to make sure we don’t have that thing that could get us too.
Mama never married again. She devoted herself to us and this small café that serves the best waffles in the world. And that same gingham fabric served as tablecloths for a while on all ten of the inside tables. There’d be a whole second set of tables for my sister and me to fill staffing holes on summer breaks in decent weather. I grew up making those waffles.
People don’t come back when they leave. That’s what I believed. That’s what I thought would happen seven years ago when Jonathan went to Afghanistan on the other end of a war my father began. It’s why I couldn’t be on the other end of being left.
There’s a trail of jobs, degrees, and men I left in my wake, and I was fine with it all. Get gone first. I was good moving on to another apartment or a new city. I’ve been teaching as an adjunct visiting professor of historical literary fiction for five years now, never taking a permanent job. I’d panic pack if anyone even hinted at permanence. I was fine with all the damn leaving I’d done, until that fucking phone call.
Suddenly I realized I was stuck and then he called and reminded me—some people never leave you.
I wanted to ignore the call. Pretended I didn’t listen to the message obsessively. Then I snapped as this day got closer. Nope. He’s not yours. I’m here and ready to get unstuck. Ready to reclaim something that’s always been mine. Because I’ve always been his, no matter how far or fast I ran, the finish line was set for me when I was eleven years old. It’s always been Jonathan, Fairview, and waiting for the steam to dissipate before opening the waffle iron.
It’s a shame he thinks he’s getting married tomorrow. I should probably give him a heads-up that ain’t happening. And as long as I’m here and not in some hallowed hall of higher learning, I’m using the word, ain’t.
* * *
My heart seizesup and then explodes through my body like finale fireworks. The colors and sound clinging to the sky like my adrenaline popping all over my body. I can see his sincere cornflower blue eyes through my brother-in-law’s truck windshield haze. His blond hair is short but not enough to hold his waves in place. It’s messed up, and I wish I was the one who’d done that. He’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever known.
There’s a bit of dust kicking up around him as he stands on the edge of his “driveway.” He’s out of place and out of sorts.
The universe is playing tricks on me, putting him in otherworldly lighting. Same broad football shoulders made more defined by the farm work. He played college ball and was in the Navy, but he was always more muscular and masculine here on the farm. Hard labor suits him. I’ve worked as hard as he has to be something in the world. Two overachievers working in opposite directions. I was the youngest person to be offered tenure at Brown University in the history of the school. I’m also only one of three people to ever turn it down. It’s time we moved in the same direction.
I roll the truck to a gentle stop, and the echo of the gear shift as it slides into park fills the empty space around me. I grin at that familiar sound of a working truck, cha-chunking into place. We stare at each other through a windshield that needs another pass with a clean rag. His soft sweet smile is curled but confused, and I don’t think my explanation will help him figure out what to do. I only know I’m done pretending and planning a life I didn’t want anything to do with.
It was a stark revelation to find out I was completely and utterly unhappy in a life I’d carefully curated. It was shocking to me, but it’s going to knock the wind out of him, even after his months of silence. I’m here for one last chance.
I jump down and pull my shorts into place. Squeakers won’t stop fussing. Jonathan’s still standing there like a farmer Ken doll. I beat back joyful tears and set about my mission.
He gasps, “Juliet.” Then he settles himself down. “Scooter might have mentioned you were in town.” My lips curl at the sound of my name on his lips.
“Hi, Jon. Got something of yours.”
“What are you doing here?” He shuffles his feet, and I move closer. I put my hand on his bicep. Sweet God, no one on this earth has arms like his. I get a whiff of aftershave and hay. He almost smells like a backyard after a warm rain, and it’s a bit much to take. I kiss his soft and yielding cheek, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is strained. And now that I look, there’s a slight purple under his eyes. His whole look is a bit hollow.
“Specifically or existentially?” I snap back.
“Let’s start with specifically.”
I inhale and then exhale in a whoosh.
Squeakers puts her head up to answer his first question. He says, “Shit. She’s been hiding and running away lately. She’s not fond of Tanya.”
“Ditto.”
