Page 57 of Cookout Carnage
Sherri-Lynne: I’m at work, Mama. I can’t.
Mama: Just go to the bathroom and do it. For me honey. Please?
Mama: Sherri-Lynne??
* * *
FIVE MONTHS AGO (February 11th)
Sherilyn pressed savefor the umpteenth time on her spreadsheet. It was her best work. It had to be. Right now, nothing was more important than this. She fiddled with her watch as she looked at the time on the bottom of the screen. Tristan was coming.
Today.
The spreadsheet timetabled everything she had planned for them over the two days. He said he didn’t care what they did, but she knew it had to be perfect.Shehad to be perfect. Nothing could be left to chance. Her tummy growled as it fought a battle with thousands of butterflies. The butterflies won. They always did when she thought of Tristan. Her whole body was thrumming with the beating of thousands of wings against the inside of her skin. She felt so light she could fly.
She smoothed her immaculate chignon, then flicked invisible lint from her carefully pressed blouse. Her feet were flat on the floor, her legs stuck together. Crossing them might cause a crease in her skirt. She ran her tongue over the smoothness of her teeth, cleaned for the second time already that day.
Two hours to go.
She put her computer to sleep and picked up her phone. There was a big interdepartmental meeting that afternoon with external contractors. Attendance for everyone on their floor was mandatory. If she left now she could select a chair at the back and daydream about Tristan.
‘Hey, Sherilyn, you walking over early?’
A colleague, Mona, had stopped by Sherilyn’s desk. She had impeccably styled blonde wavy hair and enough confidence to take humans to Mars and back.
Sherilyn nodded.
‘Come on then,’ said Mona, striding away like a gazelle in six-inch heels. Sherilyn tripped after her. This was like being asked to hang out with the cool kids during recess.
They exited a corridor into an open area with a bank of elevators on the left, and a balcony on the right that overlooked the triple-height atrium below.
Mona stopped. ‘I’m gonna check if any of them have arrived yet.’ She looked over the balcony to reception two floors below and turned back to Sherilyn with a giggle.
‘What is it?’ Sherilyn asked.
Mona’s eyes were sparkling. ‘I’m not totally sure.’ She peeked back over and clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘Come see. I think the rodeo is in town.’
Sherilyn stood beside her and looked down. The entrance was a vast cavernous space with a polished marble floor. Standing in the queue for reception, amidst a sea of corporate suits, and looking as out of place as a thrift store on Fifth Avenue, stood her parents – Lynne and Ford Bodean.
Her father wore his nice Wranglers, with a crease down the front that her mother had pressed. He’d bought them when she was a child, and they were now far too small in every direction except length. His belly spilled over the top, barely contained by his flannel shirt, and he tugged at the waistband as if struggling to take a proper breath. Over his shirt he wore a battered beige Carhartt jacket, both cuffs frayed from when Wiener had attacked them as a puppy. The right sleeve was scorched from trying to rescue a giant marshmallow from a bonfire. His salt-and-pepper hair stuck up at odd angles, like trees after a fire had swept through, and his hand, still stained from working in the auto shop, clasped a camouflage hunting hat. He looked hot, uncomfortable and royally pissed.
Her mother was pulling the neckline of her dress away from her large chest, flapping the material to bring in some cooler air, and giving them a view of her heavy-duty white bra. The dress was pastel coloured and printed with flowers. The dated pattern and style stood out in the minimalist monochrome atrium. Tendrils of short blonde hair, damp with sweat, stuck to her neck and a shabby red winter coat was draped over her arm. She squinted at her phone, then held it to her ear. Sherilyn’s phone buzzed.
‘Aren’t they priceless?’ Mona whispered in her ear. ‘They’re obviously lost, poor things. They certainly don’t belong here.’ She snickered again. ‘Can you imagine?’
Her parents were nearly at the front of the line.
‘Hey, y’all,’ Mona crooned softly to Sherilyn in an over the top thick Southern accent. ‘Welcome to Fitzpatrick & Doyle. Grits will be up in a just a jiff.’
Sherilyn’s heart spiked. She had seconds to act.
‘I just remembered I left something on my desk,’ she stammered before running back along the corridor to the offices. There it was. On the wall to the first set of double doors was the only solution. She smashed her fist into the small box, breaking the glass. The fire alarm was harsh and deafening but could have been a choir of angels. Her legs gave way and she slid to the floor in relief.
Sherilyn took the long way to meet her parents two blocks from the offices of Fitzpatrick & Doyle. Under the awning of a coffee shop, she stamped her feet to keep warm as they came into view, her father dragging two old and worn Vera Bradley suitcases behind him.
‘Sherri-Lynne! Honey! Surprise!’ her mom said excitedly, arms spread wide, as if this was the first inkling her daughter had of their arrival.
‘Hey, Mama,’ Sherilyn replied into the soft warmth of her mother’s hug.
