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The last week in November is bitter cold. The ground is a frozen crust, and every morning when I go out to the horse trough, I have to bust through the ice with the rusted ax that Dylan keeps inside the barn. It feels good, to heft the ax, let my hands slip the length of the shaft as it settles over my shoulder before bringing it forward and down to crunch against the ice, breaking it apart to float like burgs awaiting the Titanic. I love, absolutely love being in their home. I spend hours perusing the books in the study, more hours curled in Dylan’s bed, wrapped in this bathrobe, absorbed in the scent of him, reading.
When I was younger I used to imagine that Dylan was my brother and Jake and Vaude were my parents. Of course, back then I didn’t know they had ever struggled with anything; they just seemed to be the perfect family. But now, as an almost adult, I am so glad that Dylan is not my brother because I am going to marry him. I’m still not sure how we move from here to there, but I know we will. Dylan and Alison. Al and Dyl. My sketchbooks are full of our names written over and over in hearts, arrow-shot hearts. I will gladly forsake my monosyllable Hayes for his duo syllable Winthrop. Winthrop. It’s such a good name. Hayes is just what we are, dirty and gritty and base. Winthrop aspires to great things.
I am about knee deep in my fantastical future, sitting with a book well past forgotten on my knee, when there is the sudden chime of the doorbell bing-bonging through the house. I lurch off the sofa, leaving my book behind, and rush toward the door, trying to glimpse into the driveway as I go. Oh shit, I think when I see my mother and Cal standing on the steps. Oh shit. It is closing in on the evening of Thanksgiving Day, and this is the first time I have seen them all week. It has been really nice. I didn’t really hide that I was house sitting, but I thought our conversation about it was deep enough in the vodka bottle to have evaporated. When I headed out of the trailer, she asked me why I was packed. “You running away?” she had asked. “Trust me, that doesn’t turn out good.” And then she had laughed at some joke that maybe I should have understood but didn’t. So I told her I was going to Dylan’s to house sit. I should have just said I was going to go do laundry, I realize now.
I crack the door and peer at them, not wanting to open the door as an invitation, not wanting them to track through Vaude’s nice clean house. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
She snorts out a puff and glances up at Cal slightly behind her. Her jawline is traced by small sores, an outbreak of acne gone bad. She pushes the door with a small “ooph,” and it opens against me, pushing me out of the way. She strides into the room. Her black pupils have nearly overwhelmed the green of her irises, and she holds my eyes. “Aren’t we fancy?” She says in a very la-tee-da voice. “Cal, aren’t we so fancy?” She reaches out and fingers the threads of Dylan’s sweater, which I have been cozied up in all day. “Look at you, in your boyfriend’s sweater.” She purses her lips and flips her hair out behind her.
For a split second I feel I owe her an explanation while my cheeks flush with embarrassment at being caught out, but I bite my tongue. “Why are you here?” I ask, trying not to sound bitchy, feeling very on edge. Cal has brushed past me, running his hand along my shoulder and sending roaches skittering down my spine.
“Can’t I come to see my daughter on Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. I mean I’m not really supposed to have people over. Vaude asked me not to. You know.”
“Vaude asked me not to.” She mocks me, throwing her voice to Cal, who has made his way into the kitchen, his hand trailing the counters. “Aren’t we fancy, playing house?” She narrows her eyes at me and goes to catch up to Cal who is standing in front of the wide-open fridge. It is essentially empty except for the few things I bought to eat this week. Mostly I live on peanut butter and jelly, so a jar of jelly sits alone on one of the shelves. He lets the door fall shut and starts perusing the cabinets. I just hate him.
“What do you want, Mom?” I try to sound solid, grown up, equal to her and unafraid. I don’t think I quite succeed.
“Oh. Nothing, really. Just thought I’d visit. Isn’t that okay?”
“Sure.” She is not here to visit me. She is not here for me. She is here because there is something she wants. “Do you want some water?” I ask. If I have to get through this charade of a visit, I might as well move it forward. Cal is making his way out of the kitchen, and I try to keep him in my line of sight, but he turns the corner and is gone.
“So,” she says, meandering toward brass tacks, “how much are they paying you?”
“Not much.” At least now I know what they want. Money. “How much do you need?”
“How much do you have?”
I am so nervous about Cal being in the other room, free to take or destroy anything. People don’t do that, I tell myself; surely he wouldn’t take anything. I try to convince myself, but I back away and open one of the canisters on the counter. It’s where Vaude left “necessary money” for me just in case. There is sixty dollars. I peel the bills flat and offer them to my mother. Anything to get them out of here. She takes the money and tucks it into her pocket. Instead of calling Cal and heading out, she moves deeper into the house. I trail behind, snatching things from their hands and replacing them on the shelves. I try to settle myself, knowing that I am only making it worse. They are enjoying my discomfort. They are laughing at me as I spin from one item to another.
“You can’t be here,” I say. “Vaude doesn’t want anybody else in the house while they are gone.” I try again, but know that they don’t care.
Finally I stop when I realize that I am acting like an idiot. Cal is holding things above my head, and I am bounding up at him like a trained poodle for a treat. “Fuck you,” I say, mostly under my breath, as I turn away and into my mother who is standing behind me, so it sounds like I have said it to her.
Her huge, dilated pupils stare directly into me, her rancid breath pouring out from her parted lips like steam from a pipe. I close my mouth and stop breathing, holding her eyes as best I can. Then her hand reaches up and shoves my shoulder, knocking me back into Cal, who drops the vase he has been holding. It crashes to the floor, shattering into a shards and dust. I hear it fall, I hear it shatter, but I am so shocked that my mother has shoved me that I just stand there staring, aghast.
“You think you’re so much fucking better than me, in that preppy sweater. You think you’re better than me sitting here in this fancy house like you are something.” She is moving closer, pushing me more into Cal, who doesn’t move. His hands land on my shoulders, and he shoves me off of him, back into my mother who is ready with a hearty push. I lose my footing and crash to the floor, Cal’s black-booted foot under my ankles. “You think this boy is going to marry you? You think they think you are one of them? You ain’t. You’re just the white-trash kid from down the street that makes them feel good about doing charity.” She leans low and into my face, spittle falling from her lips. “You ain’t nothing to them.” She narrows her eyes. “Everybody knows except you. Everybody is laughing at you fawning all over this Winthrop kid. I’m embarrassed of you.” Her spittle sprays across my face, and my eyelids close and open then close again against the assault. “I may have problems,” she says, “but at least I know what I am.”
She straightens when I have no response, and she and Cal move back out the door, knocking off the lamp from the end table as they go. I watch, horrified, as it shatters to the floor.
The door stutters in their wake, and I draw my knees up to my chest and rock. I feel assaulted. I feel beaten. I feel completely undone. She is right, me sitting here wearing Dylan’s clothes, pretending to be his future wife. I am a joke. I am such a joke.