“What are you in such a funk about?” Randa’s mother asked. Randa had lost count of how many times Jane had asked some version of that question since she’d arrived. Three times since they’d sat down to dinner, and this was her third night home. But Jane would keep asking until Randa gave her an answer she could sink her fangs into.
“I told you, Mom. I’m just tired.”
“Well, if you’re gonna fly across the country to sit and mope, I don’t need any more surprises.”
Don’t worry.
Randa speared a broccoli floret and let most of the Velveeta drip off before she put it in her mouth.
“You oughta be on your knees, thanking God you’re still alive,” Jane said.
What is this about?
“You think I don’t read the papers?” Jane asked, her charm bracelet clinking against the Corelle ware. “I know you think I’m dumb, but I do read the papers.”
“Mom, I don’t think you’re dumb.”
“I read what happened to your boyfriend.”
Oh, hell.
There must have been something in the Atlanta Constitution about Cam, Randa realized. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Because apparently she was incapable of rational thought these days. If she’d thought, she’d still be in LA. If she’d thought, she wouldn’t have spent the night with yet another Landry. If she’d thought, she wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up and discover he’d walked out on her. And if she’d thought, she certainly wouldn’t have decided that the cure for her latest broken heart was to come running to a woman who made her want to throw herself into a concrete mixer just to get some relief.
“I told you,” Jane said. “Back when you were telling me how wonderful he was and he wasn’t like the rest of his family. I said, ‘Randa, he’s trash. You can dress trash up and put perfume on it and give it all the money in the world, it’s still gonna be trash.’ ”
“Well, Mom, he’s dead now, so you can relax.”
“And so is that poor store clerk. You think he didn’t have a family that loved him? Why don’t you feel sorry for his family, if you want to feel sorry for somebody’s family?”
“What makes you think I don’t?”
“Hmph.”
Randa got up and headed for her room. The only thing that had changed since high school was that her father wasn’t there to yell at the two of them about their inability to get along.
“You can get mad at me all you want,” Jane called behind her.
Randa sat on her bed and stared at her suitcase. She’d left everything packed in case she needed to flee at a moment’s notice. She could even leave right now. She wondered if the relief of leaving would be worth hearing about it for the rest of her life and decided probably not. And besides, it wasn’t like she had somewhere to go.
She had two choices, as she saw them. She could get on a plane and go back to LA, return to her lousy job (assuming Keith hadn’t successfully lobbied to have her fired by now), and when people asked where she’d been, she could say she’d gone to Santa Barbara for a few days of rest. And that would be the end of the entire sorry Landry saga. Three or four or twenty years from now, she might even stop feeling like a fool.
Or she could go back to Barton. She could knock on his door and demand an explanation. If she sounded angry enough, her groveling might even disguise itself as self-righteous indignation—a display of strength and courage. And he might offer an explanation that resembled the truth. That way, when she went home to get on with her life, she’d have one more piece of the puzzle with which to torment herself.
One scenario sounded about as appealing as the other.
“Randa?” Jane knocked on the door. “You’re missing a good movie.” Randa didn’t answer, hoping Jane would think she was asleep. “It’s a true story about that teacher who got fired for hanging the Ten Commandments in her classroom.” Well, good. Now she could spend a relaxing evening arguing with Jane about the Establishment Clause.
“No, thanks. I have a headache.”
“Well, you might as well have it out here. At least you won’t be bored. You know who plays in it? That woman who played on that show you used to like . . .”
Randa relented, since she knew from prior experience that resistance was futile. She lay on the sofa and pretended to watch the movie while Jane provided political color commentary. (“Pretty soon the government’s gonna make it so you can’t even pray in church.” )
“Mom?” Randa asked, her voice rising over a tampon commercial, “why do you believe in God?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
A direct one. The unpardonable sin . . .
“I just wondered.”
“Well . . . because I’ve read the Bible,” Jane said, as if nothing could be simpler or more obvious.
“How do you know it’s true?” Randa asked.
“Because,” Jane said firmly, “I just do.” She furrowed her eyebrows and fixed her gaze on the television screen.
“That’s not a reason,” Randa said.
“Randa, don’t you come into my house with your California atheist shit.”
“I just asked a question.”
“Well, I gave you my answer and you didn’t like it.”
Randa opened her mouth to speak again; she was cut off by a harsh “Shhhh!” Jane picked up the remote control and turned the volume up a couple of notches.
Randa set her alarm clock for five a.m. When it rang, she got up, wrote a note to Jane saying she’d decided to take an earlier flight, and drove off into the dark. She headed for the airport, but when she got to the exit, she could not make herself turn. She kept driving. She stopped in McDonough for gas and in Griffin for a peach milk shake. Neither pause weakened her resolve, now that it had a life of its own. It was a little past nine o’clock when she drove into Barton.
She didn’t give herself time to think about what she was doing. She parked in front of the boardinghouse, walked determinedly straight to his door, and knocked. She prayed to anyone who might be listening that he was there. She didn’t want to have this confrontation at Tillie’s—though why she cared what the good citizens of Barton thought about her was beyond her comprehension.
The door opened and Jack stared at her; his eyes had a glazed look and she wondered if he was on something. He didn’t speak, forcing her to take the offensive.
“What did you think?” she asked. “That I’d wake up, see you were gone, and just nonchalantly hop a plane back to LA?”
“You should have.”
His voice was different now, in some way she couldn’t pinpoint. He turned and walked away, leaving her at the door. She followed.
Everything in the formerly immaculate apartment was askew. The air was stale and smelled of cigarettes and cheap whiskey. There were dirty clothes lying across the unmade bed. His nice clothes from the Ritz-Carlton night were thrown haphazardly across the back of the sofa.
Jack looked worse than the apartment. He obviously hadn’t shaved since she’d last seen him. His eyes were bloodshot. He was wearing khaki pants and a denim shirt, the latter unbuttoned and both as wrinkled as if he’d slept in them. Which couldn’t be true, since he looked like he hadn’t slept in a decade.
He picked up a pack of cigarettes from the desk, lit one, blew smoke toward the kitchen.
“Jack, the James Dean act is cute, but can we cut the—”
“Look, you knew who I was!” It was loud. Randa felt herself jump. “I didn’t want to go in the first place!” he said. “It was your brainstorm!”
“Well, that night you seemed to think it was a good brainstorm,” Randa offered feebly, trying to maintain what little composure she still possessed.
“Yeah? So what? When have you ever met a guy who complained about getting laid? You think that proves something? Is that your big accomplishment?”
Randa felt as if someone were scraping her throat with hot sandpaper. She didn’t even try to speak.
He walked into the kitchen and dumped ashes in the sink. She watched and wondered what to do. He came back, looking no less angry. Stood and stared at her. She searched his eyes for any sign of compassion and found none.
“Randa, go home,” he said. “You’re all out of brothers.” As soon as she could force her legs to move, she turned and left. He was standing in the same spot when she slammed the door.