Page 43 of Hotwife
Parking in the grass outside our old home, I turned to my sister. Her wavy red hair brushed her freckled shoulders as she fidgeted with her chipped fingernail polish. “Then let’s not,” I said finally.
“Not what?” she asked, pulling her eyes from the house and shooting me a quizzical look.
“Let’s not lose this again. Let’s, I don’t know, let’s stay together. You’re my best friend. Cedric taught me how to love, and Desmond may have brought me back to life, but you’re my soulmate, sis. You always will be.”
“Jeez, Doll,” my sister wiped her eyes with her wrist. “Why’d you have to go all sappy on me? Good thing I wore my waterproof mascara in preparation for getting yelled at by Dad or I’d be screwed right now.”
I laughed. “I think I’ve been trying to fit into a box for a long time and just bursting at the seams of it. Forget boxes or how things should be done. I don’t care how most people do things. No matter what happens, me and you stick together. Deal?”
Odie nodded, smiling. “Deal.”
* * *
Mom welcomed us both inside with open arms. Odie and I not-so-subtly ran right to the kitchen and pulled down familiar flower etched drinking glasses. My mother’s giggle felt like home as she instructed us to sit while she cut us pieces of lemon loaf. To our delight, she’d also made baked macaroni and cheese, alongside a southern delicacy, beans and cornbread.
“Nothing tastes better than this. Not tequila, vodka, gin, whisky-” My sister yelped as I kicked her leg under the table.
Mom only pursed her lips. “I’m glad to see y’all. I’ve missed you so much. Your father just had a meeting down at the church, but he’ll be here soon.”
“Great,” my sister said sarcastically, and I shot her a look.
“You know, it’s not easy to have two daughters marry without including their parents. No dress shopping, no wedding in the church… We’re very hurt by the both of you.” Mom cut us each another slice of cake and we accepted like the hungry, little naughty toddlers we were.
Instead of trying to explain, I opted for apologies. “Sorry Mom,” I said between bites of cake.
“Me too,” my sister chimed in.
Mom’s lips gave the slightest curve as she wiped her hands on her apron. Glancing out the window she announced, “Your father’s home.”
With that she disappeared out the back door. Either to greet him or to remind him to stay calm. Probably the latter.
I leaned in towards my sister. “If you piss Dad off before I get mac and cheese, I swear to god you’re walking back to the hotel-”
As Odie swiped my face with whipped cream, the door slammed shut. Clutching his worn Bible, like he always did, our father walked into the kitchen. “Girls,” he said lowly, setting his Bible on the table.
“Hi Dad,” I said, straining to gage his mood. My father was a quiet man who never let his feelings show on his face. The only real emotion we’d seen from him was anger. Sometimes righteous anger at how the poor were treated in our community. Sometimes disappointed anger at catching me and my sister watching an R rated movie or doing some other typical teenage thing. But I always wondered what, if any, other emotions existed beneath the surface for him.
Or maybe he just walked around perpetually disappointed in the world, and in his children. Maybe that’s why he taught about change, about redemption and deliverance from evil.
“Girls,” he responded simply, sitting with us at the table. My mother hurried to pour him a glass of tea. “How’s Seattle?”
“Rainy but good,” I responded, glancing over at my sister who was staring at her empty plate, avoiding Dad’s eyes.
“How are your hus-” My father hesitated a moment. “How are your spouses?”
Well, that was one check mark for acceptance. Way to go, Dad.
My sister peeked up nervously and I gave her a gentle nudge. “We’re doing okay, Dad. Caroline and I have been staying with Dolly and Cedric. Caroline’s been cooking up a storm.”
“She’s really a great chef, Dad,” I said, encouraging the positive vibes.
“Glad to hear it,” he responded dryly. Late afternoon was turning to evening as orange and purple twilight seeped through Mom’s yellow daisy curtains. Soon plates of southern cooking graced the table and my sister and I devoured it all.
“Lord have mercy, do they not have food in the Pacific Northwest?” my mother asked through a chuckle. My father’s lip even elevated slightly at our enthusiasm for Mom’s cooking.
“No,” Odie replied with a mouthful of macaroni. “They don’t, Mom and Dad, it’s awful. It’s all wheatgrass and gluten-free. Mom, I went to the store and couldn’t find milk. Like regular milk from a cow. It was all oats and almonds and peas…” My sister gave a dramatic shudder and we all laughed.
After my sister and I had gorged ourselves to the point of pain, a silence settled in the small country kitchen. The beautiful and calming symphony of the cicadas danced in through the open windows and I took a deep, cleansing inhale, soaking it all in. The grasshoppers reminded me of the pod of Orcas I’d seen with Desmond. The way nature could wrap my senses in a warm blanket was unlike any other peace I’d ever felt. Maybe that’s how my dad felt about church. Could nature be my church? My heart tore with an ache of missing him. His scruffy face and smart alec remarks. If nature were my sanctuary Desmond was my priest. My rugged, tattooed shepherd guiding me to bliss and redemption.