Page 72 of Big Britches
“We do, Roz. We’ve just been sitting out here stagnant for too long. I have been, anyway.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Barb said, pointing with a pimento cheese-stuffed celery stick. “Daddy’s dying wish is for you to replace him as mayor?”
“Yeah.”
“Strange. They told me I should run for governor.” She held the poker-face for a moment, then smiled to confirm her jest. “Are you OK?”
“I’m better. Mortality has not been my friend. Sometimes it seems like the haze never lifts.”
“I get it. I’ve been a little foggy, too, since they told me.”
Titus saw no need to mention that his stupor went beyond his father’s prognosis, stretching back like a late-afternoon shadow to Violet. No. There was no one-upping with untimely death. He’d been trying hard not to succumb to the sadness of anticipatory grief again. A large part of his remedy had been Pedro. Pedro was a beacon, guiding him away from the darkness with kindness and love.
But Pedro wasn’t enough. Titus had decided he’d been missing a little more than just a lover in his life.
“There’s more to it,” he said. “Me stepping back into the limelight, so to speak. Now that I’ve had time to reflect, things are making more sense.”
“How so?” Roz asked.
He pushed his plate away, straightening in his chair. “Do y’all remember me being hesitant at first–about playing football?”
Roz shook her head. “No. Not really. I didn’t hang with you two until after… when you were already playing and Violet and I were cheerleaders.”
“I remember,” Barb said. “You were worried about letting people down. You weren’t sure you could live up to your family’s name. Truth be told, I thought it was bullshit. I figured it had more to do with locker room phobia and you being gay. You know… wandering eyes, errant erections, and the like.”
“It was a little of both,” Titus confirmed. “And it turned out to be neither.”
“What do you mean?”
“WATCH!” Shelly shouted. She took a solid bounce, then soared high from the diving board, gracefully leaning, and slicing into the water with a perfect can opener. The splash was substantial for a child of her size, generating a respectable little tsunami. She surfaced fast, swimming toward the shallow end of the pool.
“Beautiful,” Titus said. “Ten out of ten.”
“Me now, Daddy,” Tucker said, again dashing more than springing off the diving board. He managed to kick out, but way too horizontal, landing flat on his back with a stark, resonating slap to the water. It was the opposite of a belly flop; it was a back flop.
Titus stood in case rescue was necessary, but Tucker came up fast, paddling to the side. “I think I messed up,” he said, panting. “I know what to do now, though.”
“Attaboy. If at first you don’t succeed…”
“Amazing,” Barb said. “Kids are so goddamn resilient.”
“My point,” Titus continued. “I was a teenager, caught up in my head, not seeing what small steps can lead to. Pedro said something the other day that’s been haunting me. Something about his using perfection as an excuse to delay happiness.”
“You can’t do it,” Barb said. “It’s impossible. There’s no such thing as perfection.”
“Exactly, but it is the goal most times, or at least a motivation. P said he recognizes now that perfection is not only a stimulus but also a crutch–a reason to put things off. Procrastinate.”
Roz cleared her throat. As usual, she had been quiet for much of the conversation, just taking things in. “We all do it to some degree,” she said. “It’s inherent–precautionary, like a defense mechanism passed down since caveman times.”
Titus nodded. “I think small-town mentality further complicates things.”
“Of course it does,” Barb said. “Everyone’s all up in everyone else’s business.”
“That’s part of it. But I recognize now that it was less about others and more about me–my fear of others’ perceptions.”
“James doesn’t want me to work,” Roz blurted. “I mean, if we’re confessing things, and it feels like we are. I’ve been using Violet’s death and helping you with Tucker as an excuse to get out of the house every day. He thinks when I stop working for you, I’m gonna stay home and be a housewife.”
“Is that what you want?” Barb asked.