A few years ago, I would have turned my nose up at it. I may have even said something like,what kind of PR manager would I be if I couldn’t even PR myself into a job?But these days, I don’t have the energy for it. I want to believe I’m conserving patience, smiles, and bullshit for my next job because that would be easier than swallowing the jagged pill thathechanged me irreparably.
Maybe I need change. After all, if I was such an amazing human before, would I really be thirty-seven, almost through my savings, single, and living above a fucking deli? This isn’t New York, so anything about my life that seemed glamorous… isn’t.
Change could be good, even if it means from the inside out.
The next forty minutes are spent lifting a spoon to my lips and dunking it back into my bowl while listening to Beck update me on her pottery studio opening soon. She moved to Oakcreek after her divorce, and I followed shortly after. Now, though, she’s in a serious relationship with Beau, the owner of the Wrench King franchise. All 2,200 of them, or however many there are.
And I’m still just treading water. My only goal is not to drown.
After we hug goodbye and plan a girls’ night for next week, I climb the stairs to my apartment. Once inside, I lock the door and crawl into bed, shoes on and all. With the comforter over my head, I don’t wake up until it’s dark, and since it’s dark, I just go back to sleep.
four
atticus
I did what I had to
As I pullup to my folks’ place and notice the abundance of crabgrass and the empty garbage can still at the curb, I choose to believe they had a busy week. That these lapses are a result of bingo that ran too long or a pharmacy line that moved too slowly. They are not symptoms of aging. Nah.
Ten minutes later, the walkway is free of weeds and shit, and I’m wipin’ my hands on my thighs before pushing in through the front door. “Edie? Harry?” I bark out when the door shuts behind me. I don’t hear ‘em, though; the only noise is the evening news echoing off the wallpapered living room walls. “Where you guys at?”
Drifting down the hall, I poke my head into their bedroom, the hall bathroom, and the only other room they use. The room that was mine growing up is now my Mom’s knitting room. But it sits empty, with long gold needles stickin’ out of a heap of amethyst-colored yarn, a project clearly in the making, but no one in sight. Right when I’m starting to get agitated, the screen door to the back porch creaks open.
“Atticus?” my Mom calls, while my Dad, on her heel, so helpfully adds, “Atticus, is that you?”
I spot ‘em hunched over from around the corner, unloading two wicker baskets full of cherry tomatoes and bell peppers. They’re still yielding a fruitful garden, and that puts to rest the state of the front yard.
I drop an arm over my Mom’s thin shoulders and pull her into me. “Hi, Mom,” I greet her after leaving a kiss on her hair. She pats my chest and beams up at me with sparkling eyes, the way she always looks at me, and I’m not sure I deserve all that love and awe, but I take it. When she’s back to her basket of produce, I slap my hand into my dad’s for a welcome shake.
“Pop, how are ya?”
With an expression of moderate annoyance, he shrugs. “My chair’s makin’ that noise again. That’s how they manufacture things these days, I guess. You only get a few good months out of ‘em before they’re rattlin’ and moanin’.”
I stroke a hand down my face while peering back into the living room. One side of the chair is already considerably worn, and it ain’t got nothing to do with how it’s made.
“Pop, you keep leanin’ on that arm, and it’s gonna start with the howlin’; I told you that last time I tightened it up.” The three of us survey the stack of assorted crap next to dad’s chair; magazines, newspapers, a few large reusable cups that I’m pretty sure have been around since I was a kid, a box of tissues, a back scratcher, reading glasses, a small dish of coins, and way too much more.
When my eyes come back to him, his frown morphs into an aggressive grimace. “Ah hell,” he huffs, slicin’ a hand through the air as if the conversation itself is aggravating. “I can’t even grab my paper a couple of times, then hell with it. I’ll get a new chair!”
Mom swivels to face us from her spot at the kitchen counter, apron secured at the back of her neck and waist. Waving a wooden spoon–the same one she whooped my ass with as a kid–she sets my dad straight.
“We aren’t buying a new chair. That one cost nearly eight hundred dollars, Harrold!”
I elbow him and twist my lips to the side, hiding my words from my Mom. “Harrold,” I snort. “You better listen.” Everyone knows when Mom uses your first name, shape the fuck up before that spoon does more than stir sauce.
He makes a noise of contrition but shuts the hell up anyway.
“I’ll fix it before dinner, but you know if you keep leanin’ over the arm, it’s gonna keep squeakin,’ and it don’t got nothin’ to do with things not being made as well these days as they were back inyourday.”
Mom stirs the sauce on the stove while dad fills green strawberry baskets full of cherry tomatoes. They take what they don’t eat to church and share it with the congregation. Kinda funny how I got the parents that everyone fuckin’ adores, and they got the son that no one can fuckin’ stand. Maybe likeability skips a generation.
Heading down the hall to the same cabinet where they’ve always been, I scoop up a couple of my dad’s tools, including a can of WD-40. I’m not planning on using it, but my dad swears it fixes everything. I get it out and keep it by me to make him think I’m using it, but the truth is, a little tightening on the screws and we’re good to go.
Less than ten minutes later, my knees hurt, but the chair is fixed. Mom had Dad workin’ on spreading butter over the French bread so he’d stay out of my hair, and we shared a wink over it.
Now we’re circled around the same vinyl-topped kitchen table that I grew up eating at—one my parents got when they got married. Slidin’ my glass of milk over the table, I rest it right on top of the blue stain like I do every week.
I was supposed to be hanging out with her when the tiny blue stain happened seventeen years ago. My parents were going to a party or bunco; I don’t know, they were doing something parents did after hours. Either way, they stuck me with my kid sister. It happened a lot–me havin’ to watch her. That’s what happens when your parents space their fuckin’ kids out. Ten years we had between us. Which put me at the perfect “watch your sister, won’t ya?” age, no matter the age.