Chapter
Two: A Memory of Fire (in a Cold, Cold Place)
Nicolle
Darling was known on the online community as Salem. She
didn’t know why she selected that screen name. She had once read
that 90% of all people exaggerate at least a little about themselves
while online. She never lied on the computer, but if she did, perhaps
it was in the screen name Salem. It had a particular dark edge to it,
a brooding something, that suggested Nicolle was more
dangerous than she actually was. In truth, the young woman Nicolle
Darling had turned into was far from dangerous.
It was early morning in Savannah, still an hour or so from school
time. Nicolle moved through the unlit room to her laptop which, like
everything else in the Darling home, seemed to be falling to pieces.
Before Howard’s Hardware closed she had managed to bring in enough
paychecks to buy the Grand Am (which needed as much work as a hobo)
and the laptop. The laptop took several minutes to boot up; she would
press the power button, go into her bathroom, brush her teeth, take a
shower, get dressed, and then return. By then it was usually running
alright. As for this morning, it was, the Tybee Lighthouse background
vainly trying to brighten her room.
The connection was slow; the Facebook home screen loaded an image at
a time. As she waited, Nicolle listened for sounds of life, inclining
her ear in the direction of the living room. She heard no expletives,
burps, or drunken cackles... her mother was apparently still asleep.
If she hurried she could make it out of the house before anyone
woke.
At last Facebook loaded; no messages, no notifications, no friend
requests... par for the course. It was a sort of routine, she
supposed, that she continued checking at all; her list of “friends”
online was fairly sparse, she never posted anything, she never
chatted with anyone, with the exception of Timmy, who didn't really
count. He was online, she saw, so she quickly turned her chat off,
hoping he hadn't noticed her momentary appearance.
Opening
a second tab, she began her I-do-this-every-morning checklist by
going to her email... sometimes the local bookstore sent her coupons
for printing off. Slowly, slowly the email loaded; as she waited an
alert appeared in her Facebook tab: Timmy Stoker sent you a
message.
LordNemesisOfTheTower: Nicolle?
Nicolle sighed. She could run but she could not hide.
Salem4: yes Timmy?
Timmy typed so quickly it was almost as if Nicolle were having a
face-to-face conversation with him.
LordNemesisOfTheTower:
Are you invisible?
Salem4:
am I not appearing on your friend
list?
LordNemesisOfTheTower:
No.
Salem4: then yeah, Im invisible.
LordNemesisOfTheTower:
Of whom are you hiding from?
LordNemesisOfTheTower:
Not me, I hope lol.
For the briefest moment Nicolle considered telling the truth. She let
out a long sigh before responding.
Salem4:
no, just someone I met online. annoying.
LordNemesisOfTheTower: Anyone I'm acquainted
with?
Salem4:
no
LordNemesisOfTheTower:
What’s his name?
Nicolle shook her head. As she completed her I-do-this-every-morning
checklist, Timmy completed his; checking to see if he was going to be
replaced by another guy. In order to be replaced, though, you had to
hold a position in the first place. She supposed Timmy did hold a
position... “Pathetic Nerd That Clings To My Leg”, and she
allowed him that solely from pity and an inability to cause someone
hurt. Timmy seemed to think he held the positions of “Best Friend”,
“Bodyguard”, “Nicolle Darling’s All Time Favorite Pal”, and
“Possible Future Boyfriend.” Timmy was mistaken.
Salem4: it isn't a boy. And I need to be heading out
soon.
LordNemesisOfTheTower: Is that odious maternal fiend
awakened yet?
For
a moment Nicolle just stared at that sentence. The sole person my
age that I speak to and he sounds like he's stuck in a renaissance
fair.
Salem4: not yet. I’ll see you at school in a
bit.
LordNemesisOfTheTower: Cool. See you Nicky.
How
many times had she asked him not to call her that? She had gone
against her better judgment and even told him why, and yet he
persisted. Knowing that the nickname held sentimental significance
for her, perhaps Timmy hoped that in using it he could melt the ice
around her heart. Timmy was, again, mistaken.
Not even bothering to correct him, Nicolle signed out of Facebook and
turned her attention to her email account. Newsletters from various
websites, that was all. She had hoped against reality that someone
had written her a real message, an interesting stranger, maybe. But
as far as she knew, no interesting strangers had her email address.
She would likely be too shy to give it to them anyway.
Nicolle turned off her computer and tip toed to the bathroom to
prepare for her day. She knew of girls in her class that took over an
hour to prepare their hair, and their face, and their clothes,
etcetera, etcertera. Nicolle thought about this as she picked through
her black wavy hair, dressed in the same clothes she dressed in last
year, and applied zero makeup. She was out in fifteen minutes. Her
record was five.
Somewhere in the valleys of Nicolle’s mind she knew that she envied
those girls, even if only a small bit. She didn’t envy their
infatuation with material things, or whatever else populated their
world, but she did envy the friendships. Being at the top of the
totem pole, those girls were given opportunities to rub shoulders
with more desirable people. At the bottom of the totem pole, or
perhaps even under it, Nicolle had Timmy, who she would excitedly
trade for quite nearly anyone else. She felt a little bad for
thinking it, but it was the truth. He was well meaning, usually, but
he was very needy, and horribly annoying, and hyper sensitive. And
smelled a little, to be honest.
Nicolle walked back to her room and, just as she sat
down onto her bed, heard the floorboards squeak across the length of
the house. She inhaled slowly, hopelessly, and exhaled.
She stood, grabbed her school things, and made for the door. She
hated herself for not leaving two minutes earlier; needing to walk
through the living room to reach the front door, she’d pass her
mother, or perhaps her stepfather. Her stepfather, Stephen, wasn’t
as bad as her mom, but that didn’t mean she wanted to see him. As
Nicolle neared the front of the house she smelled cigarette smoke;
where ever there was smoke, there was Fire Woman.
Nicolle stepped into the living room. Looking more like Zombie Woman
than Fire Woman, her mother was reclined on the sofa, a cigarette in
between her fingers. The TV flashed multicolors in what was mostly a
dark room; some show was on about women seeking to find the real
father to their child. Her mother loved it.
“Hey,” Nicolle said.
“Hey,” her mother said. Whether from sleepiness or something
else, the slur in her speech made it sound like Heh.
“Where’re you going?”
“School,” Nicolle said. “It’s Tuesday.”
“Hm.”
Nicolle darted across the front of the television... Fire Woman was
known to flare up if her line of sight was obstructed for longer than
a quarter second... and never stopped moving toward the door. She
opened it and stepped out.
“Hey!”
Nicolle cringed. She'd almost made it. She turned back to her
mother.
“Yeah?”
“Yes ma’am,” her mother corrected. Heaven forbid she miss out
on the respect she so sorely deserved.
“Yes ma’am,” Nicolle said.
“Make me some cereal before you go,” said her
mother-extraordinaire.
She walked over to the cabinet, pulled out a bowl, and upended the
cereal box into it, filling it to the brim. She then opened the
refrigerator door.
“We don’t have any milk,” Nicolle said.
“Hm?” Her mother grunted. The audience on the TV had just erupted
into a fit of boos when a possible candidate for father walked on
stage.
“We don’t have any milk,” Nicolle said.
“Go get some, will you?”
“I can’t, I have school.”
To this her mother didn’t reply, but remained keenly focused on the
reality-show based pandemonium. In the eighteen years of knowing her
mother, her morning routine had stayed fairly consistent: fall out of
bed, inhale something, watch several hours of game shows and reality
TV, happen upon breakfast, inhale something, nap, watch some more TV
while inhaling something... same ol’ same ol’. Nicolle wondered
which emotion she felt more: pity or disgust. With her mother’s
attention momentarily elsewhere Nicolle walked to the
door.
“Hey!”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Bring me that bowl.”
Nicolle returned to the kitchen and took the milkless cereal bowl to
her mother. She received no thank you before finally, triumphantly,
exiting the house.
The morning was covered with a light fog, the crisp misty feeling of
dawn. All of the lawn ornaments were covered in dew; the spare tire,
Stephen’s broken down pickup truck, the ripped trampoline, the
many-dented mailbox that still reads DARLING, the name of her father
who long hadn’t lived there. Nicolle’s Grand Am, also
many-dented, sat in the gravel driveway covered in mist.
In the distance (her memory adds “over the fence, through the patch
of woods, and up the hill”) Nicolle saw her grandparent’s house.
Grandmama Longlegs passed away two years prior, and ever since then
the popular opinion was that Granddaddy Longlegs sat alone in the
house, sad and old. Nicolle feared that it was true; even now the
house looked dark and dead, though this was likely more due to the
early hour than anything.
Opening her car door, Nicolle fell into the driver’s seat and
turned the car on; it didn’t have a working heater, so Nicolle
rubbed her arms to compensate. The back glass was covered in dew, so
Nicolle, taking the freezing steering wheel in hand, backed out on
memory instead, carefully and nervously reversing down the small hill
to the main road. She exhaled victoriously upon reaching the bottom
without having hit anything or killed anyone.
Nicolle drifted through the vacant Savannah back roads, her mind
wandering; what would have happened if, perhaps, she hadn’t backed
out successfully, but instead, say, an eighteen wheeler slammed into
her, throwing her from the car and mercifully ending her young but
overall unsatisfactory life? Who would come to her funeral? Would her
mom even care to have a funeral? Timmy would come, as would
Granddaddy Longlegs. Those online would wonder what had become of
Salem. That would be pretty much it. And after that, then what? Did
Heaven and Hell exist? Unlikely. Just as unlikely as angels coming
and taking people away after they had died.
After
driving for ten minutes or so, passing from the countryside to the
edge of urban Savannah, the school appeared. Nicolle pulled into the
student parking area, uncomfortable as the eyes of students watched
her do so, and turned the car off. For a moment she merely sat and
stared at the surroundings.
From
her front-row seat Nicolle had a terrifically nauseating view of the
various cliques of Maple Hill High School, none of which she belonged
to. There was the long-unwashed-hair group, oversized jeans and
hoodies, pretending to not care, puffing cigarettes behind the gym;
the anime-nerds, tonally deaf to their parents-basement look; the
band people, not quite as geeky as most movies portray, but still
just as frisky; the walking-alone-goody-types, so chaste they don't
even socialize, complete with soft blue dresses and books carried in
arm's nook; the utter a-holes, menaces to pretty much anyone; the
nice-but-standoffish popular people, being standoffish beside their
super nice cars way off in the distance; and the not-nice popular
people, basking in the sun of their own greatness over in someone's
truck bed, no qualms about setting fire to some poor peasant's day.
Nicolle had an ongoing acquaintance with a girl from that group,
Alyssa Craven, acquainted in the same way a dart board is to the
thrower of darts.
Letting out a characteristic sigh, Nicolle opened the car door and
stepped out, a chilly breeze welcoming her to school...
… something caught her attention from the corner of her left eye,
under the arch of the school’s front doors; she turned and saw that
she had missed out on one clique earlier, one that had just arrived
on the grounds. They were the real
“popular
ones” of Maple Hill High, evidenced by every eye in attendance
turning to watch. Even Alyssa Craven and her crew grew silent and
stared; it was like a couple of big dogs, used to being top of the
food chain, were suddenly humbled by the appearance of a pride of
lions.
They
each wore a pair of sunglasses; aviators, cat eyes, clip ons, all of
them clearly expensive. They walked with the confidence of kings and
queens in a throne room, power and influence aplenty. They were the
Chess Club, capitalized like that, not “the chess club”; they
were clearly more than just a club of chess players, everyone agreed.
Well behaved yet generating a feeling of danger; well known despite
their preference for silence and solitude; outstanding achievements
and grades, all while making it look easy. Attractive. Picturesque.
Untouchable. The Chess Club.
And
there he was among them, a member himself: Elijah Beaumont. Nicolle
crushed on him in the way girls crush on movie stars: from a
distance, in total and full awareness that they will never speak to
that celebrity in their life, that said celebrity will never even
think of them or know they exist. So it was a fantasy, that was all.
And what a fantasy it was.
The
rest of the Chess Club stepped through the front doors, leaving
Elijah behind. He scanned the school grounds, left to right, the wind
in his hair, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut your finger on, that
sexy scowl; a passerby, Nicolle supposed, could be totally forgiven
for believing they were stumbling upon the shooting of a commercial.
She slowly eased herself back through her open car door, fearful of
him seeing her no-doubt tangled hair, of him seeing her rusty, ugly
car, of him seeing her staring across the way at him. His eyes,
hidden behind sunglasses, passed over where her car was parked, not
seeing her at all.
A hard thump on
Nicolle’s left window made her jump, snapping her from her
hyper-concentration on the high school’s front steps to just
outside her window. Timmy Stoker smiled and waved, looking in on her
as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks. This was the common reception.
Six-foot-two inches tall, weighing in at two-hundred and forty
pounds, Timmy did little to improve his image. His shirt,
short-sleeved in February, was gray and read “pwn”.
Nicolle sighed, realizing that now she had no choice but to get out;
she fumbled with her bookbag, taking more time than necessary,
looking out of the corner of her eye to the front steps one last
time. No longer was Elijah Beaumont alone, but was now accompanied by
she whom he had waited behind for, his girlfriend Presley Llewellyn.
Wrapping an arm around her tiny waist, the two disappeared into the
school. Nicolle closed her eyes, reluctantly absorbing the mortal
blow. After a moment she opened the front door (Timmy had to move to
keep from being hit) and put on a small, fake smile.
“Greetings,” Timmy said, smiling.
“Hey,” Nicolle replied.
“I got The
Tower of Gilgamish IV last
night,” he said as Nicolle closed the car door; a piece of the side
mirror, already broken, chipped and fell to the gravel below. Nicolle
turned and walked toward the front doors of the school; Timmy
followed. “Meant to tell you this morning.”
“Hm,” Nicolle said, keeping her head down. Presley Llewellyn was
so pretty... and she was a C cup, not a B cup... her hair wasn’t
drab, wavy black, but blonde and straight, styled to look smart. Her
body was athletic, too... and she was so pretty... she and her mother
likely got along great...
“The graphics are impressive,” Timmy continued, scratching the
bridge of his nose. “Not that big of an improvement over Gilgamish
III,
but it had good graphics anyway.”
“Hm,” Nicolle said. Nicolle faced the facts; Elijah Beaumont was
out of her league as it was, on top of him already having Presley on
his arm. This was no movie, where the poor underdog somehow won the
amazing guy. She had no chance.
“There are five-hundred different classes to make your main guy
into. Or girl, you can be a girl, too. I’ll probably make a
separate file and be a girl on there. I’ve already decided what
class I want her to be.”
A moment passed in silence before Nicolle realized she had missed her
line. “Oh... what?”
“A ninja,” he said. “But I’ll make her be an illuminator
first so she can get the skill Radiance... eliminates fog of war. If
I combine the speed stats of the ninja with the magical stat of the
illuminator, she should come off as a potent adversary to whoever I’m
facing online.” A second passed before he dramatically added,
“Prepare to be vanquished, foes!”
He laughed nervously at his own joke. Nicolle smiled a little to be
polite... even with her head down she knew he would be watching for
her reaction... but did no more.
“And the world on there is very large,” he said. “Like, really
large. One website estimated it could take serious gamers up to
three-hundred hours to see it all. You’d love it.”
Nicolle would not love it. Timmy’s mistaken opinion came from
countless recesses spent sitting on the bleachers, Nicolle politely
listening to the sole person sitting with her. One of these days, she
swore, she would tell him she didn’t care. On that same day, she
would inform Elijah Beaumont of her weird desire to bite his muscular
shoulders. So never.
They walked up the front steps together, tiny Nicolle leading large
Timmy, and through the front doors. Students filled the hallways,
some walking to class, others standing and talking. No one even
looked up at their entrance.
“I wish I was home schooled,” Nicolle said so softly that Timmy
alone could hear. “I hate it here.”
“Surely you don’t wish that,” Timmy said; as was usual, each
word was enunciated perfectly. Nicolle thought he did this to sound
refined, or perhaps British. He chuckled and said, “I mean,
consider that for a moment.”
Nicolle did. “You’ve got a point, I guess.” Having scored a
point, Timmy beamed.
Doing their best to avoid everyone else Nicolle and Timmy made their
way to the first class, math with Mr. Meister; the students welcomed
punishment by sometimes referring to him as “the Mathmeister”.
Not listening to Timmy expound further about Gilgamish
IV, Nicolle
gave thought to the part nicknames play in high school life;
apparently unsatisfied with whatever connotations came with a
student’s real name, his or her peers thrust a new name upon them,
complete with new connotations and social status. The fun part was in
waiting to see if your nickname would be flattering or not; some,
like Presley Llewellyn, were gifted with affectionate names (Nicolle
recalled once hearing her greeted as “Blue Hawaii”); others, like
Mr. Meister, were given names that could go either way (depended on
if you liked math, Nicolle supposed). And yet others, bless them,
were christened with a name that announced to all within earshot that
they were hopeless losers. Such was the fate of Timmy
Stoker.
Nicolle had two nicknames, one self-given and virtually unknown, the
other attained during childhood, forever lost with the giver. At
school she had no nickname. For the most part, at school, she lacked
a name altogether.
Nicolle and Timmy entered the mostly empty classroom and sat in their
usual by-the-window seats. Nicolle slumped in hers and sighed; Timmy
leaned forward but said nothing, merely placing himself on standby
mode just in case Nicolle decided to talk. But Nicolle would not
talk. In a sense, she hadn’t talked since that day she found
herself hiding in the bathroom.
While in the lunchroom hours later something struck Nicolle as odd.
Teachers prohibited cell phones, run on sentences, sleeping in class,
and mixing chemicals in the lab, yet seemed completely at ease with
throwing the many school cliques together in a small area. Like said
chemicals, combustion sometimes occurred.
Timmy had been unsuccessfully trying to get Nicolle to smile when a
pizza slice struck him in the side of the face; in shock his hand
slammed the table, sending an assortment of food into the air, most
of it going all over Nicolle and Timmy themselves. Nicolle’s mouth
was an O, milk and taco bits in her hair. She thought hearing about
how quickly elves leveled up was the bottom of the barrel, but
no.
“Arrrgh!” Timmy roared, standing and facing the direction of the
loudest laughter. “Stop throwing crap!”
No one claimed the pizza slice (though throughout the lunchroom
students giggled into their hands), and after a moment Timmy plopped
back into his seat huffing and puffing.
“Ughh!” He vented. “Those idiots! Gah!”
“Don’t let them know they get to you,” Nicolle said, partially
from a desire to keep him from standing and drawing attention to them
again. She had also noticed that, in anger, his cultivated accent had
reverted back to a normal one.
“I need to go over there and let them have it,” Timmy said, a
seriously disturbed look in his eye. “It’s Clay and Anthony,
anyway, probably.”
“Just ignore them,” Nicolle said. A few seats down a slice of ham
dropped from the sky and landed in a girl’s tea; she jumped out of
her seat, huffed a little, puffed a little, and then sat back down,
too low on the social totem pole for self-defense.
“Why?” Timmy asked. “Why?
What did I do in existence to deserve being hit in the face with
pizza?! I don’t do drugs. I don’t smoke. I don’t rape
people.”
Nicolle stayed quiet and ate her salad. Head down, she spied across
the lunchroom to the table she had been watching moments before the
pizza appeared. Others viewed it as the Chess Club’s usual table,
and it was, but for Nicolle it was the daily seat of Elijah Beaumont,
who sat a short distance away from those of the Chess Club. Presley
Llewellyn sat at his right with no taco meat in her hair, a vase of
withering flowers sat on their table; Nicolle hoped it was
symbolic.
“I wonder what you have to do to be in the Chess Club,” Nicolle
said.
Timmy shrugged, eyeing the sunglasses-wearing students across the
room as if they had thrown the pizza. “I don’t know. I tried to
join once, I’m good at chess, but they said I wasn’t good enough.
I don’t think they’re even playing chess.”
“What are you talking about?” Nicolle asked.
“I mean, just look at them... like that one,” Timmy said,
inclining his head toward a dark skinned boy wearing a Letterman
jacket. His sunglasses were of the aviator kind. “He plays
football, for goodness sakes. I think his name is Darius something...
he used to throw food at me too, before he joined the Chess Club. And
one time he got in trouble for pulling a girl’s pants down. Are you
gonna tell me that he was good enough at chess to join and I wasn’t?
Give me a break, there’s no way he even knows a knight from a
bishop.” A few moments passed. “They’re probably some kind of
sex club, or something.”
Nicolle snorted a laugh. “Sex club?”
But Timmy was serious. “Or something taboo. Whatever it is, they’re
not playing chess in that classroom they meet in.”
A few moments passed after Timmy’s dramatic words. Then an unopened
carton of milk exploded across the back of his head.
“WATCH OUT, STROKER!”
The lunchroom was laughing; Timmy stood, his arms out to his sides,
milk dripping from his hair and fingers. His face looked surprised,
then murderous. He turned to confront his assailants.
A guy a few tables down cupped his hands to his mouth like a
megaphone. “What’s up Stroker,
been stroking lately?!”
The hilarity peaked; Timmy’s mouth opened and closed, no
satisfactory retort coming to his aid.
“Yo Stroker,” a random boy bellowed, “hope me and your mom
didn’t wake you last night! She’s a real screamer!”
“DON'T YOU DARE... DON'T EVEN THINK!... DON'T TALK ABOUT MY MAMA!”
Timmy stuttered, but the laughter was louder. Seconds passed during
which Nicolle thought that, just maybe, Timmy’s desire to stand up
for himself would see him across the room throwing punches. But
Timmy’s lip finally quivered one good, hard time, and it was over;
grabbing his plate, angry torment on his face, he marched over to the
garbage cans, threw away his food, and left the room.
“I think Stroker’s gonna cry, Nicolle, you might wanna fetch him
a tissue or something,” a girl giggled from Nicolle’s left; she
turned and saw Alyssa Craven, smiling. Nicolle wanted to think of
something to reply with. Nothing came to mind.
Timmy temporarily out of order, Nicolle found herself alone in a room
with over one hundred students. She kept her head down and spoke to
no one. She spied one last peek across the room before leaving; the
flowers from before, the ones she thought were dying, were apparently
not, as a single beautifully healthy flower was picked from the vase
and placed behind Presley’s ear. Elijah smiled at his girlfriend;
she looked stunning.
The house was not the same as it had been ten years ago. In memory
the house glowed as if divine, and to Nicolle it was; it was her sole
refuge from the harsh elements of Fire Woman. Now the house did not
glow; whether from the gray of the day or the way of the times,
Nicolle closed her car door and walked toward a house that resembled
the old days only a little.
Elijah Beaumont had kissed Presley Llewellyn beneath the giant oak,
the wind blowing her hair gently, his strong hand cupping the nape of
her neck, unaware that Nicolle’s heart was breaking from her
vantage point far away. It was a movie moment, the way Presley smiled
up at him, the sweet forehead-to-forehead whispers they shared
afterwards. That was the ending to a disastrous/normal school day,
the sour cherry atop the mud pie, as her grandmother had once put it.
The mud pie itself consisted of an angry and humiliated Timmy
following her around the rest of the day, Alyssa Craven whispering to
a friend with her hand covering her mouth and her eyes on Nicolle, a
failed test, Presley Llewellyn’s existence, and a wet dog jumping
chin-high at her and peppering her in whatever fluid it had covered
itself in.
Nicolle walked up the front steps, kicked off her shoes on the porch,
and stepped inside. A familiar fragrance slammed into her, warm and
nostalgic: the peculiar mix of cigar smell and raspberry candles. No
lights were on; Nicolle wondered if anyone was home. Had the truck
been parked out front...?
“Nicolle?” A voice from out of sight. Raspy. Quiet.
Hopeful.
“It’s
me,” Nicolle said, walking down the hall and peeking inside the
open door. The room was as cozy as it had ever been; appearing to be
doing nothing in particular, Granddaddy Longlegs sat in his recliner
in the back corner, his hands on his legs as he rocked.
“Well look’a who’s here,” he smiled.
“Tis me again,” Nicolle nodded, stepping into the room and
breathing deep. For whatever reason the room did not allow her to
escape the real world in the same magnitude as it had in years past,
but it got the job done regardless; Nicolle crossed the room and
hugged her grandfather’s neck.
“Might as well take you out and back and shoot you,” he quipped
with a cautious grin. “Come in here looking like that.”
“Be my guest,” Nicolle said, rubbing her eyes. “It was one of
those days.”
He nodded, his smile softer, his expression sympathetic. “Well, let
it all go now, dearheart... you’re here now. Can I get you
something to chew on...?” He made to get up, but Nicolle waved him
back down.
“No, I’m fine, don’t worry about it... “
“No, lemme just get in here and fix some flapjacks, won’t take
but a minute...”
Nicolle’s second refusal died on her lips with a small smile as her
grandfather moaned and groaned himself off his recliner and, at a
slow and somewhat steady pace, marched himself toward the kitchen.
For “flapjacks”; Granddaddy Longlegs knew how to make little else
despite being in his eighties. Grandmama Longlegs had been the cook
of the house; for two years now Granddaddy Longlegs had been without
her and apparently still didn’t quite know the way around the
kitchen. He kept her raspberry candles lit in her
absence.
Twice in Nicolle’s life had grief taken over. The first had been
when she was eight, at the time their
room
became her
room.
The second time Nicolle had felt such grief had been recent, two
years prior, when she was sixteen. She had known it was coming; each
time she visited Grandmama Longlegs she noticed that tightening in
her chest, a foreboding of what was doubtlessly coming whether she
wanted it to or not. She passed away while Nicolle was at home,
pretending to be sick to escape the bullying trends of Alyssa and
others. Her mother had her cleaning the living room when the call
came.
Nicolle had always known that she hated death, but only at the
passing of her grandmother did it occur to her just how badly she
hated it. The grief of losing one of the few good things in her life
(and permanently) was paralyzing; she barely made it out of her room
for the funeral. She often wondered: why invest in loving someone or
something when it will not last? She once wrote in an English class
journal, Love
is a hard drug. It demands all of your resources, all of your time,
all of your attention, and when you're feeling the effects, you
happily give it. But once the love-drug is gone forever, and you can
never get it back, all you're left with is pain, like the memory of
fire when you're trapped in a cold, cold place.
Wouldn't
it be easier if she didn't love Granddaddy Longlegs? When the day
came that he was no longer around, she'd experience no pain, no
come-off from that love-drug. And knowing this, she loved her
grandfather with her whole heart, this man that held her when she was
happy, sad, and otherwise. And why was she pursuing Elijah Beaumont?
What if she, against all odds, somehow married him or something? One
day he would die, too, and all of that happiness would be evicted to
make place for suffering.
And
despite these thoughts... still, she stared at Elijah Beaumont and
hoped. Despite these thoughts, there she stood with her Granddaddy
Longlegs in the kitchen, watching him flip a flapjack over the
stove.
“Sooo,” Granddaddy said, “what was so bad about
today?”
Nicolle sighed. “The usual.”
“If ever badness can be called ‘the usual’, Nicolle, then
something oughtta change... you reckon?”
“You may be on to something,” Nicolle said. Though her response
had been sarcastic it still reminded Nicolle that she did intend to
change things, eventually. The background on her computer was a
reminder of that; she had seen a picture of Tybee Lighthouse as a
little girl and, both suddenly and without any real explanation, it
had become her prime destination, a distant place of peace and
freedom. Once the school year was over " this plan had stood for
always " that was where she would be.
Granddaddy Longlegs was apparently a mind-reader.
“Still planning for Carolina after you graduate?”
“Yes,” Nicolle said, feeling a hopeful thrill in her heart. “And
you’re coming with me.”
“You betcha,” he said, his eyes on his sizzling
flapjacks.
“You are coming, right?”
Granddaddy looked up and chuckled. “I said I would, didn’t I?
Assuming I’m able.”
“You will be,” she said.
“Well, alright then,” he said with a small smile. “Flapjacks
are done.”
As
with every flapjack before these were eaten in the sitting room,
Granddaddy Longlegs in his rocker, Nicolle on the rug beside him.
After a few silent bites Granddaddy cleared his throat.
“Not
like your Grandmama made them,” he said. “Goodness alive, that
girl could summon dinner from the throne of the Almighty, far as I
could tell. These taste like I summoned them from Hell.”
“I
like them,” Nicolle said timidly.
“Well,
maybe not from Hell,”
he said, taking another bite. “But maybe compared to Grandmama's,
maybe. I really miss her fried chicken... mmmm-mmm.”
They ate in silence for a minute or so, then, spoken so tenderly that
Nicolle's heart stopped: “I miss her.” When another minute passed
in silence, he tossed his last flapjack to the side. “She's making
flapjacks for the Lord now, I suppose.”
Suddenly
the most terrible of images entered Nicolle's mind: her grandmother's
decaying body in the ground at the cemetery. Nicolle turned her head,
as if turning away from the sight. She wanted to cry. Not bitter,
angry tears, not necessarily. Tears of deep sorrow. Tears of hope
lost. Her Grandmama wasn't making flapjacks for anyone anymore, she
was gone. Forever. Others had to light her candles now.
Time
passed; Nicolle tried to drink in the peace but found it difficult;
the wall clock ticked into
the silent room, each passing second a reminder that the day was
nearing a close and the nightmare was soon to replay the next day.
She watched as Granddaddy Longlegs fought sleep and eventually lost,
his plate of leftover flapjacks in his lap. Before long the sun was
setting and Nicolle's stress level began to climb again. It was time
to go.
Cleaning
the kitchen and taking a few flapjacks for later, Nicolle turned out
the lights, locked the back door, and lastly returned to the sitting
room to give her grandfather a goodbye hug. When she did he did not
awaken, and a cold thought took her: he's
finally gone too. At
last I am alone in the world.
But
his chest rose and fell still; Nicolle breathed easy " but not
too easy " covered him up with a blanket, and made for the door.
When she reached her car she sat there for nearly ten minutes,
staring at the dark windows of her childhood refuge, before finally
cranking her car, turning on the headlights, and driving away.
Nicolle
had been checking her empty inbox when her mother called her in for
dinner. She found the kitchen table as it had always been: cluttered,
barely any room for the pizza her stepfather had brought home. A
picture of familial happiness if ever there had been one, Nicolle,
stepfather, and her mother-extraordinaire crowded the table with
paper plates in hand, the air thick with cigarette smoke. A busted
car part covered Nicolle's eating area; her plate of pizza ended up
in her lap.
“I
nearly killed that sonofabitch Randy today,” Stephen said. “Had
the audacity to tell me Neal Jimmy Jones caused the wreck last
Sunday, and I told him, I watched the race, Randy, Jones wasn't a
mile from the wreck, he just said that cause he knows I like Jimmy
Jones Motorsports, wanted to yank my chain, so I told him that I
betted Aaron
Thompson started
the wreck, since he roots for Aaron Thompson so much. Neal Jimmy
Jones didn't do nothing, I
watched the thing.”
“Randy's
always been that way,” Sylvia said. A morsel of food flipped out of
her bottom lip and onto her arm; she raised her arm up and licked it
back up. “You should have told him to shut it cause at least your
wife don't run around on you like his does. Angie's been over at that
house down Garrison Road several times that I've seen while Randy's
been at work.”
“Don't
doubt it,” Stephen said.
“That
kid that hangs out in his front yard might very well not be his,”
Sylvia said.
“Don't
doubt it,” Stephen said, taking another bite. Nicolle ate as
quickly as she could. “What'd
you do today?”
Sylvia
cackled. “Saw this one show, had Darryl Shellnut in it... forget
the name... I was dying.
That one scene where he got diarrhea nearly gave me diarrhea from
laughing so damn hard.”
“Heh,”
Stephen grunted. A few moments passed in silence, save for the sound
of pigs eating from a trough. Then: “I said I wanted milk with
this, why'd you get me whatever the hell this is?”
Sylvia
didn't appear to hear him; she raised her eyebrows (I'm
sorry, what did you say?) and
he pointed an annoyed finger at his glass of sweet tea (I
said, where is my milk?).
Now Sylvia understood; she nodded dramatically. “Well... honey, we
would
have
had milk tonight but SOMEBODY
forgot to bring some home.”
Stephen
had been digging at his teeth with a toothpick; at this, wide eyed,
he pulled it out and stared at Sylvia as if they were about to fist
fight. “Might want to shut your dumb mouth, babe, you never asked
me to do nothing, if you'd have said bring home milk"”
“Not
you, I didn't ask you,”
Sylvia spat. Then, as if referring to a badly behaved pet, she waved
her hand angrily in Nicolle's direction. Realizing her mother wasn't
challenging him Stephen resumed picking at his teeth, but it wasn't
so simple for Nicolle; the atmosphere in the room had changed, her
mother had thrown down the gauntlet. Nicolle almost offered a defense
for herself, but why? When were these sort of disputes ever winnable?
“This
sweet tea tastes like somebody might've messed in it,” Stephen said
to no one in particular.
“So
if you weren't doing what your mama asked you today, what were you
doing?” Sylvia asked, sucking pizza juice off her fingers. “Sulking
in some corner?”
“I
went to school,” Nicolle said. She hadn't spoken for the entire
meal so far; her voice came out in a weak croak. She took a sip of
her sweet tea. It tasted horrible.
“Mmhm...
and what about after
that, hm?” Her mother's voice was so self-righteous, the honorable
judge on high. “What about then?”
“I
visited Grandpa.”
“He
say whether or not he was gonna pay me back for coming up and fixing
his sink?” Stephen asked, burping under his breath. “I can't
afford to do free labor, now, he needs to be a man and pay up. I've
got a family to feed.”
“How's
he doing?” Sylvia asked with a scowl. “Probably still wasting
away up there... that's all he does now that Mama's gone.”
“He's
fine,” Nicolle said. “He made me some lunch.”
“Now,
I understand having a little bit to mourn after somebody dies and
all,” Stephen said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his
belly. “I understand that. But damn, he needs to get over himself.”
“Aint
dat tha trugh,” Sylvia said, her mouth full of pizza. She swallowed
and said, “He acts like he aint got no other kin left alive. Don't
ever come down and see me, never. And you know, Nicolle was round
about the same way when Adam died. Sulky, mopey, playing the martyr,
all that, drawing pictures of them together, and I'm thinking, draw a
damn picture of me, I'm alive! I'm still kicking! Adam's done gone!”
Nicolle
stopped in mid-chew, her mother's words lancing an old wound wide
open. Adam. Thinking of him was unbearable, here and now, at this
point in her life, at this kitchen table, after this day. We're
gonna escape he'd
said once with a grin, and she imagined them in mountains, or foreign
cities, living it up anywhere but here, but that was over a decade
ago, and here she was. Adam.
Like
the memory of fire in a cold, cold place.
Nicolle
began to cry.
“Hear
about Lloyd and ol what's her name, the bug-eyed woman, what's her
name?”
“I
don't know,” Sylvia said, slapping her chest once, twice, three
times, and belch.
“Well,
George said today that Lloyd's run out on his old lady, he's
supposedly sleeping in bug-eyed lady's shed out back. Linda straight
up,” burp,
“straight up asked her if he was out there and she said no, but
Lloyd's running his mouth down at the plant, said that bug-eyed
what's-her-name... Charlene... she goes out there late at night.”
“Promiscuous
sex, is what it is,” Sylvia said.
“Yeah.”
“Don't
know why anybody would run around with Lloyd... his face looks like
he got it smashed in with a two-by-four.”
“Hm.”
“Well,
maybe they'll both catch some rare nasty disease and all their nasty
parts'll just fall off,” Sylvia said, grunting laughter.
Nicolle
sobbed hard and her stepfather and mother turned and saw her, their
relaxed expressions vanishing.
“What
in the...??! What's your problem??” Sylvia flung her hands into the
air. Stephen looked content to not get involved. “Well??”
Nicolle
shook her head; she couldn't speak.
Sylvia's
chair skidded backward and fell as her mother rose to her feet.
Nicolle refused to look up at her but could see her in her mind,
finger pointing angrily, her mother-extraordinaire's face messed up
with fury. Her volume went from a one to a ten in no time; Sylvia was
apparently picking up from whatever last argument.
“HERE
WE GO AGAIN, EVERYBODY STOP WHAT THEY'RE DOING, NICKY'S HAVING A
SISSY FIT, UH-GIN!
Ruining family dinner, no concern for others, honking that nose over
there! What is your problem?? Answer me!”
Nicolle
shook her head, tried to answer, but no words came.
“HM?
HM?
What??”
Nicolle's
breathing was choppy and pained. “I-I-I'm... … n-not...
h-h-happy...”
Silence followed. She was still unable to look at her mother
but she knew the look she was wearing: absolute disbelief at what she
was hearing, an expression of shock, as if the stupidest thing ever
uttered in recorded time had just been said by the stupidest person
ever.
“Not
HAPPY??
That pizza that I
provided
not good enough??! That bed you sleep on, paid for by your MOTHER,
not super-squishy enough for you?? You should be counting your lucky
stars, Nicolle, to have a mama like me, when I've heard of parents
charging kids RENT to stay under their roof, and out of the kindness
of MY heart, you get FOOD, you get WATER, you get SHELTER, you get
EVERYTHING, or is this ADAM AGAIN, HUH?? HE WOULD BE ASHAMED OF HOW
YOU LOOK AT ME, LIKE YOUR CRAP DON'T STINK AND YOU'RE ALL HIGH AND
MIGHTY... what, can't take the truth??!”
Nicolle
was out of her seat and walking away, her movements like a zombie.
“YOU
SHOULD BE CHECKED OUT BY A PSYCHIATRIST, YOU HAVE SOMETHING SERIOUSLY
WRONG WITH YOU, DON'T DISRESPECT YOUR MOTHER, NICOLLE, DON'T--”
Nicolle
closed the door to her room, fading her mother's yells to an
unintelligible hum. She unbuttoned her pants and let them fall to the
floor, removed her shirt, removed her B cup (not C cup) bra, and
spilled into bed. She cried for a while, and once she stopped, she
stared into her blank wall, into her lifeless room, into the carpet,
and eventually into the future: she saw tomorrow the same as today,
and the day after that, and the day after that, and all the days to
come.
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