“See,” Bert said to her, “I told you this place was huge.”
“It’s a palace.” Kristy peered in the dining room, eyeing my sister’s wedding portrait, which was hanging over the sideboard. “How many bedrooms are there?”
“I don’t know, five?” I said, walking to the bottom of the stairs and glancing up at the second floor. There were no lights on, and the rest of the house was dark.
“Is the TV this way?” Bert asked me, poking his head into the living room. Wes reached up and popped him on the back of his head, reminding him of his manners. “I mean, is it okay if I find the TV?”
“It’s in here,” I said, starting down the hallway to the kitchen, hitting light switches as I came upon them. I pointed to the right, to the family room. “The remote should be on the table.”
“Thanks,” Bert said, crossing quickly to the couch. “Oh, wow, this TV is huge!” Monica followed him, flopping down on the leather recliner, and a second later I heard the set click on.
I walked into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. “Does anybody want anything to drink?”
“Do you have Dr. Pepper?” Bert called out. I saw Wes shoot him a look. “I mean, no thanks.”
Kristy smiled, running her finger along the top of the island. “Look at this, it’s so cool. Like it has little diamonds in it. What’s this called?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Corian,” Wes told her, peering over her shoulder.
“Everything here is so nice,” Kristy said emphatically, looking around the kitchen. “If Stella ever gets her fill of me, I’m moving in with Macy. She’s got five bedrooms. I’d even sleep in that powder room. I bet it’s nicer than my whole doublewide.”
“It’s not,” I said.
From the living room, I could hear an announcer on the TV, speaking in a deep, important-sounding voice: “This is the future. This is our fate. This is Update: Armageddon.”
“Come on you guys, it’s on!” Bert yelled.
“Bert, use your inside voice,” Kristy told him, turning on her stool to look out the sliding glass doors at the backyard. “Wow! Monica, are you seeing this deck out here? And the pool?”
“Umm-hmm,” Monica replied.
“Monica loves pools,” Kristy told me. “She’s like a freaking fish, you can’t get her out of the water. Me, I’m more of a lie-by-the-pool-drinking-something-with-an-umbrella-in-it kind of girl.”
I took a few cans of Coke out of the fridge, then pulled some glasses out of the cabinet, filling them with ice. Kristy was now flipping through a Southern Living my sister had left behind during her last stay, while Wes stood at the back glass doors, checking out the backyard. With the noise from the TV, and everyone there, I was suddenly aware of how quiet and still my house was normally. Just the addition of so many people breathing gave it a totally different feel, some sort of palpable energy that was never there otherwise.
“I,” Delia announced as she came down the hallway, her flip-flops smacking the tile floor, “feel so much better. Never would I have imagined that peeing could make me so happy.”
From the TV, the announcer bellowed, “What do you think will bring . . . the end of the world?”
“From the looks of it,” Kristy said, flipping a page, “I’d put my money on this room decorated entirely in gingham. I mean, it’s just hideous.”
“Macy?”
I jumped, startled. It was my mother, pulling a gotcha all her own. As I turned around, my heart thumping in my chest, I saw her standing in the open archway that led to the hallway to her office, file folder in hand. She’d been here the entire time.
“Mom,” I said, too quickly. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she replied, but she wasn’t looking at me, her eyes instead moving across the room to take in Bert and Monica in front of the TV, Wes by the back doors, Delia making her way over to the couch and, finally, Kristy, her head still bent over the magazine. “I thought I heard voices.”
“We just got here.” I watched as she came into the room, sliding the file onto the counter. “I invited everyone in to watch this show. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it is,” she said. Her voice sounded up, cheery, forced. Fake. “I’ve been wanting to meet your new friends.”
Hearing this, Kristy lifted up her head, sitting up straighter. “Kristy Palmetto,” she said, sticking out her hand.
My mother, businesswoman that she was, reached for the hand first. Then she took her first good look at Kristy’s face and saw the scars. “Oh . . . hello,” she said, stumbling slightly on the second word. She recovered quickly, though, as I knew she would, and the next thing she said was smooth, absolutely not affected. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Macy. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“You have a beautiful home,” Kristy told her. She patted the island. “I especially love this Coreal.”
“Corian,” Wes corrected from behind her.
“Right.” Kristy smiled at my mother, who was doing that thing where you try to look everywhere but where your eyes are drawn naturally. Luckily, Kristy, in her black velvet shirt and short skirt, wearing full makeup, with her hair piled up on her head, offered plenty of other options. “It’s just gorgeous. Anyway, I told Macy if she’s not careful I’m moving in here. I heard you have extra bedrooms.”
My mother laughed politely, then glanced at me. I smiled, noting how forced it felt, like my lips weren’t covering my teeth enough. This was the way I always used to smile, I thought. When I had to work at it.
“Mom,” I said, nodding toward Wes as he turned around from the glass doors, “this is Wes.”
“Hi,” Wes said.
“And you know Delia,” I said, gesturing to where she was sitting on the couch.
“Of course! How are you?” my mother said.
"Very pregnant,” Delia called back, smiling. “But other than that, fine.”
“She’s due any second,” I explained, and when my mother looked slightly alarmed I added, “I mean, any day. And that’s Bert, and next to him is Monica.”
“Hello,” my mother called out, as Bert and Monica waved hello, “nice to meet you.”
“Have you heard,” the announcer on the TV bellowed, “the Big Buzz?”
“Bert really wanted to watch this show,” I explained. “It’s, um, about theories.”
“Crackpot theories,” Kristy said.
“These are backed up by science!” Bert yelled.
“Bert,” Wes said, walking over to the living room, “inside voice.”
“By science,” Bert repeated, more quietly. “The end of the world is no joke. It’s not a matter of if. It’s when.”
I looked at my mother. Something told me that the expression on her face—confusion, curiosity, maybe even shock—was not unlike the one I probably had the first day I’d been introduced to these people. But seeing it there, I had a feeling this wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
“Macy,” she said to me after a second, “can I talk to you in my office for a moment?”
“Um, sure,” I said.
“Can you believe this?” Kristy asked me, holding up the magazine to show me a living room full of wicker furniture. “Have you ever seen a more uncomfortable looking couch?”
I shook my head, then followed my mother down the short hallway to her office. She shut the door behind us, then crossed to her desk and stood behind it. “It’s after ten,” she said, her voice low. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to have people over?”
“Bert really wanted to see this show,” I said. “It’s only a half hour. Plus, I thought you were at that meeting.”
“You have to work in the morning, Macy,” she said, as if I didn’t know this. “And we’ve got a big day tomorrow as well, with the Fourth of July picnic, and you working the welcome booth. It’s not a good night for company.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “They’ll be gone soon.”
She looked down at her desk, riffling through some
papers, but her disapproval was palpable. I could feel it all around me, settling, taste it in the air.
There was a burst of laughter from the living room, and I glanced at the door. “I should go back out there,” I said. “I don’t want to seem rude.”
She nodded, running a hand through her hair. I stood up and started toward the door.
“What happened to Kristy?” she asked, just as I was about to push it open.
I had a flash of Kristy, just moments earlier, extending her hand to my mother so cheerfully. “She was in a car accident when she was eleven.”
“Poor thing,” she said, shaking her head as she pulled a pencil out of the holder on her desk. “It’s must be just horrible for her.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked. Truthfully, I hardly noticed Kristy’s scars at all anymore. They were just part of her face, part of who she was. Her outfits garnered more of my attention, maybe because they at least were always changing.
She looked at me. “Well,” she said, “only because of the disfigurement. It’s hard enough being that age, without a handicap to deal with.”
“She’s not handicapped, Mom,” I said. “She just has a few scars.”
“It’s just so unfortunate.” She sighed, picking up a folder, moving it to the other side of the desk. “She’d be a pretty girl, otherwise.”
Then she started writing, opening the folder and jotting something down. Like I was already gone, this was the end of it, there could be no rebuttal, no other side. Of course Kristy wasn’t beautiful: her flaws were right there, where anyone could see. Of course we were over my dad’s passing: just look around, we were successful, good in school, fine just fine. I’d never spoken up to say otherwise, so I had no one to blame but myself.
Thinking this, I went back into the kitchen, where I found Wes now sitting next to Kristy, both of them looking at Southern Living.
“See, this stuff isn’t nearly as good as yours,” Kristy was saying, pointing at a page. “I mean, what is that supposed to be, anyway?”
“An iron heron,” he said, glancing at me. “I think.”
“A what?” Kristy said, squinting at it again.
“No way,” I said, coming over to look for myself. Sure enough, there was an iron heron, just like my sister had been talking about.
“They’re big in Atlanta,” Wes explained to Kristy.
“Huge,” I said.
Kristy looked at him, then at me. “Whatever,” she said, nodding, as she pushed her chair out and hopped down. “I’m going to find out about that Big Buzz.”
I watched her as she walked into the living room, flopping down in our overstuffed chair. She ran her hands over the arms, settling in, then looked up at the ceiling before directing her attention to the TV.
Wes, across from me, turned a page of the magazine. “Everything okay with your mom?” he asked, not looking up.
“Yeah,” I said, glancing down at one of the iron herons. “I’m not getting the appeal of those,” I said.
He pointed at the picture. “See, first, they’re very clean and simple looking. People like that. Second, they have the wildlife thing going for them, so they fit in well with a garden. And thirdly,” he turned the page, indicating another picture, “the artist takes himself, and the herons, very seriously. So that gives them a certain cachet as well.”
I looked at the artist. He was a tall guy with white hair pulled back in a ponytail, striking a pensive pose by a reflecting pond. To me, one of the quotes below it read, my herons represent the fragility of life and destiny. “Ugh,” I said. “If that’s taking your work seriously, he can have it. ”
“Exactly.”
“Just wait, though,” I said. “Someday you’ll be in Southern Living, with a picture just like that, talking about the deep true meaning of your work.”
“Unlikely,” he said. “I don’t think they pick people who got their start by being arrested and getting sent to reform school.”
“Maybe that could be your angle,” I suggested. He made a face at me. “And anyway, what kind of attitude is that?” I asked.
“A realistic one,” he told me, shutting the magazine.
“You,” I said, poking him, “need a little positivity.”
“And you,” he said, “need to stop poking me.”
I laughed, then heard something behind me and turned around. It was my mother again, standing in the doorway. How long had she been there, I wondered, but one look at the expression on her face—stern, chin set, clearly not happy—answered this question.
“Macy,” she said, her voice level, “could you hand me that folder on the counter, please.”
I walked over to the counter by the fridge, feeling her watching me. Wes, who couldn’t help but pick up on the sudden tension in the air, started toward the living room. As he got close, Kristy moved over in the big chair, making room, and he slid in beside her.
“A reverberation,” the announcer was saying from the living room, “that would cause a domino effect among the population, causing people to slowly go insane from the constant, unknown droning.”
“You can go crazy from vibrations?” Kristy said.
“Oh, yeah,” Bert said. “You can go crazy from anything.”
“. . . a natural phenomenon,” the announcer was saying, “or perhaps a tool used by extraterrestrials, who may communicate using sounds beyond our comprehension?”
“Interesting,” Delia murmured, rubbing her stomach.
“Mmm-hmm,” Monica echoed.
I picked up the folder and brought it to my mother. She stepped out into the darkness of the hallway, giving me a look that meant I should follow.
“Macy,” she said, “did I just hear that boy say he’s been arrested?”
“It was a long time ago,” I said. “And—”
“Macy!” Kristy called out. “You’re going to miss the megahunami! ”
“Tsunami,” Bert said.
“Whatever,” she said. “It’s the mega part that matters, anyway.”
But I could barely hear this. I was just watching my mother, the way she was staring at them, her judgment so clear on her face. From Delia’s chaotic business practices to Kristy’s scars to Wes’s past, it was clear they were far from flawless.
“He’s the boy you were with the other night, correct?” she asked.
“What?” I asked.
She looked at me, her face stern, as if I was talking back, which I wasn’t. “The other night,” she repeated, enunciating the words, “when I came home and you were outside with someone. In a truck. Was that him?”
“Um,” I said, “yeah, I guess it was. He just gave me a ride.” And here I’d thought she’d hardly noticed us. But now, as I watched her looking at Wes, I knew this was one more thing she would hold against me. “It’s not what you think. He’s a nice guy, Mom.”
“When the show is over,” she said, as if I hadn’t even said this, “they leave. Understood?”
I nodded, and she stuck the folder under her arm as I headed back through the kitchen, toward the living room. I was almost there when I heard her call after me.
“I forgot to tell you,” she said, her voice loud and clear. “Jason called. He’s going to be in town for the weekend.”
“He did?” I said. “He is?”
“His grandmother’s taken ill, apparently,” she said. “So he’s coming down for the weekend. He said to tell you he gets in around noon, and he’ll see you at the library.”
I just stood there, trying to process this information, as she turned and headed back to her office. Jason was coming home. And of course my mother had felt it necessary to announce this out loud, in front of everyone—especially Wes—while so much of our other business had been conducted in private. She’d told me she wanted me back on track: this was one way of nudging me there.
When I walked into the living room, the announcer on the TV was talking about the mega-tsunami, describing in detail how all it would take was one volcano
blowing to set off the chain reaction of events that would end with that big wave crashing over our extended coastline. What other proof, I thought, did you need that life was short. That volcano could already be rumbling, magma bubbling up, pressure building to an inevitable, irrevocable burst.
Kristy scooted over on the wide arm of the oversized chair, making a space for me between herself and Wes, who was studying the screen intently. He didn’t say anything as I sat down, and I wondered if he’d heard my mother say Jason was coming home. Not that it mattered. We were just friends, after all.
“Everything okay?” Kristy asked me, and I nodded, my eyes on the TV, which was showing a computer simulation of the mega-wave. There was the volcano blowing, there was the land falling into the ocean, all of these events that led up to this one, huge After as the wave rose up and began to move across the ocean, crossing the space between Africa and where we were. All I could think was that right there, in every passing second, was the future winding itself down. Never would forever, with all its meanings, be so clear and distinct as in the true, guaranteed end of the world.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day, I woke up in the mother of all bad moods. I’d tossed and turned all night, having one bad dream after another. But the last one was the worst.
In it, I’d been walking down the sidewalk outside of the library during my lunch break, carrying my sandwich, and a car pulled up beside me, beeping its horn. When I turned my head, I saw my dad was behind the wheel. He motioned for me to get in, but when I reached for the door handle the car suddenly lurched forward, tires squealing. My dad kept looking back at me, and I could tell that he was scared, but there was nothing I could do as it headed into the intersection, which was filling up with cars from all directions. In my dream, I started to run, and it felt so real: the little catch I always felt in my ankle right after a start, that certain feeling that I’d never get my pace right. Each time I got close to my dad, he’d slip out of my reach, and everything I grabbed thinking it was the car or a part of the car slipped through my hands.