B003UYURTC EBOK (15 page)

The thing that bothered me most about my little brother was the way he constantly corrected everyone’s grammar. If you used a word even barely wrong he would be there to catch it, correct you, and then explain to you why you had made the mistake, even though you probably weren’t listening. But oddly enough, I found myself missing these corrections that summer. I would be sitting in my room and, out loud, say to no one things like, “Neither of us are going” and “I laid down for a nap this afternoon.” And then I would listen to the silence that was not my brother fixing my mistakes and I would pretend, just for a moment, to be him. “Neither of us
is
going,” I would say smugly. “I
lay
down for a nap this afternoon.”

I did not talk to Ada Taylor for three days after being practically thrown out of her house. I didn’t call her, she didn’t call me. It was as if we’d at some point planned to not call each other for that set period of time, because when I finally decided to drive over to her house, I nearly backed into her pulling up into our driveway. We leaned against her car, her talking, me listening. She said things like, “Sorry, but Mom is really strict, and she’d kill me if she knew I had a boy stay over,” and “I think my
dad might have heard us whispering, but I don’t think he’ll say anything.”

“Next time,” she said, “we’ll just have to find a better place.”

“Right,” I said, unable to restrain my smile.

“You perv,” she joked, punching me in the arm.

“Your mom’s a perv.”

“That’s mature.”

“Your mom’s mature.” I laughed.

“Cullen.”

“Sorry.”

Book Title #82:
Five A.M. Is for Lovers and Lawn Ornaments.

           When she decided to move in with her grandmother in Savannah, Alma Ember had to make only one phone call before she was sent a one-way plane ticket and cab fare in a brown manila envelope. Upon her arrival, she was greeted at the door by Beverly Ember, who looked nowhere near her age, which was supposedly seventy-six. Her grandmother hugged her neck, her strong perfume nearly choking Alma, and swayed back and forth until finally letting go, leaning back to look at Alma’s face, and then going in for another hug.

“You look so beautiful,” she said to her only granddaughter.

“I get it from you,” Alma said back, smiling.

It took little time for Alma to settle in, and she eventually
got used to her grandmother’s constant questions and suggestions about what they should do or where they should go. Alma had decided, at the last minute, not to accept the fully paid scholarship offered to her by the University of Arkansas, and opted instead to attend the Savannah College of Art and Design, where she would finally stop talking about being a photographer and become one. All of this, of course, was afforded to her by Beverly Ember, who had, upon the death of her third husband, reached a financial status she’d never before thought possible. And so Alma Ember began her studies and lived with her grandmother in the mostly peaceful Georgia town, allowing herself to be troubled only by portfolio deadlines and country-club luncheons.

Her freshman year proved more challenging than she’d hoped, but Alma walked out on the last day of the semester with an A average and a long, steady stride, her hair in a swinging ponytail, her green and white skirt bouncing at her every step. When she got home, she kissed her grandmother’s cheek, walked up the stairs to her room, and tossed her book bag into the bottom of her closet. She threw herself back onto her bed and, still bouncing slightly, let her limbs fall lifeless to her sides. She closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. She fell asleep.

Upon graduating with his degree in philosophy, Cabot Searcy was told by his father that he couldn’t have wasted more money or time if he’d tried. Cabot grinned at this, leaned close to his father’s right ear, and told him to wait and see. Over the three
years since Benton Sage had died, Cabot had continued his study of the Book of Enoch, and had even written four research papers on the topic. Cabot Searcy would not give up his “quest,” as he called it, for the truth behind modern human existence. He had debated exhaustingly with theology majors, had butted heads with two or three local pastors, and had once been involved in a fist fight after calling the president of the Catholic Students Foundation an ignorant pedophile. There were many people very glad to see Cabot Searcy—who had begun his college years as a charming, friendly, and polite young man—leaving for good.

“Well, what now?” Cabot’s uncle Jeff asked him after the graduation ceremony, as the family gathered in a restaurant near downtown Atlanta.

“Well, I was thinking about graduate school, but I’m not sure which one,” Cabot answered.

“What area of study are you considering this time?” his aunt Corinne asked.

“I was thinking about finding a place to study ancient theology.”

“Are you going to be a minister?” one of his sisters asked.

“No,” he answered.

“How is it,” his father began, “that you plan on ever making any money, Cabot?”

“I’ll get by,” he said plainly.

“Not on my dollar, you won’t,” his father said quietly.

“Richard,” Cabot’s mom whispered, glaring at her husband from across the table.

“Well,” Uncle Jeff said, raising his glass, “how about a toast?”

“To what?” his wife asked.

“To Cabot finding his way.”

Clink.

Alma Ember didn’t like going out on dates. In fact, she hated the very thought of sitting awkwardly across from some guy she’d just met and pretending to be interested in what he said or racking her brain to say things to make herself seem interesting to him. And so she just avoided the whole thing altogether. She declined offers to go get coffee; she froze up at the first inclination of flirtation. She sat away from any guy who showed her too much attention in class. Living with a seventy-six-year-old was beginning to take its toll on Alma, however, as the summer moved slowly along and she grew tired of sitting poolside alone at the country club and watching senior citizens drink martinis.

The first date that Alma agreed to go on since arriving in Savannah one year earlier was with a twenty-two-year-old graphic design major named Nico. Nico, whom she’d met in her design class, was from Aspen, Colorado. He had looked her number up and had given her a call sometime that June. She briefly considered letting him down, but took a deep breath, shook her head, and told him she was free for Friday night.

They ate on the balcony of a nice restaurant. Alma only felt uncomfortable one time, and only because the waiter kept flirting with her. Nico looked better than he had in class, mostly because he was wearing a nice button-down instead of some wrinkly T-shirt. He did the things that girls like to have done
for them on first dates. Opened doors. Pulled back chairs. Gave random compliments. Laughed at her jokes. Didn’t laugh at his own. He never broke eye contact with her. He was confident, but not cocky. Suave, but eccentrically charming. He spoke without flaw about things like art and music, and always asked her opinions and listened to her answers. He nodded his head. He took small sips of his water. He stood up when she left to go to the restroom.

In the mirror, Alma Ember practiced her smile. She said something like, “Of course I’ll marry you,” while batting her eyelids. She began to make herself laugh. She washed her hands, reapplied her lipstick, and walked toward the table. After they both sat back down, Nico asked her a question.

“Why do you want to be a photographer?”

“That’s hard. I’m not sure. It just seems right,” she answered.

“Right. It seems like what you were made for, you mean?” he asked.

“It’s like every time I see something beautiful, I wish I had it on film. And this is my way of making sure that every thing like that is captured somehow,” she said, lighting up at her own surprising response.

“Awesome,” he said, taking another sip of water.

“And you?” she asked.

“Me what?” he said, smiling.

“Why do you want to be a graphic designer?”

“The money,” he answered plainly.

“What?” She laughed.

“Oh, and it’s fun, too.” He laughed with her.

In the three weeks that followed, Alma Ember stayed over at Nico’s apartment every night but two, causing her grandmother to suspect that she was being corrupted and leading to a brief argument about proper ladylike behavior.

“Ladies don’t stay over at men’s homes,” Beverly said.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Grandmother,” she said back.

“It just doesn’t look good to me.”

“You don’t trust me?” Alma asked, her eyes big and watery.

“Of course I do, honey. I just worry, you know that.”

“I know. I’ll try and do better,” Alma said, biting lettuce off her fork.

One week later, Alma asked her grandmother if Nico could move into the guest bedroom for a few weeks until he found a new apartment. His roommate had left him with rent that he couldn’t afford. Beverly sighed deeply, looked up at Alma, and nodded yes. One month later, Nico sat on the couch in the living room as Beverly poured herself an iced tea in the kitchen and Alma whispered to her mother on the phone in her bedroom.

“Mom, I’m getting married next month.”

Cabot Searcy’s uncle Jeff had hired him to run errands for his real estate development company that summer, and Cabot, although he found the job to be boring and tedious, enjoyed being able to live in his uncle’s large house and spend his free time reading and writing. What he also liked about Savannah was the quietness of the place, the lack of traffic, the sweet tea, and the way his aunt’s friends talked and laughed when they
gathered in the parlor to play Uno. After about a month of this, Cabot had a conversation with his father on the telephone.

“You can’t just live off your uncle for the rest of your life, Cabot,” his father said.

“I know that, Dad. I’ve been looking for jobs and stuff,” he replied.

“Where? What jobs have you looked for?”

“Umm, well, I looked at the want ads and didn’t see anything,” Cabot said.

“You’ve got to start taking things seriously. This is ridiculous.” His father was beginning to raise his voice.

“Dad, give me some time. I’ll figure it out. I know you’re frustrated and so am I, but it’ll just take time.”

Cabot’s cousin, Josh, who was still in high school, walked into his bedroom one afternoon and sat down on the bed. He picked at the bedspread before looking over at Cabot, who sat at the desk in the corner, and began to speak.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asked.

“What is it?” Cabot replied.

“Do you think you could take me to the movies tonight?” Josh asked hesitantly.

“Sure. No problem. I got nothing else to do.”

“Thanks,” Josh said, springing up, smiling, and walking out of the room.

In the movie theater, Cabot and Josh sat in the back row, popcorn in one hand and a six-dollar drink in the other. They each put their feet up on the empty seat in front of them and leaned back, waiting for the lights to dim and the movie to start.

“So, is this supposed to be funny?” Cabot asked Josh.

“I think some of it is. It’s like part funny and part sad,” Josh answered.

“I’ve never heard of it before now,” Cabot said.

“I hear it’s great.”

The lights dimmed in the movie theater as Alma and Nico situated themselves in their seats near the front row. They had walked in just in time—not too late to miss the beginning of the movie, but just late enough to miss the opportunity for decent seats. Nico seemed unaffected by this. Alma was angered, whispering into his ear, “I’m gonna need a chiropractor after this.” Nico chuckled as the previews began to light up the screen, and Alma continued to gripe about the seats, spilling half her popcorn in the process and then quietly closing her eyes for a few seconds to calm down.

Thirty-seven minutes into the movie was all it took Alma Ember to realize that she was not yet ready to force herself to enjoy some indie snore-fest just because it was the only thing Nico liked to watch. She whispered into his ear that she needed to use the restroom and scooted her way out of the row of seats. Once back in the lobby, she sat down on a bench and picked tiny bits of popcorn off her shirt. She took out her phone and tried to call the first friend she could think of to make fun of the terrible movie. She got no answer. As she attempted to call a second friend to kill more time, someone sat down beside her, muttering something under his breath.

“What?” she said, looking up at the young man, his hair disheveled and in his eyes, his skin tan and his expression bored.

“I can’t sit through any more of that shit,” he said, laughing.

“You too?” she asked.

“It’s like watching a car wreck or something,” he joked.

“More like getting a root canal,” she joked back.

“I’m Cabot,” he said.

“Alma,” she said, grasping and shaking his outstretched hand.

“I have an aunt named Alma,” he said.

“I know a town named Cabot,” she said back.