Imperative Fate (2 page)

“Sit down,” U.J. besought, reddening my cheeks, readying me for a mudslinging match.

Mama, small as ever, slouching into the couch, started: “I-I just don’t think we can say that I was good enough for—”

“We can’t say anything until tomorrow, when they call,” U.J. interjected harshly, shaking his head, cowboy cap in his big paws. “Rhea,” he directed his attention towards me. “I can’t stay a day longer. You—you and your brother—are gonna havta look after your mom while I’m gone. Can you do that much?”

              The anxiety was useless; I was fine. “Sure, I can do that,” I said with a hint of revolt.

Mom put on her brave face, holding her thumb. “Jim, I’ll be fine. I told you, I won’t get into that jumble again. The kids aren’t guardian to
me
. I’m fine, we’ll be fine. Go; make business deals and riches like you’re supposed to. Without me.”

I turned my head and rolled my eyes. It was just as she said the last time. I didn’t even know the jumble she was referring to. Surely, whatever it was, it was too big to be called a “jumble.”

U.J. was just as exasperated with her placation. He stood up, put his gin on the mahogany table and crossed his arms.

Arthur sighed, attentive only to the stitching of his pants.

My eyes were glued to U.J.’s spiked coffee cup. It summoned two memories.

The first, vices are disguised too easily in plain sight and no one ever brings them up.
Until it’s too late.

Like with Mama, when six months ago she had this shack strewn with liquor bottles. She hid Jack Daniel’s in her closet and Absolut Vodka below her bathroom sink. (God knows why, her life has been a pretty
persistent
suck. No ups or downs really. Just a lackluster straight-line flitting in purgatory.)

The second and seconds old, when Anthony sprinkled malt over my abdomen and licked it off, suggesting I clutch tight the dark, wooden desk. 

“Damn it, Julia!” her brother exclaimed, rupturing my quaint fantasy, making a fist and quickly burying it in his pocket.

Everyone’s eyes flickered back on scene.

“Stop telling me what I want to hear and do it instead! You’re a grown lady now, for Christ’s sake! I better not come back to excuses and ‘little fibs’ and logjam poverty. I don’t mind coming to the rescue; you’re my li’l sis and I’ll be here if you need help or a hand, but not if you’re always to blame. You have to stand on your own two feet and should have by now—”

In came the inevitable crying. When I’m not the cause, it can be rather annoying.

I ran a tube of gloss over my parched lips, and tapped at Arthur’s shoulder to ask him to leave with me. He shook his curly head and gripped Mama’s arm, too comforting. I always suggested he become a therapist, so patient, a pro boot-licker.

“Now c’mon, Julia, didn’t mean to make you cry. I know since Jerry left you, the economy, and everything as tempting as it is, it’s been tough . . . but beyond that . . . you could stand to be more assertive and successful. I know you
can.” Jimmy picked Mom up from the couch and pulled her into a hug.

Yuck.

Feeling awkward, ignored, and selfish, I scampered to the only place allotting adequate privacy in a shoddy two-bed apartment: the garage.

Right as I was wishing Anthony would pursue his vow to take care of Mom and U.J.’s personalities, to protect me from their smarmy influence, Arthur came to check on me.

“Okay there, Ree?” he asked.

“We’re the epitome of white trash, aren’t we?” I insisted, wiping the dust off my knees.

Arthur smiled, dragging on one of U.J.’s cigarettes, and sighed out the smoke. “Someone has to be, I guess.”

“And someone’s got to break free from it,” I finished, praying my future has more potential than this damn house.

6/6

“I just want to make sure you’re being safe,” Mother droned behind me on the porch, trying to fix the sharpness of my cuffed short sleeve. Addict’s fingers; they kept slipping.

I exhaled dramatically and spun around.
“Like you ever cared before! I’ll be fine, Mama. I’m outta here. I’ll call, whatever, I’m going.” I watched her grip and eyes decline.

Mama’s a weak woman, a girl truly. I knew by now it didn’t matter who I said I was with and how much doubt it brought. Mama’s not a fighter. Mama’s not even an arguer.

“Just like that?” she queried, eyes tapering like the widow she is. “You’re not gonna change? You know I think that dress is awfully short. People will talk. You’re gonna leave me by my lonesome self while your brother’s at Stacey’s? No kiss goodbye? Like I’m a—” Mama’s more of a pitier.

“Ma, relax!” I insisted with a quick peck on the cheek. “Brittany’s just taking me for a few days; you’ll live. And there’s nothing wrong with what I have on!” I pirouetted, showing her that the belted beauty really isn’t so revealing. “I look so cute!”

She smirked, arms feebly crossed. “Yes, you always do. That’s why I worry.” She sighed and folded. “Hold fast to what is good and wholesome,” she warned.

“Shouldn’t you be worrying about yourself?” I challenged emotionlessly.

She frowned and waved farewell with the little spunk she had left.

~
***
~

“Your
daughter
?” I repeated, giggling, so giddy to get away from home drama. Not only did I get to spend more time with sweet-talking Anthony, but he brought me to Galveston for the Texas Republican Convention! (The politicking is pretty blah, but at least it’s by the beach and nice hotels.) I poked at the culprit like questionable leftovers.

“Like you
never
lied,” Anthony dismissed quietly, shaking his head now that his campaign cronies were gone from our hotel room. “How’d you get here? Who’s selling your story four hours away?” he asked rhetorically. “’Sides, who else am I gonna say you are?”

“Yeah, who
else
?” I snarled, pseudo upset, hitting him with one of the thick couch pillows.

He rolled up my prodding hand and squeezed it, trying to act serious. “You got brain worms, baby doll? You’re underage. I ain’t
sayin’ you’re my girlfriend.”

“I’m just saying if I gotta play DA’s daughter, I
oughta
be a legitimate one.”

He laughed and wrapped an arm around me. “That ship sunk already, sweetheart. There’s only so much we can pretend and get away with when it comes to the press.
Can’t make up a wife. Can only say it’s a touché subject, my baby mama and all, and the press oughta get back to the political questions, to business; that’s what it’s all about. Business.”

I puckered, momentarily despondent. “Don’t you think irresponsibility makes you look lousy?”

“Who’s my staff gonna tell? If anythin’, they’ll work hard as you to keep it wrapped up lika Chicago dog. Literally their job. Havta look good for the press,” Anthony boasted, straightening his tie’s mouth. He propped his feet up on the coffee table, always a little off, a snag too casual for the white collar he’s supposed to be wearing. “That’s what they like. Fourth estate doesn’t like truth. They like a front they can mess with. They can do as much with it as they can carry. Who cares? Not me.”

Knotting our fingers, I echoed, “Not you, not you,” rubbing a speck from my sunglasses, taking in our pleasant suite. “How much better is it gonna be when you’re a bigwig Rep
., a real somebody?” I asked, earning his defensive demeanor, running my free hand over the beautiful coat of the ivory sofa.

“
Whata ya mean
when
? Got you and this far, right?”

Bringing my legs up under my polka dot dress, I stammered, “Yeah, I-I guess, but—”

“Don’t worry about it, sweet thing, we’ve got it made.”

“If you say so” was my motto forthwith.

I said it again when he proposed I attend his fundraiser pregnant with generous delegates.

I followed it up, “Sure thing,
Daddy-o
,” and pranced to the vanity like a smaller child. I had my Humbert, my cover, and ticket away from humdrum Austin. Name a reason not to skip.

~
***
~

Perfumed and changed into a more conservative evening dress, I prowled tables for an empty seat until I was struck by a pink Victorian gown too stylish to ignore. Moving in quickly and too caught up with the sublime beauty, I was rubbing the beige grape-and-vine pattern and real pearls to get a clue on the material before I could do a reality check. I guess you could say I’m a fashion victim.

“Ohmigosh . . . hi, sorry, really pretty,” I said to the startled girl about my age. I smiled, embarrassed.

She didn’t seem to mind when I sat next to her; her teeth sparkled and her jade eyes ignited. She admired my sparrow necklace and it made me feel privileged, though it was probably just a polite exchange. She was just the movie star lush I wanted to meet, just the kind of refined spectacle I expected to find and learn from while here.

Though she was too young to be a somebody, I knew she was old enough not to be a nobody.

“So what’re you doing here, who are you, if you’ll let me ask?” I began more eloquently, putting one leg over the other and straightening my posture.

Her lips quivered like she was laughing but no noise came out.

I put my hands in my lap.

“My daddy, Senator Moss, frequents these things and brings me just as much.” She shrugged. “He’s always got somewhere to speak and something to say. Those are two very different things, you know.”

I nodded like I knew who that is and what she meant.

She gestured towards the stage Anthony was hiding behind. I bet he was sweating bullets, not so tight when the cameras are away.

Her father was walking up the steps, a very handsome man, as good-looking as my love but in a different way. Mr. Moss was very robust, even in his old timey waistcoat and bowtie. He looked like a classic gentleman of the Antebellum Era that chopped down wood at sunrise and delivered stirring speeches at sunset.

“I’m so glad he’s not like the other animals in Congress.” Her smile broke and rekindled. “Not to say that’s how everybody is. There are a bunch of creeps, but there are some sweethearts you wouldn’t believe either. I mean, I assume you don’t know; I’ve never seen you before. Name’s Ellie Anne.” She extended her hand and I was a bit ashamed to take it by where she left off. I had to save face.

“Oh, well, I kinda know. I
will
know. I’m with Anthony,” I blurted, the words sputtering like a bike bound to crash beneath me.

Ellie quirked a petite brow.
“That’s who we’re all here for. It’s his gig; he’s the poor new-comer. How are you here for him, exactly? You gotta be too young to donate to him.”

To stall, I pretended to be lost in her father’s soliloquy.
Gig, that’s what they call ’em? They won’t like him cuz he’ll be a freshman?
I fumbled, twisting my discount rings.
That’s not right; they all start somewhere. He said it would be different.

“I’m his daughter,” I eventually perpetuated.

Ellie’s rose and cream complexion melted. Embarrassed, she apologized, “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just relative. Your father is new and hasn’t the funds to sustain his pull. That’s where we come in, after all. So, your name, what is it? Connors . . . what?” she scavenged, playing with her pretty white-gold hair.

The security from my lie vanished instantly. “Oh!” I squeaked, unprepared again.
Think, think
.
Can’t be boring Rhea, can’t be an Austin no-name; havta be something more than me, not white trash or Mama’s baby.
But all I could think about was Lolita and Humbert, Lolita and Humbert.
What life and what name did she leave behind? Was it as Daisy, Dolly?
Dolores.

“Dahlia, Dahlia Connors,” I answered, thinking
Close enough.
I laughed and grinned, momentarily proud of my handiwork.
Convincing for now, right?

“Dahlia?
Now that’s cute . . . I always meet up with a couple of boys from Vermont at venues like these, that’s it, all that stuck and not great. One is shy and the other would be better off that way. So I’m glad you’re sitting with me. I’m normally all by myself or with what the rally wombs had to offer. Not many politicos bring their offspring; probably have affairs to keep in order.”

She was a little seedy with the sting in her pronunciation. Besides her father, she clearly has no taste for politicians or their pollution, but I think that’s alright.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how to cheat or how to win or what makes politicos tick.  

6/7

Lying in the wrinkled hotel sheets, my feet thawed from the AC as sunlight dipped between the curtains. From the floor-length window, I watched the ocean curl and uncurl, couples stroll the sand clingy as Esteé foundation, and children bob and dash in their games as I stretched out like a cat.

Anthony coughed on his stump of a cigarette, playing with his shark-mouthed lighter at the table off to the corner, off in his Shangri-La.