The Sisters Montclair (14 page)

And because she was still intimidated by him and felt guilty that she did not love him enough, she allowed this instruction.

In the early days of their marriage, she played with the idea of ending her life. It was a taboo subject; she would never say the word “suicide”, but in the quiet hours of early dawn she would sometimes imagine the cold metal of a revolver against her tongue, a fleeting sense of weightlessness as she took flight from the Walnut Street Bridge. What, she wondered, would the moment of death be like? A sudden extinguishment of all thought and emotion? Or a gradual dawning of something else?

But as the cold, hard light of early dawn crept into the room, she would put her wild nocturnal imaginings away. She wasn’t a coward. She would never do that to her parents, would never visit upon them the grief of having to explain a child’s desperate act to strangers, to hear the whispers, the pitying stares as they walked along the street. And when she felt the quickening of her first child deep in her belly, she banished such thoughts forever. Her life would never again be her own. She had been raised to accept the yoke of sacrifice and personal responsibility, and as each succeeding child was born, she submitted gracefully. She derived pleasure from her role as mother, and despite the lonely hours and sleepless nights, a feeling of self-worth she had not felt before. Her children promised hope, a feeling that she might transform her life, and in so doing, leave the past behind her forever. Her children would be her salvation.

Looking down into their sweet faces, she understood clearly now that her life would be one of atonement.

J
osh and Macklin were sitting on the sofa playing Halo when Stella got home. She was tired; it was amazing how tiring a twelve hour shift could be, even one where you could read or nap a good part of the time.

“Hey,” Macklin said as she walked in.

“Take that, asshole,” Josh said, tapping his controller. Neither one looked at her. She threw her backpack down on a chair and walked into the kitchen.

“Bring me a beer,” Josh shouted from the other room.

“Me, too,” Macklin said.

The kitchen was a mess, dirty dishes stacked in the sink, a jar of mayonnaise with the lid off sitting on the counter along with a packet of bologna and a nearly-empty sleeve of white bread. There was no dishwasher and Stella was accustomed to washing everything by hand. She washed dishes as she used them, but Josh didn’t, and on Wednesdays and Thursdays the sink filled quickly.

She pulled three beers out of the refrigerator and went back in and sat down, setting the beers down on the coffee table next to an empty pizza box.

“Was that dinner?” Stella said, looking at the pizza box.

Josh kept his eyes on the game. “Yep,” he said.

“Thanks for saving me a piece.”

His eyes slid to her, then back to the game. “You weren’t here,” he said.

She tugged on the beer, her eyes fixed on the flickering screen. If she had done that to him, eaten it all without leaving him a piece, he would have pouted for days. There was a double standard in this house. There had been since the beginning.

She stood up, too tired to think about it anymore, picked up her backpack, and headed for the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Josh said.

“To bed. I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

“I wonder why.”

“Hey, try working an eight hour day, five days a week if you want to know what tired feels like.”

“Yeah, dude,” Macklin said. “Try dragging your ass out of bed every morning at seven-thirty.”

She wanted to say,
Yeah? Well, try staying up until three a.m. doing homework while some asshole plays video games all night and drinks with his friends. Try working twelve fucking hours and then coming home to a trashed apartment and no food on the table, knowing you’ve got another three hours of studying ahead of you.
But it wouldn’t do any good to get into a pissing match with Josh, especially with Macklin around. She would never win.

She was half-way up the stairs when Josh called to her, “I forgot to tell you, I need my car tomorrow.”

She turned swiftly and came back to the bottom of the stairs. “How am I supposed to get to work?” she said.

He shrugged. “Isn’t there a bus?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Sorry but I’m meeting some friends after work and you don’t get off until eight.”

“If I don’t show up, I’ll get fired. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t give a shit as long as you find something else.”

Macklin chuckled. “Take that, bitch,” he said to the screen.

Stella stood there, eyeing him stubbornly. “Can’t you meet your friends Friday night?”

Josh’s eyes slid to her. He let them rest on her a moment before going back to the game. There was a warning in his expression. “No,” he said.

Because she didn’t have the courage to stare at Josh, she stared at Macklin.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” he said. “My car needs a new tranny. Jessica’s been taking me to work.”

“Can she take me?”

“I doubt it. But you can call her.”

She went upstairs and lay down on the bed with the beer resting on her stomach. She couldn’t call Jessica; they weren’t really friends. She only seemed to tolerate Stella because Josh and Macklin were friends. And she didn’t know anyone else well enough to call them and ask them to drive her up Lookout Mountain at seven-thirty in the morning. She could call a cab but that would eat up a good portion of her earnings.

She should have considered this before she took the job. The distance, the lack of transportation up the mountain. Josh had been good about letting her use his car on Wednesdays and Thursdays, catching a ride to work with a co-worker who lived a couple of blocks over. It wasn’t his fault she didn’t have any friends.

She drank her beer, looking at the stains on the stippled ceiling. When she had finished, she leaned over and set the can on the floor, rummaging in her backpack for the small piece of paper Luke Morgan had given her.

“I wondered why you hadn’t called me,” he said. They were driving slowly up Lookout Mountain, the morning sun casting a rosy glow over the distant ridges.

“I’ve been busy,” she said.

“I thought maybe it was because I’d asked too many personal questions the last time we met.”

She turned her face to the glass, not saying anything. His car was a Jeep Cherokee, littered with bags of camera equipment and pieces of paper covered in lines of type.
Scripts,
she guessed.

“That coffee smells good,” she said, embarrassed by the awkward silence between them.

“Oh, damn, where are my manners?” He grinned and leaned forward and picked up a plastic cup and handed it to her.

“You bought me coffee?” she said.

“Is that okay?” He glanced at her and then back at the road. “There’s a cool little coffee house near where I live and I just picked up a couple of lattes to go. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid.”

“No. It’s really good. Thanks.” She sipped her coffee, feeling guilty that she’d not called him for the class notes. Of course he’d wondered why she hadn’t after that first time. It was no wonder she had no friends, always keeping herself aloof, drawing away whenever she felt someone coming too close. And what had he done, really, that was so terrible? Nothing more than make a casual observation. A very astute, very troubling observation.

“Look, about that day we had coffee,” she said.

“No. Don’t explain. You don’t have to. Sometimes I overstep my bounds. It’s one of the qualities of being a documentary filmmaker - curiosity. What some people would call being a nosy asshole.”

“I don’t think you’re a nosy asshole.”

“Well, you don’t know me very well yet.”

She liked the way he said
yet
. As if he was certain that they would become friends, as if there was no hesitation on his part. She glanced at him, noting the strong jaw line, the way his hair curled softly around his ears. His face, in profile, was interesting, but not handsome. It was his eyes that gave his face its attractiveness. His eyes and his voice, pitched low and soothing like a stage hypnotist.

He swung his arm over the seat and picked up a faded messenger bag. “Here,” he said, “look in that top pouch. I’ve been making you copies of Thursday’s notes.”

She didn’t know what to say. She was not unaccustomed to the kindness of strangers. But she had forgotten how it comes over you when you least expect it; gratitude and surprise at the goodness of people. She took the copies from him.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No worries.”

She remembered Monica from the shelter in Birmingham. A young woman, a social worker not yet hardened to the troubles of others. She had taken Stella under her wing, had taken her in, given her a safe place to live and let her see how, with an education, she could make a good life for herself, independent of anyone else. It was Monica who had seen to it that Stella finished her GED, Monica who had taken her to sit for her SAT, Monica who had written reference letters and arranged for Stella to be accepted into a special program at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. Monica was the only true friend she’d had since she left home at sixteen, which explained why Stella had stopped taking her calls or answering her emails. If she failed, if she didn’t make it, it would be easier if Monica didn’t know. Stella spent a lot of time preparing herself for failure.

They had reached the top of the mountain and were driving slowly past columned mansions set back on wide sweeping lawns.

“Wow,” Luke said. “Pretty high on the hog up here.”

She laughed. “That’s a Southern expression,” she said.

He glanced at her, grinning. “Oh, I know quite a few Southern expressions now.
Mad as a bullfrog in a thumbtack factory. Crazy as a lizard with sunstroke. Stuffed like a Republican ballot box.
”

“It’s only when I meet people who grew up some place else that I realize how crazy we talk.”

“I wouldn’t call it crazy. More like – descriptive. Creative, linguistically speaking.”

“See, that’s not something a Southerner would say. ‘Linguistically speaking.’ People would think you were stuck up as a dog with two tails.”

“I like plain-spoken people.”

The lawns of the large houses they passed sparkled with morning dew. The tall trees lining the street were beginning to leaf out and in several of the yards daffodils and snow drops raised their sunny heads.

“I can’t wait to get out of the South,” Stella said. “The minute I graduate, I’m out of here and I’m never coming back.”

He glanced at her and she had the impression he was about to ask her something, but then thought better of it.

“Take a right here,” she said, “and follow Brow Road.”

The houses became increasingly grand as they followed the curving road. From time to time a space would clear, with the foggy valley spread out below them and the ridges of the mountains rising in the distance.

“Beautiful place,” he said. “This view is better than anything I’ve ever seen in L.A. It reminds me a little of the Hudson Valley.”

“Yeah, well rich folks always take the high ground.” She hadn’t meant it to come out the way it had, bitter and envious.

He glanced at her and again she had the impression that he was poised to ask her something, but thought better of it.

He said, “Do you like your job? You said you were a caregiver, right?”

“I like it all right. She’s a pretty cool old lady. I didn’t think I’d like her at first but she kind of grows on you. I don’t know why. She has a lot of stories that she tells over and over again. She forgets she’s already told me but that’s okay, because I like hearing her stories. I’m guessing it drives some caregivers crazy, but I like it. Also, she’s got this really dry sense of humor. I think she’s hilarious.”

“Sounds like someone I might like to film.”

“Oh, no. She’s very private. She’d never allow that.” She pointed ahead through the windshield. “Do you see that speed limit sign? Take the first left after the sign. Don’t pull up in the circular drive just let me out in front of the garage.”

He did as she requested, leaving the car idling as she gathered her backpack and climbed out into the cool morning air.

“Hey, thanks,” she said leaning over, the door resting on her hip. “I really appreciate this. And thanks for the notes, too.”

“No problem,” he said. “How are you getting home?”

“My boyfriend is picking me up,” she said, feeling her face heat up at the lie. She had already decided to take a cab.

“You have a boyfriend?” His smile seemed to flatten at the corners.

“Didn’t I mention that?”

“I don’t think I asked.”

“Oh. Well.” She laughed nervously. She put her hand on the door. “Thanks again.”

“I’ll see you in class,” he said, not looking at her, and she closed the door.

Alice was going out to lunch with Adeline, Ann, and Weesie and she was in a good mood. She rang the bell for exercise around nine-thirty and when Stella appeared in the doorway, Alice said, “Are you ready to walk?”