Beauty and the Mustache (6 page)

Jethro frowned at me.
“You’re drunk. You need to eat more of that sandwich.”

Instead, I sipped the
bourbon and forced my eyes to focus on Jethro, who was looking
blurrier by the minute. “What could Drew and Momma possibly have in
common?”

“
They talk about poetry,
books, meaning of life stuff. He’s always bringing her books. I
think they like the same kind of stuff. He’s got that PhD, and
Momma, you know she always wanted to go to college.”

I nodded because I did
know. I did know that she always wanted to go to
college.

But I was tempted to shake
my head because I couldn’t reconcile the image of Drew and Momma
reading poetry together. This was partly because
I
used to read poetry
with her. This was also partly because my first impression of Drew
told me that he only read magazines related to guns, cars, naked
ladies, and facial hair.

I finished half of the sandwich and washed
it down with the rest of the tea.

“
I need to sleep,” I said,
swaying a little.

“
What about brushing your
teeth?” This was an unexpected question coming from Jethro, not
because he lacked appropriate dental care. In fact, he had lovely
teeth. It was unexpected because it verged on nurturing.

My eyes were closed, and
this time neither of them would be opening for several hours.
“No…can’t…must…sleep.”

I fell backward against
the pillow, already half passed out. I wasn’t fully conscious when
Jethro lifted my legs onto the bed, pulled back the covers, and
tucked me in. But I did surface long enough to feel his kiss on my
cheek, his hand squeezing my shoulder, and to hear him whisper
something about sweet dreams before he flicked off the light and
closed the door.

“
Woman’s love involves
injustice and blindness against everything that she does not
love.... Woman is not yet capable of friendship: women are still
cats and birds, or at best cows.”

—
Friedrich
Nietzsche

Duane didn’t lock
the second floor bathroom door.

Therefore, upon waking,
stumbling out of bed, tucking my toiletry bag under my arm, and
shuffling to the bathroom, I had another lesson in the importance
of knocking. The interaction also negated any need I might have had
for caffeine to bring me fully awake.

He screamed.

I gasped then growled and
grumbled as I marched out of the bathroom. “Is this all you boys
do? Hide in the upstairs bathroom? Get a hobby for hootenanny’s
sake!”

I didn’t bother to shut
the door behind me. Instead, I raced down the steps to the first
floor and used the bathroom under the stairs. When I was finished
with my morning routine, I tucked my toiletries behind the sink and
stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Really, I was fighting the
urge to run back upstairs and read. I did this by giving myself a
stern stink-eye.

Reading, for me, was like
breathing. It was probably akin to masturbation for my brain.
Getting off on the fantasy within the pages of a good novel felt
necessary to my survival. If I wasn’t asleep, knitting, or working,
I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused
around the infinitely superior and enviable lives of fictional
heroines to real-life people.

Take romance for instance.
Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They
never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And
they never seem to have jobs with bosses.

These clean,
well-satisfied, perma-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers
as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists, or some other kind of
adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do
have a boss, he’s a cool guy (or gal) who’s invested in the woman’s
love life. Or, he’s a super hot billionaire trying to get in her
pants.

My boss cares about two
things: Am I on time? Are all my patients alive and well at the end
of my shift?

And the men in romance
novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them.
Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist
suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior
decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart
with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she
sneezes.

I suck at decorating. The
walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought
flowers. If I owned a bakery, I’d be broke and weigh seven hundred
pounds, because I love cake.

I thought longingly of my
eReader upstairs in my room. I hadn’t read since the day before
yesterday, and that was on the plane.

What I needed to do was face my brood of
brothers and figure out next steps.

What I wanted to do was
hide in my room with my latest novel and escape into a world
without bearded, masturbating hillbillies, and a world where my
beloved mother wasn’t dying.

In the end, I surrendered
to reality and made my way to the kitchen in search of coffee. I
hoped at least one or two of them would be up. I hoped maybe I
might persuade the others to have a family meeting sometime in the
afternoon.

However, the scene that
greeted me in the kitchen was surprising. Heck, it was downright
baffling.

Roscoe, my youngest
brother, was standing at our old gas stove making omelets. He was
showered and dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, all of
which appeared to be in good order. I hadn’t really noticed much
last night after my fainting spell, but now I saw that Roscoe wore
his brown beard trimmed close to his face, the hair on his head cut
short and stylish. In fact, it looked as if his hair had
product
in it.

Bizarre.

I rubbed my forehead, half
wondering if I was still asleep. The entire picture in the kitchen
was completely bizarre. My brothers were up at 7:30 a.m. They all
appeared to be dressed for work—
work!
—and were interacting like mild
mannered, well-adjusted, productive members of society. I was so
confused.

Tangentially I noted that
the roosters were at it again in the backyard, several of them
crowing like the devil. I was beginning to get used to the sound;
it was becoming the background music to the soundtrack of
Tennessee.

Roscoe glanced over his
shoulder and gave me a tight smile. It looked sad. “Hey, Ash. How
you holding up? Want an omelet?”

I nodded, staring at him
for another full ten seconds. “Yes. Yes, please. That would be
great.”

“
You want toast too?”
Cletus asked. “I can make you some toast.” He was dressed in blue
Dickies, which were worn but clean, and had a patch with his name
sewn on the left pocket of his work jumpsuit.

“
That would be great.
Thanks, Cletus.”

“
She likes butter and
strawberry jam, right Ash?” Billy, standing next to Cletus—wearing
black suit, white shirt, and black tie—indicated to me with his
coffee cup, his expression detached.

My eyebrows lifted at
Billy’s remembrance of my toast preferences as well as the fact
that he was wearing a suit. “That’s right.”

Billy muttered something
under his breath, just low enough for me not to hear.

“
What was that?” I
questioned him.

His blue eyes, same shape
and color as mine, lifted and he gave me a cool glare. “I said
you’ve been gone for eight years. It’s a wonder we know anything
about you.”

I frowned at him, and was about to question
him further when Jethro cut into the conversation.

“
I heard
a scream.” He made this statement from the kitchen table. He was
dressed in what appeared to be some kind of park ranger uniform. An
open newspaper—a
newspaper?!
—was on the table in front
of him along with a half-eaten omelet. “Was that scream from you or
Duane?”

I sighed. “That was
Duane.” Then a thought occurred to me. “Today is Wednesday. I
thought no one was assigned to Wednesday.”

“
Unassigned days are wild
card days, first come, first serve deal. He’s been up there since
sunrise.” Roscoe shook his head.

I rolled my eyes, wished I
hadn’t asked the question. “Anyway, I forgot to knock again. It was
my fault.”

“
We should get a bell for
your neck.” Billy’s blue eyes regarded me thoughtfully beneath dark
brown eyebrows. He made this suggestion matter-of-factly, like it
was a very reasonable, good idea. To him, it probably
was.

Of the brothers, Billy was
the most serious and stern. I could count on one hand all the times
I’d heard him laugh while we were growing up. His cool attitude
this morning notwithstanding, I also suspected he was the smartest
in the traditional sense. Facts and figuring came easy to him,
especially anything to do with machines.

“
Might as well just change
my name to Bessie while you’re at it,” I mumbled.

“‘…
women are still cats
and birds, or at best cows.’”

This little gem came from
the corner of the kitchen behind me, and was received by the rest
of the room with a tangible stretch of silence. I frowned at the
words—their implied meaning and their origin—and at the voice that
spoke them.

As I suspected, when I
turned I found Drew leaning against the counter, sipping coffee,
and eying me over the rim of his cup with those silvery
blues.

He was dressed in a
uniform, the kind a very official, super important park ranger
might wear. Unlike Jethro’s, his had a lot more pockets, a badge,
and a gun. A cowboy hat was at his elbow on the counter; he also
wore cowboy boots. I noted with detachment that his beard and hair
had undergone a transformation. His facial hair had been trimmed,
though his blond beard was still impressive. The unkempt locks on
his head had been brushed, pulled back, and fastened behind his
neck.

I noted these things with a
small degree of womanly interest. It was instinctual, incidental,
the way a person would notice a Maserati racing down the street and
think,
That’s a nice
car
.

His tidy, official-looking
appearance—nay, his commanding appearance—did nothing to endear him
to me, especially not after calling me a cow.

Therefore, I spoke my
thoughts before I could catch myself. “Really? You’re really going
to quote Nietzsche to me? To
me
? Nietzsche? To the sole female in
the room?” I motioned to the kitchen with a flailing, frustrated
hand wave. “When I first wake up? Before I’ve had coffee? After
finding one of my brothers mating with his hand upstairs for
the
second
time in
as many days, and
I’m
the cow?”

“
Can’t mate with hooves,”
Drew said, his delivery deadpan.

“
And yet, many men prefer
the company of sheep over their hands, or even women.” I said this
sweetly before I gave him my back and glared at Jethro. “I need to
talk to you.”

I tilted my head toward
the family room and walked out of the kitchen, waiting for Jethro
to follow. I didn’t have to wait very long; but to my infinite
aggravation, Dr. Drew Runous, PhD, trailed right behind my brother
tucking his leather notebook into one of the side pockets of his
cargo pants.

I scowled at him before
looking at my oldest brother. I was careful to keep my voice even,
sincere, and free of sarcasm when I said pointedly to Jethro, “Is
it possible for us to have a conversation without your boss being
present?”

Jethro rubbed the back of
his neck and sighed. “The thing is, Ash, we’ve all been talking
this morning, and it turns out…Momma appointed Drew here as her
power of attorney.”

“
What?” My eyes bounced
back and forth between them.

I was sure that I’d heard
incorrectly. Maybe Jethro had said
MOMMA
painted dew-hair as their flower of anatomy.
Honestly, that would have made more sense to me than the
possibility that Drew held my mother’s power of
attorney.

“
Ash, let me
explain-”

“
What did you
say?”

Jethro swallowed thickly,
met my stare, and repeated his pronouncement in a level tone.
“Momma appointed Drew as her power of attorney.”

Drew nodded once. He had
the decency to stay silent and keep his face devoid of
expression.

I sputtered for a minute.
Then I consulted the ceiling. It was silent on the matter and,
strangely, didn’t seem to share my outrage.

At last I managed to
speak. “Medical or financial?”

“
Both.” Jethro’s mouth
twisted to the side in a half smile, sheepish and bracing. “He
holds her medical power of attorney, her financial power of
attorney, and he’s the executor of her will.”

My mouth opened, but
nothing emerged for seven seconds.

Then I laughed.

I laughed and laughed.

I laughed because I was frustrated and angry
and sad and overwhelmed. I held my stomach and doubled over, my
eyes blurring with tears of hilarity and misery and grief. Jethro
guided me to the couch and sat next to me, his hand on my upper
back.