Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (23 page)

“Lord,” Patsy said. “What’s she up to? Trying to convince Katie Lee she hung the moon?”

“Is anything going on in The Bern?”

“Somethin’s always goin’ on in The Bern. Guess what twosome I ran into?”

“Nash?”

“And Billy Ray.”

I bolted upright. “Wait a minute. Last I heard Billy Ray stole Nash’s tires. And now they’re hanging out?”

“It gets better. I’ve been collecting cigarette butts to make into a rug and went to the Hobbie Lobbie for supplies.”

“A craft store?” I asked.

“Billy Ray was buyin’ paint thinner and canvas boards. Took all the 10x12’s off the shelf. Weird, huh?”

“Did they see you?”

“Of course they saw me. I stood right in front of the two of them and said ‘Hey.’”

“What’d they say?”

“Said, ‘Hey, how’s it going?’”

“What were they doing in there?” I asked.

“That’s what I wanted to know. I asked what all the canvases were for. Billy Ray smirked. Said he was makin’ homemade Christmas presents for his aunts.”

“Really?”

I heard Patsy flicking a lighter and wished I was with her. “Those two are inta somethin’. Their faces looked like they’d turned pool water yellow.”

“Paint thinner? Do you think they’re planning arson? Patsy, what are we gonna do about Nash?”

“I watched them leave. Billy Ray got into a car with Jackson and Nash left in his truck. I have a few friends, quietly checkin’ on some things. We need to figure out exactly what’s goin’ on before we set him on the path of redemption. Katie Lee needs to know what Nash is all about--from Nash. You and I are gonna make sure that happens.”

“I don’t know, Patsy. Nash is a professional fuck up. I mean how are we going to pull something convincing off?”

“I’m workin’ on it. Just trust me.”

I MET DAD AT HIS RESTORATION SHOP on Saturday. He wanted to show me a painting before we went out to lunch. His business headquarters was a nothing-special brick building near an industrial park and train tracks. No one would ever guess that one-of-a-kind masterpieces valued at five, six and even seven figures moved in and out of the sliding barn doors.

Dad wore white cotton gloves and unwrapped a portrait. “Your mother bought this at a garage sale before she left.” He laid the canvas under a white light on a worktable. “What do you think?”

“French. Sixteenth or seventeenth century.”

“Good,” he said, which surprised me. Dad rarely gave me compliments. Then he clarified, “Sixteenth. It’s a Quesnel. Your mother paid one-hundred-fifty dollars. I met my buddy at the Cleveland Museum and had him take a look.”

“What’s the estimated value?”

“The frame isn’t original, and there’s some damage to the canvas, but the signature is authentic. Once it’s refurbished we could get three to seven thousand.”

“Way to go Mom,” I said, wishing she were here.

“Rachael, would you work on it when you come home for winter break?”

“Really?”

“Really. I’ll give you a 10 percent commission when it sells.”

“Deal,” I said, and we shook on it.

Dad wrapped up the painting and slid it into a metal drawer. Some chair frames, a stripped sideboard and three paintings rested on easels in the workroom. “Are those the Clementine Hunters?”

Placing a hand on my back, Dad gave me a second compliment. “There’s that sharp eye of yours. I miss it.” I wasn’t accustomed to his niceties and fidgeted my toes inside my shoes. 

“May I?” I asked, taking a magnifying glass from a table top. “I saw one of her landscapes in a New Bern gallery window.”

“That’s surprising,” Dad said. “Not many come up for purchase.”

“Is this a series?”

Dad stood behind me with his glasses on top of his head. “No. This one’s titled,
Baptism
. What piece did you see in New Bern?”

My heart palpitated. The Clementine Hunter I viewed through the display window was labeled as
Baptism
. I’d received two compliments from Dad and hesitated to tell him. I had to be wrong. “I didn’t get a close enough look. She’s an amazing talent.”

“Considering the poverty she lived in, Ms. Hunter defied the odds. Never formally educated.”

“The oil looks watered.”

“To make them last,” he said. “Her earlier works didn’t feature many reds or pinks? Too expensive.”

“The signature’s unusual. It’s centered on the right edge on the piece.”

“Her artistic choice.”

I stepped back. “The primitive style of plantation life is unique.”

“That’s what sets her apart. Makes her work collectable. Come on Rachael, let me buy you lunch then we’ll do some shopping.”

“You even know where the mall is?”

“Yeah, I have an idea.”

“And you’re willing to step foot inside? I mean actually go into stores that don’t sell tennis shoes or electronics?”

“Looking forward to it.”

I gave him a hug. “Dad, you’re the best.”

“Come on, let’s swing by and pick up Trudy.”

NOTE TO SELF

Clementine Hunter--swear I saw the same painting in New Bern. Maybe I’ve been inhaling too much nicotine.

Dad has a girlfriend. How could he have found someone before I did?

DECEMBER 1986

23

T
is
T
he
S
eason

The
dismal fifty-degree North Carolina weather was like a sunny vacation compared to Ohio. Nothing could have prepared me for four consecutive meals with Dad and Trudy over the break. My mood didn’t stem from a yearning to be back in Canton. Home life brimmed with uncertainty. Thinking about Mom, Dad, and Trudy, his girlfriend was complicated, and I didn’t know what I could do to make things right. Being an adult wasn’t how I pictured it. I longed for my parents to be the stay-married, live-together type.

Contemplating those odds landed me on Denial Island. I liked my old life, and I didn’t want it to change. Surely Mom and Dad missed the way things were and would find a way to make up. It would just take some time.

It was the first day of classes since Thanksgiving break. Outside under bright sun, gusty winds tossed my hair like the whip blade in a mixer that peaks egg whites. After my Psychology lecture, I speed walked toward the dorm. I had big news for the girls.

Thinking someone is witty and cute when you’ve been drinking is risky. It’s like choosing a donut in the afternoon. They still look decent, and you pick one with lots of icing. Once you take a bite, you realize it’s stale. Thankfully I confirmed that Clay Sorenson—a.k.a. green jacket guy is not a stale donut.

Today I spoke to him, sober. He was southern and could carry a conversation, which was good since I choked on most of my words. He’d been in my Psychology lecture all semester, and I was too much of a wuss to approach him. After class, I stood to pack up and my loose-leaf notes spilled into the aisle. Bending down to gather them up, I locked eyes with him as he handed me a page.

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Clay Sorenson,” I hung on his every word until I remembered to close my gaping mouth. I barely managed to sputter, “Rachael. O’Brien.”

“Were you in the class right before the Thanksgiving break?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I told him.

“I missed that one. Could I borrow your notes?”

He made me so nervous that I forgot how to take in air. Fumbling with my binder, I pulled out the notes and hiccupped.

“Is it okay if I return them to you next week?” he asked.

“Keep them as long as you like.”

“Great. Thanks,” he’d said and left. 

On my way across campus, I scolded myself. I should’ve penciled my phone number on the pages, in case he wanted to deliver them to my dorm. Monster sews has a short life expectancy, and if I didn’t tell someone in the next five minutes, the words would explode out of me and into the ears of some stranger.

A half block from my dorm an arm engulfed my waist. In a manly voice, a southerner whispered, “Did ya miss me?”

I turned around and punched Hugh in the shoulder. “Don’t do that to me. I almost do-do’d my pants.”

He tussled my hair and walked with me toward Grogan.

“How was your Thanksgiving?” I asked.

Bouncing a wood toothpick around his mouth with his tongue, he said, “Let’s see, Dad never showed. He preferred to hunt elk in Montana and Mom--hit the bottle and passed out before one..”

“Sorry.”

Hugh shrugged. “Wasn’t all bad. I took the skiff out in the gulf and caught a red grouper. Twenty-one pounder. I cooked it on the grill and downed a partial case. How about yours?”

“Dad has a friend.”

“What kind of friend?”

“Hopefully, a short-term one.”

Outside of the Grogan dorm lobby, a light rain spat out of the sunny sky. A droplet hit my cheek. Opening the door, he lodged his foot onto the corner and tugged the collar on my pea coat to shield my neck from the weather. “You seem in a hurry. You got something goin’ on?”

I walked backward and raised a finger in the air. “Soon.”

WALKING INTO MY ROOM, I was convinced I’d have a heart attack. I dropped my satchel on my desk ready to spill my newsflash, but Katie Lee distracted me. She rifled through her underwear drawer, dropping the contents, piece by piece, onto the floor. A body lay stretched on my bed. Even with a towel hiding her hair and a magazine covering her face I knew, it was Macy. Who else in North Carolina would wear a “Mets” sweatshirt?

Macy tossed her magazine to the floor. “Hey Rach,” she said and flipped onto her stomach.

Katie Lee didn’t acknowledge me with her normal “Hey.” Before I shared my news she asked, “Is any of my underwear in your drawer?”

“Is that something you two share?” Macy asked.

As challenging as it was, Katie Lee and I ignored Macy. “Raz, just check. I have a quiz today and I’m missing my lucky purple stripe bikinis. They haven’t let me down all semester.”

“Check for yourself,” I said, opening my dresser drawer. “Are you sure you didn’t leave them home over break?”

“They’ve been missin’ since the trip we all took to The Bern. I thought I’d left them home back then, but I didn’t find them over the break.”

“Enough with the panty talk,” I said. “I have scoop. After my Psych lecture, Clay Sorenson introduced himself.”

“Who the hell is that?” Macy asked.

“Holiday Inn, green jacket. My lust-obsession.”

Macy rocketed off the bed and shouted, “This is huge.”

“O’Brien,” Katie Lee said. “Drop your pants. You must be wearing my lucky bikinis.”

“That’s gross,” I said.

Katie Lee stood with crossed arms and eyed me suspiciously. I tugged a corner of a hot pink waistband from beneath my jeans. “Mine are solid pink.”

Katie Lee pulled me by the arm. “Tell us what happened.”

“When class ended, Clay walked up to me. He introduced himself and asked if he could copy my notes from a class he missed before break. My body went mash potato.”

“Did you butter your panties?” Macy asked.

“Macy,” Katie Lee said, “that’s nasty.”

“When Clay enters my orbit, my hormones play havoc with my neurological system. If he sits anywhere near me, it’ll be physically impossible to pay attention to Professor Hayes.”

THE NIGHT BEFORE OUR first final Katie Lee and I planned an all-nighter. Processed foods filled the brain drain void and soda cans, and Doritos bags overflowed our garbage can. Bridget stood in our room and asked Katie Lee, “Do you want me to quiz you on anything?”

Since Patsy and I were still working on formulating a plan to reveal the lies Bridget and Nash were hiding behind, I faked tolerating her. When I looked at her, my legs itched, triggering a recall of involuntary bathroom captivity. Sharing the burden of the secret with Patsy hadn’t diminished the hurt the information would cause. If I’d slept with Nash, I’d have avoided Katie Lee. Not Bridget. She kept hourly tabs on Katie Lee, always complimenting her hair, what great colors of lip-gloss she wore, bla, bla, bla. The two weren’t even the same major, but Bridget wanted to know all about Katie Lee’s classes. I had enough trouble keeping up with my own, let alone tracking someone else’s. If Bridget felt remorseful, she hid it under care and concern for Katie Lee.

I studied under the hum of our florescent ceiling light. The night stayed quiet with occasional pipe and floor creaks. Katie Lee sat at her desk, with her head in a book. She slurped from something carbonated. My eyeballs ached, and I closed my lids to dull the fatigue. I awoke panicky and thought I’d overslept a final. The digital clock read 3:00 a.m. 

When she heard me stand, she rotated her head in my direction but didn’t say anything.

I’d dreamt that Bridget stood in the dorm hallway, in high heels, her bare legs protruded from a green jacket. What grade would Professor Hayes give me if I filled a bluebook analyzing relationships that cross a line of decency: The effect of deceitful friendships on the inner circle. I couldn’t study Psychology anymore and moved toward the built-in dresser.

“Raz,” Katie Lee asked, from her desk chair. “Please don’t tell me you’re organizing.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t organize.”

“You dusted and polished all your shoes, then arranged them from shortest to highest heel before the first time you used your fake I.D.. I watched you Windex the plastic containers of your cosmetics, lipsticks, and shampoos, then dry them with a Q-tip after the Kentucky Travis encounter. Now, you plugged in an iron and pulled out your t-shirts and underwear. What’s bothering you?”

On top of our dresser, I smoothed out the smallest pieces of clothing I owned, “I’m freaked out about finals week and controlling the creases in my underwear makes me feel better.” What I didn’t say was Bridget, her new best buddy, had slept with her boyfriend a month ago. I’d dodged the friend and roommate code of responsibility and didn’t have the guts to tell her now.