Dream of You (8 page)

             
“You’re always
so funny
,” Nikki said as she entered, her boy toy at her heels. “I don’t know why you’re single.”

             
Ellie stared at the door a long moment after she closed it, the familiar, acid taste of anger climbing up the back of her throat. She listened to their feet shuffle across the ancient, scalloped hardwood floors and took deep, calming breaths. She had no defenses when it came to Nikki and Kyle. Her job, her writing, her academic achievements – none of it was valued in their eyes, none of it made up for all her “flaws,” as Nikki called them.

             
“Oh my god! What’s with all this…
cake
?”

             
With one last big in-and-out, she headed for the kitchen. In the white tile, dark wood and avocado refrigerator oasis of Grammy’s old kitchen, with its Mexican tile floors and all of Paige’s colorful appliances, Nikki was as welcome as a pimple. She had pulled her purse – Burberry – across her body as if to shield her from the mass amounts of boxed and frosted cakes that awaited delivery when Paige returned from her current run. Kyle was in the process of opening a box to get a look at what was inside.

             
“Don’t,” Ellie snapped, and he backed away like the cardboard had burned him. “Each one of these costs fifteen bucks apiece. You lick it, you buy it.”

             
“Fifteen dollars for a piece for ass-fattener?” Nikki asked, incredulous. “That’s stupid.”

             
“They’re good freaking cakes.” Because Kyle was still staring at them, Ellie stepped between him and the island, and he ducked his head to avoid eye contact. Still a coward, as always. “But since they offend you so much.” She pegged her sister with a sharp look. “Maybe we can cut to the chase and you can tell me why you’re here.”

             
Nikki had very blunt, rounded features – the boys had always said she was adorable – and when she crinkled her nose, it compressed her cheeks and gave her the look of a crying infant. “My god, you are
so rude
, Noelle. And you wonder why you don’t have a boyfriend.”

             
“I don’t wonder about anything,” Ellie said more firmly than she needed to, “except
why you’re here
.”

             
Nikki shrugged and glanced away, playing disinterested. “Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll tell you.”

             
A quick, stupid smile snuck across Kyle’s face and then was gone again.

             
“You came to see me. Don’t play games with me in my own house.”

             
Nikki’s gray eyes – the only trait the two of them shared now that their hair color no longer matched – flashed across the kitchen toward her, sparkling, a devious smile curling up the corners of her mouth. “
Your
house? I wouldn’t be so sure of that, sis.”

             
“My home,” Ellie corrected, though her heart gave a little quick
thump-thump-thump
of worry over the note of delight in her sister’s voice. “What are you talking about?”

             
“Dad’s been talking to the nursing home,” she said, now smug, her cake-phobia forgotten as she leaned her elbows back on the countertop. “Grandma’s not doing so good.”

             
Well
, Ellie corrected in her head.
Not doing so well
. But she nodded. “That’s nothing new.”

             
“Um, yeah, it is. She’s, like, doing really not good. Like, bad, even.”

             
“’Bad, even’? Is that the doctor’s official diagnosis?”

             
“Bitch,” Kyle said under his breath, and Ellie didn’t want it to sting, but it did.

             
“She’s gonna die soon, Ellie!” Nikki said, the crying infant face coming back. “And you know what Dad said? He said that when she does die, she’s gonna leave the house to him, and it’s gonna cost him a buncha money!”

             
“The estate tax,” Ellie said, and went numb head-to-toe.

             
“He’s gonna sell the house,” Nikki said, triumphant. The happy glint in her eyes was diabolical, and Ellie felt every ounce of pain the comment was intended to elicit. “He’s gonna sell it to - ”

             
“Turn a profit on the taxes,” Ellie said woodenly. She wanted it to be a lie, but her sister wasn’t smart enough to concoct such a story and she knew her father was just that practical – if not ruthless. She felt her throat go dry. “He can’t,” she said, and was sick to watch Nikki’s satisfied, gotcha smile. “Paige and I are paying all the utilities, we - ”

             
“Unless you can
buy
the house, you’re shit outta luck, sis.”

             
Ellie glanced around her at the out of date, but much loved kitchen. The big ranch table in the bay window that was stacked with cookbooks. She loved this house; the dainty sofas in the living room, the old threadbare rope rugs, the claw foot tub in the upstairs bath. The white lace sheers in the front windows of the dining room. For all the cobwebs and warped floorboards, the musty smell in the attic, it was more a home than her parents’ house had ever been for her, and she’d only been living here three months compared to her near lifetime with the folks.

             
It was monstrously, typically unfair, and it took every ounce of restraint she possessed not to bodily remove her sister from the premises. “Grammy’s still alive,” she said after a deep breath, “so none of that is happening today.”

             
Disappointment at not getting a more dramatic reaction flashed across Nikki’s face, but she shrugged. “Oh well. Just thought I’d let you know.” She twitched a grin. “I’m nice like that.”

6

             
“
S
o whadya think about our boys, huh?”

             
They’re slow
, Jordan thought, but kept it to himself. He stood at the edge of the track, sweat trickling down the small of his back and into his favorite red gym shorts. The sun was belligerent overhead and made a mockery of his shades and visor. He’d just watched the KSU men’s track team go through an average afternoon of practice. The school’s middle distance so-called “star” had been clocked a full four seconds slower than Jordan’s own personal slowest time – ever.

             
“I’m…”
impressed
was going to be a lie “…looking forward to working with them.”

             
Head Coach Anthony Vaughn slipped a much-too-familiar arm across Jordan’s shoulders and gave him a hearty squeeze. “They’re something, aren’t they?”

             
“Yeah. Something.”

             
Vaughn was the living embodiment of the phrase
those who can’t do, teach
. His own school track years had been abysmal at best, but he was one of those loud, boisterous, motivating types, and even if he’d gone soft and heavy now that he was in his forties, he was a great cheerleader for his “boys.” Annoying, yes. Effective…well, Jordan wanted to see more speed out of the students before he made a final judgment on that front, but he was thinking no.

             
“You’ll of course be working with our mid distance fellas.” Jordan hated when people said “fellas,” save, of course the always acceptable “big fella” when used by a female. Vaughn chuckled. “You’ll have your hands full with those three.”

             
Yes he would, but not for the reasons Coach was thinking. Lane, Jonathan and Anton – all cooling down and stretching on the grass – were in need of a regiment overhaul.

             
“Boys!” Vaughn cupped his hands around his mouth and called them over.

             
Jordan wasn’t expecting the dread that pooled in his stomach as the three runners approached, but he had a fleeting guess as to its root cause. How was he supposed to motivate if he’d given up on his own dreams?

             
The lukewarm introductions were made, his new charges giving him doubtful, who-the-hell-are-you once overs, and he headed for his Jeep actually wishing he’d been at Saturday family brunch rather than here at work. It wasn’t that he didn’t crave a touch of excitement here and there, but nothing about this new venture in his life was exciting.

             
He spent the rest of the afternoon running up the mountain, taking his frustrations out on his feet and trying not to think about his non-date with his student the night before. Ellie was eighteen (too close to jail bait for comfort) an English major, a writer (or so she said) and a part-time baker. She also had a laugh that sounded like wind chimes and a knowing half-smile that came out when he tried to flirt with her. He had a distinct feeling she’d been telling the truth when she’d said charm didn’t have any effect on her.

             
Just like he had the feeling he was dwelling, and that would take him nowhere good.

             
When his body had been sufficiently punished – his legs burning, so sweaty he felt like his lungs were sticking together inside his chest – he went back to the road and his Jeep. He shed his shirt and dumped a water bottle over his head and shoulders, but the shorts had to stay on to keep him from getting collared on indecent exposure charges. He found a towel in the backseat and made the most of it, a clean t-shirt to wear home.

             
It was after six when he pulled into the drive, his growling stomach glad that dinner would be on soon. His older siblings had left long ago, and only Jo and Tam’s cars boxed in the garage doors.

             
There was something always comforting about home. Stress he hadn’t felt melted and left him warm and languid in its wake. Things were calm at home. Steady. The food was good.

             
Wow…he was pathetic.

             
He thought that right up until he rounded the back of the house and found Tam sitting on top of the picnic table, a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling up into the humid evening air. A beer bottle sat at his hip and the scowl stamped across his forehead was comically earnest.

             
“Yeah, I hate Saturdays too,” Jordan said. “All that not working and Mom’s cooking. They suck.”

             
Tam shot a glare his direction that Jordan challenged with lifted brows, then he sighed and shook his head, brought his smoke up for another drag.

             
Jordan dropped his bag of sweaty shirt and towels at the edge of the patio and climbed up onto the table beside his brother-in-law. “What’s with the depression?”

             
Tam had always been one of those rare exceptions who looked cool when he smoked. “Like James Dean,” Jo had always said, to which Jordan had rolled his eyes, but it was true. He exhaled through his nose and tapped ash down onto the concrete of the patio with his middle finger. “I knocked your sister up,” he said, voice tight and grim.

             
For some reason, Jordan wasn’t expecting
that
. He allowed himself one very unpleasant moment to think about what a pregnant Jo meant, and then he moved on to the more alarming aspect: Tam sitting out here like his wife had been diagnosed with cancer rather than a baby.  “And that’s a terrible thing for some reason?”

             
Tam’s blue eyes cut over and suggested he was stupid. “Do I look like I can afford a kid? I got no house,” he began listing reasons on the fingers of his free hand. “A forty-eight-year-old car, I just started college – which I also can’t afford – and work three days a week for minimum goddamn wage.” He sucked down what was left of his cigarette, the end smoldering red, and then ground it out on the bottom of his shoe.

             
“Does everyone else know?”

             
He snorted, more smoke coming out of his nostrils. “Jo told Delta who then told every-fucking-body, so yes.”

             
Jordan was getting a hostile vibe, and not a hopeless or stressed one. His life-long front row seat to the Tam-and-Jo-Show had resulted in an unwanted sensitivity to both parties’ moods. “And you’re pissed at Jo.”

             
Tam didn’t answer.

             
“You know, if you think about it, it’s a miracle this happened
after
you guys got married.”

             
“Glad you think this is funny.”

             
“Bro.” Jordan clapped him on the back and climbed off the table, collecting his workout bag. “You got the girl. Don’t be a bitch just ‘cause the girl is having your kid.” He imagined the glare he was receiving, but didn’t care: of all Tam’s problems, this wasn’t one he felt required any sympathy on his part.

             
Inside, Beth was flipping through a
Southern Living
at the table and the kitchen was filled with the aromas of meatloaf and baking potatoes. She glanced up as he entered and then her eyes moved over his shoulder and out through the window panes of the back door.

             
“He’s still out there, isn’t he?” she asked, a frown creasing her face.

             
“Being a dumbass.”

             
“Poor babies,” Beth sighed. “They didn’t want us to know yet – Jo found out last night, bless her heart, she sat down at the table and blubbered after Delta told us all. She feels so guilty because they’re still living at home.”

             
“Not like Tam’s helping with that or anything,” he said with an unhappy twitch of his eyebrows. “Where’s Jo?”

             
She was in the basement, sitting on the edge of the pool table, rolling the balls one-by-one across the felt and into the far pockets. She glanced up when he reached the end of the stairs and even in the dim light of the old bar lamp above her, he could tell she’d been crying. Her eyes were red, her face puffy, whatever makeup she’d been wearing washed away. She stared at him a long moment, silent, and he had the distinct impression she was waiting to be reprimanded.

             
He’d never actually wanted to punch Tam before, but he did now.

             
“So.” Jordan settled his hands on his hips. “I get to be an uncle again, huh?”

             
“Twice over.” She dropped her eyes and rolled a striped five across the table. It bounced off the bumper and missed the pocket. “Delta’s preggers too.”

             
“Damn. I feel so behind on the baby-making.”

             
She didn’t smile and he sighed, moving around the table until his hip was propped against it beside her. “It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

             
“Tam is
so angry
with me,” she said, voice trembling. When she lifted her head the lamp caught the sheen of unshed tears in her red eyes. “I don’t get it.”

             
“You want me to kick his ass?”

             
He thought she almost smiled. “No, I want to do that myself.”

**

              When the back door opened behind him, Tam heard Randy’s voice bouncing around in the kitchen.

             
“I ought to - ”

             
“No,” Beth said. “This is their argument and they need to - ”

             
Whatever else she said was cut off as the door clicked shut. Jo was barefoot, but he could hear her tiny feet on the concrete anyway. She came around the table and climbed up onto it next to him the way Jordan had, her elbows on her knees, eyes on her toes.

             
None of the Walkers needed to make him feel guilty – guilt was already cycling through him like oxygenated blood. No one had said anything that wasn’t congratulatory, but he’d seen Randy giving him the offended-father eye, had watched Mike shuffle through an assortment of shocked facial expressions. This just wasn’t done: you didn’t take advantage of your in-laws’ hospitality by bringing a squalling infant into their home, by implanting your fucked up spawn in their daughter.

             
Jo was nervous, sure, but not nervous in ways that counted.

             
“I don’t want to fight with you.” She broke the silence on a loud exhale. “It’s exhausting and I hate it.”

             
He didn’t want to fight either. It had never given him any satisfaction: he didn’t like to hurt her, he hated when she cried, hated when her eyes were red and swollen like they were now, hated when that hot flash of temper she had every so often was directed at him.

             
But he was in a headspace he couldn’t define, let alone defend against, and he didn’t even know how to interact with her. The girl he knew as Joey was this pregnant person now.

             
“Are you pissed at me, specifically?” she asked.

             
“No.”

             
“Are you mad that I’m pregnant now? Or that I’m pregnant at all?” She took a shivery breath like she was afraid of his answer, but felt like she had to ask it anyway. She was brave like that.

             
“I just…” His chest was full of knots and that was making him angry; and in an effort to displace it, he kept shoving it off on her. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

             
A beat of heavy, heated silence passed. “What is there to ‘think through’?” Jo’s voice was cautious. “I’m going to the doc on Monday to verify, but I’m pregnant, that’s a fact. It’s not like deciding to get pregnant, or…” She trailed off and he stole a sideways glance at her, watched her turquoise eyes grow wide. “Oh…oh,
are you kidding me
?”

             
The fight was back on.

             
“Are you serious?” She got to her feet and pivoted around so she could face him, arms crossed protectively beneath her breasts. “You, what, think we have a
decision
to make here?”

             
He hadn’t even known where he was going with this until she said it, and then a cold, terrifying sort of certainty clamped onto him.
No
, a voice in the back of his head told him.
You don’t want that
. But maybe because he was a bastard, or maybe because, on some level, he was pissed at her, he took the next vicious step anyway. “You really want some cancerous, future-alcoholic baby?” he said with a contained snarl.