A Girl by Any Other Name (50 page)

and you’re never there.”

“Mrs Peters lets me eat in the art room.”

“Why would you want to eat by yourself? You should be eating with me.”

She shrugged and pulled her line in. “I can sketch when I’m in there. I’m getting pretty good at

it.”

This was news to me. Every time I thought I knew this girl, she threw me for a loop. “Can I see

them?”

“No,” she said, starting to put our lures back into the tackle box. It was my equipment, but I kept

it in her garage since I rarely went fishing without her anymore. Besides, she liked to go by herself, so

I just figured this way she could.

“Why not?”

“It’s all locked up in the art room anyway,” she said, holding up a dismissive hand.

I leaned back on my elbows. “Well, maybe I’ll take art as an elective and then you’ll have no

choice.”

She laughed. “Don’t you dare, Cal.”

“Who’s going to stop me?”

“Me,” she replied, pushing her face against mine in some threatening pose. It made me laugh. I

shoved her away easily.

“Will you at least come to my games?”

“Why would you want me there?”

I thought about it for a second, not sure why it meant so much to me, but it did. “For luck,” I

finally said.

“’Kay, but I don’t think I’m very lucky, Tex.”

“It’s okay. I’m a great quarterback. I only need a little luck anyway.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “Like I said, you’re conceited.”

“It’s good I have you to remind me I’m not so great.”

“Why would you say that, Cal?”

“Well, if I was so great, you wouldn’t act like I didn’t exist when other people are around. That

shit hurts, Sylvie.”

She placed her small hand on my chest. “Stop fronting, Tex. All the girls swoon over you, like

you’re the reincarnation of Elvis or something. You know you’re six foot, blond-haired, blue-eyed

perfection.”

I sat up, doing my best to hide my cocky grin, but it was difficult. I wasn’t sure how Sylvie felt

about me or us beside that we were friends. She’d kissed me that time, but we’d never done anything

else. “You think I’m perfection? Tell me more.”

“And conceited.” She sighed.

“By the way, my eyes are gray, just so you know.”

“Sometimes they look gray, but there are times when they look blue to me.”

“Maybe you should get your eyes checked out.”

“Very funny,” she replied, patting my chest.

I clasped her hand and pulled her down so she was on top of me. I curled my legs around hers

and spun us so I was on top of her. She stared up at me with surprise, but not fear or distaste. I

pressed my lips into hers with such force that she squeaked underneath me, but then she ran her

fingers through my hair, urging me closer. Her lips were softer than I remembered…and I’d spent

many hours imagining them. My hands trailed though her silky hair while I spent my sweet time

concentrating on her luscious mouth.

Finally, she gently nudged me away. I moved off her and lay on my back next to her, taking her

hand in mine. We were both breathing heavily.

“Wow,” she panted.

“Yeah,” I replied, incapable of forming any additional syllables.

“You were right.”

“About what?” I asked, caressing her hand with mine.

“It was worth the wait, even though it’s been two years.”

I laughed. “Well, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

She sat up on her elbow, peering down at me. “Cal, don’t ever do that again.”

“What? Are you smoking crack, girl? You just told me you liked it.”

“I did, but next time, I won’t be able to stop you…so don’t, ’kay?”

I sighed in frustration, banging my head on the dock and releasing her hand. “Girls are so fucking

weird.”

She sat up suddenly, staring through the forest opening. “Did you hear that?”

Of course I did. It was the wild beating of my heart fighting against her crushing words. “What?”

“It’s cars. Lots of them. And it’s coming from the direction of our houses.”

She was right. I heard them grow louder and mingle together. I looked through the dense opening

and could just make out the lights of a police cruiser. Something was wrong. “Let’s go check it out,” I

said, standing up. A sudden queasy feeling lodged in the pit of my stomach. I grabbed the tackle box.

She took the fishing pole. I reached for her hand and we ran through the woods.

The tightness in my chest increased exponentially the closer we got. By the time I opened the

door, I felt like my body had been run through in a vice grip. My dad’s best friend, Deputy Sheriff

Kent Smalley, stood inside the living room of my house embracing my mother, while Theresa Callor,

another officer, was hugging Mandy.

I squeezed Sylvie’s hand so tight it probably hurt, but she didn’t say anything. “What’s going

on?” I asked.

“Oh, Cal,” my momma said in a choked wail I’d never heard before.

Deputy Smalley approached me. His usual jovial face was pale and humorless. “I need to talk

you, son.” He stared over at Sylvie. “You should run along home. This is family business.”

“She stays. What’s going on?” I asked again.

“Cal, this is family business,” he repeated. Sylvie tried to release my hand, but I gripped it too

hard for her to let go. Whatever was happening, I instinctively knew I needed her with me.

“She
is
,” I said sharply.

He sighed, but nodded. He placed his hand on my shoulder, lowering his voice. “Cal, I’m so

sorry to have to tell you this, but your father was out patrolling. He stumbled upon a man trying to lure

a little girl into his car.”

The blood rushed into my head, and I felt like my legs might give out. “No,” I said, to make him

stop talking. He didn’t.

“He had a gun. He shot your father.”

“So, he’s at the hospital?” I asked, laying desperate hope on that question.

“He never made it to the hospital.”

Deputy Smalley said some more stuff about the little girl being safe, but I only heard every other

word. I wanted to believe this was a cruel joke, but I knew it wasn’t. I felt it in my gut. My father was

dead. The man who had taught me how to properly throw a football, to ride a bike, swing a bat and

treat a lady. He was gone.

“Cal, you have to be strong for your sister and mother. You’re the man of the house now,”

Deputy Smalley said.

I nodded, willing myself not to cry. My mother and Mandy were bawling their eyes out, and the

last thing I wanted to do was add to it. At some point, I must have released Sylvie’s hand because I

picked up Mandy and sat with her on the couch.

“It’s gonna be okay,” I murmured, although I had no idea if it was.

“No, it’s not, Cal!” she screamed, beating my chest. I let her. She needed to.

“Calm down, Mandy.”

“I don’t want you. I want my daddy. I want my daddy. Stop trying to act like my daddy. Daddy!”

It was Sylvie who pulled her off me. My mother was crying so much I don’t even know if she

noticed. Sylvie bent down and whispered into Mandy’s ears. I had no idea what she said, but Sylvie

seemed to calm her like I couldn’t. She walked my sister into her room. It was better that way. Mandy

didn’t need to hear the gruesome details or see our momma like this.

I lost track of them after that. I held my mother’s hands as people passed in and out of our house

like they owned it. They hugged us, kissed us and brought over casseroles. They talked about how my

father was a hero and the legacy he was leaving. How there was a state-wide manhunt for the meth-

head who’d shot him. Why didn’t my dad have a normal job like a garbage man or plumber? I didn’t

give a fuck about legacies or honor. I just wanted my father back.

Nate and a slew of my other friends came and went. I thought they were nervous and didn’t know

what to say. Kids our age didn’t have any experience with this kind of thing. Some of the parents

brought Mandy’s friends with them, which annoyed the crap out of me. The last thing I wanted was a

house full of screaming kids. Mandy wanted nothing to do with them—she clung to Sylvie like the girl

was a life vest. My sister wept in Sylvie’s arms until she was so exhausted she fell asleep.

Most of the adults, especially the men, repeated Deputy Smalley’s words to me, stating I needed

to be strong for my mother and sister. That I was the man of the house now. It became a clear theme

throughout the evening.

The funeral director, Mr Paul, came that night. In a small town, the funeral director came to your

house. You didn’t even have to call him, at least not when you were the sheriff’s family. I sat with my

momma, choosing flower arrangements, caskets and all sorts of other shit I wanted nothing to do with.

I did it, though, because my usually vocal mother couldn’t form a sentence without choking up again.

Sylvie was there somewhere, a passive but needed presence, bringing people coffee, rubbing my

mother’s shoulders, holding my hand or rushing back to Mandy’s bedroom to check on her. At some

point, a plate of food appeared in front of me.

“You have to eat, Cal,” she said against my ear.

She said the same thing to Momma. Hell, I think she might have even fed her. My momma was

grieving something serious. My father and her had had this crazy, magical romance with each other. I

had always made fun of it, but I knew even at fourteen that it wasn’t a common marriage. They were

always singing, dancing or kissing. He was a great husband, a loving father… He was the best man

there was. What were we going to do? What was I going to do?

People wanted to stay over, but Momma sent them away. She wanted to rest and she sure as hell

didn’t want a bunch of people hovering over us. I walked into the kitchen and noticed all the dishes

were done. Sylvie must have cleaned up.

“Momma, you should go to bed,” I said, taking her hand.

“Cal, I loved him so much.”

“I know. Me too.”

“He was so proud of you, son. He was just telling me this morning, he couldn’t believe you were

the starting quarterback.”

A few hours earlier it was all I could talk about, but now that she said it, I wanted nothing to do

with it. I put her to bed and tucked her in, kissing her cheek. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d

kissed her cheek, always saying I was too old for that.

I wished I’d hugged my father more. I should have told him how much I loved him, respected

him and emulated him. Now I’d never get the chance.

Feeling the full weight of exhaustion that always followed deep sorrow, I walked into Mandy’s

room to check on her. She slept on her side and Sylvie lay next to her with her arms wrapped around

my little sister. Even in the dim hallway light, I could see that both their faces were red and puffy

from crying. I hadn’t noticed Sylvie crying. In fact, I’d ignored her for the most part, but she was still

there for me in every way. I crawled in, next to Sylvie, too tired to go to my own room. I was still

wearing my shoes and day clothes, but I didn’t care. I needed sleep. The three of us shouldn’t have fit

so comfortably on Mandy’s twin bed, but we did.

“Cal,” Sylvie whispered. I must have woken her.

“Yes?” My voice was raspy, but I’d managed not to shed a single tear. I was determined to be

strong, even if it killed me.

“You can talk to me. I know what you’re going through.”

“I’m fine, Sylvie.”

“I don’t think you are.”

We lay there in the quiet with only Mandy’s breathing breaking through the stillness. “Does it get

any easier?” I asked.

“Not easier, but the pain is like a knife. It’s sharp at first, and tears through you. It’ll always be

there, but after a while it dulls.”

* * * *

I went through the motions at the funeral. I greeted people, I murmured sentiments of gratitude,

accepted embraces and kissed cheeks. I wasn’t there, though. I was a zombie or perhaps a ghost. The

visual of my father laid out inside the shiny coffin in his Sunday suit almost did me in, especially

when everyone commented that I was as handsome as he was. Still, I didn’t cry. I had to be strong and

give the eulogy. It seemed an impossible task. That was when Sylvie held my hand, and squeezed it

tightly.

“You can do this. You loved him. Just pretend you’re speaking to him and telling him that.”

I don’t know why that simple statement gave me the strength I needed, but I was able to walk to

that podium and say all the wonderful things about my father that I needed to say.

The wake was the worst, though. Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, neighbors, cops, cops and more

cops. They came from every county in the Tri-State area to grieve with us. I hadn’t really noticed

them all at the church, but our small house looked ready to burst open at the seams with the amount of

people in it.

I didn’t want any of them there. I just wanted to be alone. If one more person told me I had to be

strong, I thought I might puke. I hadn’t cried. I’d managed that. Why couldn’t they leave me alone?

They expected me to be the rock that my momma and Mandy clung to in this period of sorrowful

misery. My father was a boulder, but I was a fucking pebble. How could I replace him?