Backseat Saints (46 page)

“I can’t drive you, Mama,” I said gently. Why shoot the messenger? “I won’t be there.”

“Oh, Arleney,” my mother said, sounding vaguely sad. “Aren’t you ever coming home for a visit?”

“Not this time, Mama,” I said.

Mama made a pensive little noise and then said, in a cheerier voice, “Oh well, I will just look double forward to Christmas,
then!” That I hadn’t been home for the last nine Christmases was
not a factor in Mama’s fogbound equations. Before I could even try a quick “Love you, bye” and escape, I heard Aunt Florence’s
voice barking in the background, and then Mama said, “Here’s Aunt Flo’s turn!”

I heard the rustle of the phone changing hands, and then Aunt Florence’s muffled voice asking Mama to please go check the
Bundt cake. There was a brief pause where my mother presumably wafted out of the room, and then Aunt Florence took her hand
off the mouthpiece and said in a disarmingly affectionate tone, “Hello, serpent.”

“Hi, Aunt Florence,” I said.

“Do you know why I am calling you ‘serpent,’ serpent?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess, Aunt Florence,” I said.

“I am referencing a Bible verse. Do they have the Bible at that American Baptist church?”

“I believe I may have seen one there once,” I said. “No doubt it fled the moment it realized where it was. As I recall, it
had a lot of serpents in it, and I am sure I could justly be called many of them.”

Burr was still amused. I busted him looking at me, and I gestured at his book. He stifled his grin and turned his eyes virtuously
back to the pages.

Aunt Florence, adopting a low and holy voice, intoned, “How like a serpent you have nestled to your bosom is a thankless child.”

“That’s not the Bible, Aunt Florence. You’re misquoting
King Lear
.”

“Do you realize that the women in our service group at church all sit around nattering like biddy hens about what horrors
your poor mama—and me—must have inflicted on your head to make her only girl-child flee the state, never to return? Do you
realize the vicious things those biddies say about your poor, poor mama? And me?”

“No, Aunt Florence, I didn’t realize,” I said, but Aunt Florence wasn’t listening. She barked on and on into my ear, etc.
etc. you-a culpa with breast beating and a side of guilt. Who did I think had
put bread in my mouth? Uncle Bruster and his mail route. And now all he wanted was for his family to gather and eat buffet
dinner at the Quincy’s in his honor. I countered by asking Florence to please pass Bruster the phone so I could tell him how
proud of him I was right this second.

Florence wasn’t about to give up the phone, not even to her husband. She shifted gears abruptly, dropping her voice to a reverent
whisper as she segued into the “Your mama will probably be dead by next year” theme, asking sorrowfully how I would feel if
I missed this last chance to see her. I pointed out that she’d used that argument for nine years running and Mama hadn’t died
yet.

Burr set his book down and reached across me to grab the pad and pencil I kept on the crate by the phone. He scrawled something
down on the top page and then tore it off and passed it to me. The note said “Say yes to the trip and let’s go eat.”

I crumpled it up and bounced it off his chest, sticking my tongue out at him.

“You don’t know how bad off she is, Arlene,” Florence said. “She’s failing bad. She looks like the walking dead. She’s been
to the hospital to stay twice this year.”

“The real hospital?” I said. “Or the place in Deer Park?”

“It’s a real hospital,” said Florence defensively.

“Real hospitals don’t have padded walls in the card room,” I countered. Burr uncrumpled the piece of paper and held it up
like a sign, pointing to the words one at a time, in order. I shook my head at him and then dropped my head forward to hide
behind my long dark hair. “It isn’t just that I am not coming. I can’t come. I don’t have the money to make the trip down
right this second.”

I peeked up at Burr. He narrowed his eyes at me and touched two fingers to his chin. This was code, lifted from his mock-trial
days back in law school. It meant “I am in possession of two contradictory facts.” I knew what he was referencing. Fact one:
Burr knew that as of last week I had almost three thousand in savings. Fact two: Burr knew I didn’t tell lies. Ever. I pointed
at him, then
touched my chin with one finger, signaling that there was no paradox; one of his facts was off.

Aunt Florence talked about wire transfers and loans and me getting off my butt and taking a part-time job while Burr thought
it through. After a moment a light dawned, and he got up and walked towards my front door, looking at me with his eyebrows
raised. I braced the phone against my shoulder and clutched my arms around my middle, pantomiming that I was freezing. I realized
there was silence on the other end of the line, and I hurried to fill it.

“Aunt Florence, you know I won’t take your money—”

“Oh no, just the food off my table and a bed in my house your whole childhood.”

Burr reversed direction and went to my kitchenette. I pretended I was even colder, wrapping an imaginary blanket around myself.

“The school pays me a stipend and a housing allowance, plus my tuition,” I said into the phone. “It’s not like I’m on welfare.”

Burr walked the four steps past my kitchenette, back to the doorway into the walk-in closet my Yankee landlord called a bedroom.
I mopped imaginary sweat from my brow and threw the invisible blanket off, then fanned myself. He disappeared through the
doorway, and I could hear him rummaging around, feet padding on the scuffed hardwood as he searched.

“No,” I said into the phone, “I don’t think this rates a special collection at church.”

But maybe it did. Florence was getting to me a little. She always could. I thought of my uncle Bruster, with his wispy blond
tufts combed over his bald spot, his big belly, his broad sloping shoulders. Bruster looked like what would happen if the
bear got over on the mountain and they had a baby. He had the Lukey blue eyes, large and powder blue and a little moist-looking,
and when I was eleven, he had been my date to the Possett First Baptist Father-Daughter Pancake Brunch. Clarice had been on
his other arm, but he had pulled out my chair for me and called me Little Lady all morning.

I heard my closet door squeak open, and then a pause that Florence filled with alternating sentiment and invective. The closet
door shut, and Burr came back in the room toting the Computer City bag with my new laptop in it. He pantomimed a whistle,
looking impressed, but I didn’t believe it. Something else was going on in his head as he stared down at the laptop in its
bag. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

Burr was a good lawyer and an even better poker player. He and I used to play a card game we made up called Five-Card Minor
Sexual Favor Stud, but I quit for two reasons. One, it led us too far down a path that could only end in frustration and a
whomping great fight. And two, he almost always won.

Burr sat back down and put the bag on the coffee table. He picked up his book again, but he wasn’t reading, and he wouldn’t
meet my eyes.

Eventually, against all odds, Aunt Florence got to the part where she told me she would be praying to God, asking Him to help
me not be such a selfish little turd. Then she let me get off the phone. I gave her a vague promise about taking a hard look
at my summer course schedule and seeing if I could squeeze in a trip home sometime before fall. Aunt Florence’s final skeptical
snort was still ringing in my ears as I hung up.

“That’s a speedy machine,” Burr said casually, indicating the bag. “You really are broke.”

“Yup,” I said. I had cleaned myself out to buy it. In fact, I bought it to clean myself out.

“Lucky I’m not,” said Burr.

“Very lucky, since you’re taking me to dinner,” I said. I got up, but Burr stayed wedged down in the sofa.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Lena, remember I said I wanted to talk to you about something at dinner?”

“Yes?” I said, and all at once the flutter was back. I was standing up, already looking down at him. I was wondering if there
was room between the sofa and the coffee table for him to slide down
onto one knee, or if I should move out from behind the coffee table to give him space.

“I think I better ask you now,” he said, and his dark eyes were very serious. Burr had nice eyes, but they were small and
square. I never noticed how sweet they were until I got close enough to kiss him. His face wasn’t about his eyes. It was about
his cheekbones and his sharply narrow jaw, severe enough to contrast with his wide, soft mouth, with the gorgeous teeth his
mama paid eight thousand dollars to straighten. “I’m a little nervous.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” I said, but I was nervous as all hell.

“Take your aunt Florence out of the equation, and your mama. Take everything out of the equation but you and me. If I said
it was important to me, would you take the trip down to Alabama for this party next week?” Burr asked.

I sat down again abruptly. “What?” I said.

“I can pay for the trip.”

“I can’t let you pay for me to go down and see my family,” I said.

“I wouldn’t be,” he said. “I would be paying for both of us to make the trip.”

“I can’t let you do that, either,” I said.

“Can’t or won’t?” he said. He was smiling, but I could read him now, and underneath the smile he was angry.

“Won’t,” I agreed. There is a big, fat downside to never telling a lie.

“Don’t worry,” Burr said, gesturing at the laptop, still smiling his beautiful, angry smile. “Computer City has a ten-day
no-questions return policy.” He stood up and stalked around the coffee table away from me. “Because obviously you have no
intention of keeping this thing.”

“No, of course not,” I agreed. And immediately the words “There are gods in Alabama” rolled through my head so powerfully
that I thought I was going to say them aloud, but Burr stopped them by speaking again.

“Lena, if you won’t take me down and introduce me to your family, we’re coming to a dead end.”

“But I love you,” I said. It came out flat and wrong, though I was remembering how it was with us when we made out on the
sofa in the late nights when Burr came over after I’d studied myself sick. I was thinking of how we were together when his
huge hands were on me, and we both knew the rules.

His hands were so big, Burr could practically span my waist with them. And he had a jet-rocket metabolism, so his skin was
always liquid hot to the touch. His big hands would slide over my body, slipping up or down into forbidden zones. As he touched
me, I could see in my mind the flex of the muscles, how the dim light would reflect on the shifting planes of his hands as
they moved on me. And I could take my hand and push that big hand away, down off my breasts, onto my waist. Guide it so slowly
out from between my legs onto my thigh. His hands always went where mine told them to go, immediately, no matter what. The
power of that, the ability or maybe the permission to move something so much stronger than me, left me light-headed and feeling
something I couldn’t name, but it was close kin to longing. Eventually I would have to shove him away, push him out the door
with hasty little kisses, both of us dying of wanting to and not, both of us laughing.

Burr said, “You say that a lot.” He was standing by the front door, looking at a point somewhere just over my left shoulder.
He sometimes did that when he was ticked off, carry on a fight while peering moodily off at the horizon, as brooding and ugly-beautiful
as Heathcliff thinking, “Oh! The moors! The moors!”

I said, “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t say it at all. You know I don’t lie.”

“There are a lot of things you say you don’t do, Lena,” he answered. “You don’t lie, and you don’t fuck, and you don’t take
your boyfriend home to meet your family. You say you love me, but you have a hundred ways to avoid the truth without ever
lying.” He pointed at the laptop on the table. “Case in point. Today you tell
your aunt that you’re broke, and tomorrow you return that and get your money back. And that’s what you call telling the truth.”

“No, it’s what I call not lying. There is a difference, you know. I am not under any obligation to tell anyone everything.
I just don’t lie, which is more than ninety percent of the freakin’ world can say, and anyway, why are we having this fight?
Why did you this minute decide I need to take you to my uncle’s retirement party? That’s not what I thought you were going
to ask me.”

Burr said, “Maybe it’s not what I planned to ask you, either. But Lena, I watched you work your aunt over, and I found myself
wondering—not for the first time—how often you work me, to keep me out of the middle of your life.”

“First of all, Possett, Alabama, is not the middle of my life. It is not my home. It’s the fourth rack of hell. I don’t go
there myself, let alone want to take you—”

“Look at your phone bill,” Burr said.

“And second of all,” I went on as if he had not spoken, “I don’t see the connection between not having sex with you and taking
you to Alabama.”

“It’s what women do when they fall in love with a man,” Burr said. “They have sex with him, or they take him home to meet
their family. In point of fact, Lena, most women do both.”

“But my family is insane,” I said in what I hoped was a reasonable tone. “Why would you want to meet them?”

“Because they’re yours,” he said matter-of-factly, one hand reaching for the doorknob. “I thought you were mine.”

I was instantly furious. It was too good a line, a movie line. People don’t get to say smashing things and then walk out in
real life. Burr could say crap like that more often than most because of his low-slung basso profundo voice. He could say
hyper-dramatic lines that, if I said them, would have whole crowds rolling on the floor, shrieking with laughter and telling
me to get over myself. But Burr? He could say “Luke, I am your father,” and get away with it.