Look How You Turned Out (5 page)

Celery, onions, four loaves of cheap-ass white bread. Potatoes, carrots, cauliflower, green beans. Our cart is loaded like one of the pyramids, full of everything we need for the afterlife.

Juney is holding a red box in front of my face—Stove Top. "It's so, so, so, so good," he tells me.

"Juney," Marcus corrects, "go put that back."

"But this is what you make," he says to Marcus offering me a chance to make Jessica's mistake and 'not take the box.'

I let Marcus be 'bad cop', and I continue to walk a little in front of him as we head for the checkout line.

"You should know that thing by heart," Marcus says meaning my list.

"Once I get home I'm not coming out again. It's cook time, baby." I'm smiling, but I'm thinking oh great, did I just call Marcus the apostle Baby? Yep.

"Me and Dad are helping," Juney says.

"You too?"

"I could make Stove Top," Juney says.

"Is that why you wanted to buy it?" I say.

"Yes," Juney says shooting a look at Marcus.

"Junior," Marcus says, like 'come on man.'

"I do," Juney continues.

"Then go get it," I say. But Marcus is disapproving, and we have a little stare off as Juney runs for the box. "What?"

"You staying in Lowland now?"

"Oh no. We're talking Stove Top…me usurping your parental authority. I didn't say a word about Chicago."

We take our place in one of several long check-out lines.

"What happened with your job?" he says.

"Unt-uh," I say.

"Marcus?" She blindsides us. Short, complicated, haircut of various levels. Daughter on her hip and plenty of room for the kid to ride. I know it's mean, but the way she's checking me out, it's like I'm caught shop-lifting.

He doesn't say anything. Just looks at her.

"Did you hear from Jessica?" She's talking to him, looking at me. Her daughter has her hand on her mother's face trying to get her attention. That's not happening.

The thing is, these days, they've all heard from Jessica. It's called technology.

"Yeah," he finally says. "She's having a great time."

Oh good for her, I think, but I forget to clap.

I'll give him this, he doesn't seem ruffled in the least that he's been caught red-handed keeping company with another vagina. I flip my hair around a little and try to look bored…because I am.

"Oh you shopping?" she says still ignoring the kid.

Now…come on. I just smile and say, "Bedilia, here. Sheriff’s daughter."

"Artie's daughter?" She says so loudly people from the next two aisles are craning their necks to look at me.

Marcus has this smirk in place. He knows he didn't introduce us. He either didn't think she was worth it, or he didn't think I was worth it…or being male he didn't think at all.

Juney is back with the box of Stove Top. He's panting like he took the long way at full speed. He has Stove Top and a box of Fudgesicles.

"We can eat them in the truck. Two apiece," he announces.

I high-five him before Marcus can say anything.

The woman strings some more vowels and consonants together about where he's spending Thanksgiving with these looks at me like she knows I'll not only cook turkey but give lap dances during football. Fake smile at him, a look for me like she's memorizing my vitals, still ignoring the sad kid on her hip, phone in hand, already pressing buttons, she starts to walk away. Then she turns and snaps a picture. Of me. Then she's really making time toward the other side of the store.

I make a sound and Marcus says, "What?"

And I say, "She took my picture."

"She did not," Marcus scoffs.

"She did too," Juney says.

"Want me to go after her?" Marcus says, perfectly serious.

"And do what? Grab her phone and smash it?" me

"I'll ask her why she took it." him

"You don't know?" I say.

"Do you?"

"Yes. She's one of the Orcs getting ready to text Saruman in Florida." I know he gets this…Juney does, appreciating my wit and realizing for the first time we are the Hobbits.

"Well, you can't blame Jessica for what Sherri does."

We've finally reached the counter, and Marcus is practically throwing things on the conveyor belt.

But what's funny… Marcus's phone buzzes from in his pocket, and I shoot Juney a look and we high-five again, and Marcus is looking at his phone, pensive face, lips pressed tight but moving side to side…interesting I admit.

"She's wasn't even listening to her kid," Juney says. He would notice. The wounded motherless have an eye for such things.

Marcus puts his phone in his pocket and doesn't even look at me as he makes his way around me and it's close, people all around us, and his hand on my arm and he says, "Excuse me," low, and he goes to the checker.

"She get my good side?" I say while I continue to unload, and Juney laughs.

But no, Marcus Stover just got my good side and it's still tingling.

But he's got his wallet out.

"I have money," I say.

"I got this," he says, and he's smiling while he digs through his wallet, not looking repentant at all.

I make my way next to him while Juney finishes the cart.

"Marcus, I'm paying."

The checker says the total, looking tired as hell, but she's eying him like a Lazy-boy chair.

He hands her his card, and I've got my money now, crushed in my hand like week-old lettuce, but good none the less.

"Put that away," he says about the lettuce.

"Artie's gonna make you take it," I say.

He's taking the receipt and putting it back in his wallet with his card.

"Bull-headed," I mutter. No way he's paying for all of this.

"Takes one to know one," he mutters back calling to Juney, who's found his friend again in the line beside us. Juney catches up to me and slips his hand in mine. I didn't know when he got one of the Fudgesicles, but he's licking away.

I'm staring at the back of Marcus's head, the back of his jacket, the back of his…jeans as he pushes the cart toward the doors. My guess? He's got a new screen-saver.

"You in trouble?" I ask as I meet Marcus in the unloading of the many, many bags of groceries onto Artie's table. I'm talking about what went down in the grocery. It's the first few seconds we've been alone.

He plays dumb. I know he's playing because he sets the bags down and touches his jacket's pocket where his phone resides. It's been vibrating so often he's turned it off not far outside of Litchfield.

He doesn't have special ringtones. Thank God. I didn't want to hear Countdown by Beyonce or something else she programmed into his phone to represent herself. I'd have to walk away and leave him to her. Or do a serious, painful intervention.

But he's not contaminated that way at least.

He goes back outside without answering, and I follow. Juney is bringing in a box of bottled water. He has a Fudgesicle ring around his lips, and he's oblivious, hunching his shoulders against his manly load. Marcus holds the door for him, and he maneuvers in under Marcus's arm. I am right there, behind Marcus. "Wash your mouth," I say.

"Dad already told me," he sighs.

We walk to the lowered tailgate. Marcus leaps up to move the rest of the bags to the gate so we can reach them easily.

It's an interesting view I have here on the ground. As previously stated, all angles work.

"Are you?" I repeat having been ignored.

"Am I what?" he says jumping lightly to the ground.

"In trouble?"

He only looks at me briefly before grabbing more bags and heading in.

"Hey," I call. He turns.

"Ear-check," I say.

He smirks and goes in. He's in trouble.

In the kitchen, there is now stuff everywhere. Marcus goes out for the last load, and I open the pantry and look inside.

No, no, and no. My entire system has been haphazardly rearranged by my father while I've been gone. I energetically, because I have some frustration to work off, start to tackle the chaos. Cereals are top shelf. Baking supplies next. Now we have jars of things, jars, and bottles. Canned goods don't belong in here at all, they have their own place in the cabinets. Next, we have pasta, and beans, and lastly boxes of tea and all the weird stuff that doesn't go anywhere else.

Finally towards the bottom the plastic wrap and foil and all that crap, and on the door all the spices which I also pluck from the wrong lines and move to the right ones. There. Now that isn't so hard. I stand back to admire my work.

He's behind me sort of, at the island, his hands there and he's staring at me, he's been staring at me, and I've probably looked from behind like I'm conducting an orchestra playing Flight of the Bumblebee or something.

"What's the matter?" I say because he looks so serious and thoughtful and thoughtfully serious.

"I don't…get in trouble. I'm not Juney."

He's right, he doesn't have a mustache around his…lips.

I'm smiling.

"What's so funny?" he says.

"Nothing. Just…seeing how clean your…mouth is." I'm laughing a little.

He takes a couple of seconds to get it. "Yeah. But you hear me? I don't want that nonsense. I see Jessica. Yes. But I can still live my life. I'm not apologizing for it."

"Okay," I say like I'd say 'chill out,' because he needs to. I'm not the bitch busting his balls. Well, not overtly. But I want more. I want more. "So…I'm not asking you to…apologize."

"I didn't say you were," he says grabbing a can of pumpkin and not making a whole lot of sense. "Where does this go?"

I point to the cabinet, and he opens it and starts to shove the pumpkin in.

"No, no," I say upon seeing the disorganized state of things there too. I can only imagine the frig. I go to the cabinet and start my crazy. He's right there. Like right, right there.

"Up here, vegetables," I'm saying by way of explanation as I set the dozen cans of broccoli and cheese soup, Dad's favorite, on the counter and start to put the green beans up there. "This stuff probably gave him Parkinson's," I say.

I have yet to have a chance to speak to Dad about his health, and it's there, and we're quiet for a minute, and Marcus starts to help me, pulling canned vegetables out and wisely setting them on the counter in groups. He bumps my shoulder and mutters sorry, then bumps it again playfully. He's almost smiling.

"Sorry, I called her Sauroman," I say, always having something I can fake-apologize for to garner his sympathy and get him talking. We're real close, and he's looking at me like…he takes me in. Feels like he really sees me…the pores on my skin maybe. I need Biore.

"You're a little crazy," he says, "you know that? Always have been. It's…interesting to me, and I don't know why. You hurry around…."

I have finished his sentence mentally—I hurry around like a little mouse. Thank God he doesn't compare me to a rodent.

He just…quits.

"Is that like…a complement…or a testimony for the prosecuting attorney?" I'm thinking, the prosecutor is Jessica, but really it's him, his own indictment against himself for finding me 'interesting.'

"No idea," he breathes in, a huge breath and lets it out in a gust as he continues to run a hand over my cans (note the s) making sure all the labels face frontwards.

"We might have a compatible level of OCD," I say admiring his work…and his hand.

"So much in common," he mutters. He turns to the bags then, scouring for more cans and more…perfection.

And I have to admit, he's right. We have everything in common, including the interest. "I find you interesting too," I say. I don't know where I'm going with this…well wherever he'll let me.

"How's that?" he says, holding those lucky cans against his chest, his hand fanned against them.

"I…you raised Juney…all the way through. And you didn't even date…until…,"

He cuts me off and says, "After Angela…I owed him my undivided attention…right?"

He's not asking. He knows it was right.

"Was it hard?"

"No," he says tersely.

"What…um how did you finally give yourself the green light…with Jessica?"

I count to freaking six before he answers. "She cut my hair."

I have a million smart things come to mind, but I make…force myself to stay focused.

"And…that led to…?"

He stops messing with the food and says defensively, "To what?"

"What?"

"To what?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"It led to me asking her out. Or…her asking me for a drink." He's holding celery. He grabs carrots and squeezes around me to the fridge.

I turn and weedle in beside him. "Oh Gosh."

"What?" he says. "You're standing in front of the drawer.

"No way that's ready to go in," I say, and I'm doing it. Dairy on the top. I'm taking off and putting on. He's standing there with a bouquet of vegetables. I laugh a little.

"It was spring. She asked if I wanted to go for a drink. I said let me think about it. She kept calling me. I went clear to Litchfield for my next haircut," he's laughing. "Then the next time I needed one I didn't have time to go so far. So I went in, and she was worried she'd scared me off." He's laughing again, looks at me and I'm just standing there.

I'm not laughing. It's just not funny. So he quits laughing and hands me the bouquet. "I don't know what the heck you want."