True Colors (33 page)

For the next four hours she worked nonstop. After school, the 4-H Club showed up, and she surrounded herself with girls still young enough to love their horses more than any boy and committed enough to practice what they were taught. She felt like a rock star around them, idolized and adored. Soon, she knew, these girls would grow up, sell their horses, and move on. It was the circle of life in these parts: horses came first, then boys replaced them and took the lead. At some point later on, those girls came back as women with daughters of their own and started the cycle all over again.

At the end of the day, she turned off the overhead lights, checked the horses one by one, and then went down to the farmhouse, where she found her father sitting in his favorite rocking chair on the porch. As usual lately, after a long day spent working the ranch, he was sitting on the porch, drinking bourbon and whittling a piece of wood.

He had aged in the past decade, remarkably so. His face, always craggy, had hollowed out, and his once-wild hair had thinned to a cottony fuzz. Bushy white eyebrows grew in tufts above his black eyes.

He was seventy-four, but he moved like an even older man. They never spoke of what had happened all those years ago, he and Vivi Ann, never brought up the arrest that had broken their family’s spine and split them in half.

They spoke of ordinary things now, sometimes barely looking at each other; it was as if part of their lives had frozen over and couldn’t be found. But Vivi Ann had learned that things didn’t always have to be talked about to be resolved. If you pretended long enough and hard enough that everything was fine, in time it could come to be true, or nearly so.

No one in town spoke of what happened all those years ago, either, not to Vivi Ann. There was a tacit agreement made by all to forget.

Unfortunately, it was Noah’s life that everyone in their farm-house and in town ignored so pointedly. The adults, anyway. The kids had obviously made no such pact.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, coming up the stairs. “We need another load of hay. Can you call Circle J?”

“Yep. I sent that new hand over for bute, too.”

“Good.” She went into the house and cooked dinner for him and the hands, leaving the meal in the oven on low heat. The three men ate catch-as-catch-can these days; Vivi Ann cooked in the farmhouse, but rarely sat down to eat with the men. Her life was up in the cottage these days, with Noah. When she was done, she returned to the porch.

She was about to walk past her father when he said, “I hear Noah got in another fight today.”

“The busybody express,” she said, irritated. “They tell you who started it?”

The past was between them now, as visible as the wide white planks at their feet.

“You know who started it.”

“Your dinner is in the oven. Tell Ronny to wash his dishes this time.”

“Yep.”

She walked out across the parking lot and driveway (paved since 2003) and stopped at the paddock behind the barn. Renegade whinnied at her approach and hobbled toward her, his knobby, arthritic knees popping at each step.

“Hey, boy.” She rubbed his graying muzzle and scratched behind his twitching ears. It flashed through her mind suddenly:
Does he still dream of riding Renegade?

Pushing the thought aside, she headed up toward her house. Renegade followed on his side of the fencing, limping and struggling until the start of the hill, where he gave up and stood there, watching her go.

She was careful not to look back at him as she went up the final rise to her cottage. When she opened the door, she knew that Noah was home. A pounding, pulsing beat of music rattled the knotty pine walls. She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Lord knew anger wouldn’t aid her now.

At his bedroom door, she paused and knocked. It was impossible to hear an answer above the music, so she opened the door and went inside.

His room was long and narrow, a recent addition to the cabin. Posters of bands covered his walls—Godsmack, Nine Inch Nails, Korn, Metallica. He had his own computer in the corner and a television hooked up to an Xbox.

Maybe that was the problem; she’d given him too much and asked too little in return. But she was always trying to make up for what he’d lost.

He was sitting on his unmade bed, with a wireless controller in his hand, making some animated biker-looking chick kick a guy in the balls.

“We need to talk,” she said to his back.

When he didn’t respond, she went over to the TV and turned it off.

“Damn it, Mom. I was just about to beat that level.”

“Don’t swear at me.”

He gave her a sullen look. “If language is such a big deal, maybe you and your sisters could start setting a better example.”

“You aren’t going to turn this around,” she said. “Not this time. What was the fight about?”

“Gee, lemme think. Global warming?”

“Noah . . .”

“What do you think it was about? What’s it
always
about? That puke-for-brains Engstrom called me Injun boy and his assface friends started doing a rain dance. So I punched him out.”

Vivi Ann sat down beside him. “I would have wanted to clean his pimply clock, too.”

He glanced at her through the curtain of his greasy hair.

Vivi Ann knew how desperate he was for someone to take his side, to be his friend and support his actions. It broke her heart that she couldn’t fill that role. Once, she’d thought they’d be best friends forever; that youthful naïveté was no more. He was a fatherless boy; he had to have a mother who made the rules. “Every time you hit someone, you prove them right.”

“So what? Maybe I
am
just like my old man.” He threw his wireless remote at the wall. “I
hate
this town.”

“Noah—”

“And I hate you for marrying him. And I hate him for not being here . . .” His voice broke on that and he stood up, moving quickly away from the bed.

She went to him, took him in her arms the way she used to, but he shoved her away. She stared at his back, saw the defeated slope to his shoulders, and knew how wounded he’d been by those ugly words in the schoolyard.

“Believe me, I know how you’re feeling.”

He turned. “Oh, really? You know how it feels to have a murderer for a father?”

“I had one for a husband,” she said quietly.

“Leave me alone.”

Vivi Ann took another deep breath. They’d been down this road before, talking around Dallas. She never knew what to say. “Before I leave, I have to pass along the good news that you’re going to flunk English, which means you won’t go on to high school in September.”

That got his attention. “What?”

“Lucky for you, Mrs. Ivers has agreed to give you a second chance. She’s going to let you write in a journal for her this summer. You’ll meet with her Monday morning before school to discuss the details.”

“I hate writing.”

“Then I hope you enjoy eighth grade better the second time.”

She left him alone to mull that over.

Who Am I?

Only a totally whack old lady like Mrs. Eyesore would give such a stupid assignment. She thinks I care about passing Language Arts. Like I’m going to need THAT after I graduate from high school. Yeah, right. Screw her and her last chance. I’m not gonna do it.

They suspended me.

Fuck.

Who Am I?

Why does Mrs. I. think that’s such an awesome question? I’m nobody. That’s what I’ll tell her. Oh wait, I don’t have to tell her because she’s not going to READ MY PRIVATE STUFF. Like I believe her when she says she’s just going to skim over it to see if I’m not copying other people. Yeah. I so totally believe that.

I should tell her. Blow her mind. I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM.

How could I?

I don’t look like anyone in my family. Everyone says I have my mom’s eyes, but if I ever look that sad I’m gonna blow my brains out.

That’s my answer this week, Mrs. I. I don’t know who I am and I don’t care. Why should I? No one else in this town does. I eat all my lunches alone at the table with the other dorks and losers. No one ever talks to me. They just laugh when I go past and whisper shit about my dad.

Winona’s life was proof positive that if you got a good education, worked hard, and kept believing in yourself, you could succeed. She gave this inspirational speech—the story of her triumphs—all over the county, to church groups and classrooms and volunteer organizations. They believed her, too, and why not? The measure of her success was visible to the naked eye: she lived in a gorgeous, flawlessly remodeled Victorian mansion, drove a brand-new, totally-paid-for ice-blue Mercedes convertible, and periodically bought and sold local real estate. Her client list was so extensive that in nonemergency situations, people often had to wait two weeks for an appointment. And best of all, her neighbors had grown accustomed to taking her advice. She’d proven, over time, to be right about almost everything, and it was flattering to know that her calm, rational decision-making skills were recognized and admired. In retrospect, even the ugly business with Dallas had bolstered her reputation. Everyone ultimately agreed that she’d been right not to represent Dallas, and Vivi Ann had come back to the family, just as Winona had hoped. Now they were together again; sometimes the ragged seams showed or buried resentments poked through, but they’d learned how to ignore those moments and go on, how to change the subject to something safe. All in all, Winona felt they were as strong a family as most and better than plenty.

Not everything was perfect, of course. She was forty-three years old, unmarried, and childless. The children she’d never had haunted her, came to her sometimes in her dreams, crying to be held in her arms, but as much as she’d wanted that fairy tale, it hadn’t happened for her. She’d dated plenty of nice men over the years (and a few real losers), and she’d often hoped. In the end, though, she’d remained alone.

Now she was tired of waiting for the life she’d once dreamed of, and had decided to try another road. Career had always been her great strength, and so she’d try to find fulfillment there.

With this shiny new goal in mind, she stood on the sidewalk, studying the booth she’d just erected and decorated. It was really just four card tables tied together and draped in red fabric that fell almost to the cement. Behind it was a huge banner, strung between weighted poles, that read: THE CHOICE FOR MAYOR IS CLEAR. VOTE GREY. On the table were hundreds of brochures, complete with photographs of her great-grandfather standing by a handmade OYSTER SHORES POP. 12 sign, as well as a detailed description of Winona’s political position on every issue. Other candidates could blow hot air about their beliefs; not her. She intended to crush the competition with the force of her convictions. Two large glass bowls held hundreds of
VOTE GREY
buttons.

Everything was ready.

She checked her watch. It was 7:46 in the morning.

No wonder she was out here pretty much all alone. The Founders Day festivities didn’t start until noon and none of the businesses were open yet. She leaned back against the streetlamp and looked up and down the street. From her vantage point in front of the Sport Shack, she could see everything from Ted’s Boatyard to the Canal House Bed and Breakfast. The usual Founders Day signage was in place—banners decorated with covered wagons set against a beautiful ocean-blue backdrop, hand-painted pioneer-themed artwork on the glass storefronts, and blinking lights twined around the streetlamps.

As she stood there, the clouds overhead thinned out a little and the shadows lifted. By eight o’clock the rest of the vendors had shown up, waving at Winona as they passed, in a rush now to get their stalls ready by noon, and by nine o’clock the stores were beginning to open. All up and down the street one could hear the tinkling of bells that meant doors were opening.

Memorial Day Monday had always been the start of the week-long celebration. The same street vendors showed up year after year, selling the same things: homemade scones with jam, churros, fresh lemonade, oyster shooters, barbecued oysters, and the ever-popular Conestoga wagon hand puppets. All day long, throngs of people would fill this one street, walking from booth to booth, eating food they didn’t need, and buying junk they didn’t want, and come nightfall a bluegrass band would set up in the Waves Restaurant’s parking lot, position speakers in the corners, and everyone from five to seventy-five would dance. It was the unofficial start of summer.

She walked down the street and bought herself a latte. By the time she got back to her booth, Vivi Ann, Noah, and Aurora were there. No doubt Vivi Ann was afraid to leave her delinquent son home alone.

“We’re ready to help,” Vivi Ann said, smiling.

“I was hoping you’d show up,” Winona said.

“Hoping?” Aurora arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “I know an order when I hear one. What about you, Vivi?”

“Oh, she definitely ordered us here.”

“I don’t know why. You two are total bitches.” Winona grinned. “Thank God you’re cheap labor.”