Chapter 10 – GLENNA #2
Cash laughs, gives Granger a last vigorous scratch, then grabs my hand. “They don’t follow Granger,” he says.
The deep voice chuckles. “That’s ‘cause they have sense.”
Mr. Carroll is leaning in the doorframe, smiling. I know him by sight, but we’ve never officially met. He doesn’t come to the coffeehouse.
He’s a dark-skinned man with short hair and a beard, both sprinkled with gray. He’s wearing a red flannel shirt with a buttoned vest and stiff blue jeans.
“Well, come on in,” he says, turning to shuffle inside. He’s older than my dad by maybe ten years or so.
Before we even get to the door, I smell dinner, and my stomach gurgles. I was too out of sorts to eat much today, and now I realize I’m starving, and we’re having catfish. I haven’t had home-cooked catfish in a long time, not since my grandma passed.
Mr. Carroll leads us through the living room to a big kitchen, the dogs trotting behind us, nails clacking on the hardwood.
The house is as cozy inside as out—huge leather sofa set and a warm woodstove.
There’s a leaning blanket ladder with bright patchwork quilts, and on every surface and wall, mounted critters—bucks, a ram, fish, squirrels, rabbit, mink.
Brice is lounging at the table, whittling. He gives me a mellow smile and nods. Mrs. Carroll is stirring a pot at the stove. Without looking up, she says, “Well, someone call Deja.”
Mr. Carroll pads away, and Cash crosses the room. Mrs. Carroll offers her round cheek, and Cash gives her a hearty smack. Mrs. Carroll is a beautiful woman. She has dancing brown eyes, and she moves her long, slender arms as graceful as a swan.
“You smell like dog,” she says to Cash as she scoops creamed corn into a brown dip-glazed serving dish. She shoots me a smile over her shoulder. “How are you, Glenna? About time Cash brought you around for dinner.”
I smile back. About time?
“Can I help?” I offer.
Cash has sat down across from Brice, and he’s pouring himself an iced tea from a mustard yellow Tupperware pitcher with a push button lid, the same one we have.
“You can dish the beans,” she says, pointing with her spoon to the crockpot.
I’m grateful for something to do with myself. Mrs. Carroll has the bowls and platters out, so it’s easy to help.
Mr. Carroll comes back and gustily lowers himself into his seat at the head of the table. There are only five of us in the room—and three bloodhounds—but it feels full and busy and warm. The men are talking about Cash’s last client.
I set the butter beans on the table next to a pan of cornbread. Mrs. Carroll follows with the creamed corn, green beans, and a plate of fried catfish, all steaming.
Mrs. Carroll takes her place at the foot with a heavy sigh, and I sit across from Cash. There’s one empty chair beside me.
“Where is that girl?” Mrs. Carroll says.
Mr. Carroll shrugs. “I told her ‘dinner.’”
Mrs. Carroll shakes her head and smiles at me. “Deja. Most likely has her nose stuck in a book.” She says it fondly. Conspiratorially. It’s a mom look, a brag in a ‘that child’ tone of voice.
My mom said something similar all the time. That girl. Always with the camera .
I know Deja Carroll, though not well. She’s younger than me, still in high school. Senior year, I think. She comes into the coffee shop to study with her girlfriends. They’re all very serious students, and they put money in the tip jar which most high school kids don’t.
“Deja’s going to Morgan in the fall,” Mrs. Carroll says, accepting a glass of tea from Cash with a nod.
“She is?” I haven’t heard of Morgan, and I guess it shows.
“Down in Baltimore. She’s going for Civil Engineering.”
“I haven’t decided that yet, Ma,” Deja says as she sails in, kisses her mom on the cheek, and flops down beside me, grabbing a square of cornbread. “Hey, Glenna.”
I smile back, but it’s a little hard. I just got hit by a wave.
They don’t come so often anymore. Right after my mom died, they’d hit with a gale force, one after another, stealing my breath, flattening me.
But then, after a few years, so gradually that I didn’t notice the change, they hit a little less often, a little less hard.
The cut didn’t go quite to the bone anymore. That was a new kind of loss.
But the waves never went away entirely. The grief. The missing . It still knocks me on my heels. I can cover it, though. I know how to not let it show on my face.
While Mrs. Carroll was talking, someone filled my glass. I take a sip. The tea is just sweet enough.
“You’re graduating this year, right?” I ask once I swallow. Cash is looking at me funny. Maybe I didn’t cover quickly enough.
“Finally.” Deja relaxes in her chair. She’s more laid back than I’ve seen her. Probably ‘cause she’s at home. She and her friends are like junior businesswomen at the coffee shop, laptops open, phones beside them on the table, pencils tucked behind their ears.
“Congratulations,” I say.
“I know, right?” Deja’s about to say something else, but Mr. Carroll clears his throat. Deja drops her cornbread. Everyone bows their heads.
I flashback to dinner at the Walls.
“Oh, Lord, let us thank You—” he begins. It’s not a long prayer, and my mind is going in all sorts of different directions—and one of the dogs is nosing my knee—so it’s hard to focus a hundred percent, but it’s definitely not directed at me. It’s a grateful prayer, and I am grateful for it.
When it’s done and I look up, Cash is smiling gently at me. I flush. Deja’s gaze flits between us. She’s smirking. So is Brice.
“Well, let’s dig in,” Mr. Carroll says.
Folks serve themselves from the closest dish and start passing to the right. Cash is not shy. He heaps his plate full. No one notices or remarks. Brice’s plate is piled equally high.
The men are still talking about Cash’s last client and the buck he shot.
Mr. Carroll launches into a detailed description of where he is in the process of mounting a buck for another of Cash’s clients until Mrs. Carroll says, “Keep it in the workshop, Joe.”
I listen and stuff my face. There is soft homemade butter for the cornbread and the catfish coating has Old Bay just like my grandma’s. There are chunks of ham in the green beans, and the creamed corn is the perfect amount of runny.
Mrs. Carroll brags on Deja some more, and I’m so full of deliciousness, there’s no room to be jealous or sad.
Deja rolls her eyes and tries to brush it off, but that only encourages Mrs. Carroll.
She talks about how Deja is going to be salutatorian, and she’s going to give a speech at graduation, but she would have been valedictorian if she’d taken AP biology.
Deja’s adamant that she knows enough about bodies coming from a long line of taxidermists, and she’s not wasting her time, not to be valedictorian of Stonecut High. I get that logic. Mrs. Carroll does not. You can tell it physically pains her.
Deja is stunningly beautiful, too, and you can see her pattern in her mother. They both have rainbow-shaped eyes and the kind of smile that quirks higher at one corner.
I was my mother’s spitting image, too. In looks, not in temperament. My mom was a dynamo. That’s how my dad always puts it. I’m not. I’m—honestly? I’m not sure what I am.
I’m a watcher. I watch, and when I see something worth it, I take a picture.
Neither my dad nor Toby ever came out and said it, but that wasn’t the thing to be, in their opinion. People are supposed to act , not watch , right?
But I like observing.
Especially when there’s so much loveliness to see.
The polished grain of the handmade table, the antique spice rack above the counter, and the flour sack dish towels embroidered with Queen Anne’s lace.
The Carrolls’ kitchen is warm from the stove, and the conversation flows and overlaps. Lots of laughing, and the whining and yips and clickety-clack of dog nails. I’ve got a food baby, and I’m not even sorry. I stop after seconds, but Cash keeps going. So does Brice.
Finally, it comes down to the last catfish. Cash eyes Brice. Brice eyes Cash. They both lunge for it with their forks. Mrs. Carroll is quick, though. She snatches the platter back.
“Joe, you caught dinner. Would you care for the last piece?” She says it sweet and taunting at the same time. Cash and Brice both look genuinely crestfallen.
Mr. Carroll leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his belly, sighing long. “Thank you for lookin’ out dear, but I’m full.”
“Glenna?” Mrs. Carroll turns to me.
I don’t have any room, but I am not passing up this opportunity. “Yes, please.”
Cash emits a quiet, wounded yelp.
I take a small bite of fish, chewing slowly, and as I do, I watch Cash and bat my big round eyes.
“That’s cold, Glenna,” he says, comforting himself with more cornbread.
“You could stand to miss a bite or two,” Mr. Carroll says. “You and Brice both. Mark my words, you hit forty, that hollow leg you both have is gonna fill up.”
“I have the metabolism of a hummingbird,” Cash declares.
“A what?” Brice says. He looks at his sister. They both crack up.
“What?” Cash says between bites. “Hummingbirds are known for their metabolism. Right, Glenna?”
Why’s he bringing me into it?
I do actually know about hummingbird metabolisms. I have a series of prints with a Calliope hovering in mid-flight. “They do have the fastest metabolism of any animal.”
Cash flashes me an unduly pleased grin, and he says, “See? My girl’s got my back.”
My cheeks heat. Everyone’s looking at me. That’s not why I’m blushing though. I can’t lie to myself. Cash smiles at me, pleased, and I feel it down to my toes.
It’s embarrassing. Disorienting. And it makes everything livelier. Brighter. Exciting.
I’m in so much trouble.
“I’ll admit. I couldn’t see it before,” Deja says after she stops laughing. “But maybe I’m starting to see it.”
“What do you mean, you couldn’t see it?” Cash scowls, but he’s not serious.
“I mean Glenna’s obviously too smart for you.” Deja starts ticking off on her fingers. “Too classy. Too down to earth.”