Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
Sophia
one year later
“What should I know before we get there?” I ask him.
“’Howdy’ is a real thing,” he laughs, “and if you look up ‘redneck stereotypes,’ a picture of William R. Davis will be front and center. He’s probably already had brisket smoking since last night, and I’ll bet you my left nut he answers the door in a flannel and a trucker hat with dip in his mouth. ”
“Seriously?” I laugh.
“Oh yeah. You’ll be eatin’ your weight in barbecue three times over before sunset.”
“Can we stop on the way to the house?” I ask him. “I want to get your mom some flowers.”
He smiles as he trails his hand over my thigh. “Absolutely, we can. She’ll love that.”
I know I shouldn’t be asking to take more time when he’s already worried about being late.
We had already been delayed two hours at the airport by the time that he called Colt and asked to ‘borrow a plane,’ but when the first time you meet your boyfriend’s mother is on her eightieth birthday, you kind of have to bring her flowers.
I’m almost certain that’s a rule, somewhere.
I decide on a bouquet of red, orange and yellow tulips; from the stories he’s told me, Eric’s mom seems like a tulip kind of lady.
We follow a long dirt path that jostles the Uber until we finally come to a stop in front of a small, two-story Victorian farmhouse.
A cream-colored building with dark trim, a wooden swing on the front porch and a few wagon wheels set against the porch railing beneath a state flag that hangs from the eave.
A seriously old Ford pickup that must be from the seventies sits parked along the drive, tucked into grass that has overgrown.
The red screen door squeals as it opens, revealing an elderly man wearing a too-big flannel, a trucker hat covered in worn holes, and a pair of loose-fitting jeans.
The wrinkles on his face bunch together as he smiles widely at me, pulling me in for a hug with a kiss on my cheek before a word is even spoken between us.
“You must be Sophia,” he greets me with a heavy accent, only made thicker by the bundle of tobacco tucked under his lip.
“I been tellin’ Ricky to bring ya ‘round here, it’s about damn time he did.
Let me get a good look at ya,” he tells me, pulling away from the hug to hold me by the shoulders. “Ain’t you a pretty thing?”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Davis,” I tell him.
“Oh, don’t give me none of that ‘Mr.’ crap, you call me Bill, darlin’.” With a pat to my shoulders, he moves in to wrap Eric in a tight hug, clapping him on the back before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It’s damn good to see ya again, Ricky.”
“You too, Bill. Martina still…?”
“Ah, she was in a horn-tossin’ mood earlier, but she’s settled now. Y’all ought to come in, say hi to her.”
Eric’s hand rests between my shoulder blades, and I nervously fidget with the handle of the gift bag in my hands. I’m glad I’m not in charge of carrying the flowers - I think I might drop them.
We follow Bill into the house; it’s a small, cozy place, decorated from floor to ceiling with a mish-mash of mostly-older items. I can pick out a few pieces that look new, and I wonder if Eric sent them.
Doilies, antlers, and small figurines are all over the place, and the air smells like the most delicious food I’ve ever smelled is cooking somewhere in the house.
Maybe a hint of moth balls, somewhere under there.
The floor creaks while we walk through, following Bill as he hobbles through to the living room.
A small couch with a crocheted blanket tossed over top of it is sandwiched on either side by a set of matching chairs, one of which supports a frail-looking woman, who I assume is Eric’s mom.
An IV bag is plugged into her arm, and I’m not sure if it’s delivering fluids, nutrients, or both.
She’s focused on a piece of fabric tucked between her delicate fingers, her deep brown eyes fixated on it.
Her hair is cut into short ringlets that sit close to her head, every strand a bright, shimmering shade of white.
“Hey, Mama,” Eric greets her, crouching down to sit at her eye level. He rests a gentle hand on her knee while he speaks. “I brought someone for you to meet.”
“Hi, Mrs.— Hi, Martina. Happy birthday,” I tell her with a smile. “I’m so happy to finally meet you.”
I step closer to the two of them, carefully sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of her, and I clutch the gift bag in my hand. Eric’s hand gently scrubs at his mom’s knee, his other combing through her hair. “We should’ve gotten here earlier,” he tells me. “Fuckin’ planes.”
At the sound of his cursing, Martina’s head snaps to him with a gasp, as if she recognizes the sound, and I have to bite back a laugh; she knows him and his potty mouth well.
“You remind me of my son,” she tells him with a voice so hoarse that it sounds painful, pressing a weathered hand to his cheek, and I swear that I can see his heart break right along with mine, despite the warm smile that he offers her.
“He must be one good-lookin’ guy, then,” he jokes.
“He’s my angel,” she answers him.
“I’ll bet you’re his, too.”
Eric presses his lips to the side of her head in a tender, heartbreaking kiss before he stands, extending a hand to me.
“Come on, Bill’s got food going,” he tells me.
I turn toward the fireplace crackling from within the wall to her left, wondering if it’s a good idea to leave her here with it, and as if he can read my mind, Eric assures me, “She’ll be alright.
It’s locked up, and she can’t get over there on her own. ”
I reach my hand up to massage the back of Eric’s neck while we walk back toward the kitchen, where his dad is working like a madman over a spread of barbecue that could feed a family of twenty, for three days, for every meal.
Bill gives us the run through of how long each different type of beef – I had no idea there were so many different cuts or flavors or styles – was marinated and with what, how long they smoked, which rubs he used on them.
It’s like listening to someone speak in depth about a life-altering passion project.
Through his laughter at his dad’s speech, Eric flicks his eyes to me and mouths ‘I get to keep my nut,’ and I slap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
Eric’s accent is thicker while he laughs and talks with his dad, like he’s lifted the city filter he tries (and fails) to lay on top of it on a regular day.
Watching them, it’s hard to believe that they only spent six years together before Eric went off to start his own life.
It’s hard to believe that he was adopted; not because there’s any resemblance between the two, but because they mesh so well together and it’s so obvious that this is the man who parented him.
Every time that I finish a third of the food on my plate, Bill reaches over with a tray of barbecue and refills more than what I had previously eaten, until I’m so full that I think my stomach might actually burst as Eric and I head out to the front porch.
“God, I think I actually have meat sweats,” I laugh, blowing a breath out through pursed lips.
“Well that’s not new,” Eric teases. “My meat makes you sweat all the time.”
“Insufferable!”
As we settle into the wooden porch swing, which looks like it’s been out here for ages, I look out over the spacious land surrounding the Davis house.
It’s gorgeous out here. The sun dips low in the sky, painting the clouds with cotton candy while a gentle breeze rolls past us, undisturbed without the tall buildings and industrialized structures of the city to break it up.
“So,” I say, draping my legs over Eric’s, “what is there to do out here at night?”
He snorts a laugh, as if to say I’ve asked a ridiculous question. “Nothin’, unless you wanna shoot something or go down to the bar and ride the bull.”
“I absolutely want to ride the bull,” I tell him without hesitation.
“Let’s do it then.”
Fifteen minutes and one outfit change later, the two of us are heading back down the stairs from Eric’s childhood bedroom. He stops to give his mom another kiss before telling his dad that we’re heading out. “You’ll call me?” He asks, jerking his chin toward his mom.
“Abso-toot-ly,” Bill answers.
“Your dad is so cute,” I tell Eric as we walk out the front door, leaving it unlocked behind us.
“He’s seventy-eight and ornery as shit,” he laughs.
·
As soon as we step into the front door of the small bar, the bell hanging above it rings to announce our presence. Seconds pass before multiple people start cheering their greetings to Eric, and we make the rounds saying our hellos to everyone while he introduces me – as his girlfriend.
We sit at the bar with a couple of beers, listening to the music pouring from the speaker system while we watch the current rider of the mechanical bull.
I use the opportunity to study her hand placements and the way that she shifts her body to accommodate each movement that the bull makes beneath her to keep herself from falling off into the padded ring below.
“You have to go first,” I tell Eric with a shake of my head.
“What, you’ve never ridden before?”
I shake my head again. “I have ridden a bicycle.”
“And me,” he adds, speaking into his beer.
I throw my foot forward into his shin, earning an ‘ow!’ from him. “I hope you fall off.”
The woman on the bull finally drops off of the side once it picks up speed, leaving a window open, and I shove Eric off of his stool and toward the padded area.
I don’t miss the confidence in his gait while he struts toward the bull, hopping over the wall of the pen.
He grabs onto the handle of it and swings a leg over, shooting a two-finger salute in my direction with a wink as the bull starts to rock beneath him.