Chapter 61
— Chapter 61 —
Shray and I didn’t really talk through the plan, so I don’t know if I’m also supposed to be trying to find Aubrey or if I’m on standby. I feel like I’m just waiting for something to happen, hoping nothing does.
There are a lot of adult guests for a teenager’s birthday party, because this celebration is really an excuse for Steena and Charlie to show off their house and make their business associates feel like family so it’s easier to fuck them over. All the women look like a variation of Steena, and all the men look like they grab their waitress’s ass when they go out to dinner. The kids of Steena’s mom-friends all had their sweet sixteens at the golf club, each mom trying to one up the party that came before. Aubrey was still invited to a few but didn’t go to any of them.
I walk around to the front of the house. There are hay bales and gourds lining the front porch and a sunflower garland hanging across the columns. Steena wouldn’t have had enough lead time to book the golf club when Aubrey came home, but she’s done an impressive job making it look like it was always her plan to have a wholesome home celebration. The front lawn is lit with a web of string lights and laid out with real pumpkins and fake vines. There’s a purposely distressed wood sign that reads Pick Your Own so the guests know to take pumpkins as party favors when they leave. I want to kick those pumpkins. I want to chuck them at the columns of this stupid house and make a scene and free my niece and call Charlie out for what he really is. And if I thought it would make anything better, I would.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I look up and Steena is clacking down the front steps in a pair of sky-high heels, gold bangle bracelets rattling on her wrist. Even though it’s fifty degrees, she’s wearing a saffron-yellow silk dress cut to show off her toned shoulders. Her makeup is thick and flawless, and her hair has deep bronze highlights and the kind of blunt cut that needs constant trimming. She’s wearing earrings that look like a pair of emerald-eyed panther heads with gold hoops hanging from their mouths, and I’m sure they must be some kind of conspicuous wealth signal, because they’re hideously ugly. I’m exhausted just looking at the effort of her.
“What, I’m not invited to my niece’s birthday party?” I say, trying to keep my voice calm, even though my body is shaking.
“No,” Steena says.
“Was my niece invited to her birthday party?” I ask.
Steena takes a breath like she’s about to say something pithy and cutting, but a black BMW pulls up in front of the house and she freezes. A man gets out of the driver’s seat and walks around to open the door for a woman in a dress that looks a lot like Steena’s, only purple.
As they get closer, Steena says, “Oh, yay! It’s the Marshalls! Come in! Come in! I’m so glad you could make it.” Her voice is high-pitched, overly friendly.
The man tries to hand me his keys as he walks by. I’m still dressed in my black and whites from work, so it’s not unreasonable that he thinks I’m the valet.
“Oh, let me take care of that,” Steena says, snapping the man’s keys from his hand, as if I might steal his car. “Just go right on in. Charlie will get you set up with a drink.” I wonder who she’ll get to park his car. Other guests parked on the street and are trudging up the hill.
Soon as the Marshalls walk in the house, Steena turns to me. Her smile drops. “Nobody wants you here, Freya .” She says my name like a curse, but she looks nervous. She’s scared I will throw pumpkins and cause a scene, talk shit about her husband, turn her party into gossip.
I always thought Steena and Charlie had power because their success made them important. But to stay successful, they have to care what these people think of them, and that makes them vulnerable.
I only care about Aubrey.
“Maybe they’re buying this,” I say, pointing to the house, the guests, all of it. “But I know you kicked your child out of your home. I know you’re not mother of the year. You’re aware that I can see you, right?”
The look Steena gives me shakes my bones. She’s smiling, or wincing, or both, like she’s caught in a Shakespearean death scene just after the knife has been plunged in her chest.
“Oh,” I say, the air rushing from my lungs. I’m smiling and wincing too. My arms break out in goose bumps. “That’s why you hate me so much. Because I’ve always seen all of you. And Aubrey does too, doesn’t she?”
Steena scoffs, but her chin is trembling. She looks around, talks quietly. “You know why I hate you, Freya? There’s nothing to like. You’re a loser. It’s embarrassing to be related to you. Mom felt that way too. She told me you were her biggest mistake.”
The words bubbling in my heart are Yeah, well, she didn’t want you either , but Steena knows that. I can see it in her eyes, the sadness hiding behind the anger. It’s the core of what she’s saying—the core of who we are. Only I have never wanted anyone to hurt my sister, no matter how much my sister hurt me. That’s the fundamental difference between us. Steena wants everyone to hurt like she does. I don’t want anyone to ever feel the way I do.
“You know,” I say, “I loved you anyway. For a really long time. I saw you. And I loved you anyway.”
Her face seems to soften. But I think maybe it’s just the glow of the string lights.
Inside the house, there’s a crash that sounds like glass breaking, and the din of small talk switches key to a chorus of Oh no!
Steena glares at me. “I’ve had enough of this. Go away.” She turns and walks inside, her beautiful silk dress flowing behind her. She looks like she’s floating.
I hear a knock on the big picture window above, and when I look up, I see a skinny blond kid who looks like Charlie waving at me. He’s wearing a glow necklace on his head like a halo.
I wave back.
Austin turns around and presses his bare ass to the window.
As I look away, Shray runs from the house like it’s about to explode.
“Aunt Frey,” he calls in a frantic whisper. “I need an adult!”
Inside, a cater-waiter is on her hands and knees trying to clean up broken glass and an ocean of cider rapidly spreading across the hardwood floors toward the pristine white bouclé rug.
There are sunflower garlands hanging from the wood beams and lit candles on every flat surface. The air is dense and smells like a chemical approximation of warming spices and sugar donuts. Heels clatter. Ice clinks in glasses. There’s a murmur of polite laughter and bland conversation, everyone trying their hardest to be like everyone else. Steena attempts to usher guests away from the mess, out to the patio, saying “Ooh! Look! The ribs are ready!” as if she’s certain her fake enthusiasm is a rapid contagion.
In the corner by the fireplace, a quarterback-shaped creature is hulking over my niece. Aubrey looks miserable. Her hair is sausage-curled and she has a face full of pageant makeup. She’s wearing an olive-green dress that looks like it was intentionally chosen to go with Steena’s outfit and the color scheme at large. Cleanup efforts and the flow of guests block our path to her from every angle.
“That’s Carter,” Shray whispers, cringing. “I knocked over the punch bowl trying to head him off. It wasn’t my best idea.”
I am tempted to climb over the couch but don’t want to flag Steena’s attention. I grab Shray’s hand and angle my body to cut through the people milling in front of us, pulling him along with me.
“Why did you even invite me to your party if you don’t like me, huh?” Carter’s voice is deep and dumb, thundering under the party chatter like a bass line. Easy for us to hear. Easy for everyone to hear, but the guests are pretending not to. “You go around telling people I raped you, and then you invite me to your birthday party? Hmm. That doesn’t make a lot of sense, Aubrey. Seems like someone is lying.” He raises an eyebrow, strokes his chin as if he’s imitating a person who can think.
There’s a girl with a fake tan and strawberry-blond hair at the other end of the cider spill glaring at them, and I can picture her at four years old, finger shoved up her button nose.
“I didn’t know about this party,” Aubrey says, stepping back from the crackling fire, even though it puts her closer to Carter. Being too hot always makes her panic. “I wouldn’t have invited you.”
“How did you not know about your own birthday party?” Carter does the stupid thinking pose again.
I clench the fist of my free hand so hard my knuckles crack. I have never wanted to beat the shit out of a child before. It is not a comfortable feeling.
“Leave me alone, Carter!” Aubrey says, trying to turn away. He moves with her, so she’s still facing him. “I don’t want you here.”
“Excuse me,” I say to a man in a tweed sport jacket, trying to get him to move out of the way. He doesn’t even hear me.
“Well, you did want me when we had sex,” Carter says. People’s eyes flash in their direction, but everyone looks away too quickly. Nobody wants to get involved.
“No,” Aubrey says, and I hear the defiance in her voice. “I didn’t. I knew you wouldn’t stop if I told you to. Everyone knows what an asshole you are.”
“You liked it!” Carter hisses.
“No one would like that,” Aubrey yells.
The chatter drops off. Guests on their way out for ribs turn back to stare.
Charlie gets to them before we do. “Aubrey,” he says, putting his arm around her. “That’s no way to treat your guests.” He’s red-faced and ragged, his neck bulging over the collar of his brown cashmere turtleneck. His hair is oddly brassy, like his stylist tried to match the color it used to be and couldn’t get it right. There’s relief in seeing his insides start to show on the outside. Eventually, it gets too hard to hide a rotten soul.
He puts his hand out to shake Carter’s. “How ya doing, bud? Nice job on that touchdown last weekend. We’re gonna get to playoffs this year, aren’t we? Hey, did your dad come? I’ve been meaning to talk to him…”
Charlie keeps his arm around Aubrey like she’s a piece of furniture. He hasn’t noticed me, and I am loath to call his attention, but I cannot watch him force Aubrey to stand there with Carter like she’s captive. All I ever wanted was for someone to stick up for me, so I am going to be that person for Aubrey. I’ve spent so much of my life navigating people in bars, throwing drunks out at two AM, defusing arguments, cutting people off, consoling. I learned how to handle myself in the world. When I came back to this place that made me feel powerless, I forgot how much I know, but I’m not going to forget again.
I throw an elbow at the man blocking me, say “I’m so sorry” to the cater-waiter, and walk through the puddle. Shray follows. We track cider across Steena’s rug.
“Hey, big brother,” I say, with a huge smile on my face, even though I feel like I might vomit. Shray hovers next to me, eyes wide. I lift Charlie’s arm from Aubrey’s shoulder like I’m removing a boa constrictor.
He lets me because he’s momentarily stunned by my presence. I know if I cause a scene, he’ll kick me out, but if I just stand here acting pleasant, he’ll fear the scene I could cause and play along to keep me nice.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I say to Aubrey. “Happy birthday.” She hugs me hard. Her hair smells like hair spray and I know she must hate that.
Charlie looks around, assessing who’s nearby, who’s paying attention.
“So funny, Charlie,” I say in my best Steena voice. “You and Carter actually have a lot in common. Should we talk about that? Can you guess?”
“Freya,” he whispers, grabbing my arm. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“What, I’m not your little sister anymore?” I say, loud enough to make him wince. “Too incestuous?”
Charlie laughs like I’ve told a joke but loosens his grip.
I reach out and offer my hand to Carter. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Aubrey’s Aunt Freya.” When he takes my hand, I pull him close with power I’ve summoned many times over my bartending years. It’s not about size, but conviction and understanding how to use the threat of attention no one wants. “You come near my niece again and I will hack off any part of you that has ever touched her.” I squeeze his hand hard before I let go.
Carter laughs awkwardly and backs away, trying to disappear into the party. Charlie stares at me, mouth open.
But Aubrey laughs, dull and strange. She looks at Charlie, points to me and Shray. “So, I’m gonna go. With them. To celebrate my birthday.” She runs upstairs to grab her things.
I give Shray a nod and he says, “I’ll meet you at the car.”
And then it’s me and Charlie standing in the corner. His eyes are bloodshot, bulging. I wonder when his heart will finally give up.
“I know what happened,” I say. “And I don’t forgive you.”
I walk away without even looking to see how he’ll react. It doesn’t matter.
My last New Year’s at The Clam, we had a packed house even though the weather was shit. Buck had a good blaze going in the old stone fireplace. All the TVs in the bar were turned to the countdown from New York, but the sound was off, and Buck was cranking one of his live Dead bootlegs, so it looked like all those Times Square tourists were dancing to an endless riff of Sugaree . Someone had given Buck a tiny gold top hat and he was wearing it over his Willie Nelson braids, elastic strapped under his chin. He wandered around the bar pouring complimentary shots, making it impossible for me to figure out who’d been overserved.
I was at the far end of the bar grabbing beers for some regulars—a couple cops who’d drawn the long straws and were off duty for the night—and I heard a loud smack, the crash of a glass falling to the floor, shattering. When I turned around, Buck was crouched on top of the bar, holding a man by his necktie.
“Not in my bar, fuckface,” Buck shouted. “You piece of shit. Not on my watch.” He was wild-eyed, shaking, his tiny top hat snowing glitter on the man’s sneering face.
One of the cops I’d been serving ran over. I steeled myself, worried about Buck’s fate, but the cop took over Buck’s grip on the man’s necktie and waited for his buddy to grab cuffs from the car.
“You alright, sweetheart?” Buck said. And only then did I notice that the woman who had been sitting next to that man was just coming back from the bathroom.
“Are you here with him?” the cop asked.
No. She shook her head. No. She wasn’t there with him. Just there. She asked him to save her seat. He offered to buy her a drink while she was gone. Maybe he always carried roofies in the breast pocket of his sport coat. Just in case he sat next to someone who looked good.
It could have happened to anyone.
Buck was still crouched on the bar as the cops dragged that guy outside. One of the waitresses whisked the woman to a table in the dining room so she could have a cup of tea while she waited to give a statement to the en route on-duty cops.
“Frey?” Buck said. “Be a bud and help me down?” The rage had drained from his body and he looked like a raggedy old cat stuck in a tree. “I climbed on here not thinking what goes up…” He tried to laugh it off, but I could tell he was shaken too.
I cleared the glasses beside him so he could sit on his butt, and I dragged a barstool around for him to step on the rungs, then the floor, my arms out to catch him if he stumbled.
When his feet hit the ground, he grabbed both of my hands and shook them. “We got that guy! We got him!”
I mumbled an agreement. Tried to find words to tell Buck he did a great job, but then I wasn’t sure if I said them or not. I felt the burn of expensive scotch in the back of my nose even though no one had ordered any all night, and Buck never kept anything old enough to smell like that.
“What kind of sick fuck—” Buck said. “I mean, I know there are a lot of sick fucks in the world, but that’s the fucking sickest.”
I felt tears roll down my face before I realized I was crying.
“You alright?” he asked, but someone shouted, “Can I get another?” Buck grabbed a bottle of tequila from the speed rack and slammed it on the bar. “Help yourself, buddy, okay?” Then he ushered me into his office.
“Oh, honey doll, I’m so sorry,” he said, hugging me into his chest, pulling back for a sec like he was checking that I wanted to be held. I leaned into Buck’s body, crying all over his rough wool shirt while he whispered, “I know, sweetheart. I know. I’m so sorry.” I didn’t have to say anything for him to understand.