Chapter 17 Noah
seventeen
Noah
“What should I call her?” I ask Willow. We’re on our way to her mom’s, and we’re going through the story of why we got married, how I proposed, things like that.
Things that Willow thinks her mom might ask.
Willow is faking a relaxed confidence that this will go well, but the set in her jaw, the way she clenches the wheel tell a different story.
I’m trying—really trying—to stay open and nonjudgmental.
To give her mom the benefit of the doubt.
I remember when Willow used to bounce in and out of Emerald Creek.
In a town like ours, that kind of thing stands out.
I never knew the whole story, just enough to guess it had to do with her mom.
If she’d been sick, we’d have known. And I don’t ever remember a father in the picture.
That must have been hard, raising a kid on your own, outside the safety net of Emerald Creek.
Still… there was always something about Willow going back and forth that didn’t sit right with me.
“Her friends call her Marcy. I mean, what else could you call her?”
“Marcy it is.”
I need to tamp down my protective streak when it comes to Willow and remember that she’s only my wife on paper.
But that counts for something, too, doesn’t it?
Willow pulls onto the piece of land where her mom’s mobile home sits.
It’s been here for as long as I can remember, back when Willow’s grandfather lived in it.
What used to be a cute house is now slightly sagging on one side like a sinking ship, probably from the ground underneath it being soaked.
Paint is peeling off. Two planters on either side of the front door add a pop of color but aren’t enough to fend off the sense of hopelessness that permeates the whole place.
Willow parks the car to the side, where some gravel might have been spread a year or two ago.
“Come on, let’s get this over with.” She’s already almost at the door, while I’m barely out of the car.
I grab the flowers I set on the back seat and reach her right in time to place my hand on the small of her back as she enters her mother’s house.
“Mom! We’re here!” she calls out.
While Willow goes to find Marcy, I hang back a bit and look at the pictures on the wall.
Willow with a gap-toothed smile, skinny legs poking out of her shorts and a Patriots T-shirt hanging too big on her frame. She’s holding Ms. Angela’s hand, and they’re both at a little league football game here in Emerald Creek.
Willow eating a hot dog at the King’s Farm, mustard on the tip of her nose, a dog sitting at her feet, looking up at her with a lolling tongue.
Willow on a bicycle zipping down a grass-covered hill, long hair floating behind her, hands in the air, mouth wide open as if she’s screaming her joy.
“I wasn’t there, or she would have worn a helmet.” I turn to see the two women walking toward me.
Willow’s lips are pursed at her mother’s words, but she doesn’t respond.
Marcy extends her hand and gives me a small smile. “Welp, welcome to the family,” she says and snickers, a dried out, bitter version of Willow’s generous, wholehearted laughter. “Bet you didn’t see that one coming,” she adds.
I’m not sure what she’s referring to. Our marriage? The being welcomed into the family? I take her frail, cold hand in mine. “Thank you. These are for you,” I add, handing her the flowers, which she takes without looking at them.
“Take care of these, will ya,” Marcy tells Willow, handing her the bouquet as if it might bite her.
“Smells delicious in here,” I add, not knowing what else to say.
Marcy answers with a gesture toward the table set for three. A cupboard slaps shut as Willow pulls a vase and unwraps the flowers I brought.
“Anything I can do?” I ask while Marcy sinks onto her chair.
“Nope,” the two women answer at the same time. Willow places the bouquet on the coffee table in the living room, then pulls a carton of juice out of the fridge. The oven beeps and I stand, but Willow stares me back into my seat.
After some agonizingly long silent moments where a piping hot lasagna and a salad appear on the table, my wife sits down. But when she reaches for the serving spoon, I take it from her, needing to do something about the icy atmosphere before we all freeze over. “Marcy. Big or small appetite?”
“No appetite at all,” she sighs.
I scoop a small serving and set it on her plate. “If I’m not mistaken, this looks like Shannon’s lasagna,” I answer, referring to Colton’s mom’s signature dish. “Should do wonders to your appetite.”
“I could never cook to save my life. Raised Weeping here on Chef Boyardee.”
“Weeping?” I ask.
“Weeping Willow,” Willow volunteers, and my heart clenches.
That’s the only nickname her mother could come up with?
Suddenly memories of the scared kid who moved in with Ms. Angela, holding her books tight against her in the school hallways, come haunting me.
It’s no wonder Emerald Creek felt like home to her.
No one here gave her demeaning nicknames or made her feel unwelcome.
I make a noncommittal grunt as I scoop lasagna onto Willow’s and my plate.
“Do you know Chef Boyardee?” Marcy asks.
“Not personally, no,” I answer with a smile.
“Funny one,” Marcy answers with a straight face.
Well shit. Now I’ve insulted her with my sense of humor. “I’ve had it,” I lie. Mom had the luxury of time to cook for us from scratch, and it’s something I’ve continued. “Pretty good, if I recall.”
“The salad is from Cassandra,” Marcy says.
“Ah, with basil and parsley?”
She shrugs. “We’ll find out.”
Once Willow and Marcy have food in them, the tension releases partially. The bout of bad weather is an easy topic of conversation. Once we’ve milked it until there’s nothing more to add, Marcy says, “So, when are you due?”
I nearly spit out my food.
Willow is ashen. “We’re not pregnant.”
Marcy snorts. “Then why would you go and get married like that? And to a Callaway?”
I ignore the jab at my family, focusing my gaze on my wife.
“Mom,” she hisses.
“What?” Marcy takes a sip of apple cider, her hands shaking slightly, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s due to her condition or to something else.
I set my fork down and clear my throat.
Willow glances nervously at me. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
In a last-ditch effort to save the evening, I motion to the table. “Shannon’s lasagna, babe. You should have more.”
“You can take it home, big man,” Marcy says.
I take a sip of apple cider, load another forkful, and say, “Is this about the Callaway who didn’t want to marry you guys’s great-grandmother?
” There’d been some scandal in the past century, the kind that gets passed down from generation to generation with no one ever caring about fact-checking, because where would the fun be in that?
The horrible realization finally strikes me. With gritted teeth, I ask, “Are you suggesting we might be related? Because now would be a good time to bring it up.”
She fakes a smile at her daughter. “See, that’s why decent people get married the good ol’-fashioned way, with advance notice, and a couple of minutes for folk to come forward during the ceremony and share their information.”
Willow makes a face. “Yeah, they don’t do that anymore.”
“Do you have any reason to believe we’re related?” I ask again.
Willow rounds her eyes at me, lifts her shoulder in a how-is-this-even-relevant way.
And she’s right. It’s not. There’s no law that says I can’t marry a distant cousin, and even if that would be icky, it doesn’t matter at all in this marriage.
It’s not like we’re going to get pregnant.
Or have sex.
Or even kiss. Although…
“No great-grandmother of ours ever considered marrying a Callaway. Are you nuts?” Marcy bites back.
“Maybe I am. What’s so terrible about us anyway?”
Marcy lifts her chin, and Willow rolls her eyes. With a deep sigh, she says, “Supposedly you guys stole from us a long, long time ago.”
Not this again. “Stole… what?” Better to play stupid than to explain how this is not relevant.
“Land,” Marcy drops. “Like you didn’t know that’s why you’re so rich.”
I want to tell her we’re not rich. At least not in the way she thinks—the way Gail does, where money can be spent without counting.
We are land rich and asset rich. But some years that means we are cash poor, trying to cover all the associated expenses.
“I—I don’t know that anyone can actually steal land that easily.
I mean there would be a trace of that… I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Mrs.—Marcy. ”
“That’s enough,” Willow snaps before her mother can answer. She pushes her chair back and stands, makes quick work of removing our unfinished plates, clears the rest of the table, loads the dishwasher, and wipes the table in no time.
I risk a glance at Marcy, but she’s looking at her daughter with something like sadness and envy.
There are a dozen things a normal son-in-law could say right now, including a promise I can’t hold (“I promise to make your daughter happy”), a minefield of a question (“What can I do to make this right?”), and the cowardly and untrue, “It was her idea to fly to Vegas.”
I settle for the innocent, blanket, “Can I see Willow’s baby photos?” accompanied with my best impression of an enamored smile toward my wife. Surely bringing back happy memories will salvage this evening.
Marcy exhales an exhausted sigh, and I regret the question.
Who knows where she needs to dig them out of?
“Didn’t have time for no photos. But lemme ask you a question, Noah Callaway.
What’s in it for you?” Her eyes are narrowed on me.
“’Cause she’s always sworn she’d never get married.
To anyone. Now, I can see how you might turn her head, but what could you possibly see in her? ”
“Gee, thanks, Mom,” Willow says before I can come up with an answer. She barely glances down at us from where she stands, arms crossed, leaning against the sink.