26. Twenty-six
Twenty-six
Mave and Dustin Cannon are the most enthusiastic wavers I’ve ever met.
They’re always waiting when we arrive, like they have tracking devices on us, waving on the front porch as we come into view. Arms overhead, palms wide, it’s nearly a fitness routine. When we leave, it’s the same—waving until we disappear.
Today is no different.
As Camp parks the minivan, their smiles are wide and waves in full force from the porch.
“Mama!” Camp says with a big smile and open arms as he closes the door to the minivan and walks to his mom.
“You’ve been a stranger, Camp Cannon,” she says without heat, walking down the steps and giving her son a hug. “Think you can build some fancy athletic center and leave your mama and daddy in the dust?”
He laughs, palm to his chest. “I would never.”
Camp’s parents live on a ten-acre farm on the edge of Ledger, which they bought right after we purchased the house from them. The property is beautiful with a small established orchard, rock-bottom creek, and open fields that back up to thick woods. And while Ledger isn’t a fancy place, land is expensive. Dustin was a lineman for the electric company, and Mave worked at the post office—prices what they are, it’s hard to believe they were able to afford such a perfect slice of paradise. The definition of blue collar, and they made it work.
The year they bought it, Dustin and Camp didn’t talk for months. Camp never told me why—just said his dad was a “royal pain in my ass”—but eventually, it worked itself out, and they are as close to best friends as a dad and son can be.
The home on the property is a small ranch of white wood siding and black shutters with a large wraparound porch. In the backyard there’s a chicken coop, a couple goats, and a huge garden filled with flowers and vegetables.
While Dustin is mostly quiet and reserved, Mave’s a boisterous kind of woman whose face only knows how to smile. She loves flannel, wearing a candy-apple red one today that brightens her already rosy cheeks, and her blonde-white hair hangs down her back in a loose braid under a wide straw hat.
She loves to bake—cookies especially—and often jokes she only does it to lick the batter off the spoon. She also loves to host the kinds of parties that involve friends coming over, drinking wine, and feature a guest that’s selling something. “ When you shop from someone’s living room, how can it be a bad deal?” she always asks.
In high school, more than once I was visiting while women pored over plastic containers, make-up, or some other kind of product that I just had to see it to believe it.
“You look pretty, Junie!” Mave says, token smile on her face as she wraps her arms around me, her vanilla scent hugging me as much as her body.
I smile. “I wore a clean shirt, just for you, Mave.”
She chuckles, brown eyes twinkling as she squeezes my arms and pulls away. “We forget how big of a difference that makes sometimes.”
Dustin gives me a hug, smelling like hay from the goats and smoke from the cigarettes he sneaks in the barn that everybody knows about but pretends they don’t. Lines carve into his face as he smiles. “This guy taking care of you alright, June?” he asks in a molasses-thick southern drawl.
I look at Camp, who returns his smile easily—like we haven’t been avoiding each other like the plague since that night on the porch and the boxing that followed—then to his dad. “Debatable.”
“Now, Daddy,” Camp interjects, matching his dad’s drawl. “J here loves to pretend all kinds of things, don’t ya, darlin’? Hard to know what she thinks some days.”
Sonofabitch.
Like his parents aren’t standing there, we glare at each other.
A shrieked, “Nan!” cuts the air as the boys attack Mave in hugs, and I blink away from him, silence hanging between us in an awkward kind of way.
Dustin looks from me to Camp before letting out a small grunt and greeting Lyra. “Now what kind of hair we got today, young lady?”
Lyra laughs as they stroll toward the house, Camp and I trailing behind.
“You had fun the other night.”
My head whips toward him.
“On the porch,” he adds, bending over to snap a piece of the calf-high grass we’re walking through and slipping it between his lips. “That was fun.”
I say nothing, irritated as I watch the grass bobble on his lips as his mouth moves.
“And then I got a call for work, and you shut down.”
“What is this?” I demand. “You’re talking about this now ?”
“I’ve always loved you more than baseball.”
Camp’s words are as direct as they are shocking, and they steal the breath right out of my lungs.
“But when Dani called,” he continues, green blade dancing, “you just shut down. Ran. And, you have to know, J, it’s my job. I have to work. But I’m tryin’ here. And—”
“Stop. Whatever this is, stop.” I look around at the beautiful property, the laughing kids as they climb the steps of the porch. Too juxtaposed to the anger I’m feeling to make sense. I don’t know if I want to cry or scream. “It’s too late, Camp. You choose work. Always. Every damn time. And, I get it, you’ve been home for dinner for a few weeks. But I just want you to pick me—us—because it’s what you want. Not because it’s what I’m asking. Just-just-just . . .” I stop, his eyes searching mine. “God!” I shout, louder than I intend, both of us looking toward his parents, satisfied when we don’t see a reaction. I take a breath. “Let’s not do this.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“But”—my head drops back with a groan as he continues—“you need to know, you don’t know everythin’, J, and one of these days you’re gonna have to stop bein’ so damn stubborn.”
When my jaw drops, he jogs to the porch.
“Tell me what’s new, Junie,” Mave says, setting a plate of sugar cookies on the frosted-glass patio table.
“Hmm. You know, same ol’,” I tell her, pouring us each a glass of rosé before I drop into a seat. The smell of warming charcoal fills the air as I take my first sip, the wine bringing my tastebuds to life with its crisp sweetness and warming my throat as I swallow.
She takes a seat next to me and adjusts her straw hat. My gaze wanders until I find Camp. He’s with Dustin and the kids at the chicken coop, throwing handfuls of cracked corn into the grass as they laugh.
“What about you?” I ask, grabbing a cookie from the plate and taking a bite.
“Just the usual—Oh!” Her relaxed smile turns to a wide-eyed look of excitement as she waves her hands through the air. “I’m hosting a sex party.”
I choke on my cookie.
“I know!” She giggles, and a rooster crows in the background. “I’m so progressive. You should have seen Dustin’s face when I brought it up.” She wriggles her eyebrows. “I think he’s excited. But Donna Rollerson sells it, do you remember her?”
“The minister’s wife?” I ask, incredulous.
Mave’s eyebrows raise. “That’s the one. Anyway, she got into selling the goods—only to married people to align with her husband’s preaching—but she does singles parties behind his back.”
She smiles with wide eyes, like, can you believe this hot piece of gossip?
I nod, dumb. “That’s great,” I say, though I can’t wrap my brain around any of this. Donna Rollerson trafficking dildos and God knows what else to the women of Ledger, all of which probably know how to masturbate and have deliberately been keeping that secret from me. I’m both shocked and annoyed by this information.
Her gaze is steady, watching me over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip of wine and punctuates it with a dramatic ahh . She’s not my mother, but I’ve known her long enough to read her as well as she reads me.
I frown.
“Camp told you.”
“Whatever do you mean, Junie?” she asks, too sweet to be convincing.
My nostrils flare.
“Are you two having sex?”
I answer her question by way of drinking my entire glass of wine, refilling it to the brim, and drinking as much of the fresh glass as it takes to make my throat feel like it’s been lit on fire.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
I scoff.
“I warned you about this,” she presses, pursing her lips and making my eyes roll. “When you got pregnant, I said, ‘Junie, people are going to warn you about diaper rashes and all the ridiculous rules around car seats, but nobody ever tells you about the rest. The part where you focus on them and forget about yourself and the other parent. Don’t let yourself run ragged for the sake of everyone else and forget about your husband.’” Her face makes a kind of told-you-so look, and I consider throwing my wineglass at her. “Do you remember that?”
She doesn’t pause long enough for me to answer.
“And now here we are. You didn’t listen. And now I’ll say it all again: When a man and woman stop having physical connections, there’s too much tension for anything else to work!”
“Oh, really?” I ask, rosé-pissed-off enough to speak my mind. “Camp gets to live his best life—anywhere but at home—and I’m supposed to, what? Just roam around the house naked until he decides to show up? Pretend nothing else matters?” She opens her mouth to say something, but this time I keep talking, louder still. “And, what about him forgetting about me , Mave? How about that piece? Where’s that damn pep talk?”
I chug the rest of my wine. She studies me, her eyes moving like she’s working out some kind of mathematical equation in her head. A squeal from across the yard floats toward us and I look at the kids then watch Camp across the yard, knocking on a fence post while his dad chuckles next to him. When his eyes hook with mine, they hold a beat before he looks away.
He wasn’t wrong, I have been avoiding him since the night on the porch. I didn’t tell him about my photos. About Irma’s approval or the show. Not knowing what to say, my current plan is to remain silent. Forever.
Mave and I sit, the tension between us calming as we watch the kids play, Hank riding Ty like a cowboy.
“Camp’s a lot like his dad.” She sets her glass down, and her expression is softer than it had been. “He never wanted me to worry. Just did things without talking about them.”
I scoff. “Sounds familiar.”
“Before I went to work as a mail lady, I found out Dustin had been working two jobs. That proud sonofabitch.” My eyes widen at the same time she shakes her head with a chuckle. “He worked for the electric company; we didn’t have a lot of extras. Camp wanted to play on some fancy, travel baseball team, and it was expensive. I needed a new car.” She shrugs, shakes her head. “He said he was playing poker with friends every Friday—which, I can be honest now, I wanted to kill him for. We didn’t have money for poker!” A smile pulls at her lips as she relives days gone by. “Anyway, I found out he picked up a shift doing night maintenance and janitorial work at the old bottle factory on the edge of town. Dustin spent Friday nights cleaning toilets so we wouldn’t have to do without.”
The look on her face is filled with so much love and adoration, it instantly makes me . . . pissed. Because, though Dustin may have made these quiet sacrifices, based on the clay-covered cleats I’m constantly picking up, Camp has not.
She shakes her head, patting my knee. “Either way, they’re a proud bunch. I know you’re frustrated—and I can’t say I blame you—but you should know, June, with these men, they work hard but love harder. I’d bet money Camp has his reasons. A method to his madness.”
I rub a hand across my forehead, pulse quickening at what she’s implying. He’s right, I’m wrong.
“Everything that happens in our house is so one-sided, Mave. Camp has lived his dreams— lives them. He played baseball. Plays baseball. Helped design a whole damn complex! And I’ve done nothing. Nothing! And-and-and he can’t even be bothered to come home unless I tell him it’s over?” I scoff. “It’s not about money. We’re fine. He bought that stupid house without even talking to me!” Her expression falters and I wince. “Sorry,” I mumble, letting out a heavy sigh. “I just—he’s not a partner! I sacrifice, he doesn’t know the word. He’s not working another job, he’s just . . . gone.”
I close my eyes and drop my head back on my chair as hers scrapes across the stones of the patio. Muck boots shuffle until the sliding glass door into their house opens then closes a minute later.
“Here,” she says, handing me a thick manila envelope as she returns to her seat. “Take a look, when you have time. It might help.”
“Please tell me this isn’t something sex party-related,” I say dryly as I start to pry open the metal clasp.
Camp and his dad make their way toward us across the yard, and Mave’s hand grabs my arm. “Not now.”
My eyes meet hers, trying to read what she’s not saying. Her expression gives nothing away, but I relent, dropping the envelope into my purse along with the conversation. Me complaining only to have her defend her son will get us nowhere.
“Mama, come look!” Hank calls from across the yard.
Wine in hand, I tilt my head in an invitation for Mave to join me. She smiles. When I stand, she does too. Our quiet truce.
“So, Mave,” I say, stepping into the grass. “Tell me about this ridiculous party.”
She giggles. “I knew you’d ask!” She wiggles her fingers in the air, eyes sparkling as we start to walk. “Donna was telling me about these beads that people put up their bottoms. And—”
“Mave!” I shout, twisting my face in shocked disgust.
“Don’t Mave me, Junie. She also has these oils”—she takes a hefty sip of her wine—“now wait until you hear this!”
As she tells me every kinky thing she’s never known about, as weird as it is, I spend the rest of the afternoon laughing.