Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Fabien
Twenty-one-years-old
My fingers dance over the keypad, and the wrought iron gate creaks open. Closing the gate behind me, I hustle down the path to my family’s Garden District home, taking the front steps two at a time. The door swings open before I can get my key in the lock, my eight-year-old sister grinning at me.
“There’s my little black belt.”
Al hops into my arms as I step inside. “I’m not a black belt,” she corrects me.
“Yet.” I give her hair a good ruffle before placing her on her feet.
“Hey!” Al telegraphs a punch, but I allow her to land the blow, making an exaggerated show of stumbling back.
“Oof. Felt like a black belt strike to me.”
“Fabien.” Mama appears.
“Mama, thank God. Save me,” I beg, and Al giggles.
A somber look on her face, Mama greets me with a kiss on each cheek.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“Papà needs to see you,” she says, and I wonder what I’ve done this time. “Al, to the kitchen with me.”
“Aww,” Al whines.
“See you later, little blackbelt,” I tell her with a wink.
As I move down the hallway, I rack my brain, trying to figure out why I’m being called to his office. No matter what I do, it’s never enough for my old man. And yet like some fucking masochist, I keep trying to win his approval.
My knuckles rap on the door.
“Come in,” an unknown male voice calls.
Confused, I enter Papà’s office and stop short. A man in scrubs attends to my father, who’s laid up in a hospital bed that didn’t used to be here.
“Doc, this is my son,” the boss of New Orleans says in the weakest voice I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth.
“Hello. I’m your father’s oncologist.”
“Oncologist?” I repeat dumbly.
The doctor nods. “Currently, your father’s lungs are too inflamed to begin chemotherapy. But once we get this flare-up under control, we’ll begin our first round.”
“Chemotherapy?” It seems I can only repeat one word at a time.
“Lung cancer, my boy,” my father spells it out.
“Lung cancer?” Make that two words.
“Doc, give my son and me a moment.”
“Of course, Mr. Calvani.”
The doctor exits the room, closing the door behind him.
My legs feel unsteady, so I take a seat in the armchair next to the bed. “I thought you had the flu.”
He struggles to sit upright, but I don’t dare help him, lest I get backhanded. “I did. But turns out I also have Stage 4 cancer.”
I release a shaky breath. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say, other than we keep this information to ourselves. Not a word to anyone outside of this household,” he warns.
I nod. “Understood.”
“Doc gives me six months tops. Enough time for you to quit fucking around and prove to me you’re ready to lead this family.”
My teeth grind together. “I am ready.”
“That remains to be seen. You could start by making your mama happy and settling down. Pick a suitable wife, or I’ll pick one for you,” Vitto warns.
“No need, Papà. I was planning on bringing my girl to Sunday dinner.”
This will be news to Sienna, but I’m a persuasive guy.
Hopefully.
Sienna
Eighteen-years-old
I refuse to believe in a judgmental sky daddy, but if there is a God, he/she/they, whatever it is, has a sense of humor. Retrieving my cherry print dress from the thrift store bag, I slip it over my head and begin pinning the oversized material.
The dress is three sizes too big, but thankfully, I was able to lug my sewing machine cross-country. My parents were clueless as to my interest in the craft of sewing; they thought it’d be a good skill for a future dutiful wife and SAHM.
How ironic that the chastity my parents and church guarded so zealously is what’s going to make my dreams of becoming a fashion designer come true.
Having pinned the excess material and taken the dress hemline two inches higher, I examine myself in the mirror. Better, but the cheap plastic belt and oversized loops have to go. I remove the belt from the dress, clutching it in my hands as I freeze.
Black belt tied to the bathroom doorknob, head lolled to the side, eyes wide and lifeless…
“Come on, Sienna. We’re going to be late.” Mom calls.
My body feels strange, like I’m watching things unfold from a distance. An observer, not an active participant. One foot in front of the other as I pass my twin brother’s room, refusing to look.
Descending the stairs, I’m greeted by my mom’s judgmental glare. “Go change.”
“I’m not in violation of any modesty rules: shoulders covered, dress hitting below the knees,” I argue.
“Those boots are ridiculous.” She eyes my black lace-up boots with yellow stitching; my little form of resistance, funded by babysitting cash. “And too much attention will be drawn to your chest.” Her eagle-eye appraisal moves from my feet to my fully covered breasts.
“Excuse me for existing in a body,” I snipe.
“I don’t care for your disrespectful tone. Now is not the time,” she says in a clipped tone. “Your brother is—”
“Dead? Yeah, I know,” I say coolly. “I’m the one who found him.”
Black belt tied to the bathroom doorknob, head lolled to the side, eyes wide and lifeless…
“Girls, it’s time to go,” my dad calls, and the hostilities are put on pause.
We ride to the funeral in unbearable silence, until finally I blurt out, “Was Oliver’s boyfriend notified of the funeral?”
“Oliver didn’t have a boyfriend, and I won’t hear another word about it,” my mom snaps.
“He did have a boyfriend,” I say firmly, refusing to be gaslit about this.
“Oliver was gay, and when he was outed, instead of supporting him, you abandoned him.” The biggest scandal of the ward: my eighteen-year-old twin brother was caught having sex with the bishop’s seventeen-year-old son.
Word got out, and to save face, the bishop’s son was sent away on a mission, and my brother was painted as the problem.
The pervert. The abomination. The predator.
An investigation was opened. Oliver was excommunicated.
He ended his life three days later.
“Enough!” My dad thunders, and I bite my tongue.
We arrive at the funeral home, as everyone in leadership had agreed church wasn’t the most appropriate setting for the funeral, given the “circumstances.” My feet feel heavy, like my boots are lined with lead as we reach the front row, the closed casket directly in front of us.
A framed picture of a smiling Oliver has my stomach roiling violently.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I lean over and whisper to my mom, unsure of whether I need to throw up or cry.
Maybe both.
“Hurry up.” She sighs, annoyed. “The service is about to begin.”
With my head down, I walk the length of the aisle, ignoring the feel of eyes on me as I step out of the chapel. Slipping inside the restroom, I enter the last stall and close the toilet lid, taking a seat and tucking my knees to my chest.
The sound of the bathroom door creaking open has me holding my breath. “You know his weirdo twin found him hanging from a belt tied to the ceiling fan.” The caddy voice belongs to the resident mean girl from Oliver’s temple class.
Rage has me flinging the stall door open, and I get in her surprised face. “It was the doorknob, not the ceiling fan. Get your gossip straight.”
“Speaking of straight, are you an abomination like your brother? You going to try and assault me too?” she taunts.
My fist slams into bone and cartilage as her head snaps to the side; the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done.
She shrieks, bringing her hands to her nose that’s gushing blood.
No try about it.
I storm out of the bathroom and into the chapel, marching onto the stage. Ripping the microphone from the stand, it makes a high-pitched squeal as I bring it closer to my mouth.
“My brother, Oliver, is gay. Was gay.” My voice fills the eerily silent room.
“He was in a consensual, loving relationship with his boyfriend, but was thrown under the bus by the bishop.” I point to the enraged man in the front row.
“By his parents.” I point to my parents, who look like they’re trying to crawl under their chairs.
“And everyone in this supposed ‘loving’ church. You excommunicated him, but I’ll go ahead and save you the trouble with me: I hereby excommunicate myself.
” Flipping the shocked crowd the middle finger, I toss the microphone to the floor as I storm out of the funeral home.
The spare key to the family vehicle is in my pocket, and having already committed an assault, I figure what’s one more crime. Slamming the door closed, I shift into drive and peel out, making it home in record speed.
Home.
A bitter laugh gets stuck in my throat. This place was never my home.
It looks like a tornado hit my room as I get the last of my belongings packed. With a final glance inside Oliver’s room, I fight back the tears as I walk out.
My mind’s reeling as I drive to the bus station and lock the keys in the car. It’s not grand theft auto if you leave the keys in the vehicle you stole. That’s my logic, anyway.
With my backpack slung over my shoulder and a box containing my sewing machine, I make my way to the ticket counter. “Where is that bus going, the one that’s being loaded now?” I ask the attendant, realizing for the first time my knuckles are bleeding.
“Dallas, and on to New Orleans,” he says in an extremely bored tone.
New Orleans.
All the little hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. This has to be a sign.
“One-way ticket to New Orleans, please.”
Soothing my grief with the creative process, I get to work threading my sewing machine Pfff. I blow a strand of hair that’s escaped my messy bun as I guide the cherry fabric through the path of my sewing machine needle.
The last stitch is finished, I try on my upcycle. Examining the once ill-fitting dress in the mirror, it’s been transformed into the cutest mini dress that ever was.
With a wide grin, I run my hand lovingly over the cherry fabric, checking myself out from every angle. Styling it with one heel and one combat boot, the heel is sexier, but the boot is more me, so I decide to go with the boots.
My phone buzzes, and I cross the tiny room and grab it from the charger. “Hello?”
“Cherry, this is Jade. I need you at the lounge in an hour,” she says in a rush.
“Why?”
“The auction has been moved to tonight.”
“Tonight? But I didn’t think it would be so soon,” I stammer, my heart skipping its next beat. “I didn’t have time to do any of the things—”
“Shave your legs, slap on some lipstick, and get over here,” she instructs me.
“Alright, I’ll see you in an hour.”
The call ends, and I gently peel the dress over my head and kick off my mismatched footwear before racing for the shower.
The silver lining? There’s no time for me to overthink what I’m about to do.