Mitchell, the closest thing I’d ever had to a husband. At least Elin got alimony. At least Tiger had an Ambien prescription.
“I can understand how it might take a little time to get used to the idea. But we’re actually really happy about it.” Mitchell rubbed his head again. “You’ll like her.”
“Go away,” I said.
“Is Tag around?”
It was my turn to look at Mitchell’s car. The front of it was pointed at Tag’s house. If Mitchell had been on his way to see me, he would have taken the next turn off the main road, into my driveway, and not this one.
“Ohmigod,” I said. “You didn’t come here to tell me . You came to tell Tag.”
Mitchell’s hand was still on his scalp. “I want him to marry us, Dee. I mean, I know it might be a little awkward for you, but Tag’s like a brother to me.”
I put the golf cart into gear.
Then I pushed the pedal as far as it would go and aimed right for the man who had wasted the most valuable years of my life.
Just before impact, a chiasmus flashed before my eyes like a vision: Better to run over than to be overrun.
When people show you their true colors, color yourself convinced the first time .
T he first time I met Mitchell I was sitting at a little round table having a glass of wine with someone named Belinda. Belinda and I had gone to high school together. We’d chosen the Marshbury Tavern because it was the only place for miles around that had entertainment on Tuesday nights.
Belinda was in town for the week to visit her parents. She lived in North Carolina but kept closer tabs than I did on what was happening on the hometown front. Belinda was one of those people who sent you a birthday and a Christmas card with a chatty little note every year, year in and year out, whether or not you ever sent them a card back, whether or not you’d ever really known each other in the first place.
“So,” she said, “whatever happened to Marla Embrey?”
“Marla Embrey,” I repeated. “Which one was she again?”
Belinda sighed and reached for her wineglass. Clearly she was starting to wish she’d tracked down Marla Embrey instead of me. I wasn’t intentionally trying to disappoint Belinda. High school just hadn’t appealed to me much the first time around. Trying to give it a second incarnation by reliving it did even less for me. I’d also noticedthat people who no longer lived in the town they’d grown up in automatically assumed those who did knew everything that was going on. The truth was that the way to handle still living there was to let go of the past.
Belinda regrouped and tried a new direction. “By the way, I was so sorry to read about Tag and his wife splitting up.”
I shrugged. “Split happens.”
Tag’s star was rising fast back then and this was our family’s first major run-in with the tabloids. Shortly after the breakup, my father had made the mistake of talking to someone at the town landfill. That someone had in turn sold the story for big bucks.
The headline in the National Enquirer screamed, “Tag Tells Wife of Seven Years: You’re No Longer It.” And the first paragraph of the story contained this little gem: “The New Age phenomenon’s own father told a close family friend requesting anonymity, ‘That boy never could manage to keep it in his pants.’”
It was a wake-up call for the whole family. We closed ranks. For the first time, we were careful whom we talked to and what we said.
I didn’t know it then, but it was the first step toward my isolated, family-only claustrophobia of today.
I took a sip of my wine while I rooted around for some safe conversational ground. “I can’t believe they’re playing ‘There’s a Kind of Hush (All Over the World)’” I said. “I mean, how retro can you get?”
Belinda looked over at the band. “The drummer even looks a little bit like Herman of Herman’s Hermits.”
“Peter Noone,” I said.
“You know him?”
I laughed. “No. Peter Noone was Herman
“I can understand how it might take a little time to get used to the idea. But we’re actually really happy about it.” Mitchell rubbed his head again. “You’ll like her.”
“Go away,” I said.
“Is Tag around?”
It was my turn to look at Mitchell’s car. The front of it was pointed at Tag’s house. If Mitchell had been on his way to see me, he would have taken the next turn off the main road, into my driveway, and not this one.
“Ohmigod,” I said. “You didn’t come here to tell me . You came to tell Tag.”
Mitchell’s hand was still on his scalp. “I want him to marry us, Dee. I mean, I know it might be a little awkward for you, but Tag’s like a brother to me.”
I put the golf cart into gear.
Then I pushed the pedal as far as it would go and aimed right for the man who had wasted the most valuable years of my life.
Just before impact, a chiasmus flashed before my eyes like a vision: Better to run over than to be overrun.
When people show you their true colors, color yourself convinced the first time .
T he first time I met Mitchell I was sitting at a little round table having a glass of wine with someone named Belinda. Belinda and I had gone to high school together. We’d chosen the Marshbury Tavern because it was the only place for miles around that had entertainment on Tuesday nights.
Belinda was in town for the week to visit her parents. She lived in North Carolina but kept closer tabs than I did on what was happening on the hometown front. Belinda was one of those people who sent you a birthday and a Christmas card with a chatty little note every year, year in and year out, whether or not you ever sent them a card back, whether or not you’d ever really known each other in the first place.
“So,” she said, “whatever happened to Marla Embrey?”
“Marla Embrey,” I repeated. “Which one was she again?”
Belinda sighed and reached for her wineglass. Clearly she was starting to wish she’d tracked down Marla Embrey instead of me. I wasn’t intentionally trying to disappoint Belinda. High school just hadn’t appealed to me much the first time around. Trying to give it a second incarnation by reliving it did even less for me. I’d also noticedthat people who no longer lived in the town they’d grown up in automatically assumed those who did knew everything that was going on. The truth was that the way to handle still living there was to let go of the past.
Belinda regrouped and tried a new direction. “By the way, I was so sorry to read about Tag and his wife splitting up.”
I shrugged. “Split happens.”
Tag’s star was rising fast back then and this was our family’s first major run-in with the tabloids. Shortly after the breakup, my father had made the mistake of talking to someone at the town landfill. That someone had in turn sold the story for big bucks.
The headline in the National Enquirer screamed, “Tag Tells Wife of Seven Years: You’re No Longer It.” And the first paragraph of the story contained this little gem: “The New Age phenomenon’s own father told a close family friend requesting anonymity, ‘That boy never could manage to keep it in his pants.’”
It was a wake-up call for the whole family. We closed ranks. For the first time, we were careful whom we talked to and what we said.
I didn’t know it then, but it was the first step toward my isolated, family-only claustrophobia of today.
I took a sip of my wine while I rooted around for some safe conversational ground. “I can’t believe they’re playing ‘There’s a Kind of Hush (All Over the World)’” I said. “I mean, how retro can you get?”
Belinda looked over at the band. “The drummer even looks a little bit like Herman of Herman’s Hermits.”
“Peter Noone,” I said.
“You know him?”
I laughed. “No. Peter Noone was Herman
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