How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [28]
Lucas smiled and his aqua eyes crinkled at the edges. His black lashes gently swooped down, and when he looked at me again, we both smiled.
Then others approached him and I was literally lost in the swarming crowd.
The next week he appeared in my Sunday school class, making his way toward me. I felt anticipation fill every pore in my body, although, of course, thanks to my upbringing, I knew not to show it. When he chose the chair next to mine, I could feel my pounding heart.
We talked after that class about the simple things that are often discussed at the beginnings of relationships—the best restaurants in town, noisy neighbors, and the Atlanta Braves. Caught up in the moment, we nearly missed the worship service that followed.
When he called me four days later, I thought I was the luckiest girl on the planet. The sensation was even more exciting than baking a three-tier butter cake and icing it with the most perfect pink roses.
————
“So how was teaching?” Aunt Regena Lorraine asks as she boils water for sassafras tea. She is standing next to me in the kitchen, where I just pulled a white velvet cake from the oven. The aroma is enticing. However, her question quells my cheerful mood.
Funny how at church I lied, but here at home, I choose to be honest. “Tough.” Then I let out a sigh. It aches as it leaves my lungs, making me feel tired, as though I have just cooked a five-course meal for dinner guests. I push aside a cardboard box to make room for us at the table. When I sit down, I add, “I don’t think it could have gone worse.”
I don’t tell her that I threw myself into making the cake just to prove that I can still function in some normal way that resembles the me I’m familiar with. I don’t tell my aunt that while baking, I had conversations with myself. My reluctantfearful self was the clear winner of all my arguments.
“Well, well.” Sucking in air, she repeats, “Well, well.” As she pours the tea into mugs carrying the face of an Indian and the face of a bear, she tells me, “Those kids have been through a lot.” She rubs a pudgy hand across the neck of the bright dress she has on this afternoon. The fabric resembles an artist’s palette of reds and purples. “Did you meet Darren?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “Even his mother.”
“His mother?”
“She called him her son when she came to The Center.”
“Hair orange or red?”
“Orange.”
My aunt nods. “At Christmas it was red. Was she determined to see him?”
“She was yelling.”
“She’s on probation and there is a restraining order.” She turns on the faucet and washes her hands.
“Why?” I ask.
But the question gets lost because Regena Lorraine says, “Looks like Jonas fixed the water pressure.” She smiles at me. “Did he come over the other day?”
I think of Jonas waving his wrench and calling me Deirdre. “He did. Is he a little… ?”
I’m not sure what the politically correct term is. What do you call someone who repeats phrases, delivers his words like lines from a poorly rehearsed role, and sings verses from the Eagles’ Greatest Hits as he goes around your house tapping every faucet with the top of a Sharpie?
My great aunt has no concerns about political correctness.
“Retarded. Jonas is retarded. He has a little house in Fontana and lives alone.” She dries her hands on the linen towel that Grandpa must have bought in Venice. Venice is stamped under a lopsided bowl of printed fruit. She joins me at the table, handing the bear mug to me and setting the Indian mug in front of her. A spoon swims in each mug. As she shifts into her chair, her rings picking up the sunlight, she smiles into my eyes. “I bet they love you.”
“What?”
“Young and attractive.”
I want her to stop right there. Notice the long sleeves, Auntie. I’m not wearing them because I’m cold. I am covering all my bad and ugly that is visible to the human eye. The trouble is, I still know those scars are there.
She wraps her ringed fingers around the mug. “Darren