Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [66]
I dipped the paddle in the water while Abbie whispered, “I remember my first dance with Mr. Jake at the Dock Street. After the show, they dropped the curtain, but I was still so excited that he grabbed my hand and we danced backstage. I was so keyed up—I just…didn’t want it to end.”
Not long after my mom explained to me the meaning of an “easy woman,” I decided to enact my own revenge on the big fat woman who started the rumor. She had this thermometer on her front porch that you could read from across the park. She had camouflaged it amongst all the stolen Coca-Cola and Burma-Shave signs. The thermometer was nearly as tall as me and hung on the sunny side of her trailer, which meant it read about five degrees hotter than it really was—which she thought made her special. It was like she’d cornered the South Georgia market on temperature readings. Things were a little slow around the park. Anyway, she drove out of the park one afternoon, leaving her place unattended. I never even hesitated. I grabbed a brick, walked straight up to the thermometer and smashed it into a thousand slivers. The glass exploded. I remember hearing this loud pop and when I looked again the ground was spotted with maybe a half-dozen large silver droplets that looked like warped chrome ball bearings. I poked at them with a stick and they jiggled. They pulled at my curiosity, so I pushed them back together and when I did they all rolled into one big, nearly egg-sized drop in which I saw my distant and distorted reflection.
The surface of the water clung to the paddle like a liquid mirror, then dripped of the tip in equal drops. Behind us, the moon climbed high and hung bright. Below, the drops pooled like mercury, drawing themselves into one long fluorescent flow.
She closed her eyes. “Guess we can check off number eight.”
I never saw my reflection.
21
Her parents were livid. Pissed is probably a better word. Truer, too. They did everything they could to force a wedge between Abbie and me. They spelled out our differences, my failings, my lack of pedigree, my—You get the point. And if they did it once, they did it a hundred times. We suffered no shortage of Doss-bashing. Of the two of us, I probably understood it more than she.
In all the turmoil, I discovered something about their parenting. On the surface, I always thought that a family like hers had all their ducks in a row. They looked happy, therefore they must have been happy. Truth was, they were miserable. Her stepmom was pretty and had all the guys calling. Her dad was a rocketing political star. Seemed like a match made in heaven. Neither ever thought to ask if they actually loved each other. Love was an afterthought. But they learned to put on their happy face and show the world that they had it all together. So she became the ice queen and he, the face on TV. Then Abbie blossomed and they poured themselves into her in a style which said, “I know best, so buck up and pour your energy and passion into my vision for you.” Not once did they think to ask Abbie, “What are you passionate about and how can I pour myself into your vision of you?”
As a result, Abbie lay in bed at night, listening to the arguments her parents promised her they never had, and she promised herself that—no matter the cost—she was going to marry for love.
So in a weird and twisted sort of way, I’m glad they fought. Otherwise, Abbie would have married some attorney who wore a seersucker suit and bow tie. Instead, she married me. I’ve never owned a seersucker suit and I couldn’t tie a bow tie if my life depended on it.
Her parents drew a line in the sand—I was not welcome in their home, on their property or in their rearview mirror. On the other hand, Abbie was expected to attend every family holiday or political function. I said, “Honey, go. They’re your family. You can’t ignore them. I’ll be here when you get back.”
She shook her head and took the phone off the hook. “You are my family. So don’t try pawning me off on them.”
Abbie spent two more years doing the New York model thing and then hung