II
Twelve hours later, I would swear I was on a different continent.
Well, not really, but you know what I mean. Compared to everything I grew up with, this place was a Tiny little town. With a capital T, possibly preceded by “Teeny”. Petite. Miniature. I would have bet money there were only a handful of stoplights in town and that they started flashing after ten pm. I think that a lot of my impressions were coming straight from movies, or possibly television. Happy Days? I thought I saw Andy Griffith and Ron Howard walking hand in hand across the street. The resemblance, of course, faded when the kid started rolling away on those hide-a-wheel sneakers.
Five seconds later he ate shit, so I quickly turned and walked to the door before his father could see me giggling.
Now my aunts sat across the kitchen island from me. (I think that’s what it’s called - it’s a counter in the middle of the room with barstools around it. I have seen them in movies. I notice this phrase is coming to my mind an awful lot. I saw it in a movie once.) In my head I am trying to decide if that makes me sad or more awesome. I decide on awesome, since it’s more optimistic and I am such an “up” person.
Technically, they are staring at me, my two “aunts” - but not in an unkind way. They were very interested in me. There was the appropriate amount of concern and consolation in both faces. They both had my father’s green-grey eyes. They both had my father’s almost-black hair. It was even streaked with silver in the same sort of percentage. They cradled teacups in both hands, to keep the stray hand from becoming idle and fidgety. They both had a touch of a sympathetic, encouraging smile. If this were anything like the books I read, something would jump from the walk-in pantry (also something I have only seen in movies) and machete the room to bits. So yes, I’m sitting here in front of my two aunts, imaging them being decapitated by a guy in that scary movie mask. I might have inappropriate reactions to serious situations, but as I said, it makes me more awesome.
“So, who was the oldest?” This falls into the ‘I don’t really care’ category, but I got to get things moving on the conversation front, or this will be a painful couple of weeks. I tried hard not to think of Jesse, football, and takeout.
Their eyes both widened ever so slightly at the question and they glanced at each other with a sly smile on each mouth. Clearly, I was missing something.
“Oh, well, your father was the oldest, but not by much. We were both born within an hour after he was.” Aunt Number One says through a large, beaming grin. (Well, one of them is Melinda and the other is Nicole and I’ve known them for all of fifteen minutes - and they sort of look-alike-ish…so I’m just not sure which is which. Don’t judge me; I’ve never been good with names.)
“Triplets?” I try to wrap my head around that one. That’s one of those details that makes me slightly mad at him. One of those details that someone close to you should know. I talk myself out of it. I mean, if he had told me, I would have bugged him about it, relentlessly. I understood why he didn’t tell me, even if it irked me just a tad. Okay, more than a tad. When you are really close to someone and you find out something like that, it stings like not being trusted. I think...no, I KNOW (my inner self yells) that my dad trusted me. Really, I do. What are the other options? Protecting me? Protecting himself? From what? The Betty Crocker brigade here?
“You look a lot like him.” Says Aunt Number Two. “Your eyes are very warm, just like his. Same shape, too, but it’s really the warmth that I see.” She gets a little glassy-eyed at that point and looks down into her cup. I hope that the “Something’s weird here” thought I am having isn’t plastered on my face. They both look exceedingly sympathetic and emotional, so I think I’m in the clear.
I try to imagine them as children, but I think I need some visual aids for that to round out.
“Thank you. You both resemble him too, in a way, ”
Is it my rosy-your-dad-just-died-colored glasses that were telling me that he was so much younger looking than they were? Dad didn’t look this old. Right?
They grinned at each other, pleased with the comparison. “So…when was the last time you spoke to him?” I was trying to not sound like a police investigator and I think I was failing - and relying heavily on the sympathy vote, but really, who the hell are these people?
“Well, let me think. Melly, was it the graduation party?” Aunt Nicole (Ha! See! I pay attention!) looked imploringly at her sister, clearly not firm on the details. She bit her lip as she was turning her head to ask the question - it was a gesture so completely familiar to me that, for a second, I didn’t feel like a total stranger here. Dad used to make that face when he was doing the crossword. The thought made me smile a bit, as these two siblings bantered with me like we had all known each other forever…like we were family.
“No, it was about a week after that. He and Mary…I mean, well after it was all over he packed up and left in the middle of the night. I suppose it was several months after his high school graduation. He called for a bit, but never came back.” I don’t think I was imagining it, but Melinda looked a little less upset about the whole situation than Nicole did. Not cold, just...calm. Warm. If this were an episode of a heartwarming family television drama, I would dare to call it normal. She just looks to be taking it all in stride.
Of course, this is not to say that Auntie Nicole is a blubbering mess, either. Other than the misty eyed half-choke back of a single tear, she hasn’t really been a fount of emotion, either. I’m having a hard time imagining my father being related to either of these ice cubes, quite frankly. My father, who cries at the end of Disney movies. My father, who cannot be trusted to set foot in a pet store, lest we come home with a flock of new furry friends? (This is not an exaggeration - we bought four kittens once because the store clerk only hinted that they were getting too big to sell and were going to a shelter.) My father, who gets - got, sorry - more weepy over each and every high school milestone I crossed than his combined sisters can muster for his death. I am in the wrong damn house and these people are deranged.
Only they’re not. At the door I was greeted affectionately, smiles and hugs, as if they had known me my whole life. There were small children playing in several rooms; they came in occasionally to ask their respective mothers for a snack, a kiss on a boo-boo, or help assembling a toy. They were hugged, smiled at, spoken to in soft, affectionate tones, and sent on their happy way. The house was decorated in warm earth tones, the furniture was soft and plump, and the lighting was subdued. The decor was homey but not hokey - it was not a style I would have chosen for myself, but the overall effect was…warm. In the future, when I would tell this story to others, that word would just keep coming up. So I apologize in advance if it gets overused. There are only so many words for warm, in the way that I mean it. I mean…the air that hit you as you came in from the outside snap of cold smelled of cinnamon and clove. Honestly, the whole house felt like it was an apple pie baking, and I’m not even sure I know what that means.
While I’m being all honest and forthcoming, the whole scene simultaneously stabbed and tugged at my heart, and I found my cynical self looking for flaws in this backdrop, because I am a shitty human being.
“Let’s just say it has been a long time, but it didn’t seem like so long. One minute he was here, the next…” she actually glances down to her lap, in an almost undetectable display of emotion (I’m guessing loss? Forgetfulness...is there laundry in the dryer? Who knows, maybe her sister passed gas.) “We expected to hear word, but there was nothing after the first year. No letters, no calls. We had no way to get ahold of him. So we just waited. And we waited a while longer. We never heard anything bad; we just never heard anything at all until the lawyer called a couple weeks ago. We figured that if he needed us, he would call. So few people leave here, we didn’t really know what how to react.”
This last statement sounded like the sort of thing that would be accompanied by a sinister piece of leading music - and my eyes narrowed just a tiny bit in hearing it.
“No one leaves here? That sounds a little...” I didn’t want to say ‘creepy’ - I mean, I just got here. I attempted to make my eyes a bit less squinty and suspicious. (Because surely, if I look suspicious they will kidnap me and throw me in a basement dungeon to keep me quiet. I am now gauging the distance to the front door. Would I be able to get out before they got me? Dad was right; I watch too much television.) Not sure of the overall effect, I snuck a glance at my reflection in the china cabinet. I looked like someone was taking my temperature the old-fashioned way. Deep breaths needed to be taken. Why is this incredibly happy home with these nice people making slightly nervous?
Aunt Nikki smiled in a knowing way, like she was a freaky damn mind reader, which wasn't helping things one bit.
“Oh, I don’t mean to make it sound that way. This is just one of the best places to live and raise a family. People are born here and they live here til the day they die. Everyone knows everyone; everyone takes care of each other. There’s just no other place like it. Even the university is just a ten minute bus ride away. It’s not that we make anyone stay or anything, it’s just that most people have no reason to leave.”
Except me. This whole place is making me uncomfortable, and I’m not sure why. I agreed to stay through the holiday, though, so I have ten days. Is there alcohol? I suppose I should wait until at least noon. Oh my god, change the subject.
“So, who lives here, exactly? There are so many kids it’s hard to tell who belongs to whom.”
The aunts glanced briefly at each other, obviously only to confirm who was going to speak - they seemed to share a mind and have that crazy voodoo silent conversation thing going on. Maybe it was a triplet thing. If my dad were here, perhaps he could act as translator.
“Oh, this is Grandma Patty’s house.” Auntie Mel seems to have won the mental thumb war for talking rights. “When Grandpa Joe passed on about 4 years ago, my husband Mark and I moved in to help take care of her. Not that she really needs or wants us to take care of her.” she smiled - it was clearly not meant as a nasty comment, and it didn't come off that way, but it did make me curious about Grandma Patty (I have a grandmother. That's crazy shit.)
“Nikki and her family live across the street, but we are all together a lot of the time anyway.”
At that moment, I wonder if the look on my face betrays what I’m thinking -that these people are all suburban freakshows. No one is supposed to be this close to their family. Every memory of Thanksgiving and Christmas I have involves only me and my father, a tiny tree, and a Chinese restaurant. Then I remember that the reason I feel that way is only because of my father - the man who stole away from this tribe while the drum circle was passing the wacky tobaccy. Knowing his personality, I get why he wasn’t a fan of this style of living, but my dad was a really loving person and we were really, really close. Why would he find this environment stifling at all? Or did he? Is there is a basic difference between him and them that I am just barely missing? I am so confused by this experience that I realize that I have just been staring blankly for several minutes while these thoughts flickered about in my noggin, and my aunts are kind of looking at me like I’ve taken a blow to the head.
“Okay then…maybe I should see where I’m staying? I’m a little tired from the drive.” If my yawn was as fake looking as I think it was, no one let on.