The Secrets of Peaches

  Fifteen

  Leeda walked into the foyer of her house. The smell of turkey was drifting in the air, but the dining room table was pristine and empty.

  That afternoon, she had wandered around Bridgewater until the temperature dropped with the sun. Now, standing face-to-face with the autographed photo of Lucretia as queen on the console, Leeda swiped at her dress, which was covered in big splotches of powder. Some kid had apparently run out of pecans and pelted her with his funnel cake. She felt her cell phone vibrating in her purse and pulled it out, hitting Ignore when she saw it was Birdie. Murphy hadn’t even called at all. Birdie, of course, had called five times. Leeda turned off the phone and then brushed at herself as she followed the sound of the TV to the home theater.

  Danay and Brighton were sitting on one of the recliners eating popcorn and watching a dog show. Leeda sank onto the armrest.

  “Hey. Who did that to you?” No answer. “You missed Thanksgiving dinner. Mom’s pissed.”

  Leeda opened and closed her mouth. She felt a fresh wave of venom rise up in her throat. “She missed my parade,” she managed to squeak out.

  Danay shrugged.

  Leeda had the feeling you got in a dream, when you yell and yell and no voice comes out. She wanted to make Danay hear that it was a big deal. But Danay looked so impenetrable, chomping on her popcorn, devil-may-care. All Leeda could get out was a tight, “She said she wanted to see me on the float. With the hyperhalitosis and everything…” Her voice got infinitely smaller until it cut off completely. Because she felt infinitely small.

  “It’s hyperhidrosis. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, what if she dies?” Leeda spat out. Danay looked at her like she’d lost her mind. And Leeda couldn’t make sense of the look. She couldn’t even believe she’d said dies out loud. It seemed like some sort of curse.

  Danay gave Brighton a sort of can-you-believe-this gesture. “Lee, all that happens with hyperhidrosis is you sweat a lot. The only thing that’s in danger is Mom’s ego.”

  Leeda felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of her. She leaned against the doorway. “I don’t believe you.”

  Danay slapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Brighton knows.”

  Brighton, who’d interned at Holy Cross the year before, nodded, his glasses glinting in the light of the giant TV. “It’s true.”

  Danay turned her eyes back to the screen, but Leeda couldn’t stop staring at her sister. She could have been knocked over with a feather.

  Finally Danay looked over at her and did a double take. “God. You believed her?” She shook her head.

  Leeda backed up slowly.

  Danay turned to Brighton, rolling her eyes. “My mom is such a rat,” she said to Brighton, amused. “I’m telling you, she can get her way with anyone. Anyone.”

  Upstairs, Leeda packed her room piece by piece. She stripped her soft white comforter off her bed. She shoved as many clothes as she could into her big gray suitcase. She took her photos of Murphy and Birdie and her dad and stuffed them into the front pocket. She wanted to tear it all down. She wanted to tear down the walls.

  She was hoping her mom would hear her and come to see what she was doing. But she didn’t.

  Finally she walked down the hall to her parents’ bedroom. “Mom?” Her mom and dad were reading. Her mom was at the very side of the bed, while her dad was in the middle. They both looked up in surprise, taking in the funnel cake stains.

  Leeda swallowed. “I don’t understand,” she said, her heart pounding.

  “Where were you for dinner?” Lucretia asked, immediately going on the offensive, lowering her book onto the lap of her silky pink long-sleeved nightgown.

  Leeda’s words rushed out in a wave. “Why couldn’t you just be there for me? Like a normal mom? Why is that such a problem?”

  Lucretia stiffened. Her hands fluttered on her book. She looked trapped. “Leeda, I’m sorry, but Danay was here and…”

  “Time slipped away from you, right?”

  Lucretia shut her mouth, souring.

  It was maddening to Leeda that pouring out her heart brought that kind of look in return. “Why don’t you care if I slip away from you?”

  “Oh, really.” Lucretia rolled her eyes at Leeda’s dad, who did what he usually did—he kept his face in his book, opting out of the controversy. It made Leeda want to scream. How could he not expect more? How could he live with her mom the way she was?

  Leeda took a deep breath and tried to even herself out and capture some dignity. “I want it back.”

  “What back?” Lucretia asked, squinting at her.

  “The Barbie.”

  “What?”

  “I want the Barbie back.”

  Lucretia lifted her book again, as if to start reading. “Don’t be ridiculous, Leeda.”

  Leeda scanned the room and saw it sitting on the bureau. She marched over and grabbed it. Lucretia leapt up out of bed. “You are out of line, Leeda.”

  “Why did you even have me?”

  Lucretia didn’t say anything. Apparently she didn’t have anything to say.

  Leeda felt punched down the middle with holes. She moved back to the doorway. “I just want you to know…” she sputtered, “that when you’re old and sick and you need someone, I’m not taking care of you! I’m wheeling you off the dock!”

  As Leeda sailed down the hallway, she passed Danay coming to see what the commotion was and pushed right past her. She grabbed her suitcase from her room and hurried down the stairs.

  When she backed out of the driveway, Lucretia was standing on the stoop in her nightgown, watching her go. Leeda couldn’t tell if she looked pulled apart or just shocked. Leeda backed onto the road and slammed on the gas.

  She knew where she was going before she really knew. At the intersection of Anjaco and Orchard, she threw the Barbie out the window and turned left.

  As she reached the edge of orchard property, she stepped harder on the gas, feeling freedom, the closeness of redemption. She peered to her left to see if there were lights on up at the house and then glanced back at the road. At that moment, two tan blobs flashed out from the grass and she slammed on the brakes. She watched them disappear under the car with a thump thump.

  She’d had just enough time to see that they were wearing sweaters.

  Sixteen

  Because she didn’t want to wake Rex’s dad, Murphy pulled up by Pearly Gates Cemetery and got out of the car, shivering in the breeze. Pearly Gates was actually gated only by a rubberized chain-link fence, tied together with a bit of rope. It looked especially morbid in the cold.

  She walked along the white gravel that lined the side of the road and into Rex’s yard—a one-level tan house with brown-lined windows and a bluebird painted on the black mailbox. Murphy’s feet swished through the grass as she walked around back, where there was still an old swing set in the shadows. She knocked on the window, her heart in her throat.

  When Murphy had looked for Leeda after the parade, she’d found her car missing. She’d figured Leeda wanted to be alone—or maybe she was giving it to her mom—so Murphy put her phone on vibrate and slid it into her pocket to make sure she felt it if she called. All day, every time it vibrated, it was Rex. Her thumb hovered over the Accept button but didn’t get farther than that. Instead she’d ended up at the fifty-cent movie theater, watching The Wizard of Oz, which the Bridgewater Picture Show always showed on Thanksgiving. And then she’d headed home for Thanksgiving dinner with her mom. She’d put her cell phone under her pillow in her room. They had snuggled up on the couch and watched Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas, which they’d recorded about twelve years ago on VHS. Finally Jodee had gone to bed, and Murphy—stuck with herself and out of distractions—had gotten in her car.

  Now, after a few moments, there was the click of the latch and the window slid upward. Rex, shirtless, stood for a moment, trying to get oriented and squinting at her in the dark. Then he duck
ed and leaned out the window and put his arms around Murphy’s waist and kissed her cheek. His skin was as warm as a chimney. Murphy felt her voice disappear.

  “Come in.”

  “Um.” Murphy looked over his shoulder into the warm air of his bedroom. “Can we go for a walk?” She needed to be in motion.

  Rex was quiet for a moment, surprised, and then: “Sure. Hold on.” He disappeared inside and then reappeared a few moments later wearing sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, and a jacket, pulling on his shoes.

  They walked down the street and around a curve that rose to the right. Murphy felt like if she kept her feet moving she could stay ahead of whatever it was she was afraid of.

  “I know what you’re here for.” The way he said it, so low, made her worry.

  “I want to tell you something first before you say anything.”

  “Yeah.” Rex stopped and gave her his complete attention, pulling her back toward him. Murphy’s heart ached over the big, wide space of Rex. Murphy shifted on her feet, back and forth. She put her whole face against his arm and slurred into it, flatly, “I lurr you.”

  Rex laughed and pulled her curls back from her face. “What?”

  “Don’t make me say it again.” Murphy felt naked, stretched out on a post.

  Rex put his forehead against hers. “I know you do.”

  Murphy relaxed into his hands and rolled her eyes.

  “I need to know if you’re in or out, Rex.”

  Murphy waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she pulled away, stuck her hands in her pockets, looked up and around and at the side of him. “Here’s the thing. I feel like I’m…that if we’re going to do this. You know, if I’m going to show you all my yucky stuff…you know, all this stuff about me and everything that’s really scary, I need to know you’re with me.”

  “I’m with you, Shorts.”

  “The whole way.” It was much more than Murphy wanted to say. She looked off and didn’t make eye contact.

  Rex reached out and pulled her close. She leaned into him, finally. Thank God.

  He put his hand on her hair. “I just don’t think New York is for me, Murphy.”

  Suddenly Murphy went stiff. She pulled back and looked him in the eye. He looked back at her solidly, focused, like he was being careful, like he was choosing his words carefully.

  “My dad’s here,” he went on. “And…I don’t feel that thing you do. I don’t need to get away.”

  Murphy was reeling inside. She could feel him slipping and sliding out of her fingers. She steeled her chin and went on. Maybe she wasn’t saying it right or he wasn’t quite hearing her right. “I can’t stay here. I’ll shrivel up and blow away if I stay here.”

  Rex stood back. “I know.”

  Murphy let her arms dangle at her sides. What could she say to that? She felt jealous suddenly of Rex’s dad. She let the silence drift between them for a long time, hoping for Rex to cave or to give her something to go on. But he didn’t.

  “So if you stay here, Rex, what…what are you picturing for us?”

  “I don’t know. I guess…” Rex looked like he was aware he was stepping into a trap. “I guess I just thought we could enjoy each other while we can.”

  It hit her like a brick. Murphy composed her face carefully. The trust she’d felt in Rex a moment before vanished. She disappeared behind herself.

  “That’s very Zen of you.”

  “Murphy, I don’t want to hold you back. You’re going to have this amazing time, and I don’t want you to spend it wishing you were somewhere else or with someone else. That would just kill me to know I caused that or took that away from you.”

  “You’re right,” Murphy said. “I don’t want to be held back.” She leaned against the chain-link fence behind her. She wondered how long forever was in Rex’s world. She didn’t want to love him anymore. It was like the flick of a switch. She wanted to backpedal and take back all the things she’d said. She wanted to be back on top of her heart instead of being buried somewhere underneath it.

  Murphy was good at many things, but the thing she had always been best at was walking away. She shrugged casually. “Actually, I think it’s better we start now. I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  He shifted slightly, looking surprised. “Yeah,” he said, as if he was trying to agree. “If that’s how you feel, okay.”

  “You don’t care about how I feel,” Murphy croaked, looking away.

  Rex didn’t say anything back, which was worse than anything. He just stared at her calmly. Murphy fought the urge to kick him in the shins.

  “Good night.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Then he turned and walked back toward his house.

  Murphy didn’t watch him go. That would be pathetic. She turned and walked, not to her car, but to the tiny bridge nearby. Rex would have to watch her. He would come after her.

  The bridge was the lone place in Bridgewater where you had anything approaching a view of town. The water that went under it had slowed to a muddy trickle. The orange town lights made a patch in front of her that looked like a Lite Brite board. If you were passing it for the first time, it would have looked almost pretty. But for Murphy, the view held her disappointments, her letdowns, the times she’d been reined in, held back, judged. Just stuck, as if life were something you had to run in place.

  Murphy waited for Rex to come back. She stood against the wall looking down at the trickle under the bridge and waited forever.

  Seventeen

  The smell of smoky leaves drifted into the cider house, and a few came skittering across the concrete floor. Enrico picked one up and tore it apart at the veins and Birdie watched, smiling. They’d brought out a candle, and the leaf in his hands made shadows on the wall.

  They caught up fast. Enrico had been torn between telling her he was coming and surprising her. He’d taken the bus all night and then a cab from the bus stop.

  “I go back tomorrow,” he told her. It would take him over twenty-four hours to get back. He had gone through all that trouble just for hours with her. It made Birdie dizzy. “But I’ll see you at New Year’s. And I’ll be back in April for spring break, for spraying.” He played with her fingers shyly. “If you want me to.”

  “If I want you to,” Birdie said, rolling her eyes.

  Something about the way the orchard smelled in November, and especially the cider house, and especially when turkey smells were coming out of the main house, made her remember things vividly. She ran her hands through his hair. Now that he was in front of her, Enrico didn’t feel unknown or fuzzy. He felt as familiar to her as any one of those things.

  His hand held the remnants of the leaf he’d torn apart, and Birdie took the fingers and put them against her forehead, then against her shoulder. She felt like there was a hole in her heart a mile wide for saying good-bye again tomorrow. And Enrico seemed to sense this because he put his hand right there, over her heart.

  For some reason, just that gesture made her feel perfectly intact again. She felt everything in rhythm—heartbeat, breath, legs, arms. All because Enrico had come when she needed him, like her guardian angel. And maybe because of more superficial reasons too. He was stunningly beautiful.

  She took the bottom edges of his sweater and lifted it up over his head. His hair went into a spike and he looked at her, surprised. Birdie grinned back at him and kissed his neck, and he squirmed and laughed.

  “I’m ticklish.” He smiled, his low voice rumbling against Birdie’s ear where she still rested on his neck. She sat up and looked at him and then, looking at the cider press, began to unbutton her mashed-potato-streaked shirt. When she looked back at Enrico, he’d stopped smiling and was frowning, seriously and thoughtfully.

  “Please don’t say no,” Birdie said.

  He leaned forward and gave her a deep, tight hug. And Birdie, mesmerized by the difference in their skin, the look of his head against her shoulder, the things she knew were in his head like books and pe
aches and Mexico and herself, was unafraid.

  Birdie sat up, pulling Enrico’s blue sweater over her bare torso, as if Enrico hadn’t seen and touched every part of her. Running his fingers along the underside of her wrist, he looked at her like she was a cider house goddess. She pretended not to notice and stood up as gracefully as she could, tugging down the edges of the sweater.

  “You okay, Birdie?”

  “Yeah.” She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe what they had done. She felt like she might float through the roof. Or hide under the covers to hide herself from him and all that he knew about her now. “I gotta pee,” she said finally.

  Enrico laughed. Birdie burst into giddy laughter too, embarrassed and happy. She tossed her hair dramatically. “I’ll be right back.”

  She could just duck out the cider house door and around the corner. Birdie squeaked the door open and hopped outside, doing a bit of a ballet move to make Enrico laugh again. She dipped around the corner and peed in the grass, then came back around, the sweater pulled down off one shoulder and up over one bare hip.

  Poopie was standing at the door of the cider house, staring in and looking dumbfounded. Then she sensed Birdie and turned. The moment lasted forever.

  “I was looking for the dogs,” Poopie muttered, her eyes darting finally to the magnolia near the door.

  Birdie blinked at her. She had gone mute. All sorts of words popped into her head that had somehow disappeared in the cider shed. Words like don’t. And we should wait.

  “Have you seen them?” Poopie asked. She still couldn’t look at her. They couldn’t look at each other. Birdie shook her head at the magnolia too. As if it were their ambassador.

  Poopie nodded stiffly, then turned on her heel and walked toward the house in tight, quick steps, like she couldn’t get away fast enough.

  Eighteen