Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ✔︎

2 | Ninth Circle of Hell

|photo by Fachy Marin from Unsplash|

Sunrise is a rare treat for me. Only life-altering academic exams and the prospect of moving hundreds of miles away has the anxiety-inducing power to get me out of bed before the rooster crows. And then there's the thought of living with my aunt for nine months.

I shake it off and walk to the window. The sun, peeking over the treetops, casts a warm glow at the far end of the field. Close to the house, it's still dark and kind of purple. Once, I told Glenn that staring down the long, neat rows of plantings made me feel happy and calm. Ever since then, the field outside my bedroom window has been tilled so the rows are perpendicular to the house. He does a lot of things like that to show me he cares—and it's great—but sometimes, I really wish he would just say the words.

The generator is rumbling. I go into my bathroom to see if the tankless water heater is plugged in—feeling pretty confident because Mom's an early riser and she has her priorities.

I fill my reproduction clawfoot tub and try to distract myself with the goddess treatment: a soak in scented oils, pumice stone to soften my heels, extensive shave, pedicure. I let my hair air-dry into soft waves and slip into my new linen sundress—simple, navy, lots of exposed skin. I'm ready to walk out the door by 7:30, but Glenn's chores will keep him busy for at least another hour. I have time to pack one hell of a lunch. 

I manage to build two spectacular ham and cheese sandwiches—with fresh Bibb lettuce and bread from the little bakery in town—but my jittery hands make it difficult to peel an apple. And there's a flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with the seduction I have planned. 

"You're up early," Mom says.

Her blond hair is pulled back in a neat chignon and she's wearing a crisp cotton sleeveless blouse and black capris with the low-heeled sandals she gave me for my birthday. It's a very summer-on-Fifth-Avenue look that makes me think of the black and white reruns Dad used to make me watch: high society New York woman moves to the country with her farmer-wannabe husband.

"You look adorable," Mom says.

I smile to hide my disappointment. I was aiming for sexy.

"Why are you packing lunch?" she asks.

"Glenn and I are going on an outing."

"I don't think so, darling. John went to the emergency room last night. Glenn didn't call you?"

"No. Is Mr. Nash okay?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

I find my purse and fish out my cell, amazed to find a text: Dad had a bad night. Look for me at the cookout.

I type: I'm SO sorry. How's he doing?

"I'll let you know as soon as I hear," I tell Mom. "Do you know anything about a cookout?"

"Todd Landers told everyone he was setting up a grill in The Square because 'there's half a cow' thawing in his walk-in freezer. The idea caught on. It will be like the Fourth of July all over again." Mom starts to open the refrigerator, but then stops to frown. "Minus the good cheer, I guess."

"Yeah," I say, laying the knife on the cutting board, next to my half-peeled apple.

"Your father asked me to bring that fruit salad with miniature marshmallows. What's it called?"

"Ambrosia."

"That's the one. Nectar of the gods," she adds with a mocking flourish of hand.

I doubt my mother's attempt will appease the gods of the South but it's nice of her to try.

"Where is Dad?" I ask.

She raises one eyebrow, meaning I shouldn't have to ask, which means he's in the tractor shed.

I stop on the front porch to fire off a quick text to Megan: Do you know about the cookout?

She buzzes me right back: Yes, woman. Have you even met my mother? Are we going?

Glenn asked me to meet him there. 

Need a ride?

Yes—and a parallel parking lesson.

I get a LOL emoji at the same time my springer spaniel drops a slobber-coated chew toy on my exposed toes. I type: Wish I was kidding. Details to come. Then scratch Monty's ear to say thanks. I raise the slimy rubber bone over my head and he takes off down the driveway, farther than I could possibly throw. I call out his name, but he doesn't stop. Apparently there's been a change of plans. He's going for a swim.

Lake Byron snakes around our property like a river, almost making it feel like we live on an island. Mom says she was only humoring Dad when they started shopping for a working farm, but they both fell in love with this one: wide open fields that change colors with the seasons—just like the border of hardwood trees that surround it. And a twentieth century home, built with nineteenth century charm.

Dad says buying the farm was a "no-brainer" because it came with John Nash, the operator who's been turning a profit growing peanuts and soybeans since 1990. But I tend to agree with Mom. I think Dad bought it for the tractors.

I find him under the hood of a rusted green John Deere. He looks at me with narrowed eyes and wipes the sweat from his brow, leaving behind a smear of grease. "Is that what you're wearing to the cookout?"

"Hi, Dad," I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

He breaks into a grin. "Hi, sweetie. What's on your mind?"

"Have you and Mom talked about where I'm going to school—in two weeks?"

"Nope. What are you thinking?"

"Chesapeake Collegiate."

He laughs, trades his wrench for a hammer. "How are you planning to get there?" he asks, but I have to wait for him to stop whacking a rusted bolt before I can answer.

"I have time to log in the hours I need to get my license."

"No offense, pumpkin, but I'm not sure two weeks is enough."

"You could let Glenn ride with me—until the harvest starts."

"That could work," he says leaning way into the engine. "Have you talked to your mom about all of this?"

"She said it was a good plan B."

He looks up, his generous forehead lined. "What's plan A?"

"Aunt Emily thinks she can get me into the prep school she and Mom talk about like it's the Ninth Circle of Hell."

Dad scowls appropriately. But then his head tilts and he kind of nods. How am I supposed to interpret that?

"I don't want to go," I say.

"I imagine not." He pulls a rag out of his back pocket to wipe the grease from his hands. "I better go clean up. Is Glenn taking you to the cookout?"

He gives my dress another disapproving glance. Apparently, I did achieve sexy but right now I don't think that's working in my favor.

"Megan is taking me. Glenn's meeting me there. You are going to talk to Mom about this, right—remind her about the promise?"

"What promise, Thea?"

"The one she made when we moved here," I say—with a little too much attitude. I take an oil-scented breath and add, "Mom said she was finished being a nomad, remember? She promised we'd stay in Virginia until I finish college."

Dad's chest expands. His forehead divides into four perfectly perpendicular rows of concern that seems to go way deeper than it did for Mom's Plan A. 

"I'll talk to her," he says, after a heavy sigh. And I get that ballooning sensation in my heart that comes with intuition. I don't think the tornado is finished with me.