#2–No Yellow Ribbons
Lyndi said, “I had a strange experience this summer.”
She wrestled the heavy vehicle into a driveway, just missing the mailbox. My foot stomped on an imaginary brake.
“Really?” I said. I’d never heard of the talent transmitting to a female child not in the direct maternal line, but I supposed that it could happen.
Lyndi yanked my carryon out of the cargo hatch and waved me through the door from the garage to the house. I went past a washer and dryer room and made a left turn into a cheerful suburban kitchen with yellow walls and daisy print curtains.
“I’m not having her in my house!” The woman’s voice dripped with venom.
Over her shoulder, my brother saw me. I would have known him anywhere, although his hair was now an ashy mix of grey and brown and marked a high water line on his skull. His face had acquired new lines but these only deepened his resemblance to our dad.
“Mom!” protested Lyndi “She didn’t do it.”
Deborah turned. She still had traces of her former beauty pageant good looks but I would have been hard pressed to recognize her. Her hair and face were beautifully made up, but the effect was that of a brightly painted fence placed in front of a decaying building.
“I don’t give a fuck whether you killed the minister and his wife or not,” she said, staring at a point just beyond my face. “But you broke my daddy’s career and it killed him! I’m not having you in my house!”
“It’s my house, too,” said my brother “And what happened to your dad isn’t Tiffany’s fault.”
In response, Deborah yanked the plug on the coffee maker and threw the whole contraption on the floor. The pot smashed. Hot glass and coffee splattered on the daisy-decorated floor.
“That does it.” Tom was white with anger, but his voice remained quiet. “I’m going to have a pleasant lunch with my sister and when I come back, I expect order to have been restored to the house. We can then discuss our divorce like adults, Debbie.”
The only sound was his shoes crunching over the shards of the broken pot. He took the keys from Lyndi’s numb fingers, collapsed the handle of my carryon and picked it up.
“Is this all you have, Tiffany?”
I nodded and followed him out. My carryon was thrust back into the cargo area of the SUV. I got back into the passenger seat and he drove to a nearby shopping center, parking the huge vehicle precisely in the center of the painted lines. He cut the engine but made no move to pull out the key.
“Tom.” I said.
“I’m sorry you had to come in on that. I’d told her I had invited you for Christmas and I reminded her last week, but she didn’t say anything until it was time to pick you up at the airport. Once every so often she throws a shit fit like this. Usually she breaks something belonging to the kids. That was a six hundred and fifty dollar coffee maker that I got for her birthday last month. Had all these fancy settings on it. I’ve had it. We would have divorced last year if the economy had been better, but I’ve had it now.”
He seemed to be speaking to the steering wheel. I didn’t know what to say to him. If Deborah had been my client, I would have started her on an anger management course right away.
“Tom, what was all that business about her father?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Her family didn’t go to our church,” I explained. “I saw Deborah just twice before you married her and don’t even know what her maiden name was.”
