Southern Charm

Southern Charm 2

                                                                                4

        I stay in bed all the next day -- and the next day, and the next -- trying to absorb the implications of my act. Had I been too rash? I had spent so many years fantasizing about leaving Randall, but now that I have, I’m paralyzed by the gaping hole that is my future. For some reason I had never really explored that part in my fantasies – the after part. If I were still at home, I wouldn’t be happy, but at least I’d know what to expect. But I’m here, without a plan. Although my mother had never liked Randall, she had also hated quitters. Does leaving a bad marriage make you a quitter? I yearn for distraction from these feelings of not-knowing. At home -- at my now ex-home -- I spent my free time just like I had as a child – reading. Books offered me more dependable companionship than Randall ever did. Romances, biographies, historical fiction -- I liked reading about lives that were much more interesting than mine. Now bookless, I’m disoriented. The rabbit ears on the TV set only pull in one fuzzy station out here, and I quickly tire of game shows.

        Ned is patient. He brings me simple meals – a bowl of Cheerios and coffee, canned chicken soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. He knocks and then leaves the tray onthe small metal table outside of my room. On the third day, as he’s delivering a tomato sandwich and potato chips, I surprise him and myself by opening the door.

        “How you doing, hon?” Ned’s eyes search my face. I lean against the door frame. “Has Randall called?”

        Ned compresses his lips, shakes his head slowly.

        I let out a big breath that I didn’t even realize I was holding. “I’m going to the library. You need anything from town?”

        Ned smiles, cups my shoulder in his large hand and says, “That’s my girl.”

                                                                                        5


        Compared to Raleigh, Lillington Springs reminds me of a classic small town movieset. The main road, State Street, takes you into town and does a loop around the courthouse. There’s diagonal parking in front of the shops, and, as far as I can tell, other than the Lowes Foods grocery store, most of the businesses still appear to be locally owned. At the corner of State and Burke, Hardison’s Feed and Hardware is already decorated with red, white and blue streamers in anticipation of Memorial Day.

        I have no trouble finding a parking space. Under different circumstances I’d probably take pleasure in the fact that I can park right in front of the library. But who am I kidding -- under different circumstances, I wouldn’t be here. Inside the library, some folkslook vaguely familiar, but to my relief, I don’t see anyone that I know – or, more importantly, anyone who recognizes me. That’s an amazing feat in a town of 4,000 where nearly everybody is something to everybody else.

        One new library card later, I bend to load my stack of books onto the passenger seat of my car when I hear, “Jen? Jen McKinsey?”

        It takes me a second to recognize my maiden name. “Uhm – used to be,” I respond as I look over my shoulder. No mistaking those cheekbones or that dark, curly hair – there stands Marla Stephens. She was always super skinny when we were growing up, and while she’s filled out some, she is still slender. I suddenly feel self-conscious about my messy ponytail and the extra pounds I have put on over the last few years. While Randall consumed his carbs in liquid form, I comforted myself with pasta and bread, and it shows. If Marla notices, she gives no indication – but then, Marla wouldn’t. I run my hand over my hair. “It’s Jenkins now. Hey, Marla. You look great.”