"I need new tools," she sighs, lugging the cooler out of the truck's bed. "Not the ones I took from Uncle Mike. Those aren't working. I need to fix my phone."
Reaching for the bait and tackle, Drew frowns. "You broke your phone?"
"Yeah, two nights ago. Matt and I were in a hole. I dropped it in the water."
"Do I even want to know?"
"You would say it's bullshit and bunk so... probably not."
"Oh, your mystery things?"
"Yeah. Don't mention it to Peepaw, please. He won't cotton well to it. He'll— just don't say anything about that hobby, will you?"
It's easier with Andy. he gets it, even after all this time. He understands that there are just things you don't mention to authority figures— just as there are things you don't tell anyone, because what if it gets back to your parents? Drew doesn't know that, she doesn't think. And why should he? He never had to deal with this stuff. He didn't grow up here.
He nods. "Sure thing, Tiffy."
"Thank you."
"What's on the table, then?"
"Stuff about me?"
"Yeah, stuff about you."
"Uh— probably nothing, actually. I don't sew all that much anymore, and the last thing I made was that Halloween costume. Which is a bad idea to mention, given the uh... the horror movie aspect and the tight leather aspect? Uh— Painting. If you're going to talk about me, it's painting and that's uh... that's all. If it's you— and it should be, because you're the reason we're here, and I'm just... here? If it's about me, then painting." She hefts the cooler onto her hip. "If it's you, nothing uh... secular or queer. Don't mention what you got a degree in— Hell, don't mention your degree. Just... Just stick to wrestling. Think about wrestling and don't mention you're a receptionist."
"Thank you, Tiff, I appreciate the advice," he says, something genuine behind his laugh. "God— I can see why Mom's just spending time with Uncle Mike. He seems easier to navigate."
"I don't want to scare you off this. It's going to be fine. Fun, even." She smiles, remembering, "Peepaw and I used to fish all the time. He said being out in nature was like a way to connect to God. I just wanted to spend some peaceful time with him."
"That's honestly— I'm not going to be a dick about this. I think that's very sweet."
There's something to Drew's voice, and she knows: he wants a moment like that. A connection to what could have been his home if the world had been kinder— a hand held out to a family that should have been his. Coming into it new, he doesn't have all the baggage Tiff has about this place and these people or the weariness his mother wears on her back. He has an optimism about him— twenty-four and searching for something to hold dear. How could she deny him?
Peepaw finally gets out of his truck, and the conversation ends in tandem with the opening of the door. He grins to his grandchildren and gestures for them to follow him.
The afternoon passes well enough. Tiff weaves around the things she knows she shouldn't say, and Peepaw plays the part of the kind older Southern man: conservative, but kind, and full of stories. Tiff finds that, as long as she keeps her mouth shut and fishes quietly— reacting appropriately but saying nothing— the afternoon passes in welcome peace.
The trees above her sway with the weight of a winter breeze and she can't help but feel like she's one with the world. This is where it happened the first timeL a sense of harmony, a sense of stillness. This is what hope tastes like.
The conversation falls into a sweet little lull that is only broken by Drew asking, "Hey, Peepaw, is there a bathroom near here?"
"You're welcome to go in the woods, Andrew, my boy— but there's an outhouse up the hill."
Drew reels his line back in quickly and sets his pole on the dock. After stretching out and adjusting his cargo shorts, he leaves.
And Tiff wants to die almost immediately. She didn't think it would be this bad. She didn't think her heart would want to climb out of her chest. This is silly. She's an adult now. He isn't in charge of her the way he was before. He doesn't have anything left to teach her on a spiritual level, or an intellectual or social one. Unless he wants to get into the reason she moved— but Tiff gets the feeling that nobody wants to talk about it. It's unpleasant. It reminds them of what they did. And isn't that a tragedy for them? Isn't that a horror for them? Not for her. For them.
It's fine. She's overreacting. Nothing has happened and it is entirely possible that he has changed. He doesn't smoke anymore, right? So he's capable of it, when properly motivated. So maybe things are different now.
They sit in the quiet for a moment, before something tugs at the line. heart racing in a different way (excitement, joy— she wishes she knew the difference between those emotions and panic), she reels it in. It fights, but she gets it: a medium-sized mud shad that goes right into the bucket for later. The plan is simple, in that she'll have to help cook it later. That's the rule. Whatever animals they kill must be eaten. That's why she's so familiar with the taste of squirrel.
Tiff's glad she gave up on that forever ago. She doesn't think she could eat a fae hound, if she could even find the one she killed.
"Good job, Tiffany May!" he says, ruffling her hair.
She should cut it again. She wishes he wouldn't touch it; she should cut her hair again. She'll do it when she gets back to Lake Wonder or when she gets back to Lake Wonder or—
"How come you cut off all your hair?" he asks, while she baits her hook again.
She shrugs. "I needed a change. I know I shouldn't have." It's a quick, easy lie based on what she knows he believes. "But I wanted to try it. When am I going to get another opportunity?"
"And the green?"
"Same thing." She nods, lying through her teeth. "Temporary."
"I used to dye my hair as a teenager," he admits. "Back before I converted my heart and the teachings changed."
That takes her aback. It's an entire thing that members of this church don't alter their hair excessively. For more strict members like her mother, it meant not cutting it at all, and never even thinking about dye. It's a sign of devotion and being apart from the world— in it, but not of it.
"Did you really?"
"Platinum blonde," he nods. "Like your aunt Esther."
"Wow, I— I didn't know that, Peepaw. And you stopped because of that revelation?"
"Yeah. The then-new revelation on what was meant by those verses."
That makes sense. It's the same reason he quit smoking and the same reason he hasn't had a drink since before she was born.
"Are you planning on coming to church while you're in town?" he asks, like it's a natural extension of what he just said. It definitely isn't.
"I mean, I wasn't planning on it." But at least he's asking, right? It's better than him just assuming. She would prefer she have the choice, even if she doesn't have much of a choice at all. Anticipating his disapproval, she adds, "I should probably go, though. We've really only got the one church in Lake Wonder, unless you count the historical one, and it isn't this. They're Catholic, though."
Peepaw Zacharias nods sagely. "That's the big tragedy of your moving there. There is no true religion that far west."
"I suppose not." By his standards, at least. If this is the one true church, how could there ever be another?
And the Congregation doesn't proselytize, not traditionally. It wasn't expected of them, and it definitely wasn't expected of her growing up. They haven't really spread beyond Fort Reverence and a little bit into Bithlo and East Orlando.
Maybe that's a good thing. Dr. Deseret is always talking about how it upsets her to walk past Mormon churches sometimes. She feels like she should go in, even if it has been over a century and a half since she stopped attending and she probably can't go inside a church if she wanted to. That's the way of it, Tiff supposes. You feel guilt over doing something you couldn't even do if you wanted to.
So maybe she should go to church. It won't be so bad, right? She just needs to keep that in mind.
"I was also thinking that you might go to youth group the following Wednesday?"
It's an odd suggestion and she isn't quite sure how to respond. She just knows she doesn't really want to do that. "Am I even allowed?"
"Of course, Tiffany May. You're our prodigal daughter, returned however temporarily to the fold." He smiles at her like he used to: warm and sweet, like their bond wasn't one of conditional love.
She smiles back, feeling it stretch her skin in a way she isn't comfortable with. She wishes she had the guts to say no.
"I'll be honest. There's a bit of an ulterior motive to my asking. Sister Young is ill; her husband asked me to bless her later, and I fear she won't be well in time for youth activities. Would you mind?"
"Oh, you want me to sit in on it?" A weight lifts. Non-participation is something she can do.
"You could also the girls some advice, given your time abroad."
"What, like a ward against worldliness?" She tries to keep the skepticism out of her voice.
"Yes, Tiffany May. Exactly like that."
How the hell is she supposed to say no? It isn't a word she can say to him. It's a word with consequences. How is she supposed to tell him that she hates everything he stands for and that absolutely not, under no circumstances, does she want to tell these girls to isolate themselves from the wide, wonderful world around them? It's a death sentence. A yes stumbles its way from between her lips.
"What was that?"
"Yes, sir." She swallows, gives him a smile— like she wants to do this, like she wants to reassure herself that this is allowed and okay and something she wants.
"Thank you, Tiffany May.'
"Sure thing, Peepaw Zacharias."
She casts the line.