changing clothes. She was in the kitchen when he came back down. She opened the fridge and pulled out two beers. “What do you think?” she asked, handing him one. Ben took the beer and looked at her for a moment. “It’s like being inside a fire engine. I don’t know how anyone’s going to sleep in there.” Mia shook her head. “Anyone?” She reminded him then about the invite from the neighbors. “My father’s coming in tonight,” Ben said. “He asked if he could stop by.” “We’ll keep an eye out for him,” Mia said. Ben called his father but got voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. “Probably already on the plane,” he said. They brought a bottle of wine to the gathering. Mia wore a sundress, her hair pinned up. The evening air was only slightly warm, small breezes threading over their skins. They came to the garden gate, where they could see people gathered — two other couples besides Jeannie and her husband, both slightly younger than the hosts but much older than Mia and Ben. Ben squeezed her hand. “Wild party,” he whispered as Jeannie came over to welcome them in. “Be careful.” Introductions, then drinks, a golden liqueur made from some kind of fruit grown by Mr. Folk. Mia sipped hers a little fast, listening to him describe its origins. She fixed a plate of hors d’oeuvres — all various fruits and vegetables which had apparently also come from the garden — to settle her stomach. What had Jeannie been cooking all week? Mia wanted meat, or at least some bread. She found a small basket of crackers finally and took a stack of them, walking away from the group so she could eat them quickly. From this short distance, she heard Ben talking about the reasons for the housing bubble. He sounded so assured, so relaxed. She didn’t know how he managed the work he did each day. How he could stand it. What was she going to do? Ben was right: She had to choose a path. She stared at their house. It looked like a painting in the golden evening light. She couldn’t believe they lived there; she felt for a moment that she had stumbled inside of one of her dreams. Their bedroom — Ben was right again — was too red. She would have to redo it. She shook her head. Thinking about anything when she was half-drunk was ridiculous. Jeannie brought her a glass of wine. Mia laughed when she took it. “I don’t think I need this.” “Porter’s putting the chicken on the grill soon.” “Oh, did he raise that here, too?” Mia said, then bit her lip. “No, but of course he learned their life histories from the farmer he bought them from at the market,” Jeannie said, smiling. “He does go on, doesn’t he?” Her husband was holding forth at that moment, in fact, and Ben was listening with total focus. Mia smiled. “They look perfect for each other,” she said, and Jeannie laughed at this. “You’ll find that even their most insufferable qualities become endearing over time,” Jeannie said. “Now, let me get that chicken out here to move him along.” She gestured for Mia to follow and she did, offering help; Jeannie said to just make herself comfortable. Mia drank in the warm wool smell of the carpets, the heavy wood molding. She thought of her great-aunt’s house, the one who’d given her the screen. Like in Aunt Maureen’s tiny Cape Cod, the walls here were covered with paintings. “Are any of these yours?”
72
“They’re all mine,” Jeannie said. “Ben told me you were an artist too?” “No,” Mia said. Had he said that, or had she just gotten it wrong? “I study art.” “It takes an artist to study art,” Jeannie said. She lifted the platter of fragrant, marinated chicken, refused Mia’s help again. “Just get the screen door for me,” she said. The sun had set, and the garden was shadowed under an indigo sky. The sizzling meat made Mia almost dizzy with hunger. Finally, they were served, and Porter gestured for her to sit next to Ben. But eating did nothing to sharpen her blurred vision. It was strange that she felt this off-balance — maybe she had some kind of bug. As soon as she felt like she could, she rose to take in her plate. In the hall bath she tried to let herself be sick, but nothing came. When she came outside again, a sour taste in her mouth, Jeannie was gathering plates. Ben wasn’t with the group. She wandered toward the back of the garden, looking for him. She found him talking with Porter again. He was gesturing toward the small tree whose now-fallen blossoms had inspired Mia’s choice of bedroom color. When Mia came alongside Ben, she noticed he was swaying a bit on his feet. Porter held his bottle of liqueur, which he offered to her — did he want her to swig from it? She shook her head, but Ben obliged. “Now, if you want to settle your stomach,” Porter was saying. “Eat one of those?” Ben said. Mia looked where Porter was pointing, at a branch of the small tree, where there hung several small, dark fruits; she hadn’t seen them before. Ben looked doubtful, but he picked one. He held it in his hand — it was bigger than a grape but smaller than a plum. “Yes — you handle the end with the beginning,” Porter said, grinning and lifting the bottle. “Go ahead, try.” But Ben rolled the fruit out of his hand into Mia’s outstretched one. She tested its cool weight. She raised it to her mouth — how much worse could it make her feel than she already did? — and saw, just as she bit into it, the wince of fear on Ben’s face. She offered it back to him, but he shook his head. Porter saw too, and laughed. “Trust me; it’s good!” The fruit was watery, almost tasteless. Mia kept her eyes on Ben, who continued to stare at the fruit in her hand. She let it fall to the ground. “You don’t care about me,” she said. She wasn’t sure of the words until she heard her voice saying them. “Of course I do,” Ben said. “Why do you say that?” Porter said something low, something like, “Now, now,” but Mia turned for the gate. Ben got ahead of her, stopped her. “What is wrong with you?” “With me? You gave me something you were afraid of.” She tried to sidestep him, but he blocked her again. “Mia, this is crazy. I love you.” “But you love yourself more.” And Ben, opening his mouth to speak, but no words following. The swing of headlights just then, dragging across their faces: Ben’s father’s car, turning into their driveway. And both of them frozen, watching his father walk to the door, ring the doorbell, peer in their front window, check his phone. They stayed still until he drove away again. For Mia, this was as much an admission as anything. She managed thank yous and goodbyes, kissing Jeannie’s cheek, trying to smile at Porter’s confused, concerned expressions. They staggered home, and Mia pulled off her dress before falling into the bed and deeply asleep. When she woke up, it was dawn. Ordinarily she would’ve tried to go back to sleep, but this time she knew she wouldn’t. They’d been stupid, she thought, just drunk. Beside her, Ben breathed regularly. She knew what she was about to do would wake him, but she couldn’t stop herself. She walked over to her great-aunt’s Chinese screen. She braced her bare feet on the wooden floor and began to pull. When Ben sat up, his face sleep-soft and startled, she had dragged it almost all the way across the brightening windows. PS Quinn Dalton is the author of a novel and two story collections. Visit quinndalton.com.
May 2013 P�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills