Smoky Mountain Dreams (3 page)

Brigid’s shoulders lifted and fell again. “Other friends.”

“Did you two have a fight?”

“Not really. She just doesn’t get it.”

“Get what?” Jesse asked.

“The cranes. She says she’s tired of making cranes. So that’s
fine. She can do something else during recess. I don’t care.”

Jesse paused with his fork close to his mouth and then went
ahead and took a bite. He thought about Brigid’s words as he chewed,
considering the one hundred and forty-seven paper cranes residing in a box in
the hallway outside Brigid’s room.

“Sweetheart, don’t you think you’d have more fun playing
with Charity than making the cranes?” Nova asked.

“No.”

Jesse caught Nova’s eye and shrugged. Brigid had set a goal
of making two thousand paper cranes before Christmas, and he felt torn between
telling her that her obsession was unhealthy and applauding her drive to stick
to it even when the going got tough. Each crane took her small hands a little
over two minutes to make, and Jesse had done some calculations—to complete her
goal, she’d need to spend one hundred hours folding. With Christmas less than a
hundred days away, that meant spending at least an hour a day on her project.
It wasn’t exactly normal for his daughter to be so focused on something that
ephemeral, was it? Especially at the expense of playtime with her friend?

Maybe I should ask Dr. Charles.

But still. It was just cranes. Surely being tenacious and
driven wasn’t really a problem. Her grades were good, and Dr. Charles had told
him not to hover too much. She was growing up and needed to be her own person.
Jesse thought maybe the cranes were just part of that in some way he didn’t understand.

“It’s a wonderful meditative practice,” Tim said. “We made
three each earlier, and I felt quite calm after.”

Nova seemed skeptical, but as Jesse added more spaghetti to
his plate, she changed the topic. “Was business good at the shop?”

“It was steady enough. Why?”

“I heard from Howard that the tourists were thick today. Ran
into him by the mailbox.”

“I saw him yesterday at the post office,” Tim said, dipping
a slice of garlic bread into the excess sauce. “He says the shop’s doing great.
He’s thinking of opening a second store down in Knoxville too.”

“He’d be spreading himself awfully thin,” Jesse put in,
wondering at the kind of man who had a booming trade, made more money at his
tourist trap store than he’d ever need to live on, and yet still wanted more. “I
don’t see how he’d have the hours to spare.”

“Well, he doesn’t have any kids or a wife to take up his
time,” Nova said softly.

Jesse thought of Marcy lying back against the winter grass
in Cades Cove, her eyes on the line where the mountains met the sky. He
remembered the curve of her lips, the gleam of her teeth, and the way her
laughter echoed against the hills. He shoved another forkful of spaghetti into
his mouth and swallowed hard.

When Tim started reciting Shel Silverstein poems, signaling
the end of dinnertime, Will chortled, Brigid rolled her eyes, and both toyed
with the final bites of their spaghetti. Jesse only half listened, giving
himself over to old memories.

The October evening he’d first come to the McMillan house
for dinner changed his entire life. It’d started at his own home, though—down
in the basement, with his tongue in Dean Scarborough’s mouth, and his very
pissed off father barging in. Jesse could still hear his father’s voice echo in
his mind all these years later.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” His
father charged at them across the rec room, dodging the ping-pong and foosball
tables, kicking the side of the Ms. Pac-Man arcade game he’d gotten Jesse and
his sister for Christmas, and cursing louder than Jesse had ever heard before.

“What’s going on?” His mother’s voice
quavered as she called down the stairs.

“If you think you’re going to embarrass
me like this!” his father screamed, face purple and spit flinging from his
mouth in a wide arc that Jesse’s eyes followed in shock.

Dean had made a run for it, but Jesse hadn’t been able to
catch him and escape as well. He’d twisted his ankle and scraped his palms
scrambling outside, and he could remember the cold terror gripping him as he’d
watched Dean’s taillights disappear into the golden light of an October sunset.

He looked back at the giant log
monstrosity his parents had built with the family money. He glanced up at his
younger sister’s window and saw her staring down at him with wide eyes. When
she lifted her hands to make a shooing motion and mouthed, “Go,” Jesse went.

He sucked in a deep breath and took
stock of the descending night. The layers of mountain scents, piling down over
the wet layer of ever-present Smoky Mountain fog. The stench of his own scared
sweat. The chill of the fog coming down around him.
He
shivered. It wasn’t as if him kissing Dean should have been a surprise. He’d
been telling them all he was gay since he’d turned thirteen. Too bad if they
didn’t want to believe him.

As Tim launched into a second poem and Brigid rolled her
eyes even more forcefully, Jesse smiled softly, not sure why he was remembering
that night. He’d been certain he’d end up dead in the gully by the road when
Tim McMillan’s blue, bumper-sticker laden VW Wagon had pulled over for him.

“Tell ya what,” Tim said as he continued
down the mountain. “Nova makes chicken soup every second Thursday, and Marcy’ll
be home by now. Ronnie’s still at cheer practice, but she’ll be back before too
long too. You’ll get to hang out and share a nice meal. Then you can call your
folks. Let them know where you are. And after that maybe we can have a talk.”

Marcy wasn’t a foe, exactly, but she
wasn’t a friend; that was for sure. She’d been witness to some of the guys
harassing him and calling him names. She hadn’t egged them on, but she hadn’t
called them out either. As for Ronnie, well, she was an enigma—all red curly
hair and gray eyes, wrapped up in a cheerleading uniform and sparkling with
popularity. Jesse doubted she’d even give him the time of day. Chicken soup
sounded amazing after walking over a mile with a hurt ankle, though.

“It’s great soup, Jesse, and, well, here’s
the thing—I’m just going to be blunt. I want to help you.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“When I was your age, I was queer too.”

Jesse heard the past tense and the slur.
Marcy and Ronnie must have told him the rumors about him at school. His breath
seized. “Just let me out here. This is fine.”

“Now hold on,” Tim said, slowing the car
to a stop by the side of the road. “That didn’t come out right. I mean, I’m
still queer, Jesse.”

His heart thundered. Tim McMillan was a
pervert, and he’d been an idiot to get into his car. God only knew what he
wanted to do him. Jesse pulled at the car door handle, and thrust the door open
before the car had come to a complete stop. He realized he hadn’t undone his
seat belt, and he quickly unstrapped himself.

“Wait! That sounded wrong too!” Tim
said, grabbing hold of his arm and then quickly letting go. “I just mean that I
understand what you’re going through.”

Jesse stared at him, his throbbing foot
already out the open door.

“Before Nova and I got hitched, I was a
free spirit, I guess you could say, and I had my share of experiences with
girls and boys. And I’m not aiming to do anything to you, son, calm down. I
just wanted to tell you that you’re not the only boy out there that likes what
you like, and that it’s all gonna be just fine.”

“Does Mrs. McMillan know?”

“Of course! She was down with it back in
the day.”

“Down with it?”

Tim waved his hand. “It’s a moot point
now. Happily married for twenty years, two beautiful daughters, and all of
that. I promise I’m not making a pass at you.”

Jesse blinked in confusion. “Are you…so,
you’re gay? And living a lie?”

“No, no. Of course not. If you’re not
honest, then you’re not anything in this world, son. Learn that lesson now and
you won’t be sorry. I’m bisexual. And monogamous.”

Jesse blinked some more.

“I fell in love with Nova and gave up my
laid back, going-both-ways existence. It happens. Life goes on.”

Jesse pulled his leg back inside and
closed the car door. He stared at Tim, taking in his overly big glasses and his
long ponytail, and remembered overhearing Marcy telling everyone at their
eighth grade lunch table some long tale about her dad dropping acid and seeing
river beds in the cracks of the sidewalks.

“Bisexual,” Jesse said. The word tasted
important to him, so he said it again. “Bisexual.”

“What do you say? Share a meal?”

Tim finished off reciting his last poem, and Nova dismissed
Brigid and Will from the table.

“Go get your backpacks and shoes, sweethearts, so your dad
can take you home.” As soon as they scampered off, Nova turned to him with
tender, sorrowful eyes, and Jesse’s stomach dropped into his shoes. “The
hospital called Ronnie today. And, of course, Ronnie called me.”

Jesse rubbed his napkin against his mouth and stood. Ronnie
only called Nova when the news from the hospital supported her cause. He
wondered what it was this time. Had Marcy opened her eyes
and
made vocalizations? That wasn’t too unusual. They’d told him long ago those
behaviors were only reflexes and not indicative of consciousness. Not even a
little of Marcy was left in her body.

“And?” His heart thumped.

“Well, more of the same,” Nova said meaningfully. “Ronnie’s
fired up about it, of course.”

“Shit.”

“Jesse, it’s been five years next month. I know now isn’t
the moment to talk about this—”

“I’m heading out the door, Nova.” He pushed in his chair and
put his dish in the sink.

“But we need to talk about it again soon.”

“Why? We have mediation appointments scheduled and—”

“Not just mediation. That’s not what I’m talking about.
Honey, it’s getting to be
time
.”

“Long past time,” Tim said taking hold of Jesse’s elbow. “Long
past, son.”

Jesse shook them both off and started toward the front door,
the spaghetti tasting acidic in the back of his throat.

“I know it’s hard, Jesse, but please let us take this burden
from you,” Nova pleaded as she followed him. “She’s our baby girl and if anyone
should—”

Jesse opened the door and held his hand up to stop her. They
all stared at each other for several long moments. Words that had been spoken
over and over cluttered the air between them. The tension broke as the kids ran
past, backpacks slung over their shoulders, and their shoes crunching on the
gravel of the drive.

“Got everything?” he asked.

“Yes, Dad,” they chorused with matching eye rolls, and
Brigid shoved Will and he laughed before shoving her back.

“Cut it out,” Jesse called.

“Drive carefully,” Tim said.

Jesse knew it was unintentional, but the words hit him hard
enough to stop him dead in his tracks. It was only a moment, though, before he
stiffened his shoulders and herded the kids into the car.

G
ATLINBURG
ON AN EARLY MONDAY MORNING
wasn’t all that bad, really. Rounded,
comforting mountains rose up on either side of the narrow cleft in which the
town was nestled. The splashy color of autumn leaves continued to work its way
down from the higher elevations, prettying up the place. The trash was cleared
and the streets nearly ached with the sweet scent of pancakes, sugar, and
syrup. Most of the tourists had departed on Sunday or were still in their hotel
beds. The only people out and about were shopkeepers getting ready for the rush
later in the day.

Jesse Birch’s Jewelry Studio wasn’t on the parkway, but
Christopher had left his house a little too early. He’d needed to waste some
time, so he walked up the main drag and back, noticing the most recent changes
to the little tourist town he’d made his home. The street was, as always,
colorful with bright signs to lure in tourists, but there was still a gap in
his heart when he passed the place where Gran’s store used to stand. There was
an airbrush T-shirt shop there now.

He paused in front of the Ole Smoky Mountain Candy Kitchen
to look at the taffy stretcher. He admired the smooth wood and the curves of
the machine, remembering Gran holding his hand in front of that very window,
watching the machine pull and piece the taffy before his amazed eyes. She’d
always bought him a box when he visited, and he’d do his best to eat it before
he had to head back home to Knoxville. When Gran was around, his mother didn’t
dare tell him he couldn’t stuff his face with “devil sugar,” or do whatever
else he might like, for that matter. Gran was his champion even back then.