In truth, I had a complicated relationship with Jake’s parents. His father lifted weights, jogged every morning, and drank a bit too much. Collin was comfortable with his small-town fame, both as a former football star and as a current restaurateur. This is not to say he didn’t work hard—smoking meat is backbreaking, and Collin had been tending the fires since he was a kid. Though he had a staff now, he was still usually at Harrison’s at midnight to put the meat in the pits, his hands red with spices, his face flush with his first few beers of the night.
When I had first met Jake’s glamorous mother, Winifred, I had adored her completely, enthralled as only a motherless girl could be. She seemed a character out of a movie, with her subtle makeup and the long hair she set each night in curlers. She knew how to hunt and fly-fish and throw large dinner parties on a dime, inviting local bigwigs and her manicurist to the same fête, building a bonfire in the backyard herself, then emerging in vintage couture to stand by the flames holding a cocktail (in one of her highball glasses painted with safari animals—she and Collin had celebrated their thirtieth anniversary with a trip to Kenya) and tossing her tresses over her shoulder as she laughed.
Jake was her only child, and she seemed skeptical of me, but my blind adoration of her must have been appealing. She planned and executed a gorgeous wedding in their backyard, charming all my relatives and giving a heartfelt toast to our happiness.
As it turned out, however, there were many things that were not discussed in Jake’s family. The restaurant was bankrupt, for one thing, and Collin was too proud to ask his increasingly rich brother for help. Jake had not told his parents that I was infertile, or that I had been sick at all. These issues had come up during a terrible dinner I had not attended: Jake had gone to his parents to ask them for money for an adoption. They were stunned at my infertility, and he was saddened by their disastrous financial state. Jake came home to Austin and lay next to me in bed, telling me about the whole night in excruciating detail (the crab fondue, the tears, the histrionic way his mother had said she’d “robbed him of grandchildren” and thrown herself across the settee).
In the end, Jake had called his uncle Martin, who had written a check and told Jake to use the money to get a white baby. “You think you can handle another-race child,” said Martin, who had left his long-suffering white wife for Celeste, a young Hispanic waitress at Lone Wolf. “But I’m helping you in the end, and that’s the truth.”
Were we equipped to raise a nonwhite baby? One issue, obviously, would be bigoted relatives like Martin. (We’d opened a file with a local agency and checked the box confirming we wanted a healthy baby of any color.)
I believed in my heart I would be a great mom, not perfect, but as good as I could possibly be. I worked hard and wanted to share my love, to be a part of something bigger than me. I remembered playing with my Raggedy Ann at age four, feeding her, swaddling her, holding her until she fell apart. I’d be a mother like my mom. Just there—quiet, kind, supportive. Like a warm bed beneath someone, a warm Barcalounger who smelled good. A Barcalounger who made snacks and brought them to your room, not interrupting your play date, just leaving buttered popcorn in a bowl by the door.
I shook my head to clear it. Lainey was waiting. “Gosh, who knows?” I said. “Holidays, you know?”
We did, in fact, visit Lockhart every year for the holidays, but pretty much avoided Jake’s family otherwise. He had let them down by marrying me. What on earth was there to say?
25
Carla
THE MOON WAS the same, which seemed impossible. Although I was violated, broken—although the world as I had known it was gone—the blanket of light over our bodies as the train rushed forward was identical to the glow that had bathed me moments before, when I believed God was protecting me.
I arranged my clothing and sat up. No one said a word, as if we could will my rape away if we never spoke of it. We were afraid. The train moved fast and noisily. The hours, then days, dragged along. It was hot. We were thirsty. Every time the train slowed, bad people climbed aboard, and did what they wanted with us and to us. After a few days, we had little left—the men (and they were always men—or boys, some as young as Ernesto) took our water, our blankets, our clothes. We were treated as nothing, as bodies atop a train. I saw a child fall to his death. I saw a man’s leg crushed when the train rolled over him. I saw things I don’t want to repeat and don’t want to think about.
By the time la migra caught me, it was a relief.
26
Alice
WE DROVE TO Jake’s parents’ house, a large brick colonial with Romanesque columns flanking the front door. Winifred, who had designed the house herself, said the style was “neo-eclectic.” We parked, and when Jake opened the door to let me and Pete out, I smelled smoke. It seemed Collin had been up early (or late) working in his own pit. “Do you smell what I smell?” I said to Jake.
“Yup,” said Jake. “Guess he’s strutting his stuff.”
I smiled, kissed Jake on his stubbled cheek. “What did you expect?” I said.
“I guess I’d hoped …,” said Jake.
“That you’d get the spotlight? Honey, please.”
“Right, I know you’re right,” said Jake. Lainey hovered nearby, pretending not to eavesdrop. “Off the record, obviously,” said Jake, and she nodded, murmuring apologies but not turning off her recorder.
Jake’s parents were superstars. Of course, they weren’t going to let a Bon Appétit magazine article pass them by. Winifred answered the door with a wide smile, ushering Lainey inside with a sweep of her plump arm, squinting to locate a photographer who was not in attendance. (They would send someone for photos later, we’d been told, after Lainey’s story had been written and approved.) Winifred wore a red strapless dress and snakeskin boots, her hair piled high in a style I hadn’t seen before. (I had, however, spotted her hairstylist, Betty, driving away from the house as we pulled in. Betty was brought in to style my hair on occasion, as Winifred wasn’t a fan of my “clumpy ponytail look,” as she called it.)
“Welcome,” said Winifred. “Bon Appétit! I declare! We subscribe.”
“That’s great,” said Lainey. “It’s an honor to meet you.”