“You poor, sweet child,” she says. “What about dogs? Can you do dogs?”
I feel like I should object to the term, ‘do dogs,’ because it sounds sexual and I definitely don’t want to have sex with dogs, but in the end I don’t bother. Margo wouldn’t understand, and I don’t particularly want to discuss sex and dogs in the same sentence with her. Instead, I tell her that, yes, I can ‘do dogs’ and that my boyfriend has a German Shepherd. Ben doesn’t have a dog at all, but lying seems to be a smart way to fill the time right now.
When we land in Charleston, I’ve made up so much shit about this pretend animal that I’m actually thinking about getting a dog. Margo says goodbye when we’re let off the plane, and I leave her in the dust as I barrel down the hallway, heading for the rentals desk. News of my father’s death came suddenly. I wasn’t expecting it, so I didn’t really have time to book a vehicle. Thankfully, when I get to the desk, they have plenty of options to choose from. Maybe it’s the Klonopin, or maybe it’s the fact that I really don’t want to be here and I was just thinking about driving myself off a bridge, but I decide on the most powerful, ridiculously high end, dangerous car they have—a Porsche Cayman. I’ve never driven anything so ostentatious or blatantly stupid before. I’m genuinely surprised that they even have a car so likely to get wrapped around a lamppost.
Callan was always into cars. Fifteen years ago, he would have loved driving this thing. Jeez, I mean he probably actually has one of his own now. Every once in a while, someone will say his name. They’ll read an article about him and see that we’re from the same tiny town in South Carolina, and they’ll comment on what a strange coincidence it is. Do I know him? Did we hang out when we were kids? Sometimes I’ll tell them the truth. Sometimes I’ll admit to knowing him, maybe even say, ‘yes, we were actually next door neighbors, if you can believe that.’ Most of the time, I shake my head and tell them, no. I have no idea who he is. It’s easier that way. It’s better.
******
“Coralie Taylor? Is…is that you, child? Well blow me down. You’d better not be plannin’ on walkin’ past my house and not comin’ in to say hello. I know you was raised with manners, girl.”
Friday Beauchamp was my sometimes nanny when I was a kid. She was the only other woman my father would let inside the house; he wasn’t stupid enough to ever go up against Friday. She was big even back then, the size of a doublewide trailer, my dad would say, and now she’s even bigger. Her temper was the stuff of legends. She tanned my backside raw so many times that I almost forewent sitting down altogether for an entire year.
Friday may have been tough on me, but she was also generous and kind when I needed it. When I was so tired I could barely stand. When my body hurt so badly I just wanted to die. She would clean up my cuts and patch me back together time and time again, and she would beg me to stay with her in her modest little house, and I would cry and tell her that I wished I could, and then I would go home anyway.
She knows I would never come back here to this place and not come to see her. She knows I was raised with manners, because she instilled them in me. I let her fold me into her embrace, and the smell of rosewater and hair pomade floods my senses, bringing back a swathe of memories, painful and sweet, wonderful and terrible all at the same time. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes. She pats the back of my head, making cooing noises.
“If you were anyone else, child, I’d say I was sorry for your loss,” she tells me. “I know better, though.”
“Yeah. It’s hard, I guess.” I say bland things like this all the time when I tell people my father died. It seems like it’s expected of me, and I hate disappointing people.
“Bullshit.” Friday leans away from me, holding me at arm’s length so she can get a good look at me. “This ain’t even close to hard. This is the easiest thing in the world. Your daddy died. He was a spiteful old bastard and he deserved every last moment of pain he lived through before he passed. It’s okay to be relieved, Coralie.”