Her head is bent. I see a tear slide down her nose.
“So who was it,” I say. “If you want to redeem yourself at all, you need to tell me.”
She hitches in a breath, wipes at her eyes with both hands. Sniffs. “Walt Kroger. Used to deliver the mail,” she whispers. “He’s been dead a year. Maybe two.”
“He was my father?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “There was a man from Owensboro out here with the extension office for a while. Then he went back. His name was Hatfield. Maybe him.”
“There’s two maybes? Christ Jesus, Mom.”
She presses her hands to her face. Removes them. Blinks. “You remember the Caudills,” she says. “Next door. Little Teddy, the one you used to play with.”
My entire body goes cold. I shake my head. No. No no.
“Honus Caudill,” she says. “That was his name. Could have been him.”
I hear Mel exhale.
“Honus Caudill,” I repeat slowly. “The pedophile. That one?”
She snorts harder. “Maybe. No one knew anything about him then. I had no idea.” She pulls out a pink Kleenex. Blows her nose. “Your daddy and I were separated. None of you know that, but we were, for a little while.” She stops, takes a watery breath. “I was different back then. I’m not proud of it.”
“You sure it wasn’t Dad? You sure you didn’t, you know, accidentally sleep with him while you were sleeping with three other guys?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, shut up,” she mutters, making her way to the paper towels and tearing off a big hank.
“You don’t get to tell me to shut up right now.” I point over the rise, to where the Caudill house once stood. “Did he know?”
“No. Even then he was…a little strange. I didn’t want him knowing nothing.”
“How was he a little strange,” I say.
She shrugs, says nothing.
“How,” I scream. She jumps. “How was he a little strange? I deserve to know. You owe me this, goddammit.”
“Good God, Sharon,” she bleats. “He could get rough when you’re not supposed to, all right? When he shouldn’t have been.” Her head tilts forward, her shoulders tremble. She’s sobbing. “God bless it, I hope you ain’t been with anyone who’s done you that way. Trying to get you to do things you don’t wanna do—”
“Okay. Please stop.” I cover my face. “Everyone knows you’d let me get hit by a train and not do a fucking thing about it. Please stop paying lip service to this bogus mothering instinct that does not exist.”
She lifts her head. Her face twists into a snarl. “You know what,” she says, “you always thought you were just a little bit above the rest of us. Since you were little. We all knew it. They used to talk about it. Well, let me tell you something, honey. You most definitely are not.”
“How in the fuck can you project that onto a little kid. That’s sick. How dare you.”
“I ain’t projectin nothin, darling. I know an uppity bitch when I see one.”
I hear Mel shift in the next room, then stick her head in, cutting her eyes at me. I hold my hand up.
“And Daddy did, too. Cause he didn’t like it when someone looked down on him. And now the whole world’s gonna look down on us, and that’s exactly what you want. You ain’t changed a bit. You’re still a spoiled brat. And a mistake.”
The room starts to spin. Sounds soften—only my mother, stationary, remains clear. She was searching for the worst thing to say, and she found it. Overshot her mark, even.
It’s a moment before I can speak. “I’ll tell you something that’ll make you a lot sorrier,” I yell. “If what you said is true, I just spent the last three months fucking my half brother.”
She lets out a sound. Covers her mouth.
“That’s right. I fucked someone I might be related to. That’s my going-back-to-Kentucky story. So thanks for that.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she whimpers.
“That makes two of us.” I grab my bag off the floor. “Thank you for finally owning up to this. I’m going to need to shower in bleach before I can get this day off of me.”
She hunches her shoulders, starts to warble again. “I’m so sorry,” she says.
“Stop. You are no one’s victim here.” I point at her, make sure she’s looking at me. “Don’t ever contact me again. Do you hear me? Ever.”
I stick my head in the living room. “Mel. Let’s go.”
Mel speeds past me with our luggage. “Right. See you, Mrs. Kisses.”
IRREFUTABLE LOVE
We drive to New York, the only place left for us to go: east, then north. Before we know it, we’re on the other side, that long strip of Pennsylvania that is prelude to I-95, where the trip is more destination than origin.
On the way there, I keep Mel’s flipbook in my hand. I watch myself grow up and empty out, over and over. I stare at myself in the rearview mirror. Do I look like Red? No. Do I look like Shauna? No.
I turn to Mel. “Do I look like—”