Page 53 of Only If You're Lucky
The door swings open and I try my best to conceal the surprise, though I’m sure it’s apparent all across my face. Eliza’s father is barely recognizable beneath the tuft of a newly grown beard, wiry hair peppered with gray. His skin is still a deep, dark tan, but there are more wrinkles now, too. Fine creases where it used to be smooth and bags that didn’t exist before hanging heavy beneath his eyes.
“Hi, Mr. Jefferson.”
“Thank you for coming,” he says, opening the door wider, ushering me in. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you.”
I step in closer and let him wrap me in a hug, the sour smell of body odor tickling my nostrils. Then I pull away, glancing around the living room. Noticing how different the interior looks, too, like all the blood has been sucked from the place.
“Where’s Mrs. Jefferson?”
“Running errands,” he says, leading me into the kitchen. I smell brewing coffee, burnt bacon, and watch as he turns toward the cabinet, opening it up to grab a couple mugs.
“On Christmas?”
He’s quiet, his arms suspended in the air until his shoulders slouch just slightly.
“Today isn’t easy for her,” he says at last, still not facing me. “She needed some space.”
I walk up behind him and grab the mugs from his hands, gesturing for him to take a seat. He smiles, grateful, and I pour enough coffee for the both of us before sliding into the chair beside him. It vaguely reminds me of that night after the funeral, the twoof us sitting on the porch in silence. His whiskey dwindling while I stared into the distance, telling him things that were meant to be secret.
“How’s school?” he asks at last, ringing his hands around the mug.
“Fine. I liked my classes last semester.”
“Still majoring in English?”
I nod, taking a sip of my coffee, even though it’s scalding.
“Good for you,” he says. “You’ve always been good at that.”
“My mom isn’t too happy about it.”
“Well, she’s not the one getting a degree, is she?”
I smile, remembering with a surge of warmth why I liked being here so much. Eliza and me sitting at this very table, doing our homework while Mr. Jefferson picked up a poem I wrote. Reading it quietly with a nod of approval.
“You have a real gift,”he had said. My own dad, on the other hand, had muttered something about iambic pentameter being useless in the real world.
“She told me they’re bulldozing the old school,” I say now.
I eye him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. I wasn’t planning on bringing that up, but at the same time, maybe it’ll be good for him. I get the distinct feeling that Mr. Jefferson doesn’t talk about it much. That if I didn’t bring it up myself, we’d never actually acknowledge the reason why I’m here, alone, sitting in Eliza’s spot on Christmas morning.
“Yeah,” he says at last, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck. “It’s been wrapped in caution tape ever since—well, you know. But it doesn’t stop kids from sneaking in.”
“Still?”
“Oh, yeah. They think they’re invincible at that age. Just like she did.”
“At least it won’t happen again,” I offer, and he shrugs.
“I guess the town finally decided it was time. There’s talk of some kind of memorial going up in its place. A public park and a tree. Some kind of plaque.”
“That’s great.”
He smiles at me, but it doesn’t make it to his eyes.
“Have you made any friends at Rutledge?”
