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“Why not?” he’d asked. “You deserve it. You deserve beauty. You deserveeverything.”
“I do,” I admitted now. “Thank you for giving it to me.”
“No need to thank me,” Jackson said. “Not when you’ve givenmeeverything.”
“Do you two ever fight?” Kitt asked suddenly.
Her question startled me. I’d forgotten she was there. None of the homeowners wanted to deal with her any more than was absolutely necessary, so Kitt “voluntold” us to help because she couldn’t do it alone.
“Yeah, of course,” I said. “But rarely.”
“And when we do we make up.”
“How?” Kitt seemed genuinely curious.
“I start walking his way and he starts walking mine,” Jackson said.
“Ain’t no road too long when you meet in the middle,” I finished.
Jackson squeezed my shoulder and, standing on his tippy toes, kissed the top of my head.
“Ah, more country wisdom,” Kitt said derisively before adding more aggressively, “Why do you two continue to play at being simple country boys when you’re clearly not. You lead a good life, you have thischarmed romance…”
“We don’t pretend to be country boys,” I said. “Wearecountry boys. Like coal under pressure becomes a diamond, we became who we are—who you see—under the pressure of growing up when we did, where we did, surrounded by the ignorant people who lived there with us.” And I believed what I said was true, even as I understood every accolade, every promotion, every raise I earned, every watch I bought Jackson pushed us farther from where we’d grown up, who we were told we needed to be.
“I can’t with you two,” Kitt said.
The first of the neighbors began to arrive; Kitt retreated to her house.
The afternoon skipped along easily enough. There was more than enough food and plenty of neighborly banter. Kitt was nowhere to be seen, leaving Jackson and I to act as hosts. Our delicately wrought tranquility was nearly shattered, though, when one six-year-old, seeing Kitt emerge from her garage, fairly shouted, “Uh-oh. Here comes Kittzilla,” which statement was met with a furious chorus of, “Shhh!”
Kittzilla—that’s what the reluctant members of the HOA call Kitt behind her back, which is to say always because they seldom speak to her face-to-face.
Kitt sauntered over smiling, and everyone smiled, relieved, in return. As it turned out, we’d avoided one catastrophe only to careen straight into another.
I was talking to Simon, our newest neighbor, who had just moved into the house at the apex of the cul-de-sac yesterdayevening. Kitt walked over to where we stood at the punchbowl and proceeded to introduce herself to Simon.
Looking up at her, he inexplicably blurted, “Shit, you’re tall.”
Kitt looked down at him and said, “Since we seem to be stating the obvious, may I say, shit, you’re an ill-mannered, fat, little troll.”
His mouth fell open as if the springs that had held his smile in place had suddenly broken. Stifling a laugh, I quickly poured him a cup of sangria. He took it, his mouth still hanging open, and waddled towards Jackson and the grill.
As we were getting ready for bed last night, Jackson said, “We survived the cookout.”
“Indeed, we did—no thanks to that kid. Or Kitt.” Then, remembering our earlier conversation with Kitt, I asked him, “Does it sometimes feel like Kitt resents us for…being us?”
“Sometimes?” Jackson asked, rolling his eyes and kissing me goodnight. He lay down and rolled onto his side, facing away from me, and immediately reached behind to pull me against him. Tonight, he clearly wanted to be the “little spoon.” I promptly forgot about Kitt and snuggled against him.
Rose Gold (2015)
Sunday, April 12, 2015, Janus—Kitt has a type—fairly butch, muscular, indifferent—which seems entirely wrong for her and always, predictably, ends in heartbreak. When she is dating, Kitt becomes withdrawn, mild-mannered, almost meek, allowing the other woman to make all decisions and boss her around.
This morning, she came over before breakfast after her latest breakup, which apparently occurred around dawn. Just after midnight, we’d heard yelling from her house across the street, followed by the slamming of doors. Just before sunrise, we’d been awakened by the gunning of an engine; there came the crunch of gravel, the screech of tires hitting asphalt at high speed, then…silence.
“And another one bites the dust,” Jackson had murmured, pulling me against him. So, neither of us was surprised when Kitt knocked on our door just after Jackson put coffee on.
Kitt was inconsolable, crying literally on my shoulder. “Why?Whydoes no one love me?” she wailed.
