Page 17 of Revelry
“You too,” I squeaked, clearing my throat. Momma Von wasdefinitelywatching me now.
He didn’t say another word, just offered a wave in our direction before clearing the view of the driveway. I turned back in my seat, aiming for calm and casual as I sipped from my can.
“That’s Anderson Black,” Momma Von said, eyes still glued to my rosy cheeks.
“Good man,” Ron said simply. He took the last drag of his cigarette and put it out in his empty beer can before standing.
I looked up, waiting for him to tell us he’d be right back or that he’d see us later, but he did neither. Just walked heavy-booted down the stairs and the drive, cutting a left at the end.
“The men talk too much around here,” I said, eyes on where he’d just disappeared.
Momma Von barked out a laugh. “Come on, let me show you my cabin.”
The afternoon passed in stories and laughter, Momma Von showing me every inch of her cabin and me asking questions about everything I found inside.
The woman was hands down the most fascinating person I’d met.
She had a closet full of high-end designer clothes from Paris circa 1983, an old hat box packed full with photos of her past lovers, letters from the only man she said she ever truly loved when he served in Vietnam, paintings of her with wealthy aristocrats as well as old Polaroids of her with underground band drummers, and a scar on her left hip from hitting a rock when she cliff jumped in Brazil.
With each new story she told, I wondered if she was a brilliant liar or just crazy—both would have impressed me.
“So who’s this?” I asked, picking up a dusty old photo from the box.
“Ah, that’s Luis. We spent a few months together in New York City.” She bit back a smile, her eyes glowing as she stared at the dusty photo I held in my hand. Luis was tall and dark, his curly hair falling over his ears a bit as he leaned against the rails of a fire escape with red brick lining the wall behind him. “He was peculiar, that one. Born and raised in Colombia, but he embraced the American culture as soon as his feet hit state soil on his sixteenth birthday. He barely had an accent, and I think I had more interest in Hispanic culture than he did.” She chuckled. “He was actually quite the hippy. We were together the day John Lennon died, made love for hours and then wept into a bottle of gin.”
I ran the pad of my thumb over the photo, placing it back into the box with the others before pulling the only one where Momma Von was in the frame, too. “And this?”
She smiled. “That’s my Beau.”
“Vietnam soldier?”
She nodded, taking the photo from my hands. “I have loved many men in my life, but only Beau ever had my whole heart.”
“What happened?”
“He loved me more than he loved himself.” She caught my eyes with a gleam and a small smile, but a short shake of her head. “I know what you’re thinking. How could that possibly be a bad thing, right? But when you love someone,trulylove someone, you’ll do anything in your power to see them live their happiest life. After the war, Beau was depressed—so much so that he feared for my own sanity to be around him. So one night after hours spent in the sheets of a hostel in Berlin, he left.”
I reached for her arm, giving it a tight squeeze as she shrugged, but her eyes welled.
“He didn’t even have to leave a note. I already knew. I think I knew when he took me to bed that evening. He told me with every kiss, every touch. And I knew there was no arguing. He loved me, and for that reason, he couldn’t be with me.”
For a moment I just held her arm, and she held the photograph, and we both let go of what we thought love would be.
“I loved Keith,” I said before I realized it. “My ex. We were together for ten years, married for seven. I, um...” I hated the word I had to say to her. It always felt like acid in my throat. “I’m recently divorced.”
Her eyes found mine then and she smiled sympathetically. I think she knew before I even said anything, judging by her lack of surprise, but her comforting smile let me feel like I could keep talking.
“I grew up always thinking that was enough. Love is all you need and all that, you know? He loved me, too.” I swallowed. “But I loved him differently.”
“How so?”
I traced my fingers along the lid of her hat box, my eyes on the photo of her only love as I thought of mine. “He loved the idea of what we could be, of what I could be for him if only I changed. He said he wanted me to design clothes if that was my dream but made me feel guilty when I spent time working on that dream instead of with him. He said he loved my independent nature, my passion, but he would keep score of when I failed as a wife—when I didn’t cook or when I traveled for work. He said I only cared about myself, that I didn’t love him the right way.”
I shook my head, still staring at Beau, mostly because it was easier than meeting her eyes.
“It wasn’t always like that of course, but once those words were spoken the first time, they were repeated like a mantra. I wondered what had changed about my love, about me, that made him feel like I wasn’t enough. And for a while I tried to change, to be the woman who would make him happy. But one day I realized that every time I gave him what he wanted, I lost a piece of myself.” I shrugged. “I left before I lost the last one.”
“And how did you love him, before he asked for more?” She placed the photo of Beau back in the box and closed the lid, shelving it in the trunk at the foot of her bed once more.
