Page 50 of The River in Spring
“You assholes!” Scarlett yells across the room. But she’s laughing. “You’re ruining my performance!”
“I have to sit down,” Aargon suddenly says.
“Help him, Parish.”
“Me help him? Okay.”
The song continues to play and builds to its final notes, but all eyes are on my brother as he flops down in the club chair. And at the right moment he looks up through bloodshot eyes and says, “Tequila!”
“Oh Lord,” my mother says.
The drunk looks up for a moment. “I’m good. Continue.”
Dove gets ahold of the microphone and takes charge.
“That leaves Nobel and me.”
My expression sends her a message. Can you do this without me? She retrieves a barstool sitting behind the karaoke machine and pats the seat. Van moves another right next to it.
“Come on, get up here. I have something picked out for us and it won’t hurt too much, all you have to do is sit and look at me adoringly. Come on, baby.”
Aargon perks up.
“Ohhhhh. You calling him baby? I like it, Dove. He is a big baby.”
The insult only worked when we were between the ages of five and eight. He used to call me that and the words would make me totally pissed off crazy. In our young world, there was no greater put down than being accused of being babyish. The moniker lost its sting about thirty-five years ago. But that’s what makes this funny. He knows it too and chuckles in his stupor.
I rise and head for the stage. I’m very happy about this new direction. No singing, and I can look at her adoringly all day. As I sit, she gives me a quick kiss.
“This is for my birthday boy.”
She nods to Teddy and he presses a button on the karaoke machine. The opening notes of Rihanna’s “Stay” begin. I told her I thought of us whenever I heard this song. The room quiets to listen and to watch as she gives of herself to the person and everyone is charmed. Tonight the gift comes to me, even though in my heart I know it’s meant for the world. But God knows I want her to stay.
14
Dove
Adjusting the skirt of the dress, I catch my barefoot image in the dressing room mirror.
“What about this one?”
Deborah is a reliable judge of what looks good on me or not. She’s rarely critical but always truthful. That talent has been honed over the years. I rely on her take more than my own. Almost all of my stage clothes she has picked.
“I still like the first one. It shows off your legs. Besides, the color is gorgeous.”
Looking in Macy’s mirror I get her point. This is beautiful but a little generic.
“Let me try it on one more time,” I say, peeling off the rejected frock.
“Are we sure showing off my legs is a good idea at a wedding? I don’t want to look like I’m going to the club.”
I step into the royal blue, discounted, affordable designer dress.
“It’s a good idea. Play to your strength.”
“This one is seventy-nine. It’s pretty pathetic. I can barely afford that much. But it’s good, right?”
Before Deborah answers a familiar ping sounds. I got a text.
