Sweet Adaline

Chapter Two

It was the tenth of July when I received the message from Angela. It was urgent, as it often can be with my mother.
    "It's time to come home sweetheart. Just for Saturday. If you have to disappear again after, you're free to. I just want you here for the ceremony. And don't give me a hard time. This one's right. I mean, please, it has to be." She said on the machine.
    Of course this was the one. It's always the one. I clearly had no intention of returning to yet another wedding. This would be her fourth, and still counting I was sure. There hadn't been a man yet that could fill her requisites and the older she got, so grew her persistence in all her self-absorbed neurosis. This, paired with her taste in men, assured marital fatality again and again.
    I really must admit however, my curiosity was ripe now that I wasn't in the middle. What had she come up with this time? I have to hand it to her, if anybody was a collector of men, it was my mother. The more exotic from the last, the better. Always the finest complement to her penchant for dramatic change, was the man she'd bring with her to the alter.
    I thought I could ignore her message, but the Taylor's did not. The sixty-something couple whose guest cottage I'd been renting, kindly evicted me. They knew as well as I did, it was the only way I ever would have gone. I left early that Saturday with the very shallow hopes of making it.
    The drive was long, with lots of time to dread old roads. And as I drifted on, I was reminded of the others. I thought about the husbands that were mere experiences in our journey as mother and son. I thought about the houses. We'd bounce from dilapidated two bedroom apartment to some remarkable home, and back again. With each man she elevated her standards. And as I got older, our brief apartment residences became more cozy and plush, thanks to the alimony she'd somehow extract.
    I wasn't very old before I realized how uninvited I was. I always stepped into the bland guest room, quickly adjusted to accommodate "the kid". It was always the same. Some more equipped others. And more and more, I settled into the role of the quiet attaché.
    It was my first stepfather whom enlightened me to what I was to him. I was six. He was drunk. They were fighting hard as ever. I knew because I heard them nearly every night. Never in front of me though. Angela always struggled for a higher standard of appearance. Clean cut and white washed. That was how we were to anyone who didn't know us better, and no one got to know us well enough. I attribute that in part to her upbringing, of which I know little about. She worked so hard to keep her history perfectly anonymous that I eventually gave up on the subject.
My mother made mistakes of which she was ashamed and perpetually reminded. I came to this conclusion that evening, when Terry pulled his eyes from the TV long enough to break to me the story of how I was the weight he carried, forced on him by the miserable coward that was my father.
    I didn't understand most of what he said. But I picked up on the glower and the hiss of his contempt. From him, over the course of time that brought me to that night, and the disdain he laid on me, I learned a powerful lesson about survival. The weak fight harder, swing lower, and cut from the inside out.
    There were things that I did remember, that when I reiterated them to Angela, enraged her. Things that were only explained in brief evasion.
    "He said daddy beat you up a lot." I said, a slobbery mess. "Then he left because of me. And that I deserve my girl name."
    We left the next morning to the first of many apartments. It was she and I. A rocky revelation. Mom was now a single woman on the prowl. I was never reminded in such harsh words, but we both knew what role would always be mine. These men might have lasted, were they not fit with such bold expectations. I'd have cared, were I not so disenchanted by their dull similarities to Terry. I assured them each that if I ever wanted or needed a father, I'd go find mine. And that the one thing I'd never need was some temporary replacement. For this, I was always a guest.
    As I whipped down the interstate sizzling under the Martian rays of the desert sun, the memories of life under the transitional rule of each of my mother's boyfriends and husbands abated my eagerness to return, just as it had begun to the moment I heard her message. At twenty-three I was long detached from Angela and her habits. It was all the same though, all over again. Dread and jealousy, things we'd share, the latest gentleman and I. Constriction. That sense of rejection. Unwanted.
    The miles filed past, shaving off the valor of a timely arrival. I reached a small trucking town no bigger than a mile across the interstate, and pulled in for a much needed replenishment. I woke up in the backseat of the car late that next morning, rank with sweat and piss, probably on my shoes. Those wonderful trucker dives. They ask no questions. You're only the beer you drink.
    I slipped into town late that afternoon and picked up a room at the Motel 6 nearest to the interstate exit. I took a final swig from the pint of Gordon's Vodka I'd picked up before leaving Eloy.
    My exhaustion was absolutely debilitating. It took every shred of my waning strength to draw the card key from my pocket and swipe it, as clumsily expedient as possible. But once I broke the threshold of the room, every step was desperately stumbled to the hideous desert rose bedspread. My eyes were too weak to continue. Blindly, I collided and rolled onto the bed. I was asleep before my body even settled.
    It was this way for several days, as I regained my tolerance. From there, time again became inconstant. Endless nights, flashes of sunlight, vacant descent through hours unregistered and immediately forgotten. Bottles piled up as my savings dwindled and I knew less and less about the struggle. Then there was no struggle. No weight, no absence. Only the weight of the glass.
    Almost a week had passed before I reminded myself of what it was I had returned for. I never forgot. Only discarded.
    The memories I have of that introduction are as clear as a study of Monet through black nylon stockings. When you live as trashed as I did, lucidity strikes at moments but it never lingers. It's only shortly after a stiff drink, while it still sours the air, that you can maintain the illusion of coherency. But quickly the illusion passes, and you're left as scatterbrained as any junkie, aching for a fix.
I circled the block a third time before resigning to what I had to do. It was the white brick home centered at the end of a windy narrow road into the foothills of the Catalina's. Four arched windows looked down from its elevation, two on either side of its bold and dark mahogany door, framed by an ivory bricked archway. It was contemporary southwest. Flat roofed, earth toned and black iron barred. A towering trio of California Palm trees centered on an island of bark chips, drifted in an ocean of white quartz gravel. Great tailored spires of Italian Cyprus lined the drive up to garage, sealed by its hazelnut aluminum door. This was the new place my mother made home, and one of her better ones by first impression.
I parked out front, threw back a swig of Gordon's finest and withdrew myself with exhaustive effort. With each heavy step, my thick stinging feet reminded me how little time I'd spent out of that seat. The quick easy steps that carried me through the red desert canyons, were rendered cumbersome clomps. I was back to where I'd started, and I could care. I just wasn't able to anymore. Parched, I patted the warm four-ounce flask that sloshed in my back pocket. I'd come to meet this new family of Samantha's. It was always a rare treat. I mean that with the deepest sarcasm. Certainly they just keep getting better. More lively and interested, which only boiled down to pushy. I'm no confused sixteen-year-old kid any longer, but I am lost. In that I am as weak as I was then, six years ago. But I no longer have the patience to grit my teeth and breathe through it. Nor do I want to. This new one, I conclude, was the one at the disadvantage. With each laborious step I grew more narrowed and anxious to strike. I'd barely let the man speak, I said to myself. I was sharper, awakened at the thrill. Here comes twenty-two years of condescension you unlucky bastard.
The pale blue afternoon canvas bled out its hue. The wind that rose was lively and cool and played the waxy palm fronds, each edged with colorless death like paper talons. It added a furrowing elemental backtrack of static over this house I slowly approached. It shushed me. With a heavy gust, they shook with might and then, calmed their frenzy. Then another gust. It was common. Wind has always had this affect over me, unsettling.
I reached the black rubber bristled mat that lay before the rugged dark chocolate front door, and hesitated. I ran my tongue over my teeth and over my pasty chapped lips, longing for gum or something sweet to mask the unmistakably dry musk of cheep vodka woven through sour sweat. Tempted to turn back, to run, slip away before noticed, mere cowardly taillights turning off the street, out of sight finally. It would be easy and quick, to safety of the road. Fat cold drops struck the concrete sporadically, cutting through the hot wind that had shaken then free of the neutral timeless overcast, heavy nuggets of rain, startlingly cold against my hot flesh. I was ready to turn back, into the welcoming static.   
    I knocked hard on the screen door rattling it like a maraca, but nobody answered. The front door was opened I noticed, so I stepped inside. Across the entry, to the right stood double doors to a study, where tragic tones were roughly strummed and smoothly juxtaposed with a voice so dulcet and yet maladroit, I gravitated towards the half open French doors across hardwood floor, unconsciously. I had no choice but to hear it through.
    I lingered beside the frame of the study door, absorbing every note, ignoring everything around me. Her voice was supple and gently abrasive, shrouded in velveteen soul and amplified by the resonant hum of the acoustic guitar she strummed with clumsy passion. Her song ended as I stepped into the doorway.
    "Hi. Um..."
    "God d--!" She gasped with surprise. She was stunning with shoulder length espresso hair in a pair of damaged jeans and an olive green spaghetti strap tee. "Ashley?"
    "That's me." I replied foolishly, already drifting away from the door. "Sorry if I scared you. I knocked."
    "Yeah." she replied caustically, and then broke with a smile. My lead feet were swelling and splitting in my filthy mud ridden shoes.
    "Sorry, then. Is..."
    "...You're mom here?" Her voice rose sharply behind me, finishing my sentence as only she can. I turned to see the beaming newlywed. The deep red of her thigh high knit dress was one of those decadent indulgences she bestowed on her men. The way it draped from her curves was defiant of her age. I've grown more and more impressed with the fair and lasting beauty of her skin as each year's passed. I inherited her fair tone, but I don't wear it like she does.
    "We've been wondering about you sweetheart." She pulled me in, embracing and then backed away promptly. She didn't bother to frown at the rank Vodka I'd sweat out, across the back and pits of my Lollapalooza '98 t-shirt. The tell was all in the narrowing of her eyes. She drifted back and broke her stare. That stung enough to want to make for the door and steal another shot.
    "What took you?"
    Behind her, approached a Stetson man with dark, salted hair that looked meticulously styled. The hard lines from his eyes and rough shades assured me from a distance, his was a man that shared no thought freely or completely.
    "This your son, Angie?" He reached his tanned hairy hand to shake, which I obliged. "Jack."
    "Ash." I said with strong punctuation. "It's nice to meet you. You really have a beautiful home."
    "Thanks."
    "Are you staying for a while, or will you rush off into the wilderness again?"
    "Probably. Not much for me, here or there."
    "Let me know if you change your mind," Adaline said. "'cause I'm riding shotgun." She smiled warmly, sweet kid. Jack shot her a salient glare. I caught it and I already liked the girl.
    "You got it." I replied. We enjoyed the heavy second of our new alliance. Jack drifted from the room with the same cool breeze he entered with.
    "Where are you staying? We have the study that..."
    "I'm good, mom. I have a room." She stretched a sterile smile.
    "I've been looking around for you, too. I've found a couple apartments already."
    "I'm sure you did. I'm not quite sure what I plan on doing yet."
    "Go back to the brewery."
    "I'm not... I don't think I... I don't think so"
    "Alright." She resigned. We stood in silence. Adaline slowly strummed a flat "F" chord, filling the room with its heavy, uneasy tones.
    "I really should go. I just wanted to come by, meet the fam and all." I glanced at Adaline. "Adaline, right."
    "Yeah." She said.
    "That was Nutshell, right?"
    "Yeah. Jar of Flies."
    "Nice. Alright, later mom."
    "Good night sweetheart. Be safe." She said, leaning in for the hug.
    "It's Friday night. I wouldn't count on it. Night, Ad." I threw out a wave to Jack, standing in the kitchen, staring at the TV distantly. He returned it modestly with a nod. Then I was gone. Out the door to the closest dive and drank well specials till I woke up crossways and fully dressed on the hotel bed, and lucky at that. I spent the next several hours fruitlessly trying to backtrack, deciding the night had been erased. It's takes getting used to, finding you've blacked out drives from the bar to some dank motel. However, such nerve-racking realizations lose their luster after a month of it. You begin to trust in your autopilot, far too much, living automated and un-involved.