Apology in Porcelain

The morning sun blinds Tom Watkins when he steps out on the back porch to toss a leaky garbage bag into the old, dented metal can. He has been cleaning since Shelley's call last night, clearing the house of scattered beer cans, to-go boxes, and paper cups of melted ice, dreading the weekend because he hates company, even if it is family.

The clink of the lid on the can brings back the memory of Belle asking him for one of those rolling plastic cans with the attached lid. It wasn't a lot to ask. Tom just never got around to it.

Shelley's Camry veers into the drive behind his truck. She hops out, looking frazzled in her hurried steps to the other side of her car. She's ready to leave before she's even arrived.

"Come on, Baby," she says, opening the passenger door.

Tom's grandson, Russell, inches out. He's in no hurry. He towers over his mother and leans into the backseat to grab his duffel. As the two make their way to the backsteps, Tom thinks, What the hell did he do to his hair.

"It's only for three days, Dad," Shelley says.

With a grunt, Tom steps aside so his daughter and grandson can go inside, where the stench of insecticide from his earlier annihilation of houseflies is eye-watering. Tom shuts the back door, rattling Belle's blue and white plates hanging on the wall. "Don't slam the door," she always said, a little too late. Her frayed crocheted coverlet still hides the rips from Mazel's claws, reminding him of how she covered their fractured lives.

Shelley coughs. "Here's our cell numbers and where we will be. Call—" She coughs again and fans her face with one hand, holding the paper in the other. "Might want to open some windows."

Shelley begins raising the windows. Tom steps in to help, doing what his daughter says while ignoring her. She sets a scrap of paper by the phone, patting it like her mother would've done, like it's some kind of magical spell.

"Mom, I'll be fine," says Russell, plopping down on the couch, rubbing his eyes, his voice betraying his discontent.

"I know, Baby." Shelley's gentle tone is laced with worry. In the doorway, she grips her arms like she's holding herself together, biting her lip but smiling to reassure Russell that she knows he doesn't want to be here. "I'll call …okay, Dad?"

Tom nods.

"I just need some time," she says, her eyes roaming as if they don't know where to land, like she's a stranger in the house where she grew up. "I'm dealing with Mom's death, too, you know." She falls away here like she's lost her balance. "Bye, Russell. Call me. Any time."

With Shelley's shutting door, Belle's blue plates vibrate again. Tom thinks about the day Belle scurried into the house, clutching a skinny stray kitten, kissing its scrawny head, ignoring the rattling of her precious plates. "Found her in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot," she said, holding the kitten closer to Tom. "I named her Mazel."

The kitten filled the void of Shelley's bound-and-determined departure after high school. But one morning, Belle's fattened, well-loved Mazel slipped through the barely open back door and darted for the street just as Merrick Baucum, the constant subject of neighborhood gossip, squealed his revved-up Camaro down the street, leaving thin bruises on the pavement. Mazel never had a chance. Belle never asked for another pet.

All she asked for was a fucking garbage can.

Tom reclaims his chair in the den. Russell lies on the sofa, his attention on the game on his phone, the blinging sounds echoing in their silence. His multicolored hair looks like a basket of fruit on his head.

“Sorry. Ain’t much to eat,” Tom says.

“Mom gave me money.” Russell never glances up from his game.

“She didn’t think I’d feed you?”

Russell shrugs.

Tom bounds over to his desk, buried under unopened sympathy cards, and grabs his keys. “Let's go,” he says.

“Where?”

Russell pulls up his ripped jeans. Tom rolls his eyes, motioning for his grandson to go ahead. "To the store. And stay out of produce — someone might squeeze your head to see if it's ripe."

Russell stumbles past, yanking up his pants as he goes through the back door, leaving it open for Tom.

But Tom pauses at the photograph beside his half-filled coffee cup on the counter, the one he took at Lake Hickory of Belle and Shelley dressed in jackets and hats. They were gathering autumn leaves when Tom asked them to look at him and smile.

“You comin'?” Russell yells from outside.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your pants on.” He returns the picture to its spot. “Like that’s gonna happen.”

They return home with grocery bags filled with assorted chips, microwave popcorn, bologna, Pop-Tarts, a six-pack of Coke, Fruity Pebbles, and whole milk.

“You eat this crap?” Tom asked, unloading one bag.

“Mom said while I’m here, I can eat whatever I want.”

“A bribe to stay with her old man, huh?”

“Something like that." Russell grins before tearing into a bag of chips and grabbing a handful.

That night, Tom flicks his remote, drinking a cold one. The insecticide stench barely burns anymore, but one lone fly buzzes around Tom’s uneaten bologna sandwich. Russell's head bobs to a rhythm Tom can’t hear, which is almost as irritating as the damn fly. Tom reaches over and yanks the plugs out.

“What’d you do that for?”

“ ‘Cause the Braves are about to start.”

“I don’t like baseball.” Russell jumps up, grabs his duffel and heads down the hall, stopping at the first door on the right.

“Take the room across the hall.”

"But I always—"

"That's my room."

“No, it isn't. That's your room," Russell says, creasing his brow, pointing to the door at the end of the hall.

“I said, take the other room.” Tom hears his hostility but refuses to look at his grandson, who still holds the doorknob to his mom's old room, the one he's always stayed in.

Russell takes the other room that still houses Belle's ironing board, sewing machine, and trundle bed. No TV. Belle hated TV.

The next day, the overworked window unit whirs, filling the otherwise void with coolness. Mayo, mustard, and used knives litter the countertop. Belle would have this mess cleaned up in no time, fussing over Russell, keeping his glass and plate filled, and making sure he had a cloth napkin, not some cheap paper towel.

“Mom’s not handling all this,” Russell says, crumbs spewing from his mouth. "At all."

“What?”

“Mimi’s dying.”

Tom takes a swig of beer and flicks through the channels.

“Hello?” Russell calls out.

“I heard you.”

“She cries. All the time.” Russell stares at his sandwich. “Says she wished she had done more and hadn't done ...” His voice breaks here.

Tom doesn't handle tears. Hell, even Shelley’s crying as a kid pinched his every nerve. He and Belle’s worst fights had been over how he handled or didn’t handle their daughter. He'd tell Belle she was spoiling Shelley, and she'd snap back, “At least I’m doing something.” And she always was—doing something—cleaning, cooking, washing, taking care of Shelley, working part-time at Baxter's Drugstore when Shelley started school—hell, the woman never stopped. Yeah, he worked eight hours a day, but then it was home to his chair, six-pack, and TV. He’d hear Belle reading to Shelley or them playing a game in Shelley's room, and he'd get up and shut the bedroom door.

Tom moves to the couch beside Russell, still not knowing what to say—or do.

“Everything’s falling apart,” Russell cries. “Mimi made sure we all got along. Mom and you. Mom and Dad. Me and Dad.” He looks at Tom. “Who’s gonna do that now?”

Truth kicks like a shotgun.

“Do you even like Mom?”

Tom runs his hands through his thinning hair. “What the hell kind of question is that?"

“Mom’s the one who said it. I’m just asking.”

“She said I didn’t like her?”

“That you didn’t like kids. Period.”

He couldn't argue. Tom had never wanted kids. But Belle ached for one.

“My daddy was a dick," he told her. "And yours was a crazy sonafabitch. And our mamas—hell, mine gave me my first joint.”

“We don’t have to be like them,” Belle argued.

“But I'm saying we don’t know how to be …you know …parents.” The memory was so vivid: her crying, his pleading with her to be rational. “We can do whatever the hell we want, whenever we want, and wherever we want. A kid is gonna change all that.”

“That’s what our parents always did. Anything they wanted. I want more.”

“More than us?”

“More …for us.”

Belle won, and Shelley became her light and her life. Always.

Russell breaks into his memory. “Mom told me about Mimi leaving you when Mom was little.”

The little shit is bold—he'd give him that. “What the hell brought that up?”

“Guess what’s going on with Mom and Dad. And me. He hates my hair."

“It’ll pass.”

“Right. Like it did with you and Mom?”

Tom doesn’t want to think about the day Belle left him, her chin held high as she ushered seven-year-old Shelley into the front seat with coloring books, crayons, and her doll, Sissie. Joanna, their nosy next-door neighbor, swept her driveway, watching for her next tasty morsel of gossip.

“Now, you can flick that TV 24 hours a day, without any of our …racket,” Belle said, tossing a suitcase into the trunk.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Where the hell you gonna go?” She just glared at him, clutching another suitcase. “Go on then. See how long you can take care of a kid on your own.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“For Christ’s sake, Belle.” He snatched the suitcase from her, and she stood there, tiny dimples forming in her chin, bottom lip quivering, eyes red and watery. He thought she was changing her mind.

“Give. Me. My. Fucking. Suitcase.” She angrily enunciated each word. But it was her softer, "Please," that moved him. He handed her the suitcase.

Belle returned two nights later, tucked Shelley into bed, and never uttered a word as Tom unloaded the suitcases. The house was deathly soundless, even after Belle unpacked and cleaned up Tom’s mess in the kitchen. He broke the silence, grabbing a Miller from the fridge.

“Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, Belle peered at him through puffy eyes. “No, Tom. For some reason, your daughter couldn't.”

After that, Tom tried to do better, be better.

Shelley would call from her room, “Read me a story, Daddy.”

Belle would pull him from his chair. “She likes If You Give a Dog a Donut.”

On Shelley’s bed, he opened the book, awkwardly holding it for her to see the pictures. Sometimes, he’d start the story in the middle.

“No, Daddy,” she’d say, flipping back to the first page.

He'd look up and see Belle in the doorway, watching. listening.

How many pages had he cheated Shelley out of?

Tom studies his grandson's face. He looks so much like Shelley. “So, what’d your mother say?” he asks.

“About what?”

“When she ….when they left me.”

“Mimi told her they had to go back."

"Belle wanted to come back?"

Tom's surprise didn't faze Russell.

"She told Mom that some people never really learned how to love …whatever that means. I think it’s all bull shit. And you don’t have to die to disappear. Eric Swanze’s mother left, and he ain’t heard from her since—"

“Your mother wouldn’t—”

“What the fuck do you know about Mom?”

The overhead light illuminates the top of Russell's head, but the colors no longer seem so infuriating.

“She and Dad went to patch things up, but it ain’t gonna work. And I'm just making things worse.”

Some people never really learned how to love. Tom hears Belle saying it. The room begins to blur and tilt. For some reason, he can't breathe and feels lightheaded. His eyes sting.

“Poppa! What's wrong!” Russell grips Tom’s shoulders. “Why are you crying? Poppa! We'll be okay. Remember what Mimi said. Families stick together. That's what we'll do. You okay, Poppa?”

Tom stands, swaying a bit, but Russell steadies him, his arm secure around his shoulders.

“I'm okay.” Tom's shaky voice surprises him.

In the bathroom, he grabs some toilet paper, wipes his face, and blows his nose. He splashes cold water over his face, imagining his father banging on the door, yelling, “Goddamned crybaby.”

He's crying again, feeling nauseous, unstable. He envisions Belle, but this time, her face is young, her eyes bright.

They’d only been married two years when his old man’s liver gave out. Flowers and hushed conversations filled the funeral home, suffocating Tom. Belle followed him outside like a second shadow. He lit a cigarette. Smoke curled around them like a shroud.

“I don’t feel nothing.” His words were hollow, detached as he peered out over the headstones.

Belle slipped her arms around him from behind, flattening her breasts against him. She smelled of lavender. “Can’t grieve someone you never had,” she said, her warm breath soft against his ear.

“Yeah, well, Mama’s pissed ‘cause I ain’t acting right.” He turned to her, Belle's arms still around him. Sunlight lit her auburn hair. Even in that place, among graves and headstones, Belle lifted the gloom. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

She pulled him back, saying, “We’re different, Tom. Remember that.”

But he knew better.

Tom splashes more water on his face and unrolls some tissue for Russell.

“Come on,” he says, handing over the crumpled wad. “We're going fishing. Got some shorts?”

“Yeah.”

“Get moving. We’ll grab something to eat on the way. Something healthy. How about Burger King?”

Russell chuckles, wiping his eyes. “I'm impressed.”

The dark ribbon of the Pearl twists and disappears into the foggy distance, where heat clings to the evening air. Water slaps the sides of Tom's aluminum boat anchored near the bend.

“You don’t talk much,” Tom says, adjusting the reel.

“Neither do you.”

Night stretches like a velvet canopy, jeweled with stars, reflected in the water and along the banks on either side. Fireflies twinkle, mirroring the stars.

“That a star beside the moon?” Russell points. "There."

Tom's half-smoked cigar smolders in his mouth, emitting sweet, earthy smoke.

"That's Venus," Tom says.

Russell nods and returns his attention to his fishing line.

“When your Mimi came fishing with me, she'd start naming the stars after her church friends—Ralph. Roberta. Frank. Mary.”

Russell snorts. “Sounds like a bunch of old people.”

“They were."

Their laughter slaps like the ripples against the boat before softening into quiet reflection.

"She always named two special stars after you and your mom.” His voice cracks, and Tom clears his throat. "They were the biggest and brightest."

"You gonna be okay, Poppa?"

"It'll take time. You?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine."

"You were always the apple of your Mimi's eye. You'll be more than fine."

Russell leans back and looks into the night sky. He points. “That one is Led Zeppelin. Next to it is Timberlake. That one—"

"Who the hell are they?"

"They're the best, Poppa …like Mimi. And the brightest one, right there—"

“The North star," says Tom.

"That’s Mimi.”

“Yeah,” Tom whispers. “That’s Belle.”

For a while, they say nothing; they just listen to the night pressing in.

"Take us to the launch," Tom says, giving Russell his place at the motor.

"For real?"

"Didn't move for nothin'."

Returning home tired, the fishermen agree to try again tomorrow. Russell heads for his room, a yawn accompanying his goodnight.

“Take that other room—if you want,” says Tom, setting his tackle box on the table, leaning his rod and reel against the wall. "You can watch TV."

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, Kid.”

At the end of the hall, Tom opens the door and flips on the light. Everything is the same: the unmade bed, Belle’s robe draped over the chair, her slippers set side by side neatly, as if she only stepped out for a moment and might return any second.

Lung cancer had taken her. She never smoked a day in her life, and the guilt consumes him because he had. His last moment with her had been on that scratchy, narrow hospital bed, her breath against his face one moment and gone the next. He had been up for days. Shelley had tried to get him to go home and rest.

"You leave," he ranted. "You were always good at that."

He regretted it the moment he said it. Shelley left, crying. Belle died just before midnight. Tom was there. Shelley wasn't. A few weeks after the funeral, when Shelley came by to check on him, she asked for the blue-and-white plates.

“Can't you wait until I'm in the ground?"

Now, he feels like a drunk the morning after, remembering all the hurtful things he said and did, all the excuses he conjured to justify them. Just like his old man.

Last year's Christmas photo of Shelley and Russell sits on Belle's bedside table. In Santa hats, Shelley's cheek is pressed against her boy’s. Shelley is the mirror of her mother—high cheekbones, turned-up mouth. Russell has his father’s height, but the rest of him is Shelley …and Belle.

Tom buries his face in Belle's pillow, searching for the faintest trace of lavender still there. Tomorrow, he and Russell will box up the blue-and-white plates for Shelley. It's not enough. He knows that. But it's a start—an apology—in porcelain.

Tom closes his eyes, hearing Belle's words, "We’re different."

Tonight, he lets himself believe it.