“Who’s this?” I ask, looking at a head-and-shoulder shot of a brown-haired boy in a sweater that I’m sure he doesn’t usually wear.
“My son,” Ray says.
I scan the room instinctively for my Cassie. She tried so hard not to cry at the funeral. Why do we do that—put on a brave face? Hold it back, keep it in—until it rips its way through you like that beast in Alien. I see Cassie sitting on the floor with the little kids—cousins twice removed and random toddlers of indiscernible family relation. A little red-haired boy has crawled up in Cassie’s lap. That was all I wanted. That was what I sacrificed everything for and didn’t get.
“How old is he?” I finally say and turn the picture face down in my lap.
“Five,” Ray says and takes the picture from me. “No one knows, and you can’t tell Lola. I don’t know what to do yet, and she’ll make a big deal out of it.”
Ray looks at the photo and tucks it back in his pocket.
“Like it’s a reason for you to stay this time?” I ask with a discernible scoff in my voice.
I wince. I don’t want to talk to him like this. I want us to be what we might have been if it had all happened like it should have. I know he wants that too. He’s gruff and rebellious, but I know he loves us. I know he’s ripping himself to pieces over all the things he should have done and didn’t, or did and shouldn’t have. That’s what Ray does. He tears himself to shreds.
He picks up a coffee mug filled with clear liquid. I raise an eyebrow at him as he sips. He shoots me a dirty look when he swallows.
“I’m going to make you some coffee,” I say and stand up from the metal folding chair.
“I’m fine with this.” Ray lifts his cup to me.
I take the cup from his hand. “I’ll be back.”
“Always full of threats,” Ray says, but he doesn’t try to take the cup back.
Lola is in the kitchen, and she grabs my hand hard when I round the corner, almost making me spill Ray’s contraband. I set the cup down on the counter.
“I can actually picture Ray sleeping in the bathtub,” Lola says. “It makes me smile.”
I’ve caught Ray looking at Lola from time to time, and I know he wants to talk to her but isn’t sure what to say. He’s been gone a long time.
“Don’t rush him,” I warn. “He’s pretty Ray right now.”
We both look at him from around the kitchen corner. I feel flighty and nervous, watching him. It’s like sneaking up on a bird I know I’ll never be able to catch. No matter how slow I go or how close I get, it will wing away from me. I think about that owl in the road. If Ray were a bird, he’d be that owl.
“You ok in here, sweetie?” Chris asks, startling the both of us.
Lola jumps and looks him in the eyes. “I didn’t know who you were,” she says, shaking her head, the truth suddenly spilling over. “I didn’t know.”
Chris looks at me, and I grimace.
“I didn’t tell her,” I say, holding out my hands in front of me like a surrender of truth.
“Now what?” Chris asks. His face tightens into a squint and his shoulders tense.
“Now what, what?” Lola asks, looking around as if some other revelation is just around the corner.
“I should have told you,” he says, looking like he’s just leveled her with a deep dark secret. “It was stupid not to. It’s just a job. But I was sort of embarrassed.”
“Why?” she asks.
“Have you seen them?” Chris says, wincing. “I was classically trained. I thought I was meant for something else, you know. But nothing else came. That character has taken over my life, and it was just nice to get it back for a while. It’s stupid.”
“No, it isn’t,” Lola says and takes his hand. “Besides, I’m likely to forget by next week.”
Chris laughs and then catches himself, biting his lip. Lola punches him in the shoulder.
“I should have told you,” he says. “You’ve been up-front with me about everything, and knowing the issues you struggle with, it was sort of mean for me to keep something hidden from you. Especially something that everyone else knew about.”
He has no idea how close to home his words hit. There is too much that we hide from Lola.
“I’d love to keep my ‘issues’ to myself,” she says, “but I have no choice. Otherwise you’d think I was crazy. Especially once I invited you to my house.”
All Lola’s cabinets have a basic description of what’s in them. Some have words, painted in beautiful script: cereal, mixing bowls, yummy snacks. Others are painted with pictures of coffee cups and plates, wine glasses and pie tins. The drawers are the same—forks and spoons, measuring cups. And one that says lovely random junk.
“Your kitchen is a guest’s dream,” Chris says and touches her hair. “I’ve never once had to search for anything. I feel like I’ve been there forever.”
What a lovely spin. I peek back at Ray. He’s completely taken off his tie and is twisting it around his wrist. I look at the circle of little kids, but Cassie is gone. I open the cabinet and take out a coffee mug.
“What about you, Chris?” I ask him, turning back toward the kitchen. “Are you doing ok here? I see people trying to figure out where they know you.”
“I’m not where they expect me to be right now—you know, inside the television. I’m just waiting for the jingle,” he says, shaking his head. “Someone will put two and two together soon enough.” He puts his arm around Lola’s waist, and she sinks into him.
“It would lighten things up,” I say. “You want me to sing it?”
“No,” they both say at the same time.
They leave the kitchen together.
