Channel 20 Something (6 page)

His mouth twisted in a smirk. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He started walking away, but turned around and came back after a couple of steps. “You know what? I think I need to apologize. I don’t know what my problem is. It seems like I’m always asking you to do something you don’t want to do. I’m not normally such a pest. But I’m done now—promise. That’s the last invitation you’ll get from me, okay?” He smiled, but it was hard, not happy. He looked rather annoyed, in fact.

“Okay,” I said. As Aric walked away, I was instantly more at ease. So why did I also feel kind of disappointed? “Have a good day,” I called to his back.

“Yep. You, too. See you on the anchor desk, Heidi.”

Of course after he’d withdrawn it, I thought about Aric’s suggestion all day as I struggled to lug my bags and equipment from shoot to shoot and get the interviews and video I needed, trying to somehow not look haggard in the process. He was absolutely right. If we combined our efforts, our weekend shoots would go twice as fast. More importantly, having a photographer would allow each of us to come up with and execute creative stand-ups for our packages, and as a result, have better escape tapes. It was what I’d said I wanted. It was the fastest route out of this place. But it was also scary as hell.

Why couldn’t my new co-worker have been someone more like Hale? Approachable, comfortable, non-threatening. I would’ve taken
that
guy up on the offer without thinking twice. But Aric—he was the
other
kind of guy, the dangerous kind. Like Josh.

The worst part was, Aric didn’t seem to realize how dangerous he was. At least he put on a good show of being harmless. He was probably like one of those big alligators who lie motionless on a sunny bank all day long, while the little turtles swim closer and closer, and then SNAP! I
so
didn’t want to be that little turtle. Not again.

The fried chicken was delicious. The rest of the evening was a nightmare. When you work weekends in TV news, your days off are likely to be Monday and Tuesday, and I was spending my Monday night off in the happy Haynes household.

My older sister Jane Elaine grabbed me and pulled me into the laundry room as soon as I stepped into my parents’ home from the garage.

“I need you to cover for me. I told Phillip you and I have plans tomorrow night.”

“Why?”

“To get out of running the Tuesday night choir practice.”

“Let me get this straight—you’re lying to your husband, who’s a pastor, to get out of going to church.”

Phil had left my father’s law firm three years earlier to follow the calling of his heart and go into ministry. While a lovely life choice, the career change had been a complete shock to Jane Elaine, who was also a lawyer at the firm, and to everyone else who knew him. Phil had been the firm’s pit bull, the guy they put on the dirtiest cases no one else really wanted to touch. Maybe that’s what had sent him the other way—the need to be cleansed or something.

“It’s not church on Sundays that bothers me,” Jane Elaine explained. “It’s being there every other flippin’ day of the week. When did I sign up for this? I mean, choir practice—come on—you know I can’t carry a tune with a backhoe.” She had a point. Whenever my family did our yearly Christmas caroling, the neighbors tended to shove candy canes and hot chocolate at us after the first verse in hopes of returning to a silent night. “And, in my defense,” she continued, “I lied to the church council first, and that’s why I had to lie to my husband.” My sister, the perfect pastor’s wife.

“Oh yes. Sounds like an air-tight defense, counselor.”

“I know it’s bad, but I’m a desperate woman. If I keep being ‘busy,’ maybe the council will eventually get tired of asking and find someone else to run the music program, and the nursery, and the ladies’ prayer breakfasts, and the annual Tag Sale, and the Zumba Praise exercise group, and the—”

The laundry room door swung open to reveal Phil’s friendly but confused face. “Hello ladies. Catching up?”

“Yes. We were… folding dish towels,” I said, reaching behind me and feeling around on top of the dryer for some sort of fabric.

“And discussing our plans for tomorrow. Tell him, Heidi.” Jane Elaine strutted past her bemused husband, leading the way out of our hiding place. I followed, not quite looking at his face.

“Yes. We, ah… we’re really looking forward to, um, book club.”

“Our church has a wonderful book club.” Phil beamed. “You should join. In fact, I believe they’re looking for a new leader.”

“Oh no, I only read, um, romance novels.”

“Erotica,” my sister offered helpfully.

My face colored, and I gave her a look that said she owed me
big time
. “Yes. That’s me. Can’t get enough bondage and domination.”

Phil made a small choking sound, clearly shocked and dismayed to learn that his young sister-in-law was so wayward. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps leadership wouldn’t be right for you, but you might still consider attending. It might offer a… positive influence. Okay then, I think I’ll check on the boys.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, I hissed at Jane Elaine. “Erotica? Really? You heard him—now he thinks I’m some kind of depraved mommy-porn addict.”

She chuckled. “If I’d known it would work that well, I would have played the erotica card a
long
time ago. Nobody’s going to be asking
me
to teach Sunday school anymore.” She grabbed a bowl of fried okra off the kitchen counter and headed for the dining room, beaming and humming a tuneless hymn to herself.

My sister wouldn’t mention erotica in their conservative church circle any more than I would announce to my family I was having regular sex dreams about the Swedish-Italian god of love. Jane Elaine might not be the world’s most enthusiastic preacher’s wife, but she’d never embarrass Phil or undermine his new career.

I grabbed the plate of cornbread and followed her. My younger brothers, Gordy and Tee, were already at the table, plates piled high in front of them and forks at the ready. They were two years apart, both in high school, both enormous, and always on the verge of starvation. Jane Elaine set the bowl of okra on the table, and they each grabbed for the serving spoon, turning this, as they did every activity, into a wrestling match.

“Is Mom at rehearsal?” I asked.

“Nah. She’s going later.” Gordy lowered his voice to a whisper. “Better watch out—she’ll make you be Wee-zer if you stick around too long.”

Mom was starring as Clairee in the Starkville Community Theater’s production of
Steel Magnolias
. And when she was preparing for a role, we
all
were. Whomever happened to be handy would be dragged into running lines with her for whatever scene she was working on, gender be damned.

“Hmmph. It’s better than being forced to be Annie. I friggin’ hated that play,” Tee growled, making Gordy nearly spit out his sweet tea laughing.

Never one to miss a cue, Mom swept into the room wearing a big blonde bouffant wig, pearls, and a 1980’s looking skirt suit with huge shoulder pads—wardrobe from the play. I hoped.

“Hi baby. When did you get here?” She kissed my cheek and took her seat at the table, then turned a mom-glare on Tee. “And Thomas, saying ‘frigging’ is no better than using the actual foul word. We all know what it stands for. You’re far too intelligent to express yourself using profanity.” The ridiculous wig bobbed as she spoke, forcing me to suppress a giggle and avoid looking at my brothers at all costs. I’d lose it if I caught one of them also struggling not to laugh.

“Yes ma’am,” Tee mumbled.

Managing to regain control of my giggle box, I asked, “So, it’s a dress rehearsal tonight?”

“No, sweetheart. We won’t start those for a few weeks. I’m getting into character. It helps me to dress the part.”

Mom had recently become a student of the Method school of acting, following in the great tradition of Robert De Niro, Daniel-Day Lewis, and Jim Carrey. She’d been known to dress and act in character for days at a time, which probably caused some chatter at the Piggly Wiggly and the Junior League meetings. Mom didn’t care. She may have come to it later in life, but she was an
artist.

“I wish you’d auditioned, Heidi,” she said, grasping a cornbread muffin with a pair of silver bread tongs and putting it on her bread plate. “You love to perform, and you would have made a wonderful Shelby.”

“Reporting and anchoring aren’t really performing, Mom. There’s no acting involved.”

“Well, still…”

“Heidi Heidi Darlin’,” Daddy boomed, coming in from the backyard and saving me from an unwanted career on stage. “I’ve got
your
dinner right here.” He deposited a hideous green and black speckled rubbery creature on my plate.

“Looks delicious.” I was used to my father trying to gross me out with bizarre fishing lures. I pinched it and placed it gently on his dinner plate as he went to the sink to wash his hands.

He laughed. “The wide-mouth bass are gonna think so. It came in the mail today—the YUM Wooly Bug. Bass prefer it by thirty percent over the leading attractant.”

“Of course they do. How can they resist such culinary delights?”

“Gordon, please honey. No lures at the table.” Mom’s perfectly-made-up face pulled into a frown. “And Phil, would you like to say the blessing?”

With the Wooly Bug banished, everyone seated, and the food blessed, dinner began. So did the night’s encore performance of the How-Heidi-Should-Live-Her-Life show. As usual, Daddy took the starring role in this one.

“All I’m saying is, it might not have been the best idea for you to move out just yet. When you get this TV business out of your system, and you’re ready to get serious and go to law school, you’ll need a rent-free place to live. And we hardly see you anymore.”

“Hardly” in his book meant
only
twice a week. “Daddy, I
am
serious about—”

“Besides,” my father continued in his best convince-the-jury voice, “We have plenty to go around here.” He waved a hand over the bounty set out on our large farm table in the kitchen.
Exhibit A, your honor.
“There’s no reason you can’t at least come by a couple more nights a week—you certainly live close enough.”

“Don’t remind me,” I mumbled, twirling my fork in the fluff of mashed potatoes on my plate.

“Well, what does that mean?” Mom asked.

“Nothing. It’s just… I’m fine, y’all. I like living by myself. And I’m not starving to death or anything.”

“Well, you will if all you eat is those frozen lean-whatevers. That’s not real food,” Daddy said. “She’s too thin as it is, isn’t she, Melinda?”

For a moment I closed my eyes and pictured Hale sitting at the head of our own future table in our own future house, surrounded by our future children and giving them the same speech. The same well-meaning, concerned, suffocating speech.

“Your father’s right, sweetheart,” Mom chimed in. Of course. According to her he always was. In this house, the rooster ruled the roost. “It’s ridiculous for you to be spending your money on that awful hole-in-the—”

“Mom,” I protested.

“Well it is—on that… teensy outdated apartment, when we have so much room here, and you could be saving your money. You’re always saying how you want to be independent.”

I exhaled a short laugh. “How will moving back home at twenty-two make me more independent?”

“Well, you could make your car payment and insurance payment all by yourself and still have money left over.” She smiled brightly.

I tried not to cringe at her what-a-big-girl-you-are tone. It made me feel like a kindergartener and shamed me even more than any get-your-life-together-and-stop-sucking-off-the-parents speech ever could.

When I’d waved the white flag and retreated from Brown, I’d been all too happy to let my parents bandage my wounds and make my life easy. But a year after the graduation party and the big new-job celebration, being semi-dependent on them was getting old.

My life didn’t feel much different than it had before I graduated. Only now I was away-at-work instead of away-at-school and not very
far
away at that. How could I blame them for believing I still needed their input on everything from what I ate to whom I dated? And as long as they were still helping me pay my bills, I was obligated to listen to their never-ending advice.

“Where’s Hale been lately?” Daddy asked. “Don’t let that one slip the line, darlin’—he’s a keeper.”

“We’re taking some time to… think things over.”

“What?” My parents wore nearly identical expressions of horror. It was no secret they already considered Hale their third son—my fault for letting him come around so often and giving them the opportunity to get attached.

“Now listen, honey, I know you haven’t had an easy time in the romance department. I can understand why you’d be a little skittish—”

“Daddy. Can we please not talk about this?”

“I think we should. You’ve been with Hale a long time. He’s a good man. If I can’t keep an eye on you your whole life, I’d feel better if someone like Hale was doing it.”

“It’s true, sweetheart,” Mom agreed. “Sometimes it’s hard to recognize when the right thing’s right there in front of you because you’ve been looking at it for so long.”

“I don’t know—I think Hale’s kind of a stiff,” Gordy interjected. I shot him an appreciative glance.

“Hush your mouth, Gordon. Hale has been nothing but a gentleman. And how many times has he taken you boys hunting and fishing? For shame,” Mom scolded. “I only hope each of you grow up to be as fine a man as he is.”

Why couldn’t I love Hale as much as my parents did? He was handsome and kind and stable. He cared about my nutritional needs.

“Well, I don’t think I can eat any more.”
Or stand any more.
“It was delicious, Mom.” I pushed away from the table and carried my plate to the sink.

I was sick of living a life-by-family-vote. The only solution was getting a better-paying job, which put me right back where I’d been for most of the day—thinking of Aric. He’d offered to share the vocal exercises to help me banish the Southern drawl. He’d offered to show me some pre-show relaxation tips that might keep me from tossing my cookies every time I had to go on live. He’d offered to shoot video for my reports in exchange for my helping him shoot his own stand-ups.