Feather River

Cars drove slowly, drivers taking their time to get to where they were going. Teenagers baring backpacks chatted and laughed animatedly as they headed into the town’s only diner, Patrick’s. Mothers walked in pairs around the town square holding their children’s hands and pushing strollers. Fathers, husbands, grandfathers – any businessman – stood congregating around the steps of town hall talking business. Old man Jerry swept trash up from the streets and sidewalks, waving to those who walked by and chatting with the few who stopped to say hello: just as he always has. Mr. McClellan and his son, Barney McClellan, Jr., parked their family’s rusty red pickup truck a block down from the market place selling his fruit, just as they always have. As the bell tower struck 3:00 PM, school bus 314, in its cheese yellow glory stopped on the corner of Main Street and Central Avenue to drop children off from school as it did five days of the week. Everything was as it always has been.

My name’s Raegan and I am from a town called Harlan. You don’t need to know where it is. It isn’t important. There’s no significant history, no famous citizens, nothing; just a simple 3k populated blip on the map of the United States. No one smokes cigarettes in public, none but the Catholics – and save the few who live on the outskirts of town – drink and drug usage isn’t acknowledged, but everyone knows what really happened when parents mysteriously ship their child off to “boarding school” all of a sudden. The people mean well though. Everyone is always open to help another; one’s weakness is another’s strength as the mayor put it. The town has only one twenty-man police department and two ten-man fire station. The hospital is a block and a half from the elementary, middle, and high schools. Football, basketball, baseball, and men’s soccer, are real sports to this town, and everything else is just sissy stuff. With almost everything I had, I hated Harlan, but there was only one thing that brought me back to this cookie-cutter place and that was Feather River.

There is a legend we Harleans have about Feather River. They say that on the first day of summer, if you approach Dreamer’s Rock at sunset, you will meet your future husband or wife. Of course, only kids – and those who were desperate – believed in it. Fairytales. Poppycock. Nonsense. When I was seven, I overheard the story when my parents were telling it to my older brother, and I believed it. Three days later, after school, I went to Feather River, sat on Dreamer’s Rock, and waited. Nothing happened and I got the worst ass beating of my life when my brother found and dragged me home; my parents believed in capital punishment. However, even though I failed to find my future husband, I saw the most beautiful scene ever and that was what made living in this place worth it. I went off to Yale University for my undergraduate and law school degrees and traveled during my breaks to places like Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle, New York, Atlanta, Orlando, and many other places on the east and west coasts, and never have I ever seen anything to compare.

Sighing, I reached into the left back pocket of my white skinny jeans for my gold Zippo lighter. My grandfather’s initials, W. J. H., were engraved onto the side. Pulling the last Camel from behind my ear, I placed the filter between my lips, quickly lighting it. Smoking in public was just frowned upon, not illegal. I looked down at my black leather ankle boot flats. Sighing, I stood, placing my hands lazily into my black military jacket, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. I adjusted my jacket, covering the small coffee stain on my cerulean blue V-neck and picked up my duffle bag. Shuffling my feet, I walked the streets of Harlan. Tomorrow was the first day of summer and I need to eat dinner and get some sleep.

An hour of walking and I stood in front of white two story Queen Anne Victorian with a white wraparound porch and grey shingled roof. Red hybrid tea rose and white magnolia bushes lined all the way around the house and a large white magnolia tree sat in the front yard. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I spat out the gum I had been chewing after my cigarette and opened the iron gate, walking up the pathway to the house. I fished my keys from my jacket to unlock the door, but paused. Laughing to myself, I put the keys back in my pocket and opened the already unlocked door. Things never really changed around Harlan after all. Taking my shoes off, I placed them on the shoe rack in cupboard under the stairs.

The wallpaper was still that Victorian Rose pattern and the molding was still pristine white. The place faintly smelled of flowers. Taking my bag, I walked up the same old stairs, down the same old hall, to my old bedroom. Opening the white door, I saw everything was as I had left it. The walls were a pale pink, the moldings white, as was the soft carpet. My curtains were white and sheer and the cushion to my window seat was pale pink, pink rose patterned pillows sat along the window. On the same wall with the window were white built-in bookshelves. On the shelves were books of different sizes and colors, ranging from many topics, as well as a stuffed bear here and there with the occasional doll, candles, framed pictures, snow globes, porcelain piggy banks, and other porcelain animals like elephants, turtles, bears, and dogs. My trophies sat along the top shelves proudly shining.

My bed sat against the wall left of the windows. The bed sat low and was a simple white box bed with a two-foot high white upholstered headboard. The sheets were white and the comforter was pale pink as well as the pillows. There was a white nightstand with a white porcelain lamp with a pink lampshade. There were black inspirational words printed on the wall like, “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined.”, “Love is just a word until someone comes along and gives it meaning.”, “Friendship is one mind in two bodies.” which was my personal favorite.

I had a desk on the wall opposite from my bed. It was white, wide, and very simple with no drawers. On it was a small, silver portable printer and silver Macbook Pro. Nothing but a framed 17th century world map decorated the wall above the desk. To the left of the desk was a door that led to the closet and the door to the right led to the large Jack and Jill bathroom I shared with my brother growing up.

The wall opposite of the windows was simple, decorated in black and white photos of me with friends and family, a few were of my high school sweetheart and me. There was also a large whiteboard that I used to make notes and put sticky notes on; a few were still on there. The door that connected the hallway to my bedroom was on that wall as well, obviously.

Sighing heavily I dumped my bag onto my bed and collapsed on top of the bed as well. My room was too matchy and made me feel sick now. I was such a princess back then. Well, I still am, but I’ve matured; college does that. I got up and put my things in my bag away in their various places. Minutes later I was in and out of the shower and dressed in a green cotton V-neck and yellow spandex volleyball shorts. I heard the front door open and shut and headed downstairs, putting on my glasses and tying my hair in a messy ponytail.

From half way down the staircase, I saw a little woman, her short hair grayed and curly with a flowery yellow headscarf. She wore a pale blue dress with golden leaf patterns on her slightly hunched figure. She had a tan cardigan on as well. On her nylon panty hose clad feet, she wore a pair of nude one-inch heels with a thin strap that buckled across the foot. She carried a bag of groceries in one hand and in the other was a bouquet of white and pink daisies. As she turned around pair of large, round clear trifocals could be seen on her wrinkled and aged face.

“Mom-Mom,” I said, a faint smile appearing on my face. The old woman, referred to as Mom-Mom, looked up, startled slightly.

“Rae. Come on. You’ll help make dinner tonight.”

“Mom-Mom, I’m home,” I said, unsure. Why was I unsure? I don’t know.

“Raegan Eloise, I can see that. I’m not blind. Now get your keister in the kitchen and boil some water. It’s beef stew night.” She shuffled off down the hall towards the kitchen.

Pausing, I quickly made my way down to the kitchen. The kitchen had black and white checkered floor tiles. The cabinetry was white with clear glass doors and the counter tops were black granite. The appliances were sleek stainless steel. The window valance was an eggplant purple color and keeping with the color, the kitchen island had a large glass bowl with stem-less aubergine purple carnations floating along. Two little redcap oranda goldfish swam along in the bowl beneath the flowers. Different types of glasses from martini to white and red wine glasses of different sizes hung from the large rack above the island.

“Sunshine, pour me a glass of sherry in the tulip glass will you?” It wasn’t a question. I plucked a glass from the rack and made my way over to the built in cabinet wine rack.

“Mom-Mom?”

“The Oloroso. And, Sunshine, go ahead and make yourself something. You might need it.”

Nodding, I grabbed a bottle from the bottom of the rack and found the opener. I poured her half a glass and placed it in her already awaiting hand. I placed the cork back into the bottle and placed it in the wine cabinet where we would put unfinished bottles in. I quickly made myself a Dirty Shirley, two cherries, in a highball glass. Taking a sip, I sighed before I put on a matching apron as my Mom-Mom’s and started a pot of boiling water for the rice and began peeling carrots and potatoes while my grandmother cleaned and nicely cubed the meat. I cubed up the potatoes and sliced the carrots and onions evenly, passing it off to the little woman beside me who put them in the pot along with some peas and what I thought was corn. I reached into the cabinet and looked through the pre-opened bottles until I found the half bottle of Burgundy red wine.

Soon I was shooed out of the kitchen for just being in the way at that point, so I took out a few plates and set up the table in the dining room. The walls were peach and the floor was the same hardwood as the rest of the wood in the house. A fireplace was on the far wall. Candles and family photos sat on the mantel. The small, intricate wrought iron chandelier hung beautifully over the black, ten-person dining table; a cream-colored rug lay neatly beneath the table. The cushions of the black chairs were a matching cream as was the table runner. Along the table runner sat iron candleholders with ivory candles, a few peach and salmon colored flowers sat around the candleholders.

“Mom-Mom, how many people are coming to dinner?”

“Eight,” came her simple reply from the other room.

I returned to the kitchen, gathered eight white deep plates, and opened the drawer to gather the silverware. “Mom-Mom, should I get spoons or forks.”

“Spoons are better to work with. Oh and one of the places is for Caroline.” Caroline, my niece, was only four years old.

Sighing, I picked up my drink – my second Dirty Shirley – and took a large sip. I put back a plate and set the table for seven with seven wine and water glasses as well. I set two chairs aside, one on each side of the fireplace. Stretching, I returned to the kitchen and finished off my drink, putting the glass away in the dishwasher. Looking through the wine cabinet for the second time, I found a fairly full bottle of red wine and placed it on the table with a pitcher of water beside it. Going into the kitchen storage I found the old booster seat my brother and I used when we weren’t big enough to sit correctly at the table. I set the seat in one of the chairs.

“Sunshine, serve the rice will you?”

“Sure Mom-Mom.” I went to the kitchen and got the rice pot, took it to the dining room and started dishing the rice out. Just as I finished serving the rice, the front door opened and there were a few voices.

Heavy footsteps sounded and a voice grew louder as the steps approached. “Mom-Mom! Dinner smells fantastic!” I turned around and saw my big brother and his wife standing there. He was dressed in a pair of khakis, brown Sperry’s, and a white Lacoste polo while she wore a long strapless blue jumper that stopped at her knees with a white braided belt around her middle and white peep-toe flats. I always thought they were cute together.

“Raegan? Rae you’re home!” Coral beamed, running over and giving me a tight hug.

“Hi Coral,” I said, laughing slightly. Her light brown hair tickled my nose.

“Oh Bobby, honey, Raegan’s home! She’s finally back! Caroline, sweetie, come give Auntie Rae a hug.” She waved a little brunette girl over, who waddled to us slowly. My big brother Bobby stared at me, smiling faintly, nostalgically even. I heard the front door open again and the sound of heels clicking brought a smile to my face as my mother, Diana, appeared. She wore a pink knee length pencil skirt, pink heels, a white frilly top with a pink blazer, and in her white gloved hands was a little pink hat.

“My goodness, what are you all – Bobby, move out of the way! Raegan, oh my little princess, Raegan, you’re home. Finally,” she breathed, dashing over to me and enveloping me in a hug. I hugged her back and breathed in the scent of her perfume: sweet and flowery. “Darling, I’m so happy to see you. Oh my baby. Raegan, your father’s going to be home soon! He’ll be so happy to see you.” You see, my mother did not have a job and so became a member of The Women’s Club of Harlan. My father, Charles, was in the brother society, The Gentleman’s Club of Harlan. There were only two elite society clubs, and those were the two; I know, how posh.

“I missed you mother,” I said softly, quietly. I meant it, but not as much as I should have.

The sharp rattling of a pot caused us to all turn around. “Go wash up you all. Dinner’s ready.” Mom-Mom stood there with the pot of beef stew, looking at us as if we were all crazy.

Quickly we all scattered off to wash our hands. I went to go put on something a little less casual. I put on black shorts, a simple teal button up collarless blouse, and socked my feet, slipping on my moccasin house slippers. I let my hair down and smiled faintly at how it curled and waved. Quickly running my fingers through it, I ran downstairs. Dinner never was informal. Wearing pajama, work out clothing, or just looking sloppy was never acceptable when it came to gathering at the dinner table; being shoeless was sometimes acceptable though.

I made it back to the dinner table to see everyone seated. My mother stood on one end and brother and his wife stood on one side nearest the fireplace with Caroline between them, Coral next to my mother. Mom-Mom stood on the other side of my mother and I stood next to Mom-Mom. As I opened my mouth, the door opened, the sound of two male voices echoing through the house.

“Something sure does smell fantastic! Opal, are we having beef stew tonight?” My father’s booming laugh sounded. Turning around, I saw him appear in the entranceway. “Raegan?”

“Hi daddy,” I said with a small smile. I studied his appearance. His hair was more salt and peppered than I remembered. His glasses on his face was squared, thick rimmed and black as they had always been. His pants were a dark khaki and his shoes were a shiny dark brown. He wore a white button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a tan pullover vest with a red and brown argyle pattern. He wore his most simplistic and expensive Patek Philippe gold watch, his wedding ring shining just as bright. He was always very Clark Kent-esque with his wardrobe; Christopher Reeve, not Brandon Routh (who by far is a total babe).

He stood there and looked me over, smiling faintly as well. “It’s been a while. Well, let’s eat. Everyone remembers Jersey. Hopefully Raegan here remembers him too. It hasn’t been that long now.” I flushed a pale red at that comment. The atmosphere in the room suddenly became awkward and stuffy.

My father walked over to his seat at the head of the table and a tall blonde made his way over to the empty seat between my father and I. He wore tight grey jeans and a green flannel shirt that seemed old and worn. A pair of clean white Keds covered his feet. Who was this guy? I didn’t let my mind linger on it for long.

Once my father sat, we all followed and gave a short prayer. It was silly, but it was tradition, and you should never break tradition according to our family. I smiled faintly at Caroline as she ate with her plastic ware and wiped her mouth off after every bite. I thanked Bobby as he poured the wine for everyone. I took a large gulp from my glass before I started on my salad. It felt like it was going to be a long dinner.

I was right about dinner. My father spent the entire main course throwing in remarks aimed at me about not being around and taking my time in coming home and that I probably forgot about the many people who cared about me between talks of what was new in everyone’s lives. I took it in silent stride though. I should have expected it. He was always like this. Instead of yelling at you for doing something he didn’t like, he’d slip in comments here and there, making you feel miserable until he felt better. My mother once described it as a slap in the face without the physical abuse.

Throughout the dinner I could feel the man next to me – what was his name again? – staring. I tried to ignore it but it became a little much. I finished eating quickly and gathered my dishes and glasses, excusing myself. I put my dishes away and sighed, using the towel to wipe my arms dry. I rummaged through the fridge and found a few strawberries. Finding a larger than average flute glass, I pulled out the French champagne I found hidden behind all of the wine bottles, forgotten almost. I washed and sliced up a few strawberries, dropping them into the flute before pouring the bubbly champagne after them. With a sigh, I stared at the flute before washing the rest of the strawberries and cutting the green leaves off them and put them in a bowl. Tucking the bottle under one arm and the flute in one hand and the bowl in the other, I snuck off up stairs to hide away.

I found my sanctuary on the window seat in my room, the window open and the warm breeze of the oncoming summer days and nights flowing through my window. I sat with my legs crisscrossed; the bowl on sat, or in this case, nestled between my legs, the champagne bottle in one hand and the flute in the other. Norah Jones’s rendition of “Somewhere over the Rainbow and What a Wonderful World” played softly in the background. I sang along, but it came out as a whisper mostly. I knocked back the contents of the flute glass and refilled it easily just as quickly.

A faint knocking on my door brought me back from my tipsy stupor. Sighing, I got up and put the bottle and glass on my desk before walking to my door and opening it. I faltered at seeing the blonde from dinner. “Yes?” I asked unsure of what he wanted.

“Well, I was told to ask you if you wanted to come out to the farm.” He spoke, his voice giving a faint, very faint southern twang. Most would not notice something so small, but I noticed it; do not ask why, but I did. I didn’t say anything, just gave him a blank look. “You can bring the booze if you want.”

“If that’s the case…” I faked an excited expression and slammed the door shut. Rolling my eyes I grabbed the bottle, forgetting the flute and drank up. I heard the door open and I turned around quickly, “Hey! Get out.” I pointed out the door, but he only stepped in and shut the door behind him.

“Look, Raegan, I don’t know what your problem is, but get over it. You’re being silly.”

“Who are you even?”

“Jersey Boyé, you idiot. Your boyfriend.”