He hugged us all but didn’t say a word about my hair. I was crushed, then ashamed for wanting his attention like a child. He gave us a tour of the house. It was old-fashioned and beautiful—dark and moody, walnut floors and stained-glass windows. There wasn’t a single TV or computer. Nothing modern.
JAMIE: A Luddite?
SHAY: Don believed electronics were for philistines. He loved the old world, collected antiquities—artifacts from Greece and Italy, ancient weapons from around the world. They hung in his library: a wall full of Roman scissors and parazonium, Scythian akinakes, Viking javelins. When Laurel said it was unsettling, he teased her by running a pugio down her arm. He loved those weapons.
JAMIE: What’s a pugio?
SHAY: Small, thin-tipped Roman dagger. Allegedly, what Brutus used to stab Caesar. The weapon of choice for assassinations because they could be easily concealed.
JAMIE: You know an awful lot about old weapons.
SHAY: Laurel was wrong. The weapons weren’t the unsettling part. When we got to Rachel’s room, it was all pink, with dolls on the bed, like a little girl’s room. That really threw us. Not only because it was so childish, but because in our suite, Rachel’s room was bare. Zero decor. It was clear either we didn’t know the real Rachel, or Don had decorated it for her. Both options were weird. I think Clem was the one who said, “Gee, Rachel, forget the dorm. Why don’t you live in this life-sized Barbie Dreamhouse?”
We all laughed, except for Rachel. I don’t think she even breathed.
Don could probably sense the tension, because he brought us downstairs and opened wine. We started talking, having a good time, cracking open bottle after bottle. Don put on one of his old records, and we danced in the living room, totally goofy, free-flowing, you know, laughing at each other. Especially at Clem, who was a ridiculous dancer. She did this shimmy thing… You had to be there.
Out of nowhere, Don stopped laughing and said, “Rachel,” in this really low, commanding voice. He nodded in the direction of the kitchen. Rachel put her wineglass down and went immediately. We stopped and watched her put on an apron and start pulling things out of the fridge. Our jaws literally dropped. First of all, we had never, ever seen Rachel cook. Second, and most important, we’d never witnessed her obey anyone. But there she was, standing in a frilly apron at the drop of a hat. It was surreal.
Clem said, “Is Rachel…making dinner?” With the most dubious tone.
Don grinned and said, “Come with me.”
We followed him into the kitchen. He pulled open a drawer full of aprons, all of these bright colors, and took out three. I remember Clem snorting, like she thought he was joking. But Don’s face was serious. He said, “I was wondering if you’d give Rachel a hand.”
I felt conflicted; it was rude to refuse, because we were guests, and besides, Don was always treating us, so I felt like I owed him. But it was also a strange request. Or maybe it was just the way they did things in their house? Every family’s different.
Everyone was quiet, so Don said, “Rachel and I like to practice acts of service. I think you’d be surprised how empowering it can be.”
Clem said, “I don’t cook. Sorry.”
I looked down at the aprons. They were just little pieces of fabric. Don was having us over to his house, pouring us wine. He’d taken us to dinner and drinks. Surely, we could do this little favor.
He smiled at Clem and said, “You could always go out on a limb, Clementine, and explore a different version of yourself. You know, like you do with that hair. Those silly colors that distract from your face.”
She said, “I like my hair. And I go out on plenty of limbs.”
Her tone made me tense. Clem was easily provoked, combative. But next to Don, she sounded petulant. I had this sudden fear he wouldn’t want to see us anymore.