I watched as he sighed, took another long sip of his drink, more resigned than anything. We both stayed quiet, listening to the sounds of the cicadas in the distance. The occasional thrash in the water, the gentle waves.
“You know, you try to instill a sense of right and wrong in your kids—”
“This isn’t your fault,” I started, but he held his hand up.
“But as a parent, you usually get it wrong more often than you get it right.” He was quiet, twirling the melting ice in his glass. “It’s hard to be mad at her.”
I stared at the side of his face, new lines etched deep into his skin like he had aged years instead of days. He was right: it was hard to be mad at her, but I couldn’t tell him that. I couldn’t tell him about the awful things we had said to each other, all the terrible things we had done.
I couldn’t tell him that I blamed myself, too, in so many different ways. So instead, I just sat there silently, staring into the distance. My eyes trained on the Butler house until Levi’s light finally switched off.
CHAPTER 41
The morning crawls by in a sluggish daze: sugary casseroles and Christmas carols running on repeat as I unwrap my gifts. I feign delight over a new set of plaid pajamas, a sterling silver charm bracelet I’ll probably never wear. My mother unwraps her annual perfume—my father, a stack of books he always picks out himself—then I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt before making the walk down to Eliza’s.
It’s a quick journey, just a handful of houses between us, and as I round the bend to the Jeffersons’ driveway, I can’t help but notice how empty it looks. Not just the yard, all the old flowers long-since dead, but the house itself, too. None of the regular decorations are cluttering up the porch; there are no candles flickering in the windows or wreaths hanging from hooks on the door. Mrs. Jefferson always used to set up an inflatable Nativity scene on the lawn, something my own mother chastised as tacky whenever we drove around the neighborhood to look at the lights, though I know I can’t blame them for not feeling festive this year.
Finally, I reach the front and push my finger into the bell, waiting impatiently as I hear the sound of footsteps approaching on the other side.
“Margot.”
The door swings open and I try my best to conceal the surprise, though I’m sure it’s apparent all across my face. Eliza’s father is barely recognizable beneath the tuft of a newly grown beard, wiry hair peppered with gray. His skin is still a deep, dark tan, but there are more wrinkles now, too. Fine creases where it used to be smooth and bags that didn’t exist before hanging heavy beneath his eyes.
“Hi, Mr. Jefferson.”
“Thank you for coming,” he says, opening the door wider, ushering me in. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you.”
I step in closer and let him wrap me in a hug, the sour smell of body odor tickling my nostrils. Then I pull away, glancing around the living room. Noticing how different the interior looks, too, like all the blood has been sucked from the place.
“Where’s Mrs. Jefferson?”
“Running errands,” he says, leading me into the kitchen. I smell brewing coffee, burnt bacon, and watch as he turns toward the cabinet, opening it up to grab a couple mugs.
“On Christmas?”
He’s quiet, his arms suspended in the air until his shoulders slouch just slightly.
“Today isn’t easy for her,” he says at last, still not facing me. “She needed some space.”
I walk up behind him and grab the mugs from his hands, gesturing for him to take a seat. He smiles, grateful, and I pour enough coffee for the both of us before sliding into the chair beside him. It vaguely reminds me of that night after the funeral, the two of us sitting on the porch in silence. His whiskey dwindling while I stared into the distance, telling him things that were meant to be secret.
“How’s school?” he asks at last, ringing his hands around the mug.
“Fine. I liked my classes last semester.”
“Still majoring in English?”
I nod, taking a sip of my coffee, even though it’s scalding.
“Good for you,” he says. “You’ve always been good at that.”
“My mom isn’t too happy about it.”
“Well, she’s not the one getting a degree, is she?”
I smile, remembering with a surge of warmth why I liked being here so much. Eliza and me sitting at this very table, doing our homework while Mr. Jefferson picked up a poem I wrote. Reading it quietly with a nod of approval.