I stepped out of the air-conditioned bus and into the 105-degree humid oppression of Angus, Texas. Or what I like to refer to it as, “the place where dreams come to die.” Angus has a whopping population of four hundred and sixteen human beings and approximately triple the amount of cows. The town is a sprawling thirty-five miles of pasture that reeks of manure, especially in the thick August heat. I grabbed my black canvas duffel from the compartment underneath the coach, and slung it over my shoulder. A bead of perspiration dripped from my forehead onto my white wife beater. I spotted my aunt right away because she was the only person waiting at the truck stop just off of route 83. Her hair was bleached white, and her sundried skin crisp and brown. My aunt Tami had a fashion victim’s wardrobe, sharp claws for nails, and always wore red lipstick that brought out the yellow in her teeth when she smiled.

“How ya doin’ sport?” she said with a grin- exposing her not so pearly and not so whites. She hooked her arm around my neck in a headlock. I forced a smile but truthfully, it wasn’t the same unless my dad said it. I love my aunt, don’t get me wrong, but she really needed to get a clue.

We sat in the bench seat of her Chevy pick-up as we drove home. A bushel of tumbleweed blew by the front of the car. Tami pulled a cigarette from behind her ear and lit it, adding to the oppression of the grimy car.


We pulled in the dirt path that leads to the house. To the left of the driveway stood a small white farmhouse sided with white wooden boards. The siding was chipped in various places, revealing a dark hunter green-the house’s old color-my dad’s favorite. The charcoal gravel was embedded into the ground and the bright green grass had matriculated down the hill, covering the driveway. The pathway leading up to the house was a staggered line of un-matching slate stones. Above it towered an old oak tree that engulfed the small house into its shadows. I took long uneven strides from the bottom of the hill up to the front stoop and opened the creaking screen door into the foyer. I felt a vibration from the front pocket of my Nike basketball shorts, and I pulled out my silver flip phone. The caller ID said “unknown” but whoever it was, was calling from Cook County, Illinois and I knew that could only be one person. I clicked the ignore button-silencing the rings my mother used to try and get back into my life.

My mother never taught me to read, or ride a bike, or quizzed me on my state capitals. She never mended to a scraped knee or gave me advice about girls. She broke my dad’s heart. She told him to go to hell, and then left us when I was five for a lawyer in Chicago with 3 kids. Traded us in like unwanted lawn furniture. “I’m leaving you,” she said. At least she was forward; I’ll give her that. There’s nothing I hate more than the ambiguous bs people spurt out to sound like less of a villain and give themselves piece of mind. And now, after my father dies, she decides to care about me. His funeral is next Sunday down at the Baptist church. My dad and I
never went to church back in Dallas. He was anything but a religious man, but everyone else in the Davis family is a die-hard Christian, which is probably one of the reasons he left Angus. Anyways, I guess the chapel is the only venue around suitable for a wake. Unless you want to have it at Billy’s BBQ or Terry’s Tackle Shop in town. Yeah, that’s right, I didn't think so. I don’t expect my mom to come, and I assume that’s why she’s calling. To give me some bullshit excuse that will make her look pitiable and me like the jerk that couldn't care less about her petty problems.


I strolled around the property, hands in my pocket, kicking up dirt as I dragged my feet. About fifty yards away stood the old tree house that I spent all of my visits to Angus playing in. My dad and my grandpa built it for me years ago. I climbed up the grey rotting ladder rungs and crawled through the doorway that said “JTG” painted in navy letters. The J stands for me, James, and the T and G stand for Tyra and Gracie-my two best friends from when I spent summers in Angus as a kid. They lived on either side of my aunt’s place. I made it through the tight crawl space and let out a scream when I saw a lanky blonde girl sitting in the corner in overalls taking a drag of a camel. A shiny gold cross was fastened around her neck on a chain. There were Budweiser cans strewn across the wooden floor, and she was writing with a fluffy pen in a hot pink journal that said “Diary” in big letters. She glanced up at me, said “hey” and then continued writing.

“Tyra?!” I exclaimed. Enthused and confused.

She displayed a wide-toothed grin, and pushed herself up onto her feet. She
could just barely stand in the tree house made for toddlers. I, on the other hand, was bent over-folded down to about half my height. I looked like the hunchback of Notre Dame. Her gaze met mine. There was a youthful familiarity in her wide grey-blue eyes shining through her bad complexion but something about her was also completely different. Much older, but somehow still not very mature. She didn't pull her eyes away from mine. She smirked and scooped up her trash and started towards the ladder.

She stopped before she passed me and said, “Hey man, it’s so good to see you!” enthusiastically. She wrapped one arm around me in a half-hug.

“You too! It’s been so long!” I replied. “Where’s Gracie? How’s she been?”

There was a long, eerie pause. The tree house swallowed us in a silent discomfort. She didn't answer me. Instead, she pecked me on the check and said, “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad.” She traced her hand on the engraved “JTG” above the opening, and hopped off the ladder, a good six feet above the ground and bounded across the yard and into the back door of the neighboring house.
I settled in to the guest room upstairs that would be my new home. As I was folding my t-shirts and putting them into my dresser, my grandma came in carrying two cheeseburgers on a paper plate. She was shamelessly looking for some bonding time but frankly, I didn't want to partake. Reluctantly, I took a seat at the foot of my bed next to her. I took a bite into the greasy burger, and as much as I hated to admit it, it was delicious. Angus, Texas is the home of the best burgers in the state. Hence, the name. At least the town had something going for it.


“So… since it’s your first day of school tomorrow, your aunt and I got you a little something.” She was adorably excited-the way old ladies get when they win on Bingo night or see a cat chase a skein of yarn. She outstretched her wrinkly hand for me to take, and dragged me downstairs and out onto the back patio. A shiny silver Trek 10-speed rested on its kickstand with a blue bow tied around the handlebars. Her eyes gleamed at me and she wrung her palms behind her back nervously-praying that I liked the gift.

“I…I love it Grandma…Thank you so much.” I said.

Truthfully, it was a nice bike but I couldn't shake the idea that riding a bike to school wasn't the best first impression I wanted the kids at school to have of me.

I woke up at 7:30 the next morning. Time to start my sophomore year at East Angus High School. I grabbed a banana, and headed to the shed to fetch my bike. I stared at it for a good 30 seconds until somewhat reluctantly I swung my leg over the seat, pushed off, and started pedaling.

At school, I struggled to swim through the ocean of denim and leather. I was struck by the amount of teenagers wearing long-sleeved flannel in such sweltering heat. I trudged my way through the hallway and into my first period English class, my toes being stomped on by cowboy boots along the way.

Amid the sea of desks I noticed a familiar girl. I remember it hurt. Looking at her hurt. Her eyes were glazed over, and I saw her jaw tighten as she bit her tongue to hold back a waterfall of tears. There was a jagged scar just above her left
eyebrow. She chewed nervously on her chipped black nails, her striking green doe eyes hidden behind her chestnut brown side bangs, a purple hoodie, and about eight pounds of black eyeliner. She tapped her dull stub of a #2 pencil without its eraser on her “To Kill A Mockingbird” book with her hand that wasn't already occupied by the grinding of her teeth-gnawing at her raw fingers. Her bony spine protruded through her sweatshirt. I've never been more bored in a class in my entire life. This girl became my only muse. She kept her eyes down for the entire class period. Just when I thought I would drop dead before I got out of that classroom, the bell rang and woke me up from my daze. The girl looked up through the strands in her silky hair, and I recognized her immediately. I slowly made my way across the room to her. I was surprised by my timidity to talk to her.

“Gracie?” I said shyly.

“James! Wow, hi, it’s really good to see you.” She said at a volume that could barely be heard by a mouse. She pulled me into a weak embrace. “I was so sad to hear about your dad. How are you holding up?”

“Hanging in there.” I replied.

We continued for a bit with the awkward small talk as we walked together through the vast and crowded hallway towards the physics building. We made our way through the chatter and slamming lockers. I saw Tyra at the other end of the hall. I opened my mouth to call out to her when Gracie interrupted me.

“You ain't even got a shot buddy,” she said.

“W-what are you t-talking about?” I stammered.


“Tyra…” She continued, “Don’t even try... She’s a b**** anyways.”

That remark really took me aback. I started to worry that my hearing was failing. Tyra and Gracie were inseparable. What the hell could’ve happened?

“Okay, just so we’re clear, I was just going to say hi. I wasn't gonna like, propose or anything. And anyways, you guys used to be attached at the hip!! What happened?” I asked. She paused before responding. We were both drowning in mutual discomfort.

“She’s petty and she’s cruel,” Gracie scoffed. She inhaled deeply. “Yeah, we used to be best friends. Ever since kindergarten. We used to meet in the tree fort at your house and your aunt would bring us her famous chocolate chip cookies. We met there every day after school, and every Saturday at noon. Not on Sundays though, my mama always said Sunday is God’s day, and that I should save at least one day of the week from being corrupted by the likes of Tyra Collins. Maybe I should’ve listened to her sooner. She always thought Tyra was a bad influence but it wasn't until Tyra heard a rumor that I was cutting myself, and she stopped speaking to me. Weeks went by before I finally asked her what was up. Finally she said that I was ‘un-Christian’ and should be punished for my sins. The one thing I needed more in than anything else in the world was my best friend, but I didn't have her. It’s been six years, and we haven’t spoken since.”

Her eyes moved down to her left wrist that was covered by the baggy sleeve of her sweatshirt. She pulled it up to her elbow revealing a cluster of thin pale
marks of a razor. Then her eyes moved up to meet mine. She could sense my genuine concern as my brows furrowed and the skin between them creased. Yet she could also plainly see my unhidden desire to hear more of her story as my pupils bore holes into the peach scars on her naked wrist.

“Forgive me for sounding ignorant, but why did you do it?” I asked.

“I’m broken, James.” She responded.

“Nobody’s broken. That’s just people’s excuse for being weak.” I regretted saying this as soon as it came off my tongue. I, of all people, should understand what it feels like to be tortured. To be broken.

The hurt in her eyes was enough to break a million hearts.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” She wailed. She quickened her step to get away from me as fast as possible. But I grabbed her hand, and gripped tightly so she wouldn't pull away.

“But you’re not broken because I know you’re not weak. You’re one of the strongest people I know.” I said genuinely.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Nice save,” she said. I smiled back.

“So…this is probably a really bad time to bring this up, but my aunt sort of invited the two of you over for dinner tonight…”

“Me and Gracie? No. Way. In. Hell.”

“Yeah, I totally understand. Just think about it though? It would really mean a lot to my aunt. She misses seeing the three of us hanging out.”

She let out a frustrated sigh and said, “maybe.”


“Thank you so much!! Alright, we’re late for class, but I’ll see you after school.” I said, and we parted ways.
------------------

The silence rang louder than any noise. My eardrums thumped and my blood pulsated to the erratic rhythm of the clanky air conditioner. Gracie stared down at her lap so she didn't have to look into Tyra’s eyes. Her hands were clenched. Knuckles cracking. Aunt Tami and my grandmother sat awkwardly at opposite heads of the table. They passed around collard greens, roast beef and rolls. With hopes of diverging the tension, Tami asked the girls questions about school and boys and college. But when she addressed the elephant in the room, all hell broke loose.

“I hate to be nosy, but what happened to you girls? It seems like such a shame to throw away such an old friendship.” I shot her a glare from across the table and motioned for her to change the subject. Gracie chewed on the skin of her bottom lip. She looked pained and uncomfortable. Just moments later, without a word, she stood up from the table, walked over to where Tyra was sitting, punched her square in the face and then ran out of the house in tears. The screen door screeched as it slowly closed behind her. Either out of humiliation, anger, or pain Tyra excused herself from the table and left just moments after.

That night was a quiet one in the Davis household.

“What an evening” my aunt remarked as we washed mashed potatoes off our
good china.

“You better go check on them,” she said, and then shooed me away.

The first place I thought to look was the tree house. It was instinct, I guess. But as I placed my foot onto the creaky floorboards of the wooden platform, I was shocked to find both Tyra and Gracie huddled together and crying together in the corner of the room. I seemed to have missed the climax of this forgiveness ceremony because they were in eachother’s arms. All I could hear muffled between sniffles and sobs was Tyra repeating “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry” into Gracie’s ear.
------------------

Five days later was my father’s funeral. I stood in my tuxedo at the entrance to the graveyard behind the chapel. My grandma, my aunt and I greeted old friends, cousins, and military mates as they swarmed in and filed into rows on looking the black coffin. Tyra arrived with her mom and a black eye, kissed me on the cheek, and took a seat towards the back of the mob. Gracie appeared a few minutes later, alone. The crowd trailed around the back of the church and down the road by the time the service began. I sat on the plastic white fold up chair in the front row staring at the wooden box that contained a mangled version of my father. The men in uniforms lowered my dad’s body into the ground. My father’s military colleagues fired shotguns in salute. Friends whom I've never seen before picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it into the lot. As loved ones made their way back to our house for the reception, I stayed behind and dismissed the gravediggers. I took
the rusty shovel, and filled the hole with dirt until my father was completely submerged. I laid my hand on the solid earth, and before I could erupt into tears I stood up and turned around.
------------------

Behind me stood my mother. Or at least I thought it was my mother. Who was once a mom-jean, messy bun-wearing young lady was a sterile, turgid old woman. She was dressed in black lace, a hideous shawl, and a string of pearls around her neck that matched her white bob. Her silky hair rested on her shoulders.

“W-what are you doing here?” I asked, stuttering.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said hesitantly. I opened my mouth but no sound escaped. I couldn't manage to get any words out. My throat was dry and my heart was heavy. She was the last person I expected to see. I thought back to the day I arrived in Angus, and her phone call that I didn't answer. Did she want to tell me that she was coming? Did she want to make amends? My brain was orbiting inside my skull and my thoughts varied from anger, to disgust, to confusion, to relief.

“I wish I could say the same,” I said coldly, “You really shouldn't have come.” I hastily walked away from her before my emotions flowed out of my eyes like the blood in my father’s chest. She didn't follow me. Not that she ever did. Not that I expected her to. She just stayed back and watched my life fall apart as she stood on the high pedestal of her own ego. Why would it be any different now?
------------------

I was already about halfway home when I heard loud footsteps approaching.


“Wait!!” My mom screamed.

I turned and stopped as she sprinted over to me, panting.

“Please can we just talk?” She asked. I didn't respond but she continued to walk beside me. “First, I just need you to know how deeply and truly sorry I am for everything. For running away, for being a horrible mother, and for leaving you parentless. Words can’t begin to express how horrible I feel. I can’t image how hard that must’ve been. If I can promise you one thing it’s that I will never forgive myself for that. I don’t have any excuses, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m here now and I would love more than anything to have a fresh start.” Her eyes were glazed over and I noticed her bare ring finger as she raised her hand to wipe a tear that escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek.

“What could you possibly do now to change anything? You have to go back to your family in Chicago soon, am I right?” I accused plainly.

Then she broke down. This is when she told me everything. About how she has been trying to get in touch with me for years. How her husband wouldn't support her and she didn't have the money to leave him and come back to Texas. He threatened to throw her out if she continued to try to contact me. He told her she was being a disloyal mother figure to their family.

“If I had had the money I would’ve left years ago. I promise, sweetie, I would’ve. I know this doesn't change the fact that I ever left, but you have to know I never meant for it to be so long. You have to know how I thought about you
every second of everyday. Not a day went by where I didn't regret leaving. Or think about how much I love you. How much I miss you. And your father. Not a day goes by where I don’t regret how I ended things with him. Where I don’t wish I could’ve had a last conversation with him that didn't end in ‘I’m leaving you’ and a door slammed in his face. Every day I regret it, sweetie. But I need you. I need my family.”

Now the tears were flowing. Not just my mother, but I realized I was crying too. As I looked into her red eyes, I was hit by an unexpected wave of understanding. I outstretched my arms and we pulled into a tight embrace. As we drowned in our own tears, I felt genuinely loved. A sense of forgiveness washed over me as I gazed at the face of the woman I feel I've just met.

“It’s gonna take some time,” I said. “But you have a home here.”

She took my hand in her shriveled one, and we walked the rest of the way home together in silence accompanied only by the muffled sound of our dying tears.
------------------

I sat on the rocking chair in the screened-in porch beside my mother, watching people as they matriculated into the property. Tyra fumbled into my driveway in her black pumps, and black bandage dress that matched the bruise below her eye. She was balancing a heavy Pyrex casserole dish on her forearms. Gracie appeared from the opposite end with a basket of what looked like biscuits or scones. They met in the middle and their eyes met. A broad genuine smile appeared on both of
their faces. They linked arms and balanced their pity food on the opposite arm and continued the trek up the hill to the front door.

I met them at the door and hugged them both. We set the dishes on the kitchen counter, and I arranged a plate for each of them.

“Do y’all want a hamburger?” I asked.

“No thanks,” they said in unison.

We skipped the rest of buffet as well, and headed straight for Tami’s chocolate chip cookies. She and my mom stood on the other side of the table mingling with guests. With a smile, they handed us each a paper Dixie plate full of cookies. We carried them outside and into the tree house just like old times.