Lone Star

“You told your mother you thought of going just today. So which is it? An impulse or a lifelong dream?”

Chloe didn’t reply. They were denigrating her!

“How in the world can Hannah afford Barcelona?” Jimmy asked. “Her mother is at the bank every other day asking for an overdraft increase. And your friend, who abandoned you to do Meals on Wheels by yourself on Saturdays because she claims she has a job, often skips out on the one lousy four-hour shift she has at China Chef. So where’s her half of the money going to come from?”

Chloe hated that her dad knew everything about everybody’s business. It was terrifying. She stopped eating and stared at her father, the last bite of pork chop lodged in her dry throat. Did he know why Hannah was skipping out on China Chef? Oh God, please, no. A demoralized Chloe couldn’t withstand even two minutes of modest interrogation.

“Why do you want to go so much? Tell your mother and me.”

Chloe said nothing. Her entrails in knots, she felt like a scoundrel.

“Is it because we went without you that time to Kilkenny?” Jimmy said. “You’re lucky you didn’t go. Funerals are not for kids.”

And just like that the three of them were swallowed up by silent oceans. Jimmy awkwardly picked up his fork only to drop it. Lang nursed her jasmine tea. Sickened by the ghastly turn of the already difficult conversation, Chloe tried to right the course.

“It’s not about that. It’s not about funerals,” Chloe said. “It’s not about anything. It’s just awesome Spain. Why do you think I’ve been taking Spanish these last six years? I’m the only senior still taking a language. That’s why. Dad, I’m not a child anymore.”

“If you’re such an adult,” said Jimmy, “then what are you talking to us for?”

“I need your help with the passport.”

“Oh, now she needs us,” Jimmy said. “Just a signature. No help, no advice. No money. You have everything now, big girl. You’ve got it all figured out.”

“I don’t, but … it’s just a few weeks in Europe, Dad. Lots of kids do it.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Chloe stumbled. “Lots of kids.” No one from her school.

“It’s the worst place, by the way, to have a vacation,” Lang cut in.

“Why is it the worst place? It’s the best place! Have you been there, Mom?”

“I don’t need to go to Calcutta to know I don’t want to go to Calcutta.”

“Calcutta? Can we calm down? It’s Barcelona! It’s on the sea. It’s nice. It’s fun. It’s full of young people.”

“Did I hear your mother correctly?” Jimmy asked. “The two junkyard wildings down the road want to go with you?”

Well, at least it was out there. The pit in her stomach couldn’t get any bigger. “Why wildings? It’s Blake and Mason. You like them.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth or feelings into my heart.”

“You do like them. Mr. Haul is still your friend. Despite everything.” Chloe took a breath. “You help him out with money, you lend him your truck, you barbecue with him. You exchange Christmas presents. Mom gives them tomatoes.”

“What does that prove? Your mother gives tomatoes to everyone, even the Harrisons who tried to kill Blake’s dog. And in my line of work, I’m forced to talk to a lot of unsavory characters.”

“Mr. Haul is not one of them. And Mom and Mrs. Haul are friends.”

“Don’t get carried away,” said Lang. “I drive to ShopRite with her. She is not the executor of my will. So don’t hyperbolize.”

After a pause, Chloe said, “Now who’s hyperbolizing?”

“I don’t know why anyone, especially my daughter, would want to go to Spain of all places,” Jimmy said, getting up from the table, as if done with the conversation he was himself continuing. “Do you think there’s any place more beautiful than coastal Maine? Than the White Mountains of New Hampshire?” He snorted as he scraped the remains of his dinner into the trash. “You have staggering beauty outside your own door.”

“That’s what I told her, Jimmy.”

“Would that I had a chance to compare,” said Chloe.

“I’m telling you how it is.”

“So I have to take your word for it? I want to see for myself, Dad!”

“Where did this crazy idea even come from? Lang, did you know about this?”

“Jimmy,” said Lang, “she doesn’t know anything about Barcelona. If she did, she wouldn’t want to go. Believe me.”

How did one not raise one’s voice when confronted by a mother such as Chloe’s mother? “Mom,” Chloe said slowly, which was her equivalent of a raised voice. The slower the speech, the more she wanted to shout. At the moment, she was positively hollering. “I know you think I might not know anything about Barcelona. But what in the world do you possibly know about Barcelona?”

“Chloe! Be respectful to your mother.”

“That wasn’t respectful?” If only her parents could hear how Hannah talked to her mother.

Lang raised her hand. She was still at the table, across from Chloe. “No, no. Chloe makes a valid point. Clearly she thinks Barcelona has virtues Maine doesn’t.”

“I think it because it’s true,” Chloe said. “It has stunning architecture. Art. History. Culture.”

“You think we don’t have architecture?” Jimmy bellowed.

“Houses are not the same as architecture, Dad!”

“Don’t shout! Since when do you care about architecture? It’s the first time in my life I’ve heard you use that word. Now you want to go halfway around the globe to learn more about house design?”

Chloe found it difficult to speak through a clenched mouth. “Art. Culture. History.”

“So go visit Boston,” Lang said, pushing away from the table. “There’s a big city for you. It has Art. Culture. History. It has architecture.”

“Maine has history too.” Jimmy tried not to sound defensive about his home state. “What about the Red Paint People?”

“Dad, okay, history is not why I want to go to Spain.”

“Why then?”

“I bet it’s to lie on the beach all day,” said Lang.

“And what’s wrong with the beach?”

“You can lie on a beach in Maine!” Jimmy yelled.