Growing Season

GROWING SEASON

BACK THEN

Dahlia

E verett stands in front of his mirror, smoothing his tie for what must be the millionth time.

"How do I look?" he asks.

"Like you're trying to look French, but you can't hide your American-ness."

He rolls his eyes. "I asked you to help me dress for a reason, Dahlia."

"I know, I know." I stand up and smooth his Ralph Lauren jacket. He's saved up to buy it for three months and even asked to work for my mom to afford the additional tailoring.

I adjust his beret and step back.

"You look exactly like him in the picture he sent."

"That's what I'm going for."

He's never said it aloud, but even though his dad is a deadbeat, I know he secretly admires the business empire. He follows his journey through blogs and magazines and is proud that his father dresses Hollywood celebrities and is the number one choice for everyone.

Except him.

"Did you organize all the magazines?" he asks.

"Yep. I even made you a cheat sheet, in case you forget anything." I hold it up. "He's really coming this time. I can feel it."

"Me, too."

A t nine o'clock at night, we swing on the porch in silence, watching the lightning bugs glow in the darkness.

At ten, we walk around his fence and chat about our homecoming plans.

When the eleven o'clock hour strikes, we stand at the edge of the driveway, as if headlights are bound to appear at any moment.

"He isn't coming, is he, Dahlia?" he asks.

"His flight might've been delayed."

"He flies private."

"Maybe there was a mechanical malfunction, then. Maybe?—"

His phone suddenly buzzes and he answers.

"Hello?" He sets the phone on speaker so I can hear, too. "Yeah, Dad. I can hear you."

"I'm sorry, but I'll need another rain check, I'm afraid. I got a call from Tom Cruise's people for an emergency, and I had to do it."

"Can I just fly to you instead?"

"Well I…that would be rather tricky."

"Why?"

"Well, because what would you do after we caught up over dinner or lunch?"

"Hang out with you…"

"Oh, son. Someone your age doesn't want to hang out with an old man like me. There's not much here for you to do besides sleep and swim in the pool anyway."

"That'd be fine."

"I'll save you from boredom. I promise to use this next raincheck. Love you son. Gotta go!"

He hangs up before Everett can answer.

"He said he'll be here next time." He acts like I haven't heard every word.

I don't mention the tears falling down his face.

"Does your mom still burn rotted wood on the last Sunday of the month?" he asks.

I nod.

"You think she'd care if we got started now?"

"Probably not."

We walk to the garden, and he undresses, throwing his blazer and beret into the flames.

One by one, he burns the magazines.

His father never calls again.

Everett never calls him either.