For the last ten years Sarah Britton returned to Cardiff in the spring, taking three weeks off a time to visit with her mother and sisters Beth and Angie, their husbands and children. It was the only way she could deal with living in America, having packed up her life in Wales and followed her husband Jimmy to a manager’s position at Cousin Arthur’s aluminum foundry, a bigger house and a nicer car in the driveway. Even after Jimmy died of the stroke when Joel was away at university, Sarah stayed for her son and the home they had carved out for themselves so far away from Cardiff. Each year since she packed her bags and left Joel her spare apartment key, so he could tend to the potted plants and feed her Pomeranian Jules.
This year Joel turned up on his mother’s doorstep with a suitcase, telling her that he and Casey had fought. That Casey was being ridiculous and Casey was being irrational and that Joel didn’t know what to do with him anymore. Sarah offered him the spare bedroom and a kiss on his forehead, and said nothing more of it. She gave her son her key from underneath the crystal vase on the fireplace mantle. Joel gave her a lift to the airport, a hug, and a promise that he would be fine and she would have a lovely trip. Since then he had been alone, in her nice clean apartment surrounded by her nice sterile things and framed art on the walls.
On Monday morning Joel woke to the strange chime of his mother’s reproduction antique wind-up alarm clock. The queen sized guest bed was softer than the one at home, the ornate bed-set nicer than the Target brand sheets and comforter he was used to sleeping under. His father had done well for his family when he was alive, making a living with his hands at the foundry at Bedwas, until middle-age set in and the arthritis took his grip, and Cousin Arthur had a position open up for a man of his experience. His mother had her respectable trust and her inheritance from her grandfather, affording her the polished oak furniture and plush beds Joel remembered even from their home in Cardiff, when his father insisted they still drove a modest car and lived in a modest house. Jimmy never wanted to live too easily, to spend too much, requiring that his only son be raised to know the meaning of an honest day’s work. Once he was gone Sarah could spend her money however she wanted, but Joel still had enough of his father in him to always sit up straight, square his debts and to be content with what he had.
Joel’s wages covered the rent and monthly bills, while Casey’s paid for groceries and any other expenses, with very little to spare on luxuries like brand-name sheets. Waking up in his mother’s bed felt like a small betrayal, an act of measured infidelity that made the pit of his stomach knot when Joel sat to turn off the alarm, shake out the sheets and make the bed. In the guest bathroom he washed in a shower stall twice the size of his own with travel-sized soap, shampoo and conditioner. Everything came in small decorated bottles, like the ones from the hotel room he and Casey had stayed at when they drove to Hallmark to attend the wedding of Casey’s cousin Heather.
He remembered, because there was a full bathtub in the bathroom. They hadn’t made enough money put together to afford an apartment in the city with a full bathtub, only the cramped shower stall, and he hadn’t taken an actual bath since high school. Just being able to sleep in and take a bath together made the trip worth it, even for a weekend spent navigating strange looks and awkward conversation with prying cousins and aunts. Why hadn’t Casey called, why hadn’t he visited, why hadn’t he written, why hadn’t they ever known about Joel. Joel could only smile and say he didn’t know. Squeeze Casey’s hand under the table at the reception, and go back to their room to sit in the tub with him and wash his hair in cupfuls of water. Wait for the water to cool off and their skin to prune and then listen to Casey breathe.
Joel made half-caff coffee in his briefs with his mother’s strange coffee-maker, a tall black machine with buttons and settings that he didn’t recognize. He tried not to think about those things, or about Casey. Instead he applied deodorant and hair product, dressing in the bathroom while the coffee brewed, fastening up his shirt and vest with a sigh staggered between buttons. Rolled up his sleeves, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed again at his tired-looking reflection.
“You know he started it,” Joel assured himself. Tugged at the bottom of his vest and smoothed it with a nod. “Let him stew in it.”
Over toast and eggs with coffee, he flipped open his phone. He checked his work email and personal email, his news highlights from CNN and BBCAmerica. Something beeped. There were four new text messages. Joel stared at his phone before he finally opened them, almost regretting it the moment he had.
FROM CASEY, 4/6/10, 9:45AM
i think youre being really fucking childish about this
FROM CASEY, 4/6/10, 11:02AM
i dont know what more you want me to do
FROM CASEY, 4/6/10, 1:12PM
can we talk about this?
FROM CASEY, 4/6/10, 2:03PM
just talk to me
Joel tapped his stylus on the screen for another minute.
FROM JOEL, 4/7/10, 7:31AM
I’ll talk about it when you can be honest with me.
He waited three minutes for Casey to thumb stupidly across the keypad of his clunky phone and respond. When no answer came Joel couldn’t help but think of Casey alone in their apartment. Of his long profile on the patio smoking cigarettes in the dark, the bed cold and untouched without Joel there to herd Casey to it every night. He shook his head and put his phone away. Work, lunch, home, and sleep. Casey never answered.
