Beauty and the Mustache

What I needed to do was face my brood of brothers and figure out next steps.

What I wanted to do was hide in my room with my latest novel and escape into a world without bearded, masturbating hillbillies, and a world where my beloved mother wasn’t dying.

In the end, I surrendered to reality and made my way to the kitchen in search of coffee. I hoped at least one or two of them would be up. I hoped maybe I might persuade the others to have a family meeting sometime in the afternoon.

However, the scene that greeted me in the kitchen was surprising. Heck, it was downright baffling.

Roscoe, my youngest brother, was standing at our old gas stove making omelets. He was showered and dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, all of which appeared to be in good order. I hadn’t really noticed much last night after my fainting spell, but now I saw that Roscoe wore his brown beard trimmed close to his face, the hair on his head cut short and stylish. In fact, it looked as if his hair had product in it.

Bizarre.

I rubbed my forehead, half wondering if I was still asleep. The entire picture in the kitchen was completely bizarre. My brothers were up at 7:30 a.m. They all appeared to be dressed for work—work!—and were interacting like mild mannered, well-adjusted, productive members of society. I was so confused.

Tangentially I noted that the roosters were at it again in the backyard, several of them crowing like the devil. I was beginning to get used to the sound; it was becoming the background music to the soundtrack of Tennessee.

Roscoe glanced over his shoulder and gave me a tight smile. It looked sad. “Hey, Ash. How you holding up? Want an omelet?”

I nodded, staring at him for another full ten seconds. “Yes. Yes, please. That would be great.”

“You want toast too?” Cletus asked. “I can make you some toast.” He was dressed in blue Dickies, which were worn but clean, and had a patch with his name sewn on the left pocket of his work jumpsuit.

“That would be great. Thanks, Cletus.”

“She likes butter and strawberry jam, right Ash?” Billy, standing next to Cletus—wearing black suit, white shirt, and black tie—indicated to me with his coffee cup, his expression detached.

My eyebrows lifted at Billy’s remembrance of my toast preferences as well as the fact that he was wearing a suit. “That’s right.”

Billy muttered something under his breath, just low enough for me not to hear.

“What was that?” I questioned him.

His blue eyes, same shape and color as mine, lifted and he gave me a cool glare. “I said you’ve been gone for eight years. It’s a wonder we know anything about you.”

I frowned at him, and was about to question him further when Jethro cut into the conversation.

“I heard a scream.” He made this statement from the kitchen table. He was dressed in what appeared to be some kind of park ranger uniform. An open newspaper—a newspaper?!—was on the table in front of him along with a half-eaten omelet. “Was that scream from you or Duane?”

I sighed. “That was Duane.” Then a thought occurred to me. “Today is Wednesday. I thought no one was assigned to Wednesday.”

“Unassigned days are wild card days, first come, first serve deal. He’s been up there since sunrise.” Roscoe shook his head.

I rolled my eyes, wished I hadn’t asked the question. “Anyway, I forgot to knock again. It was my fault.”

“We should get a bell for your neck.” Billy’s blue eyes regarded me thoughtfully beneath dark brown eyebrows. He made this suggestion matter-of-factly, like it was a very reasonable, good idea. To him, it probably was.

Of the brothers, Billy was the most serious and stern. I could count on one hand all the times I’d heard him laugh while we were growing up. His cool attitude this morning notwithstanding, I also suspected he was the smartest in the traditional sense. Facts and figuring came easy to him, especially anything to do with machines.

“Might as well just change my name to Bessie while you’re at it,” I mumbled.

“‘…women are still cats and birds, or at best cows.’”

This little gem came from the corner of the kitchen behind me, and was received by the rest of the room with a tangible stretch of silence. I frowned at the words—their implied meaning and their origin—and at the voice that spoke them.

As I suspected, when I turned I found Drew leaning against the counter, sipping coffee, and eying me over the rim of his cup with those silvery blues.

He was dressed in a uniform, the kind a very official, super important park ranger might wear. Unlike Jethro’s, his had a lot more pockets, a badge, and a gun. A cowboy hat was at his elbow on the counter; he also wore cowboy boots. I noted with detachment that his beard and hair had undergone a transformation. His facial hair had been trimmed, though his blond beard was still impressive. The unkempt locks on his head had been brushed, pulled back, and fastened behind his neck.

I noted these things with a small degree of womanly interest. It was instinctual, incidental, the way a person would notice a Maserati racing down the street and think, That’s a nice car.

His tidy, official-looking appearance—nay, his commanding appearance—did nothing to endear him to me, especially not after calling me a cow.

Therefore, I spoke my thoughts before I could catch myself. “Really? You’re really going to quote Nietzsche to me? To me? Nietzsche? To the sole female in the room?” I motioned to the kitchen with a flailing, frustrated hand wave. “When I first wake up? Before I’ve had coffee? After finding one of my brothers mating with his hand upstairs for the second time in as many days, and I’m the cow?”

“Can’t mate with hooves,” Drew said, his delivery deadpan.

“And yet, many men prefer the company of sheep over their hands, or even women.” I said this sweetly before I gave him my back and glared at Jethro. “I need to talk to you.”

I tilted my head toward the family room and walked out of the kitchen, waiting for Jethro to follow. I didn’t have to wait very long; but to my infinite aggravation, Dr. Drew Runous, PhD, trailed right behind my brother tucking his leather notebook into one of the side pockets of his cargo pants.

I scowled at him before looking at my oldest brother. I was careful to keep my voice even, sincere, and free of sarcasm when I said pointedly to Jethro, “Is it possible for us to have a conversation without your boss being present?”

Jethro rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “The thing is, Ash, we’ve all been talking this morning, and it turns out…Momma appointed Drew here as her power of attorney.”

“What?” My eyes bounced back and forth between them.

I was sure that I’d heard incorrectly. Maybe Jethro had said MOMMA painted dew-hair as their flower of anatomy. Honestly, that would have made more sense to me than the possibility that Drew held my mother’s power of attorney.

“Ash, let me explain-”

“What did you say?”

Jethro swallowed thickly, met my stare, and repeated his pronouncement in a level tone. “Momma appointed Drew as her power of attorney.”

Drew nodded once. He had the decency to stay silent and keep his face devoid of expression.

I sputtered for a minute. Then I consulted the ceiling. It was silent on the matter and, strangely, didn’t seem to share my outrage.

At last I managed to speak. “Medical or financial?”

“Both.” Jethro’s mouth twisted to the side in a half smile, sheepish and bracing. “He holds her medical power of attorney, her financial power of attorney, and he’s the executor of her will.”

My mouth opened, but nothing emerged for seven seconds.

Then I laughed.

I laughed and laughed.

I laughed because I was frustrated and angry and sad and overwhelmed. I held my stomach and doubled over, my eyes blurring with tears of hilarity and misery and grief. Jethro guided me to the couch and sat next to me, his hand on my upper back.

Somewhere outside, the roosters crowed. I hated those damn roosters, always crowing, always making a fuss for no reason.

Drew opted to remain standing, his expression patient and sober.

“Ashley.” Jethro’s voice was tight and concerned.

“Just a minute,” I managed to say when I’d caught my breath. I wiped my eyes and added, “I just need a minute.”

It took several minutes. Maybe ten minutes during which I swung back and forth between the urge to erupt in absurd laughter and unleash a tide of mind-blowing anger.

After the initial red haze of fury began to recede, I tried to see past my frustration and hurt to the real issue. My mother was sick. She was dying, and likely would be gone in six weeks…or so. Things needed to happen. Arrangements needed to be made, and we needed to prepare.

This, none of this, was about me. It was about her, providing care and comfort to my momma in her final days with as much selflessness as she’d given me all my life. I rejected my instinct to take her decision to trust Dr. Nobody with her medical and financial wellbeing as an indication that she had no faith in me, her daughter.

I refused to be petty. I would waste no time on anger, and at the very least, I would do my best not to take this personally. She’d raised me better than that.