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‘Like what?’ Sally said.
‘Like, er’ – she paused. What great art was mainstream? She decided to play it safe – ‘the Beatles.’
‘So there’s one,’ Sally said. ‘That kind of proves my point.’
‘Van Gogh,’ Mary said. ‘Everybody loves Van Gogh and that’s indisputably great art.’ She leaned in, confident of her assertion. ‘Some of the greatest.’
‘Actually, Mrs Jordan,’ Maeve said apologetically, ‘Van Gogh was almost unknown in his lifetime. He only sold one painting while he was alive. The art establishment shunned him.’
‘He may have sold more,’ Katie added. ‘But the records are incomplete.’ She paused. ‘We did it in school.’
‘Right,’ Mary said. ‘Then maybe not Van Gogh.’ Or probably any other artist I can come up with, she thought. I really know nothing about this stuff at all. But she wanted to try. And there was one sure thing. ‘How about Madonna?’
‘Mom,’ Sally said. ‘Stop embarrassing yourself.’
Despite the harshness of her tone, it was probably a good thing Sally had stopped her.
‘It’s OK, Mrs Jordan,’ Reya said. ‘We like Outer Banks. And Van Gogh.’
‘Thank you, Reya,’ Mary said. She pulled into Jasper’s driveway, emotionally drained after a ten-minute car ride. How exhausting must it have been to live like this all the time? Had she been the same at this age? ‘Have a good time, girls.’
A chorus of Thank yous from the back seat. From the front seat, nothing other than a glare.
‘Love you, Sally,’ Mary said.
Sally rolled her eyes and got out of the car. The door closed behind her with an expensive, German-engineered, and apparently embarrassing, thud.
Mary watched her walk away, realizing as she did that she still did not know who Jasper was.
It Don’t Matter
Mary parked in the church car park. Rona and Byron were in the back seat. Rona had called back to tell her they too were going to the library function.
I’d forgotten it was today, she said. Should we ride together?
Mary could hardly refuse. They collected them at their house, and, inevitably, Rona barely got through the pleasantries before she started railing against the injustices in the soccer team selection process. Mary and Ryan sat in silence; fortunately, the trip was short, so there had only been around eight minutes in which she had to listen to Rona explain how there must be some agenda against Faulkner. At least Rona pretended to make it a rational conversation; Byron could hardly hide his bitterness.
Whatever, he said, when he finally looked up from his phone. Forkie’s cool wid it. He spoke in a kind of street slang which sounded a bit desperate in a middle-aged man. Mary had concluded that he thought it made him sound different to the other men of his age, and it did, but just not in the way he thought. And I heard there’s a kinda toxic culture in the team.
Really, Ryan said. Like what?
Like toxic masculinity. Everyone gotta be a tough guy.
Ryan suppressed a laugh. What’s toxic about being tough? Nothing wrong with being tough. It doesn’t mean you have to harm anyone. I’d rather be tough than not, that’s for sure.
Mary wasn’t sure she agreed, but she was pretty sure Ryan didn’t either. He was just enjoying winding up Byron. She wished he wouldn’t, but she did understand the temptation.
Byron shrugged. It don’t matter. It’s only kids’ soccer. There ain’t nuttin’ worth worrying about.
It was only kids’ soccer, but it mattered to them and she didn’t enjoy Byron dismissing the whole enterprise simply because he was feeling sore.
Otis is quite proud, she said. I think he’s looking forward to playing varsity.
She shouldn’t have joined Ryan in rubbing it in, but it had been a long day and she didn’t much care. She found she almost enjoyed the hostility crackling in Byron’s lack of a response.
As they entered the library, Byron made a show of spotting someone he needed to talk to and marched off in their direction, with a small, dismissive nod to Mary.
‘Rona?’ she said. ‘A drink?’
