Honeyed Words

by J. A. Pitts

  I shrugged. “You heard Steve and Jack took off, leaving her high and dry?”

  Julie just nodded, her lips a tight white line across her face.

  “Well, I stayed after we finished up with the five horses today, and I mucked stalls.”

  “Really?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

  “She needed the help, and I need the money.” Same story as always, I thought.

  “About that,” she said and pointed to my computer. On the screen was my accounting software, open with a big fat negative number in the pending column. “Couldn’t help but notice,” she said, not showing a second of remorse.

  “I’ll be okay,” I said. “Not like this is new for me. I’ve had plenty of thin times.”

  She shook her head. “You are a stubborn one. Not that I’m much better.” She dragged her fingers through her hair, pulling it back off her face. “You know I have some money coming in, Sarah. Disability and insurance.”

  “No way,” I said. “You need to save that to rebuild the smithy.”

  A little smile flickered across her face. “Stubborn as a mule and as optimistic as Susie Sunshine some days.” She reached over and put her hand on mine, squeezing it. “You let me stay here, ornery girl. Least I can do is kick in for some of the utilities and such.”

  I glanced over at the computer. Wouldn’t take much to get me back in the black, to be honest. A few hundred a month would be a huge help. Then, maybe I’d quit thinking about that damn check.

  “Not too much,” I said, feeling a little chagrined. “Just enough to cover the gap until the movie money kicks in again.”

  “We’ll see how it goes,” she said, pulling a check out of her shirt pocket. “Here’s for half the utilities and rent—”

  I started to rise, a protest fully formed on my lips, but she pulled me back down by the hand she held, forcing the check in it with the other.

  “—not asking your permission,” she said. “Last I checked, I’m the one teaching you things. Isn’t that the arrangement?”

  I sat back down, resigned. I could really use the money, but I owed her, damn it.

  “Okay, just for a little while,” I said. “But I’m banking any extra for the smithy myself.”

  “It’s your money,” she said, smiling. “Do what you think’s best.”

  I sat back, looking at her. She had a way with the world that I both feared and admired. I hoped I had my act together as much as she did when I was her age.

  “Now, tell me about Ms. Campbell,” she said, crossing her hands in front of her on the table.

  I told her how the day went, explaining that Frank was gonna call her, and even got around to talking about the rumors, and the semiconfession I’d given.

  She just nodded, pretty grim at the thought of her peers talking smack about her, but glad that Ms. Campbell had our collective back.

  “She’s a good one, that Mary Campbell,” she said, smacking the table when I was done. “If you end up working for her on Saturday, maybe I’ll go out with you, spend some time with her, have some tea and chat about things.”

  It was good to have that particular part of my past out in the open. My heart felt lighter.

  “One more thing,” Julie said.

  I scowled at her; I could tell by the way she looked at me. I could be downright petulant when I tried. “Can’t we just leave this on a good note?”

  She smiled and pulled an envelope out of her pocket, sliding it across the table to me.

  I didn’t touch it, fearing it would bite me. It was the envelope from Mom.

  “I threw that in the trash,” I said, feeling the heat on my neck.

  “Missed,” she said. “Found it on the floor beside the can. Sorry.” She looked like she was, honestly. “With all the other cards, I thought it was one of mine; just figured it had fallen to the floor. Wasn’t until I’d opened it with the others and began to read it did I realize it was for you.”

  She watched me, expecting something from me. I had been very clear with her how I felt about my parents. Can’t say she ever really approved, but she’d respected my position.

  “I don’t need another preachy lecture about the sins of my life, or how much I’ve disappointed them.”

  “I read the letter,” she said, staring directly into my eyes. “Has your mother ever once said she was disappointed in you?”

  “She doesn’t have to say it,” I said defensively. “You should know how easy it is to make your opinions clear to those around you. You don’t always tell me when I’m screwing up, but I get the message loud and clear.”

  Julie laughed at that. “Lord, girl, if only that were so. You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. There have been moments when I thought the only way to get through your thick skull was to crack it open with a hammer.”

  I scowled at her. She didn’t look like she was busting my chops, but she wasn’t lying.

  “I can be defensive,” I agreed. “But you’ve got no clue what it was like growing up with those folks!”

  She sighed, a tired, deep sigh that felt part sympathy and part lecture. “Sarah. How old is your sister?”

  “Megan?”

  “Do you have another?”

  I thought about it. I hadn’t been home in five years, so I guessed it was possible. But I doubted they were writing me to tell me they’d had another baby, not at their age.

  “Megan would be almost seventeen.” Damn, really? I did the math in my head. She was ten years younger than me—no, wait. I counted back. Twelve. “She’s fifteen.”

  Julie patted the card and letter in front of me. “You might read that. I didn’t see a lecture in there.”

  “Doubtful,” I said honestly.

  “Well, I don’t have your background for reading into family dynamics, but she mentions Megan.”

  “Megan was a good kid, but I haven’t seen her since she was ten. She probably doesn’t remember me.” That wasn’t exactly a stellar argument, I knew. “I love the kid,” I went on. “Hell, she looked up to me as far back as I can remember. I was always finding her in my room, digging through my stuff, pretending to be me when she didn’t know I was looking.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Julie said.

  I plowed on. “And I left her there, of course. Not like I had any business looking after her; I can barely keep myself out of the poorhouse.”

  “Sarah, she’s not yours to raise,” Julie said quietly.

  I didn’t slow down, just rambled. “Besides, Mom would look out for her, shield her from the crazy. Of course, she’d done such a quality job with me.”

  Julie let me run down, watching my face. I hated when she did that. It was like she was peeling my face away to look deep inside me.

  “From what I can tell,” she said, “you turned out to be a helluva woman. Can’t say they did too bad a job.” She leaned against the table, leveraging herself up. “I’m going to bed. Big day of PT tomorrow.”

  I gave her a feeble wave. “Night, boss.”

  The path to the bedroom had been cleared just after she’d moved in. I ditched the beanbag chair and moved the coffee table over in front of the stereo so she could walk back and forth without much chance of running into things.

  Made me think about my own life, and how I managed to run into every bitty bit between here and there. I waited until she’d closed the door, drained my glass of water, and set it on the envelope. I just couldn’t face that tonight. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to face it ever.

  I went into the living room, opened the hide-a-bed, and got ready for sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.

  Twenty-two

  I tossed and turned for a good hour. I kept thinking about Megan and the way she looked up to me, how she wanted so much to please me when we talked on the phone. When I’d gone away to college it had about killed her. Now, I’d gone and given her up as bad rubbish.

  Five years. I’d thought about her in that time, off and on, but had never mustered enough gumption
to call her. Not like talking to Ma or Da on the phone would hurt or anything. Besides, I could call when he was at work. Gave me even odds she’d answer the phone.

  But I was a coward. I’d left her to the world I hated so much. Not like she was my daughter or anything, and they weren’t beating her. I just couldn’t take their politics and their attitudes. Too much hatred and fear for my tastes.

  And if that wasn’t abuse enough, whom was I fooling? Don’t need to beat a body to break ’em.

  I got up, knowing I’d never sleep at this rate. I grabbed the glass off the envelope, filled it with water, and sat down.

  Julie had slit the envelope open with a knife—there was no ragged edge. I tipped the envelope to the side, and a small card poked out. It slid out easy enough, another piece of Ma’s stationery. I’d gotten that set for her when I was eleven. That was sixteen years ago. Surely she’d gone through it all by now?

  But then, whom did she have to write to? Her parents were both gone, and she was an only child. Da never kept us anywhere long enough to make any friends, up until we landed out in Crescent Ridge. Anyone she knew there, she knew through church, and she didn’t need to write them letters. She saw them three days a week.

  Last I heard, she’d been homeschooling Megan. Poor kid.

  I picked up the card and a picture fell out. It was Megan, taken when she wasn’t expecting it.

  She was leaning against the family pickup truck with her arms crossed and a sullen look on her face. She looked just like me, at least body language–wise.

  What shocked me the most, however, was that her hair was short. Well, short by Da’s standards. When I was her age, I could sit on my hair, it was so long. One of the reasons I shaved my head when I got to college.

  Megan’s hair was shoulder length, but there was a wide purple streak across her bangs. Cutting her hair and dying it? Brave girl. And the skirt she wore was scandalously close to her knees. And … sure enough, she was sporting combat boots.

  Our dear father must have gone out of his mind. Maybe things at my place had changed more than I’d imagined possible. But not too much. She had the look of someone who rarely saw anything outside her own head. I recognized the look, that far-off stare, wishing you were somewhere else … were someone else.

  Megan was beautiful, that much I saw. She’d gotten more of Ma than I had, where I had more of Da. She was probably beating the boys away with a stick.

  And winning a might more at home than I ever had.

  I stared at the picture for a few minutes, then flipped open the card. Inside were a few handwritten sentences.

  Thinking of you. Wish you’d call or come by.

  There was a letter inside. One page only, covered in tight script I recognized as Ma’s.

  Dearest Sarah,

  I pray every day that you will find it in your heart to come home to us, even just to visit. Your father and I miss you fiercely.

  I put the letter down and rubbed my temples. Da only missed controlling me.

  Marybeth asked after you just this week. You know she’s had her third child. Boy this time. Gabriel is pleased, of course. He had been fearing being overwhelmed with women.

  Gabriel had been a tall boy, gangly and shy. My father thought the world of him, hoped I would have married him. I didn’t mind Gabe, but I knew I wasn’t going to make no preacher man’s wife, or any man’s wife, for that matter. Gabe was a deacon at sixteen and was preaching once a month by the time I’d gone off to college.

  Marybeth had been my best friend since we moved to Crescent Ridge. First girl I ever kissed. I hoped she and Gabe were happy together.

  Megan is having some trouble with a couple of the boys at church. She punched the older Abernathy boy, said he was getting handsy. She reminds me so much of you it hurts to look at her sometimes. I miss talking to you. You remember when you couldn’t sleep? How we’d get out the cookies and milk and talk the night away? You had some pretty big dreams back then. I miss your dreams.

  I was crying by then, damn it.

  I’m losing her, Sarah. Like I lost you, only worse. She blames us for driving you away. Says hateful things from time to time, which I can forgive, but she’s a whole different kind of trouble. Your father and I agreed to let her go over to the public school this year, though it worries me. I fear she’ll take up with some of those heathen boys, and get into Lord knows what kind of trouble.

  “Heathen boys” were any boy, as far as I could tell. Leastways, boys that weren’t Gabe, if I remembered correctly. That was one thing they never questioned. I had no interest in boys, heathen or otherwise. Ma always said I was a good girl. If she only knew the truth.

  She’s not talking to your father or I at the moment. Calls it a strike. She tried a hunger strike a while back, went seventeen days without eating, but we put a stop to that. Now she just won’t talk to us.

  Last thing she said was that she hates me and wishes she’d run away with you. I’m at my wit’s end, Sarah. She worships you even more so since you’ve been gone. Built up this hero image of you, making up all sorts of adventures and such to explain why you’ve never come home. Five birthdays, five Christmases and Thanksgivings. Plays and soccer games … Yes, did I tell you she’s playing soccer. Your father about exploded, but I saw how much it meant to her, so I put my foot down.

  That was a rare occasion. I’d have liked to have seen that.

  Anyway, I don’t want to lecture, but I think you’ve been mighty selfish. I can see you are still mad at your father and me, but Megan didn’t do anything but love you.

  Won’t you come see her?

  I pray you read this, though you’ve never answered a single letter I’ve written in the last five years. Maybe the good Lord will see this one through.

  Christ first among all things,

  Momma

  Damn, damn, damn.

  I couldn’t help it. I cut out the light, crawled into bed, and cried myself to sleep.

  Twenty-three

  Skella kept the mirror open as the dwarves trudged back from their night’s foray. Three had been to Memphis, which had been extremely dangerous, but they’d insisted it had to be done.

  Gletts argued with the leader of the dwarven clan, an old man named Krevag, trying to explain again why the idea of selling the potions to the dragons was foolhardy.

  He was not winning.

  Kraken and Bruden, the two most adept at blood magic, laughed, calling Gletts a coward and a fool. Skella wanted to defend him, but she needed to keep the ways open, keep the eaters at bay.

  Finally, when the final party returned from Dublin, she closed the mirror and collapsed with exhaustion. Distance had no meaning when traveling the ways, but the shields and protections needed to keep it safe were taxing.

  “We should kill the bard and take all the blood at once,” Bruden bellowed, seeming to reach the end of his rope.

  “Nay, brother,” Kraken mewled, oily and soft. “Let us continue to bleed the lad, taking our drips and spinning an empire.”

  Krevag barked with laughter. “You believe the lies of that deranged whelp of Duchamp’s, that necromancer he fancies himself. What proof do you have that these potions will work as you describe?”

  Kraken cast his languid gaze at Krevag. “You are venerable, old man, but these are not the days of old. We do not fear the dragons. We will rise above them, casting them into the shadows, where they belong.”

  Fools, Skella thought. Drunk on dreams of glory.

  “What if we refuse to help you any longer?” Skella said, rising to her feet. “What if we leave you in the ways for the eaters to hunt down and consume?”

  “Skella, no,” Gletts said, stepping between her and Bruden, who acted as if he’d strike the young elf girl. “She doesn’t mean it,” he said, spreading his hands and looking at Krevag. “We will help you, as is our bargain.”

  “I think we need a new bargain,” Kraken said, nodding at Bruden. “What think you, brother? Perhaps these whelps need
a bit of motivation.”

  He spun, clipping Gletts in the side of the head with his large fist.

  Skella shouted and ran, but Bruden ran her down, tripping her feet, sending her sprawling.

  “’Ware,” Krevag shouted. “If you harm them, you will break compact with their kin.”

  “The compact be damned,” Bruden said, kicking Skella in the chest. “It’s time we put the whole lot under lock and key. See how you like threatening us then,” he yelled, kicking her again.

  Skella held her hands over her face, trying to ward off the blows that fell on her like hammers. After the third blow, she blacked out.

  Twenty-four

  I went down to Katie’s on Sunday. We had lunch and talked. I told her about the letter, showed her the picture.

  “Wow,” Katie said, studying the photograph. “She looks just like you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Seriously,” she said, handing it back to me. “No one would doubt you were sisters. She even has your sullen look down.”

  I glared at her a couple of seconds, then looked down at the picture. She was much prettier than I ever was.

  Maybe it was because Katie learned more about Megan and what I was going through with the letter that we talked for a couple of hours. She finally opened up about what happened to her and Julie when Duchamp snatched them in May.

  “I had gone to the smithy to look for you, and was talking with Julie when the dragon attacked. He didn’t even bother to see who was there, just flamed the place and sent in trolls to ransack everything. They took the safe with all your swords and smacked me around.”