by A.W. Hartoin
Chapter Eleven
I WOKE IN sunshine streaming in from the two windows on either side of my bed. I’d forgotten how bright it could get if the shades weren’t down. Quarter to seven. Damn, it was early, especially since I didn’t have to go to work. I took off David’s jersey and tucked it under my pillow the way Mom instructed me a thousand and one times. She hated it when I left my pajamas all over the place. She thought I should know exactly where they were, not that losing them bothered me. I found a pair of wrinkled tan shorts that mostly fit and a white tee with only one hole.
I slipped on my old worn-out kimono and ran down to a guest bath. A boiling hot shower turned me bright red while I resisted the urge to inspect my thighs for telltale dimpling. Once my hair was dry and pulled back in a barrette, I looked in the mirror and sighed. It was hopeless. I was tired of looking like me. I thought about dying my hair red, black, or brown, but it’d been tried.
My mother attempted to disguise herself and pictures in our family albums bore the evidence of her failures. She looked weird or obvious. She once told me, as I picked up a hair color called Copper Penny, that people only noticed her more when she changed her hair and that was no good. I didn’t buy the dye and resigned myself to being blond. Being blond wasn’t so bad. It had its advantages, none of which would be evident at the muffler shop I was going to.
I walked past Mom’s bedroom door. It was closed. Hopefully, Dixie was still sleeping and not crying. I didn’t hear anything, so I crossed my fingers and ran downstairs. High doses of caffeine were in order. I went straight to the coffeemaker, rubbing my neck as the scent of hazelnut filled the room.
“Smells good.”
I jumped and screamed, “Ahh!” My cousin, Chuck, and Aaron were sitting at the kitchen table. An anvil formed in my stomach when Chuck’s scent enveloped me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I yelled.
Chuck put his hands behind his head and pushed his chair back on its hind legs. “Waiting for you, of course.” He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly.
“And what about you?” I asked, pointing to Aaron.
Aaron stopped and looked at the Pop-Tart he was about to shove in his mouth.
“Never mind,” I said. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to ask.
Aaron ate his Pop-Tart in one mouthful and chewed, never taking his eyes off me.
“How’s it going?” Chuck asked.
“Swell. What do you want?” I asked.
“Where are you going so early?”
“Muffler shop, if you must know.”
“What?”
“Dixie needs a new muffler. I’m taking care of it.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and blew the steam at him.
“Right. You’re up at seven a.m. to buy a new muffler.”
“Yeah, I am. What’s it to you?”
“What were you doing at the church last night?”
“What church?”
“Cut the crap, Mercy. I know you were there. What I want to know is why.”
“If you’re so smart, figure it out.”
Chuck dropped his chair onto the floor and slammed his fist on the table. Aaron jumped, but kept chewing.
“You’re pissing me off now,” Chuck said.
“So what’s new?” I said.
“Leave it alone. I’m not fooling around. They are not going to be happy if you impede this investigation, and they will have you charged.”
“They? They who? And what investigation am I impeding anyway? If you think I’m doing something wrong, go ahead and arrest me. In the meantime, get out.”
“Do you have to be so difficult?” Chuck asked.
“Yes. Get out,” I said.
“I think I’ll have some coffee first. If you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. Get out.”
“Nah.” Chuck stood up and stretched. He walked over to me and reached over my shoulder for a coffee cup. His breath smelled like my dad’s, beer and wintergreen gum. He brought the cup over my shoulder then reached for the pot with his other hand. It didn’t bother me at all, I swear. I hardly noticed his pecs.
“Want some more?” he asked.
“I made it, didn’t I?”
He topped off my cup and reached for the sugar over my shoulder again. I slipped under his arm before I did start to notice all sorts of things.
“That’s not very neighborly of you,” he said.
“It would’ve been neighborly to tell me about the website,” I said.
“What for?”
“So I could get an injunction or something before it went too far.”
Chuck stood and watched while I fried an egg, made toast and started to eat. “Won’t work, I tried,” he said softly.
“You tried?” I asked.
“I did.” Chuck moved closer and my anvil got heavier.
“Yeah, well, I still don’t want to be neighborly with you.”
“Yes, you do.” Chuck stood and watched while I fried an egg and made toast.
“Aren’t you going to offer me any?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“So when’s Gavin’s funeral?”
“I have no idea. Straatman’s are trying to strong arm Aunt Miriam over some sort of short notice fee. Gavin’s still at the morgue.”
“Let me know. I’d like to be there and remember what I said.”
“It’s seared into my memory,” I said.
Chuck saluted me, gave Aaron a pointed look, and left through the pantry. Aaron watched me eat and devoured three more Pop-Tarts.
“Don’t you have to go to Kronos?” I asked.
“We don’t open until eleven.”
Great.
I cleaned up, threw my purse over my shoulder. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
“Yep,” said Aaron, but he didn’t move.
I went out the back door and reset the alarm. The day was glorious, blue skies with a couple of white puffy clouds for effect, my favorite kind of day. I walked down the brick walk that I’d spent a significant portion of my childhood weeding and paused to smell the bluebells with their perfect waxy forms and light scent.
I went on, meandering this way and that through the flower beds to the garage. I’d left it unalarmed and unlocked. Dad would kill me, if he knew. Lucky for me he was barfing his brains out thousands of miles away. I got in my truck and twisted around watching the garage door go up. I turned back around, put my truck in gear, and my passenger door opened.
“No, no. What are you doing, Aaron? Seriously?” Aaron climbed in next to me, shut the door and put on his seatbelt.
“Aaron, hello?”
“Morty said you need some watching.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I’m going to fix Dixie’s muffler. You’re going to work.”
“We don’t open till eleven.”
“I don’t need watching. Morty was messing with you.” I banged my hands on the steering wheel with each word.
“I don’t think so. You need help.”
“I don’t need help, really,” I said.
“Which muffler shop?”
Christ almighty.
“I don’t know. I have to get the car first.”
“There’s a good one on I-70.”
“Fine.”
And there it was, short of physically booting Aaron out of the car, I had a babysitter.
