Adam abruptly leaned forward and brushed my cheek with his lips. Warm lips, and soft. Then he sat back in the booth and unwrapped a clean napkin, dabbing gently at the corners of my tear-swollen eyes.
I reached out and accepted the napkin with a nod of thanks, sniffling in the rest of my tears. And abruptly jerked myself out of the booth, wondering how I’d gone and gotten myself engaged to stubborn Adam Carter, Mr. “you-don’t-know-Virginia-Beach” who nixed my beautiful Morning Sun honeymoon package.
“I’ve never heard of anybody doing something as crazy as waiting for a kiss,” I managed, my lips quivering. “Do you know that?”
He reached out for my hand. “Well? Then maybe we can be the first.”
I stared at him as his fingers slipped through mine, not sure if I should call the old Western State Lunatic Asylum in Staunton and have him committed—and maybe me, too—or press my head to his chest in a tight hug. Just like most people in the South: infuriating and irresistible at the same time.
Instead I wordlessly turned on my heel, pushing my way through the prom stars to the dinky Dairy Queen bathroom.
Adam’s face tensed with worry when I slid back into the booth. I’d more or less composed myself inside the frigid, over-air-conditioned stall, trying not to look at the graffiti scrawled in the new metal walls. “You okay?” He reached for my arm. “I didn’t mean to… It’s just an idea, you know.”
“An idea. Right. A pretty different one though, I’d have to say.”
“Weird, you mean?” Adam asked, rubbing his thumb across my arm.
“Hmm. Yeah. Maybe that, too.” But I tried to think of something else to talk about. Think about. I started unwrapping my cheeseburger, hunger stirring with a surprising fierceness. Like just after I’d finished a ten-mile run, body craving carbs. Fries. Oh, they looked so good.
“So how about you?” Adam asked in a brighter tone, perhaps trying to lighten our emotions. “I guess you went to prom, too, right?”
“No.” I shook two french fries free from the paper sleeve. They’d cooled to a dull lukewarm—the bane of fast-food fries—but still looked tasty, if not a bit oily. I ate them and licked the grains of salt from my fingers.
“You didn’t go to prom? Why not?”
“I was too busy rushing Mom to the hospital after she overdosed on some psychedelic tea her guru gave her.” I chewed another fry. “I almost lost her that time.” I cleared my throat, feeling my breath congeal. “And I told her…”
Adam put his hamburger down. “Told her what?”
“That I hoped she died.” I swallowed, the fries morphing into starchy clumps in my esophagus. “Guess I got my wish, huh?”
Adam’s hand found mine through the mess of greasy papers on our tray, and he linked our fingers together. We sat there together in silence, and I was glad that for once he didn’t try to say something to assuage my guilty conscience. He simply wiped his fingers on his napkin then lifted my palm to his mouth and kissed it. Resting my hand gently against his stubbly cheek.
My eyes flickered down to the paper tray liner, where we’d squirted a splotch of garish, orange-red ketchup. Pooled by our fries like blood. My free hand flitted to my throat, tracing the line where the knife blade had pressed into my skin.
“Are you afraid to die, Adam?”
I whispered it so quietly that Adam had to lean forward to hear. One of the high school boys at a nearby table spun a tray on his finger like a basketball, grappling for it as it careened sideways and clattered on the floor. Punctuated by an explosion of laughter and applause.
“Afraid to die? No. Not really.” He kissed my fingers again as he let them go.
“Everything in Japan’s about avoiding death.” I finished unwrapping my burger and picked it up. “The number four. Shi. It sounds like the word for death. Nobody gives gifts in fours. It’s a bad omen.” I took a bite of my burger, which gushed melted cheese and salty dill pickle rounds. “You don’t stick chopsticks upright in your bowl or pass food chopstick to chopstick because that’s how they deal with rice offerings and cremated remains at funerals.”
Adam’s eyes widened over his cup.
“Lots of things, really. You don’t sleep facing north because that’s how people are laid out for cremation. And so forth. Never write somebody’s name in red ink.”
As soon as I said it, I choked on my bite of burger, the gritty pieces of meat lodging in the back of my throat.
“What’s wrong? You don’t believe that stuff, do you?” Adam reached across the table to pound me on the back.
“No way. Not anymore.” I coughed again to clear my throat. “But the note on my car was written in red ink. And both florist’s cards from the bouquet.”
Adam’s face paled. “Red ink? Is that supposed to mean something?” “I have no idea.” I took a sip of my Coke. “But it’s…yes. A little weird. Do you know anybody who regularly writes in red ink?” “My dad. A math teacher.”
“Right.” I tried another bite of burger. “And Clarence prefers red pens when he does his crossword puzzles. You better believe I’m going to talk to the police about Clarence.” I chewed in frustration, wishing I’d never had reason to suspect Clarence. My coworker, of all people. Why couldn’t the note on my car have blown away in the wind, like so many of my worries about Mom’s death?
“But that’s the thing, Adam. Everybody tries to avoid death. Most of Mom’s guru chasing and cult following was about that, too—finding a way to prolong life and earn points for the next one. I know differently now. But the idea of death still bothers me.” I chewed a while in silence. “It’s terrible no matter how you look at it. I’ve written up a few car accidents that gave me nightmares. Even as a Christian, I don’t like it.”
“I guess nobody does.” Adam looked across the table at me. “And that’s why we put our faith in Jesus. He’s the only one who’s ever beat death and lived to tell about it.”
He glanced over at the raucous crowd of prom-goers, where two couples made out in the corners of the booths. The others toasted noisily with chocolate-dipped ice-cream cones. Girls dabbed delicately at their lips with paper napkins, heads bent together as they reapplied lipstick with shining compact mirrors.
“Most people go on acting as if life’s forever and the afterlife is some sort of cosmic lights-out.” Adam balled up his napkin. “Without a care in the world. There’s no judgment. No accounting for our actions on earth. Faith is irrelevant. But…that’s not the way it is.”
The pulse of the electric guitar on the radio died during an unexpected lull in the teen chatters, and I heard Adam’s voice come clearly. “We only have one life, Shiloh. We have to live it for Him. That’s all that matters.”
I looked over at a neighboring table as Adam’s words swelled the walls of my heart. One of the tuxedoed guys clumsily balanced an ice-cream cone on his nose, arms spread. I wondered if he’d ever considered that when he walked out those glass doors with his date on his arm and climbed into his car, a drunk driver might veer across his path. Or a deer, for crying out loud. Goodness knows deer crashes killed enough people in Virginia every year. I wondered if he was ready to face death—there in his tuxedo, a silly grin plastered across his face. Plans for love and college and a future dancing in his head.
Was I ready? I picked at a sesame seed on top of my bun, remembering the cold steel of the knife.
“Well, I know one thing for sure. As much as I love Jesus, I’m not looking forward to dying.” I wiped my fingers on a ketchup-stained napkin. “And I could never live with knowing that I caused somebody else’s suffering and death.”
“Let that go,” said Adam gently, wiping a crumb from my chin. “Leave it with God. He knows better than we do.”
“I know.” But. I bit into my burger and didn’t finish the rest of my thought. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it, Adam?” I blurted, mouth half full. Wondering what my life would be like now if I’d grown up here in the Bible Belt, listening to sermons and going to
Sunday school. Laughing with my prom date at a small-town restaurant instead of stepping over discarded syringes on my way to the homeless shelter in Brooklyn after Mom got evicted for the third time. Hoping my neighbor’s leering boyfriend wouldn’t try to kiss me again while I cracked open their bullet-ridden apartment door, begging her to call 911 after Mom passed out in the hallway.
“Easy?” Adam stopped chewing. “Maybe you’re right.” He wiped his mouth on a napkin. “But I’d die for Him, Shiloh, without a second thought. And for you.” He ran his hand over my silver engagement band. “I guess that ups the stakes a little.”
I glanced up at Adam as I balled up my napkin, feeling in the well of my stomach how different we were: a man who wouldn’t kiss me or even come in my house alone—engaged to a woman who hadn’t cared when her ex-fiancé roomed with another woman. Or pretended not to care, rather.
Adam’s short, conservative haircut and simple Gospel answers slammed up against my quaking fears and old superstitions. His fishing tackle box versus my sleek cherry-blossom-patterned teacup and Japanese fashion magazines.
Can we really do this, God? I felt my heart beat painfully in my chest as my ring glimmered in the light. A spark of fluid silver, both cold and alive. Liquid fire. A paradox wrapped around my finger.
For one shimmering moment I didn’t know who was right—me or the drunk outside the door who’d proclaimed us the “perfect couple.”
Maybe both.
Or maybe neither.
Adam’s cell phone vibrated suddenly, buzzing against the table where he’d dropped it with his keys. He frowned at the number and punched the button with the heel of his hand, wiping his fingers on a napkin before putting the phone to his ear.
“Yes, sir?” He sat up straighter, mouthing “police” as his eyes jerked up to meet mine. “Did you find him? Oh. Okay.” His expression sagged. “Thanks anyway.”
I heard a faint voice speaking, and then Adam’s face crinkled in surprise. “Yes, it’s my truck. We’re getting ready to drive home. Why, is something wrong?”
“Your truck? Why’s he asking about your truck?” I whispered, mad that they hadn’t found the creep yet. Now I’d have to try to sleep knowing he was out there somewhere with my purse, helping himself to my debit card.
As soon as we finished eating, I’d drop Adam back off at the elementary school parking lot to pick up his truck and get us both out of there. For good.
Matt the intern could do the next city council write-up, the loafer.
Adam hit the SPEAKERPHONE button, and I heard the officer’s voice loud and clear: “Well, driving home might be a problem.”
“Sorry?”
“Your tires are slashed. All four of them.”
“What?” Adam and I gasped at the same time, nearly banging heads as we leaned forward to hear better.
“And that’s not all. Seems like whoever did it left a message for you, unless you regularly carve words in the side of your truck with your keys.”
“What message?” Adam sputtered. “What do you mean?” “Somebody scratched a big, ‘STAY AWAY’ in all caps on the left side of your truck. You’d better come see for yourself.”
Chapter 19
What is this?” I dropped my old burgundy-brown purse in a heap on the carpeted office floor. All my excitement about going wedding shopping this coming weekend with Becky dissipating like a tired Japanese blowfish.
“What’s what?” Meg looked up from holding a stack of papers upright against my gray cubicle wall, signing something.
“That.” I pointed.
“That would be a standard office chair, although a little on the cheap side.” Meg raised an eyebrow and pushed some long strands of taffy-auburn hair behind her ear before turning back to her paper.
“Not the chair. I’m talking about that.” I pointed again, trying to ignore her foul-smelling mug on the corner of my desk. “That padded envelope. How long has it been here?”
Meg pursed her eyebrows in a “you’ve lost your marbles” grimace. “Since the mail rounds, probably. Clarence probably brought it. Why? What’s the big deal?”
“It’s from California.” I took off my lanyard and poked a corner of the package with my glossy ID tag. “I don’t know anybody in California. Clarence used to live there though.”
“What’s the return address?” Meg peeked over my shoulder, her musty patchouli scent making my nose itch.
“Santa Clarita. There’s no name.”
She sobered suddenly and lowered her papers. “You don’t think it’s related to what happened in Waynesboro, do you? Or the roses? Mercy, Jacobs. You’re starting to scare me.”
“I don’t know what to think.” I reluctantly picked up the envelope and squeezed it, feeling something thin and hard inside. I slit open the edge with scissors and dropped the envelope sliver in the trash. A cracked CD case fell out into my hand.
“The Judybats?” Meg picked it up with her fingertips. “Who in the world are they? And what happened to this case?” She turned over the cracked and dented plastic, which looked like it had been chucked from a moving car at top speed and into a road sign. Several times. And mended with bubble gum.
“Don’t ask me.” I pulled the case open by its rickety joints and dislodged the equally scratched CD. One scuffed edge was mottled with something sticky.
“There’s another CD in there.” Meg peered over my shoulder. “And…something in the middle?”
“Oh boy,” I muttered as a thin, flat, cardboard packet plopped onto my desk from between the two CDs. “What next? More roses?” I sliced carefully through the stiff square with the scissors.
“Don’t say that.” Meg shot me a stern look. “After the other night, I’m afraid to let you out of my sight.”
I cut one more time, and the cardboard fell open. Revealing a gleaming, razor-sharp throwing star. Like the kind ninjas throw at people in cartoons. One sparkling edge glinted in the overhead light.
“Shiloh Jacobs.” Meg flung the battered CD case on the desk and backed away. “Who’s sending you throwing stars? Do you have any idea how illegal that is? Sending knives through the mail?” She leaned closer to my desk, pulling the throwing star partially out of its sheath with the tip of her pen. “Although they did a pretty good job of hiding it from the X-rays.” She fiddled with the CDs, holding them together like a sandwich with the throwing star between them. “Huh. Check it out.”
She tore a sheet of paper from my note cube and ran it across the razor edge of the blade, eyes widening in admiration as it sliced through the paper as easily as butter. Leaving a thin paper curl.
“Great. Now I’m supposed to figure out who sent me this.” I threw up my arms in exasperation. Phil and Priyasha turned in their chairs at my loud rant, and heads popped over cubicles. I bobbed an involuntary “I’m sorry” bow, Japan-style, and dropped my voice. “I don’t know anything that’s going on lately, Meg!”
Fuming, I scooted the whole mess to the side of my desk with my keyboard and plopped in my chair to think.
“Jacobs,” Meg hissed and threw a manila folder over the whole pile of envelopes and cardboard, scooting the throwing star out of sight. “You can’t just leave that there! Somebody’ll see it. Kevin’ll have a heart attack if he finds reporters carrying weapons into the office.”
“Do I look like I’m carrying anything?” My voice rose testily.
“No, but still. Get a grip.” Meg lowered her voice to a whisper. “Take it home or whatever on your lunch break. Put it in your car. Just get it out of here.”
“You want it?” I glared at her.
“Are you kidding? Cooter would have my head.”
“Why, is he antiweapon, too?”
Meg frowned in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘too’?”
I turned to look at her. “Aren’t you against guns and all that?”
“Against guns? Jacobs, I own two .22 rifles, a. 45 automatic, and a Glock. I’ve been squirrel hunting more times than I can coun
t.”
“Squirrel hunting?” I shrieked, quickly lowering my voice before Phil glared at me again. “I thought you’re vegan!”
“I didn’t say I eat them. But the suckers keep eating my corn and getting in Cooter’s still. Making a mess out of the eaves and clogging up our gutters. Gotta do something. Cooter swears they’re the best thing he’s ever eaten. So have at it, I say.”
She looped her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans. “But he’ll be mad if I show up with a throwing star that’s better than his. He makes knives, you know. Pretty terrible ones. But he’s really proud of his throwing stars.” She shrugged a shoulder. “If you can call them that. They’re more like metal Frisbees.”
Not a single word came to my mouth. I just sat there, immobile, until Meg pulled the empty envelope from under the folder and peered again at the return address. “Hey, aren’t throwing stars illegal in California?”
“Illegal? Try a felony!” I shook my hand in the direction of the pile. “Perfect. All I need is some wacko sending me weapons and another stupid note from Clarence on my car.”
“A note from Clarence?” She snorted a laugh, tapping her corky sandal on the carpet. “Was it obscene?”
“No. It didn’t make any sense. Just a bunch of numbers and more drawings of an eye.” I turned back to my desk, wishing I could crawl back in bed and start the day over. No, the week. Maybe more than that.
“At least you haven’t gotten any more roses.” Meg patted my shoulder. “There are some real fruit loops out there, you know.”
“Yeah, and speaking of fruit loops, it’s fortuitous that you weren’t in Waynesboro last week, Shiloh,” said Matt the intern, butting into our conversation as he leaned back in his chair without a squeak. A conference room chair with nice cushy padding. Grrr.
'Til Grits Do Us Part Page 18
