by Sarah Wathen
“So, you wanted to get some late-night painting done?” she asked, her voice not her own. Her heart was still thudding, threatening to jump into her throat. He moved closer without a word. And that didn’t help her pulse. She took a step back.
“Something like that.” He took a step closer. Sweat and fresh air, cigarettes and Dial soap underneath—Sam’s smell. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all day.”
“You can see me?” she tried to laugh. It was so dark.
He moved forward again, and rested his hands on her hips, so close that his hair tickled her face when a soft breeze ruffled by. “Yeah. I can see you.” He ran his nose down hers. “Hi.”
“Hi.” She pressed her mouth to his and felt him wince. She put her fingers to her lips, tasting blood. “What happened?”
He was quiet when she tried to pull away for a better look.
“Did you get in a fight?”
His body enfolded hers, insistent. And not in the mood to talk. “Let’s go inside, Candy. I’ll light the lantern if you’re scared.”
chapter five
“Y’all have a good one now.” Joe slammed the cash register drawer shut and wiped his meaty hands on his apron. But as he was turning to head back to the kitchens, he caught a glimpse of brown curls swing to a stop in hesitation, round expectant eyes fixed on his face.
“Oh, Shelby—your mama forget somethin’ important?” he bellowed, and threw his head back into a thunderous laugh, the better to give his belly room to quake. “You come back over here and get you a pickle, sweet thang.”
Joe lumbered over to the wooden pickle barrel and pulled open the plastic doors of the lid. The vinegary sweet dill spilling into the room made his mouth water every time: like he was one of Pavlov’s dogs. He unhooked the tongs from the steal bands holding the worn oak cauldron together and fished around to bring the sleepers to the surface, chunks of garlic bobbing between them.
“Those are the best. You pick yourself one and I’ll catch ‘im for ya, honey.”
The little girl teetered up the stepladder, steadying herself, with one of Joe’s proffered hands. She went on tip-toe to look over the edge into the pickle barrel, “That one.”
“That one, there?” Joe pointed to a different pickle than the one she had chosen.
“No, that one,” Shelby insisted, jabbing her finger so close to her pickle that her choice could hardly be mistaken.
Joe, still teasing her, went to scoop up a different pickle, “Oh, I see now.”
“No,” she whined, her chin trembling just a bit, poised to grab her choice without his help.
Joe burst into another belly laugh, and ruffled her hair with a sweaty paw, then fished out the correct pickle. Still chuckling, he let the fat, salty cucumber drip a few seconds, licking his lips. Then he wrapped it in a napkin to soak up the extra juice, covered the bundle in a tight wax paper roll, and sealed the wrapper with a shiny gold “1st Place” foil from the bulk sticker roll next to the tub.
“There ya go, honey,” rumbled his lilting baritone. Shelby stretched her chubby fingers around her well-earned gift. “That’s your Shopper’s Patient Assistant award.”
“Thanks, Big Joe.” The breathless whisper was barely out of her mouth before she was through the door in a flurry of sweaty curls and grubby feet, the tinny sound of the bell banging against the doorjamb. Her older brother was lurking close to the entrance as she made her escape, and he sneered, “Oooh, did you touch Big Joe’s pickle?”
The lewd remark was vaguely audible inside the store; quiet enough for both of the remaining adults to pretend they hadn’t heard. Shelby’s mother blushed at the obvious reference to Joe Robinson’s penis and busied herself digging for her keys in a deep purse.
“See you tonight then, Joe?”
“That’s right. Friday night meeting.”
She scooped up the bulging paper grocery bag in one hand, jingling her keys in the other, and gave Joe a wink over her shoulder as she hurried after her children.
“Make sure Paul comes, too, honey. Gonna be some good news tonight at the Rotary meeting. You don’t want to miss a minute, I promise you,” the big man hollered after them, then punched the keys on the cash register to open and shut the drawer; a bookkeeping formality for the free pickle.
He held his tongue as much as he could, a skill that decades of marriage had taught him, but it rankled that Sheila was planning to attend the Rotary Club event. The Reynolds owned the ruby mine in the hills up north of the valley—it was really just a tourist trap, but Joe didn’t see any problem with bringing in more tourists. It was Paul who was the businessman, though, and damned if all the women in town weren’t trying to turn the Rotary Club into a silly social party. It was meant for business, goddamnit. He shook his head in disgust and shuffled over to the window for a final wave good-bye to Sheila and the kids.
He grumbled at the stairway in front of the restaurant. “Hell’s bells, that switchback.”
He knew he had better survey the courtyard at the top of the hill before dinnertime. He wiped the sweat off his neck, in anticipation, before shoving outside and out of the blessed air-conditioning. He grabbed hold of the railing and hauled himself up, one step at a time, the wood groaning under his weight. Huffing and wheezing at the summit, he looked around for loose debris or trash: saw the hoses were coiled properly and examined the benches. He made a mental note to remind Frankie to wash the bird shit off the iron seat backing.
“Oh, I’ll do it. Damn Mexican. He’s probably already into the chicken.”
He waddled over to the hoses to spray down the benches himself. As he worked, he sucked in the heavy aroma of lilies crowding over the rims of his flower urns. He reached behind the nearest one to finger a heavy rose, hanging listless from a thorny bush in the summer heat. He licked his lips and thought of how much the velvety inner cylinder reminded him of his second favorite thing in life, especially wet.
Maybe cut the girls and bring out the vases for tonight. He gave the roses one last gentle sprinkle, his thumb jammed into the mouth of the hose to rain a delicate mist over them. He let the flowers drink to their fill, his head lolled back in the heat, and he closed his eyes against the late afternoon sun. A bead of sweat rolled into the corner of his eye. He knuckled it away, hissing at the sting, and gazed across the square. Sunbaked bricks wafted a mirage upwards and he stepped into the shade of the maple trees that hung over the low courtyard wall.
Mmm. Mmm. Mmm—maple syrup. He patted one of the trunks thankfully and considered his first love—money. Those few maples wouldn’t give out much, but he knew of a large stand of them a little north of Shirley, and wondered how viable a maple syrup endeavor might be. He leaned under their shelter from the blazing summer sun, but it wasn’t nearly enough.
“So damned hot.”
The old lodge across the way always seemed cooler, deeper in shade. He resented that, among other things.
Wouldn’t mind a rest in the shade, though…
His shin banged into the concrete rim of the fountain before he realized he had wandered closer to the lodge, as if it were magnetic. He hissed and bent down to see if his leg was bleeding, his face over the still water.
“Beware the traveler...” The voice tickled behind his ear.
“Criminy!”
He stumbled away from the fountain, nearly tripping over his own feet. Reeling, he spun around, searching the shadows of the Buffalo Square courtyard.
“Where—” Joe clutched at his chest, gasping for air “Where are you?”
The dark woman whose face he had seen in the water, looming over his shoulder, her long black hair cascading around her face, was nowhere to be seen.
“Leave me alone, woman.” Joe’s plea was barely a whimper, before darkness closed in around him.
chapter six
“Oh, shit.” Sam dodged behind the corner so fast hi
s cigarette banged into the wood paneling, spraying ashes and sparks onto his forearm and T-shirt.
He brushed himself off, crushed out the fallen cherry in the dirt, then wedged between an overgrown azalea bush and the edge of the building. He peeked around the corner with one eye. He listened for the chatty female voices. One of them was his history teacher. He didn’t hear anything more, but assumed the two women he had seen walking towards the premises were heading for the dining room, up and around the steep hill where he crouched.
Ms. Collins was a nice old lady, but Sam wasn’t in the mood for polite conversation, so he skulked in the other direction along the back wall, towards the cellar entrance. It was almost dusk. The shadow of an enormous weeping willow hung over the Riverwalk and bled into the shadowy passage under the patio deck. Sam hunched down and hooked his finger into the pull chain of the cellar door. He winced at the loud screech as he pulled open the corrugated tin hatch and crept into the storage basement.
Hmph, wonder where he’s going? Amanda watched him descend the cellar stairs as she and her mom turned onto Main Street from the state road, past the back of Big Joe’s. She knew there was some big meeting there tonight, but never had she hoped to run into Castle. Sam had moved to Shirley the previous year as a junior. Amanda was a freshman and couldn’t remember ever having talked to him—but who could deny he was attractive in such an, out-of-town, mysterious way? Once or twice she saw him glance back at her as she passed him in the hallway at school; his eyes glued to her ass. She had made sure to sashay a little more slowly, letting him drink her in like she was Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch. The thought made her twist a long strand of her hair around her finger and chew on it with a covetous smile.
Maybe that could be my new project for this year. Keep the boredom at bay…
“Oh good, there’s Vanessa,” her mom said, looking towards the parking lot, oblivious to the clandestine prowling going on right in front of her.
Typical. Amanda rolled her eyes before putting on a polite smile for the approaching Vanessa. Mom always misses the interesting details. Case in point.
“Hi, Steph,” called the other middle-aged woman in a high-pitched squeal.
Mom rolled down the window and fluttered her fingers at her friend. “How have you been, girl?” She reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand, “I heard Jasper already started training for this season, how’s it going?”
“Oh, those boys. You know how they love getting sweaty.” Vanessa giggled, as if she was still a schoolgirl herself. “I told Chris, ‘You think I’m pickin’ up stinky jock straps this early in the year, you’re crazy. You and your sons pick up your own damn shit.’ Whoops. Hey there, Mandy.” Vanessa snorted, stifling her indiscretion with a fist when she saw Amanda sitting in the passenger seat.
Clearly already knocked back a few drinks in preparation for the meeting, huh, Mrs. Vanessa?
“I heard your new weight room is really coming along?” Steph said quickly, soothing her friend’s embarrassment and fishing for an invitation.
That’s my mom, Captain Obvious, like always.
“We should have coffee, you and me, and I’ll give you the whole tour.” Vanessa leaned in to whisper, with an I-don’t-want-to-toot-my-own-horn confidentiality, “Remodeled the whole basement, you know, bathroom and everything.”
“Oooh—You just tell me when, honey.”
Both women squealed and pumped their fists. Vanessa cutely stamped her feet and Amanda’s mom bounced in her seat. “See ya inside,” they said in unison, dissolving in team laughter. Vanessa stumbled in her heels and caught herself against a parked car. Amanda smirked while her mom ignored her friend’s early inebriation and steered them around to park.
“This is going to be a great meeting,” she sang, and reached over to pat Amanda on the leg in merriment. “I’m sorry she called you ‘Mandy,’ honey. I told her a hundred times that you changed it to Amanda, but I guess she just forgot.”
How can I ‘change’ a nickname to a real name? Amanda masked her irritation. “Good, Mom. I’m glad you’re perking up, I thought you had seemed a little blue, lately.”
The comment was a subtle dig; she knew how ashamed her mom was to have a glum mood or an un-pretty disposition detected. Turn that frown upside down. She herself was never allowed to display anything but cheerfulness, ugly moods not being what nice girls did. It was exhausting.
“Blue? Who’s blue, Mandy-boo? Oh—sorry. I guess old habits die hard, sweetie,” Steph laughed and patted Amanda’s thigh again before jumping out of the jeep. “Let’s hurry and get a good seat.”
Amanda cringed, but accepted her mother’s hand when she ran around to the passenger side to hurry her along. A good seat meant sitting next to Vanessa and, if possible, at least one more of her mom’s old school friends still lingering in Shirley County. There were several who still grazed around there like cows instead of taking off and exploring the big wide world beyond the place where they were born.
They descended the stairs together in the last of the fading daylight. Her mom lost her footing and flailed for an instant. She pinched the bones of her daughter’s fingers and clawed the air with her free hand before steadying herself on the railing. “Oh my! Good thing you had me, honey.”
“You okay, Mom?”
“See, I always knew you were my little miracle.”
Amanda considered the steepness of the stairs and wondered if the fall could actually have been fatal. Maybe.
“Steph, have you heard about what happened to Big Joe?” Vanessa said as she waved from the bottom of the stairs, frantic.
“No, what?”
“Mom, I’m going inside. It’s hot out here.” Amanda wrinkled her nose at Vanessa’s stinky cigarette, pushed past the swarm of people milling outside, and pulled open the glass doors. The cool air-conditioning smelled faintly chlorinated, and she was surprised to find a new water fountain installed in the entranceway: a bronze toddler in overalls and a railroad engineer cap stood atop a tree stump and pissed into a mini bronze brook, while a mutt pulled a handkerchief from the boy’s back pocket.
Am I supposed to be imagining the smell of urine, or charmed by the perkiness of his—
“Mandy, over here.” Transfixed by the offbeat nostalgia, Amanda jumped when the sharp falsetto rang out to usher her into the dining area.
“Hey, sweetie,” intoned her Aunt Meghan, also a high school buddy of her mom’s. To both friends’ delight, Mom had miraculously fallen in love with Meghan’s older brother Mike, whom Amanda had the honor of calling her father, Sheriff Mike Jameson.
Around and around it goes.
“Hey, ladies.” Her mom bustled in behind her, probably ecstatic to find that Aunt Megan had already begun to arrange a nest of familiar faces, all of them clustered around tables that someone had pulled together. Amanda looked past them to the back doors opening onto the deck, a dull glint reflecting off the river in the approaching twilight. Magic Hour. Strings of white Christmas lights were strung from the wooden rafters, twinkling like stars against the violet sky beyond. She could see a bearded old man setting up to play an acoustic guitar.
Maybe a dulcimer?
Steph was bursting with news, “Oh y’all, lemme tell you what I just heard.”
“We know,” Aunt Meghan and their buddy Kerry said together.
Teehee!
“Mom, let’s sit outside.”
“What? We can’t hear anything out there, sugar booger. Plus, it’s so hot I think I’d melt.”
Her mom was always afraid of melting make-up and wilting, sticky hair-dos, and lately Amanda had become attuned to her own friends’ similar, nauseating anxieties. She made a point to ignore the hopeful summons of one of her contemporaries, her cousin and best friend Lindsay, nestled in the tables with another calf. Instead, she took a moment to appraise her surroundings; Amanda always liked to have som
ething to occupy her hands and eyes during inevitable lulls in conversation with the herd.
The new Mrs. Walsh seemed to be setting up a presentation, against the wall farthest from the tables, where her mom’s crowd had gathered. She looked so young that it was weird to think of her as a missus, but it was hard to tell the age of Asian people. Steph and company weren’t front row seat kind of gals.
Mieke. Amanda spoke the strange name in her mind, jealous of the novelty.
Mieke had pulled two tables together, arranged some pamphlets in an official kind of way, and had a laptop sitting open and running, but she was flustered. She was searching for something and talking heatedly to the old Mexican woman who worked in the kitchens.
Amanda could just make out Mieke’s hiss, “How could you not have a projector here? You did know we were holding a meeting tonight, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Mendez put up both her hands, shrugged, and turned to walk back through the swinging doors. Mieke looked up at the ceiling, sighed, and seemed to plead for patience, before turning back to squat down and shuffle through a leather briefcase on the floor.
Amanda smirked and wandered in the direction of their saved tables. She idly read the framed newspaper clippings, circa 1960’s and aged family portraits adorning the imitation log cabin walls, mentally gauging how much time she could waste before she started to look suspicious. Turning towards the group, she noticed Lindsay was wearing the same pleated plaid skirt that she was, her friend’s long blonde hair cut in the same layered style to encourage soft curls as her own, and she groaned with resignation.
“Hi Lindsay,” she said, sinking into the chair next to her. “Nice skirt. Hey, Molly.”
Lindsay exploded into feigned trepidation about what big news was looming. Expressing sympathy for Joe Robinson’s misfortune, Amanda nodded and murmured agreement. There was no menu to peruse, since there was only one family-style option for everyone, and either the normal fountain drink varieties or sweetened sun tea. All she needed to say was “yes, please,” or “no, please,” for both meal and dessert, so she busied her hands and eyes with grooming her fingernails, which was always acceptable in such a fastidious group. Lindsay chattered on and on about Big Joe’s condition, and the trip to the hospital in a helicopter, and Amanda quickly deduced that the old man had had a stroke but was still alive.
