by Sofia Grant
And despite what she was wearing, despite the ravages of time and poverty, there was something familiar about her, something that harkened all the way back to the reception for Hank’s first wedding. Margaret thought of the five-piece combo, the trays laden with champagne flutes, Tansy’s pretty little bouquet, which she was still clutching tightly when they left the reception.
The round table, the untouched hors d’oeuvres, her mother’s discomfort—and her cousins, in their awkward homemade gowns.
Pammy looked up in surprise. She had aged—her skin had slackened, and her hair was streaked with silver threads—but she had the same shy, sweet smile and gentle brown eyes, and the simple blouse and skirt she was wearing did a lot more for her than the terrible blue party dress had.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you here to book an appointment? I’m nearly done with Timothy here, if you could give me another ten minutes.”
The boy scowled at her, and Margaret saw that half of his hair had been trimmed to a scant couple of inches, dark brown tufts of it lying on the floor. On a table draped with a plastic cloth were a variety of scissors and combs and a bowl of water.
“Oh, you give haircuts,” she said.
Pammy gave her a curious look. “Well, only when it’s real bad—when I can’t be sure I get ’em all otherwise. I try not to cut any for the girls. Is that what you have? A daughter? Though it’s best to bring all the kids in, once one of ’em’s struck.”
“Struck . . . ?”
Pammy stared. “With the lice? That’s what you need, isn’t it? Why you came to see me?”
Suddenly Margaret understood: the bowl of water on the table wasn’t water at all, but oil, and now that she looked again, she could see the tiny black dots on its surface. Pammy was picking lice and nits from the little boy’s hair: the lice were the dots, and oil was an effective way to kill them as she plucked them from his head and dropped them in the bowl.
“But why don’t you just use the powders?” Margaret asked, for want of anything else to say. “Or shave it off?”
“Powders don’t work as good anymore.” Pammy picked up the fine-tooth metal comb. “Do you mind if I keep going while we talk? His mama’s just real nervous about this, afraid someone’s going to drive by and see her car. Though I tried to tell her, anyone comes down this road it’s for the same thing as brought her.”
Now the last of the pieces fell into place. The woman’s strange behavior outside . . . the expensive car . . . the trouble Pammy was taking when simply shaving the boy’s scalp would be less risky: all of this was meant to keep anyone from knowing that the boy had been afflicted.
When Margaret had been in grammar school, lice infestations were rare, because of the availability of chemical treatments after the war. But every once in a while a child would come into the classroom scratching his scalp, and the mother would be called in to take him home. Usually it was one of the poor families, migrant workers and immigrants, and invariably there would be talk of “filth” and “trash” and worse, humiliation heaped on the children, strangers scolding women in the market to take them home.
No family wanted to be subject to the humiliation, so many kept a supply of DDT powder or pyrethrum on hand. But whenever there was an outbreak, Caroline had instructed Margaret to stay away from the poor kids and twice refused to let her attend school at all until the infestation was over. “No child of mine is going to come home with lice like common trash,” she’d told Hugh when he’d questioned her decision.
“I didn’t realize,” Margaret said, abashed.
“Don’t you worry now, I keep it real clean,” Pammy said, as she pulled a strand of the boy’s hair and examined it. “I hardly ever get a repeat. I can give you references.”
“No—I meant, that’s not why I’m here. I’m—do you remember me at all? I’m Margaret Pierson. Your, um, cousin.”
Pammy looked up sharply. After a couple of seconds her expression changed to one of pleasant surprise. “Margaret? It is you! I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. But what on earth are you doing here? I’ve wanted . . .”
Her voice trailed away as her face clouded, and Margaret felt a surge of shame. “I’m sorry it’s been so long,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry I’ve never—that I didn’t write, or, or, but . . .”
Now she had no idea how to bring up the subject of the money. She hadn’t thought this through—hadn’t imagined her cousin would be so happy to see her.
Pammy dropped the comb in a glass jar and went to the sink, picking up a bar of Lava soap and scrubbing furiously. “You just sit tight a minute, Timothy. I’ve got Pecan Sandies when we’re all done. Margaret, I wish I’d known you were coming, I would have tidied up.”
Despite the outside appearance of the house, the inside was neat as a pin, the counters sparkling and the dishes stacked neatly on the shelves, embroidered dish towels hanging from wooden pegs. The furniture was old but polished to a sheen, and there were crocheted doilies on the chair backs and a framed painting of a windmill on the wall. The children on the other side of the muslin curtain had been watching curiously, but when their mother looked their way, they immediately bent over their lessons.
“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” Margaret said, her voice going stiff and formal the way it always did when she felt unsure of herself. “I just—you see, I just found out that when my father passed away—”
“I should have written,” Pammy interrupted, her face flaming. “I can’t believe I didn’t. I just didn’t know—wasn’t sure—Amy and me, we talked about it and—well, we just thought maybe you’d rather not hear from us. And it was so unexpected! So generous. Lassiter and Bess were in a real fix before they got that money from your daddy; they almost lost their house. And Bob and me, we were able to buy a car. He was able to take a job in Tyler now that he’s got a way to get there, and it pays so much better than around here.”
Now Margaret felt even worse, knowing how much the money had meant to her cousins. “But I just, and I’m so sorry to ask, but there’s been some, well, some uncertainty about—about some of his affairs, and I wondered—” Margaret broke off, stammering, wishing she’d just come out with it first thing.
But Pammy was bobbing her head in agreement. “We couldn’t believe it ourselves. Why, none of us had talked to your family in ages, since Tansy’s wedding. Other than your daddy’s letters at Christmas, of course, and—”
“My father wrote to you?” Margaret couldn’t remember her father writing a personal letter to anyone, ever—her mother kept the correspondence for the family. “What did he say?”
“Oh, just—you know, asking after how we all were, wishing us a merry Christmas. And, well, he always sent a check. For the children’s gifts, he said. I’m sorry, I thought—we thought you knew. I’d have never cashed them if I thought—if you’d minded.”
“No, no, of course not. I’m—I’m glad he stayed in touch. I just didn’t know.”
“Like I said, I just wish we’d written back. All those years . . . I used to wish you and I could—that we’d been, that I could have . . .” Pammy was so flustered she couldn’t finish her thought. She put her hands to her cheeks and drew in a breath. “Oh, I’m so stupid. I haven’t even offered you anything. Would you like lemonade? Or should I put coffee on?”
“No, no, I can’t stay,” Margaret said, already backing away. The little boy in the chair stared at her desultorily, playing with a folding knife that he must have been hiding in his pocket. “And I’ve interrupted your work. It was terribly rude of me. Please do give my best to your family.”
“But won’t you come back again? I’d love for you to meet Bob—and my kids, Sharon and Bobby, and hear all about your little one—but she’s not even all that little anymore, is she?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Margaret said, wanting nothing more than to make her escape. “That will be lovely. Goodbye now.”
She dashed out the door and pulled it firmly closed behind her, forgetting tha
t the boy’s mother was waiting on the front porch.
“Oh—good afternoon,” she said. “I must run now. In a hurry.”
“But you won’t tell anyone, right? That you saw me here?”
Margaret was already crossing the yard, relief seeping through her. This visit was a mistake she would not repeat. “Of course not,” she said over her shoulder. “I don’t even know you.”
“WHERE ARE THEY?”
Georgina came bursting into Margaret’s bedroom while she was brushing her hair the next morning. Though their bedrooms were next to each other, Margaret rarely went into her daughter’s room unless she wasn’t in it: Georgina had a finely developed sense of privacy and independence for a ten-year-old.
“Where are what?” Margaret asked innocently. She knew she was in for a tantrum, but she didn’t plan to make it easy on Georgina.
“My monkeys! And my new clothes! I want to wear them today.”
“They are going back to the store,” Margaret said firmly. “We can’t afford them, which your grandmother knows very well.”
“It’s her money,” Georgina challenged, jutting out her chin. She was becoming increasingly difficult to handle with every passing day, youthful tantrums giving way to crafty mischief and dark moods. “Not yours. And she says I deserved a treat because I got such good marks.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “They weren’t that good.”
Georgina pouted. “They were third best, at least for the girls. And Marabelle’s mother gives her a quarter whenever she has good marks. Mine are better than hers, and you don’t give me anything!”
“You want me to congratulate you every time you do what your teacher tells you?” Margaret said archly. “Listen, Georgie, don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re a smart girl and you’re going to be pretty, but there are hundreds of girls just like you in Texas. Thousands, probably. And you know which ones are going to be the happiest in life? The ones who don’t get too big for their britches, that’s who.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.” Someday, Margaret would have to tell Georgina about her own fall from grace, about the dangers of growing up believing you were above everyone around you. Someday she would tell Georgina the truth about her father—and about the wonderful life she’d thrown away. Perhaps she’d show her the picture from Vanity Fair, the one she’d clipped and kept in a drawer in her dresser, of Tripp and his wife at a party at the Millermore mansion in Dallas, diamonds sparkling on her neck. “The sooner you realize that you’re just like everyone else, the better. You have to work for what you get in life, you know. And going to school and getting good marks is your work.”
“You don’t work,” Georgina pointed out stubbornly. “You don’t do anything.”
“I certainly do. You know very well that I volunteer at the VFW three afternoons a week. And who do you think organized the cakewalk at the school carnival?”
Georgina was unswayed. “I’ll tell Grandma.”
Margaret had been counting on this, a threat that Georgina made more and more often, testing how far she could push her grandmother’s adoration for her. It wasn’t without limits, and if necessary, Margaret knew she could prevail, shaming Caroline for her frivolous purchases. But she’d already come up with a counteroffer that might keep the peace with her mother.
“If you march downstairs right now, and eat your breakfast and help wash up without another word, you may keep the can of monkeys.”
“Barrel of Monkeys,” Georgina corrected. “Everyone knows that.”
“Well, I’m not ‘everyone,’ and you shouldn’t want to be either,” Margaret said.
“I’m not everyone,” Georgina echoed in a singsong, mocking voice as she minced down the hall, making her escape.
Margaret didn’t bother to go after her. She was already calculating how much money she might get in return for the outfit, to add to the small account she had opened at the bank. Caroline would not be pleased, but she felt guilty enough about spoiling Georgina so wretchedly that she wouldn’t say anything.
It was a strange and difficult way to save money. But by the new year, if her mother’s generosity continued, Margaret would have enough saved to buy five more shares of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lolly had wrapped the money—a thick stack of fifties and twenties—in wrinkled pink tissue paper. Katie counted it twice: five hundred beautiful dollars, enough for half a dozen mani-pedis . . . dinner for four at Auberge de la Nuit . . . a naughty weekend in Atlantic City.
Or . . . tantalizingly . . . a fresh start.
Where had that thought come from? Katie folded the wad of bills and tucked it into her pocket, and wondered what to do next. She was still full from their parking lot lunch, though she supposed she ought to buy a few staples for the fridge. And maybe one of those prepaid phones they sold in gas stations, the ones drug dealers used.
Or maybe a nice bottle of crisp white wine. She smiled at the thought, remembering the thin selection of bottles in the market the night before, their orange price tags. Why not? Bedtime was still hours away, and she didn’t have a TV or computer to entertain herself. She’d buy the wine, lay in some snacks in case she got hungry later, and start going through her inheritance.
Katie locked up and walked down the street, noticing how much lovelier the town looked when it was dappled by the gentle setting sunlight. She passed Jam’s house and snuck a look into the front windows, but the shades were drawn. Maybe he was still out training dogs to kill people, or whatever it was he did to make money. Which reminded her—she’d have to buy a bone or something for the ridiculous mutt that her grandmother had been feeding. Eventually, the thing would get the hint and move on, but she supposed she owed it some interim measures.
The doors to the market swished open and there, manning the cash register, was not the charming young man from the night before but a woman Georgina’s age with a hairdo at least a generation older. She set down her magazine and gave Katie a smile.
“Evenin’, Miss. Kyle said to tell you he put some brisket by for you. It’s in the cold case.”
Katie stopped in her tracks. Last night she may have resembled a homeless person, but today she was clean and had made an effort with the makeup she borrowed from Scarlett, and while she was too old for the short shorts and platform sandals, they were hardly the clothes of a vagrant. “Thank you. But, um, what did Kyle tell you about me?”
“Oh, honey, he just said you were awfully pretty and skinny as a stick bug.”
“Oh,” Katie said, embarrassed. “I just—I didn’t have enough—I need to pay for last night’s chicken.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” the cashier said, returning to her magazine. “I’m sure you’ll do someone else a good turn.”
Katie headed down the liquor aisle just as another shopper headed up it, and they nearly collided. She started to stammer her excuses when she realized that the nicely built man she’d nearly run into was no other than Jam Mifflin.
“You stalking me?” he asked, without a trace of humor.
“No!”
Now she couldn’t buy the bottle of wine without him knowing that she was planning to drink alone. But who did he think he was, wandering around the store at dinnertime while flexing those ridiculous muscles, distracting people who just wanted to pick up a few groceries?
Katie didn’t want him to think she was staring at his leg, but she was so intent on not looking at it that she wound up staring at his stupidly attractive, glaring face instead. “I needed tampons,” she snapped, which wasn’t true but which might put an end to this awkward encounter.
“You’re in the wrong aisle.”
“And Pepto Bismol. Those ribs didn’t agree with me.”
“My ribs agree with everyone. They make people cry. Guys on death row put their orders in for their last meal the minute they’re sentenced.”
Katie glared at Jam in consternation. H
e seemed to have no intention of moving out of her way. “That’s a lot of words for you, isn’t it?” she asked.
That got her a shrug.
“Look. I have a favor to ask you. It’s a long story, but I don’t have a phone right now, and I need to make a call. Would you mind . . . ? I’ll just go outside for a minute and you can finish picking out your Hungry Man or whatever pathetic thing you’re having for dinner.”
“How do I know you’re not going to run off and steal it?”
Was he serious? Katie couldn’t tell. “Well, there’s the fact that I don’t have anywhere to hide out except next door to you.”
His expression didn’t change, but he handed over his phone.
“Yeah, well, thanks.”
The cashier had made no secret of listening to the entire conversation, so Katie didn’t bother to assure her that she’d be right back. Outside, a trio of adolescent boys zipped by on scooters, laughing and jeering at each other. The parking lot was nearly empty, the single streetlight flickering, and Katie shuddered at a memory of that other parking lot, almost two days ago.
Liam answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Yeah, I figured, from the area code. Did you get the money?”
“Where are you?” There were party sounds in the background, music and laughter, someone yelling indistinctly.
“Oh, I stopped by Rayburn’s. I’m just having a drink with a few of the guys.”
“Guys? What guys?”
“From the team,” Liam said with a trace of impatience. “We had the big Axpense presentation today, remember?”
