by Angie Sandro
“Not even close. He prefers that I don’t have dealings with him or his family. And after what just happened with his wife, I don’t expect things to get any better.” She glances at me. “The sheriff put George nominally in charge of the investigation.”
My mouth drops open, and I force it closed. “But he’s a rookie.”
“Yeah, but he’s the face of the investigation. He still comes through me for everything important, but he’ll pass along information to the family.”
“So, is it the fact that you’re black or a woman that the good reverend finds unforgivable?”
Bessie shrugs. “Who the hell knows? I bet both. Mala, you should’ve seen his wife before today. I met her a few times doing charity work. A more broken, spineless creature I’ve never seen. Poor thing never spoke above a whisper. I tell you, seeing her charge into the morgue so filled with grief and rage—and dragging her son in with her. It shocked me.”
Mrs. Prince shocked me too. Should I tell Bessie how the woman beat on Landry? I’ve never told anyone about Mama slapping me upside the head. I’ve made excuses for her my whole life. What if I’m doing the same thing for Mrs. Prince, excusing her behavior due to grief, when maybe the public face of a cowed, submissive woman hides the true, hateful woman inside?
The scent of roses blows out of the air conditioner. I turn the vent toward Bessie, shivering.
“What’s Landry like?” I ask.
Bessie cuts a sideways glance in my direction. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never had contact with him before today. The whole situation must be pretty traumatic for him.” Bessie casts a sideways glance in my direction. “The two of you seem pretty close.”
“No, no, I felt sorry for him is all.” I wave my hand. “I’ve never talked to him before today either, that’s why I asked.”
“Hmm, well. Best you stay away from him. I’ve kept your part in finding the body from the family. So don’t go blurting out the truth. If Landry’s inherited his pa’s disagreeable streak, it could go bad for you.”
I close my eyes and picture the face that resembles his sister’s—masculine features instead of Lainey’s soft beauty. The same black hair hiding tortured gray eyes, instead of blue, that couldn’t tear his gaze away from his sister’s body. Landry should’ve been angry. He should’ve been cursing God, fate, his mama for bringing him to the morgue, his sister for dying, and me for intruding on his grief, but he didn’t. I felt gentleness in Landry…he made me want to protect him. I’m not sure how. Or why? But I don’t think Landry would hurt me—even knowing the truth about me finding his sister.
If I hadn’t promised Bessie, I would’ve spewed my guts to him. Maybe it’s good she made me swear to keep my mouth shut. Landry’s parents sound like they’re judgmental and unpredictable people, the kind who give good Christians a bad name by manipulating scripture to justify their evil ways. As their son, he’d be obligated to tell them about me if he knew.
Mama’s truck is gone when I arrive home, a relief and a worry at the same time. I can’t help but think about her death vision. How much of the events playing out in the Prince household have to do with her? She seems to feel that the girl’s death and hers are tied.
* * *
The fire burns high. I stare into the flames, mesmerized by the flickering colors. Orange, green, and yellow all blending together. Sparks dance in the air, swirling in the warm wind. Shadows gyrate at the edge of the light—amorphous shapes without form, but alive with an energy that makes my skin tingle. I sway from side to side, my feet lift, and my arms stretch up to the night sky. With fingers splayed wide, I shift my weight, first to one leg and then the other. The breeze blows across my palms, wetting my skin with dew. I dance.
My movements are slow at first, then pick up speed to the pulsing rhythm. Bullfrogs croak, crickets scratch their legs in a whistling tune. An owl hoots, signaling death. And I spin, circling the oak tree, my fingers caressing the knobby bark. The wind blows hair away from my face, and my heart pounds in tune with the natural world around me.
I whirl faster and faster until I can’t breathe, but I don’t care.
From the corner of my eye, I see a flicker of blue. Bare white legs dance. The girl’s blue dress swirls around her ankles and floats into the air when she kicks her feet. Black, thick, straight hair blends with the darkness that shrouds the girl’s features—all but her blue eyes, which reflect the light of the fire. She stretches out a hand and beckons with her long fingers. Laughing.
I laugh with her. Her joy is so infectious that she draws me to her. I skip toward the fire, heedless of the heat or the flames that set my nightgown ablaze. Her hand beckons again, and I reach for it. Then notice I’m burning.
I jerk upright, slapping at my nightgown. Panic fills me, and I breathe in tainted air that tastes of smoke. The smell saturates my hair. Sweat plasters my nightgown to my skin. I thrash beneath the blanket wrapped around my legs, trapping me.
The soldier sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed has a stripped machine gun between his outstretched legs. He keeps his helmeted head down, and his fingers swiftly clean and reassemble the rifle.
I pull the blanket up to my neck. “I thought you blew yourself up.”
He lifts the assembled rifle and sets the scope to his eye. “It’s ready,” he says. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
I shrug. “Can’t be too hard.”
“Got to know what you’re aiming for.” His head turns. The skin has burnt from his face, leaving a red ruin of muscle and bone. His lipless mouth stretches in a permanent smile. “If you miss, you’re dead.” He points the barrel right between my eyes. “Only got one shot. Aim to kill, and shoot.” He pulls the trigger.
I wake with a scream and scramble from the bed. My foot slips in something slick, and I fall, which gives me a closer view of a pale, brown oil stain smeared on the hardwood floor. I touch it lightly, rubbing my fingers together.
Mama bursts into the room, wide-eyed with fear, with her nightgown flapping around her knees. When she sees me kneeling on the floor unhurt, her eyes narrow. “Girl, what’re you about? Screamin’ like that? You ’bout gave me a heart attack.”
“I saw…” The finger I point trembles. The oil stain on the wood and the one on my finger have vanished.
Mama presses her hand to her heart and stares inquisitively at the floor. “Somethin’ startle you? A spider?”
Laughter bursts out, and it has a slightly hysterical pitch to it. I hug my arms around my stomach, giggling so hard that it hurts. Tears roll down my aching cheeks. I try to rein it in, but I can’t. Raw, wild emotion rips out of me. Poor Mama stares at me in confusion, but I can’t control my reaction. She sounds so disgusted at the thought of me screaming over a spider…good heavens, a spider is the least of my worries.
Mama’s lips purse. “I take it that’s a no?”
“No,” I wail then snort.
“So why’d you scream?”
“Oh, Mama, does it matter?” I stand up, still clutching my stomach as the muscles cramp. “I had a nightmare.”
“Humph, been havin’ more than your share of bad dreams since you found that girl’s body. Don’t think I haven’t felt you tossin’ and turnin’ at night.”
My mood shifts to anger lightning quick. Why does she have to ruin my morning by bringing up Lainey? I’m trying hard to forget. Her being nosy and acting like she cares only gives me a headache. “It’s only been four days since I found Lainey. Not nearly long enough to get over the memory, especially with everyone weeping and wailing about the poor girl killing herself. Folks who probably never spoke to her while she lived are going on about how she was their best friend. It’s total bull. If Lainey had all these friends that cared so much about her, why did she commit suicide?”
With each word I speak, my resentment grows. A bunch of hypocrites infest our town, and I despise them. “Do you think if I died they’d act like that? Or do you think it’s because she’s the daughter of
the reverend and sister to their star quarterback?”
“Mala, it ain’t like you to be so uncharitable.”
“I know.” I wipe perspiration from my face then stare at how my hand trembles. “I’ve just been so out of sorts—getting angry over little things.” I sit on the edge of my bed and pull the blanket over my lap. Part of me wants to lie back down and go to sleep. But I’m afraid I’ll dream again. “I just want this week to be over.”
“I think what’s goin’ on with you is stronger than just feelin’ sad. I know you don’t believe in the Sight, but—”
“Leave it, Mama,” I snap, shoving the blanket back. “I don’t want to hear any more mumbo jumbo about spirits.”
Mama crouches down in front of me and places her hands on the sides of my face. I try to pull back, but her hands grip my head. “Tell me about your dreams.” She removes her hands and places them on my knees. “Remember any of the details?”
“No, and I’m glad! Once I wake up, the nightmares get hazy, and the details fade. All I know is that I’m afraid. That I’m being warned something bad is coming, and I’ve got to be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“I don’t know or care.” I shiver. “I think all your death talk messed with my head.”
“You’re treadin’ a slippery slope, Mala Jean. Haunts won’t go away simply by pretendin’ they don’t exist, but the more credence you give to them, the more they take advantage and worm their way into your thoughts. Soon you can’t get rid of them.”
“My brain’s not infected by parasitic ghosts. They’re dreams. Bad dreams. But it’s normal to have nightmares. That’s human nature, not haunts.” Tension tightens my shoulders. Mama’s voice grates on my nerves. I’m sick of talking about death, of spirits or her stupid vision, of how helpless we are. I glance at the clock and gasp. “Shoot, I overslept. I’ve got to get ready for work.”
Mama stretches her arms around my waist and holds on. “Munchies or BPSO?”
“Munchies.”
“Then bring me home a Reuben dog and a pint of butter pecan.”
“Hope you don’t plan to eat that combo together.” I hug her tight. “I’m sorry if I’ve been grouchy. Mo laimm twa.”
“I know,” she whispers. “I love you too.”
* * *
The outside matches my insides. Thick gray clouds cover the sun, and a cold rain bounces off my canary yellow rubber raincoat. The walk to the bus stop takes fifteen minutes. Even layered up, I’ll get wet since my umbrella blows into a tree the minute I step off the porch. I run for the woods, pushing aside wet branches until the thick leaves overhead shelter me from the downpour.
If I hadn’t been so annoyed with Mama, I would’ve put aside my pride and begged for a ride to the crossroads where the transit bus would pick me up. The steady drum of pelting rain muffles my footsteps. I miss the hush that usually comforts me. Today I’m on edge, nervous. Like some predatory critter hides in the bushes watching me, but I can’t see it. The hairs rise on the back of my neck, and a nervous energy has me practically running despite the ankle-deep mud that tries to suck off my boots.
Halfway to the bus stop, the rain slows to a low drizzle. I pause.
Footsteps. Their pace matches mine. First one foot then another, two, not four paws. My heart stumbles in my chest, then races. I hold my breath, straining to hear what direction the steps come from, but the rain distorts sound. It comes from in front, the side. I spin to squint behind me. The empty path stretches back toward home. I’m tempted to go back. The woods look like an oversaturated watercolor painting. Colors blend together, faded and hazy. Bushes and trees in the distance blur to melt into a glob of varying shades of green and brown. I can’t tell if what I sense is real or the remnants of my earlier nightmare bleeding over into reality.
I can’t pretend everything is okay when I know it’s not.
“Who’s there?” I yell.
The crack of a snapping twig is followed by a muffled curse. I let out a high-pitched scream and spin in the direction of the noise. A flash of red in the distance darts behind a bush.
I grab a baseball bat–size branch from the ground. “This isn’t funny. Come out!”
The toot of a horn signals the bus’s arrival, and I sprint toward the road. I shove branches aside, ignoring the scratches to my face and hands. Running steps follow me, but I don’t look back. I dig in deep and pull on my reserve of energy. I burst from the trees, slip on the embankment, and slide down the muddy hill on my butt. At the bottom, I roll to my knees and look over my shoulder. The same flash of red moves at the edge of the undergrowth, but the person doesn’t show his, or her, face.
“Coward!” I throw the stick. It crashes into the trees where the silhouette of a figure had been standing, and the thrashing of the bushes makes me think I hit someone.
The bus driver honks the horn again. “Mala, I’m on a schedule. Playtime’s over. Get on the bus!”
“I’m coming, Mr. Johns.” I pick up my supersize black leather purse and wipe mud and crushed leaves from my jeans as I climb up the stairs onto the transit bus. My boots squeak all the way down the aisle. The seats are full, which isn’t surprising. This is the only bus that runs through the swamp to town. If I needed any other affirmation from the heavens that luck abandoned me today, it appears in the identical forms of the fourteen-going-on-four Acker twins, Carl and Daryl, who keep up a running commentary of increasingly stupid insults about my appearance as I clump down the aisle.
“Mala went dirt surfing.” Carl snorts.
“She doesn’t look any different than normal,” Daryl says. “Maybe cleaner.”
The twins laugh.
“Best keep your opinions to yourselves or lumps are gonna sprout on other pieces of your anatomies, you little brats,” I threaten, slapping the back of their knobby blond heads as I walk past their seats. They may not be afraid of my wrath, but if they keep messing with me, their big sister will make their lives miserable. It shames me to know the twins and I are blood relatives, thanks to sharing a great-great-something-grandfather who lusted after his slave. Not that the boys or their racist father will ever admit kinship. The only one in their family who gets a kick out of being my cousin is their sister, Dena, who currently frowns over her shoulder at me from the front of the bus.
I wave her off. I hold onto the top of the empty backseat when the bus lurches into motion, then take off my rain jacket, stuff it and my purse under the seat, and sit down. My wet jeans stick to the vinyl as I turn to stare out the back window. Headlights shine from the corner we just left, coming from the road leading to my house. I press my nose to the glass trying to see who’s driving the black Ford that pulls in behind the bus, but the truck stays far enough back that I can’t make out a face.
A tap on my shoulder startles a yelp out of me. I spin in my seat. “What?”
Dena settles into the seat beside me and raises her hands. “Sorry. Gosh, what’s got you so jumpy?”
“Sorry, cuz.” Wet hair sticks to my cheeks, and I push it out of my eyes with trembling fingers. “Somebody followed me through the woods. Scared the shit out of me.”
“What?” she shrieks. “Did you see who?”
Her panic reignites mine. “No, but I think it’s whoever’s in the truck behind us.”
Dena stares out the back window, and her freckled nose scrunches up. “I don’t see anybody.”
I look back. The truck is gone.
Chapter 10
Mala
Munchies Memorial
It takes an hour to wind through the woods to pick up the rest of us country folk. Those of us living out in the sticks have never fit in with the townies or with each other. By the time we park at the bus stop in front of town square, my head pounds and my nose feels stuffy. I rise slowly, dizzy. My temples throb when I lean forward to pull my stuff out from beneath the seat. It’s going to be a long day.
Dena leans against the metal frame of the bus stop with her arms
folded and her toe tapping while I take my time getting off the bus. Our gazes meet through the window, and she rolls her eyes, a silent signal for me to get my ass in gear before we’re late for our shift at Munchies.
Daryl and Carl shove past me. One of them yells, “Move it, fat ass!”
I trip on the last step. “One day, I’m killing those brats.”
Dena grabs my arm, steadying me. “Warn me ahead of time so I can set up alibis.” She yells at her brothers’ retreating backs, “Evil twins, meet me at Munchies in an hour for lunch.”
Daryl raises a hand but doesn’t turn around. They head toward Playtown, the place where kids their age hang out. The park has a swimming pool, skating rink, batting cages, and a mini golf course.
Dena and I walk down the narrow sidewalk in silence, which must be torture for my chatterbox cousin. The sun beats down onto my head, soaking up heat, until my hair burns to the touch. I swat at the mosquito on my neck and glare at the roses around the gazebo in the Vietnam Memorial garden housed in Paradise Park across the street.
“I hate roses,” I mutter. Roses smell like death.
Dena shrugs. “That’s because you don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”
“I don’t like you either, Dee.”
Cold air feels like a slap upside the head upon entering Munchies Diner & Ice Cream Parlor, and my headache eases. The large, saloon-style building, with its gaudy pink, balloon-decaled front window, is my home away from home. I’ve worked here every summer since starting high school, but this is the first time it’s ever been full of customers on a Wednesday morning.
“Saints, is it somebody’s birthday?” I say, checking out the packed booths.
Dena shrugs. “Not sure. Look, there’s Maggie and Tommy.”
Our friends sit cuddled up close in a corner booth. They look so happy to be with each other that I avoid their table and head toward the employee bathroom. I don’t feel social, and I don’t want to ruin their obvious good mood.
