“I’m just trying to get into the spirit of this relationship,” Annette said with an audacity she hadn’t known she possessed. “You hand lots of truth to me, so I thought I’d hand some back to you. How’m I doing?”
Call 1-800-SMACK-ME, Annette thought as she watched emotion flit across the witch’s usually impassive features. That was what she called her grandmother in her own thoughts—the witch—since Beverly was unnaturally young, thin, beautiful and had an evil heart.
Maybe she ate children, instead of just being nasty to them.
Oh, what the hell. “Can’t you get wrinkles from looking like that?”
Beverly laughed unexpectedly. “No, you’re supposed to tell me that the wind will blow and my face will stick in that expression for the rest of my life. That’s what my mother used to threaten.”
“My other grandma used to say that.”
“Grandma? You’ve never called me grandma.”
“Big surprise.”
Beverly braced a hand on the counter, the other on her hip. “You shouldn’t take that tone with me.”
“You shouldn’t be mean to me,” Annette retorted. “You’re supposed to be my grandmother. You’re supposed to spoil me and buy me things and be nice to me.”
Beverly considered Annette so shrewdly that Annette was acutely aware of every flaw in her appearance. The hems of her jeans were frayed, her T-shirt didn’t quite pull over her skin to meet the waistband of the jeans. To her astonishment, though Beverly clearly noted these items of inappropriate deportment, she didn’t comment on them. “Is that what your other grandma used to do?”
Annette nodded, her sandwich not looking that tasty anymore. “Yeah, she did. She bought me stuff that Mom wouldn’t. She always made me promise that it would be our secret, so that Mom wouldn’t say I was getting spoiled and give her heck for it.”
“What kind of stuff?”
Annette shrugged. “Videos, then DVD’s.”
“Of what?”
“An entire season of Babylon Five, or vintage stuff like Battlestar Galactica or Space 2000.” Her grandmother looked predictably blank. “Or whatever other science fiction and fantasy stuff I wanted. We used to play Dungeons & Dragons together when I was little.” Annette doubted that the witch even knew what that was, though she was surprised that she admitted it.
“Is that a game?”
“Yeah. A role-playing game.”
“I don’t ever remember playing a game with you.”
Annette snorted. “Because it never happened. It’s not like you forgot.”
Beverly considered her perfect nails for a long moment—what would Annette do to have nails like that? Was that what the witch would offer to her in exchange for her heart?—then looked up so suddenly that Annette jumped. “I haven’t been very good at this grandmother stuff, have I?”
It seemed silly to lie at this point. “No.” Annette took a big bite of her sandwich and chewed it with vigor. It did seem to have a little too much mayonnaise, though she’d never admit that now.
“No need to mince words. That’s fair enough,” her grandmother said with a certain decisiveness. “I’ll bet you miss your other grandma.” This time, there was a slight emphasis on the last word.
“So what if I do? That isn’t going to change anything, is it?”
“Not that she’s passed away, no.” This grandmother spoke to Annette as if she was an adult, which was appealing in a way. “Be warned that I’ll never play games with you or anyone else, that’s for certain. It’s not my style. Life is full of games and I’ve already had my fill.” She looked tired all of a sudden, but Annette wasn’t about to be sympathetic.
It was probably just a trick.
“That doesn’t sound very promising, in a grandmotherly kind of way.”
Beverly laughed a little. “No, it doesn’t, does it? Well, I think we’ve pretty much agreed that I’ve been lousy at being a grandmother, so there’s nowhere to go from here but up.”
Annette didn’t know what to say to that, but fortunately, her mother came home before things got really awkward.
In fact, her mother marched into the kitchen just as Annette was taking another bite out of her sandwich. “Annette! I’m just going to make dinner! Why are you having a snack?”
Annette pushed the mouthful of food into her cheek, feeling an urge to provoke her mother since the witch wasn’t biting. “I didn’t know how long you’d be at the grocery.”
Her mother’s eyes flashed, predictably, that Annette talked with something in her mouth. “You know better than to talk with food in your mouth. What will Beverly think of your manners?”
“I was hungry.”
“I’ve already seen her manners,” Beverly said wearily. “You should give her to me for a month. I’d straighten her out.”
Annette swallowed and straightened. “Mom?”
But her mom wasn’t paying attention. “Well, it took longer than I’d hoped at the grocery. I couldn’t find what I wanted for the longest time.” Her mom put a bag of groceries on the counter, and shook her head. “Of course, I don’t know when I was last at that grocery store. Annette, would you help me with the bags, please? There are more in the car.”
“Can I move the car into the garage if I do?”
Her mom gave her a look, but instead of declining immediately, she seemed to think about it. “Does your father usually let you do that?”
Annette shrugged, finding it harder to lie to her mother than it had been just a week before.
“I’ve got an idea,” Beverly said. Had she deliberately saved Annette from further interrogation? It sure seemed like it, as odd as that was. Probably she was going to offer a more fearsome alternative. Let’s toss Annette into the snake pit instead. “Why don’t you move my car into the driveway?”
Annette looked up in astonishment, just in time to catch the keys that were flying across the kitchen. “Your car?”
“Yes, my car.”
Maybe there was some dark diabolical reason for the witch being nice all of a sudden.
Maybe Annette’s virgin heart looked particularly tasty.
“Beverly! Are you sure? I mean, the Jaguar is an expensive car.”
“True.” Beverly nodded to a shocked Annette. “So, don’t wreck it, all right?”
Annette’s mom cleared her throat. “Beverly, I don’t think Annette knows how to drive a car with a manual clutch…”
“Well, then I’ll have to show her,” Beverly said, as if she did this kind of thing all the time. “Come on, Annette. And don’t mind the girls. You can help me bring in their accessories when we come back. My goodness, but they have a lot of stuff.”
It was hard to believe that anyone had more stuff than her grandmother, whoever the girls might be.
Curious despite herself, suspecting that she was being tempted into some lair, Annette wiped mayonnaise from her lip. She cautiously followed her grandmother to the foyer, clutching the keys as if they might suddenly turn to vapor and prove that this wasn’t going to happen after all.
“What about the groceries?” Annette’s mom shouted after them.
* * *
So, they brought in the groceries, and under her mother’s tutelage, Annette parked the Subaru in the garage. Knowing that her chance to drive the Jag was contingent upon doing this well, she focused.
And she prayed a little. She even put on her seatbelt first and adjusted the seat and mirrors, as if she was used to doing this all the time. As if Dad had taught her, when in fact, she was just a good mimic. She parked the car carefully, very slowly. She was sure her mother would hear her heartbeat, it was pounding so loud, but instead she just murmured directions.
“A little more to the right.” Her mom reached over and pushed the wheel slightly so they pulled into the garage straighter. “And a little further in. Maybe a foot more. Now, stop. Stop!” After the car stopped—because Annette nearly put the brake pedal through the floor—her mom pointed to the front of garage
and car. “You see how that shelf lines up with the front of the car?”
“I can’t see the hose anymore.”
“Right. That’s how you know you’re in far enough. Just don’t hit the shelf or your father will hit the roof. It was the first thing he built in this house and he’s very proud of it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I hit it the week after he finished it.” Her mom shrugged. “I told him it was too deep of a shelf, but he measured it to be an exact fit.”
Then her mom shut up and went a bit pale, as if she’d suddenly thought of something.
Right. Dad wasn’t coming home.
Maybe.
Better not to think about that.
Annette was shaking as she put the car into Park and turned off the ignition. Then, she turned to her mom, certain of her triumph.
“You’ve never done that before, have you?” her mom asked, destroying any illusion that it was a habit.
“No, but I’ve wanted to for a long time.” Annette was sure that this would be the end of it, that her mother would take away the bonus round that the witch had offered.
“You should have said something sooner.” Her mom took a deep breath, obviously bracing herself for letting Annette down.
Figures, Annette thought. No one ever lets me have what I want now that Grandma’s gone. And she wanted to tear into the bag of chocolate chip cookies that she’d glimpsed in the grocery bags.
“Now, please, be really careful with your Grandmother’s car.” Annette glanced over in time to see her mom shake her head. “I can’t imagine that we can afford to get it fixed if you even ding it. And we might have a hard enough time getting along while she’s staying here without a wounded luxury car in the driveway.”
Annette felt her eyes widen. Her mother had clearly been abducted by aliens and a sophisticated robot, who looked a lot like her mother but didn’t know all the rules and limitations, had been left in her place.
And this robot was sometimes funny.
“Okay,” she said and got out of the car before the alien robot could change its mind.
Her grandmother’s sleek silver Jaguar convertible was parked at the curb, the witch standing beside it expectantly. Annette’s mouth went dry and her fingers sweat on the keys she held. What would Scott Sexton think if he saw her driving this car? Annette would have bet her last buck that he would talk to her then, if only to get a ride.
The witch opened the door with what seemed to be unnecessary care, then two big dogs leaped out of the backseat. “Champagne!” Beverly shouted. “Caviar!” The dogs made a beeline for Annette, their leashes trailing behind them across the snow.
“Poodles!” Annette cried with joy.
“God’s blood!” her mother said.
The white one barked happily, the black one sniffed Annette’s hands, and they both wagged their tails so hard that Annette thought they might fall off. They circled her, one after the other, moving so fast that they were hard to watch.
The witch had dogs! Annette had always wanted a dog, but a stuffed puppy had been the sole result of her attempt to persuade her mother that she was right.
She laughed with delight as the two bounced around her, then the white poodle leaned against her leg. When Annette rubbed behind its ear, it let out a sigh of satisfaction and seemed to grin at her. The black one, which appeared to be more cautious, then leaned against Annette’s other side and looked up expectantly.
She patted them both. They had such pretty eyes. And their fur was so soft and curly. And they weighed a lot—she could tell by the way they leaned against her leg—though she didn’t care.
Dogs! The witch had dogs!
Not just dogs: poodles! Annette knew a great deal about dogs, given her lifelong fascination with them, her ardent desire to have one, and her mother’s persistent refusal to have one in the house. She had done projects on dogs at school; she had read book after book on dogs and dog care; she was a veritable encyclopedia of dog lore. She had scored a stuffed puppy toy for these endeavors, despite dropping hints every Christmas and birthday since she could talk.
But poodles, big poodles had always been her favorites.
“Beverly, are those your dogs?” Annette’s mom asked, her words a bit strained.
Annette ignored her mom, who had never liked dogs, who had refused to let Annette ever have a dog, who just didn’t do the pet thing. Annette was busy, anyway, completely enchanted with these two affectionate poodles. The white one licked her ear.
“Actually, I’m more their person.” Beverly came over and picked up the ends of their leashes, brushing the snow from the black leather. “The girls certainly seem to think that they’re the ones in charge.”
“They’re poodles,” Annette informed her, forgetting that the witch must know what kind of dogs she had. “They’re the smartest dogs.”
“So they say,” the witch—who was seeming a lot less wicked—acknowledged with a smile. “They seem to have me figured out already.”
“Do you walk them?” Annette asked with awe. Maybe she’d rather have Scott see her walking these two dogs.
“Probably not as far as they’d like to go or as often as they’d like to go.” Beverly sighed. “But we have had one walk today. They leave no doubt of their desires.”
“But I don’t understand,” Annette’s mom said, as she slowly drew closer. She kept a wary watch on the dogs, which were no more dangerous than ladybugs. At least she watched the dogs when she wasn’t watching Annette. “How long have you had dogs, Beverly?”
“Since this morning. An old friend of mine passed away and left her girls to my care.”
“That’s a bit of a surprise, isn’t it? I mean, did you know about this responsibility ahead of time?”
“No, it was a complete surprise.” The witch paused for a beat. “As was the trust fund that the dogs inherited. Technically, I’m their guardian and they’re my wards.”
“They’re rich dogs?” Annette’s mom asked.
The witch laughed. “Very rich.” She shook her head a little. “Very very very rich.”
So that was why the witch had taken them on. Annette patted the dogs even as she formed a scheme to save them from the witch who only wanted them for their money.
“And you intend to stay here with them?” Annette’s mom asked, her tone revealing what she thought of that.
Not much, but Annette could have predicted that. She had fought the battle over a dog in the house a thousand times—never mind two dogs—and lost, but she couldn’t leave this be.
“Mom, you have to let them stay. Poodles are nice dogs, and they’re affectionate, and they don’t even shed. They won’t bother my allergies at all. Kids at school with allergies get poodles as pets all the time.” She sounded like a little kid and didn’t even care. The dogs watched her with complete trust. “Please, Mom, please.”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Annette. We’re out a lot and dogs need company, as well as exercise.”
“I’ll walk them,” Annette volunteered impulsively. “Twice a day, as far as they should be walked. And I’ll feed them, and I’ll give them water and I’ll brush their hair…”
“Fur,” her mom corrected.
“No, it’s hair.” Annette insisted. “Poodles have hair; that’s why they don’t shed.”
“I’m not sure about this…”
To Annette’s surprise, the witch intervened. “I don’t see the harm in giving it a try, Leslie. The girls are well-trained, at least from what I’ve seen so far. And I’ll be out less than you.” She smiled at Annette, who dropped to her knees to rub the dogs. The white one licked her cheek, then the black one followed suit. “And Annette has always wanted a dog. This would be a good chance for her to see what such a responsibility involves.”
It figured that adults could only see the merit of the dogs staying because she might learn something from them. Annette knew better than that, but she played along. “You’ll see, Mom. I
t will be perfect!”
“I think I’ve been out-numbered,” Annette’s mom remarked, keeping her arms folded across her chest so the dogs couldn’t sniff or touch her hands.
That didn’t last. The witch handed off the leashes so imperiously that Annette’s mom had no choice but to take them. “We’ve got to move the car,” she said, then winked at Annette.
Annette stood with reluctance, telling the dogs to sit until she came back. They did exactly as she told them, which thrilled her no end. And they stayed, sitting with front paws together, chests out, ears perked up and eyes locked upon Annette.
“They look like statues,” Annette whispered. Her mother was holding the leashes as if they were made of toxic waste. The dogs ignored her, maybe sensing that she wouldn’t be converted to the cult of poodle worship anytime soon, and kept their gazes fixed on Beverly and Annette.
“They do,” her grandmother acknowledged. “So, am I doing better as a grandmother? I mean, you always wanted a puppy, but this is close, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is. And Mom can’t really say no this way, since they’re still yours.”
“Sounds like a perfect solution to me.”
“Me, too.” Especially as Annette was going to figure out a way to keep those dogs for herself forever. She didn’t say that, though, just let the witch believe that they were a team.
As if.
Beverly pointed at the floor, her fingernail catching the light. “That left pedal is the clutch…”
* * *
Sharan’s house in Algiers was a glorified corridor, a shotgun house, called such because you could fire a gun at the front door and the bullet would come out the back door.
Provided you could shoot straight.
One room followed another. From the front porch—which was wooden, shaded and painted a giddy yellow—a visitor went through the front parlor or living room, a spare bedroom, the dining room, the kitchen and Sharan’s bedroom. The bathroom was notched out of one corner of the kitchen. Only the relatively new bathroom was a closed-off space.
Mercifully.
What was particularly striking about the house was the flamboyant use of color. The exterior, for example, was a brilliant cerulean blue, the exact color of the Mediterranean on a sunny summer afternoon. And the porch was yellow, the front door lime green. There was a bougainvillea climbing the side of the house, covering a good part of it in fuchsia flower bracts.
One More Time Page 18
