Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men

by Молли Харпер

  “You don’t know me well enough—” He interrupted me again, which was not doing much to warm my heart toward him. “I understand that you love your grandma and you’re concerned for her well-being. I think that’s admirable, Jane.”

  How horrible was it that I wanted to tell him he had it totally wrong?

  He reached out to pat my hand. His own was clammy and damp enough to make me want to pull away. “I just want you to know that I love your grandma and I’m going to take care of her.”

  “It’s not her I’m worried about.”

  Mama popped her head into the doorway again. “Jane, could I see you in the kitchen for a minute?”

  Daddy sent me a frantic look. Clearly, the idea of more alone time with the geriatric lovebirds had him panicked. Slinking out of the room, I muttered, “Everybody stops interrupting me, or I’ll publish a newsletter featuring your secret thoughts of the day.”

  Mama had heated all of the food. She’d also rolled the plastic picnic ware into paper napkins and filled all of the cups with ice. She was now organizing and reorganizing the Tupperware lids, first putting them on the containers, then tucking them under the containers. She was doing pointless busywork. Thinking back, I realized Mama rarely came out of the kitchen for the leftover Christmas dinners.

  “You’re hiding in here,” I accused. “You don’t want to be in there any more than I do.

  You’ve been hiding in here for years.”

  “I have not!” Mama cried, not meeting my gaze.

  “Oh, it’s over now. I’ve seen the man behind the curtain,” I whispered. “I take no holiday guff from you, from now on. Ever.”

  Mama ignored me while she fiddled with the defrost feature on the microwave.

  “Look, as much fun as it is trying to send secret warning messages to Dead Grandpa Walking, I need to go.” I looked at the clock. “It’s getting close to six, and I would like to avoid further awkwardness with Jenny.”

  “You’re already here. Why don’t you just stay?” Mama wheedled. “The boys haven’t seen you—”

  “Since the funeral home, last week,” I said. “And they were too busy destroying the telephone-shaped ‘Jesus Called Him Home’ floral arrangement to talk to me. I don’t think my absence will scar them for life.”

  The pounding arrival of the boys at the front door told me that I was too late.

  “Grandma! Grandma! We got Blood Spatter Carjacker Mayhem Four!” Andrew shouted, waving the gore-soaked video game case at my mother. “Can we play it now? Please?”

  “Oh, honey, you know Grandma doesn’t have a game system—” Jenny said, coming into the kitchen. She skidded to a stop when she saw me.

  “Everything here is boring.” Andrew sighed as he and Bradley slinked into the living room. If he had paid attention to the look on his mother’s face, he would know that if he stuck around, it might get interesting. Or at least blood-spattery.

  My brother-in-law, Kent, the chiropractor whom I’ve rarely heard speak, followed at Jenny’s heels. The moment he saw me, he pivoted and trailed after the boys.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” Jenny said, sending a reproachful look Mama’s way.

  “Mama, I agreed to see her at Bob’s visitation, but that’s it. You can’t let her come over and not tell me. It upsets the boys to see her.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The boys didn’t even notice I was in the room. And if they did and you actually told them their aunt was a vampire, they’d probably think I was the coolest thing since Blood Spatter Carjacker Mayhem Four. And don’t blame Mama. I didn’t mean to stay so long, but I got caught up talking. I’m leaving now.”

  “Oh, but you can’t go!” Mama cried. “This is the first time we’ve all been in the house together since you …”

  “Died?” I finished for her. “You can say it. I died.”

  “Shh!” Jenny shushed me, looking toward the den.

  “Please, can’t you both just put this all aside for the holiday?” Mama begged. “For the family?”

  “No!” Jenny and I chorused.

  Mama switched tactics just by dropping her voice an octave. “Now, girls, this is just silly.

  We’re family. And it’s Christmas. If you can’t forgive your family around the holidays, what—”

  “Stop,” I told her. The way she stretched the word into “faaaaaamily” when she wanted something always set my teeth on edge.

  “The time of year doesn’t change anything. I don’t want her around my family,” Jenny ground out.

  I shot her a look that could have dropped a more observant woman. So, it was her family.

  As far as she was concerned, I wasn’t part of it anymore. Frankly, she was welcome to it.

  “I’m going.”

  “Now, Jenny, be a good sister,” Mama told Jenny. “We have to have the whole family together for Christmas. The good Christian thing to do would be to—”

  “She’s dead!” Jenny cried. “The good Christian thing to do would be to give her a decent burial.”

  “Now, Jenny, you know you don’t mean that,” Mama said through clenched teeth.

  “Burial talk is my cue to go,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “I think I’ll be leaving the country for New Year’s, so please don’t call.”

  I stuck my head into the den to give Daddy a quick good-bye, which he couldn’t hear over the screeching and beeping of the boys’ new radio controlled-monster trucks.

  From the kitchen, I heard Mama whine, “Tell Jane it just won’t be Christmas without her.”

  “You have me, Kent, the boys here, why—” I closed the front door on Jenny’s wounded response.

  I looked back through the window. Wilbur looked absolutely miserable. I was sympathetic, but when it came to the Jameson family Christmas, it was every man, woman, and vampire for themselves.

  10

  Adult werewolf children are expected to stay within the confines of pack territory.

  Those who move more than a five-minute run from pack headquarters are either disowned or hosts to frequent weekend guests.

  —Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

  From the dawn of time, women have formed friendships for one purpose only: to make sure they’ll have someone to provide unpaid serf labor for their weddings. And we all just go along with it, spurred by fear that if we don’t submit to the bridal demands, there will be no one to slave over our own weddings.

  That’s why, six months before the actual wedding, I was spending an evening measuring and cutting exactly fourteen inches of cornflower-blue ribbon over and over and over and … over. These ribbons would be sent to a printing company to be stamped with “HMS Titanic” on one side and “Zeb and Jolene—Struck by Love” on the other. They would then be tied around old-fashioned hurricane lamps as part of Jolene’s carefully planned tablescape. Each table was going to be named for famous (read: deceased) Titanic passengers, such as John Jacob Astor and Molly Brown, then decorated with hurricane lamps and fake ice. Of course, no one would pay attention to a seating plan, which is another Southern wedding tradition.

  Jolene had the gall to call this gathering a “work party,” in the style of Amish people who get together to make a quilt or build a barn. I didn’t think Amish women typically had a Camel hanging from the corner of their lips while they worked, like Jolene’s aunt Lulu.

  Also, the Amish employed more lenient leaders than Jolene, who had the tendency to become a little bossy when it came to her nuptials.

  “It has to be at least fourteen inches to make sure each bow has about three inches of hanging ribbon on each side,” Jolene told us. I would have questioned whether Jolene was serious, but she didn’t respond well when I laughed at her “All bridesmaids must cut their hair to exactly three inches below the shoulder by March” edict.

  Pointing out that the printing company would have cut these ribbons for an additional $250 would have resulted in huffy eye rolls from Jolene’s battalion of cranky cousins.

 
Besides, Aunt Vonnie, who had somehow heard my full opinion of the bridesmaids’ dresses, was already giving me the dagger eyes.

  The McClaine clan alpha couple—known to Jolene as Mom and Dad—lived in the main house on the compound, a quaint little yellow farmhouse, with white shutters and a porch swing, surrounded by a series of increasingly dilapidated trailers. Inside, the walls were decorated with Thomas Kinkade prints and silk floral arrangements saved from funeral services. Everything was neat and clean and protected by doilies. And everybody was naked. Which explained the doilies.

  Jolene and her cousins whipped their clothes off the moment they got in the door, the way most people kick off their shoes.

  “Does this bother you?” she’d asked the first time I stumbled into her mother’s house.

  “I just don’t know where to look,” I said, settling for a strange orange silk-flower arrangement mounted on the wall. The truth was, as the only clothed person there, I felt weird. I felt more naked than Jolene.

  The only cousin who was remotely friendly was Charlene, who had asked for my home and e-mail addresses twice in the four hours since meeting me. She wanted to be my best friend. Seriously. My best friend. You cannot be nice to people like Charlene. It’s like feeding a stray cat. The cat just keeps coming back until you have to move. So I was being overtly rude to her, which wasn’t really helping my standing with the rest of the family.

  Fortunately, among werewolf women, the word “bitch” is not offensive. I was having a lot of fun with that.

  “Hey there, bitches!” I called as I came through the door. “What are my favorite bitches up to today?”

  The only response was a chorus of unenthusiastic, drawled “Hi’s” and “Heys.”

  “I know what you’re doin’,” Jolene muttered as she hugged me. “And it’s not funny.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” I said, tucking wavy crimson hair behind her ears. She scowled at me. “I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”

  Jolene was clearly the Golden Child in her clan. Her mother, Mimi, and all of the aunts fawned over her, telling and retelling cute stories from when she was a cub. Any accomplishment or news from the other cousins was matched with something about Jolene. Jolene was the only one of her cousins to attend community college. Jolene could skin a rabbit in two bites. Jolene was Miss Half-Moon Hollow 1998. Jolene and Zeb would be the first couple in her family to plan an actual honeymoon—to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, which was where you went when you couldn’t afford to go to Florida but wanted to be far enough away that your parents couldn’t “drop in” on the wedding night.

  “Jolene works at Uncle Clay’s sandwich shop,” Aunt Lola said, beaming beatifically atJolene. “He says all the customers just love her. She’s so helpful, so sweet. She just makes everybody she meets so happy.”

  Raylene, Angelene, Lurlene, and Company let loose a collective sigh and synchronized eye roll. Sensing that the mob might be turning ugly, Jolene asked, “How’s the new job, Raylene?”

  “Fine,” Raylene said, her voice flat as she concentrated on cutting the ribbon without fraying it.

  “Just fine?” Jolene asked. “I mean, it’s got to be fun, right?”

  Raylene shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Well, you seen one, you seen ‘em all, right, Raylene?” Angelene asked slyly.

  “Angelene,” Mimi growled. (Yes, literally.)

  “I just started as a cake decorator at the Sweet Tooth,” Raylene explained. “I specialize in adult cakes.”

  “Like Black Forest?” I asked. “That always seemed pretty grown-up to me.”

  I really missed Black Forest cake, or any kind of cake. I missed chocolate. Bah! I still can’t believe the last food I ate was potato skins.

  “No, Raylene makes cakes that look like”—Aunt Tammy looked around as if there were spies lurking behind the lace curtains—”sex parts.”

  Raylene sighed. “I make penis cakes.”

  Well, at least I knew what we were serving at the bachelorette party.

  “How does one get into the penis-cake field?” I asked. “Where do you buy the cake pans for that?”

  Raylene stared at me, unsure whether I was teasing her or honestly interested. Sensing a lull in the conversation, Aunt Lola—Raylene’s own mother—changed the subject back to Jolene.

  “We’re all just so excited about Jolene’s wedding.” Lola sighed. “We’ve all waited for this, for just years now. And Zeb’s such an … he’s a sweet boy. Tell us again how he popped the question?”

  Arlene muttered, “‘Cause we haven’t heard this story in almost an hour now.”

  Jolene obviously heard her cousin but ignored her. To be fair, I had heard the story a few times myself.

  “Zeb had this big plan with a restaurant and hidin’ the ring in a soufflé,” Jolene said, smiling dreamily. “And then I stepped out my front door, he saw me all dressed up, and he blurted out ‘Willyoumarryme?’ and shoved the ring at me. It was so cute!” Jolene cooed, looking down at the little diamond ring for which Zeb had plunked down two months of his teaching salary. “He almost shouted at me when he proposed. He was supposed to have the waiters at Julian’s sing this cute little ‘Will You Marry Me?’ song. Most of them are in the high-school swing chorus, and when we got to the restaurant and they found out we were already engaged, they were so mad they had missed their chance to perform!

  After that, Zeb was afraid to order the soufflé. Who knows what they might have done to it?”

  “Did he cry?” Lurlene asked. “I heard that human males cry at the drop of a hat.”

  The amazing thing about werewolves, who spend half their lives behind a human mask, is that they have terrible poker faces. It’s part of that canine earnestness thing. For a brief second, a look of pure annoyance flashed over Jolene’s perfect features. Lurlene smirked.

  “How’s it goin’ with Roy?” Jolene asked. “Isn’t he the one who drives the ice cream truck?”

  There was that annoyed flash again, only on Lurlene’s face.

  “That was Ray,” Lurlene said, glaring. “Roy and I aren’t dating anymore.”

  “Wait, didn’t I see his name in the paper for somethin’?” Jolene said.

  “Oh, he got busted for trying to sneak a brisket out of the Super Saver in his jacket,” Tammy said in the most helpful tone I’d heard in a while. “He would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t dropped the brisket.”

  “Oh! Is he the one who yelled, ‘Who threw this meat at me?’ and then tried to run out of the store?” I giggled. “Didn’t it take three Taser shots to get him down? Knowing that he’s a werewolf now, well, that makes a lot more sense … I’m not helping, am I?”

  I ducked my head and pretended that measuring ribbons exactly was the most important thing in the world.

  “So, Jolene, tell us all about your dress,” Aunt DeeDee squealed. “I haven’t seen it yet, but Vonnie said it’s just gorgeous.”

  Cue another eye roll from the cousins.

  “It is,” I volunteered. “Really gorgeous.”

  Cue another eye roll. Sensing the shift in the tide, Jolene generously switched subjects to Braylene’s son. “Mama finished Jake’s little captain’s outfit.”

  At my questioning eyebrow, she said, “Jake’s going to be our ring bearer. We found a pattern for an authentic period captain’s suit. I just hope he can get down the aisle without stripping it off.”

  “Have you found a figurehead yet?” Aunt Tammy asked.

  “No, I’m thinking about having Uncle Deke carve one.” Jolene pouted.

  “Titanic didn’t have a figurehead.”

  Three guesses who said that. They all turned to me, the person who had dared to disagree with Jolene.

  “I know.” Jolene shrugged. “But it’s just so nautical and romantic.”

  “Actually, most figureheads on ships featured bare breasts because sailors believed that the best way to keep storms and misfortunes at bay was to have a woman sacrifice her dignity
to the gods. Flash a little boob, get smooth sailing. It’s not so much romantic as Clash of the Titans meets Girls Gone Wild.”

  And if they weren’t staring before, they certainly were now. “I’m the only person in the room who knew that, aren’t I?”

  Jolene wrapped an arm around me. “I love it when you pretend to be normal.”

  “Even when I was human, I wasn’t normal,” I admitted. I lowered my voice as the pack returned to their handiwork. “So, what’s Mama Ginger been up to lately?”

  “Nothin’,” she muttered. “That has me worried. It’s been too quiet. Zeb said she’s been distracted by hatin’ your boyfriend, which is kind of nice. I know it can’t last long, but I’m enjoying it while it lasts.”

  “I think that’s about as healthy as you can expect to be,” I assured her.

  Mollified for a moment, Jolene measured out several lengths of ribbon, rolled it back on the spool, measured it again, rolled it back. Grunting, she yanked the entire length of ribbon off the spool in a heap of blue sateen. When she picked up the scissors, I gently took the ribbon out of her hand. “Jolene, I may be going out on a limb here, but is something else bothering you?”

  “Have you noticed anything odd about Zeb?” she asked. “I know this wedding stuff has him all stressed out, but he’s just been so distant, like he doesn’t even want to talk to me.

  And he’s been kind of mean. Some of the things he’s been saying are just hurtful.”

  When I gave her an intentionally blank look, she said, “Like that joke about me not being very smart. And I don’t think he realizes how much he talks about you. We’ll be out to eat, and he’ll talk about what sort of food you used to like. We’ll watch a movie, and he’ll say, ‘I’ve already seen this with Jane.’ It’s just hard, you know? It’s like you’re an exgirlfriend, but you never really broke up with him.”

  “I never really dated him, either,” I told her.

  “I know that,” she said, nudging me with her arm. “It’s just hard to live up to you, Jane.”