Sticky Fingers: Box Set Collection 2: 36 More Deliciously Twisted Short Stories (Sticky Fingers: The Complete Box Set Collection)

by JT Lawrence

  “They were playing!” I shouted. “It was an accident!”

  I looked at Clara, thinking she would want me to settle my emotions, but she was staring blankly at the table, still shocked by her daughter’s injury. It had been a difficult afternoon at the hospital. People not of our faith often treat us like aliens, or foreigners who don’t understand English or science.

  We’re going to have to X-ray her arm, the nurse had said. Do you know what that is?

  I’ve got a painkiller here for your daughter. Do you consent to this medicine?

  I hesitated on that one. People of our faith weren’t allowed pain medication. We were supposed to embrace pain and the lessons contained therein. Unless the condition was life-threatening, we weren’t allowed medicine at all. Clara and I had discussed it on the way to the hospital. A plaster cast wasn’t really medicine, we agreed. It was a tool, a prop. It was temporary. It wasn’t strictly medicine, but we’d keep it hidden from the other townsfolk just in case. We’d make sure Mary wore long sleeves to church.

  “A painkiller, Ma’am?” repeated the nurse.

  "Is Mary in pain?" I asked.

  The nurse sighed and placed a liver-spotted hand on her generous hip. "I wouldn't be asking permission for pain medication if she weren't in pain."

  I looked around sharply, searching for Clara, who had gone to the bathroom.

  “Yes,” I said softly, nodding at the nurse. “Please give it to her.”

  I hoped she’d forget to write it on the chart.

  I didn’t know if Clara blamed me. I had been the one looking after the children, and it was my son who pushed Mary. She avoided eye contact at the family meeting that night.

  "Clara?" I said. I needed to know that our relationship was okay. She looked up at me and blinked as if waking up from a daydream. Smarticus wound his tail around my legs and meowed. Angus sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose as if a headache was approaching. The fact that the head of the house was not saying anything intensified my anger, and I felt like I might explode. Instead, I stood up, still clutching my son, and looked Ruth-Anne directly in the eyes. "Ruth-Anne. If you ever touch a hair on any of our children's heads again, I will make sure you are sorry for it."

  Clara kept staring at the table. Ruth-Anne pursed her lips and glared back, so I left the room, taking Jonathan with me.

  My son's bruise faded, but he refused to look at or speak to Ruth-Anne, and he wouldn't let me leave the house if she was there. I had to take him grocery shopping, which was already a momentous task. The cashiers always eyed us suspiciously as we loaded dozens of loaves of bread and packets of fruit onto the counter.

  “You’re throwing a party?” she asked.

  “Nope,” I said.

  They always had something to say.

  You’re too skinny to eat all a-that.

  You sure like bread, huh? An’ you got enough cheese right here to start a cheese fac-tory!

  You opening a res-tau-rant?

  I had left my white hair cap in the car, hoping to blend in more with the other shoppers, but my waist-long hair and homemade dress still gave my faith away. It didn’t help that Jonathan stared back at the people who looked at us.

  “Why do they look at me like that, Mama?”

  “Because you’re special,” I said. “Now, pray that there’s a sale on in the fruit aisle and I’ll buy some extra bananas.”

  When Mary’s cast came off, the children celebrated. My daughter, Sharon, made her a flower tiara from daisies and ivy, and they sang a song thanking God. It was a sign to me that I needed to have an open heart, like them, and I committed to myself and the Lord that I would forgive Ruth-Anne for striking my child and treat her with the same generosity of spirit that Clara showed me. Unfortunately, God had other plans.

  The sun was sinking, and the hills that surrounded our compound turned a delicious, gold-tinged pink. Even the graveyard looked romantic, its simple tombstones brushed with marmalade hues. I was feeling more positive than I had in ages, and after helping Clara prepare the evening meal, I skipped outside to tidy up the toys the children had left in the garden. Ruth-Anne was supposed to be bathing them, but I saw her in the yard with Malachi and Becky, Clara's four-year-old twins. The three of them were crouching over, studying something. I guessed it was some plant or animal, and I let them be. I tidied the sandpit and pulled over the tarpaulin to protect it from the elements (and Smarticus) and wheeled a couple of bikes to the bike rack.

  "Mom!" said Malachi, Clara's son. I had a soft spot for him, and I liked it when he called me Mom. Not all the kids did, even though Angus insisted.

  “Mom!” he said again. “Come look here!”

  Ruth-Anne looked up at me and smiled. It was almost dark, but the moon was bright. The valley we lived in always felt closer to the stars than anywhere else in the world. I took a moment to breathe in the beauty and to enjoy the peace in my heart, then walked over to them with a wide smile. I approached with caution, hoping it wasn't a snake or a spider.

  Malachi pointed a gun at me. I recognised it immediately as Angus's revolver, which was kept in the family safe and only to be taken out in true emergencies. I wanted to think it was a toy, but we didn't allow play weapons. Malachi aimed it at me and pulled the trigger.

  “Bang! Bang!” he said. I flinched, and he laughed. “Got you, Mom. I shot you dead.”

  I wrenched the gun away from him with shaking hands.

  “What is WRONG with you?” I demanded, first of Malachi, and then Ruth-Anne.

  Malachi looked hurt.

  “We were just playing with it,” said Becky.

  Adrenaline was flooding my body. My shaking worsened, the gun bouncing in my hands.

  “What is wrong with you?” I asked Ruth-Anne. “Are you INSANE?”

  Ruth-Anne laughed in that way that irritated me so much. Brashly, loudly, as if hurling an insult through the air. “Relax,” she said. “It’s not loaded.”

  I clicked open the barrel and checked. There were no bullets.

  "Get inside," I told the twins. When they tried to argue with me, I cut them down with a searing stare. I left Ruth-Anne standing there in the dark and marched straight to Angus.

  “I want her out of this house,” I seethed. All the kindness and compassion I had been cultivating flew straight out of the window. “Either she goes, or I do.”

  “This is extremely upsetting,” said Angus, checking the gun and putting it back into the safe. I saw him change the password. “This is just a terrible thing.”

  "I'm sincere, Angus," I said. "If you choose her, I'm leaving. And I'm taking my children with me."

  “Please,” said Angus. “I can see you’re upset. I am, too.”

  “Malachi could have shot Becky,” I said. “He could have shot me.”

  “God has spared your lives.”

  “God wouldn’t have had to spare our lives if Ruth-Anne hadn’t put us in danger!” I was shouting, and I didn’t care.

  “This is something we can work through as a family,” said Angus. “It’s a teachable moment for Ruth-Anne.”

  “Angus,” I said, and my body shook all over like I had never experienced before. “I’ll be packing my bags tonight.”

  “Please,” said Angus. “Don’t do this.”

  I stabbed my chest with my finger. “I am not doing this. I am not doing any of this. Ruth-Anne is doing it. She’s been a force for destruction since the moment we met her.”

  That is indeed how I saw her: a dark tornado that would soon raze our house and everyone in it. Angus could stand by and watch if he wanted to, but I was going to save my children.

  Angus and Ruth-Anne had a noisy argument. Ruth-Anne had no qualms about shouting at Angus, which was the only thing I liked about her. We heard snippets of the fight through the walls, and some of the smaller children cried.

  Clara watched me pack, begging me to reconsider.

  “I’ll think of something,” she said. “I’ll keep us safe.”r />
  "You can't!" I said, zipping a bag closed. It was difficult to pack when my vision was awash with tears, but I had made up my mind. I kept imagining what would have happened if there had been bullets in the gun.

  "Hannah!" she shouted, and I snapped out of my emotional blaze and dropped the bag. I collapsed onto the floor and began to weep. Clara kneeled and embraced me.

  “Don’t leave me,” she said. “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

  We hugged harder than ever until the tension left my body, and I was exhausted. Then she put me to bed and tucked me in as if I were one of her children.

  I didn't see Ruth-Anne the next day, or the next. When I asked the children, they said she was sleeping. Maybe she felt bad about what had happened, or perhaps she had some kind of psychotic break. I was glad not to see her. Clara dutifully took her meals three times a day on the dinner tray decorated with farmhouse animals. Most of the meals came back untouched, but Clara was not discouraged. On the third day, she made her famous chicken broth served with freshly baked bread, and the bowl came back empty. My bags were still packed. I hadn't yet decided if I was going to follow through with my plan to leave. We already did so much work for so little money. Perhaps a job in a nice town somewhere would be better? But then I'd gaze at Clara and our children, and I couldn't imagine a life without her.

  In the middle of the night I stole into her bed and snuggled into her. “I love you,” I said, and she kissed me.

  Seeing as though the chicken broth was the only thing that Ruth-Anne would eat, we made a huge pot of it for the week and stored it in the cool room. The children were told not to touch it. With forgiveness and patience I admired, Clara warmed a portion of soup every mealtime for Ruth-Anne. She bathed her and dressed her in clean pyjamas, and spent hours reading scriptures to her. Despite the care being shown, Ruth-Anne's condition worsened. Soon she complained about loud noises when there were none, and said her body was afflicted with pins and needles. Her skin had an awful colour—cooked oats—and her hair began to fall out.

  “She needs a doctor,” Clara and I said to Angus.

  “Leave it in the hands of God,” he said.

  "What if we had left Mary's broken arm in God's hands?" I asked. I had by then become more forceful in my dealings with my husband. I had stayed quiet for too long, not causing trouble, not making a fuss, not rocking the boat.

  “Mary’s arm was broken,” said Angus. “Ruth-Anne just needs our prayers.”

  Clara and the children prayed by her side, asking God to heal her disquieted mind. Some days she would seem better, and I became suspicious that she was feigning her illness to avoid housework, but then a day or two later she’d be cold and sweating, or vomiting into the bucket beside her bed.

  “She’s getting worse,” Clara peeled off the rubber gloves she had been wearing to scrub Ruth-Anne’s bathroom. She smelled of bleach.

  Clara called a family meeting. "She should be at the hospital. Her condition is deteriorating."

  “Ruth-Anne will be well again in time,” said Angus. “Perhaps this is the Almighty’s way of allowing her time to consider her behaviour.”

  “You think God is punishing her?” I asked. The thought had occurred to me, too.

  “I cannot say what our Lord’s intentions are,” said Angus. “I can only say that His will is my command.”

  We prayed together, then moved to our rooms. Clara helped me unpack my bags.

  Ruth-Anne continued her downward spiral. We intensified our prayers and readings from the Scripture. The pastor came by to bless Ruth-Anne and give her the holy sacrament. Just like I had felt my happiness slipping away when Angus and Ruth-Anne became engaged, now I felt Ruth-Anne’s life slipping away.

  “Shall we just put her in the truck?” I whispered to Clara. “We can take her to the hospital before anyone knows what we’ve done.”

  “We’ll be excommunicated,” said Clara. “It is not our way. Angus has spoken, and it is in the hands of God. Besides, Ruth-Anne should be with her own people at a time like this. You know that the others are like. They don’t understand us.”

  I still thought I should just take her, but then I remembered the judgmental looks we got while shopping, the questions, the interrogating stares. I couldn't imagine Ruth-Anne staying in a hospital with all those strange, suspicious people around her. There was more chance of her getting better in her own bed, surrounded by love.

  Clara, exhausted by an all-night prayer vigil the night before, fell asleep before lunch-time, so I let her rest, fed the kids, and went to fetch some chicken broth to warm for Ruth-Anne. When I opened the door to the cool room, an empty porcelain bowl in my hands, I saw that our greedy tabby, Smarticus, was lying in the corner.

  “Oh, you naughty cat,” I said affectionately. “How did you get locked in here?”

  Smarticus was an expert at stealing fresh cream from the pail. When he didn't move, I walked over to pet him. As soon as I touched his fur, I drew back with a gasp and dropped the bowl. It smashed on the cold concrete beneath me. I began blinking rapidly, perhaps from the shock, and was about to call for Clara when I remembered she was asleep. I touched Smarty again, and recoiled again. His body was already stiff.

  I looked at the container of chicken broth and saw the tell-tale signs of feline tampering. The cat had managed to help himself to some of Clara's famous chicken broth.

  My heart was hammering as I swept up the shards of porcelain and binned them. I fetched an old frayed towel and wrapped Smarticus up, carrying his small body like a baby. I took him outside where I buried him in our family graveyard, where we’d all end up one day. The people not of our faith didn’t like it, but we didn’t register births or deaths in our compound. Our leaders said it was no-one’s business but our own.

  I watched the sky as it turned from blue to pink to fiery orange, and I decided to leave the matter of Clara’s chicken broth in the hands of God.

  Sticky Fingers

  Volume 6

  Contents

  1. Everland

  2. A Homemade Coffin

  3. The Ice Slipper

  4. The Fertility Cave

  5. Throw Her to the Wolves

  6. The White Mouse

  7. The Patron Saint of Children

  8. Schrödinger Dream

  9. Chicken Math

  10. My Fridge Is Empty

  11. Shellfire & Birdsong

  12. Honeytrap

  1

  Everland

  “We must check the sugar bowls for poison.”

  Derek gazed at the narrow winding road, and I could tell he hadn't registered what I'd said. He'd heard my voice, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Just kidding,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “I was joking. I said we should check the sugar bowls for poison. The Shirley Jackson novel, about the castle, you remember?” As the words left my mouth, the castle—our castle—came into view.

  Strictly speaking, Everland was a manor. Still, it had all the beautiful features of gothic architecture with its grey stone and turrets, all kept safe under the watchful eyes of the resident gargoyles. Derek laughed at me when I called it a castle.

  “We’ve bought a castle in the countryside,” I announced to our friends over dinner, and Derek had guffawed.

  “It’s a manor,” he had said, topping up our wine glasses.

  I showed the pics of the building I had on my phone.

  "Looks like a castle," they all said, especially with the seemingly ever-present fog that shrouded the tops of the turrets. It had thrilled our son Cameron; he couldn't believe his luck. Five-year-olds are like that with castles.

  “You’ll miss your friends in the city,” I told him. “You’ll be homesick. There’s no McDonald's in the country.”

  This did not deter him. Who needs a Happy Meal when you’ve got secret rooms and attics to explore?

  It was a sudden move, and I felt the whiplash. One week, Derek and I were young profess
ionals in the city, the next, we had sold our business and our home.

  “It’ll be good to get away from everything,” said Derek. I agreed. There was a lot of ‘everything' we needed to get away from. The city was crowded with criminals and beggars and useless infrastructure. A hijacker shot our neighbour in his driveway. A colleague and his whole family had been held at gunpoint while a gang of five thugs invaded their house and ransacked it. It wasn't just the crime. There were other things, too; more personal things. Darkness. We loved the city, but we had to think about our Cameron. He was at such a beautiful, tender age.

  While on a weekend break from the city we lost our phone signal and, without a map, got hopelessly lost. But the misty path had led us to the manor house; a FOR SALE sign staked on its front lawn. We were not usually impulsive, but Derek and I felt strangely drawn to the house.

  “It’ll be good for us,” Derek said. “Healthy.”

  We traded a small neat backyard for sprawling green land populated by squirrels and chickens. In the city we had high walls and electric fences; the new property was hemmed in by fruit trees of every kind. There was no WiFi, no processed food, no touchstones to trip us up every time we saw something that reminded us of what we had lost. We could leave the difficult memories behind.

  “I like this one,” Cameron said, choosing the smallest, darkest room on the ground floor.

  "Are you sure?" I asked. "The one near the staircase is much bigger." Our main bedroom was upstairs, and I wanted him a little closer by. "I like this one," he said again and began unpacking his things.

  “Perhaps Cam can sleep in our room,” I said to my husband. “Just till he settles in. I don’t want him walking up those steps at night. He could fall.”