seven

The rain stopped while we walked back to the pharmacy. The Georgia Genetics van was gone. I cut around Red and hurried into the store. Lester was gone. Kendall sat on a stool, flipping through Brides magazine. “You all find Emerson?” she asked without looking up.

“Negative,” Red said.

“No one ever does.” Kendall licked her finger and turned a page. “Lester got called away. Something about the funeral. He said to tell you that he’d set up another DNA test.”

I couldn’t answer because my throat was closing. I grabbed my purse, dragged out my inhaler, and took a puff.

Kendall flipped another page. “Your boyfriend called. He had a flat tire and he’s waiting for Triple A. I’m supposed to give you all a ride home.”

The leather screaked as she slid off the stool. She pulled a Hello Kitty key ring from her pocket. “Most of these keys are Lester’s,” she said, her face swelling with pride.

“He must trust you,” Red said.

“Yeah, I’m the only one he trusts. He even let me pick the code to his burglar alarm. It’s my birth date—ain’t that cool? My car’s out back. It’s brand-new, a black Mazda. You all go on. Just let me tell Norris I’m leaving.”

“I’m here,” a deep, nasal voice said.

I turned, and a tall, gaunt man glided forward. His eyes were pale green, the size of guinea eggs, and they bulged from their sockets. He lifted a bony, raptor-like hand and swiped it over his broad forehead.

“I’m Dr. Norris Philpot,” he said. He spoke as if his mouth were filled with grapes, and he pronounced Norris like Norrith, squishing the Ss. “Didn’t you used to work at Hoot-erth?”

I nodded. Years ago I’d waited tables at Hooters. “I’m surprised you remember me.”

“I ate there every Friday night.” His lips parted, and a glossy strand of saliva stretched between them. “I tipped you extra.”

Kendall jingled her keys. “I hate to rush you all, but we need to scoot.”

Red looked relieved and pushed me toward the back door. Norris blocked my way. He gave me a bordering-on-seductive smile that triggered my gag reflex. “What are you doing thith Friday night?” he asked.

“I’m busy.” I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“Name the day and I’m yourth.”

I was too startled to answer. I let out a fake wheeze and grabbed my inhaler to cover my revulsion.

Red nudged him aside. “She’s got a boyfriend.”

“I’m talking to Teeny, not you.” Norris twisted around him and gripped my shoulder. “What about tomorrow night? We could thee a movie and go dancing.”

While he talked, his raptor claw kneaded my flesh. It felt creepy, and I shrank back.

“Hey, let her go.” Red’s voice carried a switchblade-edge.

“Thay out of it,” Norris said.

“Move your hand, athhole,” Red said.

Norris’s claw rose from my shoulder. He pointed at Kendall. “Get that rattlethnake out of here.”

*   *   *

Kendall talked nonstop while she drove toward the farm. “I used to babysit Emerson,” she said. “What a brat.”

“I thought she went to a private school,” Red said.

“She came home on holidays and for two weeks every summer. Lester was so impressed with me, he hired me to be his cashier. But I do a little of everything. I’m his right-hand man.”

Red chuckled. “I just bet you are.”

“When Lester and I get married, I’ll make Emerson go to a public school. It was good enough for me. Besides, she needs a home life.”

I sat up straight. Kendall and Lester were getting married? Was she making this up? Or were they having an affair? Why would a cute girl get mixed up with a self-righteous pharmacist? He was twice her age. And, until Barb’s death, he’d been married.

Red stiffened. “You having a fling with Philpot?”

“Kinda. Sorta.” She slapped her graduation tassel, and the blue threads jiggled.

“Can you define kinda-sorta?” Red asked.

“I haven’t slept with him,” Kendall said.

“So it’s a platonic thing?” I asked.

“Platonic?” She looked confused. “Is that a type of enema?”

“An affair,” I clarified. “Romance minus the sex.”

“I guess Lester and me are platonic. But we know each other in itty-bitty biblical ways.”

“What would you call itty?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you in front of a man.” She shot a wary glance at Red. “But I can assure you that I haven’t sinned.”

“Of course not.” Red made an obscene hand gesture.

Kendall pressed her lips together, and her jaws clenched as if she were grinding hard candy. “For your information, Mr. Man, I know what the Bible says about fornication. And Lester and me haven’t gone that far. I’m saving myself for marriage.”

Right, I thought, remembering the peep show she’d put on for him by the hemorrhoid display. I wasn’t interested in sin. I wanted to hear about her relationship with Emerson.

“I’m the very opposite of Barb,” Kendall said. “She slept with anything. Why, she even banged my cousin. He laid her carpet and then she laid him. If she saw a dick, she’d hop on and ride. That’s why everybody called her the Train.”

She’d spoken about the Train in the past tense, as if Barb had died months ago. I leaned forward. “Has Lester told you what happened to his wife?”

“Yes, and I was so shocked. Can you imagine hanging yourself with panty hose? What was she thinking? Only fat ladies wear hose in the summertime.”

Red’s eyes narrowed. “Is that how she did it?”

“That’s what Lester said.” Kendall glanced over her shoulder and grinned at me. “It’s so good to see you again, Teeny. Remember that time you babysat me and I lost a tampon up inside me? A lot of people would have laughed. But you drove me to Dr. O’Malley and he took it out. I appreciate how you took me seriously. So I’m gonna give you a hint. I saw how Norris was eyeing you. Which isn’t surprising. He used to be an eye doctor. But he lost his medical license, and he’s kinda dangerous.”

Red snorted. “What did he do?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that. I’d die of embarrassment. If you want to know what happened, talk to Zee Greer. She works at Baskin-Robbins. Just stay away from Norris. He’s a bad skirt chaser. But that’s all I’m gonna say. I can’t speak ill of my future brother-in-law.”

Kendall lapsed into silence. Ten minutes later, she swerved down my driveway. Gravel pinged against the fenders, like bullets hitting a tin can.

After she left, I walked onto the porch. The storm had left behind a glossy dampness and water still dripped from the eaves. I groped inside my purse for the house key. From the corner of my vision, something red streaked across the porch. The wooden glider jerked, then it banged against the side of the house.

“Who’s there?” I yelled.

Red lunged onto the porch so fast, he bumped into the glider. It wobbled backward, the chains squeaking, and surged forward. In the middle of the seat, a puddle of water skated across the wood and dripped over the edge of the swing, the drops scattering in all directions, fine and prickly, like needles.

Emerson stepped around the corner of the house, her polka-dot dress stuck to her legs. “It’s just me,” she said in a small voice.

“Jesus, kid,” Red cried.

“We’ve been out of our minds over you,” I said. “How’d you get here?”

“Hitched a ride with an old lady.” Emerson squeezed her braids, and water dribbled down. “She had a cast on her wrist for carpool tunnel syndrome.”

Red lifted his hands above his head. “Why’d you run, kid?”

“Because I felt like it.” She stuck out her tongue.

“Lester will get your DNA,” Red said.

“Not unless he traps me and gives me roofies.”

She knew about roofies? I unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer. Sir and T-Bone pranced around me, pausing to sniff my dress and shoes. Once again, they’d escaped from the parlor.

Emerson’s teeth clicked. “Burr, it’s cold in this house. I better put on dry clothes or I’ll catch Ebola.” She darted past the curio cabinet and up the stairs, setting Aunt Bluette’s Precious Moments figurines to trembling.

I started after her, but Red pulled me back. “Let her go, homegirl.”

“Shouldn’t we let Lester know that she’s safe?”

“Like he cares. Give Kendall a chance to drive back to the store and call her. She’ll be more than happy to pass the message along.”

“Red, I like you, but you’ve got to stop telling me what to do.” I squirmed away from him and bolted up the stairs. I stopped outside Emerson’s door and knocked.

I heard a rustling sound, then her door opened. She still wore her damp dress, and she looked old and wizened. “Are you going to yell at me because I runned away?”

“No.”

She scraped her toe over the rug, tracing flowers in the pattern. “Then why are you here? To spy on me? Report my crimes to Mr. Philpot?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, you will. I want Coop for a daddy, and you want your booty call.”

I stared down at her, amazed that her small body could be filled with so much worry.

A bump moved in her throat. “If you have sex with Coop, you could make a fetus. And I’ll be left out.”

I cupped my hand over my chest, feeling the outline of the diamond ring. She was still fear biting. The only cure was to bake something warm and sugary—food heals, food cures.

“Right now, I’m going to make a peach pie,” I said.

“Don’t change the subject. I know all about sex. And don’t say I’m too young. I’ll be eleven soon. Mrs. Philpot said I’ll be dating in four years. She told me everything about boys.” Her eyes narrowed. “So don’t tell me you and Daddy aren’t you-know-whatting. Even bedbugs do it.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“As if.”

The minute I headed down the hall, she ran after me, clutching the hedgehog to her chest. Aunt Bluette would have compared Emerson to a Nutty Buddy cone—a tooth-breaking layer of hard chocolate and chopped nuts with a shivery-sweet center.

Red leaned against the counter, drinking a Diet Coke. “What you fixing to make?”

“Something with bacteria,” Emerson said from the doorway.

Red laughed. “Thought you was gonna change clothes.”

“I changed my mind instead.”

Red turned to me. “What’re we having for lunch?”

“I was thinking about a nice risotto, salad, baked potatoes, mayonnaise biscuits, and peach pie with a lattice crust.”

“You guys are nuts,” Emerson said. “All you think about is food.”

While she traipsed around the kitchen, I phoned Coop but got turfed straight to voice mail. I left a message about Emerson. When I hung up, she was right beside me. She tucked the hedgehog between her knees and held out two rubber bands.

“Teeny, will you braid me?”

“Sure.” Using my fingers, I divided her hair into three sections. I remembered how Aunt Bluette used to gently run a brush over my possumy curls. She used to keep a little TV propped on the kitchen counter, and we’d watch true crime shows. In one episode, the cops had needed a serial killer’s DNA, and they’d bagged a hairbrush.

As I gazed at Emerson’s clean scalp, I saw how easy it would be to pluck a strand. Without hesitating, I grabbed a glistening hair and tugged. It popped free, long and curly, with a tiny filament at the end.

Emerson shrieked and the hedgehog thumped against the floor. When she saw what I was holding, she slapped my hand. The hair went flying. We reached for it at the same time, but she was quicker. Cupping the hair in her fist, she raced down the hall.

“You almost had it, homegirl.” Red picked up the hedgehog.

The toilet flushed, and seconds later Emerson skidded back to the kitchen. She jerked the hedgehog from Red’s hands.

“Relax, kid. I ain’t gonna take your toy.”

“But Teeny would.” Keeping her eyes on me, she twirled the hedgehog by its ears. “Traitor. Jezebel. Witch.”

I just stared. Her lips twisted into a giant snarl. “Why are you always looking at me?”

I shrugged. “You’re cute.”

“And you’re a hair-pulling bitch.” She shivered, and fine bumps appeared on her arms.

Red pushed away from the counter. “Don’t call Teeny names.”

“She’s a hooker.”

“Jesus, kid. I ought to wash out your mouth.” Red’s ears turned scarlet.

“Wash your own. You took the Lord’s name in vain. That’s a whole lot worser than what I said.”

Red’s mouth opened and clamped shut. I waved my hand to show that I wasn’t offended.

Emerson lifted her braid, dragged it through the air, and traced an indecipherable word. “Know what I wrote? I wrote Teeny’s middle name. It starts with a B and ends in H.”

“You only got one letter right,” I said. “My middle name is Bluette.”

“Isn’t that the French word for ‘bite me’?” She stomped out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs.

“Sheesh,” Red said. “I ain’t ever heard a little girl talk trash. Why’s she doing that?”

“You’ve got a psychology degree. Figure it out.” I pushed a straw basket into his hands. “And while you’re at it, fetch me twelve ripe peaches.”

He pushed open the back door and strode toward the orchard. I opened the cabinet and pulled out ingredients. Minutes later, a floorboard creaked in the hallway, then Emerson stepped into the kitchen, wearing a pink one-piece swimsuit. Cat’s eye sunglasses and flip-flops completed the ensemble. She tottered across the room, dragging a quilt and humming to herself. She seemed to have forgotten about the hair-pulling incident.

“Wow, don’t you look fancy,” I said.

“Thanks. It was a gift from my dorm mother at Chatham Academy.” Emerson straightened her sunglasses. “I’m going to lie in the sun for a while.”

She flung open the back door and pranced down the steps.

The phone rang. I answered with a muffled hello.

“Teeny, this is Lester.”

I imagined his thin, little mouth pressed against Kendall’s. Had Barb known about the kinda-sorta affair? That would explain why she’d left Bonaventure. But it didn’t explain why she’d killed herself.

“I was just about to call you,” I said, and bumped my lie count up to twenty-four. “Emerson is with me. She hitched a ride to my farm.”

“Super dooper,” he said. “I’ll pick her up tonight. Let’s say eight-ish. But don’t tell her I’m coming—unless you want her to run off again.”

“I won’t.” I hung up. If only I could feed him a Bitter Apple Pie, a time-honored Templeton laxative. I wouldn’t give him a lethal dose, just enough to cause unstoppable diarrhea. If he had to sit on a commode for a few days, Emerson could stay with me.

I glanced out the window. She was stretched on the quilt, listening to her iPod. I felt sad to my bones. Her whole world was fixing to change, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.