The Odds of Getting Even (8 page)

We watched Starr's Impala ease into the night as a pack of strangers filed in, discussing Capers's story and the jailbreak.

“Starr's not headed for the church,” Dale said as his taillights disappeared. “He's staking out Daddy.”

“I doubt it, Dale,” the Colonel said. “If Starr knew where Macon was, he'd arrest him. Finish that silverware. The supper crowd's on its way.”

As we worked, Dale whispered: “Mo, something's wrong at church.”

True, I thought. Your daddy robbed it and you can't say it.

He wrapped a set of silverware wrong, unwrapped it, wrapped it again. It scared me. Dale and me been wrapping silverware since second grade. Stress, Skeeter had said. First the jailbreak. Now Mr. Macon robbing his church, Thes turning on him, people white-trash-talking his family.

He looks like a candle burning out, I thought.

“Things are . . . wrong,” he said. “I can't
think
it yet
but I can feel it. Right here,” he said, laying his hand just below his ribs. “In that place that folds up like a lawn chair when you're scared.”

“I know that place,” Harm said, his voice soft.

I didn't say it, but I knew it too. The place that folds in on itself when I think Upstream Mother's never coming, or that the Colonel and Miss Lana will get so wrapped up in each other, they won't need me anymore.

“Don't tell Mama about the footprint,” Dale said. “She's upset enough.”

“Deal,” I said, watching the Azalea Women's van wheel across the parking lot. She knows by now anyway, I thought, as they surged for the door.

Dear Upstream Mother,

Dale's daddy robbed Creekside Baptist. The talk's all over town.

School takes in late tomorrow thanks to a so-called Teacher's Work Day. Word on the street is Line Dancing is involved.

I'm getting scared for Dale. Me and him been outsiders all our lives but I never seen it as bad as this.

I grabbed my phone. Harm picked up. “Hello?” he said, his voice sleepy.

“I'm worried about Dale.”

He yawned. “Me too. Come over tomorrow. Breakfast is at eight. How's Lavender? I didn't get to ask you at the café.”

“Lavender?” I said, sitting up. “Has something happened to Lavender?”

“No. But Macon's his daddy too.”

What kind of future wife am I? I hadn't even thought about Lavender! “I was just going to check,” I said. “Fortunately I have his number seared into my brain.”

I prepared a few sensitive off-the-cuff remarks as I dialed. Sadly, he didn't answer. “Lavender's home, Crissy speaking. With whom are you?”

Crud. A twin.

“It's Mo,” I said. “I hope Lavender's hair loss problem isn't as contagious as people say. You're brave. Do you have a diagnosis yet?”

The phone clattered to Lavender's end table and his front door slammed.

“Crissy?” Lavender called. He picked up. “Who the heck is this?”

“It's Mo. I just called to check on you. Crissy sounded like she had a little hairball in her throat, which can happen in her line of work.”

I could hear his smile. “I'm sure she didn't, but thanks for checking on me, Mo. I'm okay. Once the
chin-wagging stops, life will go back to normal. It always does.”

I hesitated. “Dale actually thinks Mr. Macon didn't rob the church.”

“I know,” he sighed. “Truth is, Macon probably hit it for cash on his way out of town. Listen: Dale and I are helping Mama break collards first thing in the morning, and then we're trucking them to Ayden. Want to ride?”

Me? Spend the morning with Lavender, who I will one day walk with in the evenings, discussing our adopted children and our foster parrot, Cliff, whose behavior problems keep us awake at night?

I sighed. Miss Lana says canceling one date for another is tawdry, which if I ever look that up, I'm pretty sure it will be bad.

“I hate to break your heart, but I got a breakfast date.”

I heard his grin. “Say hey to Harm for me. 'Night Mo.”

Harm? How did he know it was Harm? I returned to my letter:

Just talking to Lavender settles my soul. Scaring off a twin scores double. Faking hard-to-get scores triple. When you meet Lavender, you'll see why.

Breakfast with Harm tomorrow.

Mo

Breakfast at Harm's

I still had Dale on my mind as I knocked on Harm's kitchen door.

“Just in time, LoBeau,” Harm said, swinging the door open. His dark hair still glistened from his shower. He wore a white T-shirt neatly tucked into dark jeans. “Help yourself to juice. We eat in five.”

Harm looks at home in a kitchen, spinning from sink to stove. Before Harm moved in, Mr. Red's kitchen held towers of dirty dishes and watched the world through grimy panes. Now a potted begonia sat in the center of the polished oak table and curtains hung neat at the sparkling windows.

I grabbed an orange juice. “Where'd you learn to cook?”

“My mom.” He flipped a pancake and slid the black iron griddle to catch it. “She'll be a big singer soon as she gets a break.”

“That's where you get your good voice,” I said.

He grinned. “The point is
somebody
had to cook.”

His string-bean arms are filling out, I thought, watching him tip a pancake onto the spatula and flip it. “You been lifting Dale's weights.”

“A little,” he said, grabbing his wrist and flexing his muscles.

“Show-off,” Mr. Red said, shuffling in to wash his paint-covered hands at the sink. Miss Lana says always compliment your host's home. “Nice shade of . . . pink,” I said, watching the pink paint swirl down the drain.

He gave me a look from beneath white eyebrows. “Just sprucing up the place,” he said. “Pink is Lacy's favorite color.”

Pink? Is he mad?

“Used to be, anyway,” Harm said. “Seventy or eighty years ago.”

Mr. Red smiled. “I'm making things nice for Harm and me. If Lacy likes it too, so much the better.” He dried his hands, leaving a faint pink smudge on the towel.

“Breakfast is served,” Harm said, placing his pancakes on the table. I sat and whisked my paper towel into my lap.

“Bless the food, bless the cook. Amen,” Mr. Red muttered, and shoved the pancakes my way. “Where's Dale? He usually trails you like a shadow.”

I loaded up on pancakes. “Helping Miss Rose and Lavender.”

Harm stacked his flapjacks neat as Tuesday. Mr. Red forked up a landslide.

“Miss Lana said invite you for Thanksgiving dinner at our house,” I said, and they smiled identical smiles.

“What else do you do around here to celebrate?” Harm asked.

“A school play, most years,” I told him.

“Hope not,” he muttered. “I get stage fright.”

We continued on, hitting the highlights: Macon's escape, the scarcity of clues, Dale's guineas. Mr. Red shocked me on the guineas. “Smart idea. Dale has brains, he just has a gear most of us can't find.”

Harm looked at his grandfather. “Gramps, Dale doesn't think Mr. Macon robbed the church.”

Mr. Red frowned. “It's tough, hearing your father did something you can't imagine,” he said. “Are people treating Dale right?”

Harm shook his head. “School's a freaking nightmare. I don't know how he walks in there. Mrs. Simpson called Dale's family white trash and Mo tried to fight. Thes has turned against Dale—and against us too, if I read him right yesterday.”

Mr. Red's fork froze in midair. “Thes? The preacher's boy?”

“He's even turned on Mo. And he
really
likes her,” Harm said, his voice teasing.

I flipped a speck of pancake at him.

“Eat it or leave it, but don't throw it,” Mr. Red muttered, and drowned his pancakes in syrup. “Don't let that church turn on Dale. He's not tough enough.”

“Dale's plenty tough,” I said. It's a reflex, standing up for Dale.

Mr. Red grinned at me. “You remind me of somebody I used to know.”

“Miss Lacy Thornton,” Harm guessed. “You caught a bad break when you were a boy, Gramps. Just like Dale's catching one now.”

Mr. Red has a moonshine past with some ugly stories hooked in. He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I've known Dale all his life. Macon used to bring Dale by when he was no bigger than a minute. Macon was a better man then,” he said. “But he can't let things go. He's never satisfied. Everything feels like a slight to him. It doesn't matter how much he drinks or steals or makes Rose cry, nothing will ever fill Macon up.”

Dale never mentioned moonshine shopping with his daddy. But Dale never mentioned a lot of things.

“Keep standing up for Dale like Lacy did for me,” he said. “And square things with Thes if you can. Gossip's like a ship—hard to turn and harder to stop. Dale needs that church sailing with him.”

Harm buttered his pancakes. “Make nice with Thes.
We can do that,” he said, and then gave me his faux angel look. “Good thing we didn't insult his cat.”

Crud. Spitz.

Mr. Red hopped up and ferried his plate to the sink. “Put in a word for me with Lacy, will you, Mo?” he asked, his old eyes twinkling.

Miss Lana says love's like time travel. Could be. Just saying Grandmother Miss Lacy's name put a spring in Mr. Red's step as he headed for the door.

“There's Thes,” Harm said a few hours later as we headed across the school grounds. “Let's make nice, like Gramps said.”

“Thes,” I said as Dale slammed his bike into the rack. “How's the weather?”

Normally Thes babbles weather. Today he studied the sky and wandered away. “Anna,” he shouted. “Wait up. I got a forecast for you.”

My blood ran ice. “He's crossed over to the dark side,” I told Harm.

Dale sprinted up. “Hey,” he said. “Do you think anybody filled out a puppy application? Liz is a nervous wreck.”

Queen Elizabeth? Nervous?

Hannah opened her satchel. “Question answered, Dale. This is from Little Agnes,” she said, handing him a form. “If you give her a pup, I'll help her.”

Dale smiled, very shy. “Thank you. I'll keep her in mind,” he said, and slipped the application into his backpack.

Little Agnes was the first of many.

Dale glowed as the applications rained across his desk. “Thank you,” he said. “We'll be in touch. Thank you. Thank you . . .” The kids filed by: Sal with two apps—one for her and one for Skeeter—Susana, Jimmy and Jake . . .

Jake placed a Snickers bar on his. Dale turned his head. Jake slipped the candy back in his pocket and Dale slid the application into the pile.

I gave Thes my best insincere smile. He took his blank application from his notebook, crumpled it, and tossed it at the wastepaper basket.

Thes and Attila kept the church rumors buzzing like chain saws the rest of the day. Dale ignored them. He skimmed applications behind a wall of open schoolbooks until the bell rang and we sprinted for freedom.

“You sorting those today?” I asked as we hit the playground. “We could post the Puppy List tomorrow. Miss Lana says strike while the iron's hot.”

He jerked his bike out of the rack. “Maybe tonight,” he said. “Today I got a surprise for Miss Thornton. Plus Lavender invited us over to see his new car.” He frowned. “Did I forget to tell you?”

Dale makes me crazy.

If I'd known Lavender had invited us to Grandmother Miss Lacy's old garage, where he fixes cars, I'd have worn my other sweatshirt—the one without the gravy monogram. Miss Lana says Fate keeps us humble. The Colonel says he'd hate to meet her in a dark alley.

We dropped our bikes by Grandmother Miss Lacy's dogwood. I grabbed my camera from my basket as Dale tore to the garage. The front door squeaked open and she stepped out, smiling.

“Hey. Lavender invited us over,” Harm said, “and Dale brought you a surprise.”

I avoided her eyes. Dale's surprises can stun.

Dale struggled toward us with a pet carrier, his slight body leaning against its weight. He set the cage by the steps and opened the door. Two guineas popped their heads out—paste-white, wrinkled skin, cherry-red dots on each cheek, a sparse tuft of feathers on their tiny heads. They darted out, and screamed across the yard.

“Those are the ugliest birds I've ever seen,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, blinking.

“Yes, but they make up for it by being loud,” Dale said. “Guineas are the best watch animals next to a
dog. You alone in this big house isn't safe. I'm the man of
our
house and I thought I'd help you too, until you and Mr. Red . . . You know. Go steady.”

The guineas shrieked. An Azalea Woman opened her front door and peered out.

“How . . . generous,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said. “How do you get them back in the cage?”

“You can't,” Dale said. “It's not mine. They'll sleep in your trees. I'm glad you have two, because one would be lonely.”

A guinea flapped across the ground, catapulted into the air, and slammed into the side of the garage. It picked itself up and ran off again.

Grandmother Miss Lacy took a deep breath. She's going to kill Dale, I thought, and stepped back. Harm stepped back too—good instinct.

Instead of killing Dale, she wrapped him in a fierce hug. “Thank you for caring about me. Do come in while I find my coat.”

We stood in the hall as she ravaged her closet. “Somebody robbed Creekside Baptist yesterday,” Dale said. “People say it was Daddy, but it wasn't.”

Her radiator clunked. I held my breath, hoping Dale wouldn't ask me to back him up on the Macon's Innocent claim.

“Yes, dear, I heard.” The pipes clanked. “That heater has me at my wits' end. I may
have
to buy a new one. That one's old as I am.”

“It's probably still under warranty, then,” Harm said, and she laughed.

Where did Harm learn how to flirt?

Moments later Lavender beamed at us. “Allow me to introduce you to the latest number 32 car,” he said, jacking the car up a notch and kicking the jack stands out of the way. “Don't ever go under a car without jack stands, little brother,” he said, letting the jack down. “Because if the jack slips, you can be crushed or trapped, and . . .”

“I know,” Dale said. “You told me a thousand times. How's she looking?”

Lavender grinned. “I think you'll appreciate her lines
and
her pipes.”

I aimed my camera and he pulled back the tarp like a magician.

We gasped.

Miss Lana says reality is like cheap shampoo. Sometimes it takes a while to sink in. This was one of those times.

Click.

The car slumped like a refugee from a junkyard—dingy, tired, lonely for paint.

“Dang, son, that's old,” Harm said.

“Classic Monte Carlo,” Lavender replied, glowing. “Well, she'll be classic when I'm through. Bought her off a driver in Tar Heel, North Carolina. I love Tupelo Landing,” he said, “but this car is my ticket to bigger things.”

He leaned against the car. Lavender, who's dazzling in coveralls, leans better than anybody I know.

Click
.

Dale kicked a tire. “Does she roll?”

“The body needs work, but she sings like an angel.” Lavender reached through the window and turned the key. The engine roared to life.