The Queen of Sleepy Eye (27 page)

Her hand flew back to slap me, but she stopped.

“I'm going to bed,” I said and turned away from her.

“Don't you dare walk away from me.”

I closed the door and turned the lock. “Goodnight, Mother.”

I lay on the bed wondering if I dared sneak back into the henhouse and retrieve the money from Ginger's nest. My skin itched to leave Mom, the house, Cordial, and everything about death behind. The sooner the better.

Another image came to mind—Feather walking into a new high school with clothes her grandmother had chosen, her hair lacquered into those wing-a-ding-like bangs everyone but me was wearing. Stiff
shoes, knee-highs, and a sweater buttoned to her neck completed the picture.

No way.

In the past, after fighting with Mom, when my soul was raw with disappointment, I prayed with great certainty, knowing God heard my prayers. For the first time I could remember, my disappointment included God. Why would he open a door only to slam it in my face? I had no answers, so I revisited my fantasies of floating on the ocean with Falcon.

Charles came to the front door. Mom told him I had made it home safely, and then I heard the screen door slam and Mom's heels tapping down the steps.

I feigned sleep as Mom barked orders over me. “You are to stay in the house the whole day. In fact, you're grounded for a week.”

What? Me? Grounded?

“I've talked to Mrs. Clancy. She knows everything, so don't think you can pull the sheep over her eyes.” She stamped her foot on the floor and slapped my bottom. “Sit up and look at me when I'm talking to you.”

I rolled over and opened one eye. “You're kidding about the grounding, aren't you?”

“Sit up. Show some respect.”

Mom had never shown inclinations of being a drill sergeant. Someone had coached her. Mrs. Clancy? Charles? Attila the Hun? I sat up with arms crossed.

“What's gotten into you?” she said, pacing beside the bed. “Look at you. You've changed. Those stinking hippies have brainwashed you.” She wagged a finger at me, and I bit my lip not to laugh. “I'll be home for lunch at noon, and I expect you to be here.”

I followed her into the kitchen. “This is a joke, right? I'll be eighteen in April. I'm heading for college. You can't ground me.”

“You're not in college yet.”

When she reached the door, I said flatly, “You get paid today, don't you? I expect you to give Tommy fifty dollars toward the work he's done on the car.”

Her jaw flexed.

“He did the work, Mom. It's only fair that he should be paid.”

“I'll be home for lunch,” she said through her teeth and left.

I prepared for the day with a lightness I'd not known since being plopped in Cordial. Who knew being the brat of the family could be so satisfying? I breezed through my chores. My reflection in a casket smiled back at me. When a death call came just after eight, I answered the phone cheerfully. “Hello, Clancy and Sons Funeral Home, serving the North Fork area since 1920. How may I help you?”

The deceased was yet another resident of the Alpenglow Rest Home, Arly Folks, lately of Hanford. From the director, I learned his remaining family lived in a suburb of Denver and wouldn't be traveling to Cordial for the memorial service due to poor health.

“I'll send H right over,” I said. “Are there any special instructions?”

“Mr. Folks wanted to be buried with his cat.”

“His cat? Is the cat … deceased?”

“We've been storing the cat in the freezer since the first of the year.”

“I'll let Mrs. Clancy know.”

I measured the oatmeal into Charles's meatloaf and added another two cups for good measure. Then I shook a bit of cayenne into the meat mixture and set the oven to 500 degrees. It was petty of me, I know, but the man had loaded Mom's arsenal with irritating
parenting information, like he knew anything about raising children. He reminded me more and more of Lizzy's insufferable Mr. Collins—bombastic yet servile to his keeper, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. In Charles's case, that would be one María Fracisca Monteiro Santos.

Poor sap.

At lunch, Mom ate her bologna sandwich and smoked a cigarette behind the garage. I was still too mad to apologize or talk to her, so I washed the exterior windows, pulling a rickety step stool from one window to the next. She was still eating by the time I finished, so I pulled the weeds from the flower beds, working on the opposite side of the house, so I wouldn't have to look at her.

Of all people, H showed up. “That's my job,” he said.

“Do you want me to stop?” I asked as if spitting venom.

“What's up with you?”

I took pity on him and coiled my claws. “I'm grounded, so I'm avoiding my mother.”

“By pulling the weeds? You have a lot to learn about retaliation.” He squatted and ripped a dandelion out of the dirt. “What'd you do?”

“Nothing.” But knowing anything I said would disseminate through Cordial like the flu, I told H everything—about the fight I'd had with Mom, including the parts about the birth control pills and Charles's late-night visit. Once this information hit the gossip machine, people would be lining up to drive us out of town.
¡Adios,
Cordial!

This was war.

“It's nice that your mom and Charles are dating. He's a great guy. He'll treat your mom like a princess.”

Leave it to H to see a patch of blue sky on a cloudy day. Of course, I would've agreed with him if Mom and Charles hadn't become the dynamic duo, battling this criminal mastermind in her quest for
independence. Charles definitely topped the evolutionary tree of men Mom had dated, but that didn't mean I would encourage their relationship. Someone like Charles would tie Mom to Cordial forever. Besides, he gave out faulty parenting advice.

“Have you finished the windows for the church?” H asked, ripping a mat of fleshy weeds from under the lilac.

What he really wanted to know was whether I would be going to New Morning again. “What's it to you?”

If a hound dog could talk after losing the scent on a coon, that's exactly how H sounded. “Just curious, I guess.”

Oh brother.

“I'm sorry, H. I'm mad at Mom, not you.”

H sat beside me in the shade, his long legs stretched out before him.

“The windows look great,” I said. “Falcon should deliver them to the church this week.”

“Football tryouts are tomorrow.” He said this so fast, I had to think about what he'd said.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

My information was hearsay, but it came from reliable sources: Other castoffs and nerds had gone off to college and returned relaxed and self-assured. “You know, H, whether you make the team or not has nothing to do with the rest of your life. Take it from someone who also suffered through high school. It doesn't last forever. I'm free.”
Sort of.
“Before you know it, you'll be surrounded by beautiful coeds who'll appreciate the person you are and what you know. No one will care how far you can throw a football.”

“I want to be a defensive lineman.”

“I don't even know what that means.”

“I won't be throwing a football.” He looked at his upturned hands. “I'm not that good with my hands.”

“Did you hear what I said about playing football? You have to hang in there for nine more months, graduate, and kiss those jerks good-bye. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Mom came around the corner of the house. “I'm sorry, H. Amy isn't allowed visitors while she's grounded. You'll have to go.”

H stood to leave, and I rose to hold him by the arm. “He's helping me.”

“Thanks for your help, H. We'll see you next week.”

H scooped up the weeds we'd pulled, nodded to Mom, and mumbled an apology. He whistled “One Tin Soldier” as he threw the weeds in the back of his truck and climbed into the cab.

“Good luck,” I yelled after him because I understood the pull of belonging. And although I believed everything I'd just told H, I wanted him to enjoy belonging too.

“I'm going back to work,” Mom said. “No more smart stuff from you, young lady. I want you inside this house until I come home tonight, and I want dinner on the table. Charles is eating lunch. Why don't you go in and keep him company?”

I hesitated. I had heard Lauren complain about her parents' constant oversight—the questions, the restrictions, and the punishments. I'd never admitted this even to Lauren, but I had longed for such reining in and the structure of an adult in the house. Now I wasn't so sure.

“Amy, you misunderstand me,” Mom said, hands on hips. “I'm not making a suggestion. Get in the house.”

My heart sank. Without the two hundred dollars, my fallback position only meant more belated parenting. I swallowed hard and stepped into the kitchen.

Charles stood at the sink, filling his glass with water. “Boy,” he said, “the meatloaf has a bite to it. I learned to love spicy food when I lived in New Mexico. This is much better than anything I ate there.”

“Charles, I want you to know that I was completely alone last night. Climbing out the window seems stupid to me now, but it made sense to me at the time. I didn't want to disturb the fun you and Mom were having.”

“I'm glad you told me.” He drank the water straight down. “Making the right decision should be easier for you from here out.”

Gravel pinged the underside of H's truck as it climbed the hill to Leoti's house. I held
The Optimist's Daughter
, slow of plot even by Austen's standards. I hadn't managed to read beyond the first few pages.

We rode in silence until H blurted, “Well, I made the team, in case you were wondering.”

“And you're going to play?”

“Are you kidding? The coach said I was starter material.”

“What about that creep Jim Williams?”

“Jim
Warner
?” H flashed a cocky grin. “He's cool now that he's seen what I can do on the field.”

“Do you take delight in vexing me?”

“Huh?”

Since H hadn't knuckled under with a reproach from
Pride and
Prejudice
, I recited Scripture. “‘How blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked, nor stand in the path of sinners, nor sit in the seat of scoffers.' Jim is all of those things, H.”

When he didn't answer right away, I finally looked at him. He stared straight ahead, frowning. He hadn't shaved that morning, and his whiskers glistened in the sunlight. H glanced over at me. “You just don't get guys.”

“I get insolent behavior.”

“Huh?”

“Jim's dangerous, H. He uses people. For crying out loud, don't you remember how he treated you at the drive-in, how he chased us in his car?”

“Drop it. I'm playing and that's it.”

* * *

LEOTI CAME TO the door with a cookie sheet of smoldering black lumps. “I've ruined the cookies.” I followed her to the kitchen. The dishwater hissed as she plunged the cookie sheet into the water. “Open the door, won't you, dear? Let's shoo some of this smoke out.”

I fanned at the cloud of smoke with a dish towel. “Did you turn off the oven?”

“I guess I'd better do that.” Waving dish towels didn't accomplish much, but she seemed to be enjoying herself. “Arthur would have gotten a big kick out of me turning perfectly good sugar and eggs into lumps of coal. He accused me more than once of trying to turn Granny's molasses cookies into diamonds. Married people talk about the silliest things.”

“I think we've done the best we can with the smoke,” she said, hanging our towels on the oven handle. “If I can get the windows open, the evening breeze will carry the smoke into town. Everyone will know Leoti is baking cookies again.” She tugged at the window with arthritic fingers. When she failed to open the window, she tried another one. “The good people of Cordial may declare a holiday and
have a parade. Serves me right for getting all caught up in reading
Newsweek
.”

I stepped in front of her. “Let me try.”

“Oh, you must hear about the article I was reading. President Ford pardoned Robert E. Lee and restored his citizenship. Just this week, mind you.”

I tugged at the window again and tried the next.

“That's the difference between us Yankees and those Southerners,” Leoti said, her eyes swimming with tears even though the creases of her face deepened from the delight she took in the story. “The war isn't quite over down there. But don't you suppose President Ford has better things to attend to, and here he is pardoning a dead man? Now that General Lee is a citizen again, he'll be sorry he didn't ask to see his tax bill first.”

I tried the window over the sink.

“Listen to me,” Leoti said, smoothing her apron. “I'm prattling like a schoolgirl before a dance.”

“We'll ask H to open the windows when he picks me up,” I said.

“Won't he think highly of himself when he pulls those windows open for a couple of weak girls?” The teapot whistled and Leoti poured the boiling water into a gold-rimmed teapot. I prayed she'd used chamomile tea, and I took the tray from her.

“We have a lovely book to discuss,” she said.

In her parlor, Leoti poured the black tea into my cup. I stifled a groan.

“So, what new delights did you reap from
The Optimist's
Daughter
?”

I stirred cream into my tea until it was beige. “I didn't read it, Leoti. I'm sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about? Life gets busy. You're a working girl.”

“I do have some good news for you,” I said. “The artist finished the windows for the church. He'll deliver them this week.”

Leoti clapped her hands. “That's wonderful! Simply wonderful, my dear.” She leaned forward. “How do they look?”

“Beautiful. And Pastor Ted assured me they would be installed in time for Ranch Days.”

“That soon?”

“The deacons volunteered their time.”

“This is marvelous. Amy, I don't know how to thank you. This means so much to me and … well, it would have made Arthur very happy too. You tell that young man how happy he has made me.”

Her reference to Falcon caused my heart to flutter. “I will.”