The Quarry Girls(32)

“Sure.” I stepped through the muggy morning and up the stairs.

The porch hinted at what lay inside. The orange velour couch was loaded with boxes, and a stack of molding newspapers leaned in a corner. The piles sometimes grew taller, but they never shrank.

I waited after I knocked. We knew the routine. Extra knocking wouldn’t make Mrs. Hansen come any faster, but it sure would cheese her off.

“What time did you get home?” I asked, making idle conversation.

“Not too late.” Brenda’s arms were crossed in front of her despite the humidity. She stared out at the street. “Ricky and I wandered off, made out a little. I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember going back to the firepit, and you and Ant and Ed were gone. We hung out for a while until I had to pee, like I said. That’s when I walked into the damn tree. Once I realized how wasted I was, I begged Ricky to drive me home. Boy, was he pissed. He almost wouldn’t do it, but he did. I snuck in through the back door. Dad was still up. I met him in the hall.” Her face crumpled. “Heather, I lied to him.”

Brenda’s parents, Roy and Cheryl, ran a tight ship, but they loved their kids. Roy was the athletic director at Saint John’s University, and Cheryl had taken a part-time healthcare job at the college once Brenda entered high school. They thought the sun rose and set with Brenda. I’d have been jealous if she weren’t my best friend.

“What’d you say?”

“I told him I’d been hanging out at the fair all night, with you and Maureen. When he saw my eye, I said I’d gotten into a fight with the Tilt-A-Whirl, and the Tilt-A-Whirl won. He acted like he believed me, but I smelled so bad, Heather. He must have known I was drinking.”

She looked miserable.

“If he put up with Jerry and Carl, he can deal with a little Brenda,” I said.

She flashed a grateful smile. “I hope so. Anyhow, he doesn’t have to worry about setting me straight about Ricky. That’s a mistake I don’t intend to repeat. Last night, I—”

The door was yanked open. Gloria Hansen stood on the other side, scowling. She had a kerchief over her head and her cat-eye glasses perched on her nose. I’d seen her without them recently and hardly recognized her. They gave form and color to her puffy, cream-colored face. She was also wearing a pretty green silk caftan. The smell that came with her—old paper and something floral—was strong, but I was prepared for it.

“Morning, Mrs. Hansen. Can you send Maureen out? We need to practice.”

She stepped aside so we could enter. “She’s still sleeping. You’re welcome to wake her.”

I had a memory of my dad talking to Mrs. Hansen during one of the neighborhood barbecues, back when she used to throw her head back when she laughed and she and Mom still hung out. Dad had been talking about Pantown, our wonderful community, and how unfair it was that everyone outside of Saint Cloud thought it was only the failed Pandolfo factory plus the prison on the edge of town that put us on the map. Mrs. Hansen had muttered Failure and a prison? That sounds about right, her hand gripped so tight to her punch cup that it spilled down the side, a gory, sticky red leaking across her hand.

I’d thought it was a weird thing to say, but then her and Dad disappeared down into the tunnels because he had something to show her and I forgot about it until just now, watching her standing to the side, looking down at her feet when she used to be a woman who stared everyone in the eye until they finally had to look away, at which point she’d belly-laugh.

Failure and a prison? That sounds about right.

I’d asked my dad once if he was worried about how Mrs. Hansen’s house was now. Back before Junie was born, when Mom would lug me over here and toss me in front of the television with Maureen, it used to be that only a few corners held boxes, and they were labeled and orderly. But then Maureen’s dad skipped town, and the boxes spilled out into every room. Now there was only a single path from one side of the house to the other. Boxes of yard sale finds, bags of clothes, newspapers, and never-read Life and Time magazines were stacked to the ceiling on each side of the narrow walkway. The kitchen had been the last holdout, but even that room was now mainly storage, with only enough space in front of the fridge to open it. Maureen and her mom could no longer use the oven, though the stovetop was free.

Despite the sheer amount of things, the home had been clean until recently. It had felt almost like a big, safe nest, which I thought was what Mrs. Hansen had been after. But at some point, a rodent had died in one of the piles or the inaccessible vents, and its gassy smell followed you everywhere. That’s when I’d brought it up to Dad.

“Good women keep their homes clean, and good neighbors mind their own business, honey,” he’d said.

My dad was smart. I almost always agreed with what he’d said, but that one gave me pause. It looked to me like Gloria Hansen could use some help. I’d tried bringing it up to Maureen, but she told me her mom had the house the way she liked it.

“Thank you,” I told Mrs. Hansen, sucking in my breath so I could squeeze past her onto the single path. It led directly toward the stairs with a branch at the living room. I could hear the TV going but couldn’t see what was on. I headed straight up the stairs, Brenda on my heels, the track seeming tighter than it had the last time I’d visited. I didn’t remember the stacks brushing my arms when I passed. The stench of decaying animal was stronger, too. I hoped that meant the smell had reached its peak and would soon dissipate.