The Quarry Girls(9)

I knew better.

“How was it?” she asked around a mouth moist with smoke.

It took me a second to remember what we’d been talking about. “Practice was good,” I said, screwing up my forehead. “Really good. We’re going to play the county fair this weekend. Our first real show.”

I hadn’t meant to tell her the last bit. Sometimes Mom was fine taking in that much information. But then there were the other times. I could see her tumblers working. Her face had gone slack. The back of my neck grew cold waiting to see which version was going to erupt.

But finally, happily, the correct words dropped into place, and out rolled a perfectly normal sentence. “Wonderful! Your dad and I will come see you girls play.”

Did she know she was lying? Didn’t matter. I’d gotten away without upsetting her. Today was a good day. I noticed I was rubbing my good ear, massaging it between my pointer finger and thumb. I dropped my hand.

“You don’t have to, Mom. We’re just the opening band. We’ll play fifteen minutes, tops. It’s going to be smelly and noisy at the fair. You’re better off staying home.”

“Nonsense,” she said. She patted her hair into place exactly like she used to do when her and Dad were stepping out the door for a dinner party. Her gaze grew foggy, and I wondered if she was remembering the same thing.

“Of course we’ll be there,” she mumbled. “Of course.”

Then her eyes focused suddenly. I’d let down my guard too quickly.

“You’d be so pretty with a touch of mascara and some rouge,” she said.

I sucked in my breath. She was sharpening her knives. I’d learned years ago to recognize the first whisk of the blade so I could leave before she drew blood.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, backing toward the door. “Spaghetti and meatballs okay for supper?”

“We had that two nights ago,” she hissed, eyes narrowing, watching me retreat. She hated to be denied a fight.

“That’s right,” I said, making my voice small, submissive. “I should’ve remembered.”

I knew I’d made it two days ago. I also knew I could go the rest of my life without eating another plate of spaghetti. Junie loved it, though, and her and Dad sang that stupid “On Top of Spaghetti” song while they twirled their noodles, and so I sneaked it in as much as I could.

“Yes, you should have,” she said crossly. “You’re such a forgetful, unreliable girl.”

I was almost to the door. I reached for the knob without turning away from her, the edges of my mouth pinned into a smile. “We could eat frozen dinners instead. Dad brought home a nice selection. Everybody can choose what they want, and I’ll heat them up.”

“That sounds fine,” she said, the aggression abruptly drained out of her, her eyes drifting to the closed window shades. Her cigarette hand dropped dangerously close to the bedspread. “I’m not feeling well today. I might not come out for supper at all.”

“Dad sure likes it when you do,” I said. “We all like it when you do.”

It was hit-or-miss if Mom would be good company, but when she was, she glittered like a diamond. The last time I could remember her lighting up a room was years ago, before my accident. Mom and Dad were hosting a gathering, and she had the guests in stitches talking about a mortifying dream she’d had in which she strolled inside Zayre Shoppers City wearing her curlers and nothing else. Boy oh, every man in our living room grinned at her. Even the women couldn’t help but laugh. She was that good of a storyteller.

Maybe we could host one of those huge dinner parties again if I told Mom I would make all the food. I’d been in charge of it for a while. Nobody’d really asked me, it just came natural. It couldn’t be that much different to cook for a bunch of people at once. At Zayre, where Claude, Ricky, and I all worked, the grocery section sold Betty Crocker recipe cards for parties specifically. I would pick some up. I could use my employee discount.

I felt fizzy and warm for the first time since I’d entered her bedroom.

Mom hadn’t answered me about joining us for dinner. Even worse, her cigarette was burning down to her fingers. It was a gamble whether I should take it from her. I felt so good imagining the party, though, that I decided to risk it.

I hurried back to the bed, relinquishing all the space I’d earned. Humming softly, I slid the burning butt from between her fingertips and smushed it into the overflowing ashtray. On an impulse, I pushed her hair away from her face and gently kissed her forehead. It’d been a couple days since she’d showered.

I would run her a bath tonight, fill it with rose petals.

Our pink rosebushes were still flush with flowers. They smelled as sweet as a fresh-cut apple. If I drew her a bath that was this side of scalding, drizzled her favorite almond oil in there, and scattered the petals like confetti across the top, I could coax her into getting in, every time. Sometimes, she’d even ask me to stay in the bathroom and talk with her, just like the old days.

“I love you,” I said to her as I left her bedroom.

I didn’t expect an answer so it didn’t hurt when I didn’t get one.



Four frozen Swanson dinners sat on the kitchen counter. I’d selected them based on everyone’s favorites. Fish ’n’ Chips for Mom even though she wouldn’t leave her bedroom, Salisbury Steak for Dad, Junie’s fave Polynesian Style with the orange tea cake, and the only remaining choice—Beans and Franks—for me. (It wasn’t as bad as it sounded.) I was waiting for the oven to preheat when a noise in the basement drew my attention. I went to the top of the stairs, peering down into the gloom. The sound didn’t repeat. Must have been my imagination.