Whisper Me This(39)

Boots swaggered in late, a rebel. Always a rebel. Everybody else all dressed up, tuxedos and ball gowns, and him in a black T-shirt, faded Levi’s, and those shiny leather cowboy boots, the ones that gave him his nickname.

I’d seen him before, of course, in the hallways at school, had heard whispers and rumors.

But that night, I was awestruck. I’ll admit it. I coveted the way he walked, those boots clumping down as if he owned the floor they walked on. The bold way his gaze cut through the crowd. The way his chin tilted, the slight smirk of superiority that said he knew damn well he was better than the rest of us.

That night, those eyes fell on me, standing alone by the snacks table.

I wish to God I had been standing elsewhere. I wish I had been smarter or been less vulnerable or had a parent who might have intervened in what was to come. But what is the point of wishing? What is done is done, and there is no going back.

Writing this, today, I feel the weight of that stare, as if he can see me still from so many years and so many miles away. I can’t help feeling that he knows I am writing this. His eyes say that I’ve broken my promise, and now he has license to break his. He can’t possibly know, of course. I am just a coward, caught in a hard place between death and a memory. Would you think less of me if I told you that death seems the friendlier option?

I have grown weak, it seems. This is too much for me tonight. Tomorrow I will gather the shreds of my courage to go on, but for now I will say only this. His gaze fell on me. And young fool that I was, I welcomed it. Welcomed him. Offered him a cigarette from the pack I’d stolen out of Mom’s purse, even though I didn’t smoke. The appearance of coolness was everything.

So I offered up a smoke, and he offered up . . .

Tomorrow, tomorrow. I’ll write it tomorrow. I am a coward still, after all these years.





Chapter Thirteen

I tell Elle that I’m just running next door to see if I can borrow a couple of eggs for a late breakfast, but what I’m really planning to do is pump Mrs. Carlton for information.

Elle has super sensors when it comes to evasion and doesn’t let me get away with it.

“I’ll come with you,” she says.

“Wait here. I’ll only be a second.”

“Mom—”

“Elle, for once, listen to me. She’s not the fun sort of neighbor. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

I close the door firmly between us. The air is cold. Rain slants down out of a gray sky. I should go back into the house for a coat, but then I’ll have to fight Elle all over again.

Ducking my head, I race across the wet lawn, fat drops of water bouncing off my head. The steps of the Carltons’ porch are sagging. Spiderwebs wrap around the support posts.

The paint on the front door, once a definitive mallard green, is faded and peeling, and when I knock, a flake comes loose and drifts down toward my toes. A straw broom leans up against the door, but judging from the little drift of dirt and debris lodged against it, sweeping hasn’t happened in a while.

“Is she a witch?” Elle asks, behind me.

I swing around, bumping my elbow on the doorframe. “I told you to stay in the house.”

“But what if you never come back? Like if she puts you in the oven or something?” She keeps her tone light, but her hand creeps into mine the way it used to when she was a little girl.

Memory strikes. Mom reading “Hansel and Gretel.” Marley afraid of the witch, wondering whether Mrs. Carlton has a big enough oven to roast a little girl in. Not really Marley, I remind myself. I only imagined her.

Before I can detach Elle and send her back, the door swings open, loosening an assault of bleach fumes out onto the porch.

Edna Carlton has been old as long as I can remember, but the walker is new. The tight gray bun, spiked with black hairpins, is the same, as are the glimpses of pink scalp on the top of her head. Her eyes, black and clever like a crow’s, are as bright and sharp as ever. I feel awkward and about ten years old; it’s all I can do to keep from shuffling my feet and twirling the hem of my T-shirt around my fingers.

“Mrs. Carlton. Hi. Good morning.”

“Maisey Dawn. It’s been long enough. A woman should visit her aging parents, I always say. Might have prevented this current disaster, in fact.” Her eyes shift to Elle. “Well, well, well. Almost grown up already. She favors you more than her father, I think.”

“Listen, Mrs. Carlton, I just came over to tell you that my mother . . . passed . . . yesterday.” I hate the word even as I say it. What does passed even mean? Some sort of entrance exam to the next life?

It’s impossible to read the expression on the old woman’s face as she takes in this news. She tilts her head to one side. “And where’s your father? Jailed for murder? Oh yes. I heard the cops talking. Terrible thing. Unbelievable.”

Elle’s fingers tighten around mine, and I squeeze hard, half comfort, half warning not to engage. “Dad’s in the hospital; he was severely dehydrated and ill. Listen, we can’t stay long. I was wondering—”

“If I’d help plan the funeral. Of course. Your mother was a wonderful, God-fearing woman, and she should have a wonderful send-off. You won’t have a clue who her friends are or who should be part of the service. I’m so glad you at least had the sense to ask me.”