Bloodline(17)
She tossed me the oddest look. I kept the smile perched on my face. The party was one of my favorite memories. I had a framed photo from the evening on my desk at the Star. It featured me, Ursula, and Libby dressed for Halloween.
Libby, wearing a bomber jacket and flight goggles, was supposed to be Amelia Earhart. Ursula camouflaged herself to resemble a prim Eleanor Roosevelt complete with wavy hair and a floral dress. I was supposed to be Natalie Wood as Marjorie Morningstar but ended up looking like me wearing more makeup. Only one person guessed who I was impersonating, but it didn’t matter because that evening, the three of us laughed until our bellies ached, an emotion perfectly captured in the photograph: three young women tumbled into each other, bright-eyed and open-mouthed, the world at our feet.
“I remember that night,” she said, the words sounding like sand in her mouth.
My smile slipped. Ursula was in a mood. I couldn’t account for it.
“Hillbillies,” she murmured, glaring outside.
At first I thought she meant the tiny people streaming below, but then she continued. “Each and every person in Lilydale is a hillbilly, I guarantee it. It’s a good thing you’re not moving. The best thing.” She lowered her voice to a mock whisper. “They’re probably rat-fucking Nixon supporters.”
I threw my head back and laughed. That’s why she was acting so odd. She didn’t want me to move.
Smiling a satisfied grin, Ursula held out the cigarette pack. “Now, show me you’re your own woman and have a smoke.”
She ended up giving me the whole pack along with her rhinestone lighter, and now seems like the perfect time to crack them both out. I reach under the kitchen sink, where I hid them, and make my way to the back steps. I sit down and light the cigarette, eyes closing in ecstasy as I draw in the silky smoke, enjoying the sweet relaxation in my shoulders.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a smoker.”
My eyes fly open, and I leap off the back steps. “Mrs. Lily. I didn’t see you.”
She’s wearing gardening gloves, but her hair is perfect, the lily-shaped locket glittering at her neck, her dress ironed, wearing pumps wildly ill-suited for outdoor work. Her mouth folds into a slow smile. “Just doing some outdoor work. Stanley used to take care of all of that, but he isn’t able to any longer.”
Saint Dorothy must tend to her kingdom after her king, Sad Stanley, is paralyzed by an evil ogre.
“I can help you,” I say immediately, stabbing out the cigarette. I mean it. She shouldn’t have to do all that messy gardening herself. She must be in her sixties, and besides, she looks too precious to work outdoors.
Her smile widens. She tugs off one of her gloves. With her bare hand, she reaches over to touch my hair, pushing a lock behind my ear. It’s an oddly personal gesture, unsettling and soothing at the same time, and it brings to mind her staring at me across our yards the first night I arrived. “You’re such a pretty girl. I used to be attractive, you know.”
“Mrs. Lily—”
She gives a little tug to my hair, stopping my words. “Now now, no need for false compliments. I’m getting old, and that’s the truth of it. And don’t mind me. I’ve always been a jealous one. I tell you what, though. I couldn’t be happier to have a baby in the neighborhood.” Her gaze lingers on my belly before returning to my face.
She chuckles at my expression. “Small-town gossip is quite a thing. I suppose you wanted to be the one to tell us all first? I certainly would have.”
A warmth fills my chest, unexpected gratitude at being understood. “Well, it’s out now.”
She pulls her glove back on. “I suppose it is. Now to that,” she says, pointing at the cigarette stubbed out on the steps. (I’d give up my left ear to make it disappear.) “We won’t tell Deck about it. He’s never liked women smoking. We must have at least one or two of our own secrets, mustn’t we?” With a wink, she turns on her heel and walks back into her house.
The cigarette isn’t completely out, the acrid smoke crawling up my nostrils. A realization makes me shudder. Dorothy wasn’t outside when I came home, either in her front or backyard. And why would she need to wear gardening gloves inside her house?
Ronald’s words from earlier today return.
You have to understand how a small town works. We’re a family here. You don’t keep secrets from family.
I spear my cigarette into the ground, dousing it once and for all, and make my way inside.
CHAPTER 11
Lilydale’s school reminds me of every elementary school I’ve ever attended. It has the gray lockers, poured-concrete floors, and the slightly fishy, salty smell of a million school lunches. Being within its walls is surprisingly comforting.
The stroll here was wonderful, the evening lovely, cool but clear, ripe with joyful conversation as clusters of townsfolk file toward the school. The principal greets me at the door. I’m still tuckered from my earlier goodwill tour and so forgo introducing myself, instead walking in with what I hope is an “I belong here” gait. I follow the crowds past the lockers, the classroom doors taped with names and construction-paper cutouts, until I reach the gym. The bleachers are crowded with beaming families.
That’ll be me and Deck one day, I think, studying them. Parents coming to watch their children in a school production. I scan the crowd, searching for other pregnant women. I don’t spot any, but I notice that everyone here seems to look alike, probably because they’re all dressed similarly. I suppose that’s true of most small towns. Humans tend to prefer blending in with the herd.