Just Like Home(16)

Vera swallowed hard and strained to lift her chin over the stacked gray tubs in her arms.

“Hello, Mrs. Gregson.” Her voice came out even, but to her own ears it sounded foreign, like her mouth was painted-on and some hidden ventriloquist was speaking through it. “How are you?”

Mrs. Gregson’s nostrils flared white as she drew breath to speak. “What,” she whispered, “the fuck?”

Vera gripped the gray tubs tighter. She wished that there was someplace on the smooth plastic surface where she could dig her fingernails in, but she could not find purchase. “I’m—”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Mrs. Gregson interrupted. A fleck of saliva landed on her bottom lip when she spoke, and it stayed there, glistening in the fluorescent light.

“My mother is dying,” Vera said simply. “I’ve come home to … to sort things out. To take care of the house.”

Mrs. Gregson laughed mirthlessly, a short sharp bark that made Vera’s skin jump. “Burn it down,” she said. It wasn’t a suggestion or a joke—she spoke with all the authority she’d brought to more mundane phrases of Vera’s youth. ‘Put your shoes away’ or ‘curfew is ten o’clock.’ It was an instruction. “Burn it down,” she said again. “If you’ve got any decency anywhere in you, you won’t make some unsuspecting family live in that house.”

Her eyes darted over Vera’s shoulder. There was movement in Vera’s periphery. People were gathering around them, not standing close enough to be considered ‘closing in’ but near enough to hear the conversation, and not trying to hide their interest.

A bead of sweat ran down the small of Vera’s back under her shirt. There was nothing she could say to this woman, the mother of her childhood friend. Nothing she could say to these people. There was no apologizing, no explaining.

“I have to go,” she said, looking toward the register.

“Who’s stopping you?” Mrs. Gregson spat. “No one would ever try to keep you or your mother from getting the hell out of here.” She was right, but Vera still couldn’t make herself turn her back on those hateful eyes. The longer she stayed put, the more venomous Mrs. Gregson got.

“I hope she dies tonight, so you’ll both be gone tomorrow,” she hissed. “I hope she dies fast, but I hope she suffers when it happens. It’s what she deserves. It’s what you both deserve.”

“That’s enough.” Someone touched Vera’s shoulder and she jumped, looking away from Mrs. Gregson at last. “You ought to get out of here.”

At first, Vera didn’t recognize the man whose hand rested on her shoulder, but the crease between his brows said that he recognized her. He was tall, blond, thin-shouldered, and he was staring at Vera with a crooked smile. Vera frantically scanned her memories of the town, of her classmates, but she couldn’t dredge up anyone who might have turned into this guy.

And then Mrs. Gregson spoke up. “You get out of here too,” she said. “You’re not welcome here. Not in this store and not in this town. Take your ‘art’ someplace else,” she added, and she pointed at the door.

The blond man shrugged amiably. “If you insist,” he said, his eyes still locked on Vera. He was wearing eyeliner, she realized, but only on his bottom lids. It made him look haunted and vaguely hungover. His voice was deep and slow, almost-but-not-quite a drawl. He gave her a wink and nodded toward the door. “Let’s get out of here, Vee.”

Vera’s face burned. She followed him toward the exit on numb legs. Once they were outside she found herself thankful for the stifling press of the outside air, for the way it closed around her like a fist. It made her escape feel complete—like she was in a completely different world from that woman and all the people who still called her neighbor.

The blond man started talking the moment they stepped out of the hardware store, the words flowing steady and uninterruptible. “This your car? Well, I mean, I don’t know why I’m asking that, of course it’s your car. It was outside the house last night. I saw it when I came in for dinner, and your mom told me it belonged to you. I was coming back from an interview with that woman you were talking to, Mrs. Gregson? Well, actually, it was supposed to be an interview with her son, that Brandon guy, but she wouldn’t let me near him. Seems like you two know each other? Can I help you carry that?”

Vera squinted at him, not trusting the speed of his patter. This, she easily recognized as a trap. And he’d said your mom told me. Daphne was right—the title sounded wrong attached to her.

“No. But you can get the door.”

He opened the back door to Vera’s car and she loaded in the plastic bins. Not for an instant did she consider going back inside to pay for them.

There was a slam. When Vera looked up, she saw a head of tousled blond hair sticking up over the headrest of the passenger seat. “What are you doing?” she asked, still bent over into the back of the car.

“I’m getting a ride home,” he answered without looking back at her. He was fidgeting with something in his lap, something she couldn’t see, something that crinkled. “Unless you wanted me to drive for you? I’m not used to driving a manual, but I’m sure I could figure it out on the fly.”

Vera considered telling him no—kicking him out of the car, making him walk back to the Crowder House—then decided against it. No point making yet another enemy, especially not one who lived in Daphne’s backyard.