The Better Liar(9)

“But won’t you inherit her half, if she owed you?” I said. “Now that she’s, you know…”

She turned her odd colorless eyes on me. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said.

    “Sorry,” I said quickly. “That was a dumb thing to say. I didn’t mean it like that.”

She was still looking at me, that half-present blankness on her face. I wished she would stop looking at me like that.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” I blurted out.

“What?” she said, seeming to come out of her daze.

I sucked on my cigarette. “I think people think I’m dumb,” I told her. “I think maybe I just look like I am. I don’t know.”

Leslie let out a hoarse giggle again. “No,” she said, when she caught her breath. “Of course not.”

I frowned. “I might be. You don’t even know me.”

“Everybody has talents,” Leslie said, her body loosening a little.

“Does this count?” I took the cigarette out of my mouth and did cauliflower tongue. She laughed, and I put the cigarette back in my mouth. “No, but I can read palms, though. I’m really good at it. Here, I’ll show you.”

She curled her hand up against her chest. “No, no.”

“Come on.” I grabbed her hand and tugged it toward my knee. “It won’t hurt.”

She relented and leaned toward me, letting her palm rest on my leg. I stubbed out my cigarette and added it to the fairy ring around the bench. “Okay,” I said, “you’ve got this really fleshy Venus mound.” I squished it with my thumb. Leslie made a face. “No, it’s good,” I said. “It means resistance to disease. And your middle finger is the longest. That means you’re an overachiever.”

“Aren’t you supposed to read the lines?” she asked.

“Sure.” I bent her fingers in slightly, so that I could see where her palm creased. “That’s the life line. Yours is really faint.”

“What does that mean?” She leaned in.

“It means you don’t work with your hands…you work in an office.”

Leslie laughed. “What about my love line? That’s one of them, isn’t it?”

“Heart line.” Hers was short and straight, like a cut. “You’re married?”

“Yes,” she said. “Four years.”

    “Beautiful. What’s his name?”

“David. Dave,” she said, revealing a slightly crooked canine.

I dropped her hand and took out a second cigarette. She gave me a sidelong glance, watching my hands. “What do your palms say?” she asked.

I let my fingers uncurl on the bench between us. “See that long one down the middle? That means I’m going to be famous,” I told her. My voice echoed a little in the empty lot. “The psychic I went to said it’s the longest one she’s ever seen.” I pulled my hand back and stuck it into my apron, gripping the bills I’d stuffed in there, drawing in a breath through my nose.

“I should leave soon,” Leslie said. “It’s getting late.”

“Thanks for keeping me company.” A car pulled into the lot, washing us in bright, flat light, and our heads turned briefly to look at it. When I looked back, she was already gathering her things. “I hope everything works out with her. Your sister and everything,” I said.

“Robin,” Leslie said. That blankness fell back over her face, like a veil. “Thank you.”

She started to gather her things, but paused. I followed her gaze and saw that the car had parked, and a man was coming toward us with an odd shambling gait.

I said, “You should go—you should go inside.”

“Do you know him?” Leslie asked, her hand half in her purse.

“A little.”

She didn’t move.

Sam was my height, bald, with a reddish goatee. His ears and cheeks were the same flushed, ruddy pink. “Who’s your friend?” he said, coming up onto the curb.

I dropped my phone and scraped my fingers trying to pick it up again. The cigarette fell onto the pavement. “No one,” I said, sticking my index finger in my mouth so it wouldn’t bleed everywhere. “She’s a customer.”

Leslie glanced between us. Her lips parted.

“A customer. I see.” He left off staring at Leslie and nodded at my phone. “What you looking at?”

    “I’m just checking the time,” I said, wiping my hand on my apron. “I have to get back inside.” I stood up.

Sam wandered over to me. He was wearing a button-down shirt today, khaki, which strained over his thick middle. He smelled like strawberry candy, that factory-plastic sweetness, like he’d eaten an Airhead or something. “I heard you were over at Paul’s house again today.” He tugged on my earlobe. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Maybe we should head back in,” Leslie said. “Your break’s probably up.”

Sam ignored Leslie. “I told you not to see that man anymore,” he said, flicking my ear.

“Stop it,” I said, smacking his hand away, grinning reflexively. I could feel it on my face, a panicked, skeletal expression.