by Mary Gray
Navy-colored yarn splays halfway across the parlor rug from the settee, and the stove’s front left burner’s been left on. Quickly, I switch off the orange-blue flame.
While I couldn’t say what causes Tansy’s take-overs, one thing I can say for certain is, I’m never allowed to wander freely around the house on her time. Feels strange that she hasn’t already pushed me out—hijacked the dinghy.
A car engine suddenly booms and rattles outside. I take an extra step toward the coffee table. Not that the sound of a car engine should startle me—we receive countless uninvited visitors, day or night—but my tolerance hasn’t exactly been built up. By now, I suppose I’m used to entering the void.
While the stranger’s car rumbles away, I set to straightening up the parlor’s damask throw pillows, washing the dishes, and cleaning out the cobwebs in the library.
Tansy says people used to call all the time, asking for a tour of the place—but, lucky for her, we no longer have a landline. I suppose a tour could be fun for the average tourist, what with the sixteen-foot tall ceilings and meticulously maintained hardwood floors. Anybody could appreciate the intricately carved door moldings, thick rope pillars, and Texas Lone Star motif. What I don’t get is why Tansy insists on covering up the half-moon stained glass windows. Her fear of the outside world means we get to live in a cave.
A few feet in front of me lays a beige book on the floor, splayed open wide. If I were to guess, I’d say that Tansy threw that—hit the window to spook an unwanted tourist. She can get rather crotchety. Maybe the tourist was getting too close? Climbed over the fence? There’s nothing Tansy treasures more in this world than privacy.
Setting out across the room, I bend down to retrieve the book and re-shelve it on the imposing bookcase.
Tansy screeches inside my head, Having fun playin’ detective, G?
I bump into the desk, which jabs me in the side. “I ... couldn’t find you. I followed curfew and got back in plenty of time.”
Catching sight of myself in a wall mirror, I find the abundant curls Francesca gave me have already wilted to sad, limp waves. I could use some eyeliner and mascara, though, I’ve got to admit, for the first time in forever, my eyebrows look great.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starvin’!” Tansy seizes control of our lips and mentally taps me on the shoulder like she’s ready to send me to Canada till summertime. But I’m not ready to go just yet. Not after what Olly said to me.
Digging our nails into the book, I square my shoulders. “Someone said we belong in the slammer, Tansy.”
To prove I’m serious, I turn for the mirror to study our pallid face. Must see if her reaction gives anything away.
But all I get back is indifferent, soot-colored eyes.
“Well, what did he mean?”
Lifting our chin toward the clock in the hall, Tansy coolly says, “Rule. Number. Three.” She rolls the “r” like she’s part of the aristocracy.
Still, diplomacy just might be my middle name. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about our history, but he was talking about prison, Tansy.”
In the mirror, my other half’s gaze flickers inside mine. Our lips are slightly chapped, and, yes, we still have cartoonishly large eyes, but neither of these facts should distract her from the fact that I have a point.
Tansy huffs, “You must be speakin’ of Olly Joliffe.”
I give a swift nod.
“‘Skinnymalinky went to the pictures n’ fell through the seat!’” She recites one of her favorite nursery rhymes. Rolling our eyes, she adds, “Kid wouldn’t know amnesia if it smacked him up the backside.”
I’d like to settle into the easy chair, hash out every single particular of what she means, but I have to be careful. Tansy doesn’t like me threatening her authority. But I’m not willing to back down, either, so I get right to it. “Why does Olly claim that I’m lying about losing my memories?”
Tansy takes her sweet time running her tongue along the front of our upper teeth. “‘Cause the boy’s a bona fide imbecile, that’s why.”
“Why would he say we deserve to be locked up?”
Primly folding her hands over our stomach, Tansy looks down our pale nose at me. “How should I know?” Seeing how that’s not enough of an answer, she huffs, “The Joliffes have always been morons.” She waves our hand. “Too many of the same people in the family tree.”
“But you know what we did in our past.” If I had control of our hands, I’d point a finger at her face. “You’re not willing to tell me.”
“Do you want the avalanche?” Tansy’s voice always comes out more Southern when she shrieks. She paces to a jewelry box on a shelf and stuffs on a mess of gaudy bracelets and rings. “I thought you were smarter than that, G.”
“Look, you know I don’t want the avalanche, but I thought—”
In one swift move, Tansy snaps the jewelry box shut while pulling out an ornate necklace with gems and beads. She leads us past the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. “Why don’t you go and get some rest, hmm?”
I try to lift my hand to argue. But she tucks me into my corner while slipping on the necklace that’s heavier than a boa constrictor, dead or alive.
4
When I come to, I’m in Tansy’s curve-backed reading chair, again in the library. A tiny knit cat sweater lies in my lap, and my hair’s so greasy, it sticks to the side of my face.
As I look down, I find that I’m also clothed in one of Tansy’s Victorian dresses—one she must have gotten from a closet in the estate. This one’s mustard colored with pleats. Last thing I feel like doing is searching every single room for my running clothes—Tansy left them in the trash last time—but the sooner I get out of this dress, the better. The corset and fabric—not to mention the massive necklace—are worse than an iron maiden torture device.
While the house boasts sixteen rooms and spans something like nine thousand square feet, neither Tansy nor I ever really clean. All the arches and pillars are too much work—not to mention the sickly shade of green that’s splattered on the walls, curtains, and wood paneling.
The beer steins on the ledge halfway up the wall scream that the den’s a man’s domain. It’s the taxidermy moose mounted on the back wall, though, that gives me pause. Was Mr. Hardin my husband? What exactly did Olly mean? What if Mr. Hardin was a ninety-year-old invalid, who later learned he’d been conned into marrying a moody gold digger with questionable hygiene?
Egg-and-dart patterns scrawl across the chairs, matching the timeless Victorian theme, and an enormous rug lies beneath three couches that form a “U” shape.
At the back corner of the room, though, lie my running shorts in an untidy heap.
I stoop to pick them up. Peer up to the second-floor balcony. Maybe in a fit of artistic flair, Tansy stripped down to the nude and tossed my shorts over the side.
One of my socks spills like frozen water over the edge of a beer stein. I snatch up the sock, only to knock into the ledge. Oops—another mug slips off, but I catch the weighty cup just in time.
Setting it back on the shelf, I thank the good Lord that my reflexes are so speedy. I slip off Tansy’s bracelets and necklace and place them on an antique table. Peel out of the dress and drape it across the antlers. Take that, Tansy.
I could wear the dirty shorts and sock I just found, but last thing I need is to greet Francesca with twice the stink. Down to nothing but a slip, I head for the main-story bedroom to see if I can find some extra running clothes. Maybe.
For once, I’m actually glad for the boarded up windows. A throng of voices ring like excited carolers from outside. They’re talking about the cupola, and, chances are, in about five seconds, they’ll be dreaming about the chances of getting a look inside.
From the derelict condition of the grounds, most assume Hardin Mansion’s been vacant for a while. If it were up to me, I’d trim the bushes—make things a little more presentable—but Tansy likes to keep up appearances that no one lives here.
I’d try to make her see reason, but coming out for a few hours every fourteen days doesn’t give one much time.
The bureau near the bedroom door seems promising. I pull open the top creaky drawer, only to find a pile of petticoats and wool stockings.
Drawer after drawer is the same.
A mess of crumpled-up dresses strewn across the floor serve as a testament to how Tansy feels about doing laundry. There’s a cream dress, a pink dress, and a brown one that reminds me of something the Brontë sisters would have worn back in the day. What I would give to slip away from here—grab a guitar and experience more of my vibe. Maybe visit the Grand Ole Opry ...
Seeing how running clothes are in short supply, I sidestep the dresses and aim for the stairs. My favorite running joggers and visor might be hanging over a curtain rod, if I’m lucky. Though Tansy once told me that the basement’s where she keeps things she doesn’t like.
All right, I’ll go downstairs—just as soon as I find a flashlight.
I take a sizeable step into the hall, only to sideswipe a mounted longhorn skull, its stately horns jutting left and right.
My shirt and socks sway from the horns—almost like Tansy knew I’d be leaving her dress a similar way.
I stifle a giggle. Snatch up the clothes, and pay my respects. “Thanks, Tansy.”
5
I reward myself for running longer than usual by stopping by Hey, Sugar for a treat. Their Chocolate Thunder truffle is gooey, salty, glorious, and it sticks to my teeth. Part of me wants to sample each and every baked good, but I’m not so sure my stomach could handle it. Tansy’s limited diet makes celery seem spicy.
The store owner keeps watching me like a hawk, though I’m not sure why. The shop’s baby blue walls drown out the dull blue of her eyes, and her short, cropped hair is nearly the same pale color of her skin. While she munches on a fistful of rock candy, I can’t tell if she’s watching me because she wants to sell me more chocolates, or if there’s something more somber on her mind.
When, after a full twenty seconds the woman still hasn’t looked away, I think to try some small talk—since we all know that’s my forte—but her eyes are brimming with water and her arms are going stick-straight.
Her face is beet red.
The same bright, primary color in Tansy’s latest painting.
She’s clutching her neck, and she really must be choking. I should do the Heimlich maneuver. Do I know the Heimlich maneuver, or have I lost that memory?
Now my arms are pinned like pieces of wood superglued to my sides.
Another customer with a handlebar mustache and hair buzzed on the sides darts around the counter and seizes the lady from behind. Hands locked together, he repeatedly squeezes her stomach between the naval and ribcage.
I grab the ledge of the counter. Dig my nails into the granite while the woman’s face flushes the color of purple frosting.
The man continues to squeeze her stomach. Again and again, and I can’t believe I’m not doing anything.
On the following squeeze, a piece of rock candy dislodges from the woman’s mouth, and it sails through the air, nearly smacking me in the face.
The man gasps. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, noting how his mustache gives him a decidedly “Mr. Pringles” vibe. Oh, but he wasn’t asking me. He was asking the woman, which is right.
Her face washes from scarlet to her earlier pale sheen. “Yes.” She wheezes, shoulders and elbows drawn up while she clutches the counter. “At least, I’m alive.”
Pure, cold hatred shoots from the man’s eyes. “You weren’t going to help her!” He juts a crooked finger in my face. “What were you going to do? Let my wife die?”
The woman and her husband exchange conspiratorial looks while my head spins sideways.
I only came for chocolates. I didn’t mean to cause a problem. All I wanted was to help the business, not hurt anybody.
“She really does deserve to be locked up,” the pale woman says, just like what Olly said.
“What were you going to do next?” The man lifts his arms. “Destroy our business? Get outta here before I call the police!”
I scramble for the door, but not before knocking into a stuffed unicorn in a cowboy hat and Texas flag bowtie.
6
“Ever consider putting your hair in a braid?” Francesca surveys my hair with a toothy grimace, showing off the cute gap in her front teeth.
To be fair, I put my hair up before I left the house, but Tansy must have misplaced all the brushes I bought. And I forgot to check my reflection in the mirror for the millionth time.
“I know, I’m sorry.” I paw at my hair for the elastic. It’s in there, but just barely. I don’t really want to see how I look, but beggars can’t be choosers, so I take the plunge and look in the mirror anyway.
Hmm. Guess I’m looking a little more “Edward Scissorhands” today. I’ve got this gigantic poof with several messy tendrils slipping down the side of my face. All I need is the black lipstick and I’ll be set for the next big goth party.
At least my eyebrows still look nice.
Francesca rests a weighty hand on my shoulder. “You’d be beautiful even if we shaved off this unruly mane.”
My heart does this happy, skippy beat. “Now there’s an idea ...”
Francesca waves her hand like she just ordered a shooting. “No, no, hon—WAIT!”
Her voice carried louder than usual, and she giggles, reaching up to smooth back her coiled hair that’s tied into a natural puff updo. Her manager—Wanda? Rita?—scowls so big, I’m afraid she’s going to ply us with dunce caps for misbehaving, so I shoot her my most friendly smile to show that Francesca’s doing a fabulous job.
When Francesca tries tugging her brush through my hair, though, it’s like moving an elephant through concrete.
“Shave it,” I beg. “Please.”
“Don’t you talk no sacrilege!” Francesca gives another painful tug. “Your hair is gorgeous. It just needs a little TLC.” Wrenching the brush free, she steps backward a few steps and cups her chin with one hand, pondering. “You do own a brush, right?”
“I’ll buy another.” I sink further in my seat.
Maybe I can stick it in the bathroom cupboard before Tansy takes over next time.
While Francesca wordlessly fastens the back buttons of my cloak, I can’t help thinking that she’s the one person I can be myself around without being judged all the time. In the past, I’ve made it a point to keep things between us light, but, I have to ask, “Do you happen to know Olly Joliffe?”
Francesca’s earrings jangle as she fastens the top button. “Who?”
“Olly. Joliffe.”
She bites her bottom lip. “Can’t say I do.”
I run my finger down the slick front of the nylon cape. “He said that I deserve to be in the slammer. So did the Hey, Sugar owners. Do you have any idea why?”
At once, Francesca’s beautiful, brown eyes drift to meet mine. “Why you telling me this? You messing with me?”
“No!” I shift in my seat. “I swear. But I have to tell you, everybody in this town keeps giving me the evil eye.”
Francesca glances to the back of the store where Wanda-Rita straightens the purple shampoo bottles on the back-wall display. Three of her colleagues are whispering in a group at the back, and that doesn’t look very inclusive, if you ask me.
“Honey, she isn’t giving you the evil eye,” Francesca says. “She’s doing that all for me.”
Sensing there’s something underlying what she’s saying, I wait a breath for Francesca to elaborate.
She leans in, her jasmine and shea butter lotion wafting over me. “Look, I’m new in town, so I don’t know everything, but”—she peers over her shoulder at Wanda-Rita, then her colleagues—“not everyone in this town is as they seem ...”
What, do they have a thing against outsiders? I’ve been here for—well, six—seven—ten?—months, at least. So, yes, Francesca and I would
both be newcomers to an already tight-knit community.
“Small towns.” I sigh.
Francesca holds my gaze a bit longer, as if I’m supposed to read between the lines. But she’s not the one they’re saying should be locked up. Unless they think she does, too, just for associating with me.
Before she can say anything else, Wanda-Rita comes charging up like she’s manning the busiest hair salon in New York City. “You have customers waiting!” Her nostrils flare, and her blonde A-line bounces, reminding me of a Fraulein of the Nazi party.
Francesca mutters under her breath, “Then why don’t you ask Jessica to come back from her twentieth smoke break?”
Wanda-Rita stiffens. So does Francesca, and she’ll soon be out of a job if she doesn’t learn to play nice. I open my mouth to say something about how Francesca’s made me look a lot less like a I belong in a street gang, but I doubt that’ll impress Wanda-Rita. Plus, Francesca doesn’t seem like the sort of person who likes other people fighting her battles.
Gritting her teeth, Wanda-Rita clomps off while Francesca stomps on the chair pedal, giving me the rollercoaster ride of my life.
“Let’s get you a wash,” she says.
Last thing I like is seeing Francesca angry, so I make sure she’s looking at me before leaning in, flaring my nostrils, and importantly cupping the bottom of my faux A-line.
Francesca howls with laughter. Neither of us dare to look at Wanda-Rita, but my good friend does lean in conspiratorially. “Let’s get you fixed up with some caramel highlights, hmm?”
I give her about thirty nods before stealing one final look in the mirror. No more gigantic poof, no more messy tendrils. “Buh-bye, Eddie.”
Once I’m certain I’m out of sight, I take off for another run. No need to stress Francesca about my hair tangling. Wish I could go somewhere different than the four square miles of Deep Creek.