While the tub fills with water, I peel off my socks, jeans, and T-shirt and kick them away. On the shelf, I find bath salts and dump in the contents before I slip into the hot water.
I slide down until my ears fill with the gurgle of underwater sounds. My hair billows like a sea creature around my head, and my arms float up beside me. I feel like my body is separating into parts by weight—the light parts leave the heavier ones on the bottom.
Maybe this is what happens when you die. The soul rises up and strands the heavy part of you back on earth.
I try to imagine how the soul might feel, suddenly set free, without the weight of a head, arms, legs, and all the rest. It reminds me of the time I dreamed I was flying and looked down on all the Las Vegas lights. They were so far away, so beautiful, and I was... safe.
“Dinner in ten minutes!” Kay’s voice comes through the bathroom door, jolting me awake and onto my feet, sending shock waves through all my body parts.
My first thought is to leap out of the water and make sure I locked the door. Then I remember I’m not in Vegas. I’m not in the apartment. No sweethearts here. Only Kay the Stone and Kenny Fargo, King of Spit.
I stand in the cooled water and shiver.
Don’t get soft. Next time check your locks like always.
I grab a towel, dry off, and wrap it around me. My clothes smell bad, even from the corner where I’d kicked them. But then I notice the folded clothes on the back of the toilet. Clean jeans, a long-sleeved plaid shirt, and socks. When I pull them on they’re too big, but they smell good and I’m not going to put my horsy clothes back on—no matter what. I roll the jean legs and the shirtsleeves up, pull on the socks, and run my fingers through my wet hair.
I glance in the mirror. “God, I look like I’m ten!” I turn sideways and study my profile. “Maybe eleven.” It’s the clothes. Who’d ever wear stuff like this?
When I open the bathroom door, food smells wake up my stomach. I haven’t had anything since that ham sandwich hours ago and I’m in the mood for chow. I make it down the hall, past where I’ll sleep, Kay’s office, and the living room, and walk into the kitchen.
Kenny sits at one end of the table, sipping brown liquid from a shot glass.
“Sit here, Shawna.” Kay pulls out a chair and then sits at the other end of the table opposite Kenny.
Under each plate there’s a mat, and next to the fork and knife, a napkin made out of cloth, not paper. How am I not going to leave grease marks on it?
Kenny’s looking spiffy. Clean shirt, hair slicked back, and... check out the hands. No horsy smell anywhere.
Kay looks neatened up too. Her shirt is still plaid, but it’s not the same one she was cooking in earlier. I’d be able to pick out her closet in a sec. Three hundred plaid shirts, starched, the collars all facing the same direction on the hangers.
A heaped bowl of fluffy white potatoes sits in the center of the table, and steak sliced and soaking in juice is on a platter next to it. There’s lettuce and tomatoes tossed into a salad.
I’m reaching for the potatoes when Kay says, “I’ll pass them to you.”
“Whatever.” I help myself to two big plops and set the bowl down.
“Please pass them on to Kenny.”
What? Am I playing football? Pass. Pass. Pass. When do I get to like... eat?
I pick up my fork. The steak’s coming my way. I put down my fork, take the platter and... “I know. Pass.”
Kay doesn’t smile. I don’t think that’s something she does.
“Can I eat now?”
Kay presses her lips together like she’s going to say something starting with M. Then she switches and says, “Salad,” handing me the bowl of tossed greens.
I’m a quick learner, so I pass the salad to Kenny; then I sit back and fold my arms.
Kay snaps her napkin and lays it across her lap.
Okay. I get it. I do the same.
She picks up her fork and waggles it in the air. “Now,” she says.
Finally.
Kenny starts in about the gray, her temperature, her meds. I’m swallowing, not sure I’ve chewed much before I do. This is not ketchup soup or Wong’s takeout or even Kirby’s special deluxe grease.
The potatoes don’t taste like any potatoes I’ve ever eaten before. Where did they come from? The tomatoes—my gawd—they’re red candy. Can I have more?
Kay is holding the salad out to me. I guess the answer is yes, I can have more. And now passing is not a problem. I’ve got that down, along with how Kay likes to be the queen at the dinner table. There are rules here, too. Like napkins and passing and waiting until the right time to eat. User Manual Entry #4: Play the Queen’s Rules at Dinner.
Chapter 10
Shawna
“You wear plaid. I don’t.” I stand inside the small dressing room cubicle, my arms crossed and my jaw set.
I’d said no to everything the clerk and Kay had brought in for me to try.
“Then get dressed and come out here and look yourself,” Kay says.
“There’s nothing in this crappy store that I’d be caught dead in.”
Kay waves the clerk out and waits in the doorway. “Fine. Then we’ll go someplace else.” She yanks the curtain closed. “I’ll meet you outside.”
“There’s nothing in this whole friggin’ town that I’d be caught dead in,” I say loud enough for anyone in the store to hear. I pull my Bad Ass Attitude shirt over my head and jam my feet into my shoes.
On the way out, the two clerks look at me and then away, like they don’t want me to see them seeing me—like if our eyes locked, they’d have to sterilize their eyeballs. They whisper behind me, sending little wis-wis sounds to follow me outside.
At the door, I turn around. “Hey, Chicas!”
I’ve got their attention. “Screw you!” I tuck my hair behind my ears and slam the door behind me.
Kay stands, leaning on her truck fender. “Nice, Shawna.”
“I’m sick of this shopping crap.”
Kay arches her neck like her horses do whenever they go ornery. Right now, her neck tells me I’m in for a fight—one I’d lose. “Fine. You can wear my jeans and one of my plaid shirts to school.”
I shift my weight to one foot and stick out my left hip. “All right.” I’m giving in, but I want her to know it’s only this time. “But you gotta take me someplace that’s got clothes, not cowgirl getups.
Her look could shrivel a Vegas pit boss I swear.
“Get in.” Kay climbs into her battered truck. “We are going to Sacramento.” She starts the engine. “Buckle up. And from now on, drop the tacky language.”
This ride is like the others: silent, except for the whir of traffic outside and her truck, of course. It rattles so much I expect parts to shake free and hurtle into the cars behind us. She never turns on the radio, and I’m sure from the way she looks she won’t let me turn it on either, so I hum to myself. This used to drive my mom up the wall, so I hope it will get to Kay too. That’s exactly what I want to do for the next forty minutes—push all her buttons. Rile her up. See her turn red-in-the-face angry. I’ll show her who’s callin’ the shots about work, about clothes, about my life.
When she pulls into a parking lot and gets out I follow, dragging my shoes over the steamy asphalt. Push a button here. Push a button there. Push a . . .she disappears inside a store without turning around to look at me.
“She’s pissed.”
I enter the store and find her waiting next to the drinking fountain just inside.
“Here’s three hundred dollars.” She holds out three single bills. “I’ll meet you here when you’re done.”
I work on looking casual when I take the money. I don’t say anything. But when I do a one-eighty and scuff my way to the racks, I roll my eyes at the three hundred bucks Kay just plunked in my hand. That’s the electric bill, the water bill, a few movie tickets, and some burgers with curly fries. Maybe even a rehabbed air conditioner, one that actually w
orks all the time. Living with Kay might be cushier than I thought.
I look around the store. This place holds more promise. Other girls with some style savvy are alongside me, pawing through the clothes. I take my time, and once in a while glance toward the drinking fountain. There she is: Kay Stone, looking like she’s the store greeter, with nothing better to do than stand where she is.
When I’ve loaded my left arm with possible buys, the clerk counts out my allotted seven items and unlocks a dressing room.
“I’ll check back,” she says and leaves me inside with a three-way mirror under fluorescent lights that, with my dark eyes and black hair, turns my skin pasty.
Mom used to hate dressing rooms like this, and when it came her turn to try on something, she’d boot me out the door. “You bring me stuff when I need it, okay?” she’d say.
“What’s the deal? You watched me with my butt hanging out.” “Shut up, Shawna.” And in a few minutes she’d stick her hand out, dangle the jeans or the backless top and send me to find another size. Another color. Another style. This would go on a loooong time.
“Well,” I asked her once, when she unlocked the door and stepped out after an hour-long dressing-room session. “What are you getting?”
On her index finger she twirled a halter-top.
“That’s the one I wanted,” I said. “You told me it was too... skimpy or some kind of crap like that.”
“Who’s paying for this, you or me?” She shoved her face close.
I could have said something. Something like, who does the kid part of your act? But I didn’t. The halter-top wasn’t worth it. I could have said she was a little old to wear clothes from the Junior section. But I didn’t. Nothing was worth the hell I’d get for saying that.
Now, without Mom, I take my time under the fluorescents. I pull on pants and a top, turn to check my backside. Not bad. But maybe no more curly fries for a while.
I’m into and out of the next outfit before I finish zipping up.
That’s totally not happening.
And before I know it, I’ve tried on everything. In little more than an hour, I’ve found my Sweet River High wardrobe. I pay the bill and hold out the change to Kay.
“Keep it. But give me the receipt in case you have to bring something back.” She folds the receipt and puts it into her pocket. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
It’s after two when we finally get back to the ranch.
“Put your things away, then come out and do your chores.” Kay walks to the barn.
I shrug after she turns her back. I want it clear that I don’t care one bit about her, her chores, or even the clothes. Well, maybe the clothes. A little. It’s kind of neat to take each piece out and see it in my private space. Sort of like bringing home new friends and getting to know them better.
Chapter 11
Kay
Kay found Kenny leaning against the side of the barn, staring across at Floyd’s.
“Looks like you survived the shopping trip!” He gave her his lopsided grin.
“Yes. I would have preferred a long morning in hell.” Kay sighed and looked over at the shabby barn on the next ranch. “If I drank in the afternoon, I’d go next door to Floyd’s and have a double with him right now.”
“You raised one before. You can do it again,” he said.
“No. This is different. She’s as skittish as a horse new to the saddle. Nicholas never had an edge to him like Shawna has.” She closed her eyes and tried to picture the lanky boy with the wide-set eyes that made her feel alive whenever he turned them on her. It was hard now to recall him any other way, except as the young boy who sat between her and Peter in the movies, or galloped ahead of her like he’d been born in that saddle. She couldn’t remember him as the man who chose to marry the girl of her nightmares, the man who joined the service, the man who left and never returned.
“She’s really got to you,” Kenny said.
Kay frowned, drawing her dark brows together. “Truth is she worries me—a lot.”
Kenny nodded. “Something’s under her saddle, and you’d best find out what before too long.”
“Are you trying to scare me more than I am already?”
“Nope. Just giving my opinion. I charge for advice,” he said, pushing away from the barn and heading toward Floyd’s.
“Now what are you up to?” she called after him.
“Same as always. Those horses of Floyd’s are out of water again. They may as well have water. They don’t have much else.”
“What about the gray? Any change?”
He shook his head. “She’s better, but I’m keeping in touch with the vet. Might give her a turn around the place to stretch her legs.”
Kenny climbed over the top rail and walked across Floyd’s property. He walked slower these days, but with the same side-to-side cowboy sway. Once she’d asked him how a cowboy wound up a Vietnam medic.
“Every war needs a good cowboy, don’t you know that?” He’d looked off into the distance before answering. “‘Sides, I needed a place to hide out. Nobody was gonna go after me in one of them soggy rice paddies.”
She’d wanted in the worst way to say, “Hide out?” But she’d only looked at him with the question in her eyes.
“I never said I was a saint, did I?” he asked.
She smiled again as she had that day. St. Kenny. That has a nice sound to it, she thought as she watched Kenny fill Floyd’s watering trough. The horses clustered around, dipping their heads low and drinking under the hot sun.
If I had the money, she thought, I’d buy those horses and put them out to pasture. Someday I’ll do that. Someday I’ll buy Floyd out. He needs to live somewhere else, where he doesn’t have that burned-down house to look at everyday, a place where the memories aren’t so horrible.
She clenched her jaw. The memories of that night were horrible to her as well, even after all these years. She still felt the lick of flames on her face, heard Floyd’s screams, saw herself in slow-motion running behind Peter and Nicholas, feeding the water hose to its full length. She wished she could erase those pictures forever. She hated it when they flashed through her head and made her chest tight with regret. Now there was Shawna. More regret, another reason to be tense. She sighed. She had to do something to get her mind off the past and her troubling granddaughter for a while.
She looked into the barn. Kenny was right; exercise might do the gray some good. Kay saddled the mare and set her down the trail at a slow walk. She followed her property line to the creek, and then cut across the water and up the other side, where the hill crested onto an open meadow of August-brown grass. The gray seemed to perk up, so she nudged her sides with her heels and the horse shot forward, eager to stretch her legs. Kay felt that surge of power under her, and thoughts of the past and Shawna vanished.
She could still sit a horse, even at sixty. Well, okay, sixty-four. Her one lie, and even Kenny didn’t know it was a lie. She didn’t tell it to be coy; she told it to give herself a future, because if she hung around long enough, the good had to start outweighing all the bad.
She smiled and gently drew up on the reins. “Okay, old girl, let’s take it slow for awhile before we pull something.”Was she talking to the horse or herself? Maybe both.
The gray seemed suddenly sluggish, so Kay slid from the saddle and walked her slowly up the hill.
She and Peter and Nicholas had come this way so many times that she didn’t think about where she was going. The trail wound around an open meadow and back to the creek in an easy loop that took about an hour. She’d be back in time to help finish the chores and make dinner, and do everything she did every night.
But now Shawna was back in her mind. What Kay understood about teenage girls was close to nothing. They were aliens who spoke a different language, dressed with more body parts showing than if they were in their bedrooms, and pierced themselves in places that made her cringe. At least Shawna wasn’t punched full of holes, at least not ones
she could see, anyway. Kay made a mental note to ask about that later. And what about tattoos?
She’d never imagined doing anything close to what the girls did nowadays, but she’d grown up in the good old days, the fifties. The year she turned fifteen, Elvis shocked the world with his swivel hips that sent the censors into cardiac arrest. But there was that Spring Break her last high school year. Kay fit her boot into the stirrup and slung her leg across the gray. She leaned back in the saddle and gave the gray her head.
“Take your time,” she said, and stroked the firm neck.
The picture of that April day in 1957 always came clear and strong, refusing to fade. Yet it wasn’t an important day at all, compared to others that followed. Her mother had stood looking pinched as a drawstring bag, and her grandmother gazed across the table like she’d been stunned by a blow to the head. They were in Mom’s kitchen, and she’d just come back from Nancy Kendal’s slumber party. Strange, she thought, stroking the gray’s neck, I can smell that spice cake sitting on the table, as if Gram had just baked it. She could even hear her mother’s voice.
“What possessed you?” her mother shouted, but she didn’t wait for an explanation. Instead, she wrung her hands like she was rehearsing Lady Macbeth and asked, “What were you thinking?”
“Everybody’s doing it, Mom. It’s only a little bleach, for gosh sakes.”
“A little? Your hair is orange!”
It was true. Nancy’s had turned a creamy yellow, but then she’d started with light brown hair. Kay had to admit she was disappointed with the orange, but frankly she’d been afraid to add more bleach. Her hair might fall out, and then what would she do? “It’ll grow out.”
“And what a fine mess that’s going to be. A nice black line down the center of your head. You’ll be able to join the circus.” Her mother picked up her purse. “Well, you’re not going out like that, so I guess we’ll have to dye it back.”
“Where are you going?” Kay yelled.
“To the drug store,” her mother yelled back. “And you be here, young lady, when I get home.”
The gray mare reached the creek and stopped midway across for a drink.
How can I compare bleached hair with what the kids do today, she asked herself, sitting taller in the saddle. I can’t.
Sliding On The Edge Page 4