St. Francis Society for Wayward Pets

by Annie England Noblin

  Alice jumped up, knocking chips and soda everywhere. “Dad!”

  William shifted his eyes from Billy to Alice and then finally settled on Annabelle, who’d yet to get up off the couch. “Get up,” he said to her. “Get up right now. We’re leaving.”

  Annabelle stood up, slightly wobbly on her feet, and looked at Billy, whose face had gone from confused to furious in a matter of seconds. “Okay,” she said, tearing her eyes away from him to look at his father. “Okay.”

  “What are you doing here?” Billy asked, refusing to step out of his father’s way. “I thought I told you not to show up here.”

  This time it was William’s turn to wobble, and Annabelle realized with frightening clarity that he must be drunk. Of course he was. He was drunk every night by nine p.m., which was why she and Alice thought he wouldn’t notice if they didn’t turn up at home after dark.

  William pointed a finger at Billy, landing it squarely in the middle of the younger man’s chest. “Don’t you fucking tell me where I can and cannot go,” he snarled.

  “You’re drunk,” Billy said matter-of-factly.

  William ignored his son and moved past him to Alice. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her forward before she could get ahold of her cane, which had been a present from her mother, a frivolous expense in her father’s eyes, and she stumbled forward, crashing to the cracked linoleum floor on her knees.

  Alice let out a sob, and Annabelle could see blood. William turned away from Alice, disgust written on his face, and focused his attention on Annabelle. Before he could get to her, though, Billy launched himself between them.

  For a moment, it looked like they might come to blows, and neither one of them spoke. Then William pasted a smile across his skeletal face and said, “I’d rethink whatever it is you’re considering, unless you want your PO to know that you’ve been supplying alcohol to minors.” He inclined his head to the empty beer cans. “You’ll be back in prison by tomorrow.”

  The last part of William’s sentence ran together so much that Annabelle wasn’t exactly sure what he’d said, but she understood what he’d meant. Gently, she touched Billy’s arm, squeezing it slightly, and stepped around him. “Why don’t you go wait in the car?” she asked William. “I’ll get Alice, and we’ll be right there.”

  William glanced from Annabelle to Alice and then back again, his eyes focusing and refocusing on Annabelle. “Hurry up,” he said, and wound his way around his daughter, sprawled on the floor, and out of the house.

  Wordlessly, Annabelle and Billy helped Alice up, leading her outside into the frosty, early morning air. Together they folded Alice into the back seat; she was still whimpering, but it was softer now, and Annabelle thought that she would probably be all right enough to walk by the time they got home.

  As Annabelle moved to slide in beside Alice, Billy held on to her hand, and for a moment their fingers interlocked. “I’ll find you this weekend,” he whispered.

  Annabelle nodded, willing Billy not to let go of her. She wanted to stay right there with him. She didn’t want to get into the car with Billy’s drunk father.

  “Come get in the front,” William said to her, rolling down his window to glare at Billy further, and Billy released his hold on Annabelle and disappeared back into his house, leaving Annabelle alone with the older man.

  The drive back was mostly quiet. Alice kept to herself in the back seat, and Annabelle thought she’d maybe even fallen asleep again. A light mist had begun, and William switched on the windshield wipers and then the radio as he rounded the corner to their neighborhood—the kind of neighborhood where the streetlights often went out and the city often forgot about fixing them.

  William, in his unsteady way, said, “I missed you at dinner tonight.”

  Annabelle sucked in air. She didn’t like the way he always paid more attention to her than to Alice. She wasn’t his daughter. His daughter, in fact, was broken in the back seat because of him, because he’d pulled on her too hard knowing she wasn’t all that steady on her feet to begin with. Then he’d left her on the floor to mop herself up. It was his typical way. If he wasn’t ignoring his children, he was being cruel to them.

  But never, it seemed, to Annabelle. He was always kind to her. He always paid special attention to her.

  “We didn’t mean to stay out so late,” Annabelle lied. “We fell asleep, that’s all.”

  “You didn’t look like you were asleep,” William countered, slowing the car down to a near crawl. “It looked like you and Billy were pretty cozy there on the couch.”

  “We were just watching a movie.”

  William sniffed. “My son is no good. I don’t like saying it, but it’s true.”

  Annabelle doubted very much that he hated saying it. “He’s doing okay.”

  “You’re young,” William replied. “You’ll find out soon enough, the way it works.”

  Annabelle didn’t respond. There wasn’t any point in arguing, she knew, but she felt like she’d seen enough in her seventeen years—more than enough—to know how the world worked.

  “What you need,” William continued, “is a real man to take care of you.”

  He reached out and stroked her shoulder with his thumb and index finger, and Annabelle had to will herself not to flinch as he moved his hand down her arm and laid his palm flat against her thigh.

  Annabelle tried to stare very hard at the road in front of them, at the yellow lines bisecting the pavement. If she just concentrated on what was in front of her, they could get home, and she could forget about what was happening. She was afraid to shrug him off, afraid that a commotion might wake Alice, and she’d see. She was afraid, God help her, that if she reacted, he’d set his sights on her in a different way, and she didn’t want his cruel attention any more than she wanted this attention.

  After what felt like an hour, William removed his hand to place it on the steering wheel when he turned in to the driveway, and Annabelle shut her eyes until he was out of the car, leaving both girls to get inside on their own. She sat there for a long time, listening to nothing at all and staring at the front porch until the light went off, until it was safe to go inside.

  Chapter 6

  HOLLY WOKE UP BEFORE I DID THE NEXT MORNING, AND when I finally rolled over to turn off the alarm I’d set on my phone, I found a bagel and a glass of orange juice waiting for me on the nightstand.

  I sat up and rubbed at my eyes. “How long have you been awake?” I asked.

  Holly shrugged. “A couple of hours. I had some work emails to respond to.”

  I took a drink of the orange juice and got a mouthful of pulp. I swallowed and said, “Thanks for getting me breakfast.”

  “The continental breakfast isn’t very continental,” Holly replied. “Powdered eggs and some sad-looking bacon. But the bagels seemed fresh.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “I had an energy bar in my purse.”

  Holly was looking at me anxiously, blowing the bangs of her pixie cut out of her eyes, her bottom lip jutting out over her top lip.

  “What is it?” I asked. “You’re making me nervous just sitting there staring at me. I promise I’ll be okay today. I won’t fall apart on you during the funeral, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “It’s not that,” Holly replied. “I got a call from Christine early this morning.”

  “Is she all right?” I asked, panic rising in my throat. “Are the kids okay?”

  “Everyone’s fine,” Holly said. “Except that Cora has a stomach flu, and that means Carley is bound to get it. Christine’s mother got called into work, and that means Christine doesn’t have any help. Two puking kids when you’re all alone is an absolutely miserable existence, in case you were wondering.”

  I wrinkled up my nose at the thought of vomit but tried to make my face look as sympathetic as possible. I loved my niece and nephew, and I loved Holly’s kids. But I didn’t want to be the one responsible for them 24/7. I was per
fectly happy being the “fun” aunt. Why anyone thought having kids of their own was a good idea was beyond me.

  “Anyway,” Holly continued, “I really need to get back to the city. I know I was supposed to go to the funeral, and I feel just awful for bailing on you, but it’ll take me nearly four hours to get back as it is.”

  I nodded my head and swallowed thickly. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mind going to the funeral by myself, but I knew that was exactly what I was going to have to do—lie. It wasn’t Holly’s fault. It really wasn’t.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Really, it’s no big deal. But how are you going to get home? I need my car.”

  “I had the guy at the front desk order me a rental,” Holly replied, slightly shamefaced. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll be fine. I won’t know anybody anyway. Nobody will recognize me as the illegitimate daughter of the deceased.”

  “Don’t say that,” Holly scolded.

  “Just go,” I said, urging her up. “Get on the road right now, while it’s still early.”

  “I booked the room for another night,” Holly said, giving me a quick hug. “Just in case you’re too tired to drive back by yourself afterward.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

  “It’s the least I can do for leaving you in the lurch,” Holly replied. “Besides, it’ll be almost dark by the time the funeral and burial are over. I know how much you hate to drive in the dark.”

  It was true. My night vision was terrible, and I lived in fear of road construction on the interstate. I sometimes had actual nightmares about running over orange cones that sent me flying into the opposite lane of traffic.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Text me when you’re back safe.”

  “I will,” Holly said. She slung her vintage Louis Vuitton Keepall over her shoulder, the one I coveted and made her promise to will to me upon her death, which at that moment, now that I thought about it, seemed pretty morbid. “And you text me after the service.”

  “I will.”

  The door slammed, and I slumped back down into the bed. The mattress was some kind of squishy memory foam, and it made me want to snuggle down and just stay there all day. I realized that I could do just that, if I wanted to, with Holly gone and unable to keep tabs on me. I could order room service and stay in the fluffy bathrobe all day long. I could even rent an expensive in-room movie and charge it to Holly’s account. She’d feel so guilty about leaving me that she wouldn’t even mention it.

  I brought my knees up to my chest and hugged them, feeling guilty for having those thoughts at all. I’d come to Timber Creek for one thing, and one thing only—to go to my birth mother’s funeral so that I could finally get the closure everyone else thought I needed. I was a terrible liar. They’d all know if I skipped out.

  Besides, I told myself. It’s just for a couple of hours. Nobody here will even know who I am. What’s the very worst that could happen?

  * * *

  I parked just up the street from the church in a bank parking lot. I wanted to make as little an entrance as possible, and I thought maybe I could walk in unnoticed this way. To be honest, I was a little relieved that Holly wasn’t with me. It would be easier to blend in. All I had to do was get through the service, and then I could go back to Seattle with my conscience clear.

  Simple.

  My black combat boots made a pleasant thunk, thunk, thunk as I made my way down the street. I’d thought the ensemble I’d picked looked like appropriate funeral attire—black dress, black tights, and black boots. I’d gotten them on sale at the closeout of a store downtown that was a pretty epic rip-off of a 1990s-era Delia’s. I’d spent two hours trying on clothes and come home with this outfit and my last credit card absolutely maxed out. My mother, of course, told me I looked like I was headed to the woods for a human sacrifice under the new moon, but I’d ignored her. That morning, however, standing in front of the full-length mirror in the hotel bathroom, I realized she was right. Of course, by then it was too late, and it was either the witch costume or jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt.

  Nobody seemed to take too much notice of me, and I managed to get inside the doors without making eye contact with anyone. A woman in cat’s-eye glasses and short, spiky red hair handed me a program, and I settled into a chair in the back without looking at the piece of paper in my hand. For a brief moment, I wished that Holly were here to make some bad joke about the people in this town dressing like hillbillies or something to make me laugh. People streamed in slow and steady, and before I knew it, the back row was full and so was the rest of the room.

  Eventually a man came to the front of the room, and he started to talk about Annabelle—about what a kind person she’d been and how everyone in the community would miss her. The woman sitting next to me was sniffling, and the man she was with handed her a tissue and patted her leg. I knew that all of this was normal—it was a funeral, after all. The preacher was supposed to talk about the dead person like they were Mother Teresa. The people in attendance were supposed to cry and be sad. But I couldn’t help feeling like the outsider I was: the interloper at an intimate gathering for a celebration of a life well-lived—a life I hadn’t been, and now never would be, a part of.

  I looked down at the paper in my hand. It was folded into a small square and had a black-and-white photo of Annabelle on the front. She was older than she’d been in the picture my father kept in his drawer, but not as old as she had to have been when she died—thirty, maybe? She was standing beside another woman and grinning into the camera, and she was wearing a baseball cap and holding a huge fish.

  She looked happy.

  At the end of the service, everyone stood up and sang a hymn posted on the back of the paper with Annabelle’s photo. I wasn’t much for hymns—my parents were lapsed Catholics who pretty much only went to church on Easter and Christmas, but I gave it my best shot. The pallbearers picked up the casket and carried it down the aisle. The casket was pink, and it had little roses cascading down one side, and the woman next to me whispered, “That looks just like Annabelle,” and the man next to her had to give her another tissue.

  Bringing up the rear was a face I recognized—the only one I recognized in the whole place: that of the great big hulking Abel Abbott, and when I caught his eyes as he moved past me with the rest of the pallbearers, there was such a look of abject grief in his eyes that I almost burst into tears right there. I wondered how he knew Annabelle. I wondered if he knew who I was, and I wondered, too, why looking into his eyes made me feel the way it did.

  Chapter 7

  I WASN’T SURE WHAT TO DO AFTER THE SERVICE. JUST AS I’D hoped, it seemed like I’d slipped in without being noticed by anyone, except maybe Abel Abbott. But he didn’t know me anyway, so that didn’t really matter. Still, it felt rude to just leave. There wasn’t going to be a graveside, and so people were queuing to hug and greet the family, talking among themselves. There had been something mentioned about a gathering afterward, but I didn’t know where it was, and I didn’t think I wanted to go to that anyway.

  I didn’t know what I was waiting for. I hadn’t told Alice I was coming, and she was probably the only other person besides Annabelle in Timber Creek who knew I existed. It was petulant, I scolded myself, to be upset that nobody seemed to care that I was there.

  Keeping my head down, I moved past the groups of people, past the tearful woman and the man with the tissues, and to the front door. The cool September air hit me in the face, and I took a big gulp. I’d done it. It was over.

  I had my hand on my car door handle when I heard someone calling my name from the direction of the church.

  “Maeve? Maeve!”

  I looked up, surprised. A woman was running, well, hurrying, toward me. She was a little bit of a person with a mass of bouncy graying curls and a heart-shaped face. She was waving at me with one hand and with the other clutching a thick black cane that touched the ground at
the same time as her left leg, which seemed to be a couple of inches shorter than the right.

  I arranged my face into a smile and said, “Yes?”

  “You’re Maeve Stephens, right?” she asked, puffing out bits of air and trying to catch her breath.

  “I am,” I said. “Are you . . . are you Alice?”

  She nodded, and then seemed to wobble on her feet. I put out my hand automatically to help steady her, and she took it, closing her eyes for just a moment.

  “Thanks,” she said. “My days of Olympic sprinting are over.”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

  “It was a joke, kiddo,” she said. She let go of my hand and thumped her cane on the ground. “Obviously.”

  I started to tell her that I was sorry for not telling her I was coming at the same time she started to tell me thank you for coming, and our words got jumbled up together and an awkward silence ensued.

  “Thank you for telling me about the funeral,” I said finally.

  “Annabelle would have wanted you to know,” Alice replied.

  I nodded, because I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure how knowing that my birth mother was dead did me any favors—I mean, I hadn’t known her in life, and that wasn’t for lack of trying. But that wasn’t Alice’s fault, and I doubt she was prepared for me to word vomit all my emotional baggage onto her.

  “Are you leaving?” Alice asked. “There’s a gathering at a friend’s house starting about now. We’d love for you to come.”

  “We?”

  “Yes,” Alice said, smiling. “It’s not far from here. Just a few streets over.”

  “Thank you,” I said, returning her smile. “But it’s a four-hour drive back to Seattle, and I should really get on the road.”

  “You’re leaving tonight?”

  “I planned on it.”