All About Evie (ARC)

by Cathy Lamb

  Betsy longed for Johnny. She lived for his letters. She wished she could see a premonition about the two of them, together, happy in the future, out of prison, but she saw nothing.

  She thought of Rose every day and prayed that she would have a happy, safe life. She worried about Tilly constantly. Now and then she would get a picture in an envelope, drawn by Tilly, but no words. She knew that Tilly was in foster care, traumatized by what she’d seen. Betsy hadn’t even known Tilly was in the room when she’d killed Peter. Tilly was now a child with no parents, no brother. Alone.

  She felt responsible. Her guilt made her ill. If she was ever out of jail, she would make it up to Tilly. She had no idea how, but she would. Tilly deserved it.

  Betsy was hit with the car-crashing premonition again after a particularly bad day where Duke was staring at her, eyes narrowed, his hand near his crotch and making a swishing motion.

  Eartha yelled at him to “get your long tongue back in your marshy mouth, get your short dick under control, and stop staring at Betsy with your piggy eyes. She don’t want you, Duke, she never will. You’re like pond scum to her. Pond. Scum.”

  Eartha was hauled off by Duke to isolation. Later, Duke came back and baited Betsy, calling her names, telling her he was going to keep Eartha in isolation for weeks unless Betsy

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  “started being nice,” but she didn’t respond. She turned her back in her cell and wouldn’t speak. She felt awful about Eartha.

  That night she had the premonition again, but this time there was a twist at the end.

  She was on the same road. She was driving the red car. The sun was behind her, glinting through the trees. There were orange poppies. The road was narrow and she turned around the curve, cliff on her right, mountain on the left. She was distracted by the cliff, then turned her eyes back to the road and the blue truck. Before she could react, the truck turned and drove straight off the cliff.

  “Oh, my God!” she screamed. She stopped, her car dovetail-ing. She called 911 and started tripping down the cliff. The woman’s truck was upside down, the windows were shattered, the airbags blown. The engine had steam rising from it.

  The woman was halfway out of her truck, through the shattered window, limp and not moving.

  Then the truck exploded.

  She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream.

  She did neither.

  She vowed to change the ending.

  C h a p t e r 2 3

  “Evie,” Chief Ass Burn said to me outside the grocery store. He was not in his uniform. He was wearing a blue shirt that fit snugly, like a diaper, around his sagging gut. “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  I was carrying a bag full of healthy foods including: Truffles.

  My friend Nicky makes them. He used to be a sous-chef in Los Angeles. He quit so he could live a life. Now he makes truffles from his home in Doe Bay. And I might have had a fresh peach pie in my bag, too, that my friend Kat Metts made for the store.

  But I had bananas, too, to combat my anxiety. I would run later to burn off the truffles. I laughed out loud at my own funny joke! Running equals torture. In my right hand I carried a root beer float. They were giving them away. If it’s free, I’m going to eat it.

  I saw his eyes slip to my chest, then hips, for a second. He disgusts me. “Is there something on my shirt?”

  His eyes flew to mine.

  “You looked at my chest, and I thought maybe there was something on my shirt. You’ve done it before.”

  “No, nothing’s on your shirt.” He smiled, and it was a mix of being caught and triumph. He had gotten to me, and he liked knowing he could irritate me.

  “Stop looking at my chest,” I told him.

  “I’m not. Do not accuse me of something I haven’t done.” He smirked.

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  “Look, Chief Ass Burn, we got off on the wrong foot because you are arrogant and rude and like to throw your weight around”—I dropped my eyes to his bowling ball gut—“but the truth is that I don’t want to talk to you at all, so we need to avoid each other.”

  I turned and left, and he grabbed my arm and said, “Now, slow down, little lady, we’re gonna talk this out.”

  I felt his sweaty, clingy fingers, and this roar of disgust and anger came over me. Who was he to touch me, to restrain me? I didn’t give him permission. He could touch me because he’s a man and he wants to? He’s entitled to that? He can hold me back because he sometimes wore a uniform? He can force a conversation because he wants the conversation to take place, regardless of what I want?

  “Let go of me,” I semi-shouted, yanking my arm from his claws. I turned and accidentally on purpose flung my entire root beer float on his shirt, too darn bad. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

  Maeve Biller, twenty-nine years old and an artist, shook her head. “Nice, Evie. I saw the chief grab you, and you fought back. You aren’t allowed to grab women, do you know that, Chief Ass Burn?”

  “Well done,” Mrs. Liu said, her white curls bouncing about in her ponytail. “When I was younger, we used hatpins to get rid of frisky men, but the root beer float worked, too. Are they still giving them away?”

  And Bo Proudfoot, a geologist and author, glared at the chief and said, “What the hell’s wrong with you? You can’t put your hands on a woman like that.”

  “I want to speak to Evie,” he huffed, wiping his shirt and glaring at me. “Privately.”

  “I don’t want to speak to you.” I walked past him but not before I heard him say, “You’re gonna regret that, Evie.”

  “I heard that!” Maeve Biller said. “That was a threat! Why is it that men who grab women then feel like they can threaten the woman when she protests? Why is it that when men get angry at women who rebuff them they feel like they can take revenge or

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  retaliate? Why do you think that is, Chief Ass Burn? What gives you the right to threaten Evie just because she doesn’t want your hands on her?”

  “I heard it, too,” Mrs. Liu croaked out. “You told Evie she was going to regret emptying her root beer float on you when you grabbed her without her permission. You deserved it. If I had a hatpin, I would have used it on your crotch. Poke, poke!”

  “I heard it,” Bo Proudfoot said. “And I am reporting you.”

  “Don’t come near me again,” I said. I stood still and strong and furious. “I will protect myself if you ever try to touch me again.”

  The chief took off, a disgusted look on his face for them and hatred in his eyes for me. That’s how narcissistic men look at women they can’t control or who don’t bow down to them: with hate.

  And they want revenge.

  You’ve popped their ego. You haven’t stroked it. And now you’re in trouble.

  Or my mother and aunts were in trouble.

  I headed home, took care of the animals, and went to bed early with three books: Romance. Nonfiction. Science fiction.

  I brought up a slice of peach pie. I wondered if Marco liked peach pie.

  Marco called me that night, Sundance lying beside me on his pillow with his pink blankie and Lizard, the other dogs and cats still running around the house and in and out of the dog/cat door. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, sure.” I ran a finger around the edges of one of the embroidered purple roses on my comforter. For some reason, doing that helps me to relax.

  “I heard about what the chief did.”

  “I’m fine. I told him not to touch me. He’ll back off.”

  “What a dick. I’m sorry, Evie.”

  “It’s okay. I’m fine. How are you?”

  He wouldn’t let me change the subject, asking questions, swearing at the chief. I finally got him to take a breath.

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  “I’m fine, Evie, but I am ticked off at the chief. I’m working, taking care of animals, including one dog who ate a five-year-old’s birthday cake and got sick and another who leaped over the b
ack fence to be with his girlfriend and in the process broke his leg.”

  “Anything for love,” I said.

  “Yes.” He laughed. “I think he was making a grand gesture.”

  We chatted and laughed, and before I knew it we’d been talking for three hours.

  “All right, Evie. I’ve kept you too long.”

  “It was nice to talk to you.”

  “Highlight of my day,” he said, soft and warm. “No, probably the highlight of my year.”

  We laughed.

  I missed him. I wanted him. I loved that guy.

  When we hung up, I choked up.

  The next day, Marco put his “sorry” into action.

  He went to talk to the chief. They met up in front of the hardware store. I heard about it later. Marco told the chief to stay away from me. That I didn’t want to talk, or interact, with the chief, that he was not to touch me.

  Chief Ass Burn laughed and said, “She’s not your girlfriend, Marco. As I understand, she’s turned you down. Small island.

  Once she gets to know me . . .”

  “She has gotten to know you,” Marco said. “And she doesn’t like you. You’re harassing her.”

  “I’m not harassing her at all, but nice try. You step over that line one more time and I’ll arrest you for threatening me.”

  “Do it,” Marco said. “I dare you.”

  “You’re not going to win, Marco. I will.”

  “Evie is not someone to win.”

  I’m told that the chief backed down. Marco is well over six feet, has tattoos, and is former military. The chief wasn’t that stupid.

  I talked yet again to my mother and aunts and told them to stop selling pot. “Chief Allroy is not here. Chief Ass Burn is and

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  he’s out for me, and he will transfer the anger he has for me to you. You need to shut it down.”

  “I am not afraid,” my mother said. She was making a daisy chain from fake daisies for a new hat.

  “My soul says I’m at peace,” Aunt Camellia said. She was trying to knit. She was terrible at it but smiled at whatever she was making anyhow. It poked out in circles on two sides and looked like a small bottom. I tilted my head. Was she making underwear for a misshapen bottom?

  “If he comes on our property, I will run him over,” Aunt Iris said. “We can bury the body in the pond. Or under the rocks under momma’s bridge. More pie, Evie? I know chocolate cream is your favorite.”

  I did have another slice of chocolate cream pie, but only because high-quality chocolate is healthy for you. Everyone knows that.

  “I’m compiling my honeymoon wardrobe,” Jules said. We were on Skype about midnight on Thursday. I was in bed with Sundance, Mars, and Ghost. “What do you think?”

  I stared at what she held up for her “honeymoon wardrobe.”

  It was all lingerie, by Lace, Satin, and Baubles in Portland.

  Fluffy. Sexy. Silky. Made for love and passion. “Are you planning on going out at all?”

  “What?” She pulled a red lacy nightgown over her blue tank top and shorts to show me. “Look at this one!”

  “It’s very pretty, but all you have is lingerie. I know Mack has a surprise destination honeymoon for you. But you’ll probably be going out, too. So you are planning on bringing real clothes, right? Dresses? Jeans? Shorts?”

  She giggled. “I don’t know. I’ll have an outfit for the plane ride, and I can wear the same one back. Oh, wait! He says we’re going someplace hot, so I also brought my bikinis!” She held three up.

  I had tried! “Looks like you’re set.”

  “I think so!” She laughed, flipped her hair back. Her tattoos were on glorious display. I saw my pink rose, the bouquet for

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  our mom and aunts, our father’s orca. “I can’t wait to see you again, Evie. You’re the best sister in the world.” She dropped the bikinis and the lingerie and gazed at me through the computer screen. Her eyes filled up. My eyes filled up. She sniffled. I sniffled. She made a choking sound, and I felt my throat closing up. I blew my nose. She blew hers. Then we both gave in and cried.

  “I’m getting married!”

  “I know! I’m so happy for you, Jules.” My voice broke. “I know that Mack will be the best husband. He’ll always be there for you. You’ll laugh and ride motorcycles and be cool cats together.” I help up Ghost and Mars so she could see them as tears rolled down my cheeks. Sundance barked at her. I knew he was trying to make her feel better.

  “I love you so much, Evie! Hi, Sundance! Hi, Mars and Ghost!”

  “I love you, too, Jules!”

  “Mack is so smart.” She blew her nose again. “The other night in bed he knew exactly what position I wanted to be in before I even asked!”

  Now that is one smart man. Sundance barked again.

  We laughed.

  I had to bring Mars, Jupiter, Venus, and Ghost to see Marco.

  Thank the Lord it was time for their annual exams and shots so I could gaze upon his gorgeousness. I am meticulous about my animals’ health. A healthy animal is a happy animal. But a healthy glimpse of Marco would make me a happy animal, too.

  I made an appointment, sitting on my leather couch at home that afternoon, but Marco had no time for a week. My cats leaped onto my lap. One of them jumped off a pile of books leaned up against my pink rose wallpaper and knocked them to the ground.

  “He’s jammed,” Gayle told me. “I’ve got you in for Tuesday, last appointment for the day because . . . uh . . . huh . . . because you work late!” she said victoriously. Aw, Gayle. What a pal. “I

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  may see you tonight, Evie. I’m coming to your mom and aunts’

  house for Sailor Singing Tunes.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you.” I would stay for a while and sing along, then leave. I can handle social stuff for a while, then I get overwhelmed.

  “I’ve got my sailor hat!” Gayle said.

  There. I had something to look forward to. Drunken sailor songs.

  I pet my cats as they crowded onto my lap and then started to fall asleep one by one. I can’t get anything done with a pile of cats on my lap, so I pretended to sigh and think of all the things I should be doing like cleaning my house, which is so boring. Or trying to get in shape, which is so painful. I picked up a book and happily began to read as they slept.

  Then I daydreamed about making love to my love, Marco.

  That night the singing sailors all converged for dinner on the deck at Rose Bloom Cottage, the red and pink roses pouring over the outdoor trellis. The women all wore sailor gear or sailor hats, with flowers my mother and aunts added. They were loud, funny, and sang on full blast.

  When I watch my mother and aunts I don’t fear getting older.

  After all, if one is allowed to get older or old, you are lucky, indeed.

  Plus, my mother and aunts feel grateful to be in their seventies. They have been through the beauties of life. They have been through the hardships of life. They have lost and loved.

  They have worked hard all their lives. They know what they value the most: Family. Us. Friends. The island. Helping other people.

  They laugh, they drink, they grow flowers and run a shop and hang with their friends. They do nice things for people all the time and bring joy to others and to this whole town with their wild shenanigans.

  They are gifts. They are living life.

  I admire them. I respect them. I love them, funny hats and all.

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  The sailor songs, which my Aunt Camellia printed out, had a lot of salty language and swear words. They were hilarious. I needed songs to lift my heart, and it was lifted on the sometimes poorly but enthusiastically sung musical notes in Rose Bloom Cottage, a sailor hat with daisies and delphinium on my head.

  Sundance howled, joining in. What a cool friend he is to all of us.

  C h a p t e r 2 4

  “Serafina k
ept doing kind things for others. She told her parents that she couldn’t be who she wanted to be if she stopped, so she didn’t. One row of rainbow-colored scales was soon gone, then another, then another, from her waist to the end of her tail.

  She grew greener and greener, but she found that she liked having a shiny green tail.”

  “Like her whole family.”

  “Like her family. Serafina knew she could cry about losing her scales, but what would that do? It wouldn’t bring the scales back. Plus, every time she played with her brothers in the waves, or they swam out to sun themselves on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean, or rode on the backs of whales altogether, she knew it was worth it. She never could have been happy without her brothers, if they had been locked in King Koradome’s cage.”

  “What happened when she had no more scales left?”

  “Well that’s where this story gets interesting.”

  C h a p t e r 2 5

  “I love you so much, Evie.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.” It was Sunday afternoon, and we were walking the property, greeting the animals. Alpaca Joe was standing close to Virginia Alpaca, as if afraid to let her out of his sight. He’s a little too possessive. We said hello and Virginia Alpaca stuck her nose out to be pet. I hugged her. Alpaca Joe spit.

  Sundance walked right beside me, wobbling a bit as usual, while Butch and Cassidy ran around ahead of us. I saw Ghost in the distance, right by the yellow-orange rose garden, and I saw Mars and Jupiter underneath the iris leaves. I think Jupiter had a mouse, but I didn’t look too carefully.

  We said hello to Shakespeare and Jane Austen, who whin-nied. I gave them each an apple. The lambs filed in as a line of five to see us, and the goats stood on the roof of their little blue house. “Stay in your pen today, Mr. Bob and Trixie Goat,” I called out. I picked up Ghost and gave her a hug after she wound herself around my legs. I love my animals.