Living Wilder

by Leigh Tudor

  Loren turned her head toward Mercy and whispered, “How can you be so insensitive? How would you feel if Mom had been screwing someone half Dad’s age?”

  “You mean rather than getting killed in a car accident?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Hypothetically speaking.”

  “And Dad’s gone?”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “I’d say, ‘Good for you, you randy cougar. Go get ’im.’”

  Amarilla suddenly had tears in her already red-rimmed eyes. “He told me he loved me.”

  The sisters simultaneously gasped.

  “The pool boy? No, he didn’t,” Loren spat.

  At the same time, Mercy blurted, “That mother—”

  An obviously still-smitten Amarilla sighed deeply and said, “He prefers to be referred to as an aquatic engineer.”

  Whereby Mercy said, “Oh, I’ve got some names for that rotten son of a—”

  A loud throat clearing from the entryway interrupted the united commiseration.

  They all turned to see Alec, Ally, and Cara standing mute in the doorway, save of course, the throat clearing from Alec. Amarilla had not completely closed the door after realizing she’d been caught coming in past curfew.

  Loren sat tall, glaring at her neighbor. “What are you doing here?”

  Alec rubbed the back of his neck as he said dryly, “According to Cara, someone was in dire danger of getting her feelings hurt.”

  Loren felt the heat in the room increase in equal measure to the intense gaze she received from her surly neighbor.

  She needed air, as she felt light-headed from just looking at him. Is this what Amarilla felt after she inhaled? Could that be the feeling that seduced people into becoming voluntarily altered?

  So why partake in illegal substances when all anyone had to do was stargaze at Alec Wilder?

  And could anyone blame her? Those large hands teased her by lightly resting on his hips. Hips that appeared slim due to an abnormally large chest.

  As a result of his physique, his light blue polo was tight in the chest with room in the waist, his jeans riding low enough that if he needed to stretch just the tiniest bit, she would have a front row seat to the dusted trail of hair that converged below his belly button and lower to destinations unknown.

  But wildly anticipated.

  No! Nonononono! She wasn’t going to sit here and fantasize about a man who summarily dismissed her not eight hours ago.

  That was the epitome of pathetic.

  “Hey.” Mercy nudged her, yanking her out of her Alec-induced state.

  Straightening her spine, she did her best to emulate an emotionally lucid adult. “Why, that’s just silly, Mr. Wilder.”

  Hmm, where did the Southern accent come from?

  It earned her upraised brows from her nemesis. She cleared her throat and continued, “No one’s feelings are in danger here. Mercy and I just stopped by to have a civil conversation with Levi about what’s been going on between Amarilla and our sisters.”

  “Civil? Who has a civil conversation after midnight?” He nodded his head toward Levi. “How ya doing, Levi? What’s the rifle for?”

  “I was just showing them my antique Winchester before Amarilla got home. Ain’t she a beaut?”

  Loren could have kissed the man if he wasn’t, you know, a relic.

  Her eyes trailed back to Alec and despite the blatant eye-candy before her, reminded herself that she still stung from his earlier treatment.

  “So, you’re into vintage rifles?” His demeanor all but screamed liar.

  “I am.” Hers whispered, disprove it.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you know about the Winchester 61?”

  Her narrowed brown eyes latched onto ocean-blue sardonic ones. “Oh, you mean the model designed by John Moses Browning? The popular pump-action twenty-two rifle that was made from nineteen thirty-two up until nineteen sixty-three? That one?”

  Thankfully, her mathematical aptitude came alongside an eidetic memory. There wasn’t a single lesson forced upon her by Dr. Halstead that wasn’t embedded in her brain.

  “Now, why would a woman in her early twenties know the history of the Winchester 61?”

  “Did I mention my conspiracy theorist uncle?”

  “Once or twice. Maybe three hundred times.” His expression communicated he still didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Mr. Wilder, I tried to talk to you today, but we all know how uncivil you can be. I decided it would be better for Mercy and me to meet with Levi on our own about Amarilla. You know, to stop the behavior before it gets any worse.”

  Everyone had forgotten the bully at hand until she spoke up. “Great, now everybody will know about mama and Manuelo.” Amarilla fell back in her chair and stared resolutely at the ceiling.

  “We won’t tell anybody,” Ally piped up. “We can keep a secret, can’t we, Cara?”

  “If you only knew,” Cara said off-handedly.

  Loren widened her eyes, which made Cara blink and attempt to detract from a weighted innuendo. “Which you won’t,” she stumbled, red-faced, “because I can keep a secret. I’m talking, you know, your typical everyday run-of-the-mill secret. Nothing too . . . dramatic.”

  Loren slowly closed her eyes at the highly ineffective attempt.

  Mercy pursed her lips to the side, “I swear I’m going to gut her.”

  “So . . . everything is good here?” Alec asked, not quite following the vague conversation.

  Levi said, “Before anybody leaves, I want my dear granddaughter to assure Cara and Ally that she’s going to stop her shenanigans, call off her gang of female hoodlums, and cope with her wayward mama in a more productive manner.”

  The elderly man stood and glared at Amarilla, who turned to Cara and Ally, and said, “I promise, what he said.” And then she amended with, “As long as you don’t tell anybody about Mama and Manuelo.”

  Cara and Ally both nodded and Amarilla had no choice but to trust them. Quite the benign consequence considering what she had put them through.

  Levi reached for the rifle and turned to his unexpected guests. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a disreputable aquatic engineer to hunt down and shoot.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.”

  —Henry Miller

  American writer and artist whose

  work was banned in the United States until 1961

  * * *

  Over the next couple of weeks life seemed to finally settle for the Ingalls sisters. Despite the calm, Loren felt antsy and somewhat neurotic. She couldn’t shake the feeling that their idyllic life in Wilder was too good to be true.

  She imagined a mean-spirited god, like the ones you see in those superhero movies, watching from above and waiting for that unsuspecting moment to once again agitate their world and wreak havoc.

  Worse, she imagined Jasper tracking them down and bringing them back to the Center.

  But not today.

  Today she was going to set her neuroses aside and have some fun.

  For today was Mercy’s birthday, and she was turning twenty-one.

  Loren wanted this day to make the list of “All-time favorite memories” for her sister. The day started with breakfast in bed, featuring a waffle with the numerical twenty-one candle perched in the center. It took several attempts and a wrecked kitchen, but she and Cara were able to create the perfect Belgian confection to begin Mercy’s special day.

  After inhaling the first couple of bites, the deluge of birthday presents began. First, she opened a picture from Cara of the three of them taken on the day Cara dyed her hair back to its original color. She also received a bracelet from Cara where the ends came together with tips that resembled the twisty sections of barbed wire. Cara called it “Edgy jewelry for her edgy sister.”

  Loren handed Mercy a full set of new paints
to replenish those she’d used over the past few months, thanks to Vlad’s assistance in mitigating her pain.

  Vlad peeked his head in Mercy’s bedroom door to hand her his own gift. Loren’s eyebrows rose as Mercy slowly opened the tissue paper and sucked in a breath. She held up a portrait of herself. Rather crude compared to the art Mercy was able to put to canvas, but nevertheless a heartfelt attempt to capture her likeness.

  “Vlad,” she said as her fingertips lightly touched the canvas, barely concealing a forlorn smile. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Loren watched the interaction with nothing short of fascination. The palpable longing that filled the handsome, and ever-patient Russian’s eyes and the guilt-ridden gratitude reflected in Mercy’s.

  It was no secret to Loren that during the numerous all-night painting sprees, Vlad would stay up for hours waiting for Mercy to exhaust her pent-up stores of creative angst, until she’d collapse in a nearby chair. He’d then administer the medicine that would stem the migraines that were soon to follow.

  Loren still couldn’t quite figure out what was going on between her sister and the young doctor. Vlad spent his days at a distance from the girls yet never too far from Mercy, in case she needed his assistance. Content to be at her beck and call while remaining at arm’s length.

  Whereas Mercy appeared romantically unaffected but always close enough to appease what appeared to Loren as nothing short of tormented yearning in Vlad.

  Mercy hugged the canvas to her chest with watery eyes as Vlad hung his head with a sheepish smile.

  Awkward.

  Lightening the mood, Cara pulled Mercy to the piano and played her a light and comical song she made in her sister’s honor titled, “Oh, How You Gut Me.”

  Now, Loren and Mercy were on their way to Lucky’s Tavern to celebrate with friends.

  Loren, quite pleased with her efforts, billed it as the perfect ending to a perfect birthday.

  Mercy grinned, bouncing in her seat. “What do you think I should order? A Guinness or a Cosmopolitan?”

  Pulling into the gravel parking lot, Loren parked the car and turned to her. “Let’s take it slow. Maybe try a lighter beer, like a Corona or Stella.”

  “Maybe I’ll have a glass of wine. So sophisticated.”

  “Worst. Hangovers. Ever,” Loren cautioned, and then thought about how the alcohol could possibly induce Mercy’s migraines. “Is Vlad coming?”

  “He said he’d check in later.”

  Loren hesitated and then blurted out, “Are you in love with him?”

  Mercy gave her the side-eye. “Um . . . no.”

  “Sometimes you seem like you are.”

  “We’re close friends. That’s all.” She glued her eyes to the window.

  “Does he think you’re just close friends?” Loren asked, knowing the answer to the question, but wondering if she did.

  Mercy lifted a shoulder. “For the most part.”

  “For the most part? What does that even mean?”

  “It means it’s my birthday and I don’t want to talk about Vlad. I want to celebrate my big day by having my first legal sip of an alcoholic beverage.”

  “Are you saying you’ve had your first illegal sip?”

  “Ugh! No. I’ve never had any alcohol. I’ve never done drugs. I’ve never been on a date. Jesus Mercy, I’ve never been kissed. I’m about as inexperienced as it comes for a girl on her twenty-first birthday.”

  “Woman,” Loren corrected. “You’re not a girl anymore. You’re a twenty-one-year-old woman.”

  “It takes more than a number to make you a woman,” Mercy huffed, her hands shooting forward in agitation. “It takes years of decision-making. Some right, some wrong, hopefully learning from the wrong ones. It takes human interaction and thousands of normal, everyday experiences.”

  Loren’s throat tightened at hearing Mercy echo her own feelings of inadequacy. Mercy clutched her hands in her lap as if to regain control of her emotions.

  “Hey,” Loren said with a soft voice. “Look at me.”

  Mercy turned her head toward Loren without making eye contact.

  “You’ll do all those things. I promise. Let’s not worry so much about what we haven’t done but get excited about all the things we get to do.”

  Mercy gave a slight nod.

  Loren nudged her shoulder. “Like drink too much alcohol on your twenty-first birthday.”

  Mercy agreed with a tentative smile, “Let’s do this.”

  Two hours and three Corona’s later, Mercy was having a great time laughing and dancing around the tables with their friends.

  Loren remained lucid enough to ensure her sister did nothing she’d regret while drinking just enough to enjoy a healthy buzz.

  Checking her watch, she made her way to the bar, getting Gus’ attention despite the packed seats.

  “My order ready?” she yelled over the din of the crowd.

  He lifted his finger, and skirted to the back, emerging with a white plastic sack. “One Gus’ Special with extra sauce.”

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the sack.

  Gus yelled back, “Tell Jimbo I said hi.”

  She smiled over her shoulder. “Will do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “It is not certain that everything is uncertain.”

  —Blaise Pascal

  French child prodigy who became a mathematician, physicist, inventor, philosopher, writer, and Catholic theologian

  * * *

  Very few things surprised Alec.

  And to a degree, he was okay with that.

  Prime example: When Booger Williams left the sleepy town of Wilder to join a cult out west, Alec didn’t bat an eye. And when rumors circulated that Larissa Haynes’ prize Holstein gave birth to a two-headed calf, again, no uptick in the surprise factor.

  Which was to be expected, pretty typical for ex-soldiers to regard civilians’ perception of drama with detached cynicism. There was no doubt in Alec’s mind that the sick and twisted shit that he’d witnessed in the desert had irreversibly affected him.

  But it wasn’t the atrocities of war that robbed him of the ability to become truly shocked.

  Not even close.

  Rather, it was coming home early on leave and witnessing his wife in all her whacked-out glory. So out of it mentally, she didn’t even acknowledge him standing in front of her, grabbing her arms, shaking her as he yelled, “Marissa, look at me. Where the fuck is Ally?” She just continued to rock back and forth, singing some jacked-up children’s rhyme.

  She had reminded him of the insurgency-worn women of Afghanistan. Women who had finally lost it after seeing their families decimated, husbands executed, and their children slaughtered in the name of collateral damage.

  And then his heart tanked. Where was Ally?

  Racing up the staircase with his heart beating out of his chest, he swung the door open to Ally’s bedroom, only to find it empty. Just as quickly, his head reared back as he picked up the stench of urine and human feces. And then saw the puddle from beneath the closet door at the same time he heard whimpering.

  He nearly pulled the door off its hinges, but what he found inside literally brought him to his knees. Ally huddled in the far corner with her stick-thin arms hugging her knees and crocodile tears rolling down her face.

  Leaning his elbow on bent knee, he scrubbed his face and then held his hand over his mouth as he witnessed the gut-wrenching fear in his little sister’s eyes as she hugged the back wall, too panicked to notice who had opened the door.

  He coaxed her out of the closet with soft words, repeating over and over, “It’s okay, Ally. It’s me, Alec. Everything’s okay now.” She finally looked up, suddenly hopeful at hearing his voice, and lifted her arms out to him. He held her tight to him as she sobbed into his shoulder and nearly lost it himself when he found the bruises and lacerations littered all over her small frame.

  It wasn’t much later when he learned that Marissa didn’t witness atrocities
but rather, she was the one who executed them.

  That day pretty much drained him of any future astonishment for what he was sure would be the remainder of his life.

  His reaction to the number of people dancing and singing at Lucky’s Tavern tonight was mild, but it was enough to arch his eyebrows, which was still a rare thing for Alec Wilder.

  Case in point, it was a weeknight. The people of Wilder didn’t party on the weekends, let alone the weeknights. They didn’t party as much as celebrate with reserved, pious dignity.

  Second point, he walked inside to see that the crowd had pushed all the tables and chairs to the sides of the room. To see this many of his friends and neighbors dancing with their hands in the air, and in unison, bordered on . . . well, surprising.

  The bar was packed, and he was forced to turn sideways to work his way through the bodies before he could get to the bar and flag Gus down.

  “What’s up with the crowd?” Alec asked with a raised voice, as Gus made his way toward him.

  “Birthday,” Gus yelled back. “Mercy Ingalls’.”

  Alec looked over his shoulder and found Mercy with Becky Waterman dancing and laughing together to the song “Down to the Honkytonk” with a half dozen other women. Becky appeared to be teaching her to line dance.

  Sitting in the corner booth was Sue Ellen Whalen doing a shot of tequila with Edgar Mason. Sue had been love-sick for Edgar since middle school but too painfully shy to approach him. But there she was, tossing her mousy brown hair over her shoulder and laughing at whatever came out of Edgar’s mouth and then out of nowhere, they began to arm wrestle.

  And Edgar clearly liked it.

  It seemed as if a number of the women of Wilder had morphed into their alter-egos. They walked with their backs straighter, chins up, and skirts shorter.

  He knew who’d prompted this change in this once lackadaisical community, as well as this evening’s events. A certain smart-mouthed bleach-blonde. And this impromptu party must be the reason Cara was spending the night with Ally, so Loren and Mercy could hit the town without the risk of coming home hammered in front of their younger sister.