Slice of Cherry

by Dia Reeves

  “That was sweet, what you did.”

  “You mean what I didn’t do.”

  He kissed her and smiled against her mouth. “Yeah. Pancake sweet.”

  The pancake sweetness lingered a surprisingly long time. Fancy felt so sweet that the idea of being mad at Kit no longer made sense, and so Wednesday, after class, she decided to make peace.

  Kit was in the living room practicing scales when Fancy sat next to her on the piano bench and held her Daisy Duck compact before Kit’s face.

  She hit a discordant note and stopped playing. “Daddy?”

  He was in an orange jumpsuit, sitting in his single-person cell, reading a book—Bleak House by Charles Dickens.

  “Is that really him?”

  “If I was making it up,” said Fancy, staring into the mirror, “I’d make up something a lot more interesting.”

  “Yeah, you would.” Kit laughed and watched the unentertaining spectacle of Daddy reading for several minutes as though it were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.

  Kit tapped the mirror as if trying to get Daddy’s attention. “I know he hurt all those people, but how can somebody just decide that you and me don’t deserve to have a father anymore?”

  Fancy considered this. “You’d think the least they could do is provide a replacement.”

  Kit bumped her shoulder. “Nobody could replace Daddy. Unless it was, like, Bill Cosby or something.”

  “I been thinking about going down to visit him.”

  “Really? I don’t know if I could watch it. I know we’re allowed, and that lethal injection is painless, but I don’t know if I wanna watch him die. Besides, it’s only seven minutes long and he won’t even twitch or anything, so what’s the point?”

  “I mean visit him before he gets killed.”

  “You think Madda’ll let us?”

  “She wouldn’t want to go, but she wouldn’t keep us from going. Long as you promise not to drive like a maniac.”

  “Let’s go next weekend! A road trip, Fancy, just like in the movies. With boys! You think the boys’ll go with us?”

  “Boys?” Fancy’s enthusiasm for the road trip died almost as soon as it was born.

  “The Turner brothers. You don’t think they might want to come and confront Daddy? Maybe get some closure?”

  Fancy slammed the compact closed so forcefully they both heard the mirror crack. Fancy shot off the bench and fled across the room, taking refuge by the credenza.

  “It’s like you never want it to be just me and you anymore. Like you’ll use any excuse not to be alone with me.”

  Kit looked as though Fancy had punched her in the gut, which wasn’t fair because that’s how Fancy felt.

  “It’s not just you and me anymore. Gabe is a part of my life now.”

  “But—”

  “And that’s it! I’m not having this conversation again.”

  “If you wanna joyride all across the state with that sleepwalking weirdo, count me out!”

  Kit turned back to the piano and played a D-minor scale. “We’ll send you a postcard.”

  “Girls?”

  Madda came out of the hallway that led to the bedrooms wearing a deadly serious expression, the same expression she’d worn when she’d told them Daddy wasn’t coming home ever again. Even worse than her expression was the letter in her hand. The sisters looked at each other and held a silent conversation with their eyes:

  Didn’t you get the mail?

  I thought you did.

  Madda paused behind Kit and looked at each daughter in turn. “Why am I getting letters about your ‘contributions to Portero’?”

  The sisters were speechless.

  “‘Your daughters have handled problems before,’” Madda read, “‘and I was wondering if you could ask them to handle one of mine. My ex-husband is trying to win custody of my child, but he is a drunk and doesn’t deserve to raise her. You are a mother and understand what it is to have a horrible husband. Could you please ask your girls to take care of this for me? Thank you.’”

  Madda smacked her hand against the letter as if it were someone’s face. “Y’all have something to tell me?”

  The sisters hovered on the brink of a precipice, and neither wanted to be the one to tip them all over the edge into the abyss.

  Madda turned her gaze on Fancy. “I told you how I feel about finding things out secondhand.”

  “You haven’t found anything out, Madda,” said Kit blithely. “Fancy, come turn the pages for me.”

  Fancy went back to her sister’s side, happy not to have to stand alone against Madda. She stared at the sheet music for a song called “Strange Fruit,” the notes meaningless black specks that gave her something to focus on besides Madda’s darkening expression.

  “I wanna know what’s going on around here,” Madda said, the words falling brokenly from her mouth as if she had to speak around something sharp lodged in her throat. “I keep hearing all this talk, this crazy talk about you girls, but . . . after everything we been through with Guthrie, y’all wouldn’t just . . . you wouldn’t—”

  “We ain’t like him, Madda.” Fancy turned the sheet music, her hand shaking, as Kit played on, neither of them daring to look back at their mother.

  Madda reached between them, startling them, and snatched the sheet music from the piano. They turned then and watched her rip it and the letter she’d received into pieces. “You’re just like him.”

  “No, Madda.”

  “You know how I feel about being lied to!”

  Fancy turned away, hating the look on Madda’s face, that look of betrayal and heartbreak. She faced forward and let Kit deal with it.

  “We know, Madda, and we’re not lying. There’s a reason there ain’t a mob with pitchforks and torches standing outside our door, and the reason is we’re not like Daddy. You can trust us.”

  “Okay.” Whatever Madda heard in Kit’s tone seemed to calm her. Slightly. “I gotta get ready for work. You girls be good,” she added fiercely. “You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the sisters in unison.

  Madda stalked back the way she’d come and slammed the door to her room.

  The sisters looked at each other. “We are so fucked,” said Kit.

  Fancy nodded. “Completely. What’re we gone do?”

  “Tell her the truth.”

  “She’ll hate us! Not like the way we hate each other sometimes. But, like, real hate. The way she feels about Daddy. We can’t trust her with this.”

  Kit dropped to the floor and began to gather the ripped sheet music and puzzle it back together. Fancy went into the kitchen and scrounged up a roll of Scotch tape. When she came back into the living room, Kit was staring off into space.

  “What is it?”

  “Just imagining if Madda stopped loving me.” When she looked at Fancy, her eyes were wet. “I think it’d hurt, the way torture hurts.”

  “Kit.”

  “No,” she said, when Fancy would have come to her. “It’s fine. I learned a whole lot this summer. And one of the things I learned is that I don’t have to depend on Madda for love. Other people love me. Gabe loves me.”

  The name “Gabe” shivered in Fancy’s belly like a poison dart.

  “Still,” Kit continued, “if Madda could ignore the murder and mayhem and love me anyway, I think I’d have everything I want.”

  Fancy threw the tape at Kit and nearly hit her in the eye. Instead it sailed past her and disappeared into the shadows of the shuttered room.

  “Nobody gets everything they want. Why should you be any different?”

  FROM FANCY’S DREAM DIARY:

  IT WAS RAINING AND I COULD SEE DADDY’S FACE IN ALL THE RAINDROPS.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  That Friday, after Kit and Gabriel had left on their trip, Fancy was hanging the laundry in the backyard when a police car pulled into the driveway. She tried not to panic when Sheriff Baker got out and approached her. He wore a brown unifor
m and hat and always reminded Fancy of Smokey the Bear, only less friendly.

  “Fancy.” He tipped his hat to her. Cops didn’t salute people they were about to arrest, did they?

  “I heard about what you been doing.”

  Fancy dropped the clothespins.

  “About those transies. About Datura Woodson. About Annie Snoad.” Sheriff Baker picked up the clothespins and helped Fancy pin the bedsheet she was fumbling with to the line. “That’s real good of you.”

  “Good?”

  “If your pa had been of a mind to be as helpful as you and your sister, I could have worked with him, maybe got him a different outcome. Of course what I’m telling you is strictly between us.”

  “Everybody keeps saying that,” Fancy exclaimed, “that everything’s a secret. That they’ll never tell anyone, but . . . everybody knows everything!”

  Sheriff Baker chuckled. “You know better than to try to keep a secret in a small town. We’re all like one big family here.” He mopped his brow with a red handkerchief, and she noticed the last two fingers of his right hand were gone; deep teeth marks were grooved into his remaining flesh. “That’s what I never could stomach about your pa, that he could hurt his fellow Porterenes that way. We have enough trouble keeping safe in this town without worrying about our neighbors hacking us into pieces. Anyway, I thought I’d come over and pay you a visit. Let you know I’m watching your back.” He gave her a sly look. “And if I should run across any unsavory characters who need to be taken care of away from the eyes of the law . . .”

  “I’ll watch your back?”

  “Atta girl.” He clapped a hand on her shoulder and steered her away from the laundry. “Come walk me to my car so I can give you the batch of muffins my wife made specially for you.”

  As they walked to the car Ilan pulled up in his Oldsmobile. After he jogged over, Fancy let him grab her and kiss her cheek, but she wouldn’t allow anything more, gesturing toward the sheriff, who watched them openly.

  “Hey, Sheriff.”

  “Ilan.” The sheriff looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to handcuff Ilan or shoot at his feet to run him off the property. He turned to Fancy. “Your ma still at work?”

  “She’s at the store.”

  Sheriff Baker handed her the plastic-wrapped plate of blueberry muffins and said, “Well, you two stay outdoors, then. Ain’t right for boys to come sniffing around young girls when they folks ain’t home.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ilan, struggling to appear innocent. And failing.

  “Enjoy those muffins,” the sheriff said to Fancy, after giving Ilan a final warning stare. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  As soon as the sheriff ’s car was out of sight, Ilan kissed Fancy as non-innocently as possible and said, “Please don’t tell me you were about to kill the sheriff.”

  “Ha-ha.” She pushed away from him. She liked kissing him, but it was too hot for long embraces. “He just wanted me to know that he knew about all the killing,” she said. “And that he doesn’t mind so long as he can get in on it.”

  “Nice. It’s kinda hot watching you do good deeds,” he said as she led him to the stairway leading down into the open cellar, where the cool underground air could waft toward them. “I oughta buy you a fairy-princess wand so you can really get into the part.” He sat awkwardly on the steps, his knees bent as if he didn’t want his legs to stray down into the shadowy pool at the bottom of the cellar.

  Fancy unwrapped the muffins in her lap. “I got seven wands. I’ll let you borrow one sometime. Kit don’t like playing fairyland anymore. But we could play, if you want.”

  Ilan laughed like he thought she was joking. But his laughs were as contagious as his smiles, and she laughed with him, fiercely glad all of a sudden that he was there with her and not down in Huntsville.

  “Why didn’t you go with Kit and Gabriel?” she asked.

  “Gotta work this weekend.”

  “Where?”

  “Pinkerton. I’m a bellhop.” He stole a bite of her muffin. “Why didn’t you go?”

  “Same reason I skipped class today: I hate everybody.”

  “Even me?”

  “No. But when I’m mad . . . I didn’t wanna accidentally do something to you. Or Kit. Or Gabriel.”

  “I’d rather you hurt me than Gabe. I’m responsible for that little punk. But just stab me or something quick. I’d rather not live on somebody’s ass cheek the rest of my life.” He waved down into the cellar. “Or disappear into your version of hell or wherever.”

  “It’s not hell,” said Fancy, indignant. “It’s nice, usually. I just been in a bad mood lately. You wanna go over?”

  He ducked his head, trying to see all the way down the steps but unable to because the angle was bad. “I dunno.”

  “I’ll take care of you.”

  “You mean that in a nonmurderous way, right?”

  “Do I really have to answer that?”

  “Yeah, you really do.”

  “I promise I won’t—”

  “I’m kidding. I trust you.”

  “You do?”

  “What the hell. You decided to trust me when I didn’t let your dogs kill me. You trust me enough not to lie to me. So I decided to trust you back.” He frowned when she looked down at the plate of muffins in her lap. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

  Fancy shrugged. “Sure. I won’t do anything.” She stood and waved him down into the cellar and watched as he descended.

  “Not to you,” she whispered.

  “Is that a new tree?” Ilan asked, walking to one of the stone circles on the platform.

  The moonflower Fancy had taken from her backyard and planted in the happy place after Gabriel had attacked her had grown into a tree with yummy-smelling fruit in the shape of tiny white crescents.

  “Yep. It’s the only tree here that wasn’t grown from a corpse.” She plucked one of the crescents. “Try one.”

  She fed the crescent fruit to Ilan and laughed when he nipped her fingers. “How is it?”

  “Great.”

  She stilled then, as his dark eyes became as milky white as the moonfruit and his gaze as blank as a doll’s. She grabbed his hand; even his hand felt fake. Plastic. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Why did you really push Gabriel down the stairs?”

  “Because I love him.”

  “That’s not the only reason.” She shook him when he didn’t answer. “Is it?”

  “No.”

  “You were mad at him, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “Because of what he wanted to do.” Even his voice was wrong, more like the recording of a voice, rather than a real one. “He was just a dumb kid.”

  “So you helped him cover it up?”

  “It wasn’t Gabe’s fault. I just wanted to protect him.”

  “You can’t protect him forever, Ilan!” Fancy yelled at the white-eyed thing standing before her. She wanted her Ilan back, the real one, but maybe he wasn’t coming back. Maybe she’d . . . broken him. If she had, she at least wanted to hear the truth.

  “I know what Gabriel wanted to do,” she said. “What he did do. Admit it—you pushed him down the stairs because he’s the one who killed your dad.”

  FROM FANCY’S DREAM DIARY:

  GABRIEL KEPT EXPLAINING TO EVERYONE HOW HAPPY HE WAS. HE TOLD ME EVEN HIS NAME MEANS HAPPY. BUT ILAN CALLED HIM A LIAR. HE SAID “ILAN” MEANS HAPPY AND “GABRIEL” MEANS LIAR. GABRIEL CRIED CRIED CRIED. AND HIS TEARS WERE SORDID AND THICK, LIKE HE WAS SO ROTTEN INSIDE, HE WAS LEAKING.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Ilan blinked. “What?”

  “I asked you about Gabriel.”

  “What about him?” He spat as if he had a bad taste in his mouth and sat on the stone circling the tree. When he looked up at Fancy, the white had cleared from his eyes and they were pale brown again. Fancy was so happy he’d shaken off the effects of the moonfruit
, so happy he was aware and real and not broken, that she almost didn’t care that he hadn’t answered her question.

  Almost.

  She sat beside him. “You don’t remember what I asked you five seconds ago about Gabriel?”

  “Why you always wanna talk about other guys when I’m with you?” When she just stared at him, half irritated, half relieved, he spat again. “That aftertaste is killer.” He popped an Altoid and offered her one. And then he studied the fruit growing over his head.

  “So what’s in that fruit? Truth serum or something?”

  She nodded and sucked on the Altoid, marveling at Ilan’s Kitlike ability to brush her games aside like cobwebs. Sometimes it was hard to remember that she hadn’t known him for years. “Looks like it takes more than one moonfruit to keep people under long enough to get anything useful outta them. Live and learn.” She cut her eyes at him. “Are you mad?”

  “No,” he said, after such a long pause she wasn’t sure she believed him. “If I were you, I’d want answers too. But don’t ever drug me again.”

  “Or what?” asked Fancy, honestly curious. “You wouldn’t push me down the stairs, would you?”

  “I might. If I had to.” That she believed. “Does that scare you?” he asked in a faux-creepy voice.

  “Nothing scares me. Except monsters. I’m just very protective of my family. I hardly have any left.”

  “I know the feeling. But trust means not drugging people in order to get answers from them. Trust means giving people a chance to come clean on their own.”

  Fancy understood then that Ilan wasn’t mad; he was hurt. His feelings were hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” said Fancy, unsure what to do about his feelings.

  “Promise not to trick me again and I’ll forgive you.”

  She crossed her heart. “I promise not to trick you again.”

  “Now give me a kiss so I’ll believe you.”

  She kissed his ear. That’s what Kit liked whenever her feelings were hurt. But Ilan seemed disastrously unmoved. So she kissed him the way she had that night in her backyard.