Chance didn’t wait for me to muster my nerve. He opened the screen, and then rapped on the door, as if he had everything figured out. I guessed our tack depended on whether they recognized me. With the red hair, I didn’t know whether they would, although Miss Minnie had said she knew me by my eyes.
After a minute, something rattled and the door swung open slowly, like monsters might lurk on our side. A small woman with faded gray and brown hair peered at me around the crack between the door and chain. Her gaze flicked nervously to Chance. “I’m not interested,” she said, “whatever you’re selling.”
She started to slam the door, but I caught it with my palm. It would have to be the truth, or some close facsimile thereof. “Miz Ruth, it’s Corine. Solomon? May we come in for a minute?”
“I declare,” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age, girl. Look at you with that wicked red hair. Come in, do come on in, and get out of the wet.” With that, she unhooked the chain, but I noticed she gave the empty street a long, hard look before stepping back to let us in.
I murmured something noncommittal. Chance gave me a look as we followed her into the parlor, furnished in country blue with lots of homemade throw pillows. Her furniture had big fat cabbage roses, and the arms were threadbare. She’d tried to cover that with lace doilies, but as I sat down, I saw the loose threads through the holes in the lace.
The carpet was worn and yellow; I could see the paths where she had walked in the years they’d been living there. Most people would lay down runners to prevent that, but I found it comforting to see evidence of passage. Someone, probably Miz Ruth, had hung cross-stitch on the wall. I read the messages with disquiet: BLESS THIS HOUSE and SAVE US FROM THE TIME OF TRIAL and DELIVER US FROM EVIL. I recognized the latter from the Lord’s Prayer, but I found it ominous she would have excerpted those lines and nothing more.
Chance sat beside me on the love seat while she perched opposite us in what was probably her husband’s recliner. It was plain blue velour or velveteen, whatever they called that fabric, and it had scuff marks on the bottom. She didn’t pop the footrest up, though she did look tired—or maybe worn would be the better word. Miz Ruth couldn’t be more than fifty-five, but she looked ten years older. Purple bruises cradled her eyes, the kind that only came from many, many sleepless nights.
Miz Ruth folded her hands in her lap, as if stilling her nerves with conscious effort. “So what brings you back? It’s been ages now, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I acknowledged with a nod. “Nine years, to be exact.” I didn’t know what I was going to say until it came out in a rush. “Well, I reckon I wanted to show Chance where I grew up. Introduce him to the people who raised me.”
That was inspired. They’d had years to forget how much I freaked them out.
Her expression softened. “Well, if that isn’t the sweetest thing.” Miz Ruth turned to him with a smile. “You must be Corine’s young man. It’s a pleasure to meet you . . . Chance, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stood up to shake her hand, earning an approving nod.
“Well, I’m Miz Ruth. We had Corine, when she was, oh, fourteen or so, I guess. She was a great help around the farm, particularly with the animals.”
I correctly interpreted his look. Yes, I do know how to milk a cow. No, I won’t be doing it again any time soon.
The older woman probably didn’t even remember why they’d called the social worker and had me reassigned. But I did. I’d touched a gun and experienced a hunting accident that scared the bejesus out of both me and them. My inexplicable burns frightened them the most, making them think, as most decent, God-fearing folk did, that my powers must be infernal in origin. I curled my hands in my lap, not wanting to remind her.
“I bet she was,” Chance said with an especially winning smile. “I don’t suppose you remember any stories to embarrass her with. She’s met my mother more than once, but—”
“Oh, I’m sure I can come up with something.” Miz Ruth blushed girlishly. She probably thought I’d told him she had been like a mama to me. If she felt flattered by the notion, well, that was all right; better if we softened her up so she wanted to talk.
And Lord, could she talk. She told a good ten stories about me, half of which I was pretty sure weren’t true. She just didn’t want to disappoint Chance, I suspect. He listened with every appearance of fascination, leaning forward so he didn’t miss a word. Miz Ruth probably hadn’t held a handsome man’s attention this long in years. I sat quiet, understanding he was gaining her confidence, so I could work around to my questions. Those would be hard and horrible, and they’d go better if they felt like normal curiosity over the course of a friendly visit instead of the inquisition I wanted to invoke.
She broke off at last to say, “Whew, I’m parched. Have y’all eaten? I have chicken and dumplin’s left from last night. I could heat some up in a jiff.”
As if summoned, Butch poked his head out of the top of my bag. He yapped, letting us know he could eat. I hoped Miz Ruth wasn’t allergic or afraid of Chihuahuas.
“Sorry,” I started to say.
“What a darling animal!” She came over to pet him on the head.
Butch consented to her attentions with great dignity. Then he leaped down from my purse and trotted around, sniffing here and there. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “He’s house-trained. He just wants to explore a little.”
“That’s just fine. He might even smell the cat,” Miz Ruth said. “He’s been gone a year, but . . .” She shrugged.
“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to him?” I wondered if pets had been disappearing. After all, that Doberman on the road into town had to belong to someone.
“You know, I have no idea.” She spoke over her shoulder, and we followed her into the kitchen, done in faded yellow and white gingham. “One morning, he just didn’t come home. I’d let him out of a night, and usually he’d show up like clockwork at six a.m., crying for his breakfast.”
I grinned. “Isn’t that just like a man?”
She laughed softly as she got out a pan. “Oh, I’m sure your Chance has good reason to stay in, so they’re not all like that.”
“Thank you.” He favored her with another warm smile, and I swore she almost melted into syrup on the floor.
Butch trotted in and curled up at my feet; his calmness actually reassured me. He had a solid track record for sensing danger, knowing when to panic, and when to take a nap. Miz Ruth hummed as she whipped up the noon meal, chatting about this and that. She seemed to have taken heart from our presence, which made me wonder what was wrong, and where her husband was.
We sat at the kitchen table, a genuine antique I valued at nearly a thousand dollars. You didn’t see woodwork much like this anymore. She didn’t even have a tablecloth on it—just woven placemats. The pawnshop owner in me wanted to make her a lowball offer. I stroked my fingertips across the burnished wood and let the images come.
If I didn’t block them, every item I touched would singe my skin and whisper to me about what had happened to it. This time, I was curious enough to risk the gentle burn, but I saw only a pale collage of meals, first with Ruth and Glen, and then Ruth, all by herself. Then I glimpsed a woman in Phoenix who wanted a table like this more than anything, and she’d pay a ridiculous price for it too. When the images flickered out, I was grateful they hadn’t delivered a scene of heel-banging sex. It would be hard to sit and eat chicken and dumplings after that, but I’d manage. Of all my foster mothers, Miz Ruth had been the best cook.
Since I didn’t want to upset her before she fed us, I sat quietly, letting Chance charm her. The warm and homey aroma wafted from her cook pot, better than a big country hug. I could use a little comfort; that was for sure.
After lunch, it might get ugly.
Catch of the Day
I thoroughly enjoyed the chicken and dumplings. Southern women knew how to cook them from scratch, and I hadn’t eaten any this good in years. Miz Ruth was kind enough to offer a little plate to Butch, who looked properly appreciative. He gave her the happy bark and wagged his tail as he dug in.
We declined the offer of leftover brown Betty but accepted some fresh coffee. She made it fancy for us with ground chicory and cinnamon, and it made me homesick for a place that had burnt to the ground years ago. I remembered sitting with my mama on the front porch, that wondrous smell wafting up from her cup. We’d watch the sunrise together over the trees, sharing the colors slipping from pearly to passionate to happy-summer blue. Birdsong, trilling wrens and finches, filled the air at the birth of the new day. We didn’t need to talk; we had the call of the meadowlark and mockingbird to keep us company.
At full light, my mama would head to the kitchen and start breakfast. Afterward, we would prowl the woods or work in the garden. Sometimes we’d take her battered old Duster to town to do a little shopping, but mostly we kept to ourselves. We always had a parade of visitors: hurly-burly men, peddlers, Gypsies, witches, and one man who told me he was a king in hiding. I always thought he was funning me, but now I had to wonder.
While I was woolgathering, Miz Ruth had laid out a plate of cookies. She seemed inclined to linger. She nibbled at a sugar cookie with the air of someone who was indulging a habit more than a desire; in the South, dinner wasn’t over until people had coffee and a taste of something sweet.
And maybe she didn’t have anything better to do today. I wished we could afford to sit and be social, but we had nine more houses to hit. I started looking for a segue.
It came in the form of her husband, Glen. She had danced around the subject of his absence, casting looks back to the easy chair that still bore an imprint of his behind. At first I thought he must be running errands, but when she said, “It hasn’t been easy with him gone,” I knew he wasn’t coming back.
“What happened?” I asked gently.