The nippy air brought a flush to her cheeks. She didn’t need makeup. May had always thought Beth had her dad’s joker personality, but she’d definitely inherited her mom’s Navajo features.
“Mercers lost five calves to scours yesterday,” Beth said.
May grimaced for her neighbors. Scours, or diarrhea, could kill a calf within twenty-four hours, and she was glad their ranch hadn’t dealt with it much this year. Everyone hated losing a calf. An innocent life didn’t get the chance to live, and it hurt the bottom line too. By the time sale date rolled around, each calf was worth hundreds.
May took the lead to the calving shed. It was a smaller building beside the barn that had once been a toolshed. They used it this time of year to bring in cows that might need assistance, or if the weather was bad, those they knew were ready to drop. Most of the births happened in the field as nature intended, but there were still times like last night when a natural birth was impossible.
Inside the shed May flicked on the lights, barely aware of the smells—a mix of soap, iodine, and Hereford. She gestured toward the second pen on the right. Ruth and Luis had refurbished the shed to hold six cows, three to each side. “Mama’s right over here.”
Beth stepped in with the cow, slowly approaching it. Even from here May could see the animal’s puffy incision and stitches.
“Little swelling,” Beth said. “But nothing to be concerned about.”
May picked up a broom and swept the aisle as Beth continued her examination. Animals never worried. They were oblivious to everything but eating and breathing. Whether horses, cattle, or barn cats, life in their world was simple and perfect. Like this heifer’s calf. All he knew was safety. He was sheltered and protected, with no worries of losing everything he’d ever worked for.
May turned away from Beth to hide the tears she was fighting. How on God’s green earth would they get the money they owed? Her credit rating, as well as Ruth’s, was pathetic. There would be no more robbing Peter to pay Paul.
The weight of it all was suffocating. She wanted to scream so loudly that cattle miles away would lift their heads at the sound. A tear managed to escape and trickle down her cheek. May wiped it away with her glove.
“God’s bigger than this,” Beth said. “He’s gonna take care of you.”
It took all her resolve to keep from totally losing it. Beth wouldn’t mind, but keeping herself under control made her feel stronger. She was glad Beth didn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Just the fact that her friend was here was solace in and of itself.
“I haven’t talked much about my sister, have I?” May said, changing the subject. Beth knew the basics, but May wanted to share more. Now was a good time. Beth was always a good listener, and it would help May forget the bank for a little while.
“I thought you didn’t want to. But I’ve sometimes wondered.”
They walked out of the shed toward the house, both silent for a few steps.
“I actually don’t know much about her anymore,” May said. “I mean, you’ve been more of a sister to me than she ever was.”
Beth stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. “You’ve never heard anything from her?”
May shook her head. “Aunt Edna got a postcard a few days after she disappeared that said not to look for her. Other than that it’s been fifteen years of wondering.”
“So you weren’t very close.”
May thought about that for a moment. They hadn’t been best buds or anything, but they’d shared a room when they were little, and May still remembered those silly whispered conversations they’d had when they should’ve been sleeping.
“Our beds were across from each other, and we had this code we’d use at night,” May said, smiling. “If either of us heard Mom or Dad coming down the hall, we’d whisper, ‘PYA.’”
“Which stood for . . .”
“Pretend You’re Asleep.”
Beth laughed.
“And I used to be scared of the dark. We had this long hall in our house to get to the bathroom. In the middle of the night I’d wake Chris and beg her to stand in the doorway as I ran down the hall. She always did. Never gave me a hard time.”
May took in a long breath and glanced up at the gray sky. “We were different. She stayed inside and read a lot. I spent as much time as I could outdoors. I hated school; she got As. But I looked up to her more than I think she knew.”
They were walking slowly, and May kicked at a clump of snow. It disappeared in an explosion of crystals. “When we were older I remember talking to her about Mom and Dad’s drinking. We both hated it. I was probably too young to understand everything, but I think she did. Chris would get into awful arguments with them, everyone yelling. They’d end lots of times with her storming out of the house. I’d wait and wait, but sometimes she never came home.”
“Wow. That’s tough.”
“It was. About as hard as not knowing where she is now.”
“What’s she look like, anyway? You?”
“Wanna see a photo?”
In the house, May led Beth to the extra bedroom at the end of the hall where she and Ruth kept their desks. There wasn’t space for much else.
She opened the bottom drawer of hers and pulled out a framed picture. “I never put this one out because it hurt every time I saw it.”
She handed it to Beth. “We weren’t much of a picture taking family, and I didn’t have the sense to keep more of that kind of stuff when Mom and Dad died. This one’s from a family vacation to Yellowstone.”
Her parents stood holding hands in front of the RV they’d rented for the trip. She and Chris posed in front of them, Chris’s fingers making ears behind May’s head. May was six, which would have made Chris nine.
“They weren’t drinking much back then. I remember falling into the lake and Dad had to fish me out.”
Beth tapped the glass. “She looks like your mom. Same nose and eyes. Pretty.”
“I heard that a lot.” May handed a second photo to Beth. “Aunt Edna gave me this one yesterday. It’s Chris’s tenth grade class picture.”
Beth compared the two photographs side by side. “Big difference. She looks a lot tougher in this one.”
May couldn’t disagree. Chris’s expression was sullen, the playful kid long gone. That time period would have been just after Dad lost his job. Right when the serious drinking started.
She set both photos on her desk in plain view where they belonged. “Beth, how am I gonna find her?”
***
Christy smashed her fifth cigarette butt into the wooden ashtray that had been her father’s. Probably the only thing of his she had. She could still picture Dad in his favorite recliner, reading his Post, scotch in hand, the ashtray full of Camel butts. Sometimes as a little girl she’d snuggled up beside him and pretended she was reading the paper too.
All morning as she prepared for work she’d debated whether to expose what Vince was doing. Hunter deserved to know. Just the books she found alone were worth several grand.
At her core she knew she should. But this wasn’t just any employee she’d be snitching on. She’d seen what happened when she made Vince angry.
The phone rang, and Christy knew who it was even without the caller ID. Vince had already left several messages she’d ignored last night.
Now that he’d had time to cool, she might as well get this conversation over with.
She scooped up the cordless.
“Why’d you run off like that?” There was an edge in his voice. Not a good sign.
“You honestly thought I’d stay?”
“Maybe I thought you’d finally come to your senses.”
Christy waited for him to go on. He was the one calling; let him talk.
“I took you in. Even after you dumped me. Don’t I deserve some thanks?”
“Thanks.”
“That’s nice.”
She felt a twinge of guilt at her coldness but quickly r
eassured herself there was no reason for it. She was in the right. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her.
“I don’t understand.”
Christy slouched back into her lumpy sofa, coffee cup in hand. “You knew I couldn’t stay.”
Vince exhaled into the phone. “Look, I’ve put up with a lot from you. But I’m willing to overlook this little game of yours because of how much I love you. Only I don’t think it’s fair for you to treat me like this.”
“Oh, give me a break.”
“I deserve better.”
“For what? Lying to me?”
Silence.
“How ’bout A Is for Alibi? You promised me that would never happen again.” She knew she’d gotten him.
“Your point?” Vince said.
“Those books in your study—you stole them too, didn’t you?” Christy paused long enough to set down her cup and light a cigarette while cradling the phone in her neck.
His silence confirmed everything. “You would never understand,” he finally said, which surprised her. He wasn’t denying her accusation.
“I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t tell you because I knew it would upset you.”
“How could you do this to them? They’re your friends.”
“Wrong!”
She flinched at his sharpness.
“We were friends,” Vince said a little softer. “But Rob’s so stuck up these days he completely ignores the people and talent who got him where he is. Without me his precious Book Barn would’ve gone the way of the abacus. He wouldn’t even know how to turn on a computer. I’ve brought the whole business into the twenty-first century single-handedly. But what thanks have I gotten? How am I better off today than when I started? Rob’s raking it in at my expense. He owes me. Big time.”
Christy’s stomach tightened with each word he spoke. She took a long drag from her cigarette. Did she have the courage to speak her mind? “That doesn’t justify what you’re doing.”
“They’ll never know a book or two is missing. And since when did you become little Miss Righteous?”
“At least I have a conscience,” she said, knowing before she finished the sentence he would never let her get away with that one.
“Really?”
“Yes, I—”
“Aren’t you the one who cheated your wonderful buddy Hunter out of those choice estates?”
“That was over years ago,” Christy said in a lowered voice.
But she still couldn’t deny what happened. Four years prior she was a callow cashier at the Barn, barely making enough to pay her rent.
Back then more of the store’s books came from estate sales. Mr. Dawson had a deal with a local lawyer who would give him the pick of the litter on estates with books. Everyone knew about the arrangement. Dawson’s Book Barn was the lion of the estate world and usually took everything, much to their competitors’ dismay.
When Mark Fletcher, the owner of the Barn’s biggest competitor, a store half its size two miles down the road, offered Christy three hundred dollars every time she informed him about the estate sales the Barn was privy to, it was an offer she couldn’t refuse.
Because of her, Fletcher had been able to beat the Barn to the best books several times. She fed him the information for six months before calling off the deal when she got to know Hunter better. Another secret she’d been trying to forget. No one knew about it except Vince.
“And what about the work days you’ve squandered away on your little benders?”
She watched the ash at the end of her cigarette lengthen. Vince’s jabs always met their marks. “Getting pleasure out of this?”
“Let’s not forget the problem with the cops. I wouldn’t want Mr. Dawson or Hunter to know about your DUI, either.”
“I’m not proud of my mistakes.”
“But don’t you think Hunter deserves to know his pet is really a low-life boozer who’s responsible for cheating him out of who knows how many thousands?” Vince laughed. “Not fun to think about, is it? Sometimes it amazes me how you’ve deceived him. Hunter trusts you. He actually thinks you care about his store. Little does he know you’d sell him out as fast as I would.”
Christy pounded her cigarette into the tray until it was nothing more than a deformed filter. There wasn’t a thing she could say.
“I don’t know . . .” Vince’s voice was taking on an odd casual tone. She pictured his feet propped up on his desk as he leaned backward, puffing on a cigar. “I have a conscience too, believe it or not. I think Hunter should know the truth. We could go in together and tell him, if you’d like. Or I could do it for you.”
Was he implying what she thought he was implying? “Just cut the bull, okay?”
“I need you to work with me.”
She almost threw the phone at the wall.
“You need your job. You wouldn’t risk losing it.”
Her stomach twisted tighter.
“Actually I’m glad you found those books.”
“What are you—?”
“Because I need your help.”
“If you think I’m—”
“Wait to hear my idea before you refuse.”
Christy stood. “I don’t care about your stupid idea!”
“Your first estate’s on Monday, right?”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“I want first pick.”
She clenched her fist, unable to respond.
“I understand if you need time to think it over. You’re obviously worked up.”
“Forget it! I’m not doing it again.”
“Darling,” Vince said, then went quiet. She could hear him breathing. “I’m counting on you.”
Christy realized what he was saying, and his threat hit her like a gunshot.
She switched the phone to her other ear. Her darkest secrets, the ones she’d shared with him out of what she thought was trust and love, were his bullets. “How can you do this to me?”
“I wasn’t the one sticking my nose in other people’s affairs.”
“You dirty son of a—”
“Go ahead. Curse me if you like. But I expect you to—”
She hung up.
Chapter 5
Edna pushed aside her nearly untouched bowl of split-pea soup, then reread the New York Times crossword puzzle clue she’d been stuck on for the last two minutes. Most days she could decipher all but a few, but today, even with her glasses, the print was blurring and none of the words were making sense.
“We’ll have to continue this one later,” she said to Scribbles. By her side, the terrier sat rabbit-like on his haunches, his favorite begging stance. She set the remainder of her soup on the floor for him to finish, and he dived in, nudging the bowl around the floor with his nose.
Edna held her hand to her stomach. At least the dog enjoyed the meal. Her stomach had started churning after the first few bites.
Hanging on to the table, she bent to lift the sparkling bowl from the floor. Maybe she’d take a nap. That would be nice. Then after supper she could tackle the puzzle again before heading out to the prayer meeting. She stood, startled at the spinning room. She hadn’t been sick in ages, but this felt like when she’d had that fever five years ago which kept her in bed three solid days. May had even left her ranch responsibilities to take care of her.
She would lie down. But before she did, the letter had to be written. She should have completed it this morning when the Lord first brought her the idea.
Leaving the dishes for later, Edna trudged up the stairs, out of breath by the time she reached the top. In the bedroom she eased into the chair in front of her rolltop desk. Running her fingers over its grainy oak surface, she fondly remembered the joy in her mother’s face when she’d given it to her as a graduation gift almost seventy years ago.
Dear Mother.
The spinning gradually stilled, and Edna pulled out a sheet of creamy linen paper and uncapped her favorite fountain p
en, the one with purple ink. “Lord, help me say this right,” she whispered and began writing with a shaky hand.
An hour later she finished, exhausted from the effort. She folded the letter and lovingly slid it into a matching envelope, sealed it, and wrote a name on the front.
Edna eyed her seducing four-poster. It would be a short nap. Scribbles would wake her in time to get ready for the meeting. But with the sudden weakness she was feeling, could she make it to the bed without falling? She decided to risk it and shuffled across the room clinging to one of the bedposts for support. She hoisted herself onto the mattress, sinking in with relief. Peace soaked into her body. She patted the bed for Scribbles, and he was up in one leap.
“I’ve done what I can, Lord.” She stroked Scribbles’s neck, then let her arms relax, one on the dog, the other on her chest. Closing her eyes felt glorious. Rest and peaceful silence. All she could hear was her own breathing and the clock ticking beside the bed.
“The Lord is my . . . shepherd,” she said, unable to complete the sentence in one breath. It was her habit to recite the beloved psalm before sleep. It helped close out other nagging thoughts, like her concerns for May. Many a night she’d spent interceding for the girl, treating May’s struggles like her own. But there came a time for letting go and trusting.
“I shall not be in want.” She lay still, noticing a slight tingle in her toes. “He makes me lie down in green pastures.” Edna stopped and silently prayed that May would learn to trust. That’s what would bring her through. “He leads me beside quiet . . . waters.”
Edna’s consciousness of the room faded, and the pain in her stomach eased. She took a slow breath and smiled. “He restores my . . . soul.”
Hours later, when the day had long been chewed away by evening’s shadows, Scribbles licked his mistress’s hand. It never took much more than that. One lick, maybe two, was all that was needed to wake her. But this time she didn’t stir.
The dog licked again and wrinkled his nose in her fingers. Edna was still. He stood over her and whined. Maybe it would take more today. He gave a short yip and wagged his tail. Any moment her eyes would flutter and he would hurtle off the bed to encourage her to the door.
Edna didn’t move.
Scribbles bathed her cheek with licks, tasting the sweet moisturizing cream he was fond of, then moved to her nose, eyes, and neck.