Read Online A Hard Witching by Jacqueline Baker - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline Baker
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wore her shorts too short and her hair too big. Her face was up against Lucy’s, so close Lucy could smell her gum, peppermint, and Rick was running down the alley with his cousin. Lillie was draping the sweater across Lucy’s chest, saying,
You okay, sweetie, you okay?
over and over, her face soft in that light and shifting, like sand.
And that’s when she’d been sick. Lillie had her by the shoulder, saying,
Stay here, I’ll get you some water. Stay right here.
And she had slipped into the door below the yellow bulb, a blast of laughter and music blowing out behind her. Before she could come back, Lucy’d wiped her chin with her sweater and run down the alley toward home, tripping against the ruts, wondering if Rick would be there waiting for her, half hoping he would be. He wasn’t, though. She hadn’t seen him since, except that one afternoon down at Boyle’s. But he was paying for a Coke and didn’t see her walk by.
She’d almost expected Lillie to show up, too, the next day, maybe say something to her mother. She hadn’t, of course—they weren’t friends or anything, her mother and Lillie. Anyway, Lillie Gower wasn’t anybody to be afraid of.
And now here was her kid, leering at Lucy in the backyard.
She pulled the blinds shut and headed for the kitchen. It was freezing. Her mother must be home, pumping the air conditioning again. The house was never the right temperature, cold in the summer, hot in the winter. She grabbed her dad’s old gardening cardigan from a hook by the back door and pulled it on over her swimsuit.
“Mom,” she shouted. “Lillie Gower wants her cake pan.” She could hear the low hum of a radio on somewhere above. “Mom!” she hollered up the dim stairs. And waited.
“For Jesus’ sake,” she grumbled, banging up the carpeted steps in her bare feet. She’d catch hell for that; there was probably grass all over them. “Mom,” she said, swinging open her mother’s bedroom door, “Lillie Gower wants her cake pan.”
Her mother was sitting in an armchair by the window, looking out at the backyard, a romance novel spine-up on her leg. “Yes,” she said, turning around, “I heard.”
Lucy pulled the cardigan across her stomach. Had her mother been sitting by the window the whole time? She fingered the ribbon on top of her head.
Her mother sat with her legs crossed, the pale blue house-wrap she always wore on Sundays draped neatly to her ankles. She stared at Lucy, then clicked off the radio that was playing softly on the nightstand.
Lucy rubbed her arms. “Does it have to be forty below in here?”
“Is that Owen down there?” her mother asked, turning back to the window. Lucy shifted her feet. Well, so what? She hadn’t really done anything. Besides, her mother should take care of her own problems. She noticed the glass tumbler beside the radio, empty.
Her mother rose then and stepped into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door. Lucy crossed the room quietly, sniffedthe empty glass. Water or vodka, she couldn’t tell for sure. She tilted the glass back to her mouth. Water. She set it carefully back down over its wet ring.
In the yard below, Owen had moved into the shade, sitting with his shirt on, the Pepsi tray balanced on his knees, staring up at the sky, motionless. Beyond the yard, she could see the highway and then the yellow glint of the Sand Hills. Looking just as they always did, rising up in gentle ridges from the horizon like the backs of whales. She hadn’t ever noticed that they looked closer in winter. And how did he know all that stuff anyway? Probably he’d made it up.
Her mother came back in a loose white sundress.
“I’m sure I returned that.”
“What?”
“That cake pan. I’m sure I returned it ages ago.”
Lucy stretched the cardigan down over her thighs. Jesus, it was freezing. “What’d you borrow a cake pan of Lillie Gower’s for anyway?”
Her mother smoothed her skirt, checked the hem. “Does she need it right
You okay, sweetie, you okay?
over and over, her face soft in that light and shifting, like sand.
And that’s when she’d been sick. Lillie had her by the shoulder, saying,
Stay here, I’ll get you some water. Stay right here.
And she had slipped into the door below the yellow bulb, a blast of laughter and music blowing out behind her. Before she could come back, Lucy’d wiped her chin with her sweater and run down the alley toward home, tripping against the ruts, wondering if Rick would be there waiting for her, half hoping he would be. He wasn’t, though. She hadn’t seen him since, except that one afternoon down at Boyle’s. But he was paying for a Coke and didn’t see her walk by.
She’d almost expected Lillie to show up, too, the next day, maybe say something to her mother. She hadn’t, of course—they weren’t friends or anything, her mother and Lillie. Anyway, Lillie Gower wasn’t anybody to be afraid of.
And now here was her kid, leering at Lucy in the backyard.
She pulled the blinds shut and headed for the kitchen. It was freezing. Her mother must be home, pumping the air conditioning again. The house was never the right temperature, cold in the summer, hot in the winter. She grabbed her dad’s old gardening cardigan from a hook by the back door and pulled it on over her swimsuit.
“Mom,” she shouted. “Lillie Gower wants her cake pan.” She could hear the low hum of a radio on somewhere above. “Mom!” she hollered up the dim stairs. And waited.
“For Jesus’ sake,” she grumbled, banging up the carpeted steps in her bare feet. She’d catch hell for that; there was probably grass all over them. “Mom,” she said, swinging open her mother’s bedroom door, “Lillie Gower wants her cake pan.”
Her mother was sitting in an armchair by the window, looking out at the backyard, a romance novel spine-up on her leg. “Yes,” she said, turning around, “I heard.”
Lucy pulled the cardigan across her stomach. Had her mother been sitting by the window the whole time? She fingered the ribbon on top of her head.
Her mother sat with her legs crossed, the pale blue house-wrap she always wore on Sundays draped neatly to her ankles. She stared at Lucy, then clicked off the radio that was playing softly on the nightstand.
Lucy rubbed her arms. “Does it have to be forty below in here?”
“Is that Owen down there?” her mother asked, turning back to the window. Lucy shifted her feet. Well, so what? She hadn’t really done anything. Besides, her mother should take care of her own problems. She noticed the glass tumbler beside the radio, empty.
Her mother rose then and stepped into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door. Lucy crossed the room quietly, sniffedthe empty glass. Water or vodka, she couldn’t tell for sure. She tilted the glass back to her mouth. Water. She set it carefully back down over its wet ring.
In the yard below, Owen had moved into the shade, sitting with his shirt on, the Pepsi tray balanced on his knees, staring up at the sky, motionless. Beyond the yard, she could see the highway and then the yellow glint of the Sand Hills. Looking just as they always did, rising up in gentle ridges from the horizon like the backs of whales. She hadn’t ever noticed that they looked closer in winter. And how did he know all that stuff anyway? Probably he’d made it up.
Her mother came back in a loose white sundress.
“I’m sure I returned that.”
“What?”
“That cake pan. I’m sure I returned it ages ago.”
Lucy stretched the cardigan down over her thighs. Jesus, it was freezing. “What’d you borrow a cake pan of Lillie Gower’s for anyway?”
Her mother smoothed her skirt, checked the hem. “Does she need it right
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