porch roof. I spit out a piece of sawdust from the 1930s.
“What are you doing here?” we said at the same time.
“Jinx,” Shaye said. “I think I broke my tailbone.”
“Me, too. Jesus.”
“Don’t tell me. Mom called you.”
I looked at Shaye and she looked at me. I knew those eyes. I’d been looking in those eyes since the day she was born. We both had our mom clothes on. Shaye wore a PTA-parent no-sleeve shirt, shorts, and those white tennis shoes you get at Rite Aid every spring, and I wore one of Amy’s hand-me-down tank tops and jeans, and we were a far cry from the girls in summer dresses we were years ago.
“That chain hit me in the shoulder,” Shaye said, rubbing her bare arm. I looked over my head. The wood above us was clearly rotted, and two new ragged holes gaped like frightened eyes where the hooks once were.
“Quit whining and help me up,” I said.
I don’t know what it was, but this made Shaye laugh, which made me laugh. It began as ordinary laughing and then turned to the bent-over stomach-holding variety. The two of us, Laura and Almanzo, back at the prairie in our mom clothes—it was beyond hilarity. What a mess both our lives were, too—I could barely catch my breath with the calamity of it all. “Jesus,” Shaye said. “God.” And then her little white Rite Aid mom shoe made a farting sound as she tried to get up, and this sent us over the edge again.
“Girls!” Nash barked, as if we were seventeen and had just come home drunk from a party. Poor thing: We’d come uninvited, and now this. It was shocking the amount of trouble well-meaning people could cause.
Tex had trotted out again now that there were no more falling objects. He hopped up on Shaye’s lap and went for her face with his fast pink tongue. “Down dog,” she said. “Ow, ow, ow. Toenails.”
I managed to stand. I reached out my hand and Shaye took it, and I pulled her up. “I heard about Eric’s sports car,” I said.
“I heard about Thomas’s girlfriend,” she said.
—
“How old is this stuff?” Shaye twisted open the cap of some bottle of liquor that looked like it had been in that cupboard for a million years. She took a sniff and reeled. “This could kill you, Nash. You know how they have those places that recycle motor oil? You should bring this.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Nash said, as she rooted around in her freezer. I couldn’t believe that thing still worked. It was big enough to put a body in, but it was nearly empty save for a few packages wrapped in white paper. “I could make us pork chops,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Oh, Nash. I’m sorry. We descended,” Shaye said. “I’m going to get us some Chinese and a bottle. Did you see that new Chinese place and a grocery store?” she asked me. Out here, it was practically like getting a mall with a Cineplex.
“It’s been there forever,” Nash said. “Ten years.”
“Maybe in another decade you’ll get Thai food,” I said. The light was turning yellow-orange, and the hills changed to shades of pink as evening fell. I was starving. I threw a twenty at Shaye.
“If you’re going to go, don’t dawdle,” Nash said. “You shouldn’t be out there when it’s dark.”
I elbowed Shaye. “Yeah, bring your pistol, cowgirl.”
“Never met a varmint I couldn’t handle,” Shaye drawled.
“Girls, don’t be smart,” Nash said. “You don’t know. I’ve seen plenty.”
I watched Shaye drive off in her giant SUV, and then I put sheets on the bed in Castaway for her. I hauled her suitcase to her room and folded down the bedspread like a hotel’s. I wished I had a little mint for her pillow, because she’d like that.
“How long does it take to get Chinese?” Nash said after a while. She had the gnarled hands of a woman who once could put an animal twice her size in its place, and her silver hair and gray eyes meant business. But she was eighty, and didn’t you get nervous at that
“What are you doing here?” we said at the same time.
“Jinx,” Shaye said. “I think I broke my tailbone.”
“Me, too. Jesus.”
“Don’t tell me. Mom called you.”
I looked at Shaye and she looked at me. I knew those eyes. I’d been looking in those eyes since the day she was born. We both had our mom clothes on. Shaye wore a PTA-parent no-sleeve shirt, shorts, and those white tennis shoes you get at Rite Aid every spring, and I wore one of Amy’s hand-me-down tank tops and jeans, and we were a far cry from the girls in summer dresses we were years ago.
“That chain hit me in the shoulder,” Shaye said, rubbing her bare arm. I looked over my head. The wood above us was clearly rotted, and two new ragged holes gaped like frightened eyes where the hooks once were.
“Quit whining and help me up,” I said.
I don’t know what it was, but this made Shaye laugh, which made me laugh. It began as ordinary laughing and then turned to the bent-over stomach-holding variety. The two of us, Laura and Almanzo, back at the prairie in our mom clothes—it was beyond hilarity. What a mess both our lives were, too—I could barely catch my breath with the calamity of it all. “Jesus,” Shaye said. “God.” And then her little white Rite Aid mom shoe made a farting sound as she tried to get up, and this sent us over the edge again.
“Girls!” Nash barked, as if we were seventeen and had just come home drunk from a party. Poor thing: We’d come uninvited, and now this. It was shocking the amount of trouble well-meaning people could cause.
Tex had trotted out again now that there were no more falling objects. He hopped up on Shaye’s lap and went for her face with his fast pink tongue. “Down dog,” she said. “Ow, ow, ow. Toenails.”
I managed to stand. I reached out my hand and Shaye took it, and I pulled her up. “I heard about Eric’s sports car,” I said.
“I heard about Thomas’s girlfriend,” she said.
—
“How old is this stuff?” Shaye twisted open the cap of some bottle of liquor that looked like it had been in that cupboard for a million years. She took a sniff and reeled. “This could kill you, Nash. You know how they have those places that recycle motor oil? You should bring this.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Nash said, as she rooted around in her freezer. I couldn’t believe that thing still worked. It was big enough to put a body in, but it was nearly empty save for a few packages wrapped in white paper. “I could make us pork chops,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Oh, Nash. I’m sorry. We descended,” Shaye said. “I’m going to get us some Chinese and a bottle. Did you see that new Chinese place and a grocery store?” she asked me. Out here, it was practically like getting a mall with a Cineplex.
“It’s been there forever,” Nash said. “Ten years.”
“Maybe in another decade you’ll get Thai food,” I said. The light was turning yellow-orange, and the hills changed to shades of pink as evening fell. I was starving. I threw a twenty at Shaye.
“If you’re going to go, don’t dawdle,” Nash said. “You shouldn’t be out there when it’s dark.”
I elbowed Shaye. “Yeah, bring your pistol, cowgirl.”
“Never met a varmint I couldn’t handle,” Shaye drawled.
“Girls, don’t be smart,” Nash said. “You don’t know. I’ve seen plenty.”
I watched Shaye drive off in her giant SUV, and then I put sheets on the bed in Castaway for her. I hauled her suitcase to her room and folded down the bedspread like a hotel’s. I wished I had a little mint for her pillow, because she’d like that.
“How long does it take to get Chinese?” Nash said after a while. She had the gnarled hands of a woman who once could put an animal twice her size in its place, and her silver hair and gray eyes meant business. But she was eighty, and didn’t you get nervous at that
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