Read Online THIEF: Part 1 by Kimberly Malone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kimberly Malone
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handle. My mom laughs hysterically while the metal dome tents and swells. “Listen, sis, it’s popping!”
“Of course it is, it’s Jiffy Pop!” Jane says. The last shot is the two of them throwing popcorn into each other’s open mouths, giggling. Cue the logo and tagline, fade to black.
“I tried to get your mom into more acting,” Jane tells me now. “It’s a shame she never quite took to it—people always told us we looked like twins, as children. Twins are a real commodity in commercials. Film, too.” Aunt Jane lights a Slim, smoking with such a flourish you’d think she had one of those long, slender holders like an old starlet.
“Can I have one?”
Jane raises a penciled eyebrow, but doesn’t hesitate to light another and stick it in my mouth. Her hand pinches my cheek while I take a drag. “You know, I always told Annie, ‘Maybe it’s not such a bad thing I never had a daughter,’ because with you, I got all the fun parts. But none of the sass. And my Lord, child—you’ve got that in spades.”
“Learned from the best,” I counter, and Jane laughs so loudly, I have to laugh too.
At the cemetery, I sit in one of the five folding chairs set up for family. Silas is a pallbearer, along with Mom’s cousins and their sons. They look like stone statues, or soldiers.
The pastor gives another speech. Says a prayer. Ashes to ashes. I put my rose on top of my mother’s casket and move out of the way, preparing to shake hands once again and hear the same condolences as before.
When I turn, though, facing the crowd, I can see someone up by the cars. It’s a man in a dark blue suit with big sunglasses, the wraparound kind. When he sees me, he turns to leave.
“Wait!” I shout. “Are you the lawyer?” I kick off my heels as I run towards him. “We aren't supposed to meet up until—”
He’s shaking his head, opening a car parked crookedly beside our processional, halfway on the grass. By the time I reach where he stood, his car’s at the entrance.
Silas comes running up behind me. “Who was that?” he asks.
I follow the car with my eyes, all the way out to the street. It cuts off a minivan to merge.
“I don’t know,” I answer. I have an idea, actually. But as always, I keep his name where it belongs: bitten back into the bile of my throat, crushed inside the clench of my fist.
“Looks like he dropped something.” Silas crouches down and hands me a folded square of paper, worn at its creases. I open it up carefully.
ANNA ST. JAMES, it says. WILL READING, 3 O’CLOCK.
And then, near the bottom, circled twice: ERIN?
~~~
“Of course it is, it’s Jiffy Pop!” Jane says. The last shot is the two of them throwing popcorn into each other’s open mouths, giggling. Cue the logo and tagline, fade to black.
“I tried to get your mom into more acting,” Jane tells me now. “It’s a shame she never quite took to it—people always told us we looked like twins, as children. Twins are a real commodity in commercials. Film, too.” Aunt Jane lights a Slim, smoking with such a flourish you’d think she had one of those long, slender holders like an old starlet.
“Can I have one?”
Jane raises a penciled eyebrow, but doesn’t hesitate to light another and stick it in my mouth. Her hand pinches my cheek while I take a drag. “You know, I always told Annie, ‘Maybe it’s not such a bad thing I never had a daughter,’ because with you, I got all the fun parts. But none of the sass. And my Lord, child—you’ve got that in spades.”
“Learned from the best,” I counter, and Jane laughs so loudly, I have to laugh too.
At the cemetery, I sit in one of the five folding chairs set up for family. Silas is a pallbearer, along with Mom’s cousins and their sons. They look like stone statues, or soldiers.
The pastor gives another speech. Says a prayer. Ashes to ashes. I put my rose on top of my mother’s casket and move out of the way, preparing to shake hands once again and hear the same condolences as before.
When I turn, though, facing the crowd, I can see someone up by the cars. It’s a man in a dark blue suit with big sunglasses, the wraparound kind. When he sees me, he turns to leave.
“Wait!” I shout. “Are you the lawyer?” I kick off my heels as I run towards him. “We aren't supposed to meet up until—”
He’s shaking his head, opening a car parked crookedly beside our processional, halfway on the grass. By the time I reach where he stood, his car’s at the entrance.
Silas comes running up behind me. “Who was that?” he asks.
I follow the car with my eyes, all the way out to the street. It cuts off a minivan to merge.
“I don’t know,” I answer. I have an idea, actually. But as always, I keep his name where it belongs: bitten back into the bile of my throat, crushed inside the clench of my fist.
“Looks like he dropped something.” Silas crouches down and hands me a folded square of paper, worn at its creases. I open it up carefully.
ANNA ST. JAMES, it says. WILL READING, 3 O’CLOCK.
And then, near the bottom, circled twice: ERIN?
~~~
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