When the Devil Dances

She shook her head and carefully put away this artifact then chose a simple pair of straight-leg jeans that were barely worn.

Bras turned out to be a problem. Shari had often felt that her only two saving graces were planted on her chest; indeed, her endowments were often the only thing that Rorie could not find to fault in her. However, whoever's clothing stocked this chest of drawers did not, apparently, have that particular grace/curse. After much searching she managed to find one that wasn't actively painful to wear. After managing to get it snapped, she looked at herself in the mirror and snorted.

"That's the answer, girls. Find a bra that is both undercut and a size too small and youtoo can have cleavage."

She initially pulled out a very pretty flowered blouse then looked at the neckline. Looking down she shook her head and pulled out a T-shirt emblazoned with "Led Zeppelin World Tour, 1972." It was a tad tight, but at least it didn't plunge and if, when, she fell out of the bra she wouldn't be into public view.

Digging around in the bathroom exhumed a brush, old, but serviceable, and a toothbrush, new, still in the box. She used both to good effect then looked in the mirror and stuck her tongue out at the reflection.

"I don't think so, girlfriend," she said to the sag-face wreck in the mirror.

The first set of makeup that she found had obviously been stored for decades. If anybody was still collecting memorabilia, this house was a gold mine; there was even an unopened box of L'Oréal hair coloring with the faded picture of an actress who hadn't looked that good in thirty years.

"Thanks," she muttered. "I know I'm worth it, but I just did them last week."

The makeup case was a loss, though. Oh, there was plenty in it, whoever had owned it must have occasionally made herself up like a kewpie doll, but it was all dried up. The foundation broke away into chunks when she opened the jar.

Next to the case though, hidden by it until she pulled it out, was a small, plastic container. It looked like Galplas, but Shari thought that was unlikely; where would a Galplas zipper bag have come from? However, on the top of the bag was a small green dot and when Shari touched it and slid her finger along the top the bag opened along an invisible seam. Galplas all right.

Inside was what Shari mentally decided were someone's "bare essentials." There was a tube of mascara, a light lip gloss, a single eyeshadow case with an eyebrow pencil and a pair of eyebrow tweezers. The colors were not perfect for her—if she wasn't careful she'd end up looking like Britney Spears—and she really wished there was a base and some rouge, but they would do. And this was practically brand new.

She quickly applied the makeup, sparse as it was, and then stepped back to consider the overall effect.

"Baby, you look like a million dollars," she said. Then: "Liar."

She made the bed then followed the smell of bacon downstairs to the kitchen. Kelly and Irene were at the table nibbling on biscuits, Amber stuck in a high chair just to the side, and Mr. O'Neal was at the stove, frying another pan of bacon and cracking eggs.

When she came through the door he did a double-take and missed the bowl, the hand with the uncracked egg in it flailing in the air for a moment before he looked down and lined back up.

Shari tried not to smile and walked over to the stove, sniffing at the food. "That smells heavenly."

"How would you like your eggs, milady?" Papa O'Neal said. "I'm scrambling some more for the bottomless pits over there, but I'll be happy to fix some any way you please."

"Scrambled is fine," Shari said, trying not to smile again as she caught a surreptitious peek in her direction. She shook herself internally. Don't you dare arch. Don't do it or you'll never forgive yourself. Despite the internal debate she felt a stretch coming on and stretched and, yes, she couldn't help herself, arched.

A piece of bacon hit the stove top as Papa O'Neal missed the frying pan.

"Damn," he muttered. "Clumsy . . ." He picked the bacon up with his fingers and juggled it to the cloth covered plate. "Would you like bacon or a . . . would you prefer some sausage?"

"Bacon is fine," Shari replied, walking over to the table to give the poor guy some space. As she did she realized that she was putting some extra sway in the walk and wanted to hit herself on the side of the head.

He's . . . well, he's got to be at least sixty and what in the hell is he going to see in you, but a has-been divorcee refugee with kids and stretchmarks?

"I . . . uh, I see you found something to wear," O'Neal said, filling up the children's plates and carrying them over to the table. "I thought some of Angie's stuff might fit you. I meant to tell you to take your pick last night. Actually, I was talking to Elgars about the supply situation in the Urb; I had no idea. The house is packed with stuff; you should take anything you see that you want. I'm . . . surprised you found a bra that fit, though."

"I appreciate the offer on the clothes," Shari said. "It feels like charity but, what the hell, I'm willing to take a little charity. There really isn't anything available in the Urb." She smiled and stretched again. "I will admit that I'm unlikely to find some stuff, though."

Papa O'Neal coughed and went back over to the stove while Shari looked around for something neutral to comment on.

"Where are the rest of the kids?" she asked. Irene got down and climbed up on her lap, bringing the plate with her. She then went back to the serious business of stuffing biscuit and bacon in her mouth.

"Some of them are still asleep," Papa O'Neal said. "The rest are out with Cally doing chores. They like them. She took them egging this morning and then they got to eat them. Billy even helped milk the cows and that's really above and beyond the call of duty."

"Kids always like doing chores," Shari said with a chuckle. "Once. And as long as it's not too hard."

"Well, it's kept them outside and ru

"I like my kids," Shari protested. "Even the ones that aren't mine."

"Sure, and I like 'em too," O'Neal replied. He picked up a cooled-off piece of bacon and put it on the baby's tray. "But having to be on them all the time is too much for anyone, even Super Mom."

Shari frowned and cleared her throat. "Uh . . . should you be giving Amber bacon?"

Papa O'Neal frowned in turn and shrugged. "I don't see why not. I got given it as a baby and so did my son from what I hear. And that's the third piece she's gummed to death so far this morning. What do you think I should give her?"

Shari paused and watched as Amber picked up the slightly undercooked bacon and began gumming on it. "I . . . well, if you're sure it's okay," she said doubtfully. "We usually serve her cream of wheat. . . ."

"Semolina," Papa O'Neal said. "Got that. Fresh off the farm. Got two different varieties as a matter of fact."

"Or creamed corn?" Shari continued.

"Got that too," Papa O'Neal said. "But how about some nice cornmeal mush? That's good baby food. With some bacon ground up in it for flavor and texture."

"Do you always eat like that?" Shari asked. "I'm surprised your arteries don't clang closed with a boom."

"Got the lowest cholesterol my doctor's ever seen," Papa O'Neal said with a shrug. "It's all the cold baths and healthy thoughts."

"Uh huh," Shari said, picking up a slice of bacon that Kelly had overlooked. "One question and I hope I'm not prying. Who is 'Angie'?"

Papa O'Neal grimaced and shrugged. "Angie's where Cally got at least half her looks; she's my ex. She lives on a commune in Oregon and has ever since she was in her forties and discovered a true calling for . . . well, for Wicca."