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Pamela probably thought she was a big city girl because she lived in Dallas once, Erica thought. A couple of nights before, she’d overheard Pamela and her father talking. Pamela had been bragging about a year she spent in Dallas as though it were as exotic as a place like Europe.
“I give great pedicures, if you’re ever interested,” Pamela said, pointing to Erica’s calloused feet and filthy toenails.
Erica stole a glance at Pamela’s feet. A French pedicure. Fitting.
“And I won’t even ask for nothin’ in exchange,” Pamela said, snuffing out her cigarette and getting up. “I’ll do it because I’d really like to be your friend.” She brushed her backside off and picked up her bag. “I’m going in to shower and make a jambalaya for your daddy. Want some?”
Erica shook her head.
“Okay then. But I’ll tuck a little extra in the icebox just in case you change your mind,” she said and gave her another a
After Pamela had gone, Erica gazed out at the bayou. Friends? Why would she want to be friends with a woman like Pamela. Never, she thought. Not all the cigarettes or pedicures in the world could help her stomach that woman.
She dug her toes into the dirt again and watched the boys across the bayou try to balance on their raft. She watched until sunset, and even after their mother called them back into the house.
She watched until the headlights of her father’s new silver Ford F-350 bounced off the driveway, then she gathered her things and headed to the cemetery.
Chapter 42
HE SQUIRTED THE conveyor belt with window cleaner and scrubbed it clean with a fistful of paper towels. A child had just pitched a fit, and slammed an opened bottle of juice he’d been drinking onto the conveyor. The juice splashed all over the tabloids, TV Guides, and booklets that held the never-before-printed secrets to losing weight fast. The same booklets women often bought along with boxes of Hostess cupcakes and family-sized Snickers packs.
The kid’s mother had been apologetic, but blood was pounding in his ears, and he had refused to look up at her. She wasn’t the real problem though. Neither was her kid. He just hadn’t been feeling well lately. He craved the calm he’d felt. . . after Tiffany.
He was anxious again, and was plagued by the realization that only one thing could calm him these days. The thing he mustn’t do again. He thought of crack cocaine and what it did to its users between fixes. Killing. . . was just as addictive.
“Clean up on aisle ten,” a voice rang out. He looked up to see Henry, the store manager and the worst, red faced, alcoholic he’d ever met, through the smudged glass window of the office, speaking into the microphone. He thought of his father, who he hadn’t seen since he was four years old. He, too, had been red-faced. He’d been a docile, alcoholic waste who had once fallen for the dirty, dangerous woman who had been his mother.
His mother cursed his father’s last name over the years, and though it was listed on both his and Allie’s birth certificates, she would never acknowledge it. She went by her maiden name and insisted that Allie did, too. But she never insisted that he did. For as long as he could remember, his mother had hated everything about him. She didn’t care whether he lived or died. . . or had a decent or, what she considered, a despicable name.
Lately, everything seemed to bother him more than usual. The television, all the images of the women. Horrible, trashy women. The women he abhorred. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He really didn’t. But he did. Yes. . . oh yes, he did.
His mind was a jumble of pent-up energy, confused, dangerous thoughts, unmentionable urges.
That morning, he had ripped out the last pages in the filthy magazines. He ripped most of them to shreds, the pages, binding, and all. Maybe if he burnt them after his shift. Yes, that might make him feel better. If it didn’t, maybe he’d take a trip back to the Anderson’s.
Someone tossed items on the belt. He glanced at them. A box of condoms, a can of Spaghetti O’s, a pack of cigarettes and a tabloid magazine. He looked up and nearly screamed.
“Why hello, handsome.”
It was Allie.
“The nicotine gum you left on the counter don’t work too good,” she said, now standing in front of the credit card sca
She flashed him a toothy grin and he had the urge to fly over the conveyor belt and strangle her. Now was not the time for her to ridicule him. Not in front of other people. She was crossing the line. His life with her was supposed to be separate. Could only be separate. What was she doing here?
A kid in a cart done up as a red and yellow plastic buggie wailed. He glared at the kid, then quickly returned his focus on his sister. She was wearing too much makeup. Her blue-red lips blared at him beneath the fluorescent lights of the store.
An older woman walked up behind Allie and placed a box of kitty litter on the conveyor, then picked up one of the juice-splattered tabloids.
“You wouldn’t be trying to get into my panties, would you, big brother? Giving me thoughtful gifts so that you can molest me?” Allie said, loud enough for the woman to hear.
“Shut up,” he snapped.
The woman’s jaw dropped. She picked up the kitty litter and walked to the next open register.
His blood boiling, he rang up his sister’s items and shoved everything into a plastic bag. The blip blip of the sca
Allie smirked. “I think I forgot my wallet. Can you, you know, take care of me?”
He glowered. Shoving the bag at her, he leaned in and hissed: “Get the fuck out of here.”
***
AFTER HIS SHIFT, he got into his truck and drove home. The evening was calm; but he was not.
On Coontz Road, he passed a girl who looked to be Allie’s age, hitchhiking. She was wearing next to nothing, her thumb in the air. A sitting bird for predators like him.
Without thinking, he jammed his foot against the brake, and the truck lurched to a stop, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Seeing his taillights, the girl jogged up to the passenger door, her breasts nearly bouncing out of her tube top. He lowered the passenger window halfway.
“Where are you headed?” he asked.
“Grand Trespass.”
His mind manufactured a scenario not unlike the one with Tiffany: snuffing out the life in this half-dead girl. The opportunity to take another evil out of the world and quiet the rage.
His eyes left the girl’s and settled on a dried up, flattened bullfrog on the road ahead of him. How dare his sister show up at the grocery store. How dare she humiliate him when he was outside the house. She knew the rules. Giving her the gift had been an unwise move, and he wasn’t even sure why he had in the first place.
Yes, he was responsible for her. And yes, in a twisted way he guessed he might even love her. But that didn’t mean he had to be nice. She would just see it as weakness and use it against him. She always had.
He’d learned his lesson.
The hitchhiker lifted the handle on the door. Discovering it was locked, she looked up and scowled. “You givin’ me a ride or what?”
Chapter 43
HIS EYES FLEW open, and he found his naked torso slick with sweat. Sitting up in the small bed, he struggled for air. It was five o’clock in the morning. The stress had brought on the nightmare of the last moments with his mother. Sweat chilled the sides of his face, and he let out a sob before lying back down.