a key, “you go lay down in my bed, watch some TV and I’m going to make up some excuse about my period and see if Mr. Rakes will let me make-up my history test.”
“Right on.” Cynthia got out of the car in slow motion, stood up straight, stared at her friend’s small, white house for a moment too long and then took a stumbling step toward it. She stopped halfway there and turned to wave. Jan shook her head again and waved back as she backed out of the driveway. Cynthia closed her eyes and smiled at the crunching gravel. It sounded to her like corn popping.
The door whined open, and the jingle-jangle of a bell preceded a small, brown yapping Chihuahua dancing across the frayed, brown carpet at her. It shook and reared to jump, but she waved it away. “No, Kissy.” The dog started away, looked back, then jangled over to its worn bed in the corner and lay down, still staring at Cynthia with unblinking, inky eyes as she disappeared down the hallway.
The smoky smell of the house wasn’t much different than that of Jan’s old Metro, except that the odor of eggs, bacon and biscuits still lingered in the air from that morning. Old smoke, fried breakfast foods and the light bouquet of dog wasn’t the most pleasant of combinations right then. She snarled her lip, holding her stomach, as she walked toward Jan’s bedroom, suddenly thinking that she wanted to draw a dog. Maybe she’d call Kissy in later and have her sit for her. But it would be an abstract version of Kissy—all twirly with detached, wet eyes hovering longingly, like Kissy was unraveling.
“Is that you, Janet?” Cynthia stopped, a chill running down to her gut. Nice, Jan. Don’t tell me Grandma Lois or Aunt Jude from Ohio, or where-the-hell-ever is here. “You home early?”
Cynthia took a deep breath and came close to the door. “Um. No, ma’am. I’m a friend of Janet’s, and she told me I could drop by for a little while, if that’s okay with you. I’m feeling sick.” She stared down at the bit of light coming out from under the closed door and found herself lost in it for a moment.
“Oh. Well, that’s fine, dear.” Cynthia brought her head up and laid it on the door.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Pret.”
“What?”
“My name, child. And I’m fully clothed. You can open the door if you like.”
She let out a long sigh and opened the door. Another smell, that of old, soaked-in sweat and what she assumed were various mentholated ointments joined in the olfactory party.
Pret’s smile was pleasant. “Come. Have a seat.” She patted a chair next to the bed with the slow, wavering motion of a fragile geriatric.
“I… I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to get you sick.” She lied again.
“Oh, I’m a strong old lady. A little bug won’t kill me. I won’t keep you long.”
Cynthia eyed some pain pills, hydros, sitting next to the bed and wondered if she could abscond with a few at some point without the old lady knowing. “Okay,” she said.
“Good girl. Now… where are you from, um…?”
“Cynthia.”
She smiled that grandmotherly smile again and repeated her name like it tasted sweet. “ Cynthia . Where are you from?”
“Um, I live on the other side of town.”
“Always?”
“I mean, I’ve lived in other apartments. A house when I was smaller. But, yeah. Always here. What about you?”
“I’m from here and there, sweetie.”
Cynthia nodded, and looked about the room. She didn’t think she’d ever been in this room all the time she’d known Jan.
“Do you play checkers?” The woman asked.
“Huh? Oh . Not since I was little, no.”
The sagging skin around Pret’s mouth bunched, the wrinkles deepening as she frowned. “Too bad. I like games.”
“I mean, it’s not a hard game. I can play if—”
The woman interrupted her. “Oh, no. I thought of something better. I do palm readings. That’s fun . Would you like to indulge an old lady in an old parlor trick?” Pret smiled once more
“Right on.” Cynthia got out of the car in slow motion, stood up straight, stared at her friend’s small, white house for a moment too long and then took a stumbling step toward it. She stopped halfway there and turned to wave. Jan shook her head again and waved back as she backed out of the driveway. Cynthia closed her eyes and smiled at the crunching gravel. It sounded to her like corn popping.
The door whined open, and the jingle-jangle of a bell preceded a small, brown yapping Chihuahua dancing across the frayed, brown carpet at her. It shook and reared to jump, but she waved it away. “No, Kissy.” The dog started away, looked back, then jangled over to its worn bed in the corner and lay down, still staring at Cynthia with unblinking, inky eyes as she disappeared down the hallway.
The smoky smell of the house wasn’t much different than that of Jan’s old Metro, except that the odor of eggs, bacon and biscuits still lingered in the air from that morning. Old smoke, fried breakfast foods and the light bouquet of dog wasn’t the most pleasant of combinations right then. She snarled her lip, holding her stomach, as she walked toward Jan’s bedroom, suddenly thinking that she wanted to draw a dog. Maybe she’d call Kissy in later and have her sit for her. But it would be an abstract version of Kissy—all twirly with detached, wet eyes hovering longingly, like Kissy was unraveling.
“Is that you, Janet?” Cynthia stopped, a chill running down to her gut. Nice, Jan. Don’t tell me Grandma Lois or Aunt Jude from Ohio, or where-the-hell-ever is here. “You home early?”
Cynthia took a deep breath and came close to the door. “Um. No, ma’am. I’m a friend of Janet’s, and she told me I could drop by for a little while, if that’s okay with you. I’m feeling sick.” She stared down at the bit of light coming out from under the closed door and found herself lost in it for a moment.
“Oh. Well, that’s fine, dear.” Cynthia brought her head up and laid it on the door.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Pret.”
“What?”
“My name, child. And I’m fully clothed. You can open the door if you like.”
She let out a long sigh and opened the door. Another smell, that of old, soaked-in sweat and what she assumed were various mentholated ointments joined in the olfactory party.
Pret’s smile was pleasant. “Come. Have a seat.” She patted a chair next to the bed with the slow, wavering motion of a fragile geriatric.
“I… I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to get you sick.” She lied again.
“Oh, I’m a strong old lady. A little bug won’t kill me. I won’t keep you long.”
Cynthia eyed some pain pills, hydros, sitting next to the bed and wondered if she could abscond with a few at some point without the old lady knowing. “Okay,” she said.
“Good girl. Now… where are you from, um…?”
“Cynthia.”
She smiled that grandmotherly smile again and repeated her name like it tasted sweet. “ Cynthia . Where are you from?”
“Um, I live on the other side of town.”
“Always?”
“I mean, I’ve lived in other apartments. A house when I was smaller. But, yeah. Always here. What about you?”
“I’m from here and there, sweetie.”
Cynthia nodded, and looked about the room. She didn’t think she’d ever been in this room all the time she’d known Jan.
“Do you play checkers?” The woman asked.
“Huh? Oh . Not since I was little, no.”
The sagging skin around Pret’s mouth bunched, the wrinkles deepening as she frowned. “Too bad. I like games.”
“I mean, it’s not a hard game. I can play if—”
The woman interrupted her. “Oh, no. I thought of something better. I do palm readings. That’s fun . Would you like to indulge an old lady in an old parlor trick?” Pret smiled once more
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