Liar's Bench by Kim Michele Richardson Page B

did love showing me all of his old war stuff. And, before you came along, Adam and I had our own secret notes we’d pass back and forth. I taught him what my daddy taught me.” She smiled wistfully. “Your daddy even wrote me a poem once, and it was the sweetest thing.”
    â€œHe did? What did it say?”
    â€œI can’t remember now. It was silly,” Mama said, a spot of red heating her cheeks. She turned abruptly. “I think I hear Genevieve squirming around. Why don’t you go get her up and put a change of clothes on her?”
    We spent the afternoon playing with Genevieve and eating. Inviting scents of simmering red cabbage, onions, and apples filled the room, helping our happy chatter along.
    Mama sang “Happy Birthday” to me, and the baby cooed and clapped. Afterward, we went outside to the car. I wanted to show off Peggy, but instead I nervously chewed on a fingernail, worrying it was too much, me getting this cool car and all. I would be riding in style while she drove a fifteen-year-old rusted pickup truck, trailed by streams of blue smoke as it coughed and sputtered around Town Square. Snooty townsfolk would wrinkle their noses, and some even shouted out rude remarks. But Mama was never curt to those folks, forgiving to a fault. She’d always feign indifference or offer an explanation for their insults: “Mrs. Kern’s been having tough family problems,” she’d say, or “Who cares what Doris thinks?” or “James lost his job last month.”
    â€œReally sharp ride, Mudas,” Mama said sincerely.
    I stammered, “Mama . . . I’ve been thinking. I can drive Peggy over here in the mornings and walk to school, so you can use her during the day.”
    â€œThanks, sugar, but the truck runs just fine,” she responded, tamping the offer.
    I nodded even though I knew ol’ Blue had stranded her twice last week.
    She let me drive her and baby Genevieve down the road, first to Harper’s Filling Station, the only gasoline pump in town, for my first official fill-up. Old man Harper took his time filling up the Mustang, wiping off the windows, shooting wolfish glances at me when he thought Mama wasn’t looking, and letting his sweaty hand linger on mine when he gave me back my change. His three little boys played over by the air pump, spraying each other with bursts of air, giggling. Mr. Harper cut them a look; then he leaned in close to my ear, his breath soured with beer, and whispered, “Now that you’re old ’nough to drive, maybe you’re old enough for some other grown-up things, hmm?”
    I expected Mama to ream him out with a good tongue-lashing, but when I looked over for help, I saw that she had turned her attention to the baby, trying to calm her fussing. I tucked my chin under, wondering how to best blunt Mr. Harper’s advances. Harper followed my gaze and shot Mama a nasty smirk before running his tongue over brown teeth. Then Roy McGee pulled into the lot. Harper gave two raps to my roof, before strutting over to McGee’s car. I breathed a sigh of relief. Harper leaned into McGee’s window, with his elbows resting on the door, and turned back once to eye me. He set to wiping down McGee’s windows.
    â€œTime to go,” Mama said when she saw McGee’s car, waggling her hand at the windshield urgently.
    We decided to head to town to share an ice cream. I pulled in front of the Top Hat Café, showing off my parallel-parking skills by squeezing the Mustang perfectly in between two other parked cars.
    I waited beside Liar’s Bench with Genevieve hitched to my hip while Mama went inside the diner and bought us a strawberry cone. Genevieve grinned up at me. Her sweetness was irresistible. I kissed her soft cheek and blew raspberries on her chubby arms and neck. She squeezed her eyes in joy and beamed up at me. I couldn’t help but worry about the kind of life she was