Soft Apocalypses by Lucy Snyder

right. And Uncle Bob, ever the student of Christ’s wisdom and forgiveness, cussed her out for telling lies about her choir-boy cousin and accused her of being a whore. Jenny left the church in tears, went to her room and wrote me a letter, then went out to the woods behind her family’s house and killed herself. Her father passed her suicide off as a hunting accident so she could be buried over there in this rusty old cemetery.”
    Ruthie nodded toward the headstone where she’d left her bouquet, then pointed a shaky finger at his grandfather’s grave. “The Reverend Robert M. Dockholm might as well have loaded the shotgun, put it to Jenny’s head and pulled the trigger. As far as I’m concerned, he murdered that girl. Bob deserved to be broken like he broke Jenny, deserved a load of buckshot right between his sanctimonious eyes, but instead he got thirty more years of respect as the pillar of the community, thirty years of ill-gotten wealth by spiritually blackmailing all the sick old folks in the county into signing their worldly possessions over to his church. Jenny’s cousin at least had the decency to pick a fight in a biker bar and get his head caved in with a tire iron the year after he assaulted her, but that Bible-waving sack of shit over there got to enjoy a nice life and a nice quiet death. And so tonight he got me paying my respects the best way I know how.”
    Miz Ruthie stood up and put her fists on her hips, glaring down at Andrew. “There’s a whole lot more you need to know about this fine little town and the people who live in it, but it’s up to you whether you want to open your eyes and get a clue about the world, the real world, and get out of that nice warm pile of small-town bullshit you’ve been wallowing in. And here’s clue number one: God isn’t your personal hit man. I learned that a long time ago, because believe me, I prayed for Him to take out your grandfather. You pray for anyone else’s death ever again, boy, you best be prepared for your own.”
    She inhaled like a diver preparing for a plunge. “So. You’ve got two choices here. Your first choice is to close your eyes and start praying again, pretending I’m not really here, and I’ll call a cab to take me to the airport and call the VFD to come get this tree off you. You’ll never have to hear from me again. Your second choice is you take my hand, I’ll help you up, and I’ll get dressed and we’ll go down the road to the Steak and Shake. I’ll buy you a malt and tell you all about the skeletons in the family closet.
    “So what’s it gonna be, Andrew?”
    The boy stared up at her, took his own deep breath, and held out his hand.
     

The Good Girl
     
    My cell chimed just after I fell asleep. Swearing, I fumbled for it on the nightstand. I was sure I’d set the thing to vibrate. I stared at it blearily, wondering if I should just let it go to voicemail.
    Sharonda stirred sleepily beside me. “You gonna get that?”
    Polite reflex overrode my better instincts. “Yes.”
    I punched the answer button and pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
    “Praise Jesus, I finally got through to you, girl.” My father’s voice was faint over the bad connection.
    Shock ran down to the soles of my feet. My parents and I hadn’t spoken for fifteen years. I’d thought they were out of my life for good.
    “Hi ... Dad.” The words threatened to stick on my tongue.
    In the darkness beside me, Sharonda inhaled in surprise. The bed creaked as she sat up, listening.
    I continued, casual, as if this was an everyday conversation: “How’s it going?”
    “Well, I reckon I have some bad news. It’s your sister. She got the cancer. She don’t have much time.”
    “Oh no.” It had been two decades since I’d last seen Leanna. I had no idea she’d been back in touch with our folks. The last time we’d talked, she’d made it clear she was done with all of us.
    I don’t have nothing ‘gainst you, Maybelle , she told me at