Anonymous

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

On the days when the house was quiet, it wasn't all bad living here. Debra knew all her neighbors by now, the ones beside Julie and Kyle. Sam and Marie lived down the road; and even though Debra had been there several times, she kept forgetting to give back Marie's cookie plate from when she and Julie first met.

Debra was frosting homemade brownies with that purpose in mind. The frosting melting, she cut them into squares; and trying to make them look pretty she arranged several on Marie's plate. Mrs. O'Shell always said that you should never return an empty plate. Mrs. O'Shell had been her foster mother for a time, a church-going woman who Debra held in the highest regard.

Because the frosting was sticky Debra didn't wrap them in foil or plastic; and left the house without covering them. The minute she stepped outside a deerfly wouldn't leave her alone, bouncing off her face repeatedly. It seemed as though they were always waiting for her to come outside. She swatted as she walked, the insect biting her in jabs. "Go away!" She stopped halfway across the road, her swatting, it coming back in a maddening cycle. Of all places to land, it landed in the frosting which sucked it down like quicksand.

"I can't believe this," she said out loud. Trying to edge the bug out she shoved it in deeper. Still hearing it buzz she moved the finger-stamped square to the edge of the plate, to make sure that no one would eat it.

She neared Marie's back yard from the edge of the ditch and saw their bantam rooster running loose. The rooster, a fighting breed, lorded over the borders, its wings flapping wildly when she crossed into the yard. It was the kind of rooster that could peck the eye out of an egg-sucking weasel which was what these neighbors wanted according to Marie. Debra was cautious, seeing it, baffled why anyone would let something so mean run loose.

"Hi, Marie," Debra said, eyeing the black-spotted tail feathers. Marie had been bent over in a tomato patch. The rooster flapped right up to Debra, her heart leapt into her throat, but Sam wedged himself in the rooster's path and shooed it away. She could see where Sam had missed a patch of chin-whiskers he must have thought he shaved. Smelling of pipe tobacco his big belly seemed to smother his belt buckle. This elderly couple had a grandma-grandpa way about them, a cozy kind of pleasant, an unconditional acceptance that Debra had only read about.

"What have you got here?" Sam asked in his second-childhood way, immediately scooping up the segregated brownie that he popped in his mouth.

"Uh . . . brownies," she said, feeling wicked, hearing it crunch in his teeth. How could she let herself be sidetracked? She hadn't come here to feed bugs to old people. She lied, "I thought I would put some walnuts in. There must have been some shells."

"Oh how nice," Marie said. "I've got a fresh pot of coffee." Her enormous bosom ended at her waist which Debra felt up against her when Marie wrapped her arm around her. Holding onto Debra as tightly as she held onto her cane, Marie led her back to the house. Without intending to, Debra ushered her up the porch steps, through the screen door, and on inside.

Amid a collage of pictures that covered the walls, mountains of newspapers were stacked haphazardly in every corner and on the kitchen table. Debra could definitely smell garlic but what was that other smell? Eucalyptus? Ben Gay? Nearly everything inside dated back to the nineteen-fifties teapot wallpaper, paisley carpeting, and a green boxy refrigerator. Stacks of dishes, pots, and pans, left to dry upside down, were piled next to the sink, and old jelly jars of what looked like dried peas and herbs were jammed together on the counter tops.

"The paper said someone killed a rabid raccoon in Grafton," Marie said, letting go of Debra's arm. "A raccoon's been dumping my garbage and chicken feed all summer. I hope it doesn't have rabies."