Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 8

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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You should have heard the oohs and aahs
Everyone wondering who she was...

— Lerner and Loewe, You Did It

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"Everything all right?" Thistlewaite asked me.

"It will be," I said. "My sister is downstairs. Earlier today I told her that I'm staying here in Robbins. She didn't take it very well. And so... she's downstairs now. I don't know whether she's simply waiting to tell me off one more time before she leaves, or whether she plans... or expects... to take me back to Mariola with her." My voice trailed off. I let out a heavy sigh. Carly gave me an expectant look, so I explained: "I was a real asshole about it. Sheba is upset with me. She's... agitated, and that's making Hermie anxious."

Carly spoke: "Look, I appreciate the melodrama. I have a family, too, but this is serious. This goes way beyond hurt feelings and family drama. There are two men missing — one of them a Robbins cop, and you — fortunately and unfortunately — are our only lead and the closest thing we have to a witness. I can't let you leave Robbins."

"I'm *not* leaving Robbins," I assured her. "This may sound crazy, but everything and everyone I know is here. I've *got* to stay here, at least until my memories come back. If they ever come back."

"Be that as it may, but what I'm telling you is that memories or no memories, you're not leaving town. I'll lock you up as a material witness if I have to."

"I just told you," I said, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "I'm not leaving Robbins. I don't know how many ways I can say it. I'm going with Hermie, to his house, just as we agreed."

"How much of a scene is your sister going to make, downstairs?" Tatum asked.

"Honestly, I don't know. I mean, I don't really know her. All I can tell you is that when Hermie called just now, he had a note of panic in his voice. Maybe it's just Hermie being Hermie, or... well, I hate to say this, but he's a little afraid of her, of Sheba."

Carly and Tatum glanced at each other. Carly frowned, then told Tatum, "Why don't you head down there, right now, so you can head things off. Make sure Hermie feels secure. As for Sheba... the key word is de-escalate."

"Look, I was pretty cold when I told her I wasn't going back to Mariola," I confessed.

"She's a big girl," Carly commented dismissively. "She can nurse her hurt feelings on that long ride back to Mariola." She nodded to Tatum. "Get going."

After Tatum left, I had misgivings about almost everything I'd said. "I hope we're not making a big deal out of nothing. I don't want to get Sheba in trouble."

Carly impatiently pointed out, "Look: forget about Sheba, will you? First and foremost, the real issue right here, the one thing that's important right now, for all of us, is finding Hugh Fencely. And Mason Rafflyan. If Sheba gets in trouble, that's on her. It'll be on account of something *she* does, not because of something *you* say."

"Okay," I acquiesced, and dropped the issue.

The lanky orderly, who'd been silent so far, cleared his throat to signal he had a question.

"What is it?" Carly asked him, tilting her head back to look up at his face. He stood at maybe a foot and a half taller than her.

"Is there, uh, some kind of situation going on downstairs? Are we stepping into some kind of bear trap?"

Carly grinned at him, amused. "Are you worried? There's a uniformed cop downstairs waiting for us, and you're getting a real-life, flesh-and-blood police escort—" here she tapped her own chest— "all the way down. What more could you want?"

He took a breath. Hesitated. I imagine he wished the police at hand were two big, burly men, instead of a pair of women, both of whom were under average height.

At last he suggested, "We could call Security."

She regarded him with an open-mouthed smile for a few moments before answering. "Let's just see how it goes, okay? Come on, it's time to rock 'n roll."

"Don't worry," I told him. "I'm pretty sure Sheba's bark is worse than her bite."

The orderly scratched his head. "Okay," he concluded. "Just for the record, though, it sounds like you-all are worried, but you're telling ME not to worry." Then, resigning himself to whatever awaited us downstairs, he patted the handles of the wheelchair. "Okay, ma'am. Have a seat. Before you ask," he informed me, "Even though you're up and walking and feel perfectly great, you still have to ride in a wheelchair all the way from here to your car. It's protocol."

"Insurance," Carly offered, by way of explanation. "The hospital doesn't want you to fall down and get a second lump on the head — at least not before you're out of here!"

Fine with me! I plumped myself down in the chair and set my feet squarely on the footrests. The orderly backed the chair out of the room into the hallway, and rolled me to the elevator. The four of us descended to the ground floor and followed a long hallway to the hospital lobby.

The moment we entered the lobby, I immediately spotted Sheba, far across the room and outside the windows that flanked the entrance. It was the arm-waving that made her stand out. Next to her I saw a young, fit-looking guy with brown hair. He had to be Jeff, her boyfriend. Sheba's expression was a mixture of anger and determination... and (to my surprise) a heavy dose of embarrassment. Why didn't I realize earlier how humiliating this must to be for her? To have come all this way, only to be casually dismissed?

She and Jeff stationed themselves near the hood of a dull green car. Hermie stood to their left, near the trunk of a old silver-colored car. The poor guy wiped his face with a shaky hand. Obviously, he felt painfully anxious and nervous. Tatum had placed herself between Hermie and my family. Hermie's eyes kept darting at the young policewoman, for reassurance. She stood there, in her blue uniform, representing authority, arms crossed, chewing gum to show how relaxed she felt. Just your friendly neighborhood cop. Keeping the peace.

That was the scene waiting for us on the sidewalk, outside. At the sight of it, the orderly came to a halt. Probably it was Sheba's state of animation that gave him pause.

I turned my head so I could look up to both him and Carly. "Hey," I said. "I know what to tell Sheba. Let's go."

Carly reached up high and put a hand on the orderly's shoulder. She grinned and said, "Let's do it. Roll her up to the first car, the black one."

I couldn't see his face, but I heard him mutter, "Still time to call Security!" but it fell on deaf ears. He bravely (?) pushed my wheelchair through the big glass doors, out to the wide sidewalk. Hermie opened his passenger door, The orderly positioned my chair alongside the opening and locked the wheels.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, WHOA!" Sheba called in a loud voice. "Hold on there! No, no, no-no-no! She's coming with me. She's coming back to Mariola with ME!"

I stood, put my hand on the roof of Hermie's car, and turned to face her. "I'm sorry, Sheba, but I need to do this. Besides the whole thing with my memory—"

"Which is bullshit," she cut in.

"There are two men missing. One of them is a policeman from Robbins. As far as anyone can tell, I was the last person to see them. The police won't let me go until the men are found."

Sheba's jaw worked, twisting this way and that. She could argue against me, but I'd just invoked city hall. It's hard to fight city hall.

Carly backed me up. "She can't leave town until we have all the answers. I've already told her that I'll lock her up as a material witness, if that's what it takes to keep her here. Our priority is finding our man. The two men."

Sheba shot her a look. A defeated look. Her shoulders slumped. She got the message. I'm sure that if it was only a matter of *my* wanting to stay in Robbins, she would have fought tooth and nail to carry me back. But the police? She didn't like it, but she had to go along.

"I'm sorry," I told her in a soft voice.

"Oh, fuck you and your sorries!" she replied, but now she spoke in a more normal tone. Her anger lost some of its heat, but her resentment still burned; an eternal flame. She was looking down, talking to the ground. "It's just that — I'm your SISTER! I'm your sister, God damn it! I drove all night to pick you up and bring you home, but you don't care! You're supposed to come home, with me."

"I know this must be difficult—" Thistlewaite began, addressing Sheba, "but—"

"Oh, do shut up!" Sheba barked. Thistlewaite pressed his lips closed.

Sheba took a step in my direction. Tatum took a small step as well, blocking the way. Sheba cleared her throat and said, "Don't worry. I just want a hug." Tatum nodded and stepped back. My sister and I stepped forward, both of us clumsily banging into the wheelchair. Sheba shoved it away, and we hugged. She squeezed me like a wrestler would, hard, pressing the air out of me. I know it was her excess of emotion, but even so it alarmed me, and hurt the bruises on my side, but I tried to just go with it. She buried her face in my shoulder, and clung to me.

In a low voice, meant only for her, I said, "I love you, Sheba." It seemed like the right thing to say, even if I didn't feel it.

"Oh, go fuck yourself," she replied, letting go and taking a half-step back. I wasn't sure how to take what she said, but when she caught the confused expression on my face, she burst into laughter. She laughed as she wiped tears from her cheeks.

She gave me an affectionate shove that knocked me back a half-step, and with a wry smile said, "God almighty, Deeny. You're so selfish, and you're never going to change." Shaking her head, she walked back to Jeff and took his hand.

I very nearly said "I'm sorry," once again, but held my tongue. Instead I said, "I have your number. Thanks for coming and telling me who I am. Dr Thistlewaite says I should get my memories back soon — I probably should have gotten them back already — and when I do, it will change everything. For right now, though, I need to stay here... stick with what little I know."

Sheba shook her head vigorously the whole time I spoke, and when I finished, she broke down and began to cry. "How can you do this?" she sobbed. "How? What is wrong with you? Why are you like this?" Jeff, alarmed by her abrupt outburst, looked to her, unsure of what to do. Should he hang onto her hand? Give it a squeeze? Should he let go and hug her... or simply leave her emotions to run their course? His indecision was written all over his face. Before he could decide, Sheba calmed herself, at least enough to stop crying. She snuffled hard. She dried her tears, stood up straighter, set her jaw, and told me, in a very dramatic tone, "Mamma prays every day that the Lord will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. Did you know that? This is your heart of stone in action, for everyone to see." She let off a loud tsk! and added, "You never care about anyone but yourself!" It sounded like a recitation, maybe something our mother often said? Turning to Jeff, Sheba told him, "Let's get out of this awful little town. Let's go home."

In a quiet voice, he asked her, "Don't you want to see where they go?"

She nodded almost imperceptibly and got into her car. She sat stiffly, as if sitting in a church pew, her eyes fixed directly ahead, studiously avoiding looking in my direction. Jeff took a breath, and knowing Sheba couldn't see, gave a quick nod hello and a quick flash of a friendly smile to me. I nodded back. Jeff called to Hermie, "I'll just follow you, to know where Deeny is, okay? Don't worry. As soon as you get to where you're going, we'll blast off back to Mariola and be out of your hair."

Hermie, who by this point was thoroughly frightened, replied, "Sure. Sure." He scurried to get behind the wheel of his car, and I sat on his passenger side. The orderly closed my door. I rolled down the window so I could hear Carly. She bent down and told Hermie, "We're going to follow you as well. You're doing great, Hermie. Just keep calm, drive slowly and safely, and everything's going to be fine."

As Carly walked back to her car, Hermie exhaled, maybe for the first time that morning. "Thank God for the police!" he said to me in a low voice. "Your sister scares me to death!"

"Oh, Sheba? She's a pussycat," I assured him, hoping it was true.

I rolled my window back up and reached over to squeeze his hand. "Are you alright? I can drive if you don't feel up to it."

"No, I'm fine to drive," he replied. "It's only that... I wasn't expecting the, uh, friendly fire back there. I'm not big on drama."

"Yeah, sorry."

He glanced at me. "You don't think your family's going to try anything, do you?"

"Try anything? Like what?"

"Like... like try to kidnap you? Or give me grief? They couldn't sue me, could they?"

"There's nothing they could sue you for! As far as the rest of it... honestly, I don't know," I answered. "Just remember: if things get difficult for you and Lucy, I'll leave your house right away and go somewhere else, agreed?"

"Yeah, that— um, agreed," he answered, fumbling with the gear shift, very nearly taking off in reverse.

 

---

 

Hermie, taking Carly's encouragement as a direct police order, drove as slowly as a senior citizen, carefully using his turn indicators, doing the hand-over-hand movement on the steering wheel... His eyes did a regular dance over his rear-view mirrors, as well as scanning ahead left and right, checking for pedestrians.

I didn't speak, afraid of breaking his concentration.

Our little three-car parade wound its way slowly through the streets of Robbins until we climbed a little hill, and — with the appropriate turn-signal flashing — Hermie pulled into the driveway of Craftsman-style bungalow.

"I hope that Lucy didn't oversell this place to you," Hermie mumbled as he took my bag, the bag Sheba brought me. "It was our grandmother's house. We haven't done anything to it. It's little and old, and our extra room — the one you can stay in — is little, too."

"Little and old," I said, smiling. "Sounds great."

I'd forgotten until now, but in that moment I remembered Lucy telling me that their parents had died. "Did you live here with your grandparents, then?" I ventured.

He looked at me in surprise as if he didn't expect the question. "Uh, well, we did, yeah. We lived here with Grandma, any way. Until, you know, she... went."

"Sorry," I offered, feeling utterly inadequate.

"It's okay," he responded. "That's life." As he spoke, he looked off to the right, to the curb where Sheba had parked. The police pulled in right behind her. "I've never been so happy to see the police," he commented. "Your sister is pretty scary."

Sheba was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, hands on her hips, looking the little house up and down as if her negative judgment could burn the place to the ground. If she could call down fire from heaven, I'm sure she would.

In a quiet voice, Hermie asked me, "I'm sorry if I keep asking, but do I have to worry about her?"

Carly and Tatum slowly emerged from their car, eyes on Sheba.

I put my hand on Hermie's shoulder. "Why don't we have a little conversation with the police about that, before they go, okay?"

A shade of relief came into his face at that.

"And I know I just said this, but remember, if my staying here gets difficult for you or Lucy, I'll go. Right away. Okay?"

"Deal," he acknowledged.

As we stood there, Carly walked over to Sheba and started talking to her, quietly.

"Let's go in the house," I suggested. Tatum broke off from Carly and approached us.

"Aren't you going inside?" she asked. Before we could answer she added, "Can I come along?"

Hermie, still spooked, glanced over at Carly and Sheba. "Is, uh, Carly going to be alright there?"

"All by herself?" Tatum replied, finishing his thought. She grinned. Almost laughed. "You know, Robbins' cops have to take self-defense, martial-arts classes."

"And Carly's really good?"

"She's the teacher." Tatum grinned, her tongue in her cheek.

I couldn't tell whether the tongue-in-cheek expression meant that Tatum was joking, teasing, or just plain lying. Maybe she'd spoken the simple truth, and found that truth amusing. In any case, Hermie found comfort in it, so I kept my doubts to myself. Carly clearly had set the tone of the exchange: Sheba calmed down quite a bit, in deference to authority. She'd stopped making animated gestures and angry faces, and when she spoke she used short phrases and quick nods instead of long tirades.

Hermie's house stood on a small rise, which we climbed from the side. A set of concrete stairs cut the front lawn neatly in two, but we didn't go that way because that's where Sheba had planted herself.

As we climbed the three wooden steps to the front porch, I began to see what Hermie meant when he said "we haven't done anything to it." The left handrail wobbled, hanging on by a couple of nails. The porch itself was level, but a few boards here and there were broken or missing, and the entire thing needed a coat of paint. The walls of the house were not as bad, but a little paint would go a long way to brightening the place up.

Once we stepped inside, it was like traveling back in time. It was obviously still Grandma's house. All the furniture, the wallpaper, the rugs, the light fixtures, were old and dusty. The place didn't smell bad, exactly, but it needed a good airing out. There was a faint aura of naphthaline (the scent you find in vintage mothballs), but it was so faint I may have imagined it. The armchairs and the couch were draped in large, faded white sheets — probably because the upholstery was too worn to be seen.

"Cute," I said.

Hermie gave an appreciative smile.

The kitchen wasn't as bad as I expected. The cabinets, counters, and appliances were all dated, but they were in good repair. The entire room was spic-n-span from the cabinets to the floor. There was only one plate, one fork, and one coffee mug in the sink. "No dishwasher," I observed.

"Naw, we're the dishwashers."

Tatum opened the fridge. It was remarkably clean inside, smelling fresh, and nicely in order. There were small stacks of leftovers in glass and Tupperware containers, as well as fresh vegetables, fruit, and other items. "Wow!" Tatum exclaimed. "I wish my fridge was as well stocked as this one!"

"Lucy," Hermie said proudly, by way of explanation. I nodded.

Hermie's bedroom was on the first floor. "This used to be the dining room," he told us. "Then, you know, her last nine months, Grandma couldn't handle the stairs, so she set the room up like this." His breath caught for a quick moment as he said, "I, uh, took it after she—" The bed was unmistakably a hospital bed, complete with side rails. The other furnishings were purely functional: enameled-metal items like you'd find in a hospital room.

Hermie didn't appear to have an ounce of self-pity or sadness. He seemed unaware of the sense of tragedy that overlay everything here. Still, it weighed on him. It was as if a sad song was playing over and over in the background, that by pure repetition became a sound he couldn't hear any more. It was simply life as it was. Tatum gave me a glance that told me she felt it as well.

At the time I didn't understand why Hermie left the room that way, as if his grandmother could return at any minute. How could it not upset him, to see it, to live in it, to SLEEP in it, day after day? He could easy sell the hospital bed, I'm sure, and set up a normal bedroom for himself. It wouldn't take much.

After getting to know him, I realized there were two reasons: first of all, it never occurred to him. For Hermie, his environment, the house he lives in, is a given, not something he's used to making decisions about. The second is, that even in the moments when he'd wish that things were different, he had no idea how, specifically, he wanted those differences to appear. For instance, sure, he could paint the walls, but that would mean he'd have to choose a color. And that's where his design paralysis set in.

Upstairs, by way of contrast, was Lucy's room: well-ordered and very clean. It had the air of young teenage girl. A few stuffed animals occupied strategic vantage points. There were frills and stars, fairy lights and pictures of big-eyed kittens. Odd, wasn't it? I imagined Lucy as made of sterner stuff. Hermie smiled as he showed us the room, a smile that showed how much affection and love he felt for his little sister.

Finally, he showed me a tiny room, fitted with a day bed, a bare metal rack to hang clothes, and a tall narrow bureau with seven drawers. "This is basically a box room," he explained, apologetically. "This was my room when we first moved here," he said. "I'm sorry it's not nicer, but if you find some way to fix it up for yourself... go for it."

"Thanks," I said. "Much appreciated. I like the window. Lots of light." In fact, the room featured an enormous, wide window, as tall as me, whose sill was only two inches from the floor.

Tatum looked the place over as though it were a crime scene, but kept her thoughts to herself.

As we descended the stairs, Carly entered the front door, which was still standing open. Behind her, in the street, Sheba stood next to her car, talking on her phone. Tatum closed the door and threw the bolt, and the four of us stepped into the kitchen.

"You gonna be okay here?" Carly asked me.

"Yes, I think so," I replied. "As long as my new-found family doesn't cause trouble for Hermie and Lucy."

"Do you think they might? Cause trouble?"

"I don't know. Remember, I don't know anything about these people, aside from their names, and the fact that they're from Mariola."

"Right."

"But—" I added, "it just occurred to me: I can call my sister Cameron. She seems to be the most level-headed in the bunch, at least so far. Maybe I can get an idea of what they will or won't do. Apparently I've always been causing them grief, and this isn't the first time I've run off, so maybe they're fed up and will leave me alone."

"What do you mean, it's not the first time you've run off?" Carly quizzed.

"I don't know," I told her. "It's something Sheba said." I shrugged.

"Okay," Carly acknowledged. "We can hang out until they drive off."

"I'd like that," Hermie told her, gratefully.

"You have our phone numbers, right, Hermie? Mine and Tatum's?"

He said he did. Still, he checked his phone, just to be sure.

Carly looked around her, then asked, "Do you mind if I take a look around the outside? Get a sense of the place?" After she exited through the kitchen door, Hermie — for lack of anything better to do — offered to show us the basement. We followed him down a set of stairs, sturdy, but made of rough, unfinished wood.

The basement had a gray, concrete floor. The walls were cinder blocks, and the windows were flush with the ceiling. They were typical basement windows: simple two-pane affairs, just over one foot high and about two feet wide. The washer and drier were down here, along with a rack for drying clothes, a metal closet full of empty shelves, and some wooden half-walls that I recognized as the remnants of a coal bin, now stuffed with broken lawn chairs, beach umbrellas in need of repair, and other bits of — well, other bits of trash, frankly, in need of tossing.

It was spacious, and in spite of the few, small windows, full of light. And it was clean, not musty and dusty, like everything upstairs. Strange to say, but it's as if the tragedy that lay over the upstairs floors hadn't been able to penetrate down here.

"Hey, Hermie — would you mind? I mean, would it be okay with you if I slept down here? I obviously don't need the whole space, just enough room for a bed, you know? and if I could use that metal closet?"

He looked around, blinking. "You want to sleep in the basement?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "It's pretty nice for a basement. It's light, it's dry... I can clean it up. Maybe hang a curtain for privacy?" He considered it — I could see the idea of using the space in any way had never occurred to him.

"I can take apart that bed upstairs and haul it down here — if that's okay with you."

"Um, wow," he said. I could see I'd taken him utterly by surprise. "Let me see what Lucy says. If it's okay with her, it's fine with me."

"Okay, cool," I said.

He scratched his neck, thinking. "You know, we might have an inflatable mattress up in the attic. If we do, and if it works, it would be easier to carry that down, rather than lugging that bed."

 

---

 

After Carly's inspection outside, she recommended that we put a new lock on the kitchen door, and that we secure the bulkhead door on the inside. At present, she said, it wasn't locked at all.

"I can do that," I said.

"Can you?" Tatum asked.

"Yes," I replied. "Somehow I do. I know I do." I could see it all in my head, as if it was a video, the steps to changing a lock... and the pieces I'd need to secure the bulkhead.

 

---

 

After Sheba left, Carly and Tatum left as well. I idly wondered whether they'd follow Sheba's car to make sure she left town, but I didn't bother to ask.

I took a good look at the back door and the bulkhead. Hermie gave me directions to the closest hardware store. I also asked about an ATM. There was one along the way.

As soon as I left the house, I took out my phone and called Cameron. We spoke as I walked.

"This is a surprise," she told me, in a dry, flat tone. "You never call me."

"Well, I'm not myself," I quipped.

"You've really hurt Sheba's feelings. I mean, if that matters to you at all. Mamma is incandescent."

Incandescent? I pictured a middle-aged woman, glowing like a lamp. I wanted to jokingly ask Cameron whether being incandescent was a good thing or a bad thing, but I wisely kept my wisecrack to myself.

Instead, I told her, "I'm sorry about that, but I have to follow this through down here. There are two men missing. One of them's a cop, and I may be the last person who's seen them. I have to stay here until I get my memories back."

"You're really not giving up on this amnesia caper, are you?"

"It's not a caper. I swear to God, I have amnesia."

Cameron was silent for a beat, then asked, "Then why are you calling me, if you don't know who I am?"

"You seem like the most rational person in the family. Can I ask you a few questions about myself?"

Cameron let out a scoffing groan. "Oh, God — oh, yes, by all means! Let's do your favorite thing! Talking about yourself."

"Am I really that self-centered?"

"Well, look at yourself, right now, and tell me what you think? You've got the entire family up in arms. You've left your little sister furious and in tears. Her poor boyfriend is stuck in a car with her on a five-hour drive while she fusses and cries and fumes. You've got the whole damn town of Robbins wound up, wondering oooh! who is the mystery girl! And you've foisted yourself on some poor little guy who's afraid of his own shadow. What's his name? Bernie?"

"Hermie," I corrected.

She gave a derisive snort. "Hermie. Are you sleeping with him?"

"No! Of course not!"

"There is no of course not with you on that score," she countered, as if she was reminding me. "When you say no, you mean, not yet."

"No! I have no intention of sleeping with him! And he has zero interest in me. In that way."

"If you say so."

"Am I that bad? In that way? Really?"

"Yes, really. And please — I am not going to discuss your amorous adventures, past or present, or any of your ill-advised couplings. God! Honestly, you have an infallible instinct for knowing when a man is rutting."

"Rutting?" I repeated, bewildered.

"Look it up," she snapped.

"Okay, sorry," I said. "Can I just ask you one thing? Sheba mentioned in passing that this wasn't the first time I'd run off. What did she mean? Did I run away from Barney once before?"

Cameron didn't answer for a few moments. Long enough that I thought perhaps the line had gone dead.

"Cameron?"

"You really do have amnesia, don't you?" she said, more of a statement, almost a realization of fact. Not so much a question.

"Yes!" I exclaimed. "Why would I pretend?"

"Because it's exactly the sort of thing you'd do," she explained, but now her tone was more patient. Tentatively patient. "This is really strange, I have to admit. I mean, you're a terrible liar and an even worse actor, so I can't get over it. Talking to you now is like talking to a person I don't know."

"Tell me about it!" I said.

"Okay. So, no, you haven't run away from Barney before, but in the past you have disappeared for days at a time — usually with a man, some completely inappropriate random man, and when you reappear, you have a shaggy-dog story..."

"A shaggy-dog story?"

She made an impatient sound and then, "A shaggy-dog story! You talk a lot of nonsense until people get tired of trying to get the truth out of you. You have this... inexhaustible supply of silly stories that no one could possibly believe, while you insist they're God's honest truth.

"As far as Barney goes..." She blew a raspberry. "I never liked him. Never. Neither does Sheba. I'm not sure what Nate really thinks. Nate and Andre and Barney have this idiotic 'bro' thing going — the less said about that, the better. Then again, Nate likes everybody. Mamma LOVES Barney because he's got money and pretends to be all about Jesus. Mamma loves to say how Barney loves the Lord, which is a big load of horse manure. AND she believes he's your last chance at marrying. You know, Mamma was raised with that conservative Texas church culture... She got married way too young and she believes the Lord wants the three of us to do the same."

"Huh."

"So don't worry about Barney. You're better off losing him than finding him again. But it's your choice! If you want to marry him, go right on ahead and marry him. That said, I'd bet good cash money that the two of you wouldn't last more'n nine months! A year, at the very most. That's why I say, if you don't want to marry him, that's even better. You don't *need* to get married, you know. I mean you, not you and Barney. You. Maybe you're just not the marrying type. Or maybe you'll get married when you're old, or older, after you've sown your wild oats. Lord knows, that'll take some time — I mean, as far as wild oats go, you seem to have an endless supply."

"Huh."

In the background of the call I heard children's voices. They grew louder until it was clear that the children were right there, next to Cameron. She said something muffled that I couldn't make out, then she told the girls, "I'm talking to your crazy auntie, girls."

"Deeny! Deeny!" they began to shout. I had the feeling they were jumping as they spoke.

"Say hi to my baby girls," Cameron told me, "I'm putting you on speaker."

Of course I had no idea what to say, or what their names were, but I called out, "Hello, my little cuties! Hi, this is your favorite auntie! Are you having fun?"

The two of them replied together, jumbling the sounds into a confusing racket.

"Did you get that?" Cameron asked. "They're asking when you're coming home."

"Oh, jeez," I said, "Put me on the spot, why don't you?"

"Just say you're coming soon," Cameron said. "They're too little to know when you're lying."

"I'm coming soon!" I called out to the little strangers. "I love you!"

"We love you, too, Aunt Deeny!" they crooned.

I hung up, feeling like a heel.

Of course, I'd entirely forgotten the reason for my call. What I really wanted to know was whether I had to worry about Sheba — or any other member of my family... would they come to get me, to kidnap me, to try to force me back to Mariola? Would they make life difficult for Hermie and Lucy?