The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,35

ear.’ Imagine his poor parents.”

“What about you, James Harris?” Maryellen asked. “I’ve never met a man who doesn’t have an opinion: is Robert Kincaid a romantic American icon or a drifter who murders women?”

James Harris flashed a bashful grin.

“Clearly I read a very different book from you ladies,” he said. “But I’m learning a lot here tonight. Carry on.”

At least he was trying, Patricia thought. Everyone else seemed bent on being as unpleasant as possible.

“The lesson of Bridges,” Maryellen said, “is that the man gets to hog all the conversation. Francesca gets less than one page to summarize her entire life. She’s had children and survived World War II in Italy, and all he’s done is get divorced—and maybe kill people, according to Kitty—yet he goes on and on and on about his life for chapter after chapter.”

“Well, he is the main character,” Slick said.

“Why does the man always get to be the main character?” Maryellen asked. “Francesca’s life is at least as interesting as his.”

“If women have something to say they should just say it,” Slick said. “You don’t have to wait for an invitation. Robert Kincaid has hidden depths.”

“Once you’ve washed a man’s underwear you realize the sad truth about hidden depths,” Kitty said.

“He’s…,” Slick groped for words. “He’s a vegetarian. I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those.”

Thanks to Blue, Patricia knew exactly what Kitty was about to say.

“Hitler was a vegetarian,” Kitty said, proving her right. “Patricia, would you cheat on Carter with a stranger who showed up on your doorstep, with no people, and told you he was a vegetarian? You’d want to at least check his driver’s license first, wouldn’t you?”

Patricia saw Grace, facing her from the other side of the room, stiffen. Then she noticed Slick staring, too, and realized Grace’s gaze was on the hall door behind her. Full of dread, she turned.

“I found your photograph, Hoyt,” Miss Mary said, standing in the doorway, dripping wet and stark naked.

At first Patricia thought she wore some kind of flesh-colored sheet that hung in folds, and then her eyes focused on the angry purple varicose veins scrawled across Miss Mary’s thighs, the livid veins in her sagging breasts, her slack, pendulous belly, and her sparse, gray pubic hair. She looked like a cadaver washed up on the beach.

No one moved for five long, terrible seconds.

“Where’s Daddy’s money?” Miss Mary shouted, voice cracking, staring furiously at James Harris. “Where’s those children, Hoyt?”

Her voice echoed around the room, this shrieking hag from a nightmare, waving a small, white square of cardboard in front of her.

“You thought no one would recognize you, Hoyt Pickens!” Miss Mary howled. “But I have a photograph!”

Patricia heaved herself up out of her chair and scooped the fuzzy blue afghan from its back. She wrapped it around Miss Mary, who kept waving the photograph.

“Look!” Miss Mary crowed. “Look at him.” And as the afghan closed around her, Miss Mary saw the photo in her hand and her face went slack.

“No,” Miss Mary said. “No, that’s not right. Not this one.”

A horrified Mrs. Greene came running from the den.

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Greene said.

“It’s all right,” Patricia said, shielding Miss Mary’s nakedness from the room.

“I went to answer the phone,” Mrs. Greene said, taking Miss Mary by her shoulders. “I was only gone for a second.”

“Everything’s all right,” Patricia said, loud enough for everyone to hear as she and Mrs. Greene herded the old lady out of the living room.

“This isn’t right,” Miss Mary said, allowing herself to be led away, all her fight gone. “Not this one.”

They got her to the garage room, Mrs. Greene apologizing all the way. Miss Mary clutched the photograph to her chest as they dried her with towels and Mrs. Greene got her into bed. Patricia went back into the living room but found everyone already in the hall. James Harris was making plans to visit Seewee Farms to meet Horse, and to attend St. Joseph’s, and to meet