of the heat, Mary will want to see how you’ve grown.”
I opened the screen door, and stepped back fifty years in time. I don’t think anyone ever told Mary Hughes that the fifties came and went. In her world, which I’m sure she saw in black and white, women still baked pies while men worked in the field.
And the pies smelled like a piece of heaven, blended with apple and cinnamon. Choosing Rory as a best friend had nothing to do with his mother’s cooking, but it certainly hadn’t hurt. His mother set down a rolling pin, which to me was a good club for killing meat-skins, and dusted off her hands.
“Brynner Carson, young man, it’s about time you came back to see us.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Mrs. Hughes.” I slid up on the bar stool.
“You come all the way to New Mexico to check out the horse killings?”
Horse killings. Not exactly my style. “I didn’t. But I could take a look. Which farm?”
“The McMasters’. Rory said he ain’t seen nothing like it. Poor creature just torn to parts. Where is that boy?” She hollered at the stairs, “Luce, could you keep an eye on the oven?” She washed her hands and walked out the front door.
And down the stairs came a vision and a nightmare.
Lucille Stillman, homecoming queen and my date to prom my senior year. A woman I knew so very well once. On her hip she carried a baby about nine months old. She saw me in the kitchen and stopped, her mouth open.
“Lucy Stillman.” It was all I could think of to say.
“Hughes. It’s Hughes now. Make yourself useful and hold Junior.” Her tone made it clear that I’d better check any pie she served me for razor blades and needles. She thrust the baby at me like he was a rabid wolverine.
The baby squirmed in my grip, fidgeting and making a square face with angry eyes. Babies, unlike knives, didn’t come with padded grips. He didn’t like me any better than his mother did and began to mewl like an angry cat.
Lucy looked up at me, her hands in oven mitts. “Calm him. I seem to recall you like to sing.”
I seemed to recall liking almost anything a girl liked in high school. I might have attempted to serenade a couple of them. I remembered the tune Dad hummed while he worked. I bounced the baby softly and began to sing. “Hush, little baby, don’t you cry, Daddy’s going to stab a meat-skin in the eye, and if that meat-skin takes a bite, Daddy’s going to get six stitches tonight.”
The baby cooed and made burbling noises, obviously impressed with my skills as a bard.
His mother, not so much. She turned the oven off and stalked over to seize the child. “What kind of lullaby is that? Stay away from Junior, and stay away from me. I’m married now. Don’t you have a rotten horse to look at?”
Once, she’d looked at me with an adoring gaze and a willing smile. That would have been before she caught me in the movie theater with her best friend. I left the kitchen, preferring the heat of the noon sun to Lucy’s withering stare. Dust devils danced in the yard, and a distant line of clouds said we’d be getting a storm soon enough. It would roll through, dump a month’s worth of rain, and move on. The desert would suck it up, use it to go from brown to green.
I closed my eyes, savoring the scent of rain on the wind. The creak of wheels made me open my eyes as a golf cart rolled up, and from it came my best friend, Rory Hughes.
“Big B.” He ran to me, slapping me on the back so hard my stitches hurt. “Heard about the horse. I was wondering when you big shot BSI folks would look into it. Lucy says the word is you brought someone special home to meet Aunt Emelia and Uncle Bran.” Rory’s dark brown hair stood up in spiky tufts on his head. He was even less related to Emelia and Bran than I was, but no one in their right mind argued with Aunt Emelia.
Rory had gained weight, a good fifty pounds, but he was as tall as me, as wide as me, and still probably capable of taking me in a wrestling match.
“I quit the BSI this morning.”
Rory whistled. “Damn. You get in trouble over a woman?”