Skewed Read online

Page 5


  “Great, but doesn’t Grady own this car?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s mine, but if the cops do run the plates, let’s just say they won’t get the whole story.”

  Fantastic. She could be driving with a murderer, for all she knew. “You didn’t steal the plates, did you, Sam?”

  He chuckled. “No, ma’am. But I’ve got connections. Being on the inside comes with its advantages. You play your cards right, you can use your time to your best advantage. Even learned some chess in there, and I’ll tell you, if ever there was a game that teaches you to play all the angles, that’s it. You play?”

  “No, not really my cup of tea.” She forced a smile. “My mind is too scattered, I suppose. Never able to muster the concentration needed for something like that.”

  Grady’s platform included prison reform and prisoner rehabilitation, and unfortunately for Bridget, he didn’t just talk the talk; he walked the walk—he’d hired the ex-con next to her as the main handler for the campaign. Granted, Sam was excellent at his job, had a good head on his shoulders, and showed a natural instinct for reading people, polls, and crowds, but none of that diminished the yuck factor Bridget felt around him.

  Sam slowed for a curve in the road just as Abner Abel’s meat truck reared its rickety grille. Great—what a trip this was turning out to be. The last person Bridget wanted to see was her critical neighbor, he of faithful church attendance and endless judgment. She dreaded the slow passing of Sam’s pretentious Mercedes and Abner Abel’s wobbly ham-hauler. The narrow road barely fit two cars as it was.

  Anticipating the inevitable wave when the opposing windows lined up, Bridget lowered her hat, pushed her sunglasses up her nose, and crossed her arms over her protruding belly before lowering the visor.

  “Uh, someone you don’t want to see?” Sam said in his nasally voice, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “You could say that again.” She feared he might, just to be funny.

  Mr. Abel’s truck slowed to a crawl. Good Lord, Bridget could have gotten out and pushed the old jalopy faster than he was driving it. Was he moving like a drugged sloth for safety reasons, or because he wanted a good gander at the people in the unfamiliar car? Perhaps he hoped it would be someone he could recruit to next Sunday’s service. Without proselytizing, there’d be more hospitalizin’—of the soul, that is. He’d actually said that years ago when he knocked on the door of a house where she was visiting a friend. She’d had no idea that was how he spent his Friday nights and had wondered what else she didn’t know about the man. Did he sin? Did he covet? Was he trying too hard?

  Bridget peered out from beneath her woven hat brim. Mr. Abel was staring straight at her through his windshield, his eyes in that permanent half-closed state. But she knew that behind the numb expression lay a fierce determination to bring the sheep—and ignorant sheep they all were in his eyes—closer to the Lord.

  As the vehicles crept within scraping distance of one another, Bridget shuddered. She caught a glimpse of her neighbor’s skeletal face. A decade ago, when he’d dropped her off after babysitting, he’d reached out a bony hand to remove a beetle skin from her hair; she’d have sworn death oozed over her like a gooey, cracked egg.

  “Could this guy go any slower?” Sam said. “He’s like a Polack goin’ at a second-grade math problem.”

  “Just drive,” Bridget whispered without moving her lips. She crouched down so far that her bottom hung off the edge of the seat.

  Abner Abel cranked his head sideways, getting an eyeful of Sam’s mottled skin while trying to look past him at the passenger. He waved through the open window like he was pawing through quicksand. “Afternoon, sir,” he said.

  Sam gave a perfunctory nod and peeled away after clearing the back of the truck.

  “That was torturous,” Bridget said, rising from her slumped position.

  “Ma’am, it’s not my place to say, but you’re never going to please everyone. A bare majority’ll do the trick, sometimes even a plurality. But you’ll go nuts if you take every perception personally.”

  Bridget shot him a reproachful glare. “Been dealing with that man’s perceptions my whole life. I grew up next to the Abels, and they think they walk on hallowed ground. And Lord have mercy, not a one of ’em would ever find themselves in the position I’m in.”

  “You’d be surprised about people, Miss Perkins. Mighty surprised.”

  “You don’t know this family.”

  “No, ma’am, but I can get information on ’em if you want.”

  Bridget looked askance at her driver. “No, thank you.”

  “I know a thing or two about secrets. Not that I’d ever tell, mind you. That’s one reason Mr. McLemore keeps me around. But you shouldn’t elevate people just because they have religion. That might be their bailiwick, but it shouldn’t make you feel inferior.”

  “Who said I feel inferior?” Bridget felt frustration welling up inside her because Sam had hit the nail on the head. “Besides, I didn’t say I don’t have religion. As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “That’s all well and good, ma’am, but there are those who let it warp them. Tell you the truth, I feel removed from organized religion myself. If we’re all made in God’s image, some people might consider themselves right up there with Him, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bridget pulled back to look at Sam in full. “No one should consider himself equal to the Lord, Sam.”

  “Now, that’s funny coming from you, Miss Perkins.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, really. Just figuring things out. It can be hard to know right from wrong and good from evil. Living a moral life is not for the lazy, that’s for sure. But what’s a person to do when they come upon a situation after they’ve already sworn their loyalty?”

  Bridget removed her hat and faced him full on. “Come out with it, Sam. You disapprove of this pregnancy but you’re forced to accept it because you swore loyalty to Mr. McLemore. Is that what you’re trying to say in your roundabout way?”

  “Now, ma’am, I’ve said too much.”

  “Seems like you’re passing judgment that should be reserved for the Lord, Sam, but then again, you might be right up there with Him.”

  Sam shook his head and snorted, clearing either his thoughts or his sinuses. “Now I’ve gone and confused the whole issue. Believe me, I wasn’t judging you or those babies.” He glanced at the latter, making Bridget fear he might reach out and pat her stomach. “Truth is, I admire you an awful lot, and those babies might make a world of difference.”

  “Just out of curiosity, Sam, what were you in jail for?”

  “Manslaughter,” he said, pulling his lips back and showing tiny teeth in some sort of shameful grimace. “As you know, accidents happen.”

  Bridget froze and found herself wordless, her hands reflexively covering the babies. Was he equating her pregnancy with his criminal past? Accidents happen. She’d have to talk to Grady about parting ways with Sam once and for all, as soon as the election was over.

  A rusty Plymouth swerved around the bend, going fast enough to put a visible tilt in the vehicle holding two bleary-eyed workmen. Sam veered just in time to avoid a collision, and they both breathed a sigh of relief. “Like I said,” Sam muttered, “accidents happen.”

  An unbidden image of Sam manslaughtering her flashed through her head. “Well, Sam, I think I’d like to get out now. We’re pretty close.”

  He pulled off to the side, where a deteriorating fence had given way to mud and corrosion. “I’m sorry if I upset you at all, ma’am. I’m better at helping others communicate than I am at doing it myself.”

  Bridget tried to smile but it came up short.

  “You sure you’ll be okay here?” he said.

  “Yes, fine. Thanks for the ride.” She grabbed her overnight bag and got out, hoping no other locals would pass by.
At least she wasn’t barefoot and sticking her thumb out. That would really have completed the picture for some folks. Honestly, it would have been easier for them if she’d been growing two heads instead of two babies. Sometimes they acted like they were wearing dog cones while averting their eyes from her waist.

  A minute later she reached the top of her driveway, barely able to see the 150-year-old house from all the century-old trees hiding it from prying eyes. Of course, few prying eyes cared about a random house with a middle-aged man and his daughter, but she knew everything would change once Grady claimed her as his own. Oh, Lord, if they didn’t play it right, what a scandal it would be.

  The noise reached Bridget first and she turned around to see her father rounding the bend in his blue pickup truck. Everyone in town knew Barton Perkins’s Ford, as much for its loud transmission and grimy exhaust as for the big horns on top that advertised his company: Ram Insurance.

  She hopped in on the passenger side, explaining that her friend had dropped her at the top of the driveway. Despite Barton’s pride in his new white pebble driveway, the ride felt to Bridget like a series of ruts held together by the occasional patch of dirt. She experienced every thud and thump in triplicate and held fast to her expanding midsection.

  “Your message didn’t say which friend you stayed with last night,” Barton said. “Or should I not ask, considering?” Barton had grown more comfortable teasing Bridget about the pregnancy lately, having accepted early on that she must have had good reasons for keeping the father a secret.

  “I was with Lucinda,” she lied, “the waitress I work with. She’s havin’ a tough time with that nasty boyfriend, and she thought if I was there he might not smack her around.”

  “Using a pregnant woman as a shield. Nice. But you tell Lucinda I’ll show that boyfriend what a real bruisin’ is. She just needs to say the word.”

  Bridget smiled. Her dad had always been her hero, and his status was well earned. But his chivalrous offer made her feel guilty about using Lucinda as a cover story. Of course, she’d feel a whole lot worse if Lucinda showed up at the diner with another black eye today. “I’ll tell her, Daddy. She’s a sweet lady.”

  “That’s what they used to say about you.” He reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. “You know I don’t believe all the stories, right?”

  Bridget laid her hand on his. She wanted to tell him the truth, but how could she? Her dad had a habit of talking a blue streak after a few drinks. Ironically, he kept a picture in the living room of her and Grady, commemorating Grady’s first visit to Field Diner. On the day of the photo, Grady had posed with all the employees and customers. He’d kissed the drooling babies, let his hand linger in the palms of the drooling moms, and made a speech that soared so gracefully from platitude to platitude that everyone felt they’d been treated to a choreographed ballet. All the while, he’d rested his rust-brown eyes on Bridget’s green ones. Before leaving, he’d sent Sam back in to get her number under the pretense of using her for a campaign poster. She’d resisted, but when Grady had lowered his car window and smiled, she’d jotted the number down and crossed her fingers.

  Two days later, the phone had rung and Bridget’s life had changed forever.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy. It’ll all sort itself out.”

  “I have an inkling you’re protecting someone, and I sort of admire you for it. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Her conscience clenched as she swallowed a mouthful of familiar dust. “You know I love you, right, Daddy?”

  “Sure do, kiddo.”

  The truck lurched to a stop, and Bridget got out and hurried up the porch steps.

  Barton called after her. “Hey, Bridge, I’ll be home late tonight. Closing a deal with some good ol’ boys over a couple o’ drinks.”

  She waved, only half absorbing what he said. Barton Perkins lived and breathed insurance commissions, but had she known it would be the last time they’d speak, save for five incriminating syllables, she might have paid more attention.

  CHAPTER 8

  Few places yanked one into the here and now like the cold, commanding exterior of a hospital emergency room. But when I pulled up, I was whisked to the past. Flashes pierced my eyes, and shouts of “It’s his sister! The Haiku Twin!” and “Jack Perkins’s sister!” assaulted my ears. As I raised an arm to ward off the intrusion, I imagined what the crowd must have looked like the day Jack and I had come home from the hospital in the arms of Grandpa Barton. So many pictures had been snapped of us, it was a wonder any piece of our souls remained. Those leeches had sucked every coo, wince, and tear from the tragic Haiku Twins and splashed the images across their full-color rags for at least a month. But who could blame them? We were big news and they had papers to sell. It wasn’t every day that healthy twins were born to a brain-dead mother who’d been shot weeks earlier by the man rumored to be the father.

  As I strode up the long entryway, I cursed my brother, who sought this kind of attention regularly. While our disrupted debut into the world had caused me to spend my life hiding behind a lens, stealing only the souls of the dead, Jack had reveled in becoming one with the flash. In his eyes, a moment without attention was a moment unfulfilled by its potential. Even this—a visit to an old man lying in a hospital—was fair game for political exploitation.

  The double doors of the hospital opened, but not before reflecting another twenty flashes getting a shot of this Haiku Twin’s backside. At least I’d worn my flattering jeans.

  On the elevator to the intensive care unit, a bulky nurse kept sneaking glances at me in the shiny bronzed doors. I let her look to her heart’s content and almost escaped without comment, but as the doors parted to release me from the temporary viewing box, her restraint failed. “I met him once, you know.”

  Okay, that was a new one. My interest was piqued, and for a split second I thought she’d mistaken me for someone else.

  “Who?” I said.

  “Your father. Grady McLemore.”

  I sneered at the cherry-cheeked caretaker, but it went unnoticed because she was gazing into space with a look of distant wonder, as if Elvis himself had descended through the elevator shaft.

  “So handsome and sincere,” she said. “I do believe he personally related to each and every person he met. Looked me right in the eye, he did, and said he wanted to help. Not just me, of course, but everyone, you know what I mean?”

  “Gosh,” I said, putting on my best expression of mindless awe, “how’d that work out for you?”

  The nurse returned to earth and shot me a reproving glance. “You look like your mother,” she said, turning haughty. “But your brother, he definitely favors the senator.”

  “Senatorial candidate,” I said, stepping into the hallway. “And you know who else looks like him? The son of the waitress the next county over and the one over from that. Seems there’s a whole bunch of baby McLemores straggling through life without their baby-daddy.”

  The nurse shook her head in disgust, her chins following along as the elevator doors closed.

  I turned around to see my brother glaring at me.

  “Why do you do that?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Piss off the voting public.”

  “Are people ever just people to you, Jack?”

  “Seriously, Janie, why would you say something like that?”

  “I don’t like them putting the man who murdered our mother on a pedestal. Let them think he was out sticking it to every waitress in the state, for all I care.”

  “Hanging out with cops is doing wonders for your language, Sis.”

  “For Christ’s sake, it’s been thirty years, and that nurse is still getting off on a handshake with the guy.”

  “Whatever. I don’t understand you.”

  “And yet I totally get you. Shallowness must be easier to decode.”


  Jack turned and marched down the hall. I followed his strides that dwarfed mine.

  “How is he?”

  “Not good,” Jack said, fiddling with his phone. “Try not to upset him.”

  I scowled at my brother’s back, but as we entered the room, my expression softened. There was Grandpa Barton, looking small next to the loud, dinging machines monitoring his every shallow breath. Dr. Kyle, a longtime family friend, stood over him, then turned to us. “Hi, Janie. I’m sorry to tell you, but Barton’s condition has progressed to full pneumonia. We need to put him in a medically induced coma to get him through this rough patch.”

  My heart both filled and hollowed, some dichotomous combination of sympathy for Grandpa Barton and resentment for the bitter irony of the situation. Thirty years ago at this same hospital, Grandpa had consented to keeping my mother in a coma in order to save his grandchildren. And now, look at him—as hopeless and helpless as his daughter had been. I sighed at the transparency of his skin. When had his face gotten so gaunt? His perpetual tan usually compensated for his lack of fat, coating the gray pallor of grief that seethed beneath his constant smile. But pneumonia had finally defeated the sun’s mask, exposing life’s tolls as well as Grandpa’s true age. While the rest of the world used the base ten system of numbers to figure their age, Grandpa Barton had always used base death: Let’s see, Bridget was twenty-five when she died and that’s been thirty years, so that makes me seventy-seven.

  “What’s the prognosis?” I asked.

  “Hard to say. He’ll have to be pretty strong to fight this one off.” The words hung heavy in the air, because Dr. Kyle knew as well as anyone that Barton Perkins was a man who raced tractors for fun and could single-handedly push trucks out of the mud.

  “We need him around a while longer, Dr. Kyle. You do whatever you have to.”

  “Absolutely,” Jack said, looking up from his phone. “As long as the end result isn’t twins.”

  Both Dr. Kyle and I supplied looks to let Jack know how inappropriate his comment was. The smile disappeared. Guess that one wouldn’t be going into the quip bank of his mental teleprompter.