Chapter 3
Chapter Three
A lone stoplight guarded Stetson’s single intersection.
Meredith’s Gift Shop, Lottie’s Diner, and Dosi-Do’s Ice Cream lined the street across from the post office and library.
On an unlucky day, one might wander a few blocks down to Rosco’s Mechanics (a bit dodgy, but beggars couldn’t be choosers) or the hardware store, which sat parallel to the railroad tracks behind Main Street.
From there, a line of four homes squatted across the railway like afterthoughts.
My favorite of the four was daffodil yellow, tucked closest to the swinging bridge over the creek.
Stetson was no different from any other old town. Every building had paneling or brick bleached by the sun, and the sidewalks dipped in the center from hundreds of thousands of feet that walked them for decades. The lampposts—tall, bulbous, with a horse and wagon atop the lantern—leaned a bit.
I eyed the small two-story apartment building from my parking spot.
If you went upstairs, you’d find a single studio flat with cigarette smoke-stained walls and shag carpet.
Every evening after school once Mom and Dad split, I’d sit at a windowsill on the other side of the building.
It faced that little yellow house. I’d wait and watch the family who lived there at the time.
The two boys would run in the house, then straight back out while their mother’s shadow moved against the curtains.
Then the car was loaded with bags and snacks and water bottles.
Once the family left, the boys grown and long gone, an older lady took over. The flower beds darkened with new mulch and fresh flowers and a young man showed up every weekend—a grandson or nephew, maybe. In the summer, they piddled outside. In the winter, the kitchen light remained warm and yellow.
I sunk deeper into my seat. I was stalling—and I knew it. Pushing away the inevitable because of the slight chance someone would see me.
Because if they did, they would speak to me.
They would say they were sorry. They would praise Aunt Cadence’s life, even if they hadn’t spoken to her in over a decade.
Oh, but I always ran into her at the post office when she was a kid.
You know she worked there as a clerk before she could even drive, right?
They would offer sharp shells of memories, thinking it would make me feel comforted, when all it really did was remind me of all of the minutes I’d not had with her.
They’d pluck with good intention, taking away the last little bits of myself that protected my composure from my decomposition.
I’m so sorry for your loss turned into Can I have a little piece of your sternum, dear? Just a bit. It won’t hurt.
Call me if you need anything slithered into You have plenty of teeth, dear, just give me one and I’ll be on my way. You’ll be fine.
Then I’d be left shivering in their aftermath, wondering why they were able to walk away from the pain and I wasn’t.
I stared at the crooked sidewalks. The chipped brick sidings worn with age. The paint-peeled window frames, the stout concrete steps, the bike rack outside the library.
I bit my cheek and climbed out of the car. If I didn’t do it now, I wouldn’t do it at all.
The thickened longleaf pines and river birch trees swayed absently in the soggy breeze, but the gravel was crisp with heat. I hauled the box of ceramic chickens out of my trunk, then locked the car. The SUV beeped in farewell, then I started off down Main Street.
Meredith first—maybe coffee afterward, as a reward. For making it this far.
I moseyed from storefront to storefront, box cradled to my chest. Meredith’s sign dangled from an iron pole like a beacon. When I walked in, her door chimed. Air, warm and spiced, greeted me.
The front displays were covered in homeware, dish sets, trinkets like napkin holders and placemats and salt and pepper shakers. The tension immediately fell from my neck and shoulders with the first inhale.
“Well, if I ain’t ever!” a husky voice called, as if she hadn’t been at the funeral this morning. “You’re supposed to be home, sweet pea.”
I gave a tentative smile. I meant for it to lighten the mood. She only sighed.
Meredith rounded the checkout counter, her warm skin, wide smile, and throaty hum of happiness like a magnet. It was staggering, really, to see how similar someone could look to a memory, but so different, too. Like time had brushed against a person, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on how.
Maybe it was the funeral that made these thoughts surface. Would I look in the mirror one day and notice a change? How old would I be when I noticed the fine lines weren’t so fine anymore?
“I brought you chickens, if that’s okay?” I held the box up a bit. The contents rattled.
She shuffled up beside me, glanced inside, then squished me in a tight embrace. Her long, tight curls brushed my cheek. “My girl! How dare you. You didn’t need to do that already. You should be resting,” she emphasized.
My inhale shook. “I know.”
“Well.” Her black eyes were earnest, if a bit teary. She cupped my face in her hands and swiped her thumbs over my cheeks. “You, my girl, are a sight for sore eyes anyway. Now. Why are you bringing me chickens?”
A hairline fissure started in my throat. I couldn’t cry. Not already.
Not in front of Meredith.
“I have enough casseroles to sink a battleship and the chickens were taking up too much room,” I said, and I meant it.
Short, tall, round, square, all colors and makes.
It made me question Aunt Cadence’s intentions—were the chickens merely collector’s, or an effort to re-create her own childhood kitchen?
Bowing to a fad, maybe? Either way, I couldn’t keep them all. “I figured you could use a few?”
“A few. A few means less than eight, surely. But, I won’t lie, they sell well enough. Can’s see why not.” At this, she pulled back. Both hands perched on her hips; her floral blouse managed to look intimidating. She squinted. “You ain’t eaten today?”
“Earlier.” The word tasted sour.
“Well. You’re here. And I did tell you to bring things by when you were ready.” She gave me a look. “Follow me to the dungeon, I guess. Just don’t judge me. I ain’t got but one part- timer and it takes a good day and a half to price every other box your Cadence brought us a couple weeks ago.”
Your Cadence.
“I didn’t know she … brought so much stuff?” I trailed after Meredith, sidestepping a tea towel display, an intricate shelf of kitchen decor, all the way back to a short hallway that coughed us out into a crowded back room. Meredith was right. It did look like a hoarder’s dungeon.
“Oh, all the time.” Meredith stepped over a set of flat plastic storage containers.
“Matter of fact, she brought in a whole load of stuff the week before—” she stopped.
Pointed to an empty space, as if neither of us would notice the pivot.
She whipped a sticky note pad out of her pocket, along with a pen. “Right here’s a good spot, Landry.”
I picked my way through, deposited the box, then watched as Meredith scribbled on a sticky note and stuck it on the top of the box.
“You don’t mind that I bring her things?” I asked. She stickered a few more. “It’s not overwhelming?”
“Oh, no, no. Might take me a while to get through it, but I’ll manage. Just keep bringing them,” she said. Another stick. Another smack. Then, “Your momma gonna take any of her things and help out?”
“You know Carla. If there’s not money involved, she doesn’t want it.”
Meredith stilled. Turned slowly to face me. I realized then that she’d never turned an overhead light on. Only the opened door illuminated her features.
“She still taking?” she asked. An edge there, but not for me.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I shrugged. I couldn’t remember the last time Mom had been clean longer than a week—especially since Meredith met her years ago. “There are more roosters at the house, if you want them. I can bring them by early on Monday?”
I watched the gears shift. Steam built in her ears. But Meredith wouldn’t ask for more details if I didn’t offer, no matter what questions grew legs in her mind. As if she was luring me out like a dumped animal, gaining my trust, little by little.
My chest constricted at the thought. I glanced away.
She might not ever get that trust. Not completely.
I wasn’t sure anyone would. Why would they want it, anyway?
“That ought not to be a problem,” she concluded. She stickered the last of the roosters and straightened with a groan. “If you want, I’ll pay you extra to help me sort through some of it.”
I started to back out of the room. “No—I can help—don’t pay me—”
“I mean all of it.” She swept an arm out and chuckled. “Not just chickens. All this didn’t just fall from the sky.”
My eyes widened. I held my elbows in a hug as I scanned the scuffed dressers, the antique record stand, the coat rack that looked suspiciously like something that had stood next to the front door at Harthwait when I was younger.
“She brought you all this?”
“Shoot yeah.” Sounded more like shootchyeah.
She led the way back into the hall. “Why do you think I’m still in business?
Your aunt gave me so much stuff, my profit margin’s through the roof.
” She wagged her pointer finger to the ceiling.
“Saved me by a hair sometimes. Stetson ain’t what it used to be. ”
We were at the mouth of the hallway by now. “I don’t remember it being much better when I was little.”
“’Fore the Kenneths decided to take their money from town, it did.”
My spine locked at the last name. I started for the front of the store. Sunlight broke through the spotless panes, creating a dry heat.
“They left?” I asked, gentle. I hovered by the tea towel stand.
“About five years ago now? Back right after you left for USC.”