Chapter 29 Jane
Jane
Sweat trickles down my chest; I pluck the front of my dress, trying to cool off.
Mom and I are parked outside the Andersens’ house. Well, not right outside. We don’t want them to see us. But if they do, Mom has a whole story cooked up about how we’re going door to door in the neighborhood, taking around her samples.
The windows are down, but the air is still. Fat clouds hang over us, threatening rain, but it seems like it’s all gonna be a big tease. That we’ll never get a drop, and the whole day will have this muggy, weighty feel to it.
I take a long pull of my Coke, then drag another greasy Tater Tot through ketchup and devour it.
Mom wrinkles her nose at me. She hates fast food, never lets us eat it. Calls it the devil’s food, the devil being big corporate America.
But this morning I went to Pa with my palm held out and shook him down for a five-dollar bill, my payment for agreeing to do this. He handed it over, then told Mom to take her wherever she wants to go.
I swear that even more than the drinking or smoking, when I snuck around with Luke, the fast food was what I loved most. Crunchy tacos from Taco Bell, salty fries from McDonald’s, gooey cheeseburgers from Whataburger.
After mainly eating homemade meals and organic vegetables from our garden, this stuff felt sinful, tasted like heaven.
Thinking of Luke just now, a lump burns in my throat. I miss him. Haven’t talked to him since the accident with Cookie. Obviously, I’m not riding her anytime soon to the general store again, so I’ve been waiting for a moment at home when I’m alone so I can call him.
“Put that mess away,” Mom orders. “I see ’em.”
I stuff the carton back in the paper bag, crimp the edges down. Peering up at their house—no, their mansion, which could easily swallow a dozen of our homes—I see the Andersens striding across the lawn.
Mrs. Andersen’s drop-dead gorgeous, her natural beauty made all the better by things Mom hates: makeup, jewelry, fine clothes.
And Mr. Andersen is like some kind of Viking god.
I thought this at the fish fry when I saw them with Nellie, and now the thought pops back up again: I can’t believe she’s theirs. She’s not ugly but she’s not them.
Mr. Andersen’s got his hand on her lower back. He swings open the passenger door to his sleek black Jeep Wagoneer before tucking her inside.
Our own engine grumbles to life, and Mom hand cranks her window shut, motions for me to do the same. She twists the knob on the AC, and it gasps like it normally does before spitting out air that smells like an old leather shop.
Oh, to ride in that Jeep Wagoneer, a chariot being driven by a prince.
As they glide out of their drive, Mom inches forward, careful to wait until they’ve almost made it to the end of their street before falling in behind them.
Their castle is on a giant hilltop, and my stomach turns as we coast down the street.
Pine cones the size of footballs crunch under our tires; I feel like I’m at the arcade playing Ms. Pacman, trying to see how many pellets we can eat before getting gobbled up by ghosts.
The ghosts, of course, are our missions.
Always are. I won’t say I feel skittish exactly—I’m too used to it for that.
But before each one, I do feel kinda sick in my gut. Never know what’s gonna happen.
We’re on the main road to town now, trailing them.
Mr. Andersen puts their left blinker on and turns into the shopping center.
Mom pulls into the parking lot, still keeping her distance.
They’re in front of a place called Talk of the Town Salon. Mrs. Andersen hops out, then disappears inside the beauty shop.
Mr. Anderson climbs out, too, but he walks a few doors down to Smithy’s Goods. I’ve been in there once so far with Mom and Pa; it’s like a general store but with everything. Hunting and fishing gear, a sandwich counter, deer feed, you name it.
“What’s our plan?” I ask.
“I don’t know!” Mom snaps. I can tell her nerves are frayed, too. “Let’s just go,” she adds, her voice stern but shaky.
I grab the cardboard box of oils from the floorboard as I exit, then kick the door shut with my foot.
A bell clangs against the glass door as we enter. It feels like all eyes in the place land on us.
Of course, we are a sight, me and Mom in our handmade dresses, out of step with the times.
I spot the top of Mr. Andersen’s head right away. He’s down a few aisles over. “Mom,” I whisper, jerking my head in his direction.
She tugs at my elbow, and I follow her, sweat stinging my eyes, my nerves heading into overdrive.
He stops at the end of Aisle Three, his hand tracing a row of boxed ammo.
Mom pauses, then grabs my elbow again, pulls me down Aisle Two, moving fast toward the end. She grabs the box from me, races around the corner, and—what do you know?—bumps into Mr. Andersen.
“Oh! I’m sorry! Didn’t see you there!” Her voice is full of sunshine. “I blame it on this,” she says, smiling down at her oils.
“No worries!” Mr. Andersen says, grinning at both of us, but especially Mom. “Hey, we met the other night—” He cocks his head to one side, runs his eyes over her chest.
She usually dresses very modestly, very biblically, but I saw that before she approached him, she tugged down the top of her dress, putting her serious cleavage on full display.
He’s kind enough not to say, Hey, we met the other night, and my daughter called your daughter here a skank.
Mom hitches the box onto her hip, sticks out her hand. “Yes, we did. I’m Abigail. Abigail Swift. And this here’s Jane, my middle one.” Dimples pucker her cheeks, and she’s beaming so hard at him, her face might crack.
“Pleased to see you again, Mr. Andersen,” I say, giving him my warmest smile. “I’m Nellie’s age,” I add, not sure why I just brought her up. Mom shoots me a look that says, Shut it.
“Hey, honey,” Mom says, as if she always uses this pleasant tone with me (never happens), “could you go find the twine? The mason jars?”
I don’t want to budge, but I mind her. I head to the far end of the store, where the goods are. But instead of staying there, I creep back toward Mom and Mr. Andersen. Walking up Aisle Two, I keep my steps as quiet as possible.
I hear laughter.
Shifting a can of dog food to one side, I peer through the opening.
Mom’s got her hip jutted out even more, head tossed back as she laughs, throat bared, and she’s let the shoulder slip down on her dress so that her bra strap is showing.
Mr. Andersen’s hungry eyes are moving all over her body. I’m close enough to see that they’re deep blue, electric. He’s even handsomer this close up. Pa’s handsome, too, but this man could be a print model.
I’m kinda shocked by the attention he’s paying Mom. Mom? Especially when he has that wife? But I guess Pa is right: he did take a shine to Mom after all. Humph. I don’t get it. But whatever.
“Yeah, I love the outdoors, love going out to my land,” Mr. Andersen says.
“You a hunter?” Mom asks, twisting a lock of her hair with her free hand.
“I am. Or…I was. I mean, I still hunt sometimes, still go out there and camp, too, but…not as much as I’d like.” His voice low, he takes a step toward Mom. “Like I said the other night, the family’s not so into it. These,” he says, rattling the box of bullets at Mom, “are for the shooting range.”
“Well, I for one can’t get enough of it,” Mom says, locking her eyes onto his.
I blush at her brazenness. Other than with Pa, I’ve never seen her like this. She’s always the dutiful wife, devoted, faithful. This flirty side is…jarring.
“I love sleeping under an open sky, out in the fresh air, beneath the stars. Sometimes without even a tent. Or a sleeping bag.” A wicked grin creeps across Mom’s lips.
It may be creepy but I gotta hand it to her, she’s hooking him. A verse from Bible study, which she leads us in, flashes across my brain: For the lips of the adulterous woman drip honey, and her speech is smoother than oil.
Mr. Andersen inches even closer to her, leans in. “Whaddya have here?” His fingers edge the lip of the box. Their heads are nearly touching. His crown of golden hair, perfectly held in place with light product, glistens in the light streaming down from the skylights.
There’s something about him; he’s not only gorgeous; he’s magnetic. Can’t say I blame Mom for fully getting into character here.
“Oh,” she says, tapping a finger to her cheek, blushing, “these are just my samples. I make my own oils and botanicals.”
“That’s amazing,” Mr. Andersen says.
He pries one from the box.
His lips crinkle into a smile. “Love Potion?”
Red streaks claw up Mom’s neck. “Yep. It’s my most popular one. Your wife—”
“Charleigh—”
“Yeah, she came out to visit us but said y’all weren’t in any need of it—” Now it’s Mom who leans in closer, tilting her chest down so that we can both see down the top of her dress.
“Did she now?” Mr. Andersen replies, sounding like he’s got a frog in his throat.
“She also said y’all weren’t interested in my husband’s customs, but,” Mom says, licking her lips, “you seem to be a man of exquisite taste. So maybe you’d like to look at some of my husband’s work, see for yourself?”
I feel overheated just spying on them, my breath hitching in my lungs, wondering how long this will go on.
At this, Mr. Andersen is silent. He scratches the back of his neck, and as he does, his shirt crawls up, revealing his tanned, toned abs.
Mom lowers the box to the floor; his eyes feast on her boobs.
She nearly knocks her head into his face when she stands back up. In her hand, a business card. She flicks it toward him.
He accepts, gripping it in his fingers.
“Shop’s out at our place, on our land. Come see us sometime. Number’s on the back. I’m almost always there.”
She heaves back down again, collects the box.
Mr. Andersen’s eyes are crimped into a smile; his mouth is dangling open.
Hook. Line. And sinker.
Later
The scorching wind rattles through the pines, scrapes the surface of the lake.
It’s the kind of lashing wind that kicks up before a summer thunderstorm, which I wish would erupt right freaking now so the pelting rain could help sink the body.
I’m shaking, I realize, and have to hug myself in order to keep from quaking.
Calm. I need to calm the fuck down.
Come up with a plan.
Fix this.