Fifty-One
My kids finally asleep, I knocked on Emmylou’s door, heart in my throat, bouquet of orange Gerbera daisies in one hand, baby
monitor in the other. She opened it, her hair up in her cotton after-shower hair turban. The mellow sounds of Khruangbin filled
the duplex (which must have been Oat Willimena’s Texas influence, since Emmylou’s playlist usually ranged from Linda Ronstadt
to ABBA). Through the doorway to the kitchen, I spotted Oat Willimena herself, grating purple cabbage. Instead of one of her
usual embroidered huipiles, she wore a Santana T-shirt.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I began, feeling awkward.
“Oh, come in,” Emmylou said, clearly not willing to stand on formality.
Before I could think twice, I threw my arms around her.
“Thank you for saving my life,” I said. I’d believed she couldn’t be trusted with a secret. I’d treated her like she hadn’t
earned the right to give me input into my life, to speak hard truths to me when no one else would. It felt humbling and good
to understand how wrong I’d been.
She rubbed my back, soothing me like a magical bonus auntie. “Anytime, toots. When those guys hustled you off-stage, I went
and grabbed my crossbow out of my trunk.”
“You just happened to have it in there?” I asked.
Emmylou ignored my question. “Are you okay? You were bleeding so bad. It scared me.”
“I only needed butterfly stitches,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Your set was so funny, mija!” Oat Willimena called.
“Agreed!” Emmylou said. “Physical comedy, my favorite!”
I followed her into the kitchen where Oat Willimena was packing great handfuls of juicy shredded cabbage, ginger, apples,
and carrots into a large ceramic crock. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m just embarking on a little kitchen witchery. What
I loved about your set was the light excavation of our cultural obsession with strippers, along with a dollop of righteous
glorification.”
“Thank you!” I beamed, feeling seen.
“A real shame those assholes interrupted you by setting fire to the face-painting tent,” Emmylou said.
“I’m just glad no kids were hurt.” I paused, apprehensive about what I needed to say next. I forced myself to ask the rather
awkward question that might clear up the mystery of how Connor’s body disappeared. “It wasn’t a raccoon in the kiln, was it?”
Emmylou and Oat Willimena looked at each other. Oat Willimena gave a little nod, then began mashing the contents of her crock
with a wooden sauerkraut tamper.
“What else did you expect us to do with the stiff in your playhouse?” Emmylou said.
I dropped into a chair, stunned my suspicions were true. If Emmylou and Oat Willimena incinerated Connor, that meant his body
was ash, could never be recuperated or found, or tied to me in any way. I tried to let all that meant for me and for Miranda
to sink in. No more waiting for the other shoe to drop. When I could finally speak, I said, “You two did that for me?”
But Emmylou wasn’t ready to get sentimental. Instead she’d started unwrapping the clear cellophane from the stems of the Gerbera
daisies. “Let me get settled,” she said, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”
She put the flowers into a pink conical vase and poured us each a cup of tea that smelled like lavender soap.
Then she began. That fateful Tuesday, she’d been babysitting my kids when she heard a ruckus in the backyard.
She’d snuck a peek out my back window to see me and Layna shoving something large into the playhouse.
She’d waited until we’d left for Barbarian Brewing to investigate, knowing the fresh snow would cover her tracks.
“I wanted to help but couldn’t figure out how,” Emmylou said. “The kiln was Oat Willimena’s ingenious idea.”
“I can’t believe you told Oat Willimena!” I said. “No offense to you, Oat Dub. But Emmylou barely knew you!”
Oat Willimena held up juice-stained palms. “I’d never narc. Besides, when I saw the stiff’s white-power neck tattoo, I was
happy to help.”
My instinct was to say I’d had things under control all along, that I didn’t need their help. But it wasn’t true. I hadn’t
had anything under control. Not for a long time.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Besides, it’s not spilling a secret if you tell your significant other,” Emmylou said. “I just put it in the couple’s vault!”
“Significant other! Couple’s vault! How many dates have you two even been on?” I said.
“When you’re seventy-four years old and finally find someone who knows how to give you a cervical orgasm, you aren’t afraid
to move fast,” Emmylou said.
“TMI!” I yelled, plugging my ears. “Happy for you, but don’t need the details.”
“Fine!” Emmylou said, pretending to zip her lips and toss the key.
“The burnt raccoon penis bone?” I asked.
“I scorched it over the gas stove burner myself,” Oat Willimena said, waving her wooden tamper over an imaginary flame. “For
authenticity.”
“A genius criminal mind with an impressive attention to detail,” Emmylou said, gazing adoringly at Oat Willimena. It was great
to see her looking so happy. “Is it safe to say those guys trying to kidnap you were the stiff’s colleagues?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “You were amazing, by the way. What a shot!”
“Pshaw!” she said. “I couldn’t even get my bow reloaded.”
“Are you kidding? You literally saved me from being brutally murdered,” I said.
“Well, I stashed the crossbow in my trunk, just in case there was trouble at the festival. I’ve been worried about you ever
since I discovered the stiff.” Emmylou paused. “The guy I shot. Is he . . . ?”
“Alive?” I said. “Yeah, he’s alive.”
Emmylou hooted with relief.
“Also, just so you know, I didn’t tell the ATF I saw you.”
“Thanks, toots,” Emmylou said. “I bet nobody else saw me either. This gray hair is my cloak of invisibility. Now can you tell
us how you ended up with a stiff in the first place?”
“It would involve incriminating friends,” I said. “But he was up to the sort of thing you might imagine.”
“The kind of thing Susan Sarandon shot that guy for,” Oat Willimena said.
Emmylou and I looked at her blankly.
“You know, in Thelma & Louise,” Oat Willimena said.
“Oh,” I replied. “Yes. Well, not exactly. But close enough.”
“That’s the kind of story I like,” Emmylou said. “Man gets exactly what he had coming.”
I would rather get a bikini wax than have a hard conversation with a friend. But I took a deep breath and forced myself to
speak. “Emmylou, I’m sorry I blew up at you,” I said. “You were right. My mom wouldn’t want me to give up on my dreams.”
“It’s okay, kiddo.”
“She’d be grateful to you for looking out for me,” I said, choking up at the realization it was true.
“I’m sorry if I came on too strong,” Emmylou said. “Instead of making you go shake it on a pole, I should’ve told you it was
okay to be sad. I should have asked if you’d grieved enough.”
“I know you’re grieving too.” I suddenly understood it was true. And I also knew how to show Emmylou how incredibly grateful I was that she’d not only saved my life, but had also literally made the skeleton in my closet disappear forever. “Would you consider being the twins’ godmother?”
Emmylou beamed. “I’d love to, toots.”