Breaking the Rules (26 page)

"When I am that superstar kindergarten teacher?

"Right."

"Deal."

I push the heel of my palm into the dough and it squeezes upward, cool and clammy. An earthy bouquet rises from it, and I'm anticipating how the caramelizing molasses will smell as it bakes.

A miller darts between us, flapping dusty wings in sudden terror. Sofia waves it away, frowning. "I hope we're not going to have a crazy miller season this year."

"'The first moths of summer suicidal came,'" I sing, a line from a Jethro Tull song, and for a minute, I'm lost in another part of my life, another summer. Shaking it off, I fold the dough. "It's been a wet year." "Ugh. I hate them." She shudders to give emphasis. Then she closes her magazine and squares her shoulders. "Mom, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Finally. "I'm listening."

She spills it, fast. "I told you Oscar's ex-wife has been arrested in El Paso and Katie has been living with her best friend's family, but Oscar really wants her to come and live with me. Us. She's got some problems, I won't lie, but she just needs somebody to really be there for her." Sofia has eyes like a plastic Kewpie doll, all blink and blueness with a fringe of blackest lashes. "She can sleep upstairs, in the back room. Close to me. She lived with us before Oscar went to Afghanistan. It was fine."

"Hmmm. I seem to remember she more or less hated you."

"Okay, it wasn't fine. Exactly." Sofia bows her head. Light arcs over her glossy, glossy dark hair. "She was pretty angry then."

"And she's happy now?" I scatter flour over the dough and table where it is beginning to stick. "Because her mother is in jail and her father is at war?"

"No. I mean—"

The phone rings. I glance at it, then back to my daughter. Obviously there is no possible way I can say no. The child has nowhere to go, but—

To give myself a little time, I tug my hands out of the dough, wipe them off with one of the thin white cotton towels I love for covering the loaves when they rise. "How old is she?"

A second ring.

"Thirteen. Going into eighth grade."

"Middle school." Not the most delightful age for girls. Even Sofia was a pain at that age—all huffy sighs and hair-flinging drama. And tears. Tears over everything.

The phone rings again, and I hold up a finger to Sofia. "Hold that thought. Hello?"

"Good morning, ma'am," says a deep, formal voice on the other end. "May I please speak with Mrs. Oscar Wilson?"

Every atom in my body freezes for the space of two seconds. Here it is, the moment I've been half-dreading since Sofia came home four years ago, her eyes shining.
Mama, he's the most wonderful man! He wants to marry me.

A soldier. An infantryman who'd already done two tours of Iraq during the bloodiest days of the war, and would likely do more. Oscar is older than Sofia by more than a decade, divorced, and father to this brand-new adolescent who has a very troubled mother.

Not a soldier, baby,
I kept thinking.

And yet, the moment I met Oscar Wilson, with his beautiful face and kind eyes and gentle manners, I knew exactly why she loved him. It was plain he worshipped her in return.

But here is the phone call.

"Yes," I say with more confidence than I feel. "Just a minute please." I put the mouthpiece against my stomach, turn to my daughter. "Remember, they come to the door if he's dead."

Sofia stares at me for a long, long second. Fear bleeds the color from her lips. But she has the courage of a battalion of soldiers. Taking a breath, she squares her shoulders and reaches for the phone. Her left hand covers her belly, as if to spare the baby. "This is Mrs. Wilson."

She listens, her face impassive, and then begins to fire questions, writing down the answers in a notebook lying open on the counter. "How long has he been there? Who is my contact?" And then, "Thank you. I'll call with my arrangements."

As she hangs up the phone, her hand is trembling. Unspilled tears make her lashes starry. She stands there one long moment, then blinks hard and looks at me. "I have to go to Germany. Oscar is...he was..." She clears her throat, waits until the emotion subsides "—his truck hit an IED, four days ago. He's badly injured. Burned."

I think that I will always remember how blue her eyes look in the brilliant sunshine of the kitchen. Years and years from now, this is what I will recall of this day—my daughter staring at me with both terror and hope, and my absolute powerlessness to make this better.

"I have to go to him," she says.

"Of course."

I think,
how badly burned?

She turns, looks around as if there will be a list she can consult. She's like my mother in that way, wanting everything to be orderly. "I guess I should pack."

"Let me scrape this into a bowl and I'll help you."

As if her legs are made of dough, she sinks suddenly into the chair. "How long do you think I'll be there? What about the baby?"

"One step at a time, Sofia. I'm sure you'll have those answers before long. Just think about getting there, see what...how...what you need to find out."

"Right." She nods. Touches her chest. "Mom. What about Katie? She can't stay where she is."

A thirteen-year old whose mother is in jail, her father wounded, her step-mother pregnant with a new baby and flying off to Germany, leaving her with a woman she doesn't know. "She's never met even met me. Won't she be scared?"

"Maybe for a little while, but I can't let her go to a foster home. She can just come for the summer. Grandma will help you, I'm sure, and Uncle Ryan and—"

I hold a hand up. There is only one answer. "Of course, baby. Let's get those arrangements made now, too, so you don't have to worry about her."

She leaps up and hugs me, her mound of belly bumping my hip. It is only as I put my arms around her that I feel the powerful trembling in her shoulders. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub her back, wishing I could tell her that everything is going to be okay. "Do your best, Sofia. That's all the world can ask."

Her arms tighten around my neck, like iron. Against my shoulder, I feel her hot tears soaking into my blouse. "Thank you."

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JEZEBEL'S
BLUES

(Excerpt)

by
Barbara Samuel

Prologue

I
t wasn’t a big river. Mainly it ran sleepily and quietly through a sparsely populated stretch of farmland in east Texas. Fishermen angled for the catfish skimming its depths; young boys stripped and skinny-dipped in its pools; lovers picnicked on its banks.

Only a handful of old-timers remembered the old name for the sleepy river — a name murmured in hushed voices as stories were told of her power.

Jezebel.

Not the Jezebel River. Just Jezebel, a name reserved for women of lusty beauty and uncertain virtue.
Jezebel
.

There had only been one occasion in recent memory when Jezebel had awakened, like an aging courtesan, to remind those around her of the power she could wield. Only one life was lost that night, and as if placated by the sacrifice, Jezebel settled back into her sleep.

But the old-timers knew it was only a matter of time until she awakened once again to flash her eyes and spread her skirts.

Only a matter of time.

Chapter 1

N
ot even hell could be so dark. His car headlights poked white fingers into the heavy rain, barely penetrating. The wiper blades sluiced the water away at a furious pace. It wasn’t enough. Only square inches of the windshield were clear at any instant — as soon as the blades slogged away the rain, more fell to blur his vision once again.

He’d slowed to twenty on the back country road and was no longer intimately familiar with the twists of blacktop and the tiny bridges that spanned dozens of creeks. His fingers ached from gripping the steering wheel. He hunched as far forward in his seat as he could go, trying vainly to see.

Storm warnings had been broadcast on the radio, of course. But he’d grown up in these thick woods, amid the floods and endless early-summer rains. He knew the television and radio people were prone to exaggeration. It sold papers and commercial time.

The car slid on the road, its tires unable to keep a grip on the pavement. Eric swore as he fought for control. It made sense to ignore the news people, but he probably ought to have listened to the boy in grease-stained overalls at the gas station twenty miles back.

But there was his pride to consider. Nothing scared him like driving in the rain, in the dark. A night like this had once shattered his life, and he knew instinctively that he would be truly lost if he let the fear overtake him tonight.

Doggedly, he kept driving. A green sign with reflective white letters flashed in front of his lights. The words blurred before Eric could read them, but he knew what the sign said: Gideon, 5 miles. Almost there. With the back of his wrist, he wiped the sweat from his brow. For once in his life, he wished he’d paid attention — he’d have been a whole lot better off staying overnight in a motel in the last town. He sure as hell couldn’t do much for his sister if he drowned out here.

His headlights picked out a wash of water pouring over a bridge just ahead. A new row of sweat beads broke out on his upper lip and he eased his foot from the accelerator. Sucking in his breath, he touched the brake. Easy, he told himself. His weakened fingers, slick with sweat, slid on the hard, plastic steering wheel.

In spite of his care, the car hit the water with a hollow sounding
thunk
.
Easy now
. It wasn’t the first creek he’d forded on this nightmarish trip. Every little trickle in the county was brimming over tonight.

But this one had more than bubbled over. Eric saw the nearby pond with which the stream had mated, and the offspring of their union looked like an inland sea. Through the side window of the car, he saw an unbroken span of water reflecting the oddly misplaced light of a farmer’s barn.

The engine spluttered and coughed. Died. He slammed his good hand against the dash. When the car swayed under the force of the water that rose over its fenders, fear squeezed his belly hard. No time to brood.

He reached over the back of the seat, grabbing the heavy canvas backpack that held most of his earthly goods. Next to it was a guitar in a black case. He hesitated, fingers curled around the slim, plastic handle. A shiver of water shook the car.

He let go. It was no good to him anymore, anyway. It took a mighty heave to get the door open and then the water nearly knocked him down. Another flash of adrenaline sizzled over his nerves. Falling rain soaked his head and body in seconds. Shifting the backpack on his shoulders, he sloshed forward, head down. A big, broken tree branch swirled by him on the current.

Scared, man?

Damned right, he answered himself, putting one foot determinedly in front of the other. As he gained the other side of the bridge, the water gradually receded until it just covered the bottoms of his feet.

The little triumph pleased him. Only five miles to Gideon, to his sister, the only person in the world who mattered to him. And she needed him. It was bound to be easier to get to her on foot than in the car. So he ignored the beckoning lights of the farmhouse set back in the heavy trees and pushed onward into the thick, rainy darkness.

He trudged a mile. Two. He lost track. He crossed one stream, sloshing through water up to his knees, and when he got to the other side, he found the stream came with him, up to his ankles.

He thought about going back to the farmhouse, shook his head, and pushed on.

One foot in front of the other. Water obscured the road, making it hard to keep his bearings. He paused once to peer into the darkness, trying to mark familiar spots. There were none.

He reached into his backpack for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and slugged back a considerable mouthful. It warmed his chilled insides, calmed his racing heart. Thus fortified, he replaced the bottle, wiped water from his eyes and started out again. Not far now.

* * *

Celia Moon was making popcorn when the lights suddenly failed. For several hours she’d been trying to resist food — since the rains had set in several days ago, her main activity had been eating. But the pervasive thought of butter and salt and fluffy white corn had proved impossible to resist.

The sudden failure of the lights seemed like a scolding from on high — but not even heaven could make her quit now. There was enough heat left in the electric burner to finish the popping. The butter was already melted and the bowl was ready. If she had to sit alone in the gloomy darkness of the old farmhouse, reading by candlelight, at least she’d have some buttered popcorn to comfort herself with.

Working easily in the dark, she pulled the bowl over as the bubbling sound of exploding kernels slowed, then lifted the heavy pan from the stove and aimed as well as she could. There would doubtless be popcorn strewn all over the table in the morning, but since she lived alone, what did it really matter?