The Atheist's Daughter (12 page)

“No, you don’t, mister. This isn’t a shopping expedition.”

“Did I say I wanted to buy anything?” He pushed open the door, causing a tiny brass bell to tinkle from its perch inside the building. “Let’s just see what they’ve got.”

“Oh, joy. We’re teaching our baby how to be a looky-loo.”

Rick continued ahead, somehow squeezing the stroller through the shop’s narrow center aisle. Following after him, Becky quickly got a sense of this new business.

Different management? If so, it’s the only thing new about this place.

Overhead lights threw a harsh fluorescent glow onto the shelves and tables below, revealing an inventory that appeared to have filled this space for years. A light film of dust seemed to cover everything. Around her, Becky saw old magazines, old knick knacks, old furniture and old toys.

Please don’t find a vintage train set
, she pleaded with Rick silently.
Nothing by Lionel or Ives or American Flyer, nothing you’ll fall in love with. As much as you like your collection, we just can’t afford another splurge right now.

If Rick was swayed by her mental plea, he made no sign of it. He pushed the stroller ahead slowly, offering a mild interest in the goods around him.

She let her attention drift to a table filled with toys. A chinless, brown-faced figure sat in a red and green car with white wheels. Reaching for the string tied beneath the brim of the driver’s black hat, she flipped over its price tag.

It read,
Andy Gump $95.

A low whistle escaped her lips. Behind her, the brass bell jingled at the store’s entrance.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said a woman as she entered. “Customers. I was just next door. I didn’t see you come in.”

“That’s okay.”

Moving so quietly she might have been floating, the woman approached her. Seeing the rectangular tag in Becky’s hand, she said, “All prices are negotiable.”

Becky dropped her hand from the toy. “Just looking.”

“Of course.”

The woman smiled a distracted smile. She appeared to be about the same age as Becky but her tiny frame gave her an appearance of youth that her manner belied.

God, I’m a whale
, Becky thought.
A little post-baby fat is natural but I’ll never be as thin as this store clerk.

If she was any skinnier, I’d see right through her.

Rick had journeyed to the back of the store, near a curtained area in the building’s rear corner. The stroller sat in front of him. Miraculously, Kristin was still asleep.

Her husband held a silver metal train engine. He turned it over, examining the bottom of the toy.

Becky quickly navigated her way down the aisle. “Things are awfully expensive here,” she said in a low voice.

“It’s not discount store prices, that’s for sure.” He set the train engine on its table stand. “Nothing special, really.”

“So why aren’t we leaving?”

“Aren’t you curious where they keep the good stuff?” he asked. “There’s a room behind the curtain. I can smell incense burning.”

“We can’t, for a second, afford the cheapest of this junk. Why would I want to see the ‘good stuff’?”

Rick raised an arm into the air. “Miss!”

The sales clerk swiveled in their direction. Slowly, she approached them, showing little enthusiasm for the task.

She knows we can’t afford any of her goods.
Even though it was true, Becky felt offended.

“What’s your name?” Rick asked the clerk.

“Lenore Rice.”

“What’s behind the curtain, Lenore?”

The clerk’s body stiffened. She narrowed her eyes, her vacant expression disappearing.

At first, Becky thought something was wrong. Then she realized:
The sales clerk is angry.
It was true. Her body was rigid, her small hands nearly curled into fists.

Becky said, “Do you mind if we call you ‘Lenore’?”

After a moment, the woman’s lips parted. “I much prefer my full name.”

Becky and Rick shared a quick look. As if responding to the tension in the room, Kristin stirred inside her stroller. Becky picked her up, sweeping the pink blanket around her before it could trail to the floor.

Holding the baby to her chest, Becky rubbed her

palm soothingly on her infant’s cheek. Kristin nestled into her mother’s arms, closing her eyes.

Lenore Rice viewed the child as if she’d found an unexpected treat.

“Well, then, Lenore Rice,” Rick said, amused. “The full name it is, then. Mind answering my question?”

“Kristin’s getting restless,” Becky lied. “Let’s go.”

“In a minute.”

Lenore Rice remained focused on the baby. Feeling uncomfortable under her gaze, Becky used her body to shield Kristin from the other woman. “I’ll be outside.”

Leaving, she heard Lenore Rice say to her husband, “Why don’t I show you what’s on the other side of the curtain?”

* * *

“So?” Susannah rested the base of her empty tea cup on the tabletop. “What was on the other side?”

“I think you know.”

“A fortune-teller.”

“Psychic, fortune-teller, they’re all the same thing,” Becky said. “Rick went into the back area and there she was. She apparently remained in her room all day, a spider in the darkness, waiting for –”
The next sucker
, she thought, before amending, “– a customer to come along. Rick said she had all the paraphernalia.”

“Such as?”

“Tarot cards, tea leaves, those kinds of things. Probably had a crystal ball tucked in there somewhere, too. She was dressed like a gypsy, too. Might even have been a gypsy, for all I know. ”

“Did he get a reading?”

“It cost us seven dollars.”

“Seven dollars isn’t so much.”

“It was seven dollars we couldn’t afford,” Becky said. “That little fee caused the owner of the store some trouble later on. Apparently, one of their customers didn’t like what he’d been told and he went to the police. It seems, if a fortune-teller charges to give a reading, they have to have a business license. And this county doesn’t give business licenses to psychics.”

“Well, my reading at the café was different. No charge, remember?”

“Why do they do it, then?”

“For fun. An amusement for their customers.” On Becky’s expression, she added, “That’s what they said.”

“Was it fun? Did they give you the winning lottery numbers?”

“These old bones aren’t climbing those stairs for some lottery numbers,” Susannah said. “I wanted to know about romance.”

“George Newton?”

“Maybe George, if he ever glances up from his drafting tools and notices I’m still alive. Maybe somebody else.”

“So? Are you going to be lucky in love?”

“She said she didn’t see anyone.”

“She couldn’t fake it?” Becky asked, surprised.

“I wish she had. Instead, she told me about my health. She said I’d never hurt like my Abeula.”

“That’s because you told her about your grandmother’s arthritis.”

“Not a word, I swear,” Susannah said. “‘The next five years of your life are going to be perfect,’ she told me.”

“After that?”

“That’s all she’d say. Five healthy, happy years. Right now, I’ll take it. Besides, a short-term prophecy is good for repeat business. If nothing else, she knows I’ll be back sooner or later.”

“Believe what you want,” Becky sipped at her tea. It had grown cold. “All I know is, the woman at the antiques store lied to Rick. She told him we’d never be rich but we’d never be poor. Our future together was going to be so bright, so wonderful.”

Suddenly, tears filled her eyes. “Three days later, he was dead.”

Susannah reached over to pat her hand. “Oh, honey. God knows –”

“Don’t talk to me about God. No just God would kill a man as good as my husband.”

They looked up at the sound of footsteps. Kristin paused in the kitchen’s doorway, a nearly-empty bowl of popcorn in her hand.

“Kristin?” Becky said.

Gazing fixedly at their family friend, Kristin shook, a tremor running down her body. The bowl spilled from her hand. It struck the linoleum, cracking apart loudly as it threw popcorn kernels into the air and across the kitchen floor.

The noise seemed to awaken her. “I’m...” she said. “I don’t – sorry. Clumsy.” She blinked down at the broken bowl and its contents. “I’ll get the broom.”

Susannah considered the debris littering the floor. Hopefully, she said, “You have popcorn?”

Chapter Twenty

Kristin swept the shards of the broken bowl into a dustpan.

One of Mom’s favorite bowls
, she thought.
She’s had it since I was a baby. I’ve been eating popcorn out of it ever since I can remember.

Serves her right, sneaking into my bedroom.

Lifted from the ground, the mouth of the dustpan slapped closed.

No,
she told herself
, no, it doesn’t. She probably had her reasons. It started to rain and she checked my window or I cried out in my sleep or something.

Some solid, Mom-type reason. Nothing sinister.

What’s the matter with me?

She poured the pieces into the trash, watching the bowl’s fragmented red-and-white flowers slide from the dustpan like so many puzzle pieces.

Ungood
, she told herself.
Something in Winterhaven is majorly ungood.

First, there were the glass people. Now, there’s something wrong with Susannah.

In front of her, their family friend remained at the kitchen table, drinking a fresh cup of tea. Somebody didn’t sit braless in their favorite red sweater, talking and laughing and drinking Sencha green tea, if something was wrong.

But Kristin knew something was wrong, nonetheless.

Walking into the kitchen, she hadn’t been thinking about Susannah or anyone else. She’d been thinking about cars.

There was the kind of car she wanted – small, four-door, and blue, preferably electric but at least offering decent gas mileage – versus whatever embarrassment she could realistically hope to own. Expecting the kitchen to be empty, she was surprised to see anyone, much less Susannah –

– and, at the sight of her, everything went white. Her vision gone, Kristin stopped in place. When she did, the smell of plastic pressed upon her, so strong she almost gagged. A rasping sound split the air around her, shocking her, and sending the popcorn bowl dropping to the ground.

As quickly as the sound faded, her sight returned. “Sorry. Clumsy.” She left to find the hand broom and dustpan, the odor of plastic still lingering in the air.

First her dream and, now, this? Susannah was in danger. Kristin needed to find out why and how. Someway, she was going to have to do something about it.

“Tomorrow, maybe,” she told the trash can at her feet.

“Tomorrow, what, hon?” her mother asked.

Oh, good, now I’m talking out loud
.

“Tomorrow, I’m going for lunch at Piotrowksi’s Café.”

* * *

Cranking the steering wheel, Hawkins said, “There’s a parking spot in front of the restaurant.”

Kristin said, “It’s a café, not a restaurant.”

“There’s a difference?”

“A café serves fine food. A restaurant serves those Sloppy Joes.”

Hawkins stuck his tongue out at her.

“That was a little random,” Kristin said.

“You, too,” he said. “I’m taking the front spot.”

“You are not.” Seated behind them, Liz slouched a little lower. “Park at the side of the building. Out of sight.”

“You’re ashamed to be seen in my car?”

“With all of my heart, yes,” she replied.

Kristin said, “I’m not ashamed of your car.”

“Thank you.”

“I think it’s cute, all black and dented and rusted. I like how it puffs smoke whenever you start its engine.”

“Look....”

“I have looked,” Liz joined in. “I looked again this morning. I’m more embarrassed than ever.”

A sour expression on his face, Hawkins spun the steering wheel. “It’s a better car than the one you’re driving.”

“It is only because I’m not driving anything that you are correct.”

He guided the vehicle into the dirt lot beside the café. “Next time, you both walk.”

“Bless you.” Pushing her door open, Liz stepped outside. “This gravel isn’t going to do my Corso Como sandals any good.”

“I weep to hear of your suffering,” Kristin said.

“This is your treat?” Hawkins asked her.