The Secrets of Peaches (6 page)

Then her eyes widened. “What's
that
?” Lucretia asked, thrusting a finger toward Leeda's desk, where the Barbie she'd found sat, washed and clean.

“The Barbie? I found it.”

“Where?”

Leeda shrugged. “At the orchard. Near the lake.”

“Did you find it in a rock?”

Leeda did a double take, from her mom to the Barbie and back. “Yeah?”

Lucretia laughed. “That's
my
Barbie!”

“What do you mean?”

Lucretia only shook her head. “I can't believe it. I lost it a million years ago. That is just amazing.”

Leeda looked at the Barbie again. Now it didn't look like a good omen. It looked…eerie.

“Can I have it?”

Leeda felt hurt.
She'd
found it. “Um, maybe?”

Lucretia, surprisingly, seemed okay with that.

“Well, good night, Mom.”

But her mom didn't reply. She was looking at the mirror on the back of the door, reflecting both of them—Lucretia in the bed and Leeda in her long ice-blue homecoming dress.

“Do you know you and I have exactly the same shoulders? That's why I wanted you to wear this dress. It shows them off.”

Leeda looked behind her at the mirror. She'd never noticed—she did have her mom's shoulders—straight as a ledge across, with the tiny bird-like clavicle bone protruding softly and perfectly on each side.

“They broke the mold when they made our shoulders.”

 

Just in case, Leeda got a glass of water from the kitchen. She saw some trick-or-treaters from the window, a fairy and a ghoul grabbing handfuls of candy from the basket on the porch.

When she went back upstairs, she watched her mom for a moment, sleeping, her pale arm thrown over her forehead, looking so human. For the first time in a long time, Leeda saw her mom the way she had when she was a kid—like the most beautiful, elusive creature on earth.

Leeda put the glass on the nightstand. She took the Barbie off the dresser and laid it beside Lucretia on the bed.

O
utside Kuntry Kitchen, the trick-or-treaters were popping into every door like gophers. Murphy slid out of the passenger side of Rex's truck and eyed a witch and a spider scurrying past her.

Rex's arms came around her, wrapping her up tight. He pressed against her back and kissed her on the neck, walking her forward a few steps.

“You take me to all the nice places,” she said, seeing where they were moving. Sometimes when Rex hugged her, she felt the need to squirm away just so he'd know he didn't have her so much. But she let him walk her up to the door and open it for her. When Murphy saw who was sitting in the first booth on the left, she instinctively stepped back. Rex's dad stood up and smiled. Rex nudged her from behind, and she practically tripped forward again.

“Great to finally meet you, Murphy.” Mr. Taggart reached out for Murphy's hand. Murphy glanced down at her tight, low-cut sweater self-consciously. She shot a death glare at Rex. He smiled back at her. His look said,
Rex 1, Murphy 0
.

“Hi, uh, Mr. Taggart,” she said, taking the hand he offered.

Just across the aisle, the cooks bustled behind the counter to the sounds of sizzling grease. Kuntry Kitchen was a hole-in-the-wall with five booths back to back, a six-item fried food menu, and a little alcove where a bluegrass band played on Friday nights. They had the worst dinner in Bridgewater, but the banjo picker was the third-best in Georgia, and the place was packed to hear him every week. She hated to admit it, but Murphy actually loved the whole scene.

They all slid into the booth, awkwardly quiet, Mr. Taggart wearing a tentative smile. They watched as a couple of people squeezed by them and made their way to the booths in the back. The band launched into their first number.

“So, Murphy, Rex talks blue streaks about you,” Mr. Taggart finally said.

Murphy threw a glance at Rex, intent on looking careless as the band kicked along a rolling rendition of a number called “Butter Beans.” Some of the patrons sang along. “I didn't know Rex talked blue streaks about anything.”

“Your mom's Jodee, right?”

Murphy nodded.

“She came in last week looking for a garden hose. She's a nice woman.”

“Thanks.” Murphy melted slightly. Usually if people were trying to be polite, they didn't mention Murphy's mom at all. She kept her eyes on the banjo picker, his fingers moving up and down the frets like wildfire.

They ordered: fries for Murphy, a grilled cheese for Rex, a burger for his dad. Mr. Taggart had an almost feminine way of
looking at his son. Glowing and affectionate. He had the humble, open look of someone who liked people, who always let others go first in line, and who had very little to hide. People with nothing to hide always made Murphy nervous. She always felt like her own ribs hid a glistening and secret black heart. But Mr. Taggart looked so awkward and kind that Murphy felt she should say something. She knew Mr. Taggart worked at Ace Hardware. “Do you know a lot about tools?” she finally asked. She could have kicked herself for sounding like such an idiot.

“I'm a little handy,” Mr. Taggart replied in the totally gracious way that made Murphy suspect he was more than a little handy. “But I know more about cooking. I keep telling Rex he needs to bring you home for dinner.” The smile Mr. Taggart gave her was direct and hopeful. “Has Rex told you he's a bit of a cook too?”

Murphy shook her head. “He hasn't mentioned that.”

Mr. Taggart swallowed. He looked slightly afraid of her, like he wanted her to like him or something. It took Murphy by surprise.

“Don't be fooled—he's not modest,” Mr. Taggart told her, scratching his chin. “He just lets other people do the bragging for him. Looks better that way.”

Murphy glanced at Rex, who leaned back, relaxed.

“Girls eat it up,” Rex said with a crooked smile.

Two booths beyond them, Murphy noticed Maribeth McMurtry, a lunatic-fringe evangelical woman of hulking proportions, sitting with a couple of friends eating country-fried steak. On Sundays after church, Maribeth stood downtown giving out freaky flyers on how the unsaved could survive
Armageddon by chopping off their own heads. Birdie had taken one of the flyers once when she and Murphy were getting slushees. She had looked like she might pass out when she saw the illustrations. Even gentle Father Michael at Divine Grace of the Redeemer had tried to talk Maribeth into toning it down a bit. Now Maribeth's godly brown eyes drifted up to Murphy's and narrowed. Murphy's gut did a little thud.

The thing about Maribeth McMurtry was that Murphy had made out with her much-younger husband last year after streaking the Easter Revival, when she didn't know he was anybody's husband. She had simply thought it would be a funny story to French-kiss a guy named Patsy. Afterward Patsy had told her she would make a great clerk at the Outreach Center after she graduated from high school. The whole thing had been a mistake. But one she'd assumed only she and Patsy knew about.

But now Maribeth kept looking in her direction and then muttering to her friends, who turned around to look too. Murphy tried not to be nervous.

“I hear Kuntry Kitchen's hiring,” Murphy quipped, turning her attention back to Rex. “You could meet all the girls you wanted.”

“Ha,” Mr. Taggart laughed. “I bet you keep him on his toes, Murphy.” He gave her a Southern-gentlemanly wink.

Rex put his hand on Murphy's back and scratched gently. Mr. Taggart sank back in his booth, turning to the band and tapping his feet to the music, obviously content.

It hit Murphy like a hammer. Rex's dad didn't hate her. And she didn't hate him. In fact, it startled her how much she liked him.

Once their meals came, Murphy and Rex occupied themselves kicking each other's feet under the table and laughing at his dad's jokes. Every time he got to a funny bit, his eyes swept Murphy, making sure to include her. Murphy sat against the wall, inches from Rex, letting him hold her hand and feeling squirmy.

“I hope you'll come down to Destin with us sometime,” Mr. Taggart said. “We go every summer.”

Murphy thought about how she'd be gone by summer, but she didn't want to say so. “That sounds great,” she answered, because it did.

The music went on for a little over an hour, every minute of which Murphy enjoyed thoroughly. She felt the weight of the intimidation she'd been feeling lifting off her shoulders. Finally the waitress placed their check on the linoleum table. Murphy fished in her pockets.

“Don't be crazy, now,” Mr. Taggart said, grabbing the check. Murphy grinned sheepishly and sat back, noticing Maribeth and her friends walking up the aisle. Murphy looked in the other direction, pretending not to see them.

“Hussy,” Maribeth hissed as she walked by, loud enough for everyone near them to hear.

Rex looked at Murphy. Murphy looked at the fry counter, her shoulders going tight. If he and his dad hadn't been there, she would have danced around yelling, “I'll swallow your soul.” She would have said something about what a saliva-y kisser Patsy was. She would have done
something
. But instead she looked down at her lap, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

Mr. Taggart sipped at his water as if nothing had happened and valiantly took a bite of his last remaining fry.

 

After Rex's dad had left, they stood on the sidewalk outside. She felt like she should say something.

“You okay, Shorts?” Rex asked, gently tilting her face up to look at him.

She looked at him, looked away, looked at him again. “I wasn't thinking. I used to not think.” There had been a lot of things Murphy used to do and not do. She wanted to be born again, but not in a Christian way. It wasn't that she thought she had done anything wrong. She just didn't think all the things she'd done said anything about who she really was. Even if everyone else in Bridgewater disagreed with that. “I'm innocent,” she said, hoping to sum it all up and feeling like she never could.

Rex pulled her to him by the belt loops of her baggy jeans. “I know who you are, Murphy.” He kissed her lips and tugged at her curly hair. He gave her the naked look again, the in-love-with-her look.

Murphy wanted to tell him she loved him for that. And Rex seemed to be waiting for it. For some sign of love. For her to say the words. But saying she loved him would be like throwing in a good hand. No more pairs, no flush, no full house.

“I couldn't take anyone who uses the word
hussy
seriously anyway.”

Murphy pasted her mouth into an amused grin and looked away.

“I mean, unless I lived in the 1890s,” he added. “I mean, maybe
trollop
, but not
hussy
.”

“
Trollop
's a much better outdated word,” Murphy agreed.

He stared at her, turning serious. “My dad likes you.”

Murphy gave a hardened, one-note laugh, as if she didn't believe it. But she did, and it scared her somehow. A kid in a ghoul mask bumped into her and kept walking. Rex stuck his hands in his pockets.

“When I leave Bridgewater…” Murphy stumbled over the words. “I won't be this…me…anymore. I'll be something bigger.”

“Like when a hermit crab moves into a new shell.” He kissed her cheek. “I get it, Murphy. You don't have to say.”

 

Anthill Acres Trailer Park looked especially underwhelming as Murphy shuffled up the dirt walkway toward her house. It was nearly ten o'clock, but only the kitchen light was on inside. Outside the trailer, the remains of Yellowbaby, Murphy's dead car, sat cold and unused. The parking lot, and the trailer in general, were an accumulation of too many things that no one had taken the time to throw away. That was how Murphy felt about life in Bridgewater. It was an accumulation of junk she couldn't wait to leave behind. She grabbed the mail out of the black box on her way inside.

“Hey, Mom.” She nodded to Jodee, sitting at the table, and Jodee, mouth full, waved back.

Murphy sorted through the mail and tossed all the junk stuff in the recycling bag. Mail at the McGowens' was usually even steven between junk ads and bills. Once every two weeks, there was a paycheck for Jodee. It always seemed unfair that her mom got so many more bills than checks.

Spread out on the table, where they'd been for weeks, were the various brochures for colleges they'd received in the mail over the course of the summer and early fall. Jodee had organized them there, in the middle of the kitchen, in an obvious attempt to hypnotize Murphy into applying to schools closer to home. All the in-state schools were on top like a silent accusation—there were so many perfectly good schools in Georgia.

Jodee hadn't bothered to change out of her work clothes: a knee-length skirt she'd gotten at Village Thrift and a white polyester blouse. Murphy watched her mom and compared her to Leeda's. Jodee had lines in her face and glossy lipstick and long, wild, pretty hair. Outside of work, she dressed too sexy for anyone's comfort except maybe lechy guys. She'd never told Murphy not to drink, or set a curfew for her, or warned her to work hard at school. And she had always tried to look about ten years younger than she was. She had said, more than once, that Murphy's dad had left her—when Murphy was a baby—because she was getting too old. But as Murphy had grown up, she'd decided that was probably something her mom said to sound like she knew how they'd ended up just the two of them. Sometimes she had wondered if her mom even knew who Murphy's dad was.

“How was work?” Murphy mumbled.

Jodee smiled. “It was good, honey. I got in trouble for yapping too much with the women from accounts payable. But…” Jodee shrugged. “My boss is a nice guy.”

Murphy's mom, no matter how bone tired she looked, always had something nice to say about her job at Ganax Heating. She loved the other women who worked there. She loved that after
she sorted the mail, she had lots of downtime. She was always trying to get Murphy to apply for a part-time job there. The thought had crossed Murphy's mind, more than once, that she'd rather have her eyeballs punctured than work at Ganax.

“You got your applications finished?”

“Applica
tion
, for NYU.” Murphy sat down on the plasticky bench seat behind the table. “Singular. I have to send it tomorrow.” She felt like she couldn't state her intentions to her mom enough.

Jodee's face expressed concern. “You're only applying to one school?”

Murphy nodded and leaned forward to turn on the kitchen TV.

“Murphy, that's just foolish.”

“It's only early applications, Mom,” she explained. “Anyway, I'll get in.”

Jodee looked at her like she wanted to say more. Murphy didn't see that there was anything more to say. She had a deep, primal aversion to applying anywhere except exactly where she wanted to be. To go to New York without going to NYU would be like doing things halfway. No other school was part of the picture she'd been holding on to forever. “Do you know Leeda's mom has this glass egg that Leeda said cost four thousand dollars?” Murphy had always been good at changing the subject.

“Hmm.” Jodee nodded.

In her mind, Murphy calculated that her mom would have to work at Ganax for over five hundred hours to buy the Cawley-Smiths' glass egg.

“How's Rex?” Jodee asked.

“He's Rex.” It rankled Murphy sometimes that Jodee was so enthused about her boyfriend. It amounted to some kind of pressure. And she was sure Jodee would like nothing better than for her to stay in Bridgewater and settle down. She felt the question always circling the back of her mom's mind:
Isn't love enough?

After watching TV for a while, Jodee leaned her head back in her seat and dozed off, and Murphy shuffled into her room to go over her application one last time. On the far wall that came within an inch of butting against the foot of her bed—her room was more of a cubby than a room—hung a bunch of pages she'd ripped out of a magazine once. They were all black-and-white pictures of New York. One aerial photo of the whole city. One of a puddle on a New York sidewalk with a building's reflection in it. Another of a man sitting outside a shop in Chinatown. Murphy took a deep breath and looked at her application.