The Other F-Word (39 page)

I held up the casserole and thankfully Mr Cranston took it from me before I dropped it. I had no idea how my mother made that pan feel heavier than my dad’s old medicine ball in the garage, but she did. My dad always said, “The heavier the casserole, the better it is.” If that was the case, I was pretty sure my momma made the best casserole in the county.

“I hope you like this,” my mother said, pointing to the pan.

“It smells divine.”

Did he say
divine?

“My husband, John, would be here too, but he’s on duty today. He’s the sheriff.”

“I’ve heard. I’ll feel very safe living next to the sheriff.”

“We don’t want to intrude. We know y’all must be busy today.”

“It’s no interruption. The workers are still bringing in boxes.” Mr Cranston went to the kitchen and set the pan down slowly, as if he was afraid it might break. “Thank you for this. It’s been so long since we’ve had anything homemade.”

“Oh, your wife doesn’t cook?”

Mandy started snooping, picking up random items and turning them in chubby fingers. I grabbed her arm before she could touch one of the walls and smudge her grimy fingerprints on it. The ‘princess’ had a problem keeping her hands to herself. I stood with her against a corner, hoping my momma wouldn’t ask for a complete breakdown of the man’s dietary history.

“My wife passed away six months ago. It’s just Sylvie and me.”

Oh boy, this wasn’t good. My momma’s gossip senses were spinning. I knew she was already lining up a number of churchgoing single ladies to set Mr Cranston up with when he was ready.

“I’m so sorry,” my mother cooed. I knew what that meant. I’d be bringing over a casserole to this man every week.

“It’s been difficult on my daughter, but we’re adjusting.”

“I can’t even imagine. A girl needs her mother.”

“Can I offer you some coffee?” Mr Cranston said, gesturing to the round oak table by the kitchen.

“Maybe one cup if you’re sure.” My mother took a seat. I shifted uncomfortably, wondering if I could ask to leave. Unfortunately, Amelia Tanner had other plans for me. “How old is Sylvie?”

“She’s ten.”

Momma clapped her hands together, forming a huge grin. “Cal’s ten. That’s wonderful. They’ll be in the same grade.”

Mr Cranston smiled, but it looked more like a grimace, as if it was painful to make the muscles in his face work. “That’s great. She has trouble making friends. It’ll be nice that she’ll have someone her own age next door.”

The last thing I wanted was to hang around some girl. Obviously, if she had issues making friends, there was a reason for it. Sylvie Cranston was going to be as irritating as a pound of blood-hungry mosquitoes trapped inside a camping tent.

“Where is your daughter?” my mother asked, adjusting a loose red curl from the heavy bun that sat on the nape of her neck. My father said she looked like Reba McEntire, and my mother always disagreed, but it was funny that she wore her hair like Reba had in
The Gambler
.

Mr Cranston’s eyes searched the room and he scratched his head like my father did when he lost his reading glasses. Did he not realise his daughter wasn’t here? “I’m not sure. She has a way of disappearing. She’s probably in the backyard.”

“Cal, why don’t you take Mandy and go find Sylvie.” It wasn’t a question. I sighed, but caught myself when my mother turned her sharp green eyes on me. Momma always received compliments on her eyes, the same eyes Mandy had, but I always thought they looked mean, especially now. I had my father’s grey eyes and sandy-blond hair. Momma referred to it as ‘model’ hair, but I really didn’t care for that expression. “That way us adults can talk. Go on, you two.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I tightened my clasp on Mandy’s hand, knowing expensive items had a tendency of shattering in her presence. I also knew it would be my fault if they did. For some reason, I’d been assigned the role of my sister’s keeper.

The former Miller, now Cranston, backyard was a carbon copy of ours, except we had a swing set and there was a noticeable shift between the lush green of our yard and the canary colouring of theirs.

It didn’t take long to find Sylvie Cranston. She was walking along the back of the property where the grass blended into a field, which led to the woods behind our houses. If you followed it down the path for a short distance, it would lead to the best fishing lake in the world…or at least, my world. I wanted to be there right now.

The girl was so skinny, I thought a strong gust of wind could knock her over. She was tall, though, with long brown hair that curled in a hundred different directions. She wore a long blue flowery dress that came down to her calves, and appeared to eat her up. It looked like something my momma would wear to church. There was a red bow in her hair that dangled as if it might fall out any minute and pink Converse shoes on her feet with black socks. It was weird. She was weird. I wondered if the Cranstons belonged to one of those nutty religions that made girls wear dresses all the time. That was just what I needed. Next-door cult neighbours.

I thought she didn’t hear us because she didn’t look up. It didn’t stop Mandy, though. She bounded down the steps and ran straight up to Sylvie.

“Hi, I’m Mandy and this here’s my brother, Caleb, but you can call him Cal. You’re in the same grade. We live next door. I like Barbies. My favourite colour is pink just like your shoes. Maybe when we get to know you better, you can babysit me when you get older. My daddy’s the sheriff.” Mandy’s face reddened, matching her hair colour, as it always did when she talked without taking a breath.

Sylvie smiled and bent down so they were at eye level. It was then she took off the ear buds, and the lyrics floated in the air between us for a few moments until she turned off her Walkman. It was a familiar tune, but the name escaped me. The few lyrics I heard would stick with me until dinner that night when I slapped my hand to my forehead and yelled out, “
Crazy Love
, by Van Morrison.” I only knew it because my father sang it to my mother occasionally. It was definitely not the type of song one typically heard on a Sunday in Prairie Marsh.

Sylvie didn’t say anything to Mandy. She just stroked her hair and sat on the ground. Mandy didn’t stop, though. She went on and on talking about the merits of Prairie Marsh like it was an urban metropolis of sophistication. She extolled our many attractions such as the Summer Saturday tractor pulls, the Fourth of July fireworks and the fact that we were due to get a Walmart next year. For her part, Sylvie listened and nodded, crossing her legs, tenting her hands and resting her chin on them, like she was actually interested.

Mandy ran off towards the field after a few minutes. “Mandy, don’t go into the woods,” I yelled.

“I’m picking Sylvie some roses,” she declared, giving me a warning glance. Mandy didn’t like it when I told her what to do. Little did she know I never asked for that job.

“Fine, but stay where I can see you. By the way, those are not roses, dummy,” I replied, gesturing to the wild daisies that grew at the edge of the property. Mandy was under the impression all flowers were called roses.

Sylvie turned to me then, glaring at me with the darkest brown eyes I’d ever seen. “A rose by any other name still smells as sweet,” she said, waving her finger at me. “That’s Shakespeare for your information.” Her voice froze me. I’d heard the unmistakable cadence of an East Coast accent on television and in the movies, but it was still strange hearing it in real life. It was sharp and clipped, and for some reason it made me smile.

“I know that,” I spat out. No, I didn’t. I had no clue who Shakespeare was, but I wasn’t about to let this girl think she was smarter than me.

Mandy was humming to herself picking those stupid daisies when Sylvie came and sat next to me on the steps. I tried not to grimace.

“Why are you so mean to her?”

“I’m not, and it’s none of your business.”

Mandy came up just then. “Look,” she exclaimed, dropping a dozen or so daisies in Sylvie’s lap.

“They’re so pretty. Do you want me to put some in your hair?” Sylvie asked, taking one and sniffing it, although I was pretty sure it held no scent.

Mandy squealed in that loud little-girl voice that usually gave me a headache. She sat on Sylvie’s lap and I watched as Sylvie threaded the daisy heads through Mandy’s hair. I should have been bored, but I wasn’t and I had no idea why. I was a little surprised at how my sister responded to this stranger. Mandy was an outgoing kid, but her instant liking for this odd girl seemed out of character.

“Can I do you?” Mandy asked, pulling Sylvie’s long hair towards her.

That was when I noticed the red circle at the nape of Sylvie’s neck, which had been covered by her long hair. Sylvie quickly pulled Mandy’s chubby little hand away and readjusted her locks back in place, hiding the mark. Mandy’s eyes went wide. Not over the mark, because I doubt my sister had seen it and if she had she probably wouldn’t even know what it was. No, Mandy was upset because she thought Sylvie was mad at her. Sylvie must have sensed it too because she patted Mandy’s hand.

“I’m sorry, I’m picky about my hair. It’s not as beautiful as yours.”

“I think it’s very pretty, like Barbie’s hair but brown and curly.”

So nothing like Barbie’s hair.

“Can you get some more of these?” Sylvie asked, pointing to the few daisy heads that remained in her lap. “The bigger ones? I’ll make you a crown out of them.”

Mandy bobbed her head so hard I thought it might fall off. Promise the princess a crown and she forgot about everything else. Mandy ran back towards the field, looking determined in her new mission. “Is that ringworm or a bite mark?” I asked Sylvie when Mandy was out of earshot.

“None of your business, Cal.”

“If it’s ringworm, it’s everyone’s business. I need to know so I can stay away from you. I don’t wanna catch that.”

She considered my statement for a while as if she wasn’t sure what it was. “It’s not ringworm,” she said quietly.

“Who bit you?”

“A vampire. I’ll probably turn into one myself.” She stared at me, narrowing her eyes. “I promise not to turn you into one if you won’t tell.” I almost laughed at her lame attempt to intimidate me, but I was too lost in what she’d said. The fact that she’d told me not to tell made me want to tell even more. Then she added in a hushed, sad whisper, “It won’t happen again.”

I shook my head. “Is that what y’all do for fun up north? Bite each other?”

She laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was the first time I recognised what people referred to as a ‘cynical laugh’. Kids our age laughed because something was humorous, but Sylvie wasn’t like other kids. That much was obvious. “Yeah, so I guess you should stay away from me before you turn into a vampire.”

“Shoot, that don’t scare me. I got a twelve-gauge that’ll take care of anything with fangs.”

“I don’t think bullets stop vampires.”

“I beg to differ,” I replied, using one of my father’s patented phrases. Sylvie sounded very adult in some ways and I wanted to match her.

“Do you really have a gun?”

I shrugged, considering the ramifications of another lie, but decided against it. “Yeah, but I’m not allowed to use it yet. My daddy says I have to be older.”

“Can you keep this a secret?”

I stared at her dubiously. My daddy had talked to me about this kind of stuff, and told me if any of my friends said things that didn’t seem right that it was my job to tell him. But Sylvie Cranston was not my friend. Besides, she’d said it wouldn’t happen again.

She shook her head, appearing disappointed by my silence. “I knew you were a tattletale.”

“I ain’t a snitch.”

“No matter what happens, you can’t tell. You have to swear on it.”

“Who did it? Was it your daddy?” There was no way I would swear to it if it was her daddy.

“No. Now swear.”

I expected a further explanation, but she didn’t provide one. She just stared at me expectantly with her arms crossed.

“I swear I won’t tell about this bite mark.” I figured if there was another I could always go back on my word, since I was so specific in the promise.

She exhaled a long breath. “Thank you.”

I nodded, not sure if I’d done the right thing, but I didn’t think too much on it because Mandy returned, flinging a dozen more daisies in Sylvie’s lap. Sylvie smiled appreciatively and picked several of them up. She removed the leaves and began weaving them together in tiny knots, forming a perfect chain. It must have really impressed my sister because she watched in awed silence, which was very rare for her. I wondered if Sylvie knew how to tie other knots like the ones I needed to know for my Boy Scout merit badge.

“Will you teach me how to fish?” Sylvie asked suddenly. The request surprised me. Most girls wanted nothing to do with grubby worms or bloody fish.

“How do you know I fish?” I asked, trying to sound like the detective my dad was.

“Cal, you dummy, I just told her that. Weren’t you paying attention?” Mandy chimed in. She probably had said that. I tended to tune out my little sister after the first two sentences.

“You wouldn’t like it. You’re a girl,” I said, as if Sylvie didn’t know that.