Flight Behavior
Page 25“Since you brought it up, is that what they’re saying at church?” she asked Crystal. “That I’m a saint?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
She knew Crystal would try to be coy for about ten seconds, then dish the dirt. Three, two, one . . .
“Yeah, some of them are saying that. A whole slew of them, actually. Not the Worshams. The Bannings, the Weavers, and the Worshams? They don’t believe it.”
“Glad you took a poll.”
“No, you know. People just talk. Some of them resents it, you know? That you’re in Pastor Ogle’s good graces without . . .”
“Without?”
“I guess, not being all that churchy.”
“The wild girl that got kicked out of Wednesday discussion group, you mean.”
“You did?” Crystal appeared amazed. Her entry into the fold was relatively recent.
“Did you used to wear some kind of fox thing to church? Tammy said it was like this little shawl that went around your neck and had the head biting the tail.”
“A fox stole. Dovey found it somewhere. I can’t believe people are still holding that against me. Wouldn’t there be, like, a statute of limitations on wardrobe offenses?”
“Okay, but there’s other ones, like Sister Cox? She’s all, love your neighbor and everything. I think they do believe something happened up on that mountain. Like, you know, a miracle. That’s why they’re all wanting to come up and see.”
“Well, it’s something to see. You’d be amazed.”
Dellarobia had not been back up the mountain since the day with her in-laws. Hester had taken full charge of the traffic of visitors, which seemed unfair. Suddenly the butterflies belonged to Mountain Fellowship. The church and Hester had their own pet miracle. Not that tour guiding was a career option for Dellarobia, they wouldn’t let her show up wearing a toddler as a pendant and a kindergartner for a shin guard. But still, when the groups passed behind her house to get to the High Road, Dellarobia snapped down the blinds, feeling something had been stolen from her, and flaunted.
“Listen,” Crystal said. “What I was going to ask you? It’s no big thing. I wrote this letter, and I wondered if you would look at it? You’re good at spelling and stuff.”
From the base of the big maple a squirrel darted out to the shoulder of the road, hesitated, then dashed across in little hops. Roy watched with keen attention, heaving a sigh of self-disciplined anguish.
“A letter, to?”
“To Dear Abby.”
“That thing with Brenda. She’s the one that thinks I—”
“I know, Brenda with the broken fingers and the whole family that wants to break your face.”
“Okay, here’s the thing, nobody’s heard my side. I found out Brenda’s mother was writing to Dear Abby asking her, you know, to settle it once and for all? But she’s just going to play up Brenda’s side, right? You know she will. I have to write one too.”
“Where in the heck does Dear Abby come into this? I mean, jeez, Crystal, some old lady that lives a million miles from here. Who cares what she thinks?”
Crystal gave her a have-your-head-examined look. “Everybody cares what Dear Abby thinks. How do you think she gets in the paper every day?”
Dear Abby had a smart mouth and a kind heart, that’s why people read her; the combination was rare. And rarer still, perfect grammar. Dellarobia used to read Abby faithfully, along with the police blotter and national news roundup, until Cub insisted they couldn’t afford to renew their subscription to the Cleary Courier. She and Cub fought about it. Why pay for the news when you can see it on TV? was his argument. He would never stop channel-surfing long enough for her to get the end of the story, that was hers.
“You know what, Crystal? You go ahead and write your letter, but I think I’ll just steer clear. I mean, holy cow, Brenda’s mom. You do not want to meet that lady in a dark alley.”
“I’m scared for my life, I kid you not,” Crystal agreed. “And just so you know, before you look at my letter? I changed some things.”
“Changed some of the facts, you’re saying.”
Dellarobia wondered if this bus would arrive before Christmas. Cordie was writhing like an inchworm, wanting down, but they were too close to the road. And the rain was running in sheets across the asphalt. The ditch had become a creek, leaf-filled and rising. Her tennis shoes were goners. “Let me get this straight. You’re fibbing to Dear Abby to get her on your side. And this will help your situation how?”
“Listen, you have no idea how people are. You’re married.”
“I thought I was suddenly the talk of the town.”
“But married, okay? I just don’t think Abby would give me a fair hearing if she knew my kids were illegitimate. I also told her I’ve accepted Christ as my personal savior.”
“I don’t think Abby cares that much. To tell you the truth, I think I saw somewhere she’s Jewish.”
“You are shitting me!”
At last the bus crested the hill, moving toward them like a golden cruise ship in its broad, square majesty. Dellarobia wanted to jump and wave for joy, rescued from her desert island. The usual parade of impatient drivers followed behind the bus, no doubt cursing their luck at getting trapped in slow-motion hell, stopping every hundred feet or so, with no hope of passing on this curvy road. Dellarobia thought of all the swear words she’d hurled from that position herself, and now as a newly minted mother-of-bus-rider she apologized from her heart to bus drivers everywhere. She wasn’t sure if she’d need to flag it down, and was relieved when the amber lights began blinking from side to side. The stop sign swung out like a proud red wing. She waved to the driver, hoping to gain points with this woman who’d been charged with Preston’s safety. But she was tugging at the bus window, one of those sliding affairs. It finally came down with a snap.