The Probable Future

“Don’t tell me. It’s my granny and my great-gran. Why can’t they go to the Pewter Pot on the highway?”

Cynthia immediately started pulling the tiny braids out of her hair, which she had died a hennaed red the color of a stoplight. She threw on a long white baker’s coat to hide how short her skirt was, although there was nothing she could do to conceal her multicolored leggings and her thick-soled black studded boots. Cynthia set to work rubbing off her dark lipstick, then wiped the black liner from her eyes.

“I’ll wait on them,” Jenny said. “Relax.”

“Thank you, more than you can know. My great-gran hates me. I’m like the missing link to her, less than human, more than a bug.”

“She can’t be that bad,” Jenny insisted as she grabbed some menus. Liza and Cynthia stared at her. “Can she?”

Iris Elliot, who was Henry’s mother, and Cynthia and Jimmy’s grandmother, was a pleasant woman who looked embarrassed when Jenny handed them their menus. “Hello, dear. Sorry to come in so late. We won’t be a minute. My mother just wanted some tea.”

“Jenny Sparrow,” Sissy said thoughtfully. She was ancient, with a sharp face and cloudy blue eyes. “Aren’t you the one whose husband is in jail for murder?”

“That’s me.” Jenny recommended the lemon chess pie and the homemade shortbread, although what she really felt like serving up was a plate of nails.

“Well, don’t you worry,” Sissy went on. “Iris’s boy Henry will get him off no matter what awful thing he’s done. But it must be a horror to have a husband like Will Avery. Even before he committed that murder, he must have worn you down. It shows in your complexion, you know. Pallid.”

“Ex,” Jenny said. “We’re divorced. And he didn’t commit anything.”

“What about your poor mother?” Perhaps Sissy could no longer hear. Certainly, she was unable to listen. “How is she? Still as bitter as ever?”

“My mother,” Jenny found herself saying, “could not be better. But I’ll be sure to give her your regards,” she said as she went for the sugar and cream. “You’re right,” she told Cynthia and Liza in the kitchen. “She is that bad. She had me defending my mother. I never thought I’d see that day.”

“Spit in her tea,” Cynthia whispered. “It would serve her right.”

When Jenny brought out the pot of English breakfast tea and two orders of pie, Sissy Elliot still hadn’t let go.

“So many people are getting divorced I can’t keep track. Of course, it’s not always a moral failing, more like an epidemic of bad judgment. Anyone could have told you your life would be ruined if you married Will, and here you are, waiting on tables. Speaking of that, where is my great-granddaughter? She’s on the same downward spiral. Cynthia!” she shouted.

Cynthia Elliot stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Hey, Grans. I’m doing dishes.”

Iris Elliot waved. “You go right ahead,” she called to her granddaughter. “Don’t let us interrupt.”

“What has she done to her hair?” Sissy wanted to know. “It’s monstrous. And why is she washing dishes? She never does anything at home.”

“They pay her, Mother,” Iris Elliot said. “It’s her job.”

Out in the kitchen, Cynthia Elliot angrily added more soap to the sink. “What a bitch,” she said of her great-grandmother when Jenny returned. Cynthia was good-natured, but now she was all riled up, and her hair was stuck straight out, like a porcupine. “Is it all right to say that about someone in your family? Lightning won’t come through the window and strike me dead, will it?”

“It’s fine,” Jenny assured her. “You won’t be punished for your thoughts. And she really is a bitch.” Why, Sissy Elliot made Elinor seem like a darling, a notion that was entirely disconcerting for Jenny.

“It’s not very compassionate to be so judgmental,” Liza Hull told them both. “When there are ashes around, then you can be sure something has burned.”

“What does that mean?” Cynthia and Jenny both wanted to know. They couldn’t help but laugh to visualize Sissy Elliot pushing her walker through a pile of ashes.

“It means when somebody’s that nasty, it’s because she must have walked through fire. Those comments you’re getting are flying off her like sparks without her even knowing she’s all burned up inside.”

“I think Liza’s saying we’re the bitches,” Cynthia whispered to Jenny.