I didn’t know why I was telling Juliette so much. It wasn’t like it mattered—she didn’t know Harriett, she’d never know Harriett. But still, it felt important. Like maybe I had been wrong to keep my memories alone, to myself, walled off in a garden like Eula did. Maybe, instead, if I told another person, anyone, then maybe a little more of Harrie would be here tomorrow.
And then more, and then more—
Like a vine inching its way across a wall.
Juliette’s eyes widened, and then she looked down at the 8 Ball in her hands again thoughtfully. I half expected her to quickly put it down—people were strange about remains sometimes—but she simply brought it up to her mouth and whispered to it, “Do you think Sophie should go out to kara-oke with me tonight?”
And she shook it.
The die tumbled and tumbled. Her face brightened as the answer landed onYES, DEFINITELY.
“Even your best friend agrees,” she announced, finally putting the 8 Ball down, “so youhaveto now. Besides, after today? I need a drink. And so do you.”
“But—”
“No buts! Your best friend said so,” she added, jabbing a finger at the 8 Ball.
Well, I guess I couldn’t argue with that.
34
cwtch
On my slow, meandering walk that morning, I visited Wykofski at his shed to ask if he’d make a swing for me. He was sitting back in a pool chair, lemonade in one hand and binoculars in the other. Birdswatching, as he did most mornings. Damnit was happily in her new she shed, Reggie on the other side of her. Wykofski was very proud of the miniature home he’d fashioned out of old pallet boards and painted hot pink and purple. He wrote damn nest on a piece of driftwood and nailed it to the front of the little house.
“I think there’s a red-throated loon over there in the hedge pond. Wanna see?”
I did, so I took up the binoculars.
“Bit in the reeds,” he instructed. “It’s got a red throat.”
After a moment of looking, I found a rather large, brown-colored waterfowl with a red throat and breast. “Oh! I see it! That’s so pretty.”
“It’s a rare one,” he supplied happily, taking back the binoculars to look again. “It’s come here every year for the last four years. I think it makes a home in the boxwoods.”
“You really love this place.” I sat down in the beach chair next to him. “You know everything about it.”
“Nah, not everything. I just watch, is all,” he replied, setting down his binoculars. “And speaking of watching . . . where is it you go in the late afternoons?”
I feigned ignorance. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Wykofski gave the goose a look of disbelief.
Damnit honked in return.
“I agree, sweetheart. That’s some goose shit if I ever heard it.”
I mocked hurt. “Why is it goose shit?”
“Because everyone—including Eula, and you know Eula can barely leave the house—notices that you go missin’ for close to an hour every day. Where do you go?”
“I can’t go anywhere really,” I replied, dodging the question. “I’m still in the gardens.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Hmm.”
“I don’t go anywhere,” I reiterated, though I couldn’t look him in the eyes as I said it, because while it technicallywastrue, what I didn’t say did an awful lot of heavy lifting. But soon—hopefully soon—I wouldn’t have to keep it a secret anymore.
“Mm-hmm. Wanna lemonade?” he asked, pouring himself another glass, and I decided to indulge a little. “Take a load off, Sunny.”
