Chapter Fifteen
Casey awoke to birdsong. It sounded awfully close, as if the bird had gotten into her room. She squeezed her eyes shut and raised her arm to cover her exposed ear. The trilling pierced her stuffy head, and she considered taking the clock from the night table and flinging it toward the feathered trespasser.
And then she remembered.
She opened her eyes, a struggle, as they felt puffy and sore. The campfire was out, only a thin line of gray smoke escaping from underneath the ashes. Casey’s face was cool, but the rest of her remained surprisingly warm. Upon taking stock, she realized that not only was she warm, but her head lay on a pillow, and she was covered with a heavy blanket.
She sat up. The picnic basket and its contents were absent, as were the hot dog sticks. The stumps still sat by the ring of stones, but no one occupied them, and Death had gone off to wherever Death went after leaving Casey. To make someone else miserable, Casey figured.
Casey’s shoes were lined up beside the blanket, and she tugged them on before slowly standing and folding the blanket. Holding the blanket and pillow, she took a deep breath and let it out, trying to ease the tightness in her chest. She gritted her teeth.
Damn Death, anyway.
She picked her way through the yard to the laundry room, where she eased the back door shut and left the pillow and blanket on the table beside the basket of her clean, folded laundry. Either Lillian or Rosemary had finished up the clothes she’d forgotten about. She winced. She’d have to have them add a little to her bill.
A look out the back window showed the campfire ring looking almost cheery, with the speckled sunlight dotting the stumps, and the grass surrounding it. She rubbed her eyes, picked up the laundry basket, and stepped into the kitchen.
A note, folded and propped on the counter, had her name scrawled in sparkly purple pen: Casey, dear, sorry we couldn’t carry you in. You’re too much for two old ladies! Help yourself to breakfast, whatever you like. We’re out grocery shopping! Lillian and Rosie
Shopping? How late had she slept? A glance at the clock assured her it wasn’t yet even eight-o’clock. The women, she guessed, were early risers.
From the color of the ink and the swirl of the script on the note, Casey figured Rosemary had done the writing. And there was no bill accompanying it. With a small smile she left the note, set down the laundry basket, and opened the refrigerator to see if they stocked any orange juice. They did, and she drank a small glass. Somehow food just didn’t seem inviting.
After placing her glass in the sink she gathered her laundry and went upstairs, where Solomon the cat sat at her door, waiting for her arrival.
“Well,” Casey said. “What do you want?”
He blinked slowly, like he’d just been awakened from a nap.
“You want to go in my room to sleep some more?” She turned the knob and pushed open the door, but Solomon stayed sitting. He stretched his neck as far as he could from his spot, ears angling, whiskers twitching.
Casey stuck her head in the door, half-expecting to see her usual visitor, but Death was either hiding or absent. “No one there, cat. Go ahead, if you want.”
But Solomon brought his head back and huddled on his haunches, blinking up at her.
“Fine. You can’t say you weren’t asked.” She went into the room and closed the door.
The bed, still perfectly made, looked inviting after her night on the ground, but Casey stepped past it to the wardrobe, where she found a pair of shorts, which she exchanged for her jeans. She used the empty space in the room to do her morning calisthenics, and was soon sweating, dripping onto the nice carpet. After her three hundredth sit-up she allowed herself to pace the room, stripping as she made her way to the bathroom. A shower was definitely in order.
After a long time under the steaming water, Casey felt at least partially rejuvenated and put on clean clothes, again avoiding the temptation of the bed. Although what she was to do until two-thirty, when Eric would be picking her up, was beyond her.
She spent a few minutes putting her clean laundry in the wardrobe, but was soon at a loss for further chores, so she grabbed her jacket and opened the door. Solomon, hunched on the floor, made a move to go into her room, but stopped at the threshold, hissed, and turned, trotting down the stairs.
Casey watched him go, wondering if Lillian and Rosemary would have the same reaction. Rosemary had come up with her the day before and all had seemed fine, but Death had yet to visit. It would be interesting to see what happened when the women came up to tidy the room.
Casey followed Solomon’s path downstairs, but the cat was out of sight by the time she got to the landing. She shook her head and went out the front door, avoiding the campfire area on her way to get her bike.
When Casey mounted the old Schwinn, the tires squished alarmingly, having deflated overnight. She hopped off. Ride, or walk? And where was she even going?
Not wanting to destroy what was left of the tires, she pushed the bike back to the gas station, where she again made use of the air pump. She checked out the tires as she did so, and decided that if she was really going to use the bike as her transportation, she should invest in a new set. She wondered if the garage attached to the gas station had any bike tires, or if she’d have to have Eric take her somewhere that afternoon.
“Hello?” She stood in the little store section of the station, surrounded by cold drinks, packets of candy, and cigarettes. No one manned the cash register, and she couldn’t imagine anyone could hear her calling with the radio as loud as it was, pulsing out an amplified hip-hop beat. A door led to the garage part of the building, and she stepped through it, her fingers in her ears.
Workboot-clad feet stuck out from the bottom of a rusty Ford F150, tapping to the rhythm of the song. No one else appeared, so Casey took a look around the space. Tires adorned the far wall, among them a few that looked like they might fit Rosemary and Lillian’s old bike.
Taking the chance of scaring the mechanic, she walked over to the side of the car where his head should be and squatted down. “Hello?”
Still no response.
Getting up, she went to the other side of the car and tapped one of the protruding feet with her shoe.
Both feet shot up, banging the thighs of the man on the undercarriage of the car. In a moment, he scooted out from underneath, on his wheeled lorry.
“Sorry,” Casey mouthed at him. Then, “Aaron?”
The man—or kid, really—grinned up at her, then leapt off the pallet with surprising grace. He held up a greasy finger and trotted over to a shelf, where he punched a button on the sound system. The silence in the garage was staggering.
“Hey, Casey.” He sauntered back toward her, wiping his hands on a rag. “Sorry about the music. It helps the day go quicker.”
“Sure. But can you hear afterward?”
He laughed. “Most days. Although sometimes I pretend not to hear when Mom asks me to do something really nasty.”
“Um-hmm.”
“You’re not going to ask me to do something really nasty, are you?” He looked suddenly like a child, waiting to be told he must clean out the litter box.
“Absolutely not. All I want are some bike tires.”
“Oh.” His relief was palpable. “That’s easy.” He walked over to the wall, gesturing for Casey to follow. “What size do you need?”
“Not sure. But I have the bike outside.”
“Let’s see.” He changed directions, headed toward the front of the shop, and outside. His eyebrows rose at the sight of the bike. “Not exactly brand-new, is it?”
“Nope. It’s just what Rosemary and Lillian had in their shed.”
Understanding lit his face. “No wonder, then. But the tires are standard. Why don’t we bring it on in.” Grabbing the handlebars, he steered the bike into the garage and put it up on a rack. In no time at all he’d placed a tire iron under the rubber and stripped the tires from the rims. “Rims look good. The tires are just worn out. Rubber and tubes.” He glanced at the clock. “It’ll only take me a few minutes, if you want to wait.”