The woman displayed a box. White Diamonds. Elizabeth Taylor.
America’s number one fragrance, said the woman, reverent.
Who’s Elizabeth Taylor? asked Josette.
Duh, Cleopatra?
They’d both pondered the cover of the VHS at the video rental.
Plus friends with Michael Jackson?
Oh yeah. Josette sniffed the spray nozzle. Fancy. I like this.
Enjoli, in a hot-pink box, decorated with an embossed golden flower.
But Mom’s not this spicy. I mean, she smells good.
It would clash with Dad’s Old Spice.
So would the Wild Musk?
Maybe Wind Song.
Grandma wears that.
The woman behind the counter brought out an elegant box hiding behind the others. It was a lavendery pinkish box, one of those expensive indeterminate colors. A blackish gray band. The bottle fit firmly in hand, a band of embossed diamond shapes, neatly swirled glass. Eau Sauvage. The woman sprayed a little on a Kleenex, waved the tissue in front of their noses. Waited. The smell was green and dry. Faintly licorice. Maybe a hint of cloud. A trace of fresh-cut wood? Crushed grass. A rare herb in a rare forest. Nothing dark, nothing hungry. Something else, too.
Most people think this one smells too plain, the lady said. It’s not like any other perfume. Nobody buys it. We only have this one bottle.
Snow watched Josette, her eyes wide. Josette breathed the scent in again.
I wish things could be that way, said Snow.
So pure, said Josette, putting down the bottle. Must be pricey.
It’s a bit expensive, yes, said the woman. She seemed embarrassed by the amount. I just work here. It’s not my store, she said.
Yeah, said Snow. It’s kinda too much. I was saving. But, well.
It can be for a man or a woman. Eww Savage.
Eau Sauvage, said Josette, with an exaggerated French accent. We gotta have it. She turned to Snow, eyes sparking.
Smell!
This is it, said Snow.
Josette had an old-lady-type money pouch hidden deep in her purse. She took it out. Snow hugged her passionately.
Then right there, in front of the counterwoman, they began to cry because they both knew: the trace was there. The cologne also smelled like LaRose’s clean hair on a cold autumn day when he came in and Emmaline would bend over him.
Oh, you smell good, she used to say. You smell like outside.
Leaving the drugstore, Josette and Snow talked about the outside smell and decided they were psychic with each other like in a witch coven.
Or maybe our people had these powers before the whiteman came.
Yeah, said Snow, and we lived five hundred years.
I actually heard someone say that.
Me too. And we could change the weather.
I believe that one.
Great, said Snow. Let’s do it now.
I shoulda been named Summer, said Josette. All you can do is make it snow.
It was blustery. They were walking toward the place they would meet their father. He had agreed to pick them up after he got Ottie settled back home. They were going to sit in the Subway, maybe split a twelve-inch turkey with American cheese, on whole wheat, for their complexions, with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and sweet onion sauce dressing. For sure they would. They were hungrier than usual and had enough money left for the turkey sub if they just drank water.
It’s better for us, said Josette, who loved Sprite.
They showed us in health class, said Snow mournfully. Just a can a day you get diabetes.
Landreaux never bought soda because he didn’t want his kids to lose their feet. When he put it like that, they’d squint as if in pain, Yeah, Dad. They drank forbidden pop at Whitey’s. Now, waiting for their father, they stared down at their sub sandwich wrappers and looked amazed.
I ate that so fast.
How’d that happen? Josette burped.
Gross. Now what?
We’re broke so we sip our healthful waters.
And wait for Dad.
They met each other’s eyes. Nobody at school had been very mean. Everybody in their school had something awful happen someplace in their family. Everybody just got sad for everybody, usually, or said tough shit, or if you were a girl maybe you gave a card. There were no cards for what had happened. But one of her girlfriends had beaded Snow a pair of earrings and she knew it was to say what there were no words to say. There were no words to say to their father, either. At least no words they wanted to say. In the car, maybe they’d be silent. Maybe they’d ask about Ottie or Awan or another client. Maybe they’d say something general about schoolwork. They’d avoid true feelings because it could go real deep real sudden with their father. He would get into that seriously real mode like when he did a ceremony. Where you let thoughts and feelings buried inside you come out into the circle so other people could pray and sing to help you. But, the girls agreed, they weren’t into having that kind of energy leak out of their dad when things were going on like normal. So when he drove up in the Corolla they eye-spoke. Josette would ride shotgun because she was good at keeping him on topics like haircuts, car batteries, winterizing the windows of the house with Saran wrap. And if it seemed like he might veer south, she could always ask him to tell her again what was wrong with drinking pop.
Y2K KEPT PETER occupied now and when he was preparing he could think of something other than Dusty. On the way to Fleet Farm, he berated himself for not having bought live chickens last spring. He’d been planning on turning one of the old outbuildings into a chicken coop. Nola had even agreed although she was generally against having animals. He’d never gotten organized about the chickens, although the dog, he’d fed the dog he had seen in the woods. Maybe part cattle dog. It would have guarded the house, Peter thought. It would have saved Dusty, maybe. He knew that was irrational, but he bought dog food anyway. Peter also purchased seven bags of parched corn and a windup flashlight. He drove home and brought his new purchases down to the room in the basement where he’d already stored six sealed ten-gallon drums of whole wheat flour, powdered milk, oil, dried lentils, beans, jerky. He’d bought and stocked a freezer, which he’d hooked up to a generator. He’d bought a backup generator. He bought a wood-burning stove and every day he chopped wood for an hour after work. That kept his mind focused, just like the priest. He and Father Travis were chopping themselves calm, miles apart, stacking heartache. Peter had a water filter, but to make sure, he bought another water filter. Last year, he’d had a new well put in, hooked to yet another backup generator. He had prebought shoes enough for two years of growing children’s sizes. Dried apples, pears, apricots, prunes, cranberries. More water in five-gallon plastic jugs. Extra blankets. And then the guns — a gun case and locks. He kept his guns loaded because otherwise he saw no point. Twice he’d shot coyotes off the porch. Once a deer. He’d missed a cougar. The key was taped to the top of the seven-foot case. He was obsessive about testing that the case was locked. Boxes of ammunition. A trunk of flares. Cake mixes, sugar, cigarettes, whiskey, vodka, rum. He could trade it for things they would need — surely there was something he’d forgotten.
Actually, he’d forgotten what high interest his credit card charged. He was working extra hours now just to pay the minimum. Every time he found himself putting another sack of pancake mix or a shovel on the credit card, he told himself that after Y2K the credit card companies would be so messed up by confusing 2000 with 1900 that chances were his statements would get lost. The credit card companies would vanish, the banking system, crippled, would go back to swapping gold bricks. There would be no telephones, televisions, energy companies, no automobiles except old beaters without computerized engines, no gas pumps, no air traffic, no satellites. He would communicate by radio. He’d had an amateur’s license for years. Already, at night all December, he had tense conversations with his contacts all around the world. Every morning, he woke and jotted down another item on his list. On the weekends, he took Maggie and LaRose with him to purchase a ream of paper, a case of envelopes. Pencils and pens. Stamps. Would there be an old-fashioned ground mail system? Probably, his contacts said. The storage room was jammed. Nola didn’t notice because she was busy cooking those damn cakes.