"You're not one of us," she said as she crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway. "Your soul is still tortured from bad experiences in the past, isn't it? You're not capable of seeking a higher spiritual plane; you're not even able to explore the present physical reality. You'll never be able to counterbalance those discreative intentions or cleanse your inner channels."
"Blah, blah, blah. You know what-you make me sick. Every time you start gabbling about spiritual planes and cosmic harmony, I want to puke. Hell, maybe I'm pregnant like our fat little friend out behind the counter."
Rainbow's smile tightened until her lips ached. "Then why are you a member of our family, Nate? Why don't you pack your tattered duffel bag and find some new friends more like yourself?"
"When I get the word from my astrologer, maybe I will. Like when Capricorn rises in Gemini, the moon is in the seventh house, Jupiter aligns with Mars, and all that crap, maybe I will." Laughing, he turned his face to the back of the couch.
Rainbow went to the front of the store and dug through a drawer for her astrological miniguide. She was frowning at the squiggles when Poppy waddled over to her. "Capricorn doesn't rise in Gemini," she murmured, puzzled.
"I never said it did," Poppy said. "So what?"
"I was just checking. When's your appointment with the midwife?"
"I was supposed to go this afternoon, but Nate said not to take the truck. My ankles are so swollen I doubt I can walk all the way out there. I guess I'll try to go tomorrow or the next day." Poppy ran her hand over her bulging belly. "If it's not too late."
"You think…? This would be a very auspicious day for a birth, astrologically. Nate's mutters made no sense, but anyone can see that a child born today will have a very solid basis in Scorpio. Oh, Poppy, let's align our vibrations and see if we can induce labor!"
Poppy wasn't all that eager to induce labor, a.k.a. labor pains, but she managed a smile as she closed her eyes and began to hum through her nose. It would be nice to have a Scorpio baby; Scorpios could be very determined and levelheaded.
Mrs. Jim Bob realized things had gotten real quiet. She took the damp washrag off her forehead and sat up, her nose twitching like a rabbit approaching a trap. When she still didn't hear anything (especially along the lines of shrieked profanities or shattering glass), she went to the door and put her ear against it. Nothing.
But it was the kind of quiet that made you shiver if you were watching an old horror movie, because you knew in your heart that the monster was fixing to spring out of the bushes. It was the kind of quiet that comes between the flash of lightning and the boom of thunder, when you nervously count off the seconds under your breath. It was the kind of quiet that blankets a cemetery on a cold, drizzly day.
Mrs. Jim Bob looked outside at the desultory rain coming down. At last, unable to contain her curiosity, she opened the door and peered down the hallway. She took off her bedroom slippers, then crept to the top of the stairs, prepared to flee back to the sanctuary should she hear the slightest noise. No muffled giggles. No sudden gasps or snorts. Nothing. She made it halfway down the stairs without hearing anything but the thudding of her heart. She made it to the bottom.
"Bubba?" she whispered. "Are you nasty little bastards playing hide-and-seek? You're going to be real sorry if I find you."
She did some seeking, and determined that they were gone. Where, she couldn't begin to imagine, but she didn't waste a lot of time on it, either. Mr. Jim Bob had said, albeit with more snarling than anything else, that he'd better not find those bastards in his house if she knew what was good for her. She didn't believe some of his threats, partly because she was a good Christian woman who would never listen to that kind of language, and partly because he was so angry he was incoherent. It was pretty clear, though, that he didn't want to run a makeshift orphanage.
Neither did she. In fact, after giving him a couple of hours to calm down, she'd tried to call him back to tell him she'd think of some way to get rid of the bastards. A snooty desk clerk had informed her that Mr. Buchanon had checked out. No, he hadn't left any messages, and good day, madam. It had turned her blood to chilled tomato aspic.
Now, as she considered it, it came to her that she'd done the kind, generous, pious thing by seeing that the bastards were brought down to town and given food and shelter. That had been her Christian duty. She'd pointed out their sinful ways and instructed them in the path of righteousness. In fact, she'd set them on the path and given them a swift pat on the fanny to start them on their way. She'd done her duty and then some.
There was a dreadful mess on the kitchen floor, but she stepped over it and put on the kettle for a nice cup of tea. More than her duty, she thought as she took out a cup and saucer, a box of tea bags, and her nicest creamer and sugar bowl-the ones with the lavender rosebuds that had belonged to her grandmother.
Arly had taken advantage of her kindhearted soul, Mrs. Jim Bob told herself. Arly was the one who should have disinfected the bastards and seen to their basic needs. Arly was the chief of police, which meant she was in charge when the mayor and town council were out of pocket. Arly could have put the bastards in a jail cell, where they couldn't destroy someone's lovely home with new beige carpeting.
She poured boiling water into the cup, then took the tray into the dining room and sat down at the table. It was becoming increasingly clear that this whole disaster was Arly's fault. Everybody knew Arly had lived in New York City, which was filled with perverts and muggers and book editors. Not to mention society women, who ran around in skin-tight dresses and miniskirts that were the devil's own designer fashions. They painted their faces and drank martinis all day and slept with each other's husbands all night. Now that she thought about it, Mrs. Jim Bob realized it was no wonder at all that Arly'd been able to trick her like she did. Good Christian women didn't know all the big-city dirty tricks, much less how to avoid being mistreated and abused by them that did.
"Jim Bob's going to have a word with her," she said aloud, practicing just a tad. "He's going to tell her that she's responsible for all the damage done to our home and carpet. What's more, he's going to make her pay to shampoo the carpet and reupholster the sofa."
There was a navy-blue print fabric over in Farberville that would look real nice. It had peacocks with their tails all swooped up, and some flecks of beige. The current plaid was dingy, and she'd happened to glance through the fabric samples one day, purely out of idle interest. The peacocks would look fine. And those heathen bastards had probably wiped their filthy hands on the wing chairs, which would look better if they were re-covered in something brighter, maybe rose to counter the navy.
Feeling much better, much better indeed, Mrs. Jim Bob went to the telephone book and looked up a number. When a voice answered, she briskly said, "Perkins, let me speak to your eldest. I'm going to need her to clean today."
She was in the middle of negotiations (Perkins' eldest thought cleaning houses was as delicate a job as brain surgery, and therefore expected to be paid about the same hourly rate) when the doorbell rang.
She told Perkins' eldest to hold her horses, then hurried to the door and threw it open. "I am on the telephone."
David Allen tried a smile meant to reassure her his intentions were good, if not his timing. "I came by to talk to the children. Shall I wait here while you fetch them?" he said, trying to ignore the rain dripping down his collar.