"Gordon said it's a family tabernacle, charismatic Baptists."
"Did Gordon get baptized there or something? What do they dunk you in, goat's milk?"
"Honey, Gordon is taking good care of us. He opened up his home and heart. I know he's not your dad, but he's trying his best. Let's give it some time, okay?"
"Time. You're already old and over with and you've got all the time in the world. I'm only twelve and every second counts." Jett walked her burrito to the microwave.
"Don't get too full before dinner. I'm planning spaghetti."
"From a can, I hope."
"Jett."
"Sorry, Mom. I'm on a diet, anyway."
"Girls shouldn't be on diets." Katy wished she had canceled her subscription to Cosmopolitan. Katy had never been able to measure up, and Jett had often thumbed through those same magazine pages. The Buddhists said desire was the cause of all suffering. But Buddhists occasionally set themselves aflame to prove a point.
"It's okay," Jett said, then began reading aloud from the burrito wrapper. "Calories, three fifteen. Grams of fat, fifteen. Serving size, two ounces." She turned the wrapper around. "Apparently this single burrito contains three servings, so I won't have to eat again until lunch tomorrow."
"You'd better be hungry in time for the spaghetti or I'll start serving up goat meat."
Goats had become a joke between them because half the local farms raised the animals. Beyond Gordon's cow pasture was a hillside dotted with the stunted white creatures, their heads constantly down as they gnawed the world to its roots. They preferred to browse in the forest, only coming down at dusk when Gordon fed them grain or hay. Gordon's breeders had been fruitful this fall, and the herd seemed to have doubled in size since the wedding.
"Do goats smell worse than swordfish?"
"Depends on which end you stick your nose in."
"Gross, Mom." Jett gathered up the remnants of her snack, leaving the empty yogurt cup on the counter. "I'm going upstairs to study. If the phone rings, I'm not home."
"Expecting a call?"
"Not from anybody you know." And Jett was out of the room, leaving Katy with a kitchen that had too many items out of place. She glanced at the clock. Gordon might be home soon. Or maybe not. This was Tuesday, and the departmental staff often went out together on Tuesdays. Something about celebrating almost getting through half a week.
She decided to put a pot of water on just in case. Spaghetti only took fifteen minutes. She would be brave and not resort to the prepared sauces in the pantry. Instead, she would go for diced tomatoes and fresh mushrooms. Except, what did you spice a spaghetti sauce with? She ducked into the pantry and pulled out the Gregorio. She held the jar near her face and read the ingredients. Salt, oregano, basil, garlic. Okay, she could handle that. She didn't know the proper ratios but if she was conservative, then it might balance out. If worse came to worse, she could fry up some hamburger, greasy mad cow that would wipe out all the other flavors. Or goat. Goat would do the trick.
Goatghetti. A traditional Appalachian-Italian dish.
She tucked the jar back on the pantry shelf, then paused.
The smell of lilac rose like a solid thing, brushed against Katy, embraced her. She shivered, though the pantry was dry and breeze-less.
Footsteps sounded again, those hard heels leading from the pantry and across the kitchen.
No.
She doesn't exist.
No matter what Katy had seen and heard and imagined these past few weeks, this kitchen belonged to her. This was her house now. Until death she and Gordon did part.
Behind Katy, the Gregorio fell to the floor with a brittle shattering of glass.
Chapter Two
Jett tried to concentrate on her homework. World history, memorizing the long list of white Europeans, whom they killed, and when. The problem with history textbooks was they never got into the why of it all. Of course, the sixth grade spent a day each on India and Africa, and China, the world's most populous country, earned a shared chapter with Japan. Jett decided world history could be summed up in a single word, and she'd write it in on the next essay test: B-O-R-I-N-G.
Make that two words. F-U-C-K-I-N-G boring.
Her attention wandered from the book in front of her. If only she had an Xbox or a TV in her room. Too bad she'd gotten stuck with one of those weird moms, the kind who checked up on their daughters and paid attention to their moods. Why couldn't she have Bethany's mom, who had signed for birth control pills, given her daughter a cell phone with unlimited minutes, and turned her loose with a football stud? Now that was love. That was understanding. That was knowing what a daughter needed.
Jett looked out the window. Anywhere but at her book. The hills crawled away toward the horizon, a few barns and houses scattered among the green hills. Solom, North Carolina. Whoopdie-shit.
She'd taken to cussing in her mind. Rarely out loud, because Mom was one of those old-fashioned types who said cussing was the cheap tool of small minds, and Gordon was a bastard about blasphemy. Better to think up something clever and leave them baffled and off-balance, Mom always said. Of course, it was easy for Mom. She hadn't been twelve years old in a century or so. She'd forgotten what it was like.
Solom. Population what? Three dozen, unless you counted the horses and goats and cows?
Fucking Solom.
Three churches, a post office, a general store, and five Rebel flags.
Charlotte wasn't all that great, either. At Jett's last public school, a kid had gotten knifed at the bus stop over a dope deal. Dope was one of those things that horrified the teachers and parents, but most of the kids didn't pay attention. It was there if you wanted it, and if you could hang with that crowd. Jett didn't hang but she'd tried a joint and then she was lighting up every morning before school. That led to other things, some of which had erased their tracks through her brain. Like father, like daughter.
Of course, Solom might not even have dope, as backwoods as it was. The big deal here was joining the 4-H Club, breeding prize-winning livestock, and growing cabbage. And going to church. No fewer than a half dozen girls had invited Jett to their churches in her first week at school, and every one of them attended a different one. Drip Creek Union Baptist, Cross Valley Living Water Fellowship, True Light Tabernacle, Solom Free Will Baptist, Solom Methodist Church of the Cross, Rush Branch Primitive Baptist Church. Gordon could probably explain the differences, but if he even tried, Jett would fall asleep by the second sentence.
Not that Gordon was completely bad. Mom had spent months and months telling Jett all about it. About how Gordon was nice to Mom, how he took care of the family, how he opened up his home and gave them a future. About how Gordon would be a good father, not her real father, of course, but he would be there if she ever needed him. Gordon was rock solid, reliable, ready to take on arrogant teachers and subscribe to Parent magazine, preview every PG-13 movie before Jett could watch it, and frown at every CD that had a black M stamped on the cover.
Sure, Gordon was all right. His eyes were dull and kind behind those thick lenses. He read a lot, and must be pretty smart, judging by all those degrees and certificates on the wall of his downstairs office. If world history started to mess with her, Gordon would probably have all the answers. But there was one major problem with Gordon.
He wasn't fucking goddamned her dad.
He was Gordon. Mark was Dad. Dad wasn't even Mark, just Dad. He didn't need a name. If she had a working cell phone like everybody else in the world she'd give Dad a call right now and tell him about this hick shit hole called Solom.