She had to watch her friends from a distance, it seemed. Thistle knew Dusty’s expression of furtive eyes and a quiver in her jaw as she fought to hide a smile. She had deliberately removed Phelma Jo’s name from the guest list.
“My assistant will come to your office first thing and pick up my invitation,” Phelma Jo spat.
“All the invitations went out by email this year,” Dusty replied. “Perhaps I no longer have a valid address for you.”
The tall man standing slightly behind Phelma Jo’s shoulder leaned forward to whisper something in her ear. His eyes sought and held Dusty’s gaze. He smiled at her and then backed away.
Thistle tried to return to the table so she could hear more. Three steps later she was at the front door, and Dick had to guide her back toward their table.
What was going on?
“I expect a written invitation. Have it ready for Haywood at 9:15 tomorrow morning.” Phelma Jo marched away, tossing her thick mane of bleached blonde hair. Her companion had already retreated.
“The museum doesn’t open until eleven, after the end of the parade,” Dusty called after them.
Phelma Jo didn’t acknowledge the correction, but Haywood Wheatland flashed that glorious smile directly at Dusty.
“Like I’m at her beck and call!” Dusty protested. “She’s never come to the Ball before. Why now?”
“I remember her,” Thistle mused. “Nasty child who trapped me in a jar with a wolf spider. Almost as nasty as the boy who glued my wings together with dog drool.” She speared Chase with a glance.
He choked and tried to bury his blushing face in his glass. He remembered.
Thistle turned her attention back to Phelma Jo. A pattern of energy grew around her, linking in a long chain back to…
Thistle dropped her sandal in front of the couple dancing a vigorous two-step right in front of her. They stumbled, bumping into a passing waitress, who reared back against the jukebox, knocking a listing music lover against the bar. The bartender reached to grab a line of bottles. But they cannonaded into each other, dropping in a line the full length of the bar. At the end, another patron lunged to grab the last bottle to keep it from spilling. He lost his balance and stuck out his foot behind him, catching a waiter in the crotch. He doubled over, spilling a full pitcher of beer on top of Phelma Jo’s head just as she returned to her chair.
The beer bounced off of Haywood Wheatland. What the…?
Dusty’s jaw dropped in amazement. Then she had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing out loud. Her eyes sparked with amusement.
“See, PJ doesn’t always win,” Thistle whispered.
Phelma Jo spat and spluttered and dripped. She loosed a stream of curses worthy of a Faery drunk on honey.
“Ah, I feel much better,” Thistle said and grabbed the last piece of pizza on the tray. She ate it in five big bites, not bothering to pick off the meat.
Eight
SOMETHING ABOUT THE HOT NIGHT AIR, high humidity, and the smell of spilled beer on her now ruined silk blouse played tricks on Phelma Jo’s vision as she drove home to her condo overlooking the river and the railroad tracks. The buildings blurred, overlapping the shacks she’d torn down for the expensive development.
“I am in control of my life. I am rich and successful. I don’t owe anything to anybody-except a few mortgages. No one tells me what to do. I don’t have to remember my god-awful childhood. It’s in the past. It’s over. I’m not that scared child anymore.” She repeated her personal litany over and over as the blocks grew longer and her mind kept drifting to the past when the smell of beer on a hot night ruled her life.
Her mind drifted back to where she’d started twenty years ago, back when life was one long pain in the ass…
“I’m theven now, you are thuppothed to take care of me!” Phelma Jo yelled at her mother through her oversized and gaping front teeth. “You’re thuppothed to make sure there’th food in the houthe and cook it. Not me!” At least that was what the latest foster mother told her before Mom had sobered up and taken her away from the family that had fed and clothed her for six months.
Mom actually took care of her for almost six weeks before she brought a new boyfriend home, and he bought a bottle of the clear liquid that smelled so awful. That was five bottles and three days ago.
Now the boyfriend was trying to play Daddy and help Phelma Jo take her bath. It didn’t feel right having him touch her where she knew no one was supposed to touch her.
Before Mom could take another swig out of the latest bottle and the boyfriend could drag her back to the bathtub, Phelma Jo stomped out of the tumbledown one-bedroom house beside the railroad. The moment her feet hit the pavement, she started running, her toosmall sandals scuffing against the street. Hot tears ran down her face. Her breath came in short gasps around the huge lump inside her.
Five blocks away, straight up the cliff, The Ten Acre Wood loomed tall and dark and mysterious. A hiding place. She didn’t even look back to see if the boyfriend followed her. Or care.
The quiet coolness welcomed her on the hot summer evening. Birds chirped happily. A frog croaked from the muddy spot that in winter was a small pond. The scent of hot fir sap and sweet thistles filled her nose. Her sweat dried along with her tears as she picked her way along a faint trail to a hollow stump. Deep inside, she found the cracked and stained mason jar she’d stolen from one of the old ladies who lived across the street from the park. She unscrewed the cap and crept toward the little clearing where dragonflies rested, soaking up the last of the sunshine for the day.
Something moved in the shadows to her right. She froze in place and looked only with her eyes, suddenly afraid. The kids in school said these woods were haunted. They said that weird things happened to kids who came here alone.
Most of the time, Phelma Jo didn’t believe them. But now… the shadows grew long and the evening winds came up to chill her arms and her knees.
The shadow moved again. She dropped her gaze to a small tree that lay across her path. The biggest spider she’d ever seen crawled along the rotting wood. Brown and hairy. “I bet you’re mean ath well ath ugly,” she whispered. “As mean as the boyfriend. Well, I’m meaner. I have to be meaner.”
Cautiously, she stooped and rested the jar on the log with the open mouth toward the spider. Inch by inch, she nudged it closer to the bug. The glass bumped up against one of the hairy brown legs.
The spider raised that leg and waved it about, kinda like it was sniffing. Then it crawled inside, pausing with each step.
Phelma Jo remained as still as still could be until her prize had climbed all the way inside. Then in one swift motion she scooped the lid over the opening and screwed it tight.
“Just what I need to make life interethting. Should I turn you loothe up my mom’th thkirt while she thleeps? Maybe you’ll bite the boyfriend when hith handth get too clothe to her.”
A faint buzzing drew her attention. She batted at whatever bug dive-bombed her ear. Jewel-bright wings caught the sunlight in the clearing just ahead.
Phelma Jo watched the purple dragonfly swoop down to the mudhole, tagging the top of a frog’s head. She followed cautiously, still holding her prized spider inside the jar. Her hand unscrewed the top but left it in place as she took a wary step crossing over her previous wary step.
The birds stopped singing. The breeze faded away. All was still.
She watched as the dragonfly spread its wings and settled on a broad fern frond overhanging the dried mud at the edge of the pool. Not much water left this time of year.
Watching where she placed her feet, making sure she didn’t rustle a leaf or crack a twig, Phelma Jo moved up beside the colorful bug. She slid the jar beneath the fern, right below where the dragonfly perched.