Around ten in the morning, Charlie and Doc showed up with a fistful of ugly balloons and a pink teddy bear.
“Get rid of that shit,” Kit said, and they laughed at her. Doc let the balloons bob upward, scatter on the ceiling, and Charlie tossed the bear in the linens basket. They moved in to hug her, and she let them, even hugged them back, though reluctance was still her habit.
“Here, I brought you some clothes from home,” Charlie said, holding out a big plastic Walmart bag.
Kit took the bag and held it open, looked inside. “Thanks.”
Charlie paused, chewed on her lip. “I figured you probably didn’t want to wear your frickin’ murder clothes.”
Kit laughed and winced at the pain of laughter. “Good thinking,” she said. “Whatever I was wearing they cut right off of me. This’ll be just fine.”
The effort of dressing and getting into Doc’s van and being friendly to Doc and Charlie knocked her out as soon as they got on the road. Kit relaxed to the sounds of Doc’s bayou vowels and Charlie’s hoarse interjections, the rush of the wind through the windows, and drifted in and out of sleep.
The thrum of the cattle guard awoke her, and as she took in the sight of the little ranch house, Kit scarcely recognized it. Once a shabby, flaking gray, the clapboard had been stripped and painted a gorgeous cream, with moss green windows and doors. Someone had filled the holes in the drive, which was now cushy with fresh gravel. And there were people—dozens of them—milling about, holding drinks, shooting the shit.
“What the hell is going on?” Kit said, feeling unsteady.
“Surprise, babe, this is for you!” Doc said and parked the van.
Charlie beamed and clapped her hands. “Mom! Can you believe it?” she said. Kit hadn’t seen Charlie so excited in years. “Mom, get out! Everyone’s waiting!” Charlie bounded out of the van, ran a few steps and waited, then ran back to the van to help Kit out. There was a squeamish rumble in Kit’s stomach as she stuck both legs out the door and slid to her feet. She got the nerve to look at the crowd, the faces she recognized but had never bothered to understand. The people of Pecan Hollow were smiling and applauding.
“Mom, you’re a frickin’ hero,” Charlie said. “Everybody knows what you did, how you saved us from him. People kept calling and stopping by, asking me what they could do to make things right. I said I didn’t know but could someone clear out the brambles from the back door? So, they pooled together and cleared the brambles and then some. They’ve been working these last couple weeks to fancy up the house. Isn’t it awesome?”
The sounds of hoots and cattle calls, many hands clapping, morphed into one sound, like water in her ears. The look on Charlie’s face, ecstatic and impatient, begged for a reaction. Kit was embarrassed and confused. She didn’t know how to act or what to say. Were they mocking her? She tensed up thinking about people creeping around the house without her knowing. The one place where she had felt safe, crawling with strangers. But they hadn’t been creeping, had they? They had been helping. Even if it wasn’t the kind of help she asked for, it was something. And here they all were with sorry in their eyes. This resentment she’d been carrying had been so comfortable, much easier to bear than forgiveness.
“You did this for me?” she asked, too quietly for them to hear.
Doc slid the van door behind her, as if to cue her to move forward.
“Well,” Charlie said, laughing. “What the hell do you think?” For the first time she noticed how nice Charlie looked, her thick hair brushed and braided, a clean white blouse that was new to Kit, tucked into her jeans. And so tall.
She cleared her throat, reached out for Charlie’s hand, and shuffled toward the steps, now patched and painted the same mossy green as the front door. As she scanned the faces there was one, in particular, she hoped to see. But there were so many, and she could not make Caleb out among all the cowboy hats. She tested the first step with her foot and it was strong and did not creak. There was a full-bodied, expectant silence behind her. She could smell the paint, and the young thyme they’d planted in the window boxes. When she stepped inside, she was relieved to see that most of the interior had been cleaned, but unchanged. It comforted her to be among Eleanor’s things, maybe now more than ever.
Charlie tugged her, too hard, toward the kitchen. A burst of pain.
“Look in the fridge,” she said. “Just look!”
There was a basket full of green apples, a block of cheese and butter, three loaves of bread, two dozen eggs, and homemade pickles and jams. There was a gooey pecan pie and a gallon of milk, a ham, two rolls of ready-made biscuits, and breakfast sausage in a tube. People had crowded around the house, and a few started to poke their heads in.
Sugar Faye pushed her way inside with a cooler rolling behind her, high heels muddy, gold bracelets jangling.
“Welcome hoooome,” she said. “Do you like it? Did it just blow your mind? I chaired the food committee, of course,” she said proudly. “Lookee here in the freezer.” Her nails clicked on the freezer handle as she pulled the door open. Behind a gust of chilly mist were stacks of glass dishes covered in foil. “There’s spaghetti casserole and chicken tetrazzini, King Ranch casserole and enchiladas and two trays of cornbread.”
Her fridge hadn’t been so full or so tempting since Eleanor. Still, Kit was too resentful to thank them.
“And here, I got us some hot tamales and pimento cheese sandwiches and a thermos of lemonade spiked with my cousin’s homemade hooch,” Sugar said, and she winked conspicuously at Kit before pulling her into a warm, perfumed hug. “You know, for the pain.”
Kit just stood there, stony, until Sugar backed off. The anger flared up, snatched away her breath. She grabbed the back of the chair, swayed by the sudden spike of emotion. She felt a heaviness she knew would only lift if she faced the waiting crowd, the same people who had shouted her out of the church like a flea-bitten stray.
“You ran me off,” she said aloud, her voice cracking. She heard someone gasp, another coughed. People outside craned toward the windows to hear. Everyone’s eyes were on her.
“I needed your help,” she said and pointed at Charlie. “She needed you.”
Apart from the small sounds of many people gathered together, all was silent. The faces she saw were long and sorry, some ashamed.
“She’s right,” someone said. It was Pastor Tom, leaning against the banister. She waited for something long-winded, but that was it. A few people murmured in agreement.