Her contentment was interrupted by a knock and a shrill but musical voice. “Yoo-hooooo!”
Kit opened the door to see Sugar Faye and another woman looking like they were dressed up for a party. Sugar was wearing high-heeled boots and stylish dark jeans that cinched her waist and flared a little where her stomach stressed the zipper. Her slip of a top was the color and texture of pearl. Kit wondered how many people she had to pay to keep something like that clean. The woman beside her looked country next to her cosmopolitan friend, but not for lack of trying. She wore a floppy brown sun hat over her bouffant and a knee-length mustard vest with matching pants that made her look even shorter than she was.
“Howdy, Kit—hey, Eleanor! How do?” Sugar called out.
“I’m still here,” said Eleanor drily. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Praise Jesus,” said Sugar. “Kit, this is Beulah Baker.” Beulah waved a little wave from the wrist up, jangling her charm bracelet.
“Nice to meetcha,” Beulah said. Her voice was high, like her vocal cords hadn’t grown up with the rest of her, and there was a sour twist to her smile. There must have been a can of hairspray between the two of them, and the smell reminded Kit of Red.
“Listen,” Sugar said. “Beulah and me were going to hang out at my house, maybe go swimming or do makeup. Nothing fancy, just us girls. I thought you might like to join.”
Kit couldn’t think of anything at that moment that was less appealing to her. It was friendly of them to have come by, but she figured they were just being nice. That, or Eleanor had put them up to it.
“That’s okay,” she said and gestured toward the canning operation in the kitchen. “I have a bunch of work to do.”
Sugar and Beulah glanced at each other.
“Eleanor,” Sugar called through the doorway. “You ever let this girl out of the house?”
“I try,” Eleanor said, drying her hands on her apron. “She’s a hopeless homebody like me.”
Beulah turned to Sugar and whispered not very quietly, “See? I told you she wasn’t interested—”
“Shoosh!” Sugar snapped, then turned a kinder face to Kit. “Now listen, I won’t take no for an answer. You can’t just show up to a bored little town, looking all exotic and mysterious, and not let us size you up. I won’t have it.” She let out a high-pitched tinkle of laughter.
Kit kind of respected her honesty, though she sure didn’t like the idea of being a subject of conversation.
“Get outta here, girl,” Eleanor said, taking off her apron. She hung it on a nail and crossed over to Kit. “Everyone needs a friend, even you.”
Kit was trapped between the women at the door and Eleanor. “But what about the jars?” she asked hopefully. “Don’t you need me to pick up some more?”
Eleanor put up a hand. “That’s all right, I’ll make do just fine. You go be young,” she said, smiling.
“Come on, Kit,” Sugar said and jangled her keys. “Jump in my car, we’ll ride together.”
Kit was reluctant to go party with strangers. She flashed Eleanor a look that said save me, but her aunt did not seem to get the message. They all appeared to be waiting for her answer.
“Okay,” Kit finally said. “But I’ll drive myself.”
Sugar clapped her hands together like a kid at a circus. “Hot dog! There we go.”
“Keys are on the hook,” Eleanor said and handed her a rolled-up five-dollar bill from her purse. “Here’s a little cash,” she said with a gleeful spark, “in case you go out honky-tonkin’.”
Kit took the money and said thank you. Then she leaned in and whispered to her aunt, “Are you sure you don’t need me here?” But Eleanor turned her toward the door and gave her a gentle push.
Kit took the brown and white pickup and followed Sugar’s jacked-up Bronco over the bumpy farm roads until they hit the nice smooth highway that led to the bigger ranches. Sugar signaled the turn and Kit followed her down a short gravel road lined with poplars and around a circular drive. They parked in front of her house, new construction made to look like a lodge with big barky logs. Inside it was king-size with custom everything, a trophy of a home. There was a menagerie of game on the walls and a collection of firearms on display as if to offer proof of who had shot those animals. The living room was three full-size sofas arranged around a curly buffalo pelt rug. It was at once ostentatious and welcoming, intimidating and comfortable. She couldn’t help but want to kick off her boots and stretch out on the leather sofa that was draped in throw blankets, large and plush. Kit couldn’t fathom how someone went about paying for a place like this.
A towheaded child with Sugar’s angelic face toddled down the hall toward his mother.
“Hiiiiii, baby!” she squealed, so loud Kit could feel her inner ears pulse. “Oooh, come to Mama!” The little boy tripped forward into her arms. She held him close and gave him a little squeeze.
“Do you want to hold Nestor, Kit?” Sugar said, eyeing the bump of Kit’s stomach.
Nestor was pudgy and cute and had a sticky brown mess around his mouth, but Kit felt no warmth for the boy. She held him out straight-armed, his legs kicking around. She was shocked at how dense and heavy he was for such a small child. The boy arched his back and whined.
“I swear to God,” Sugar said, laughing in disbelief. “I never saw a Mexican that wasn’t born knowing how to take care of children.”
Kit passed Nestor back to Sugar, irritated by the slight. Sugar took a lolly out of her purse, unwrapped it, and let Nestor suckle it while she stroked his hair.
“Yeah,” Beulah chimed in. “Haven’t you ever been around babies? Didn’t you grow up with a million brothers and sisters and cousins and stuff?” She poured cold white wine into glasses.
“I’m not Mexican,” Kit said. Of course, she could have been but couldn’t say for sure where her father came from. She didn’t see the point in claiming that she was or being the subject of Sugar’s opinion about how Mexican or not Kit measured up to be.
Sugar rolled her eyes, frustrated at having to clarify. “Salvadorean, Guatemalan, you know what I mean.”
Kit stared at her, wishing she could summon Manny’s charms. He’d take charge of the conversation without offending, distract with a flattering question and a wink.
Sugar went on. “Now don’t give me that look, I mean that in the best way. I learned everything I know about babies from our live-in. I swear, when Robbie Two was born I didn’t know which hole to feed and which one to wipe! She is a goddamn hero, that woman. Glory? Glo-dia!” Sugar said with an accent meant to sound like Spanish. She kept looking in the direction she expected Gloria to come from until a woman in her fifties did, in fact, appear in the hallway, an older boy, about four years old, with his hands in the back pocket of her jeans. “Mande?” she said. She looked tired, and scolded the boy lightly in Spanish.