“What’s that sound?” I asked.
“Police scanner,” Bo said. “I keep it on all the time, just in case …” She trailed off. “You said you brought me something?”
“Oh, yeah.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the book from Goodwill. “Thought you might like this. Merry Christmas.”
She took the book from my hands, but she didn’t say anything. Not for a long second.
“Do you like it?” I asked.
Her voice cracked when she answered. “I can’t take this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I ain’t got nothing for you,” she said. “I wanted to get you something, but I just don’t got the money to—”
“That’s all right.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Bo,” I said. “It’s a book from Goodwill. I didn’t spend a lot. And …” I hesitated. “Honestly? You know what I’d like in return? And it doesn’t cost a thing?”
“What?”
“Can you read me some of those poems?” I asked. “I’m still not real good with poetry. Still don’t get it most of the time. But I love hearing you read it and explain it. That’s all I want from you.”
Bo seemed to think on this for a second before saying, “All right. I reckon I can do that.”
“Good.” I folded up my cane and tucked it under my arm as I looked around. The trailer was pretty dark, and the windows looked like they were covered with sheets instead of curtains.
Bo must’ve seen me looking, because she said, “It ain’t real nice, I know. Not like your house. But—”
“Can I see your room?” I asked.
She hadn’t given me an answer yet when the front door burst open and Utah let out a startled bark from somewhere in the living room.
“Oh, shut up, you damn mutt,” a woman’s voice snapped.
“Mama.” Bo sounded just as surprised as the dog. “What’re you doing here?”
“Live here, don’t I?”
In the pale light, I could barely even make out her outline, though I still had a pretty good memory from the day when I’d first seen her in the front yard, screaming at the trees. “Who’s this?” she asked.
I guess she didn’t remember that day quite as well.
“Uh … Mama, this is Agnes,” Bo said. “Agnes Atwood.”
“Hi,” I said, giving a little wave in her general direction.
“Atwood,” Mrs. Dickinson repeated. “Your daddy owns the hardware store, right?’
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I see a lot of people going in and out of there. Y’all must make a lot of money off that place.”
“Mama …”
“What? I’m just saying—it’s great for her dad. Probably a pretty penny. Ain’t it, Agnes? Y’all do pretty well for yourselves, I’d imagine.”
There was something strange about her voice. She sounded jumpy. Like she was teetering on the edge of something. And whatever it was, it made me nervous.
“You’re friends with Bo now, huh?” she continued. “She’s always at your house these days. I hardly ever see her. You might as well be family. And since we’re family, maybe you and your folks can help us out.”
“Mama, don’t.”
“I’m only kidding!” Mrs. Dickinson said. “Agnes knows that. Right, Agnes?”
“Uh …” I glanced at Bo and wished I could make out her face in this light.
“But,” Mrs. Dickinson continued, “friends do help each other out, don’t they? And we ain’t had heat almost all winter. I’m just pointing out that they could help us, since y’all are so close now. A hundred bucks or so could go a long way. And that probably ain’t nothing to y’all, Agnes. With the store doing well.”
I just stood there, not knowing what to do or say. Nobody had ever asked me for money before. Not even in this roundabout way. Where we lived, we grew up being taught never to ask for things like that. Never to put people on the spot. You waited until it was offered, and even then, you were supposed to say no at least once. I wasn’t sure why. That was just the way it was. It was a rule everyone followed.
Everyone but Bo’s mama, apparently.
“You oughta go to bed,” Bo told her. “You seem tired.”
That’s when it shifted. When the ledge Mrs. Dickinson had been teetering on crumbled.
“Are you telling me what to do?” she yelled.
Bo, who’d moved to stand next to me, flinched. “No. I’m just trying to help, Mama.”
“Bullshit! Don’t you act like you’re taking care of me. Why’re you trying to get rid of me, huh? You embarrassed?”
“Mama—”
“Because I’m the one who oughta be embarrassed,” she hissed. “You think I ain’t heard? I know you been whoring around town, Bo. I ain’t stupid. I’m the one who oughta be embarrassed of my slut of a daughter.”
Bo’s hand closed around mine. “Let’s go, Agnes.”
“Wait a minute,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “Is that why she’s here? You fucking her, too? Gone through all the men in town, so you gotta start sleeping with girls, too?”