Sam followed her into the kitchen. She sat down at the counter. She watched Charlie tidy the counters and load the dishwasher. She said, “I don’t think he suffered.”
Charlie took two mugs down from the cabinet. She poured coffee into one. She added tap water to the other and put it in the microwave. “You can leave after the funeral. Or before. I don’t think it matters. Dad won’t know, and you don’t care what people here think.”
Sam ignored the pointed remark. “Ben was very kind to me before he left last night.”
“Where’s your tea?” Charlie retrieved Sam’s purse from the bench by the door. “It’s in here, right?”
“Side pocket.”
She found the Ziploc in Sam’s purse and slid it across the counter. “Can we acknowledge that Ben’s not living here without actually having to have a conversation about it?”
“I think we’ve been doing that for a while.” Sam pulled out a tea sachet. She tossed it to Charlie. “Do you have milk?”
“Why would I have milk?”
Sam shrugged and shook her head at the same time. “I didn’t forget that you’re lactose intolerant. I thought maybe Ben—” She saw the futility in a drawn-out explanation. “Let’s try to get through the day without arguing again. Or continuing the argument from yesterday. Or whatever it is we’re doing.”
The microwave beeped. Charlie found a potholder. She put the mug on the counter. She pulled a saucer from the cabinet. Sam studied the back of her shirt. Charlie had put her math club handle in iron-on letters on the back of her shirt: Lois Common Denominator.
Sam asked, “What’s going to happen to Kelly Wilson? Will that alcoholic, Grail, get the case?”
Charlie turned around. She placed the mug in front of Sam. The saucer was on top for unknown reasons. “There’s a guy in Atlanta, Steve LaScala. I think I can get him to take over. He might call you for your impressions.”
“I’ll leave you my number.”
“Ben has it.”
Sam put the saucer on the bottom. She dipped the tea bag in and out of the water. “If this LaScala won’t do it pro bono, then I’ll pay him.”
Charlie snorted. “That’s gonna be over a million bucks.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s what Dad would want me to do.”
“Since when do you do what Dad wants you to do?”
Sam felt their temporary peace start to tear at the margins. “Dad loved you. It was one of the last things he talked about.”
“Don’t start that.”
“He was worried about you.”
“I’m sick of people being worried about me.”
“On behalf of people, we’re sick of it, too.” Sam looked up from the mug. “Charlie, whatever is bothering you, it’s not worth it. This anger you have. This sadness.”
“My father is dead. My husband left me. The last few days have been the shittiest days I’ve had since you were shot and Mama died. I’m sorry I’m not happy and peppy for you, Sam, but my give-a-fuck is broken.” Charlie drank her coffee. She looked out the kitchen window. Birds had flocked to the feeder.
This was the time, perhaps the last opportunity, for Sam to tell her sister about Anton. She wanted Charlie to know that she understood what it meant to be loved, and what a crushing responsibility that love could sometimes be. They could trade secrets the way they had when they were little—I’ll tell you about that boy I have a crush on if you tell me why Gamma put you on restriction for three days.
Sam said, “Rusty told me that the letters from Zachariah Culpepper were nothing. The police know about them. He’s just desperate. He’s trying to get a rise out of us. Don’t let him win.”
“I think you forfeit your participation trophy when you’re on death row.” Charlie put down her coffee. She crossed her arms. “Go ahead. What else did he say?”
“He talked to me about the death penalty.”
“Did he make you put your fingers on his wrist?”
Sam felt hoodwinked yet again. “How did he never get run out of town for selling fake band instruments?”
“He didn’t want me to go to Culpepper’s execution. If the state ever gets around to doing its job.” Charlie shook her head, as if the death of a man was a mild inconvenience. “I’m not sure if I want to go. But nothing Rusty says, said, is going to influence my decision.”
Sam hoped that was not true. “He told me about a photo of Mama.”
“The photo?”
“A different one, one he says that neither of us has seen.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Charlie said. “We used to go through all of his stuff. He had no privacy.”
Sam shrugged. “He said it was in his office at home. I’d like to get it before I leave.”
“Ben can take you by the HP after the funeral.”
The farmhouse. Sam did not want to go, but she would not leave town without having at least one piece of her mother to take back to New York. “I can help you cover that.” Sam indicated the bruises on Charlie’s face. “For the funeral.”
“Why would I want to cover it?”
Sam could not think of a good reason. No one would likely be at the funeral, at least no one Sam wanted to see. Rusty had hardly been a popular figure in town. Sam would make an appearance, then she would go to the farmhouse, then she would wait for Stanislav to drive up from Atlanta and leave this place as fast as she could.
That was, if she could manage to find the energy to stand. The muscle relaxer was still in her system. She could feel the drug weighing her down. Sam had been awake less than fifteen minutes and she could have just as easily gone back to sleep.
She picked up the mug of tea.
“Don’t drink that.” Charlie’s cheeks were flush. “It’s got boob sweat.”
“It’s got—”
“Boob sweat,” Charlie said. “I ran the tea bag under my bra when you weren’t looking.”
Sam put down the mug. She should have been irritated, but she laughed. “Why would you do that?”
“Don’t expect me to explain myself,” Charlie said. “I don’t know why I’m acting like a kid again, pestering you, trying to annoy you, trying to get your attention. I see myself doing it and I fucking hate it.”
“Then stop.”
She groaned out a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to fight, Sam. Dad wouldn’t want that, especially not today.”
“Actually, Dad loved arguments.”
“Not the hurtful kind.”
Sam drank some tea. She needed the caffeine too much to care what was in it. “So, what now?”
“I guess I’m going to go cry in the shower and then get ready for my father’s hastily arranged funeral.”
Charlie rinsed her coffee mug in the sink. She loaded it into the dishwasher. She wiped her hands on a towel. She started to leave.
“My husband died.” Sam had pushed out the words so fast that she wasn’t sure Charlie had heard them. “His name was Anton. We were married for twelve years.”
Charlie’s lips parted in surprise.
“He died thirteen months ago. Esophageal cancer.”
Charlie’s mouth moved as she tried to think what to say. She settled on, “I’m sorry.”
“It was tannins,” Sam said. “In wine. They’re—”
“I know what tannins are. I thought that kind of cancer was caused by HPV.”
“His tumor tested negative.” Sam offered, “I can send you the research.”