Free Aurora 08 - Poppy Done To Death by Charlaine Harris Page A

clothes and stuff,” he said. “It was neat to find the bags in the room when I woke up.”
    I was glad I’d passed a rack of those drawstring flannel pants at Wal-Mart, because that was what Phillip was wearing, the pants and the sleeveless T-shirt he’d had on under his flannel shirt.
    “I was glad to do it.”
    “Listen, what’s happening about your sister-in-law?” he asked.
    I told him what the situation was, and he was openmouthed at the awfulness of the adult world. Moments like this reminded me how young my brother really was.
    “I’ll bet you’re hungry,” I said.
    “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes. Just point me at the kitchen. I can fix stuff myself.”
    “Has your mom been working these past few years?” I felt guilty for not knowing this basic fact about Phillip’s life.
    “Yeah, ever since we moved to Pomona, she’s worked at an insurance company as a clerk.”
    “I talked to her.”
    He froze in the act of turning on the oven. He’d already found the box of Bagel Bites in the freezer compartment. “Um, how is she?” There were so many layers to his voice—guilt, anger, grief—it was hard to pick the dominant emotion.
    “Glad you’re okay. Relieved she knows where you are. Not too happy that you’re with me.”
    “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
    “You don’t have to apologize. She wants you to be safe and happy more than anything.”
    “Then why can’t they act like it?” he said furiously. “Why can’t they act like parents, instead of switching partners like they were kids?”
    This was a complex bunch of ideas. I was beginning to get the feeling that there was no simple way to raise a teenager, or even to answer the questions one might ask you. Was every conversation with my brother going to be as loaded as this one? The prospect was exhausting.
    “People don’t always do what I wish they would, either,” I said. In fact, people stubbornly lived their lives as they wanted, without regard to me, to an amazing degree. I suppressed this observation, as I expected it wouldn’t find favor with Phillip.
    We talked for over an hour while Phillip ate (and ate, and ate). I told him about the possible arrival of Poppy’s parents and introduced him to Madeleine, who came in while he was wiping his mouth with a napkin.
    “Is that a cat?” he asked, regarding Madeleine with startled eyes.
    “Sure,” I said, trying not to sound offended. “She’s really old, I know. . . .”
    “She’s really fat .”
    “Well, that, too. She doesn’t get as much exercise as she used to, now that we live in town.”
    “She probably can’t walk more than five feet,” Phillip said scornfully.
    “I guess she is a little dumpy,” I said, wondering how long it had been since I’d actually looked at Madeleine and really evaluated her. “You know, she must be—let’s see, when my friend Jane died and left me Madeleine, she was at least six years old. That was at least seven years ago. Wow, Madeleine, you are really old.” I tended to forget between vet appointments.
    “Almost as old as I am,” my brother said.
    That was a startling thought. I wondered if any of Madeleine’s kittens were still alive. I scrabbled around in my memory for the names of the kind people who’d adopted them. That led to another thought, one I should have mentioned earlier.
    “Oh, your mom said it was okay for you to stay this week,” I told him.
    Phillip hadn’t asked, but he’d been anxious; I could see his shoulders relax. I scolded myself for not having told him sooner. A deep sigh left him, as if the weight of the world had squeezed the air out of his lungs.
    “I’ll clean up the kitchen this time,” I told my brother, “but from now on, when you use it, you wash it. That’s the rule.”
    “Thanks,” he said. “I clean up at home, honest. Sometimes I vacuum and stuff, when it’s on my list.”
    I’d done the few dishes, wiped down the kitchen surfaces, and straightened up the living room a little,