Free Angels Burning by Tawni O’Dell Page B

sleeping more nights than in my own bed.
    All the rooms are painted a different color. My kitchen is the deep blue of the sky on a perfect autumn day. My den is the reddish-brown of fallen pine needles carpeting a forest floor. My bedroom is lilac, my favorite flower that grows on a bush. My guest room is Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpet, my favorite food that comes off a factory assembly line. I’ve forgotten the colors of the living room and dining room; I never go in there. The jungle room is still a jungle and the grotto is barren except for a beanbag chair, a minifridge stocked with beer, and a reading lamp.
    Once I was on my own as an adult and I had a dependable income, I discovered cooking could be rewarding and a lot of fun if a person could actually afford to buy the necessary ingredients. As a kid, I had no choice but to construct meals for my siblings and me from what was around and what we could afford, and for the most part this included boxes of dried macaroni, cans of cat-food-grade tuna, Wonder Bread that turned to a sticky paste the moment it hit our tongues, slimy bought-on-the-day-of-expiration bologna, ketchup and mustard packets Mom brought home from dates, Chef Boyardee’s entire repertoire, and when life was good, hot dogs; sometimes I was even able to wrap them in Pillsbury crescent rolls.
    Now I love to cook. It relaxes me.
    I kick off my shoes, change into a pair of shorts and a tank top, and head for the kitchen, where I flick on the small TV sitting on my countertop and grab a beer out of the fridge while perusing its contents for tonight’s supper.
    Behind me I hear my own voice and turn around to see me on the local news telling a reporter that this is a terrible tragedy and our department will be working diligently with the state police to bring the perpetrator to justice.
    I squint at the screen, then pull open a drawer looking for a pair of glasses.
    I’ve never been to an eye doctor in my life, and I don’t intend to start now. I refuse to accept that I might need serious, all-day-long eye assistance. Instead, I’ve become an enthusiastic proponent of reading glasses. I have them scattered throughout my house, my car, at work. I was relieved to discover they’re cheap and can be bought anywhere from drugstores and grocery stores to T.J.Maxx, where I found a boxed set of three pairs with gaudy, designer frames for $12. My favorite is a pair that looks like green apple and watermelon Jolly Ranchers have been melted together.
    I find a pair with leopard-print frames and plunk them on my face.
    The camera really does add ten pounds, because there’s no way that extra ten pounds around my middle is my fault, I assure myself while I take another swig from my beer and rip off a chunk of the crusty bread I picked up on my way home from Zuchelli’s Bakery.
    My image dissolves into one of the Truly family standing outside their home. Jessy’s holding her baby in one arm and has the other around a miserable-looking, raw-eyed Tug, who’s taken his cap off and holds it respectfully in his too-big hands as if he’s already mourning in a church. Shawna’s holding Derk by the shoulders and has him placed directly in front of her like a shield. He twists and fidgets, fighting his captor, and I watch her fingers dig into him.
    There’s a man with them I assume to be Clark Truly. Bad teeth and a bad mullet are his only distinguishing features. He looks a good twentyyears older than the forty-two he has under his belt. I attribute this to the booze, but some of it could also be due to the instant aging that occurs when a man’s called home from the road to face the brutal murder of his daughter.
    He’s got a good sway going on and his words are slightly slurred.
    â€œWe got nothing to say except whoever done this better hope the cops get to them first.”
    The reporter wisely decides not to pursue the family interview any further, but before the