Free Cherry Bites by Alison Preston Page A

card—access to the dead—he resisted.
    She invited me over in a loud voice when she knew he was in the next room.
    “There’s a guy at the funeral home who blew his brains out in a car. Do you want to come and look at him?”
    “No,” I said. “But thanks for asking.”
    We did go to the Red Top Carwash where we heard that the car, a ’57 Caddy, was being cleaned. Pete was there, too, with Tim and Ralph, gaping, like we were. A man took a hose to the inside of the car. Something slippery and grey spilled out onto the pavement. I’ll never forget the smell. It reminded me of worms on sidewalks after rain.
    “What if I’d said yes?” I asked Myrna.
    We sat in a booth at the Red Top with our root beers and our cigarettes. The restaurant was next door to the car wash. The same three men owned both businesses.
    “Pardon?” said Myrna.
    “What if I had said yes, I did want to see the dead guy?”
    “I knew you wouldn’t.”
    “But what if I did?”
    “I wouldn’t let you. It’s private.”
    “So it’s all for show, you and your fancy offers.”
    Myrna smiled. “Don’t tell anybody.”
    I woke up screaming that night. Nora’s boyfriend, Mr. Jones, came to check on me. He stood in the doorway of my room and asked if everything was all right.
    “Yes, thanks,” I said.
    What else could I say to a stranger?

CHAPTER 10
    I wanted to set Nora’s journal aside for a while after reading the bit about Luce lying down for the men. But I couldn’t leave it for long. It was like a drug, one of the nasty ones, that whispers your name like an angel and then leaves you feeling wretched before you’re even done with it.
    So I sat down again with a glass of iced tea and read on.
    August, 1939
    Luce locked me in the root seller before the men came. The men and Darcy. When I started out yelling Luce said she’d stuff my mouth with dirty rags to shut me up so I didn’t yell for long. I did nothing wrong I swear. I reckon it’s to do with the men having at her but that’s nothing to do with me. It’s not fair. She stared down at me with her bad black eyes, the sky white behind her all wrong. I thought skies were sposed to be blue.
    I took Spike for a walk, to get us both some air. We went to the river. Spike wanted to go in the water, but I didn’t let him. It’s full of poisons.
    We walked down Taché Avenue to Norwood United Church and on to my friend Hermione’s place, Cuts Only. She was still open. Hermione is a haircutter who does me when I need it and Joanne and Myrna too.
    “Well, well, well,” she said as we scrabbled through the door. Spike slipped on the wooden floor in his excitement to get to her. All conceivable colours of hair stuck to his fur. Hermione was cutting her own hair, taking long hanks of her salt and pepper tresses and snipping them off near her scalp.
    She put down her scissors and scooped Spike up in her arms. She kissed him and he sneezed and licked her face and sneezed again.
    “What on earth are you doing?” I asked.
    She laughed. “I’m going to shave my head. Hey! You can help!” She set Spike down and he shook himself off as best he could and sat blinking up at her.
    “Why?”
    “I don’t like the white mixed in with the dark brown. It makes me look dowdy.”
    “No, it doesn’t.”
    “Yes, it does.” She looked in the mirror. Half her head was short tufts, the other half long and wavy. “Maybe when it’s all gone white I’ll be okay with it.”
    “Are you sure about this?” I asked.
    “Yes, I am.”
    “How about just colouring it or highlighting it or something?”
    “I don’t do colours. I don’t do highlights. That’s why this place is called Cuts Only. You know that.”
    “You could make an exception for yourself,” I said.
    Hermione filled a bowl with water and stray hair and set it on the floor for Spike, who slurped eagerly till he had his fill. Then he coughed for a while and Hemione went back to her image in the mirror.
    “I’ve been reading