Free Hung Out to Die by Sharon Short Page B

than my mama, but she looked just as young. She, like my mama, had made an effort to dress in a more sophisticated way than you’d expect in Paradise—even at Thanksgiving—but somehow the tweed suit and careful makeup and carefully curled bouffant looked natural on her. Compared to Effie, the style on my mama looked like something she was just trying on for dress up.
    Rich Burkette, still decked out in a suit and tie, sat next to his wife on the couch. He looked up from a book he was reading—a Lincoln biography, I noted from the title.
    Another man—Rachel’s much older half-brother Lenny, I guessed—sat apart from everyone else in an overstuffed leather chair. His tie was loose and he stared into the fire as if it were a portal to another world.
    Now this—other than Lenny’s distant gaze—really was a Norman Rockwell tableau, and it should have impressed me, but instead I felt . . . sad. Not out of a shoulda-known-the-Burkettes-would-outclass-the-Toadferns jealousy, which kind of surprised me. But because, somehow, the scene seemed empty. Like maybe it just needed a pinecone turkey or two to spruce up the utter perfection into something a little more real. I could understand Lenny’s impulse to try to gaze away.
    I tugged at my somewhat short brown corduroy skirt—a hand-me-over from Cherry—and worried that my cream poly-cotton turtleneck was too casual next to Rachel and Effie’s cashmere.
    At least, I thought, stains were easier to get out of poly-cotton . . .
    â€œMama, Daddy . . . you know Josie Toadfern, of course,” Rachel said nervously.
    Simultaneously, Rich put his book down on his lap, and Effie put her needlepoint on her lap. Then they looked at me as if I’d just teleported in from Mars. We knew of each other, of course. But even in a town with a population of just under three thousand, there are divisions. The Burkettes were from the small division that never had occasion to visit my laundromat—not even to wash throw rugs or comforters.
    Rachel then said, “Josie, did you ever meet Lenny?”
    â€œI moved to Indianapolis when she was seven,” Lenny said.
    My eyebrows went up at that. He knew my life that well? That seemed odd, and a little creepy . . . then I recollected that my daddy also had an eyebrow-lifting gesture. I lowered my eyebrows.
    â€œYou look so much like your mother did when she was younger,” Lenny said, staring at me. He was a rather small, gently featured man, but there was something both compelling and piercing about his eyes. “Although she was prettier . . .”
    â€œLenny and your mother were friends—just friends—back in high school.” I jumped, looked at Effie Burkette. She was a petite, thin woman, her face tense, her neck a bit stringy. She added, “Would you care for some spiced wassail, dear?”
    â€œWassail?” I snapped the word.
    â€œWell, if you don’t care for it,” Effie started, sounding disappointed.
    â€œOh, no, it’s just . . .” I stopped. I couldn’t exactly say, it’s just I’m a little peeved—not to say creeped out and confused—about your son’s comment about my mama being prettier. And by the fact he keeps staring at me. At least, I didn’t think I should say all that five minutes into the visit.
    Rich chuckled. “Effie just can’t resist making it year after year,” he said. “Even though no one particularly cares for it and I always tell her sherry’s the thing after a fine meal. It’s her down-home ways, I guess.” He chuckled again, held up his glass, and patted her on the knee.
    Down-home ways? There was nothing down home about this refurbished farmhouse—or anyone in it. Even in the way everyone spoke. There was a clipped edge to their tone, not the soft twang of most Paradisites’ speech. Paradise may be in Ohio, but