Free The Pillow Friend by Lisa Tuttle

aunt stepped forward and hugged her briefly and awkwardly. Agnes inhaled the mingled smells of stale cigarettes, sweat, and patchouli oil, and Marjorie withdrew.
    “How was your journey?”
    “Fine, thank you.”
    “Both of these bags yours?”
    “I brought a lot of books. Mother said I should, in case . . .”
    “That's right, you'll need them. I don't have television, and I won't have time to entertain you. You'll have lots of time for reading. Put them in there.” She gestured at a little red wagon.
    Agnes hesitated. “Where's your car?”
    “That's it, princess. The baggage car.”
    “You don't have a car?” The idea was shocking. Until now, she had not met a single grown-up person without a car. “How do you—”
    “I walk,” said Marjorie shortly. “And so do you, unless you want to spend the night at the Camptown filling station.” She grabbed the wagon handle and marched away, pulling it behind her.
    Agnes didn't move. She had a sudden vision of her mother on the telephone pleading, wheedling, blackmailing, and of Marjorie, unhappily, grudgingly, giving in.
    It was hot and quiet and still, the air buzzing slightly with an insect noise, and no cars in sight. When she turned her head she could see the grimy windows of the service station office and, inside, a man in overalls sitting on a chair, his feet up on the desk, gazing at her with a bored lack of curiosity. Marjorie's figure grew smaller in the distance, walking back down the empty highway in the direction from which the bus had come, pulling the wagon with Agnes' luggage behind her. The sound of the wheels on the road grew fainter. She did not pause or look back. If she didn't move, nothing would change, nothing would get better, no one would come for her. At last she started to walk. Then, fearful of getting lost, she began to run.
    She caught up as her aunt was leaving the highway for an unpaved road that wound into the forest. The air was still hot, despite the shade, and smelled of pine needles, resin and dust.
    “Why don't you have a car?”
    “Can't afford one.”
    “Oh.” She had known that Mary and Marjorie had grown up “dirt-poor” in the backwoods of Texas, raised by their grandmother after their feckless teenaged mother took off for parts unknown. Mary had left Camptown the day after she graduated from high school and hitchhiked to Houston, where she'd found a job as an assistant salesclerk and mannequin for Battlestein's. What Marjorie had done when her sister left, Agnes didn't know. She had assumed they'd left together, left their unhappy past behind forever, but here was her aunt, still poor, still living in the woods.
    “Actually,” said Marjorie. “That is not, strictly speaking, true.”
    “What?”
    “Why I don't have a car. If I lived here all the time, I would. But I'd rather save my money for traveling, and in the cities where I like to be, New York or London or Paris, a car is a burden, not a necessity. When I'm out of the cities, when I come back here, I come to work, not to gad about. Being here is a sort of retreat, and I have to be very frugal. When the money runs out, back I go to the city to get a job.”
    “What work are you doing here?”
    “I'm writing my autobiography. Here, we take the right fork, remember that and you won't get lost when you come by yourself. The left fork takes you to the pond.”
    “A pond? Can I go swimming?”
    “Not by yourself.”
    “Will you take me?”
    “I'll try to make time.”
    She had expected a Marjorie who was glad to see her, but this woman seemed as impatient and unforthcoming as her mother at her worst. In desperation she asked, “Are there any kids who live around here? Kids I could play with . . . maybe go swimming with . . . I mean.”
    “I'm sure there must be some children in Camptown. I haven't noticed.”
    “Your neighbors don't have any?”
    “
These
are my neighbors.” She gestured at the surrounding trees.
    The forest was quiet except for the