“Wait,” I said as she started away. “It gets better. She find out her brother is her father
.”
She slammed the door of her bedroom. Cory, who was reading a motorcycle magazine, looked up at me.
“Robin Lyn, what’s your sin for today going to be?”
“Living with you,” I shot back. His smile wilted as I strutted back to the kitchen to wash down the refrigerator. Grandma always said, “You can’t be clean on the inside if you’re not clean on the outside.”
I wondered what she really meant.
8
Drifting Deeper into the Abyss
Every night for the rest of the week, Keefer came to visit me. I really had little to do with anyone else. Kathy Ann’s parents had heard about the truck accident, either from her own mouth or from some other gossips in the complex who witnessed it, and they told her to stay away from me or she would be grounded until school began again. She came into the laundry to tell me.
“Of course, I can meet you downtown sometimes,” she said, “but I can’t come up to Cory’s apartment or anything like that.”
“Don’t worry about it. Oh,” I said, “how’s Axel?”
She looked down.
“Nothing bad happened to him, did it?”
“He hasn’t called me since that night, and I went and bought something for him, too,” she complained.
“Well, football players are like that,” I said as if I had all the experience in the world with them. “Maybe he got hit in the head since then,” I offered. “How’s Charlotte Lily?”
“All right, I guess.” Her face brightened. “I told her about you and Keefer and all and she sounded jealous.”
“Why? She was the one who told me he wasn’t worth her time.”
Kathy Ann shrugged, glanced out the window nervously, and then said she would try to see me later. She hurried away.
Now, I thought, I’m like a leper here. Mother darling, if you’re going to be a success, you’d better be one soon and get us somewhere nicer to live.
What Mother darling and Cory did manage to do was get me an interview for that job in the supermarket. She was excited enough about it to get herself up early so she could drive me to the supermarket to meet the manager, a man named Al Ritter. He was lean and dark, with a very black mustache and the deepest cleft chin I had ever seen. His office was cluttered with postings on the walls, and his desk was buried under forms and mailings.
He began by asking me to fill out an application. There was a question that asked if I, the applicant, had ever been arrested. Since my court date was coming up the following week and if I got the job, I would have to ask for time off to go to it, I decided to tell the truth and I checked yes. At first I thought it really didn’t matter. He glanced over the application so quickly, I decided he had already told Cory or Mother darling he would hire me.
He began by telling me he usually hired only college-age kids because they needed the money desperately and were mostly reliable. Then he picked up the application again, perused it, and paused. His eyes lifted slowly.
“What were you arrested for?”
“Shoplifting,” I admitted.
“Where?”
“Here in Nashville. I have to go to court next week,” I said as casually as I could.
“I see,” he said. “Well, why don’t we wait until we hear what happens to you then.”
“Whatever,” I said, shrugged, and left the office. Mother darling was waiting in her car, her head back, her eyes closed, but one of her tapes playing.
As soon as I opened the door, she sat up and said, “Well?”
“He wants to wait to see what happens next week,” I told her.