“No!” Ursula laughs as though I’ve just told a joke. “The whole town knows she’s crazy about you after Wilder’s birthday party.”
“Right.” Betty pulls a face, and it makes me realise Kennedy’s just-for-me scowl has been missing for a while. She’d swapped it for a bunch of tentative smiles. Then, this week, she swapped those for something that looks more like fear and sadness.
“Maybe the whole town should get together and tell her to pull her head out of her arse, then.”
“Sorry, dear?”
“She’s trying to force me from her life, Ursula. And I don’t know why.”
“Wilder’s, too?” Betty interjects, looking worried.
I shake my head. “It’s just me she doesn’t seem to want. That’s what turning the water off is all about.”
“Well, that can’t be true. We’ve seen the way she looks at you.” Both old girls nod earnestly.
“She’s smitten all right,” Betty asserts. “Can’t fake that.”
Urs grabs my hand as her attention swings to her sister. “Remember that time when Daddy wouldn’t let me date Hank Arthur, back when—”
“No.” Her sister gives a dismissive wave. “My memory doesn’t go back that far.” She suddenly sits straight in her chair. “Didn’t we see Kennedy at the bank this morning?”
“Well, yes.” Ursula shrugs, a one-shouldered casual thing as she twists to face me. “We were in town because I had to get some yarn, and we went into the bank to pay the phone bill, then—”
“Sometimes, I think I’ll die before she gets to the point,” Betty grumbles, frustration settling into the well-worn lines of her face. “Kennedy was in the bank, and if you ask me, she was up to something.” A wagging finger accompanies her proclamation, but I don’t have much confidence in their detective skills. The only thing this pair has in common with Miss Marple is grey hair.
“Kennedy runs a small business,” I reason. “I expect she’s in the bank a lot.” Depositing cash and shit.
“She sends Jenner to do that stuff,” she retorts, dismissing my words. “She avoids the place because of you know who.”
“You know . . . who?” Because I’ll be fucked if I do.
“Drew.” Her eyes harden as she says his name. “He’s the bank manager.”
“I thought he was a pharmacist.”
“Nope. I might like him more if he had access to the good drugs. Never trust a bank manager. That’s what Daddy always said.”
“And they were there in the bank? Together? Not just by coincidence. If he works there, I mean.”
“Well, they were in one of the offices together.”
For some reason, my heart seems to have lurched up my throat, leaving my chest hollow and pained. “In an office, alone? What were they doing?”
“In an office like a glass box?” she says as though speaking to an idiot. “What do you think they were doing? They were keeping their hands to themselves.”
“Oh!” Ursula claps both hands to her mouth, her eyes wide and anxious.
“What is it, sissy? Come on, spill.”
“I thought I must’ve heard wrong,” Ursula begins, lowering her hands. “But now I don’t know, and I don’t want to say because I don’t want to cause trouble.”
“It’s okay, Ursula.” Taking one warm and papery hand between my own, I give it a reassuring rub. “Just tell me what you think you heard.”
And she does. Two minutes later, I’m storming from their house without a universal stop tap key, though with Betty’s offer of a semi-automatic paintball gun.
* * *
My mind is a cesspit as the G Wagon idles at an intersection. Images and scenes of what this might mean, of the lengths she might go to sever what’s between us.
Kennedy and him. Beds with white sheets. Unspeakable things. Things there would be no coming back from. I give my head a quick shake to dispel the fog of the images, then dig my knuckle into the corner of my eye as though in punishment. Punishment for the images, for the hate brewing inside me, my muscles aching and tight. But it’s no good because the thoughts have already taken root in the darkness of my subconscious. Taken root and blossomed into hollow, damaged fruit, because what the fuck is she doing right now if not screwing him? Why would she do this? What the fuck would compel her to sleep with a man just to break what’s between us? To render it irreparable.
What is it, Kennedy? What’s making you do this?
Are you frightened I’ll love you too hard?
Dusk has fallen as I drive through Mookatill, the streets eerily empty, the sky dark but calm. Past neat lawns and weed-choked driveways, new porches and dilapidated fences. I have an idea of where I’m heading, thanks to the grid-like system of small-town planning and two nosy old women.
On the outskirts, houses are swapped for fields and cattle. I put my foot down, the tyres spraying the shit left on the roads from the recent rain. It isn’t long before I’m pulling up to an old-style farmstead obviously under renovation.