Bad Counsel: part one (short story)

Bad Counsel

(one)

 

 

 

This is one of the bigger things, this teaching of lessons. We descend a hill, soon to stand among the cattails at the lip of the frog pond, with Andrée and Sam Magruder, a man who may be her father. Here is Leo Magruder’s daughter, coming down, holding out her phone in one balancing fist. Reddening mosquito fodder she is, having something against long pants in the late spring heat, and much against concession, against investing herself in this outing, to dress for it. But jealousy has made her party to it. She wears white shorts and rubber thongs, a bubble-gum pink tee shirt. Her name is Melody.

She might be Andrée’s sister. The resemblance (vague, Andrée thinks) had caught the eye of Sam’s friend from the beach. Sam is telling Andrée, see there…hilltop’ll be leveled first, fill moved down here. Get rid of this. Pause. Bullfrogs plonk, toads trill. A dragonfly drones up fast, hovers near Andreé’s nose; Sam thwacks it with his fisherman’s hat. New drain-way, carry the runoff down the culvert. “But,” she says. She thinks he should make it easy, though she is stuck for an easy way to say this. If he owns the house, and is only going to sell it, he should let Mom buy it, even if she can’t. I mean, Andrée thinks, all the time he gave her nothing for me. Cheesy.

So she was going to say, it’s kinda nice. A nice little pond. Segue to making her point from there.

“But how come…?” Melody says. Then starts over, calls him by his first name. She is his niece. “Sam, maybe the kids would like the pond.”

Your kids? Andrée thinks, and she asks aloud, “So you’re gonna buy the house?” This seems a bad thing to say, even had Andrée not let her voice air her suspicions. And she wouldn’t, a minute ago, have thought Melody was here for any reason, other than to vie for attention, to shove herself in front of the incomer. Something compressed in Melody’s face has made her cheeks puff. She’s angry; but thinking better of what she might have said.

Sam is quiet. Maybe he’ll have to intervene. Gals don’t get along. His mind tangles up at once, thinking of the joke he ought to make, wondering whether he can make it, or if a man shouldn’t talk about that stuff…thinking of his wife, her celebrity shows, the way she puts down other women when they feud.

He is released by the whumping of athletic soles on dry clay, the clink of ice in glass. They look up, to what they call the ridgetop, though the hill is modest enough. Andrée’s mother has lemonade. She raises the pitcher in her hand.

In the kitchen, iridescent lint…cat hair, it may be—on the glass-top stove. Andrée’s mother says it only shows in the sun. In the sun, rings of grease around each knob show also, and the path of the wipe-down; satiny streaks from the pressure of three fingers and a thumb on a paper towel. Not that it matters. Andrée will do this cursory job if her mother says to; otherwise, she cleans nothing, and her mother not much. This dirt is more standoff than habit.

Why should I―

And why should I, right back at you.

Sam gets inside the refrigerator and hunts a bottle of water. He says he’s going to; and while he roots, rump up and head down, no one can pass that way. Andrée strides in the side door, at the culmination of an exasperated little tussle: Melody slow and slower, Andrée at a standstill. Melody taking this half-courtesy as offense.

Andrée has gone first, shrugging at Leo’s daughter in passing; she thinks, I couldn’t say anything…what am I supposed to say?

After you, ma’am, go ahead.

But knowing her way around the house, she soon gets the upper hand. Melody must follow Andrée into the living room, single-file enforced through the passage, where the closet’s louver door thrusts past the toilet, the washer and dryer. Into the kitchen. Now Sam is no longer in the way.

Melody eyeballs the glasses that Andrée’s mother has been filling with lemonade. Karen has been rejected once, but pours on, lining them up. André watches Leo’s daughter touch a finger to the stovetop…but not quite.

 

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The Bog: part one (short story)

 

(copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster)

 

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