Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

“Wait, wait,” I said as I pulled Michelle from her car seat. The moment we climbed the steps, Michelle left me to rush to Ro-Bay and I added, “What’s happened?”

“That boy of Miss Justine’s,” Ro-Bay muttered. “Come home last night like he was the king of some castle. Got Miss Justine all upset this morning, I’ll tell you that much.”

I glanced upward to the span of the second floor, half expecting the face of the man I’d only seen in a few photographs to stare down at me from a windowpane. “Biff?”

“Well, it ain’t Jimmy Carter passing through on his way from Washington to Plains.” Ro-Bay propped the broom against the closed front door to gather Michelle in her arms. “Hey, sweet baby,” she cooed before turning back to me. “That boy ain’t nothing but trouble. Nothing but smooth-talkin’ trouble. Miss Justine’s been wringing her hands all morning. You best get on inside.” She nuzzled Michelle. “I got this one.”

I found Miss Justine in her usual place—the sunroom. Sure as Ro-Bay had said, she was out of sorts. Not her usual “well-honey-come-on-in” self. I walked over to where she sat, looking out the wide windows at the vast backyard and the lake glistening under the midmorning sun. “Ro-Bay said Biff is here?”

She turned and looked at me, her red-rimmed eyes unblinking. Then she stood and extended her hand, silver bangles jangling at the wrist. “Come with me, darlin’. Let’s walk down to the lake.”

I took her hand. She pulled me toward the back door, letting go to open it and step outside. Her arm linked through mine as she guided me down the gentle slope of the yard. The ground was soft beneath my canvas flats, the grass thick as carpet. Our footsteps kicked up the scent of water and grass and summer flowers as we trod toward one of the benches along the water’s edge, neither of us saying a word over the hum of insects until we sat, hip to hip.

“He’s my son,” she said, her tone strong. “And, of course, I love him.”

I looked at her, squinting against the harsh light overhead, saying nothing. It wasn’t my turn. Or my place.

“But he’s been—how do I explain to someone so young—like this since he was a child.” She laughed then. A short chuckle to soften her words. “Sharon,” she said, patting my knee. “Sharon was born blond-haired and blue-eyed and happy as the day. And then, sometime later, here came Biff.” She looked at me, tears forming where typically only fortitude resided. “Dark hair. Brooding eyes that shift from blue to green. Even as a baby. His daddy was as proud as a peacock in a Sunday afternoon parade. Said we had to name the baby after him—which we did—but demanded he not be called Junior. Oh, no. According to Buford, we were going places and we had to make sure that our children’s names reflected that.”

“Then … how did the name Biff come to be?”

“Started in kindergarten.” She waved a hand to swat away a gnat who’d buzzed by to eavesdrop. “Grabbed hold and never let go.” Her laughter—painful and poignant—rose and, just as quickly, dissipated. “You should have heard folks talking.” She glanced at me again, then back to the water. “Sharon with her blond hair and her laughter—like her father’s—and Aaron with his red hair and spunk—I guess you know where he got that from—and then there was Biff, in the middle with his dark hair and those exquisite eyes.”

“Were there milkman jokes?” I asked, hoping to ease the severity of her memory as I shooed away the gnats that sought refuge in the glistening moisture along the top of my arms.

Miss Justine frowned. “Constantly.” She sighed. “I think it all made him very angry with me. There was always a—disconnect between us. As if he believed I held something back from him.” She turned toward me without blinking. “Like the name of his real father.”

This was no laughing matter; I could see that now. Decades of hurt rose in the syntax of her voice and lay within the fine lines of her powdered face. “But surely he knew better. I mean, a woman such as you, Miss Justine.”

She stood then, dismissing my words as she started back toward the house, me scuttling behind and then beside her, sad to be going back inside so soon. “He says he’s here for a week. Says he took some time off from his job—I may have mentioned, he’s the hospital administrator over in Dothan.”

She hadn’t. “Alabama?”

“Is there another one?”

I shrugged, genuinely unsure.

“Actually, there is. Or, so my son tells me. Six, he says, not that the others matter if he’s not in them.” Miss Justine stopped as her sarcasm lay like weights around us. She took my hands in hers, warm and soft. Fleshy in a bone-thin sort of way. “Now you listen to me, Allison. I have to leave to go to my junior league meeting. We have the charity art exhibit coming up and I’m the chairwoman, so I have to be there.” She squeezed my hands. “Biff hasn’t gotten up yet—as far as I know—but when he does, you make a wide arch around him, you hear me?”

I shook my head. “No ma’am. I mean, yes ma’am, but why should I make—”

“He’ll take one look at you and swarm like a bee to a marigold …”

This time, it was I who laughed. “Miss Justine. First of all, isn’t he a little old for me? Or, should I say, aren’t I a little young for him? And secondly … no man—I promise you—could ever turn my head in any way.” I took a step toward her. “You know how I feel about Westley.”

Her hands squeezed mine again. “Just mind me, you hear?”

And with that, she let go and trod back into the house, leaving the glass-paned door open for me to follow after.

Chapter Twenty-eight