Page 30 of Kandie Shoppe

Fury wraps me in a warm familiar hug as I finish cleaning the utensils, pans, and various baking items I used so they will beready for prep tomorrow. Betrayal slices through me, fresh and warm.

Flicking off the light, I walk past the freshly power washed side street, unlocking my bike.

Peddling is familiar. I don’t drive illegally unless I have to. I make a quick stop at the state store since this is both a wet and dry county, the most hypocritical shit I have ever heard. It’s not like they are stopping anything. Hell, weed is the number one cash crop around here, but they like to pretend it ain’t.

Taking a couple sips of my Remy I was out of, I tighten the cap, tucking a bottle of Cooper and Thief in my basket, which I had to replace because ol’ no-good ass, dirty ass cop, Ulysses Shelby threw my brand new bottle onto the sidewalk crashing it the other night.

Then after dicking me down, he didn’t even come call and check on me or anything. Just left like it meant nothing to him. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe he was too busy arresting poor Thaddeus over some bullshit. That kid has been through so much. He only got in trouble that one time after his momma and daddy died. Yes, it was hacking too, but he just didn’t want to upset Krie with his grades. The school worked with him. Then, after being so impressed with his technique, the principal even nominated him for a scholarship at the local private university. Ironically, it’s named for a company that he’s accused of hacking — Creative Chaos. Why would he do that? Makes not a lick of sense. But then again, what kid has any sense at that age?

I take another swig, letting the heady rapture of the liquor coat my throat and shimmy down into my chest in a dance of delight. I turn my bike toward the sheriff’s house. Peddling used to be a nuisance, but it’s my only legal way to get around other than walking since my license got suspended two years ago. I have deliveries to make and it’s only me. I’ve gotten caught more than a couple times driving with a suspended license, so thatkeeps me from menacing the streets. My violations have nothing to do with being tipsy. I just started driving before I was legal, is all. That sealed the deal. Youthful offender gives way to career criminal around here.

Judge Truelove said I could get my license back if I went to a twelve-step program that had nothing to do with the original charge. I almost cussed her ass out. No, ma’am. Never doing no bullshit like that again, I’ll just wait until my time expires. No need to be sitting around a bunch of people telling them about stuff that doesn’t even bother me anymore. I drink because I like it. Period. I don’t drink when I’m baking. I do keep a little sip on hand throughout the day, but that’s it. That’s my business. People can mind their own or come gossip with me when I have the tea. I always stop just shy of tipsy, cap up and put my liquor or wine away. That nice little floating feeling is all I need. I don’t bother nobody and if they mess with me; they learn real fast they made a big ass mistake because making cakes isn’t the only thing these hands are good for.

When I hit the corner of the street that houses the only Shelby property on this side of the county, my chest squeezes. I hope and dread that he’s here. I hate to tear into him while his mom is infirmed, but he owes me answers. You don’t just lay with a person all night, then put her first cousin and one of the youngest family members in jail without a text, call, or any type of heads-up. Typical. Like all Shelbys, he thinks he doesn’t have to answer to anyone. Well, he’s going to have to see me. Big, blond, burly bastard.

I pull up, parking my bike beside the nurse’s blue Beetle. Jogging up the steps, I land on the porch lined with ferns and other potted plants. There is a pretty chair swing and rocking chairs along the wraparound porch. The front yard has a picturesque view of the whole neighborhood. Marlene used to dance out here every solstice and equinox but stopped justbefore she got sober. People thought it was a hoot that the sheriff’s wife was a witch and kind of a hippie, but no one dared say anything about it to their faces. All that stopped when Hezekiah died.

“May I help you?” The door is cracked the barest by Susie-Pearl Lawson, her face screwed tight, looking like a constipated weasel.

“Is Ulysses here?” I ask, watching her face sour even more.

“No.” She starts moving to close the door in my face. Slapping my hand on the door, I push the big oak barrier open wider.

The minute I do, I notice the smell of burnt garlic. “Ew, what the hell are you cooking?” I demand, looking around the spotless, airy house. At least she’s doing a decent job keeping it clean, even if she can’t cook for shit.

“I made Ulysses’ favorite.” Her bird-like face sticks out with pride. “Marlene talked me through it.”

“Uh-huh,” I muse, heading toward the downstairs primary suite. “Is she up?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Yes.” Rolling her eyes, she huffs. “She’s not receiving visitors.”

“Sure,” I say, pushing past her.

To imagine she was supposed to be top of the class and only managed to be a home health aide. I shake my head, grateful that I didn’t let people tell me I was dumb because of my dyslexia stop me from pursuing my goals.

“Hey there, sweet lady,” I singsong softly, opening the door to see a frail Marlene all but swallowed up by the massive bed.

“Hey Kandie, what you doing over here? Haven’t you just got off?” she asks, sitting up a little.

“Yes, ma’am, I needed to talk to him about something,” I tell her.

“Finally,” she sighs. She looks at my face when I don’t say anything. “What then?”

“He arrested Thad and his friends last night,” I tell her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “But that ain’t nothing for you to worry about. What did you eat today?”

Noticing a bunch of pills and water but no sustenance, I quirk an eyebrow.

“I don’t have much of an appetite these days, sweet girl,” she says with compassion a person who understands others have lost a lot.

“You need your strength to fight, Ms. Marlene,” I urge, a tightness forming in my throat.

“We are long past that point.” She tries to reach for me. Leaning over, I cover her hand with mine.

We stay like that for long minutes. My face stings, but I don’t feel like I have the right to cry all over her when she’s looking at me with a peace that transcends all understanding.

“Ulysses?” My voice sounds like my throat’s just been scoured with an acid laden Brillo pad.

“He knows. My son has seen a lot of death. He doesn’t talk about it, but he didn’t get that scar to mar his handsome face by accident. I was shocked when I saw it.” Her words are firm, tinged with sadness and pride. He’s seen a lot of death and dealt it too. He’s a man forged by the fires of combat, much different than even the man I knew all those years ago.

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