His official face lapsed into a momentary smile, and he shook his head. “I can’t say what happened, but if you read the news, you’ll find out.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “But it wasn’t a murder.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling relieved, yet wondering just what it could be in her boring, quiet neighborhood, where nothing ever happened.
Another thought occurred to her. What if it had been a home invasion? There had been one—a robbery and assault—in a nearby neighborhood last year. It had sent her mother and all her mom friends running to a self-defense class. Casey swallowed, but her spit was suddenly made of glue. She thought of the news reports following the home invasion last year, the anchor intoning, “This is a violation.”
“It wasn’t a break-in, was it?” She couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her voice. The cop’s face changed as she spoke.
“No, no, trust me,” he said, his voice kind. “It’s nothing like that. You and your family are safe.”
He gave her another smile, a real one complete with dimples, making him look younger and far less official. She guessed they were about the same age. He likely still lived at home. His mother probably posted the photos from his police academy graduation on her Facebook page, him smiling bravely in the face of his new, unknown future. Would he get shot in the line of duty? Shoot someone else? Would he know what to do when the time came?
It was hard to know what to do when the time came.
“OK,” she said. “I guess I’ll google it.” She gave him a little wave and turned to walk back toward her house and her luggage still on the driveway.
“Have a nice day,” he called after her. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her go. She felt the familiar panic begin to rise. She would have to figure out a way to not feel this way around men, seeing as how they were everywhere.
She turned back, forced herself to smile at him. This wasn’t school; he wasn’t Russell Aldridge. “You too,” she said. As she walked quickly back toward her house, she realized that, at least for those few moments as she’d talked to the cop, she’d been so swept up in whatever was going on at Violet’s that she’d forgotten about her own problems. It was, she decided, a start.
Polly
The buzzer went off on the oven, and her phone rang at the same time. Polly stood there frozen for a second, listening to both sounds echo off the kitchen walls in tandem, wondering which to attend to first. The timing really was remarkable. She wondered if this had ever happened to her in her entire life, and then she grabbed the phone. The casserole could burn, but she wasn’t going to miss a phone call. She frowned when she heard Etta’s voice on the other end. If she’d bothered to look to see who was calling first, she’d have let the call go. Etta Vandiver wasn’t worth burning a casserole for.
“Polly?” She heard Etta’s confused voice. “You there?”
“Yeah, hang on, Etta,” she said, the heat from the oven slapping her in the face as she reached in to retrieve the casserole dish. Some of the sauce from the ziti had bubbled over and was sizzling on the bottom of the oven. It would harden into cement later. She’d have to remember to scrape it off before she used the oven again. If she remembered. It wasn’t that she was getting forgetful. It was just that there was more to keep up with these days, so much on her mind.
She plunked the casserole dish onto the stove burners and dropped her oven mitts on the counter, then backed into a kitchen chair, plopping down with one exhausted heaving motion. It wasn’t that she tired more easily, it was just that she was doing too much. She reached across the table for her cigarettes, lit one, and took a drag as Etta launched into the reason for her call. Polly’s dog, Barney, asleep under the table, lifted his head momentarily, sniffed the air in case of food, then decided none was coming and lowered his head again.
“I’m just calling to make sure.” Etta spoke in a rush. “Whether you’re bringing the ziti and bread or ziti and a salad?”
“I only signed up for ziti,” Polly said. She wanted to say And you’re lucky I signed up for that, but instead she took another puff from her cigarette, then stubbed it out. She was trying to quit. Two puffs a day from one cigarette was all she was allowing herself. Just enough for the nicotine and her bloodstream to get reacquainted, however briefly. She usually waited till later in the day for her cigarette, but Etta’s voice had brought out the need.
“Oh, Polly, we need bread and salad, too,” Etta whined. “Is there any way I could get you to bring one or the other? Or maybe both?” She tee-heed like a little girl.
Polly sighed. She hated letting people down, and Etta Vandiver probably knew it. “I guess I could pick up some rolls on the way.”
“Well, OK,” Etta said. She didn’t seem as mollified by Polly’s offer as Polly hoped she’d be. Now she was going to have to leave even earlier to get by the store, then to the animal rescue fundraiser to deposit her contributions (baked ziti and rolls) on time. “I best be going,” Etta said. “Lots of calls to make!”
“OK, then, see you there,” Polly said, doing her best to sound pleasant.
“Don’t forget that handsome husband of yours,” Etta said, then gave that annoying little-girl giggle again. “You’re so lucky, landing a catch like him.”
Etta, who was older than Polly, was always making comments about Calvin
