Yes, Estafay was a tad on the frumpy side, more weight on the bottom than atop. The left side of her face was darker than the right, a color line zigzagging down the middle. Her large brown eyes were askew, the right a bit higher than the left, which conveyed a curious scowl.
Large nose, open-faced nostrils. Bad teeth, the uppers in exceptionally poor condition, two of which protruded out of her mouth even when closed.
She noticed him. “What happened?” she said, coming near.
Her forehead rather expansive, the hairline bordering the top of her head. He wondered how she would look in braid extensions instead of the unflattering style she favored, her short, auburn-colored hair, a tint of orange at the roots, parted in the middle and brushed down.
“What happened?” she asked again.
“The fag choked me!”
Estafay sat beside him, gently removed the towel and tenderly rubbed his neck.
“Does it hurt?”
He grimaced. “Only when I exhale.”
“Why did he choke you?”
“Momma confessed to killing Daddy. I said something, can’t remember what. Next thing I know the fag snuck up behind me and started choking me.”
“Your mother confessed?”
“Sure did.”
“She didn’t do it.”
“She said she did. Why would she say she did if she didn’t?”
Estafay rewrapped the towel around his neck. “It’s just bruised. Should feel better in the morning. If not, we’ll go to Doctor Springer. You want a couple of aspirins?”
“I’ve already taken two.”
“Did Sheriff Bledsoe arrest your mother?”
“No. After Leonard and me got into it he ran us all out. A good thing ’cause I was fixin’ to wax Leonard’s ass real shiny.”
“There’s no reason to be profane.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We need to pray. Ask the Lord for strength, help us through this crisis.”
“Crisis?”
She gave him a stern look, eyes squinting, almost lining up evenly. “Yes, this is a crisis. Get on your knees.”
“Honey, my neck.”
“At least close your eyes.”
He did, though reluctantly. He didn’t like Estafay’s impromptu sanctimonious exultations, and he certainly didn’t enjoy joining in. He’d gone along with all of it—eight or nine different religious conversions—had even accompanied her to several revivals, not liking one bit all the chanting and shaking and shouting going on.
He opened his eyes.
Estafay knelt on the floor a few feet before him, rocking back and forth, hands clamped together, eyes clenched shut. She didn’t have a clue how gruesome she looked when she prayed.
“Ohhhhh Lord!” she shouted, and Robert Earl jumped. She held her hands overhead, as if waiting her chance to wave at a football game. He knew what was coming next, had seen it a thousand times, so he closed his eyes again. Estafay was convulsing, shaking harder than an overloaded washing machine. He heard a thud and forced himself to take a peek. She rolled on the floor, ankle-length white dress bunched up around her waist, revealing white cotton panties.
Rolled away from the coffee table… and then back again. Another thud.
Several thuds later she stopped. Robert Earl waited for her to say amen, and then he mumbled amen and opened his eyes.
“Did the Lord speak to you?” she asked, rubbing a spot on her head.
God, he hated when she asked him that. He nodded.
“He spoke to me, too,” Estafay said. “What did He tell you?”
“Uh… He told me to pray more often.”
Estafay stared at him for a beat. “Give Him the glory! You definitely should pray more than you do. He told me your mother didn’t kill your father.”
“Really?” Estafay shot him an icy look. He knew not to question her spiritual insights. If the Lord told her something, she’d explained a million times, then the least he could do was listen. “Uh…” searching for the right words, “…uh… did He happen to mention who did?”
Estafay stood up and brushed off her dress. “Yes, He did.”
Robert Earl waited.
Estafay said nothing, sat down in the wicker chair and picked up her Bible from an end table.
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, Robert Earl very well knew but rarely voiced, Estafay’s spiritual messages were dead wrong. Once she’d been directed by divinity to invest all their meager savings in a venture called CowPatty.com, which attempted to sell manure via the Internet.
“Well,” he said, “who do you think did it?”
“I don’t think, Robert, I know! The Lord told me.”
“Okay. Who did the Lord say did it?”
“Ruth Ann,” barely audible.
“Excuse me, I didn’t hear you.”
“Ruth Ann,” almost a shout.
Robert Earl shook his head. “Uh-uh. She’s too scary. A spider will send her into a conniption. Ruth Ann—are you sure?”
Estafay opened her Bible. “The Lord has spoken,” she said and began to read.
Chapter 10
Eric took off his wet clothes and hung them on the shower rod. Though Shirley had doused him an hour ago, his legs wouldn’t stop shaking. Stark naked he sat on the rim of the tub. He grabbed his right leg with both hands and tried to still the shaking.
If Shirley had had an inkling the woman in question was Ruth Ann, then it would have been hot acid. His legs started shaking more than before, thighs jiggling like Jell-O.
He imagined himself in the hospital, burned head to toe, his skin shiny with butter or whatever the hell doctors applied to burn victims.
The doorbell rang. He got up and tiptoed to the front door and looked in the peephole. Darlene. He opened the door wide. Darlene gasped and stepped back. “Come on in, Darlene,” he invited, smiling.
Darlene looked stricken, not knowing where to rest her eyes. “I-I-I….” She quickly turned and skipped down the four steps, dismissively flipping her hand. “You should be ashamed,” she said. “Ashamed!”
Eric scoped the neighborhood. No one in sight except Mr. Joyner sitting on his porch.
He stepped outside. “What you come over here for? You know Shirley gone.”
She stopped, turned, flipped her braids back with a long fingernail and said, “For your bee’s wax, I came to give you a message.” Not once did she look at him, choosing to stare up at the sun, blazing hot and bright. “I’m going to tell Shirley what you doing.”
“Tell it, smell it, go downtown and sell it! What message?”
“Duane called and told me to tell you Sheriff Bledsoe is looking for you.”
