The Almost Sisters by Joshilyn Jackson

Author:Joshilyn Jackson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-07-11T04:00:00+00:00

12

We headed across the road in a tight battle formation. Me and Lavender first, each of us eager to lead the way for our own reasons. Then Wattie and Birchie in their hats and floral dresses and low-heeled shoes, the elderly-southern-lady version of the Armor of the Lord. Rachel, solemn and silent, brought up our rear.

Our bad luck, Martina Mack was standing outside by the door into the sanctuary in her own floral dress, passing out the bulletin. Behind her was the familiar redbrick building with its tall white steeple reaching up into the bright morning sky. When she saw us, her bug-eyed face flashed surprise and then a fervent, ugly joy. She wiped both expressions away so quickly I wasn’t sure anyone else saw. We kept right on coming, and Martina thrust her stack of bulletins at her hench-crone, Gayle Beckworth, who was passing them out on the other side of the doorway. Martina came forward across the wide front porch to meet us at the top of the stairs.

The Grangers and the Lesters were heading inside, but they paused when they saw Martina step to meet us. I could see the Fincher family, walking to church from all the way across the square. Jerry Fincher was the youngest deacon, and his wife had her fingers second-knuckle-deep in every church pie. When they saw us, Polly Fincher picked up her toddler and thrust him into her husband’s arms. Then she sped up so much her baby’s stroller jounced up onto the curb.

Lavender, oblivious to matriarch nuance, trit-trotted up fast, then squirted around Martina and headed inside, looking for her friends. I stayed in front, the last line of defense between Birchie and Martina. The three of us climbed slowly, in deference to Wattie’s knees. As I reached the top, Martina Mack’s scrawny neck lengthened, and she straightened her spine, looking over my shoulder at Birchie.

“I’m so happy you came,” Martina Mack said, and she wasn’t lying. She smiled a smile so chilling I almost saw Violence in it, a hunger running deep enough to qualify as cannibalistic.

“Happy to be here,” I said, even though she wasn’t talking to me.

She spoke to Birchie as if Birchie were alone. More than alone. As if Birchie were a lamb staked out on a hillside.

“Did you know I think my grandson’s going to take a little trip to . . . Charleston?” She said it like Dr. Evil, but the question itself was so innocuous I blinked, surprised. I’m sure I looked confused. Charleston? What fresh hell was this?

“How nice. It’s lovely beach weather,” Birchie said, pleasantly enough. Wattie’s wide-set eyes narrowed.

Martina pitched her voice loud to say, “Cody won’t have time to hit the beach, I wouldn’t think. He’ll be visiting all of those historic graveyards.”

My jaw tensed up at the mention of graveyards. This was something to do with the bones, then? But the Birches’ time in Charleston was ancient history. Martina Mack was ancient history in human terms, well into her eighties, but she was not Civil War old.

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