Venus of Chalk by Susan Stinson

Author:Susan Stinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Small Beer Press

CHAPTER 9

AFTER THE BOAT RIDE, I STOPPED BEHIND THE house to hose mud and stickers from my legs. Frankie’s water had always been cloudy, but I grew up believing that because it was full of minerals, it was a source of strength. Its sulfur smell was one of my earliest memories. She had town water inside now, but I knew this was pumped from the well. I sniffed it, getting used to my new conviction that I was the lesbian niece of a lesbian aunt.

I was taking a drink when I heard the slow hum of an engine turning off the farm-to-market road. I wanted to slip in through the back door to change into good clothes before I greeted the Guild, but the only way I could shut off the hose was to walk into full view. I wasn’t vain enough to leave water running in this dry part of the world.

As I came around the house, I saw the bus that I used to ride every day on my commute driving slowly up the lane, raising dust. For a moment, I was convinced that the editorial board of The Modern Homemaker had sent it to fetch me. That was no more strange than the idea that Tucker and Mel might have stopped by to visit my aunt.

A sedan turned in behind the bus. Gray-haired women leaned out of car windows, coughing and waving. I recognized Mrs. Poll by her fluted cuffs. We hadn’t kept in touch, but I always had a soft spot for her.

I pointed the nozzle toward the thinning grass. Frankie came out onto the porch. Wearing a dress covered with a pattern of twining leaves, she raised her arm and waved back. “Who do you suppose that is in the bus?”

I shut off the faucet without hazarding a guess.

The bus took the wide curve of the horseshoe at the top of the lane and parked next to the shed. The car pulled up in front of the house. I gripped the hose.

Women rose from the low sedan, hoisting covered dishes. Their faces hovered on the point of obscurity for me, then cut into features and expressions I knew. They converged on Frankie, calling both of our names. Tucker sauntered down the bus steps, carrying my suitcase. He looked natty in black jeans and a white short sleeved shirt with two thick stripes of red down the front. He must have read the label with Frankie’s address dangling from the handle. The yard felt very crowded.

Summoning my manners, I acknowledged the women with a wave of the hose. It dribbled. “Be with you in a minute,” I called. Then I turned my full attention to the bus.

Tucker set down the suitcase. Mel appeared in the doorway, bending over the camp box, his face straining. Tucker stepped up to take the box, then Mel spotted me. He let go of his burden to play air guitar, then spread his arms, soaking in alleged applause.

“Mel! You’re such a ham!” I felt a surge of welcome for everyone, women and men.

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