Chapter 7

A few hours later, I woke up because the front door had opened.

The couch is positioned so that you can see down the entry hallway, so my first groggy impression was of bright light filling the doorway and a figure silhouetted against it. A tall figure, holding something in one hand. A man's figure.

I wasted precious seconds wondering if I was dreaming the whole thing. Then it occurred to me to try to move.

I could move.

Therefore the man was really there.

Mom lived alone.

Therefore we were being burgled.

I was on the couch under a blanket and he was going to see me at any second so I did the only thing I could think of, which was to sit bolt upright and roar, "I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it!" (Actually I had my laptop, my phone, which couldn't currently call 911, and an empty wineglass from last night, but he didn't need to know that.)

The burglar yelped and dropped what he was carrying. It made a metallic crash as it hit the floor. Nails and screws skittered across the floor. He flung his hands over his head. "Don't shoot! It's just me!"

"Who the hell is just you?"

"Me! Phil! I do the lawn!" He slowly lowered his hands. "Where's Mrs. Montgomery? And who the hell are you?"

Well, this was awkward.

Mom came tearing down the steps in a bathrobe. "Is everyone okay? I heard a crash. Oh, hello, Phil…"

"Hi, Mrs. M." He was still in a bit of a defensive crouch, but he straightened up once Mom was between the two of us. Possibly he thought I wouldn't shoot with Mom in the way.

"Um," I said. "I… uh… I thought you were a burglar. I wasn't expecting anybody."

Mom looked from me to Phil and back again. "This is Phil," she said. "He's Mr. Pressley's grandson."

"Poor bastard!" I said involuntarily, thinking of our one-man neighborhood watch. And then, "Oh boy, that didn't come out right at all. Sorry."

"Don't be," said Phil. He was a tall, lantern-jawed man with short blond hair and a hawklike nose. Attractive enough if you have a thing for old-time Puritan preachers, but looking somewhat incongruous in jeans and a T-shirt advertising a local feed store. "I know." He waved his hand over his shoulder, in the vague direction of Mr. Pressley's house. "Believe me, I know."

"He's the one who takes care of the yard for me, and he's the best handyman," said Mom.

"Do you live with your grandfather?" I asked, mostly because the more conversation that we got between us and the bit where I'd threatened to shoot him, the better. I really didn't want to drive Mom's handyman away.

"Lord, no. I come out three times a week to make sure he hasn't holed himself up in the attic with a video camera and a gun." He looked over his shoulder. "So far, so good."

"I'm sorry," said Mom. "I should have warned you that Phil was coming over. But it was late and I didn't even think about it."

"No, it's fine," I said. I wrapped the blanket around myself. I was wearing an oversized T-shirt with Eeyore on it and no pants. I was also not wearing a bra and I had probably drooled on the pillow. Lovely. Good first impressions are so important, don't you think? "I'm sorry, Phil, I panicked. I'm not good in the mornings."

"It's fine."

"I wouldn't really have shot you."

"That's good."

"I don't actually have a gun. I just thought it would scare you."

"Mission accomplished there." He gazed sadly down at the wreckage of his toolbox. In addition to what looked like a full box of nails, apparently a box of drill bits had come loose.

I said the first thing that came to mind, which unfortunately was, "I would help you pick that up, but I'm not wearing pants."

Mom made a small, pained sound. Phil looked up, probably involuntarily, looked at my bare calves, and immediately looked back down at the floor. I had not shaved my legs for weeks, because I had planned to do fieldwork and showers might be a rare commodity. There was no point in going through the whole dig with my legs feeling like sharkskin and itching madly. Unfortunately this entirely logical chain of thought meant that from the knee down, I currently resembled a hobbit. (Which I don't care about, dammit, down with the patriarchy, women shouldn't have to shave their legs. It was just one more damn thing on top of all the other damn things.)

"… I'm going to go take a shower." I looked at Mom hopefully. "Could I beg you to make coffee? Then we can do the introductions a second time and pretend I didn't threaten to murder anyone."

I limped upstairs, wearing the blanket as a makeshift bathrobe. I could hear the metallic clatter of Phil picking up his tools.

By the time I came downstairs again, I could hear the lawn mower going out front. It was probably for the best. The air outside was barely less humid than the air in the shower and my hair was curling like a kraken. I felt soggy. I missed Arizona, where you got out of the shower, looked at the towel, and then ignored it because you were already dry.

Mom handed me coffee. I drank three sips, closed my eyes, and said, "I'm sorry I threatened to murder your handyman."

There was a long silence and then I opened my eyes again because I could hear her muffling giggles.

"Oh god," she said as I glared at her. "Your face… And his… If you could have seen it."

I felt a smile pulling at my lips. Here I was worried about Mom, but it appeared that I was the one acting erratically. "I was a little surprised," I admitted.

"Not as surprised as he was."

I groaned. "Do you think he'll ever forgive me?"

"He's bound to," said Mom. "After all, he's Pressley's grandson. He probably gets threatened with murder every day."

"Mom…"

"Don't shoot me!"

"Mom—!"

"The Goldbergs are having a cookout tonight," Mom said a few hours later. She was looking tired again, though that was probably from a long day of client herding followed by a late night of ladybug herding, followed by the Phil Incident. "Would you like to go?"

I closed my laptop. "Is that an ‘I'd like to go, but I don't want to pressure you,' or an ‘I don't want to go and I'm looking for an excuse'?"

That got a smile out of her. "I'd like to go," she admitted. "The Goldbergs are very sweet. And I don't get out too much, except for work, so I start to feel like a hermit."

"Then let's go." I put my computer aside, aware of a feeling of intense relief. "Withdrawing from friendships and social events" was an Alzheimer's symptom. "Is this a formal cookout? Should I put on a dress?"

She threw a dish towel at me. I ducked and went back to my laptop.

"You sure you don't mind?" she asked later, as we walked down the street toward the Goldbergs'. "I know you're probably still tired after your drive…"

"Mom, it's free food. Once a grad student, always a grad student." She laughed.

Gran Mae would have approved of the décor in the Goldberg house. It was the sort of beige with pink accents that makes you think the word gingham, even if, like me, you have no real idea what gingham is. (Some kind of fabric, I think? Something very country kitsch, anyway.)

Mom introduced me to the Goldbergs. I immediately forgot their first names. "You must be Samantha!" said Mrs. Goldberg. She beamed at me. "The doctor!"

"Well, yes, but not the medical kind."

"Edith says you do very important archaeology work out in Arizona."

"Oh, well… it keeps me out of trouble." I hoped they wouldn't ask any follow-up questions. It's not that I don't want to talk about it, it's that I get very excited about what I do, and if people ask, I want to answer at length and then I look up and realize that everyone else is glassy-eyed and probably did not actually want to know quite that much about grain moths. These days I just deflect.

"It must be so fascinating. Like a treasure hunt."

"I spend a lot of time looking at dirt," I admitted. "I enjoy it, but… it's a lot of dirt." I looked around the backyard. "You have a lovely yard back here."

Mrs. Goldberg was no stranger to deflection herself. "You're kind to say it, but I've seen Edith's garden. I don't know how she keeps those roses looking so spectacular." She waved at her own yard, which was mostly taken up by an enormous deck with plenty of seating. Camellias and azaleas lined the perimeter and she had a small, tasteful arrangement of containers, with the obligatory potted tomato.

"I don't do anything," said Mom, drifting in the direction of the food. "Really, they basically grow themselves. Phil does all the real work in the yard."

"He's so handy," said Mrs. Goldberg enthusiastically, accompanying us to the stacks of burgers. "He's here too."

"Oh, I see him!" Mom waved across the yard. I attempted to hide behind a knee-high potted plant. It didn't work well.

Mom excused herself to chat with someone else, and Mrs. Goldberg, being a good hostess, embarked on the usual Southern call-and-response about the weather. "It's been so nice out." "Oh, yes. Of course it'll get hot later." "Oh, I know. And the humidity…" etc., etc., until either winter comes or you die of old age.

"You haven't seen any ladybugs in the house, have you?" I asked, which broke the call-and-response script and left her puzzled.

"Ladybugs?" She blinked at me. "We do get them in fall, and those awful little millipedes whenever it gets too wet, but no, not recently."

"We had a horde break into the house last night," I said. "You know how they can be."

"Oh yes. So nasty. And I always feel bad for the ladybugs, though not the millipedes."

I had no particular opinion on the merits of invasive millipedes vs. invasive lady beetles. I did know a fascinating fact about Japanese millipedes being on a multi-year cycle like cicadas and emerging in massive swarms that can coat train tracks and cause derailments, but long years of experience have taught me that very few people want to hear about this while they're eating. (I am an endless font of horrible knowledge at parties, but I try to wait until after the food has been cleared away.)

Mom returned with Phil. Mrs. Goldberg turned from him to me. "Have you two met?"

Phil gave a strangled cough. I felt myself turning beet red. Mrs. Goldberg looked between the two of us, probably wondering from our reactions if we were childhood sweethearts or members of the same gang.

"We've met," I said. "About eight hours ago, in fact. Phil, I really am sorry I thought you were a burglar."

"It's fine," said Phil. "No harm done. Grandad thinks I'm a burglar here to kill him about once a month, so it's not the first time."

"Oh lord." Being compared to Mr. Pressley did not make me feel any better, and moreso because Mom had predicted it. "I promise that the next time you come to mow the lawn, I won't threaten your life."

Mrs. Goldberg had an increasingly glassy smile on her face and excused herself to go tend the beagle.

"I was not at my best," I said. "We'd had a ladybug incursion the night before."

He raised his eyebrows. I explained as best I could, with Mom jumping in occasionally. "I know that people say there's hordes of bugs when there's more than a dozen," I said, "but I'm actually an entomologist. There really was a horde. I could barely see the carpet. Just in that one room, though."

"Now that is weird." He rubbed his chin. "And at this time of year?"

"That's what I said!" My estimate of Phil went up several notches.

"I know people release ladybugs as pest control. Maybe somebody in the neighborhood went a little nuts." He glanced over at Mom. "I can check the window frames and the siding if you like, Mrs. M. See if there's some way they're getting in."

"I'd appreciate that," said Mom. "Believe me, vacuuming up ladybugs in the middle of the night is not my idea of a good time."

I snorted. Mom went off to talk to someone else, leaving Phil and me standing next to the drinks. I fished out a hard cider and Phil located the bottle opener and gallantly cracked it open for me.

"So you're a bug person? For some reason I thought you were an archaeologist."

"Both."

"Huh. So what exactly do you do?"

I told him.

He looked puzzled for a moment, then broke into a wide grin. "What, like in Jurassic Park, where they find the mosquitoes in amber?"

I kid you not, everyone says this. Everyone. Or at least enough people that I have developed a script to handle it. "Heh, no, I wish. That would be awesome. But I'm working with much more recent stuff, so no dinosaur blood. And mosquitoes don't last very long outside of amber. Lots of weevils, I'm afraid. On the bright side, I'm not going to be eaten by velociraptors at work, so that's something, right?"

And then they agree that this is definitely positive and then they never ask any follow-up questions and we talk about something easier, like the weather.

"What kind of weevils?" Phil asked, going off script.

"Anything that gets into food storage," I said. "You can tell a lot about what food somebody stored by what bugs they're dealing with. Sunflower seed weevils." I waited for him to make a lesser-of-two-weevils joke, which is another thing that everyone does. After basing my entire thesis on them, I believe I am entitled to freely murder anyone making this joke, but for some reason the courts disagree.

He did not make the joke. Phil was rising in my estimation by the moment. "We learned a little bit about them in my master gardener classes," he said. "Fuller rose beetles. They can be a real problem."

A master gardener? Interesting. But that brought me back to my grandmother's roses and the strange lack of insects. I took a sip of my cider and wondered how to accuse him of poisoning the entire garden in a nonhostile fashion. "There aren't any on the roses at Mom's house. I understand you're the one taking care of them?"

To my surprise, he shook his head. "Oh no. I just cut the grass. I don't do anything with the roses. Mrs. M handles all that herself."

"She says she doesn't do anything."

He snorted. "She's being modest. Those roses are in fantastic shape. They're healthier than the ones at the botanical garden. I've never even seen a Japanese beetle on them, and that's practically black magic."

As if the mention of garden black magic had been a summoning spell, the house door opened. "Gail!" Mrs. Goldberg set up a cry like a one-woman cast of Cheers. "You made it!"

"Of course I did," said the newcomer. "You know I never turn down free food."

So I finally meet the old witch,I thought. Gail stepped out of the house and down onto the deck, and I felt my eyebrows shoot up.

Gran Mae… well, I couldn't speak to the witch part, but apparently Gran Mae had been lying about the old part. Gail looked to be in her mid-sixties, with gray hair cut in a short bob. She couldn't be more than a decade and change older than Mom, which meant she would have been considerably younger than my grandmother.

She was dressed in that style I associated with aging hippies with money, Berkeley moms and art therapists—layered, flowing linen with asymmetric hems and a chunky necklace. My eyes dropped automatically to her feet to see if she had on Birkenstocks, but instead she was wearing gigantic shit-kicker boots that had clearly seen a lot of wear and tear in their life.

When I looked up from her feet, she had spotted Mom and was making her way toward her. "Edith! Long time no see." They hugged, and then Mom began to steer her back toward me. "And you must be Samantha."

"Sam," I said, extending my hand automatically. Her fingers were dry and callused and she had a solid grip. "And you're… Gail?"

"That I am." She looked me over in a friendly fashion. "The archaeologist daughter, right?"

"Some archaeology. Mostly entomology. I study bugs in archaeology digs." I decided to head off the Jurassic Park joke. "And Mom said you were a wildlife rehabilitator?"

"For my sins," she said, laughing. "Mostly a retired one now. They still sucker me into the occasional turtle, but I flatly refuse to bottle-feed fawns anymore." She helped herself to a bottle of cider. "Phil, how are you doing? And do you still have eggs?"

"The girls keep laying," said Phil solemnly.

"Then sign me up for a dozen."

They talked chickens and I sipped my drink and plastered a vague, pleasant expression on my face, like every outsider at a party where everyone else knows one another. After a few moments, when conversation had lulled, I ventured, "Mom says you have vultures."

Gail laughed. "I don't know if I have them or if they have me. Yes, there's a roost in the back of the garden. And I have Hermes."

"Hermes?"

"My house vulture. He's a rescue. Hit by a car, lost a wing. It happens to a lot of young birds when they're eating roadkill, before they figure out cars." She grinned. "You should come over sometime and I'll introduce you. He likes meeting people."

"Is he housebroken?" I pictured a vulture perched on the back of a chair. There weren't enough antimacassars in the world.

"Not in the slightest." Gail grinned. "Screened-in porch and a lot of closed doors. I love him, but vulture shit is nasty."

"There was a vulture on our mailbox when I drove up the other day," I said. "I'm guessing that wasn't him."

"No, it would have been one of the wild ones. I'm not surprised, though. They like to keep an eye on that house." She took a sip of cider, but she was watching my mother's face, not mine.

My eyebrows shot up. Mom got that worried expression again and looked over her shoulder toward my grandmother's house.

Good lord, what is going on here?I'd been thinking that Mom was acting oddly, but maybe she wasn't the only one. "Why would they want to keep an eye on Mom's house?" I asked, aware that I sounded defensive and not bothering to hide it.

"It's not the current owner they're worried about," said Gail. "They're very intelligent birds, and they have long memories."

"Are you saying my grandmother was unkind to vultures?" The conversation had skidded wildly out of control, and I wasn't sure whether to laugh or back away slowly. I looked to Phil, hoping for some kind of social second opinion. He looked bewildered, which didn't help.

"Gail…" said my mother.

Gail shrugged. "It's not for me to say. I just know that they like to post a sentry to watch it." She grinned abruptly. "Relax, Edith. I'm not about to drag up all the old gardening rivalries at a cookout."

Despite my confusion, I felt a burst of smugness. Dammit, there had been a rivalry. I knew I hadn't been imagining it. Mom may have claimed to forget, but Gran Mae had loathed the other woman's garden and would say so at the drop of a hat. Hell, even on her deathbed, she'd been complaining to a nurse about "the old witch's weeds." I knew it.

"I'm sure Gran Mae never meant any of it," mumbled Mom into her drink, which was absolutely a lie. Gran Mae had meant every word.

"Mmm." Gail turned to Phil. "You know how it is, Phil. Someone grows a better tomato than their neighbor, and they're at daggers drawn for the next twenty years. How is the extension office treating you?"

"It's fine," said Phil, and to my relief, he went into a discussion of county extension programs, which wasn't interesting but also didn't make my mother look like a deer caught in the headlights. I gazed vaguely into the distance again, noting that the spring webworms were hard at work on one of Mrs. Goldberg's shrubs. (Better known as Eastern tent caterpillars, Malacosoma americanum, in case you're curious. Not to be confused with the fall webworm, which forms a much larger nest and turns into a handsome white moth, and if I stared at the shrub long enough, I could probably remember the Latin.) Well, at least I had proof there were bugs in other people's gardens on Lammergeier Lane.

"Phil," I said, during a pause in the conversation, "do you remember the Latin name for fall webworms?"

He grimaced. "H-something, isn't it? Mostly I call them ‘squish the nasty little buggers.'"

"Sorry," I said, waving a hand toward the tent caterpillars. "I had noticed those over there and then I was thinking of caterpillars and… ah… sorry."

"Hyphantia cunea," said Gail, winning my heart forever.

"That's the one!" I raised my cider in salute. So did Phil.

Mom smiled into her drink, shaking her head. "She hasn't changed a bit," she said to Gail. "She was like that as a child too. She'd find a bug and come charging home to look it up. Or to demand that we go to the library and look it up there."

"Seems to have worked out well for you," said Gail, nodding to me. "Raking in the big academic bucks now, right?"

"Oh yes, rolling in it," I said. "My last raise was five whole cents."

"Good heavens! A fortune." Gail grinned. "Sorry, my stepdaughter's a medieval historian. I know how it goes."

I nodded in sympathy to a fellow laborer in the academia mines, then discovered my bottle was empty. I excused myself to get another one, checked my phone fruitlessly for signal—no luck—and ambled back.

The knot of people had dispersed. Phil was over by the grill and Gail and my mom had vanished. I found myself standing at a corner of the house, drinking my cider and idly checking the plants for insect life. (I am so much fun at parties.)

I had just about decided to go bother Phil, who was probably sick of me but was also a master gardener and could perhaps have a nice conversation about pollinator-friendly plantings, when I heard Mom around the corner. Her voice was muffled and I could only pick out a couple of words.

"… want to upset her," she said. "You know…"

I strained my ears and was startled when Gail spoke up, rather louder. "You already know how I feel about it, Edith. I'm not here to browbeat you. I just worry."

Worry? About what?

"… be fine…"

"You know best. But you know if it ever gets too bad, you can come stay with me."

"… into it…"

"You aren't dragging me into it, I'm offering. Look, I didn't mean to ruin your evening. Just promise you'll come get me if it gets too bad."

Ifwhat gets too bad? And who does Mom not want to upset? I really hoped she didn't mean me. Then again, Mom lived in absolute terror of upsetting people, so it could be anyone.

The way that Gail was talking made it sound like Mom was in an abusive relationship, but with who? She lived alone—not that living together was the only way to have an abusive relationship, of course, but how was I going to find out who to threaten with unspecified doom if I didn't know who it was?

"Hi again," said Phil behind me.

I yelped and nearly dropped my cider. That's the problem with eavesdropping, you know you're doing something wrong. I spun around and Phil had both his hands up, probably expecting me to try to kill him. Again.

"Sorry," I said. "Sorry, I… uh… I was looking at a mantis."

"Oh, what kind?"

Dammit, this is why you don't start lying to begin with. "One of the big Chinese ones, unfortunately," I said, consigning the fictional mantis to perdition.

Phil smiled. "I know they're invasive, but I kind of love those. They always look at you so intelligently, like they're actually thinking about what to do next. But I know, I know, they crowd out the little brown ones."

"Don't worry, I won't report you to the secret entomology council for liking the wrong mantids."

"You're too kind."

Mom and Gail came around the corner. Gail still looked serene, in a hippie kind of way. Mom had lines at the corners of her eyes, but she always did, so it wasn't as if that was a change. "Oh there you are," she said, hooking her arm through mine. "What's up?"

"Not much. Admiring the local insect life."

We stayed for another few hours, chatting with various neighbors. Phil excused himself with a promise to come over and check the siding for ladybug access points. Gail told amusing stories about wildlife rescue and trying to bandage up an injured great blue heron. "I had to wear a welding face mask," she said. "And if I'd had a riot shield, I'd have used it. Those beaks are like a spring-loaded javelin, and they're never grateful." She smiled fondly at the memory of a bird trying to put its beak through her eye. Wildlife rehabbers are special people. Everybody hung on her every word, though. If Gail was the local eccentric, she was a popular one.

Afterward, as we headed home, Mom gave me a sidelong look. "You and Phil seem to be getting along better."

"He seems nice enough."

"He's single."

"Oh god, Mom, don't start." I stifled a groan. "I'm only here for a month or two."

"What, that means you can't have a fling?"

"Mom. I am not going to have a fling with your handyman."

"I'm just saying, never say never."

I did not dignify this with a response. While I did have the occasional fling, it increasingly just seemed like so much work. You had to meet people and figure out if you liked them and if they liked you and if they were actually single or if things were "complicated." I had had my share of complicated already, thank you very much. Also I had three roommates, which made date night difficult, although probably not as difficult as having wild sex with the handyman in my childhood bedroom, two doors down the hall from my mother.

"Why don't you date him?" I asked.

Mom swatted my shoulder. "He's twenty years younger than me."

"So was Bondage Guy. I'm telling you, you need to start looking at these younger men."

"Maybe I should give Bondage Guy your number."

"Nah, it'd be weird at Sunday dinner when he was obviously pining for you."

We both dissolved into alcohol-assisted giggles. I looked around, wiping my eyes, wondering if anybody was noticing the two tipsy women meandering up the street. Nobody was in view. Even the vulture on the mailbox had abandoned its post for the evening, but there was a hulking silhouette on a neighbor's roof that made me think it hadn't gone far.

Mr. Pressley was probably still watching, of course. ("That's them, Officers! Those two women! They were giggling! Giggling with intent!")

Mom's laughter cut off as she opened the front door and looked around the entryway for a moment, then stepped inside. I probably wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been watching her. It was an odd gesture. She didn't look as if she expected anyone to be lurking. Instead, it seemed almost as if she was looking to see if anything had changed.

I looked around myself, but everything seemed the same as it always was, ecru paint and all. I wondered what she'd been looking for, and why the thought made me inexplicably afraid.