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Fu Manchu
This time,we walk to where we’re going and make a point to go slow, our hands interlaced and not saying much of anything. It’s kind of nice, just enjoying a walk. Indulging in the scenery and birds. Soaking in the day. It’s our last two hours of peace before we go see the band…and then face tomorrow. And whatever the week and beyond will bring.
When we reach the guest house Preston has relocated to the front porch with his feet propped on the railing and is puffing another cigarette. All the cupcakes should be safely to their destination by now, and he’s taking a load off.
“Feeling better, bro?” Jake asks as we ascend the front stairs.
They exchange knowing smiles.
Smoke curls from his nose as he exhales. “Better than ever.” He takes another drag. Blows it out his mouth this time. “Amazing what some distance from your family will do.”
“Ruby wasn’t there.”
Preston doesn’t acknowledge. He probably wouldn’t have come anyway to avoid his mother. “Y’all here to shoot the shit?” he finally says. He looks hopeful to have some company he actually enjoys.
“We’re headed to Southern Roots in a little while.”
It takes him a moment to catch on. “Ah. You need some clothes.” He flicks his half-smoked cigarette into the galvanized bucket beside him and stands. Stretches. Flour smudges his right bicep, and wisps of hair have escaped his ponytail. His gaze travels down to my cotton-wrapped hand, a stark white beacon. Something out of place. And his eyes flare. “What happened to you?”
“Joanna happened to me,” I deadpan.
He sifts through his memories. “Joanna…?”
“The stalker,” Jake supplies.
He suppresses a laugh, and then his features harden. “Bitch. Want her to pay for that?”
Somehow, I don’t think he’s kidding. “She’s not worth the effort.” I’ve wasted enough time on her today. She saw to it.
“Offer always stands,” he says nonchalantly, as if he were talking about something trivial like hitching a ride or picking up some milk.
Jake steps out of his way as he heads for the door, and Preston jabs his arm as he passes. “Scarlett tell you she came by this morning?” He teasingly winks over his shoulder. “She had a good taste of my cake.”
Jake chuckles. “Yeah, she told me, man.” But he shoots me a curious look. I tasted his cake?
He must not know about his side business. Then why would Preston reference it?
As we step through the threshold, we’re met with the warm, inside air and the smell of baked goods still lingering in the air. Jake must put two and two together—Preston baked something. I ate it— because his curious look is replaced with something more relaxed.
Preston makes a pitstop in the kitchen for something and motions for us to continue without him. “Remember which room it’s in?”
Jake heads straight for the hallway. “Yep.”
I follow behind.
“Fair warning, though,” Preston says over the clanking of dishes. “The room of death hasn’t been cleaned in a while.”
Room of what? Now I’m the one giving curious looks.
“You’ll see,” Jake murmurs.
A sheet of darkness covers the room when he first opens the door, and when he flicks on the light, it takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing: Deer heads, elk, moose. They’re mounted on wood plaques and propped against the wall on the floor. A bear stands menacingly on its back legs in the far-right corner. Fish hang on the wall with their mouths open. And all of them are covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs.
I immediately think back to our conversation on the rock. Harris. He was a hunter. And I bet when he had his stroke and no longer had a say in things, Magnolia ordered his prized possessions out of the main house so she no longer had to look at them. Now they’re here in a dark and dusty room. Abandoned.
An afterthought.
Just like him.
