Ferris Beach by Jill McCorkle

inside. She came up our walk, hands in the pockets of her gray pea jacket, which did not stand a chance of buttoning, her dark curly hair pulled up in a twisted knot on top of her head.
    “I think Mama expects me to eat here but I can go ask,” I said. Angela stood up to look over the hedges and then the two of them just looked at one another, then smiled slightly. “I’ll just eat here.”
    “No,” Mo said, and came up our steps, hands clasped on her stomach. “You go ask your mother if you can eat with us. I think we’re just going to go to Hardee’s, and then I thought we could ride around and look at decorations. There’s not much else I can do these days.” Then she turned slightly and nodded to Angela, who was lighting another cigarette. “Hello.”
    “Hello.” Angela leaned her head against the chain and blew out a thin curl of smoke. “Looks like you don’t have much of a wait.” She laughed and Mo nodded. The late afternoon light made Angela’s hair brighter, the coppery glow of a new penny. “If I were you,” she said, her attention on me, “I’d go out to eat. It’s always nice to go out to eat.”
    “This is Angela, Angela Burns,” I said, stumbling to think of what I should call her, my father’s niece, my cousin, the relative I haven’t seen since I was five. “And this is our neighbor, Mo Rhodes.” Again they smiled at each other. “Mrs. Rhodes used to live at Ferris Beach.”
    “Of course,” Angela said, eyes squinted as if she were giving Mo a careful study. “Yes. I knew I had seen you before.”
    “Yes,” Mo said quickly, and then turned her attention to the open trunk across the street, Dean standing there with two bags and trying to lift a third. “I better go help him,” she said. “Kate, just give us a call. Nice to see you, too.” She nodded quickly in Angela’s direction and then headed back, her boots making a grainy click on our sidewalk. When she got to the Camaro, Mr. Rhodes wrapped his arm around her, his other hand rubbing her stomach. Angela stood against a post, cigarette held up near her cheek as she watched them. “Is that Mr. Rhodes?” she asked and I nodded. “Hmmm.” She shifted her weight and turned towards me, blowing a short puff of smoke off to the side. “He’s not the type I’d imagine her with.”
    “Why?” I asked, still feeling awkward under her gaze.
    “Oh, I don’t know.” She laughed. “Don’t you ever look at people and ask that?” She waited for me to nod, while taking a deep drag on her cigarette. “I thought it when I first met Cleva,” she whispered. “Cleva was not what I expected for Fred.”
    “How long have you been here?” Now I was wondering if she had even knocked on the door or rung the bell. Did my mother even know that she was out here? I could smell the faint traces ofonions, garlic, and peppers browning, the beginnings of spaghetti sauce, and I knew my mother was just on the other side of that door and down the hall. Already the light was on in the foyer, and any second she would turn on the one over the front door.
    “Not long,” Angela said, and pushed off again, thumped her cigarette over the banister. “I didn’t see Freddie’s car so I figured he wasn’t here.” Though different from my memory, she was still very pretty. I tried to imagine her meeting my mother for the first time; I had no idea when that even would have been, whether it was before or after they were married.
    “Kate?” I jumped at the sound of Mama’s voice and turned quickly. “Misty just called to see if you want to go to Hardee’s with them. I told her that I’m cooking spaghetti but that if. . .” She stopped when she saw Angela and just stood there with the door held open. She was wearing the size nine-and-a-half fluffy purple slippers I’d given to her for her birthday; I had known when I bought them, little satin heels and feathery wisps like from a boa on the toe, that they were way out of character for her;