.
As she sat at the picnic table, Jean let her eyes drift over to two men who stood chatting by the southern edge of the park near the line of scrub brush while each of their dogs, a boxer and a retriever, rolled around and chewed on sticks for lack of any organized activity. It was irritating for Jean to watch. The men had gone out to take their dogs for a walk and here they were standing. They were having a nice stand . Maybe it was just her mood talking, but it seemed to Jean that if you were going to do something, you should just get on with doing it.
She stood up from the picnic table and tossed her little wad of names into a garbage bin. The decision was made: it was going to be Dorothy first. Jean just hoped that somehow she could make it up to Cheryl, if she ever saw her again.
Chapter 7
I t was gray. It was gray. Oh, God, it was gray. Another miserable, malicious gray day. Oh, God, not another one , she thought. Couldnât take it. Couldnât take any more of these gray days. Thought she would die. Wanted to die. It was unfair. God, it was so . . . oh . . .
Sheet.
It was the sheet pulled over her eyes.
With a vague swipe, Cheryl Nunley armed the sheet away and fell back to sleep.
Jesus was not in her wineglass. Of course he wasnât. It was the late afternoon, or the early evening, and for a minute there in the wineryâs big tasting roomâfor one bedazzling, unbelievable, oh my Holy Lord momentâCheryl had been convinced that Jesus was staring at her from her glass of Cabernet-Franc. Of all the people, dead or alive, who could have been staring at Cheryl from her wineglass, Jesus was the one she would have wanted most. Jay Leno would have been nice too, because his smile was gentle and comforting. But Jesus, on the whole, was better. Cheryl blinked at the image in the glass. Her eyes were somewhat numb and she had to work to focus. âHello, Jesus!â she shouted. âSay something, Jesus!â Cheryl clamped onto the stem of her glass with her two trembling hands and stared down into the wine, into his blood, the blood of Christ. âTalk to me, Jesus!â she shouted. âIâm listening!â
But it wasnât Jesus at all. Cheryl stared at his face, watching him saying nothing, which wasnât like Jesus, and she saw that it wasnât his face. It wasnât any face. It was just the reflection of some stupid . . . there . . . the stupid light fixture over her head. Thatâs all it was, a light fixture. Not Jesus.
And nothing to cry about either, so just . . .
Cheryl smeared her cheeks dry and pushed her hooded gaze around the room at all the empty tables. She thought, it was a good thing Mr. Binderman wasnât there.
Oh, great . Cheryl raked through her purse in the parking area. She dumped the contents out onto the pavement in the dark and got down on her hands and knees and picked through the lipsticks and cigarettes and lighters and . . . corks and . . . button and . . . receipts for some stupid thing and . . . and what was that? That wasnât hers, that stupid metal hook thing, whatever it was. Throw that away. She had to find the ring of keys and . . . there was the ring of keys but there was. no. car. key. on. it. She swayed and stared at the keys and then she remembered, oh, they took that key away from her. That was her key and they took it. Okay, so now she couldnât go into town. And that meant she couldnât get more birdseed. And that meant Buzzy was going to die. Buzzy her cockatiel. From starvation. Buzzy, Buzzy, Buzzy. Buzzy who whistled and warbled like a telephone and other whistly things. She laid her head down, mourning Buzzy, who wasnât dead yet but surely would be soon because there was no food and he would be silent forever and that was sad. Buzzy, Buzzy, Buzzy, oh Buzzy. Nothing she could do. Her eyes were closed. It was okay to sleep here, on the pavement, Cheryl thought.
âMrs. Yoon?â
Mrs. Yoon was
As she sat at the picnic table, Jean let her eyes drift over to two men who stood chatting by the southern edge of the park near the line of scrub brush while each of their dogs, a boxer and a retriever, rolled around and chewed on sticks for lack of any organized activity. It was irritating for Jean to watch. The men had gone out to take their dogs for a walk and here they were standing. They were having a nice stand . Maybe it was just her mood talking, but it seemed to Jean that if you were going to do something, you should just get on with doing it.
She stood up from the picnic table and tossed her little wad of names into a garbage bin. The decision was made: it was going to be Dorothy first. Jean just hoped that somehow she could make it up to Cheryl, if she ever saw her again.
Chapter 7
I t was gray. It was gray. Oh, God, it was gray. Another miserable, malicious gray day. Oh, God, not another one , she thought. Couldnât take it. Couldnât take any more of these gray days. Thought she would die. Wanted to die. It was unfair. God, it was so . . . oh . . .
Sheet.
It was the sheet pulled over her eyes.
With a vague swipe, Cheryl Nunley armed the sheet away and fell back to sleep.
Jesus was not in her wineglass. Of course he wasnât. It was the late afternoon, or the early evening, and for a minute there in the wineryâs big tasting roomâfor one bedazzling, unbelievable, oh my Holy Lord momentâCheryl had been convinced that Jesus was staring at her from her glass of Cabernet-Franc. Of all the people, dead or alive, who could have been staring at Cheryl from her wineglass, Jesus was the one she would have wanted most. Jay Leno would have been nice too, because his smile was gentle and comforting. But Jesus, on the whole, was better. Cheryl blinked at the image in the glass. Her eyes were somewhat numb and she had to work to focus. âHello, Jesus!â she shouted. âSay something, Jesus!â Cheryl clamped onto the stem of her glass with her two trembling hands and stared down into the wine, into his blood, the blood of Christ. âTalk to me, Jesus!â she shouted. âIâm listening!â
But it wasnât Jesus at all. Cheryl stared at his face, watching him saying nothing, which wasnât like Jesus, and she saw that it wasnât his face. It wasnât any face. It was just the reflection of some stupid . . . there . . . the stupid light fixture over her head. Thatâs all it was, a light fixture. Not Jesus.
And nothing to cry about either, so just . . .
Cheryl smeared her cheeks dry and pushed her hooded gaze around the room at all the empty tables. She thought, it was a good thing Mr. Binderman wasnât there.
Oh, great . Cheryl raked through her purse in the parking area. She dumped the contents out onto the pavement in the dark and got down on her hands and knees and picked through the lipsticks and cigarettes and lighters and . . . corks and . . . button and . . . receipts for some stupid thing and . . . and what was that? That wasnât hers, that stupid metal hook thing, whatever it was. Throw that away. She had to find the ring of keys and . . . there was the ring of keys but there was. no. car. key. on. it. She swayed and stared at the keys and then she remembered, oh, they took that key away from her. That was her key and they took it. Okay, so now she couldnât go into town. And that meant she couldnât get more birdseed. And that meant Buzzy was going to die. Buzzy her cockatiel. From starvation. Buzzy, Buzzy, Buzzy. Buzzy who whistled and warbled like a telephone and other whistly things. She laid her head down, mourning Buzzy, who wasnât dead yet but surely would be soon because there was no food and he would be silent forever and that was sad. Buzzy, Buzzy, Buzzy, oh Buzzy. Nothing she could do. Her eyes were closed. It was okay to sleep here, on the pavement, Cheryl thought.
âMrs. Yoon?â
Mrs. Yoon was
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