“Ugh,” Charlie groaned, repulsed by the words and also irritated that she knew them by heart. She hated to trot out one of those in my day sentences, but she could still remember how reviled Madonna was for singing about her feelings of renewed virginity.
Without warning, the music stopped.
The silence tickled the hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck. She had the distinct feeling of being watched as she walked along the uneven path to unit three. The wooden door was warped, painted a dark red that did not hide the black underneath.
She raised her hand. She knocked twice. She waited. She knocked again.
The curtains rustled. The woman’s face behind the glass looked older than Charlie, but in a hard way, like the few years had been spent on a construction site or, more likely, in prison. Her eyeliner was a thick black line. Blue eyeshadow. Heavy foundation reminiscent of the coating of Doritos dust on Charlie’s steering wheel. She wore her shoulder-length bleached blonde hair in a “Barracuda”-era Nancy-Wilson-style feather.
She saw Charlie and scowled before closing the curtains.
Charlie stood on the hot sidewalk listening to the air conditioning units grumble in the quiet. She looked at her watch. She was wondering if she had been given the brush-off when she heard sounds from behind the door.
A chain slid back. A deadbolt was turned. Then another one. The door opened. Tendrils of cold air caressed Charlie’s face. The whining a/c competed with OutKast’s “Hey Ya!” playing somewhere in the darkened room. The woman at the door was wearing jeans and a cropped red T-shirt with a Georgia Bulldog on it. A half-empty bottle of beer was in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Her fingernails were filed to long, sharp points, the polish bright red. She reminded Charlie of the trashy Culpepper girls who had relentlessly hounded her throughout high school. The woman had that look about her, like when the shit went down, she was ready to scratch out some eyes or pull out some hair or bite down real hard on an arm or a back if that’s what it took to win the fight.
Charlie said, “I’m looking for Maude or Leroy Faulkner.”
“I’m Maude.” Even her voice sounded mean, like a rattlesnake opening a switchblade.
Charlie shook her head. There had to be two different Maudes. “I mean Flora’s grandmother.”
“That’s me.”
Charlie’s chin almost hit the ground.
“Yeah.” She took a hit off her cigarette. “I was seventeen when I had Esme. Esme was fifteen when she had Flora. You can do the math.”
Charlie didn’t want to do the math, because grandmothers had buns and wore bifocals and watched Hee Haw. They didn’t sport cropped shirts that showed pierced navels and drink beer in the middle of the day while OutKast played on their boom box.
Maude said, “You gonna keep wasting my air conditioning or you gonna come inside?”
Charlie stepped into the apartment. Cigarette smoke hung like dirty yellow lace in the air. There was no light except for what came in through the slim part in the curtains on the front window. Brown shag carpet cupped the soles of her sneakers. The cluttered kitchenette was part of the living room. The bathroom was at the end of a short hall, a bedroom on either side. Clothes were everywhere, unopened cardboard boxes, a sewing machine on a rickety table shoved against the wall by the kitchen. A large television set was jammed into the corner by the front window. The sound was muted as Jill Abbott screamed at Katherine Chancellor on The Young and the Restless.
“Leroy?” the woman said.
Charlie blinked her eyes until they adjusted to the darkness. Across from the TV was a dark-blue couch. A large man overflowed from the matching recliner. A metal brace encapsulated his left leg. He had likely been handsome at some point in his life, but now a long, pink scar ran down the left side of his grizzled face. His lank, brown hair hung to his shoulders. He looked either asleep or passed out. His eyes were closed. His mouth gaped open. His red University of Georgia T-shirt matched the woman’s. His jean shorts were not the usual knee-length variety, but cut short enough so that they did not impede the metal brace, which meant they were also short enough to offer up a display to whoever walked through the door.
“Jesus, Leroy.” Maude punched his arm. “Tuck your ball back in. We got company.”
Anger flashed in Leroy’s rheumy eyes, then he saw Charlie and the look was quickly replaced with one of contrition. He mumbled an apology as he turned in his chair and made some discreet adjustments below the waist.
Maude flicked her silver Zippo, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Goddamn idiot.”
“Sorry,” Leroy apologized to Charlie again.
Charlie did not know whether to smile or run for the door. Peep show aside, there was something off-putting about Flora’s grandfather. If he had been handsome in his youth, it was the skeevy kind of handsome where you didn’t know if the guy was going to ask you to dance or follow you to the parking lot and try to rape you.
Or both.
“All right, missy.” Maude blew smoke toward the ceiling. “What the hell do you want?”
“I’m Charlotte Quinn. I spoke with—”
“Rusty’s gal?” Leroy smiled. His bottom lip caved in where his teeth should’ve been. Given his age, she assumed this meant he’d graduated from pills to meth. “I think the last time I saw you was before your mama died. Come closer so I can get a look at ya.”
Charlie stepped closer, though every muscle in her body told her not to. It wasn’t just the skeeviness. There was a sickly, chemical smell about him that she recognized from her clients who were detoxing at the detention center. “How do you know my dad?”
“Had me some troubles in my youth. Then I got straightened out, and this happened.” He indicated his leg. “Ol’ Russ helped me wrangle with the insurance companies. Good man, your father.”
Charlie wasn’t used to hearing people compliment her father, so she allowed herself a moment of pride.
“Screwed over those bastards for me,” Leroy said, and her pride dropped down a few watts. “Tell me whatcha need.”
“A beer?” Maude swirled the dregs in her bottle. “Something with a little more bite?”
“No thank you.” Charlie spoke the words to the woman’s back as Maude opened the fridge door. Dozens of beer bottles tinkled against each other.
Maude selected one, then used the bottom of her shirt to twist off the cap. She tilted back her head and drank down half the contents before she looked at Charlie again. “You gonna just stand there or are you gonna start talking?”
“If Rusty needs some help…” Leroy held up his hands, indicating the apartment. “Not much we can do for him.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m here on behalf of Flora.”
Maude glanced at Leroy. “I told you your little princess was up to no good.”
Leroy’s easier nature was gone. He sat up in his chair. He leaned toward Charlie. “You one of her teachers?”
“Why the hell would a teacher be here?” Maude demanded. “School’s been out for summer since—”
“Teachers work over the summer,” Leroy said.
“No, they don’t. They barely work during the year.”
Charlie jumped in, saying, “I’m a friend.” She realized how weird that sounded. Not many fifteen-year-olds had twenty-eight-year-old friends. “A fellow Girl Scout.”
Maude said, “I thought that was what’s-her-bitch? Melinda?”
“Belinda. She’s the leader. I was speaking at the meeting this morning.”
“Shit.” This came from Leroy. “You’re a lawyer, right? ‘On behalf of Flora.’”
Maude caught his train of thought. She asked Charlie, “What bullshit did that girl put in your head?”
Leroy jumped back in. “The wrong bullshit, I can tell you that right now.”
Charlie wasn’t going to let Meemaw and Paw tag-team her. “It doesn’t seem like bullshit to me.”
Maude snorted a laugh. “She tell you about the trust? You trying to get your dirty lit
tle hands on her money?”
Leroy snorted again, too. “Fucking lawyers. Always trying to steal what don’t belong to them.” He pointed his finger at Charlie. “That stuff I said about your dad—he could go to prison for that shit. Don’t think I won’t flip on him.”
The threat fell short of its mark. Charlie knew her father played it fast and loose with the law, but he would never be so stupid as to get caught, especially by a loser like Leroy Faulkner. She told him, “Your granddaughter wants to file for legal emancipation from you.”
Neither Leroy nor Maude spoke for a moment.
Leroy cleared his throat. “Emancipation, like she thinks she’s a slave?”
“No, you dumbass,” Maude said. “It means she’ll be an adult in the eyes of the law. That we won’t be her guardians anymore.”
Leroy scratched the scar on his cheek. His expression was hard enough to send a chill down Charlie’s spine.
He said, “Over my dead body that girl gets emancipated.”
Maude said, “She probably wants to live with Nancy. Or Oliver, more like.”