Fates' Folly (15 page)

In the five minutes it took me to drive from
the store to home, I wondered what the chances were that Barty even
knew where Riley originally came from and, more importantly, if he
would be willing to tell me. The curiosity of it was killing me,
plus I just couldn't wrap my head around the idea of being alive
for over two thousand years. I'm still not so sure it would be a
good thing.

What was so cool about being immortal anyway?
As far as I could tell, my body hadn't changed- I had all the same
wrinkles, cellulite and fat I had before Sebastian had killed me. I
sure as hell didn't feel any more energetic or strong. The only
thing immortality had changed was converting my crappy life into a
crappy eternity.

I should send a Thank You card, Thank you
Fates, my life sucked, and now, because of you, I get to enjoy that
suckiness forever. A very fuck you to you and yours, sincerely,
Myra.

Of course, I wouldn't want the alternative
either. I was glad to be alive. I was just going to have to tweak a
few things in order to make immortality work better for me. Hell,
it wasn't like I didn't have enough time to make it happen.

I very carefully closed the screen door of
the old house that held my apartment. I had taken my shoes off and
stuffed them into my school bag. I was not looking for a repeat of
last Wednesday when a squeaky sneaker had led to a twenty minute
lecture on my lack of personal hygiene. I held the plastic bags
full of snack cakes out, away from my body and the wall, in hopes
of avoiding any sound of crinkling plastic as I tip-toed up the
stairs.

"Myra! Is that you clomping up my stairs?" my
landlord shrieked.

I had made it halfway up the curving
staircase. I was almost around the corner-I'm not ashamed to say-
hiding in the shadows.

"Myra Jane Collier!" she shrieked again, my
name echoing against the yellowed papered walls of the little
antebellum house.

I decided I'd just ignore the old hag and
continue up to my apartment. It's not like she could actually drag
her decrepit body up the stairs and follow me.

"Myra!" she screamed, her shrill voice
hitting a painful note.

I had just placed my foot on the next step
when I heard her suck in a long wheezing breath. I hesitated. If
she had an asthma attack, I'd have to go downstairs and deal with
her…nah, she was probably too evil to die. I hunched my shoulders,
determined to continue up the stairs.

"Myra! Don't act like you don't hear me,
girl. Listen, your mama paid me a visit last night. Don't you want
to know what she had to say?" she crooned, in a sickly sweet
voice.

That was interesting, considering my mama was
dead and buried, and Mrs. Crowell had never met her. One look at my
mama, in her usual outfit of leather mini skirt, barely-there top
and fuck-me pumps would have catapulted Mrs. Crowell all the way
across the street to avoid any possible association. If she had
actually heard my mama open her mouth and spew her wild charm, it
would have had her frantically running home to lock her doors and
call the police.

But none of that mattered. Mrs. Crowell had
something to say, and if I didn't go back down the stairs and hear
what it was, she'd just tell someone else. It would be the butcher
at the Piggly Wiggly or the teller at the bank, and before long the
whole town would be itching to tell me about the ghost of Ronnie
Lynn Collier.

I turned, leaning over the stair rail so I
could look down at the old woman. She was looking up at me,
grinning and tapping her ugly square toed shoe on the scarred
hardwood floor. Her cream-colored linen pantsuit clung to her bony
body like an old burial cloth, the sleeves and collar billowing
slightly from the two wicker ceiling fans that spun quietly
above.

I turned around and stepped back down the
stairs. Mrs. Crowell rested both of her hands on her hips with her
gnarled arthritic fingers sticking up and curved out like
talons.

"I thought it was you stomping up those
steps, sounded like a herd of elephants," she said, patting her
white helmet of tight little curls while she further stretched her
pointy face into an even nastier smile.

Her beady little eyes gave me a once over
from my head to my toes. "You know, I think you've put on some more
weight. You wore those same blue pants over the Easter holiday, and
I don't believe they were stretched quite so tight like they are
today."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure I've packed on at least
another pound or two. Nothing celebrates the rebirth of Christ like
a giant, chocolate bunny."

"Don't be sassy with me, girl," she
snarled.

I bit my bottom lip to keep from saying
anything else snarky and counted to ten. Mrs. Crowell continued to
glare at me, I'm sure waiting for an apology that was never going
to happen.

Finally I said, "Mrs. Crowell, as I believe
you know, my mama died last July. Whoever visited you was playing a
practical joke."

Mrs. Crowell's thin skin creased into deep
lines across her forehead. "No, child, it was your mama. She came
to me last night as God's loving angel."

I said another silent fuck you to The Fates
and sat down on the steps. "Are you taking those rum soaked raisins
for your arthritis again?"

Mrs. Crowell pursed her lips. "Didn't you
hear me child? God has given your mama wings."

"Mrs. Crowell, the closest my mama ever came
to owning wings was the ones she had tattooed on her back with the
lyrics to ‘Freebird’ inked in between. She didn't believe in God.
In fact, the only time I ever heard her mention the big guy was
when she was cursing him for sticking her with me."

"You don't have to believe in God for him to
know you. If you ever came to church, you'd know that. Your mama
was deemed worthy because of her good works."

I snorted, "I don't know that I've ever heard
it referred to that way."

"She told me you wouldn't believe me. She
said she used to get down on her knees at every opportunity-"

I laughed. "Well, that's probably true."

"To pray for you."

"Mrs. Crowell, one of the kids at Cal's
Country Buffett must have slipped some shrooms into the gravy again
when you had your Sunday dinner yesterday, because there is no way
my mama's an angel."

Mrs. Crowell scowled down at me. "It was the
saddest sight these old eyes have ever beheld, your mama, a most
glorious angel, her golden wings sagging as she lay curled up in
the corner of my sofa, weeping for hours with her worry for
you."

"I'm sure nothing’s sadder than angelic
tears," I said.

She stepped closer, folding her arms across
her chest, her eyes flashing a vicious gleam. "It was truly a sad
sight, and so avoidable. All she wants is for you to be happy."

"I am happy." If you'd just leave me the hell
alone.

"Honey, you're a twenty-seven year old small
town art teacher, completely alone in this world, with nothing to
show for yourself but the increasing ability to closely resemble
Beulah Higgins's prized heifer. How could you possibly be
happy?"

I looked down at my gray t-shirt and blue
capris. Okay, I'd have to admit my boobs, which were on the large
side, didn't quite obscure the view of my hips and newly extended
belly, and my pants were a little tighter than usual, but come on,
Mrs. Higgins' cow? I looked up into Mrs. Crowell's smiling face. My
hand tightened on my school bag.

"I guess Bo likes cows then, huh?" I said,
feeling as childish as I sounded.

Mrs. Crowell sneered, "My nephew always has
had a thing for charity cases. It won't be long before he moves on
to something better."

"Harpy," I muttered.

She cackled, "Oh Myra, dear, I meant no
offense. You know I'm only trying to help. I'd be lying if I said I
thought anything would come from Bo's slumming, and what kind of
friend would I be if I did that? It's better you know how things
really are than be crushed later when he loses interest.

“I, along with your precious mama, am only
worried about your future. You have no prospects for marriage, you
work a dead-end job-”

I stood up, grabbed my bag of snack cakes,
turned my back on Mrs. Crowell, and started walking up the
stairs.

"Myra? Myra, don't you walk away from me.
Myra!"

I kept climbing, now stomping loudly on each
step to counter her screaming. I'd probably end up regretting it
later, especially when it got all over town. Considering she's the
one who decides if I get to renew my lease in two months, I should
actually be finding ways to kiss her ass instead of pissing her
off, but every day the bag of bones that made up Mrs. Evelyn
Crowell came out to pick at me. I imagine, if I ever stood still
long enough, she'd pick my bones dry.

At the top of the stairs, I ceased the
stomping and walked quietly across the large landing that separated
my apartment from my neighbor, Doug Pittard's place. I turned the
glass knob and opened my door. There was no need to lock my door,
besides the fact that Mrs. Crowell was scarier than the hounds from
hell, everyone is too hot - May in South Georgia- and miserable to
bother climbing the twenty stairs necessary to steal my meager
collection from Goodwill.

I walked over the threshold, using my body to
close the front door. I leaned against the door, closed my eyes and
enjoyed the instantaneous peace that settled over me the moment it
clicked shut. Yes, this was worth enduring the nagging screeches of
Mrs. Crowell every day, twice a day if I had to. I'd pay any price
for the sanctuary of my little apartment.

"You're fifteen minutes late," Barty said,
sitting in my orange chair, looking comfortable and relaxed.

I looked up at the ceiling. "Can I get a
break today? Please!" I pleaded.

"Who are you talking to?" Barty asked, still
lounging in my orange chair.

I threw my school bag down, enjoying the
satisfying thud it made as it hit the floor, and took my bags of
Little Debbie goodness straight to the kitchen.

"The Fates. Get out of my chair, my
apartment, my life."

"What do you have in the bags?" Barty asked,
following me.

"My sanity. Now go away."

He reached over my shoulder, trying to grab
my snack cakes. "Give me the bags."

"Hell, no!" I answered, opening the fridge so
the door was between us.

"Seriously, Myra, give me the bag. You know
I'll get it anyway, why not give your bottom a little reprieve and
hand over the cakes?"

I stuck my hand in the bag, grabbed a giant
individually wrapped star crunch and stuffed the two bags into the
fridge. Slamming the fridge closed, I leaned against the door and
at the same time popped the cellophane off the chocolate covered
caramel rice crispy cookie and-

"Don't do it," Barty warned.

-shoved half the thing into my mouth.

Barty shook his head. "Poor, poor, Myra."

I smiled, my cheeks puffed out with a
mouthful of chocolate. Barty punched me just below my diaphragm. I
coughed, expelling my partially chewed star crunch onto my kitchen
floor. While I was bent over, holding my aching stomach, Barty took
the rest of the cookie out of my hand.

"Well, that was fun. Shall we begin our
training for the day?"

I tried to ignore my screaming stomach
muscles as I straightened to look Barty in the eyes.

"Listen jackass extraordinaire, I've had the
principle all over my ass, Bo all over everything else and a
threatening phone call from Sebastian. I just spent fifteen minutes
of my life that I will never get back, listening to my crotchety
landlady tell me that my mama’s been given wings and is now
boo-hooing all over the place because, not only am I worthless, but
I've also gained another pound. So believe me when I say, I DON'T
NEED YOU IN MY KITCHEN TRYING TO STEAL MY SNACK CAKES!"

Barty folded his arms with a large
exaggerated sigh. "You have to train."

"Fine, go away, give me fifteen minutes to
change and regroup and I'll be ready."

"You're going to spend those fifteen minutes
stuffing your face."

"Probably."

Barty cocked a hip, rolling his eyes at me.
"It just so happens I have something I need to take care of.
Otherwise, I'd not give in. But, fifteen minutes is all you get,
and you have to agree to let me add a healthy item of my choice to
your diet."

I waved my hand. "Whatever, just go."

Fifteen minutes later…

Barty opened my closet door. "You are a sad
sight, TT," he said.

"I wouldn't have had to hide in the closet if
I hadn't been worried you'd come back early. I already told you
I've had a bad day. Have some compassion and help me up."

Barty sighed and held out his hand for me to
grab. I clasped his hand and let him pull me up. He pulled a silk
hanky out of his pocket and wiped some chocolate off my chin.
"Let's get started. I've already marked this day off as a
loss."

"No arguing with you there," I said, grabbing
my sweats and retreating to the bathroom to change.

“Why am I doing this again?" I asked, once
again falling off the two inch wide piece of wood that was balanced
between two upside down paint buckets.

"I enjoy watching you wave your arms in the
air like an idiot before you fall. But mostly, because your balance
sucks, and you need a decent center of gravity or you'll never
learn any fighting skills, not to mention how miserably you’ll fail
at any endurance test."

I stood on the wood again, only to fall off
minutes later.

"What exactly do the Olympian Trials consist
of?" I asked, trying to re-balance myself on the stick.

"I don't know."

"Did you just say, you don't know? The
mighty, the Trainer Extraordinaire, Bartholomew the Great doesn't
know?"