The Influence(25)

The sun had risen, and white light seeped into the room from cracks in the drapes. He’d overslept. Getting up, he still had an erection, and he pushed down on it, trying to get it to go away. She was his cousin, for God’s sake, and he felt shamed and disgusted by whatever part of his brain had concocted that cockamamie scenario. The erection disappeared as he took a cold shower, and he washed, dried off, got dressed and chugged a glass of orange juice before heading outside to quickly feed the horse and goat. The chickens he’d see to later.

Glad that he’d packed the boxes ahead of time, Ross loaded them into the cab of the pickup, honey on the floor and eggs on the seat next to him. He should have asked Lita where they kept the money box, but he probably had enough ones and fives in his wallet to make change, and he found a notepad and pencil with which to tally up sales.

He drove to town. As before, the street was blocked off, and though the cowboy hatted senior manning the barricades didn’t know him from Adam, the old man must have recognized Dave’s pickup because he pulled one of the sawhorses aside and waved Ross through.

He wasn’t as late as he thought he’d be. Most vendors were still setting up, and he pulled next to the Native American family, who had their table out and were arranging their jewelry and leather goods. With no one to help him, Ross dragged his table out of the truck’s bed on his own, unfolding the legs and righting it before taking out the sign. He’d forgotten to bring the bricks and boards that Dave used to prop the sign up, so he leaned it against the pickup’s bumper. It couldn’t be seen from afar, but Ross assumed that by this time, most of the market’s patrons probably knew where the L Bar-D table was. Besides, if they didn’t, the display of honey jars and egg cartons should make it pretty clear what was being sold.

He arranged the jars and cartons on top of the table.

Jackass McDaniels stopped by with some old honey jars to trade in. Ross didn’t know what to do with them, so he told the handyman he could bring them back next week, when Dave and Lita would be back.

“Nah,” McDaniels said. “You take ’em and give ’em to Dave when he gets back. He can credit me next time.”

McDaniels didn’t buy any more honey, but he hung around and shot the breeze for a few minutes, leaving only when other customers started to arrive. The priest didn’t come by this time, but neither did Cameron Holt, and though Ross didn’t recognize most of the people who stopped by, he did recognize Anna Mae, the old woman whose husband had Alzheimer’s. When she worriedly asked after Lita, Ross carefully explained where she was and that she would be back next week.

“Oh, that’s terrible!” Anna Mae kept repeating, genuinely distressed.

“I’m sure they’ll be very touched by your concern,” he told her.

There wasn’t much to sell, so he ran out of eggs early, honey soon after that. Once he’d packed up the table, sign and boxes, and made sure the money was safely tucked into the front pocket of his jeans, he took a quick tour of the other vendors’ displays.

He walked by the mushroom stand, saw the little granny-skirted girl. He smiled at her. “Hi.”

“Dick suck mushroom! Pickaninny pie!”

Shocked, he faced the child. “What did you say?”

She giggled, turned away, and ran behind her mother, who was standing behind the booth, frowning at him.

He still wasn’t sure he’d heard what he thought he’d heard. “What did you say?” he asked again.

The girl shook her head, refusing to answer.

“Stop badgering her!” the mom ordered. “Either buy something or leave. In fact, no, you can’t buy anything. I won’t sell anything to you. Get out.”

“I—” Ross began.

“I know why you’re sniffing around here!” the mom screamed. “You think I don’t? You’re using her to get to me! I know what you want!” She lifted her skirt to reveal dirty blood- stained underwear.

“Lady, you’re crazy,” Ross said and walked away as the woman screamed after him.

“What a bitch.”

At the sound of the voice, he looked to his right, where a dark-skinned young woman with long black Pocahontas hair was standing behind a table covered with an assortment of large individually wrapped cookies in the shapes of various household items: couch, table, refrigerator, television. Approximately his own age, she was dressed casually in loose jeans and a Decemberists t-shirt, which instantly put her in his good graces. She smiled at him. “You must be Lita’s cousin. I’m Jill.”

“Ross,” he introduced himself. He did not remember seeing her before.