Cold Blood by Theresa Monsour Read Free Book Online

carried it well. Trip didn’t know what his ma was like; his pa had burned all her pictures right after Trip was born. All he knew was her name. Anna. Whenever he asked about her, his pa would say, “Ran off with your big sister. That’s all I know.” Same words every time. All Trip knew about his big sister was her name. Mary. Two names. Anna and Mary. The only history Trip ever had of his immediate kin. When he was ten, he found a photo in a kitchen drawer, under the paper liner. Nothing written on the back. He assumed it was his sister. Black hair. Nice skin. Dark eyes. She was in a frilly dress. His pa found him holding the picture, ripped it out of his hands and shoved it in the sink.
    â€œThat my s . . . s . . . sister? That Mary?”
    His pa’s answer was to turn on the garbage disposal.
    Most days he and his pa got along. They were both neat. Kept the house fine. Neither one could cook worth a damn; ate a lot of TV dinners and instant oatmeal. Certain holidays, such as the Fourth of July and Flag Day and Halloween, his pa dressed in a white jumpsuit and passed out Fudgsicles from the front porch while “All Shook Up” blared from the cassette player. He’d make Trip wear a cowboy outfit: hat, vest, bandanna, spurs, holster, plastic six-shooter. That way his pa had his two favorites on the porch: Elvis and cowboys. The routine was supposed to be for the neighborhood kids, but the women came around, too. Pa charmed them. Called them all “ma’am,” whether they were junior-high girls or grandmas. His pa craved anaudience the way Trip feared it. He was relieved when he finally outgrew the cowboy clothes.
    Trip couldn’t decide if his life would have been better or worse if he hadn’t spent his childhood in the shadow of Graceland. His pa sold bootleg Elvis Presley paraphernalia at a strip mall in Memphis, right across the street from Graceland. Bumper stickers. Snow globes. Shirts. Hats. Action figures. Backscratchers. Salt and pepper shakers. The shop was a weird place to be when Elvis was alive. Always full of tourists talking about The King. The King. The King . When he was real young, Trip thought they were talking about Jesus because he’d heard about The King of the Jews in Sunday school. He thought Jesus starred in Jailhouse Rock and sang “Love Me Tender,” and wondered if The King was crucified and went to heaven, why was he still living in the big house across the street. The shop got weirder after Elvis died, and busier. His pa struggled to keep up. The stock of souvenirs multiplied nearly overnight; floor-to-ceiling snow globes and backscratchers. The stuff flew off the shelves, but the fans doing the buying weren’t happy anymore. They were all bawling when they came into the store, and his pa would bawl with them. Trip didn’t like any of it; he hid in the stockroom. His pa would yell for him: “Make yourself worthwhile.” The store became a jumbled mess.
    Then his pa hired Snow White.
    Cammie Lammont had skin the color of eggshells and black hair that reached down to her butt. She walked into the shop carrying a suitcase and wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat; she could have been a starlet on the run from her fans. Her dress was spray-painted on. She was nearly as tall as Trip, but she carried herself like a queen. Nose in the air. Back straight as an ironing board. She ripped the Help Wanted sign they’d posted in the shop window and brought it over to his pa. “Meet your help,” she said, and slapped the sign on the counter. When she took off her sunglasses, the expression on his pa’s face was strange. A combination of surprise and fear andcuriosity. She moved in with them. Took the spare bedroom. She couldn’t cook and she didn’t know spit about Elvis, but she managed the inventory and did the bookkeeping. She saved the shop. His pa gave her a baseball hat on her