Fiends by John Farris Read Free Book Online Page B

and every boy in school smirking because they just know when you've got it, like male dogs know about bitches. What did we ever do to God that he has to put us through that once a month?"
    "Don't blame God. It was Eve. I think."
    "I wonder how many other mistakes she made that we're supposed to pay for?"
    "I don't know," Enid said wanly. "They never taught us much about Eve in Sunday school, did they? Well, I'm going upstairs and put a cold cloth on my head for half an hour."
    "I'll call you when supper's on the table."
    "Thanks, Marjory."

4
     
    The phone was ringing; Marjory grabbed it in the kitchen. The caller was her great-aunt Willie Lloyd, who lived a few miles away in McHenry's Ford. Aunt Willie Lloyd telephoned frequently to assure herself that the girls hadn't been murdered in their beds by "tramps from the highway," as she put it. A widow, she was alone in her own eight-room house, and had often urged the girls to move in with her. Marjory had never cottoned to the idea, because Aunt Willie Lloyd was a nonstop talker and not much of a housekeeper: chickens wandered in and out of her house through gaps in the screen doors.
    Marjory patiently refused an offer of two pecks of tomatoes, allowed that they could use a couple of jars of blackberry preserves, promised to run up to McHenry's Ford before Saturday, and extricated herself from the telephone after nearly ten minutes of "uh-huhs" and "yes, ma'ams." She went out on the back porch for a breath of air, but there wasn't a breeze yet. The trees in the deep backyard were motionless. She fed two of the cats, Zombie and Tom-Tom, emptied the laundry hamper and started a wash. The old wringer Maytag was sounding worse than ever; another month and they would need a replacement. But they had forty-five dollars in their joint savings account.
    She wandered outside, uncomfortable from the prickly heat that had popped out on her behind during the drive from Nashville. Ted Lufford had kept the grass mowed all summer, but the rest of the property, three and a half acres, looked shabby. Her mother's garden plot had been overgrown for four years, and so had the scuppernong arbor. The padlock on her father's shop had not been disturbed since shortly after his death; it was thick with rust. Daddy Lee had been the neighborhood fix-it man, one of those jackleg geniuses who could repair any kind of machinery. So he'd always had plenty of work (it was amazing how many people would pay three or four dollars once in a while to keep a ten-dollar toaster alive); enough money for his family and for his abiding passion, the swapping, training, and showing of Tennessee walking horses. Daddy Lee's stable was empty now, so forbiddingly empty Marjory couldn't bring herself to walk inside. Even while he was alive Marjory had avoided his horses; they were dumber than dirt, in her opinion, with bad dispositions to boot. But she was always so proud of her daddy when he was showing the three-gaited animals: Lord, he was a handsome man in the saddle!
    She'd loved him most, however, because he understood her own passion, for baseball, applauded her skills, and never said a discouraging word about her body. Standing still, Marjory was tall but with big shoulders; she looked top-heavy, awkward, physically incompetent. Babe Ruth hadn't looked like much, either. Marjory could throw hard with either hand. She had kept four balls in the air the first time she attempted juggling, had hit her first golf ball 150 yards, straight and true. She was a self-taught swimmer with phenomenal endurance. When she ran (one step, and she was at top speed), Marjory achieved a fluidity and grace that seemed aerodynamically impossible, given the contours of her body.
    Marjory picked up an old baseball with unraveling seams that had been kicked aside by Ted's Toro and threw it high, then turned and caught it deftly behind her back. That small amount of exertion caused her to break out in a sweat again; her blouse was sticking