Playing Dead by Julia Heaberlin Read Free Book Online Page A

was back on the road through town, driving past January Lane (although there was no December or February), the feed store, and the veterinary, hungrily snatching French fries out of the top container. After a few miles, I turned onto a road that quickly changed from smooth black asphalt to vicious, spitting gravel to clouds of boiling dust. I bumped along until I could see the big family ranch house up on the hill, in a protective clump of live oaks, but before that I turned off on an even more rugged dirt lane, winding through the playing fields of our childhood.
    I pulled up to Sadie’s doublewide trailer, which she’d affectionately decorated with multicolored swirls of spray paint. She’d set her temporary home on a breathtaking spot of land. It faced the sunsets and overlooked a cement pond now shimmering brilliant orange, like someone had filled it with Sunkist soda.
    For the first time, I realized how vulnerable Sadie and Maddie were, alone at night, smack in the middle of open land. Targets.
    I got out of the pickup, then stopped. A new piece of sculpture rose three feet above me, a twisting tower of colorful recycled metal—Coke and beer cans, scraps of rusted tin, bottle caps, all of it attached to an ancient fence post running up the middle. An old doll that I remembered from Sadie’s childhood collection leered down from the top, wired in place. Molly, I think she’d named her. Molly’s blond hair and yellow overalls had seen better days. Her blank blue eyes remained as creepy as ever.
    Apart from the doll, the sculpture was oddly appealing, an idiosyncratic complement to the trailer itself, covered with Sadie’s bold pop art drawings. Window boxes spilled over with marigolds, white petunias, and Mexican heather, thriving despite a spate of hundred-degree days.
    “Do you like it?” Sadie asked, emerging from behind the sculpture with wire cutters in her hands. An impromptu weapon, I thought, if she ever needed one.
    “I’m calling it ‘Last Night,’ inspired by that blind date Irene set me up on. What is she thinking, really? He was at least fifty. He had five threads of hair. He tried to slip his hand down the back of my jeans while we were still in the driveway. Lucky there’s not much between me and my jeans.” She pointed the wire cutters at my legs. “Nice look, by the way. What happened?”
    “Inside,” I evaded.
    While she gathered up her tools from the ground, I took special note of our physical differences. Sadie wasn’t especially tall, but she was all legs like Daddy. We used to lay out in bikinis on rickety lawn chairs, greased up with Crisco or baby oil, eagerly comparing the progress on our arms every half-hour. I always lost. Sadie roasted a beautiful gold; the best I could do was a bubble-gum pink. Her dark hair grew straight like Mama’s and mine but was usually cut ruthlessly short by her own hand. Mysister was blessed—or cursed—with sweet, open features that reckless men always took as an invitation.
    Today she wore her favorite summer attire. Paint-spattered cutoffs. A hot pink tank top that showed off two inches of flat stomach. Cheap plastic thongs on her feet that had seen better days. Minimal makeup. Big smile. Sadie made her living firing up tiny blowtorches and bending platinum and gold into breathtakingly delicate jewelry that looked like it was made by the hands of fairies. Her pieces sold for insane prices in galleries in New York and San Francisco. She refused to build a house yet, although she could well afford it with her take from the gas wells. Too permanent, she said, although her muses lived out here in the gum trees and live oaks. Inside, other muses entertained her through her Bose sound system, iPod, satellite dish, and plasma TV.
    “Toooo​ooooo​ooooo​ooomm​ie!”
    My niece, Maddie, jolted out the door behind her, barefoot, brown pigtails flying, wearing a faded Save the Gulf tee that hit her at the knees.
    “What are we going to do