The Ghost of Ben Hargrove by Heather Brewer Read Free Book Online Page A

cross. In her hand she clutched a worn leather book. She didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular, and in return, most of the patrons simply hunched up their shoulders and tried to avoid eye contact with her.
    The chain-smoking hostess approached her calmly, like this was a regular occurrence in her day. “Now, Martha, what have we talked about? You can’t keep coming in here and disrupting people.”
    Martha didn’t look like she gave a crap. She also looked like she pretty much lived on Planet Martha most of the time, with brief visits to the town of Whackadoo. When she spoke again, her tone remained every bit as embittered, but it was quieter, at least. “You’ll all burn. You should be home on the Sabbath. Family and hearth. All of you.”
    By the pinched expression that was settling on the hostess’s face, I could tell her patience was wearing thin. “Martha, we’re trying to run a business here. If Dave sees you in here again causing trouble, you know what he’ll do. He said he’d call Officer Bradley last time, and—”
    â€œYOU’RE GONNA BURN!”
    I was starting to like Martha.
    The door opened, jostling the bell that hung above it, and a girl around my age rushed inside. Her shoulder-length hair was stark black, with streaks of cranberry and thin, plum-colored braids twisting all through it. She was dressed in small-town punk, with bold black-and-white-striped knee-high socks and beat-up military boots. Several safety pins were hooked along the hem of her short black skirt, and the tattered T-shirt she wore depicted a band I’d never heard of. Attached to the front of her shirt, clinging to her curves, was a button that read Buttons Are for Dorks . She definitely didn’t look like a farmer’s daughter.
    She twisted one of her braids between two fingers in a way that was almost childlike. But there was nothing childish about the way she licked her lips or how she grazed the fingernails of her left hand along the smooth skin of her thigh as she looked around the place. I took my time noticing.
    When she saw Martha, she groaned. “Mom, come on. Come home. You can’t keep doing this.”
    Martha gestured to the patrons dramatically with a sweep of her right arm. The hostess rolled her eyes. Something told me she’d heard this punch line so many times, she was just waiting for the joke to be over. “I have to warn them. I have to tell them.”
    The hostess spoke up again, her already-pinched face pinching even more in irritation. “Cara, I’ve had about enough of this. You’ve got to get her home and keep her there. Every Sunday, for crying out loud.”
    â€œI know, Mary. I’m sorry.” The girl—Cara, I instantly memorized—turned back to her mom then, and my sympathy for her grew. It had to be hard to be the parent to your parent. It had to be hard to be the girl with the crazy mom. Especially when everyone in town seemed to know that was your lot in life. At least Dad had spared me that embarrassment.
    Cara sighed, and then something sparked in her eyes. “Come on, Mom. What are you always saying we should do on the Sabbath? Stay home with our family, right?”
    Her mom nodded eagerly. At last, someone was starting to listen to her. “Home and hearth. Family and home.”
    Cara tugged her sleeve and nodded at the door. “Well, come on, then. We’re family. It’s the Sabbath. Let’s go home.”
    At first, Martha didn’t move an inch. But then, with a distrusting gleam in her eyes and a furrowed brow, she edged toward the door, letting her daughter lead the way. As they exited, Cara glanced over her left shoulder, like she’d heard a sound or was checking to see if anyone else had anything to say about her crazy mother. When she did, our eyes met. I nodded a hello, and hoped she noticed, but I couldn’t be certain. In seconds, she was