The Guilty One by Sophie Littlefield Read Free Book Online

shitter.”
    Maris blushed. Even now, after everything, there were corners of her that refused to be worn down, little bits of her old carapace that still clung when the rest had been sloughed off by grief and horror. Shitter : that was a word that she had never spoken and that she hadn’t heard in years. A coarse word that had no place even in the percussive, obscenity-laced torrent that issued from the Morgandale kids ( Mrs. Vacanti, I need to go to the baff -room ).
    She followed the girl around the end of the block, approaching the house from the other direction. The temperature seemed to have risen even in the short time they’d been outside. A thin trickle of sweat rolled down the small of Maris’s back. She hadn’t dressed for the weather, thinking she’d be at Alana’s condo by now. Alana kept the air-conditioning on all summer, ostensibly because of her allergies; the windows were never open. Another reason that Maris dreaded going there. To be sealed up in that place . . .
    The girl led her up the stairs to the porch, opened the door. Inside was a dim foyer, carpeted stairs going up, a cheap door on the right that she opened with another key. Maris followed her into a large, sunny room, every corner stuffed with bright-colored furniture and pillows and throws, fabric panels hanging from the ceiling, curtains pulled all the way open. In the center of the room, up against the bay window, was a bed, neatly made and covered with a patchwork quilt. Along the opposite wall were a tiny stove, a huge old refrigerator, a single cabinet that wasn’t even fastened to the wall, and a pair of cheap bookcases that held dishes and cups and food in addition to piles of papers and textbooks.
    â€œBathroom’s through there,” the girl said. “You go first, I’ll change.”
    Maris went through the arched opening. Once, it must have led to a formal dining room, but it had been walled off, a bathroom wedged in the space between. Inside, the tub enclosure was coated with soap scum. There was a dusty layer of grime on everything, worst on the floor, where used Q-tips cluttered the corners along with clots of hair and dust. Maris washed her hands at the sink, then cupped water in her hands and rinsed her mouth, over and over.
    She ought to pee now, because who knew when she’d get another chance, but the toilet was filthy. The ring in the bowl was at least a half inch wide. After a moment’s deliberation, Maris sat anyway. She couldn’t summon the energy to be appalled.
    While she sat, she looked around the bathroom, inspecting the few items lining the windowsill and sink. There were no cosmetics. Poor thing, Maris thought before she could stop herself. Just because the girl had more of a . . . the word butch was what came to mind, but surely that wasn’t the proper word, the respectful word—sort of look didn’t mean she couldn’t do a little more with herself. After all, even boys wore makeup now. On the tub ledge was a cloudy bar of soap embedded with bits of something. Drugstore shampoo—two-in-one, no need for conditioner. Razors, tampons, deodorant. Secret brand—made for a woman, wasn’t that how the old ads used to go?
    Maris washed her hands a second time and came out into the main room.
    â€œI feel worlds better,” she lied. The truth was she felt neither better nor worse. Since leaving the house this morning, driving out of their neighborhood and through town and onto the highway on-ramp, she’d had the strange sense that her emotions had been sucked out of her by the heat, laid waste along with the parched earth and withered brown hillsides, victims of the relentless drought. The heat scoured and the dust coated what was left. The drought had officially lasted over a year; it dated almost exactly to Calla’s death, something she and Jeff had never spoken of, though surely he must have thought about it