1994

The skin of her fingers turned bright red, painful to the touch. Black flakes whirled around the soapy water, but the majority were still attached to the inside of her favorite frying pan. Her son couldn't even make himself eggs without burning them to a crisp. He couldn't even properly clean it. And he was going to have a baby.

Mary grabbed a towel and pressed it to her stinging eyes. Not so long ago, she'd been a respected member of the community: a wife, a mother of three, her reputation polished, rarely anyone remembering its former blemishes. Then, her teenage son had knocked up his girlfriend, and Mary had been fired from the church faster than lightning. How silly of her to think getting pregnant at seventeen had been the last of her trials. God remembered what she'd done. God didn't forget.

"You okay?"

She dropped the towel. George had arrived home from his shift at the Ballard sports equipment store, still wearing his uniform. He hadn't asked her a question like that in a while. She should answer honestly, did she ever hope to repair her marriage. But her fingers were throbbing, and she couldn't take him seriously with his beer belly in that ugly polo, looking like an overgrown Boy Scout, so she couldn't do it. Not today.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in there," she said instead. She tried for a smile--her lips felt like tape stretched too wide, and she gave up. "Just uh, soap in my eyes."

He looked at her. Part of her wished he'd ask again, shake his head, maybe offer some comfort, even if she already knew he wouldn't.

"Yeah, ain't supposed to put it there," he said. "Any coffee left?"

"I don't know. Why don't you check for yourself?"

He grumbled something. Every sound he made set her on edge lately. The fall of his footsteps. The exasperated sighs. The loud smashing of the cupboards. For a second, she imagined taking the soap bottle and squirting the contents right in his face. Maybe he would disintegrate, like any old spot you'd been trying to get rid of for ages.

Of course, she didn't, and of course, he didn't leave. He watched her, blowing the steam off his mug so forcefully that he might as well have been trying to snuff a candle. She kept her mouth shut tight. He was a grown man, despite his appearance, and he could very well start a conversation himself if he wanted to.

"By the way," he finally said, stirring his coffee. "Been asking around to find you a new job. Heard a rumor Jim Waynes is looking for someone to help him around the museum. Sounds perfect for you. Maybe you could ask your mom to put in a good word."

She picked up the sponge again. For some reason, George was incredibly against her working at the bowling alley with their neighbor, Brenda, as if he feared residing in close proximity to a divorced woman every day would give her ideas. If it wasn't for him losing his position as coach at the local high school, she might've been able to wait for a more exciting opportunity. But there were bills to pay and kids to feed, especially with the new addition coming next year.

"I have a job, George."

"Ah, come on, now. Don't tell me you'd rather work at the bowling alley than at the museum. I know which one Jesus would prefer."

She scrubbed harder. "Oh, like you care what Jesus prefers."

He sighed. "Never mind. Just trying to be helpful. I'mma watch TV."

Finally. She just wished to be left alone for a minute. Maybe she could sneak a cigarette behind the garage—Lord knew she needed one. She would explode if she didn't take that moment to herself, between Georgie ruining her pan, the mother of his child refusing to marry him, and Missy arriving from school with make-up on her eyelids and a particularly surly attitude.

She'd spoken too soon. George halted in the doorway, scratching the back of his head. "Oh, one more thing," he said. "Carl Dean's house, y'know, across from Emma and Mark's? He's gone to live in an old folk's home, and his niece just arrived yesterday to clear it out before it's put up for sale."

The towel escaped her hands again, billowing to the floor, landing right at her feet. She didn't pay it any mind, her breath stuck in her throat, her heart on pause. "His niece?"

"Yeah, Jean something."

"Jeanie Lucas?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

In the back of her mind, she knew she had to rearrange her expression, erase the shock showing on the outside. But her pulse was racing, and her features were frozen, and it seemed impossible to move.

"Something wrong?" George pierced her thoughts. "Didn't you two use to hang out in middle school? 'Cause maybe we could help her out, make some quick bucks selling stuff. I heard that place is like a hoarder's den."

Bubbling panic spread through her veins, finally thawing her. When she opened her mouth, her voice came out too high for her liking. "I — no. We didn't really... part on good terms."

"The rumors true then? She didn't, y'know..." he nodded at her body, gesturing vaguely, "...do anything unsavory to you, did she?"

Her hand trembled. She grasped for the crucifix resting on her chest. "Lord, no! Why on earth would you say such a thing?"

"Alright, hold your horses. Just been hearing some things about her."

She couldn't ask. She shouldn't. She'd buried those memories under layers of prayers and hymns ages ago, stomping on them every Sunday she sat on the church benches until she could convince herself it'd never happened like that.

She picked up the towel and forced herself to shake her head. "Can't say I'm surprised. That girl was nothing but trouble."

And she'd followed her into it every single time.