Drop Dead Gorgeous

“Sure,” I tease. I seal our agreement to disagree with a quick kiss. “I know you’ve got to get to work. Me too. But I’ll call you later.”

She smiles and disappears inside. I guess it’s the safety lessons I’ve heard my whole life, the statistics about a home invasion happening once every twenty-six seconds, or more likely, it’s that same desire to wrap Zoey up in cotton candy and treat her gently, but I tell her through the door, “Lock up, Zo.” I hear the lock turn and only then can I leave.

Halfway to my car, I hear a voice call out, “Hey! Hey, you!”

I track the sound and see two older women sitting in folding camp chairs outside the trailers across the narrow dirt road that separates their plot from Zoey’s.

“Yes?”

“Come here.”

The woman on the left takes a puff of a cigarette, her eyes narrowed as she watches to see if I’ll obey. My mother raised me to respect my elders, and I suppose there’s a chance she needs help getting up, so I take measured steps across the road.

“Hello, ladies. What can I help you with today?” I flash my charming smile, ready to talk about the weather or their grandkids, or God forbid, their cats.

“What’re you doing with D.D.?” Cigarette Smoker demands.

I blink, “I’m sorry, who?” I look to the other woman, teasing, “Are you Dee Dee?”

She crinkles her wrinkled lips, “Nah. I’m Louise. This here’s Thelma. And she means D.D.G.” She points toward Zoey’s trailer with her whiskered chin.

Anger freezes my blood in my veins. “Zoey,” I correct, enunciating the word harshly. “And not that it’s any of your business, but I’m dating her.”

Twin hums of disappointment sound out of the women’s throats as they give each other a pointed look. Thelma, who seems to be the boss of these two, takes a deep inhale of her cigarette and, with the smoke coming out as she speaks, says, “You know what happens to everyone she spends time with, don’tcha? Damn shame is what it is.”

She shakes her head as though discussing something sad, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that says she’s enjoying bearing witness to whatever awfulness she blames on Zoey. “You’re too good-looking for a witch like her. Shame to see you in a pine box sooner than the good Lord intended because you got bewitched by her.”

She flicks her hand from me to Zoey’s trailer, ash falling to the ground at her feet as she threatens me with impending doom.

“Oh, yeah, awful thing what that girl did to her momma and daddy, and then her grandparents. I heard she talks to the bodies down at the morgue,” Louise adds, dropping her voice to finish, “and she thinks they talk back to her. Creepy, if I say so myself. Talking to the dead, touching them . . . disgusting.”

They nod with sneered faces like they smell something rank, each echoing the sentiments from the other. Before, I let Zoey fight her own battles with Bubba at the beer barn and Alver at work. But she’s not here now, and I feel righteous in defending her since I can’t allow people to talk badly about someone I care about. Especially when they’ve done nothing to warrant it and aren’t here to stand up for themselves.

I square up and stand tall, letting all charm and kindness fall off my shoulders.

Sorry, Mom. Some people don’t deserve manners.

These two busybody biddies certainly don’t.

“Here’s what I know . . . she’s had a rough life, with some painful loss. Ironically, people think losing her family is reason enough to heap more pain on her shoulders. And somehow, though she’s surrounded by ugly, small-minded people,” I growl, slowly looking them up and down, from their permed hairdos to their worn house dresses and slipper-covered feet until they shift uncomfortably, “She’s managed to stay good and kind at her core. More than I can say for most people I’ve met out here.”

Bitter, harsh, hard words . . . I mean every single one.

Thelma harrumphs, not put off by the judgement of some ‘city boy’. “Your funeral.”

I’m not going to change their opinions of Zoey, as much as I’d like to. And I might as well not throw dynamite on their bonfire, no matter how much I’d like to hand them each a Molotov cocktail to go with their cancer sticks. “Have the day you deserve, ladies.”

That’s the most pleasant good-bye I can offer, because my middle fingers are itching to fly high and proud. As I walk back to my car, I can hear them talking behind me, making no effort to keep their voices down. “Know what I heard? She takes their nails, the dead folks’. Grinds them down into powder and puts it in her conditioner. That’s how she gets her hair that shiny and pretty. T’ain’t natural.”