I finally fall asleep, and I do it by envisioning Clara June in my truck, my hand resting inside her thigh, her hair whipping around the cab, the boys in the back, fishing rods in the truck bed, her belly round.
It’s crazy to feel peace from such a fantasy. I barely know the woman.
But it’s the exact fantasy I need to ease me into a deep, sated sleep.
CHAPTER
THREE
CLARA JUNE
I pushthe scrambled eggs around in the pan again, catching a stray yawn with my hand. Archie stumbles in from out back, two suspicious juicy handprints smeared down his t-shirt.
I lower my spatula to the trivet, and put my hands on my hips. Mysigh is great.
My back hurts. I stayed up until one in the morning cleaning the boys bathroom last night, and that was after patching a hole in the roof of my bedroom and fixing the leaky sink in the kitchen.
I just want one morning of peace.
But I have three sons.
“Arch, what’s on your shirt?”
His tongue slides over his top lip, collecting traces of what I believe to be fresh peach.
“Nothin’,” he grunts, kicking off his boots, tossing his hat onto the breakfast table.
I tap my foot on the floor, and fold my arms over my chest just as Tanner comes in, sitting at the table.
“Palms, Archer,” I say, the singular word being an order.
Tanner pulls in a narrow breath between his teeth. “Better do it, buddy. She used your full name. You know the rule on that.”
When mom full names you, she’s pissed.
It’s not even that I’m pissed, I just want Archie to please stop eating Mrs. Salinger’s peaches so I can stop getting yelled at. Seriously, the woman doesn’t prune her tree, collect the fruit, or even take care of it. But somehow, my son eating a peach a day enrages her beyond reason.
Bluebell is incredible. I think I live next door to the only asshole here.
And yes, old ladies can absolutely be assholes.
Archie reluctantly shows me his palms, and they’re coated in sticky peach juice and fuzz.
“Archie,” I sigh, bringing a hand to my face to pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to alleviate the quickly forming headache. “I told you very clearly you are not allowed to pick Mrs. Salinger’s peaches and eat them. She gets angry. They are hers.”
Archie brings the hem of his now-filthy t-shirt to his mouth and wipes before I can tell him to stop. “I think they’re God’s peaches, since it’s God’s Earth she’s borrowing to grow that tree in. And it’s God’s sun that is making it grow, too.”
“He’s got a point, mom,” Tanner offers with a smile. I love the way my boys are fiercely aligned, and I know despite my situation, I got real lucky there. Still, now is not the time.
“Well God didn’t plant that tree, Mrs. Salinger did, so unless you want to take her to court and argue with her on if it’s her tree or God’s, please, Arch, please stop eating those peaches, okay? I’ll get us a fruiting peach tree next paycheck, how’s that? We’ll plant it together?” I offer, already running numbers in my head if I can even afford that. Fully grown fruit trees plus the soil I’d need to keep it going in my wasteland of a backyard? Upwards of fifty dollars, and after I pay Rawley’s SAT tutor… I smile, shielding them from the concerns in my head.
“How’s that sound?” I offer again as Archie balances himself on his elbows on the counter to wash his hands.
“Okay,” he says, “sorry, Mama. They’re just so sweet and them birds are eatin’ them up if I don’t!”
“I know, honey. It doesn’t make sense to us but it is Mrs. Salinger’s tree so we have to show her respect. We wouldn’t want her using your bike without asking, or drinking the milk off the porch after Mr. Gray delivers it, right?” I turn the stove off and make three plates of eggs and toast, sliding them onto the table as Rawley joins us.
“I’d love to see Mrs. S on Archie’s bike,” Rawley laughs as he slides into the seat between Tanner and Archie.
