Page 6 of Small Town Hunter

Pharaoh wins.

“Trina,” Mama calls happily. “It’s time.”

I slowly rise to my feet, frustration pounding through my veins. I guess this is it. There’s nothing more I can do.

“Trina,” my mother calls again, in her lemonade-sweet voice that means I’m about to catch my ass, “Trina!”

I am in my childhood bedroom for the very last time. The floor-length mirror in its mother-of-pearl frame is one of the few pieces of furniture left from the movers. I take a last look at myself inside it. Short, fat, rumpled like a paper bag. Even this expensive dress can’t make me pretty. For the first time in my life, the sin of vanity is nowhere to be found in my heart. I don’t care how I look. In fact, today I wish I had a face like a dishrag.

The seed pearls in my veil click together as I turn away. They whisper like the crowd at church will do soon, taking apart my hair, my dress, my bouquet, and everything that everyone has ever heard about Trina Whiteleaf. I just have to face it. No earthquakes, no lightning for me. No plagues or storms of fire. Apparently, this is God’s will. I have to listen.

I gather up the dress, which weighs nearly ten pounds, with its detachable train, brocade, pearls, lace, everything to show the people of Tippalonga that the Whiteleaf clan is still in God’s favor. This dress cost thirty thousand dollars, which is very wasteful considering there are people going hungry. But nobody wanted to hear that. The bride of Reverend Wilson can’t walk down the aisle in some third-rate gown from the Country Bridal shop. This is anArmani, honey. I had to lose ten pounds just to squeeze myself inside it, though I’m still plump as a honey bun.

I look around my bedroom one last time. My cell. My cage. I will never come back here again.

I pat my secret pocket, making sure my purse with all my jewelry is still there. I didn’t let Mama find it, not so much as a gold bracelet. I hid all of it in the hole under the bed she still doesn’t know about.

“TRINA!”

The doorknob is ice cold on my fingertips. There is no turning back from this moment. If I walk down those stairs, I will never be free.

But I was never free, anyway. Nobody has to drag me to the noose. I’ll walk there myself, and wrap it around my neck, like I’ve always done as the daughter of Errol Whiteleaf.

I leave the room and firmly close the door.

“Coming,” I call down to Mama. My voice and footsteps echo in the emptiness. My father had to sell most of the art and furniture, everything he couldn’t sneak off to the private storage unit in Alabama that’s under his sister’s name. We had toliquidate everything upstairs when the IRS came knocking, and it might still not be enough to cover his debts.

That’s where I come in.

I’m just another asset, and with this marriage to the Reverend, I’ll save the Whiteleafs. It’s only fair, since that is what daughters are meant for.

“Oooo,” coo my two maids-of-honor Alina and Felicia as I emerge onto the landing from my “prayer meditation”.

“Finally,” snaps Mama. “Hurry and get down here, Trina.”

The rest of my bridesmaids are waiting at the church — twelve in total, one from each prominent family in Tippalonga.

Alina and Felicia wear creamy green dresses, also Armani, their hair and makeup and eyelashes on point, everything done up to the nines. Alina is a gentle girl but Felicia is a hater. They get the special privilege of riding with my escort because Alina’s father owns the funeral home and helped Daddy move valuables out of the house in empty caskets. Felicia is a first cousin of my groom, the Reverend.

“Trina, you look sooo beautiful,” Alina whispers, fanning out my veil.

“Thank you.” It’s the first word I’ve spoken out loud in three hours.

I glance at Mama. She’s typing furiously into her phone, distracted. Something’s wrong. I can tell from her face. Luckily Felicia doesn’t wait to inform me, “Your limo broke down and they can’t get another one. I hope you won’t be late because the Wilsons will hate that.You know they’re looking for any reason to call off the wedding.”

“The limo has a flat?” I ask Mama.

“Yes,” my mother confirms. Her pale yellow skin is flushed with rage. “These people are nothing but incompetence!” She snaps. “I knew we never should have patronized the Clarksons.”

I glance out the window and see our driver Charles waiting, putting out his cigarette. He glances back and sees me and gives me a small wave. Mama blocks off my view. “Thank you for finally joining us,” she says. “I was wondering what on earth you had left to tell God, considering you’ve been up there for the past two months with nothing to do.”

Mama’s dress is a fresh green color. Mint green. I didn’t choose the color. I prefer browns and dark reds. Earth tones.

Mama is dripping in diamonds, and her heavy makeup covers up the black eye daddy gave her last night. I don’t respond to her sideways talk and she catches her reflection in the foyer mirror, which distracts her.

“How do I look?” she preens, smoothing the green satin down and turning in a slow circle. The peacock feathers in her fascinator weave gracefully through the air.

“Beautiful, Mama,” I say.

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