Page 4 of Curses and Cornstalks
“I’m fine.” It’s not the whole truth, but having a heartfelt conversation while driving down old country roads is too reminiscent of a cliché for me to handle. “Just thinking. It’s very different out here.”
“That it is.” She nods in agreement. “You get used to it, though. It’s not as busy, I’m sure, but it’s nice living out here.”
“Does it ever creep you out?” I ask, focusing on the tingle teasing my body. I don’t feel it when I’m distracted, but as soon as I think about it, the strangeness comes creeping back under my skin. It’s almost like the feeling of being watched, but there’s clearly no one nearby to see us. There’s nothing in any direction for miles, so that can’t be it. “Like you get a weird feeling you can’t shake.”
I expect her to dismiss my worries, to assure me there’s nothing to be afraid of, but she hesitates. Her eyes are focused on the road ahead, and she works the corner of her mouth between her teeth. Something in my gut tells me she knows exactly what I'm talking about, but I don’t know if she’ll admit it.
Maybe she doesn’t want to scare me. Maybe it’s something she can’t put into words.
Finally, after a long minute, she answers.
“Sometimes,” she says. “It’s easy to feel small when you’re in such a big place. It’s like being an ant in a huge world, and even though you try to figure everything out, there are still secrets you don’t understand.”
Cryptic. I cock an eyebrow in her direction.
The answer doesn’t sound like her, which only makes me more curious about what she’s not telling me. Is there something I should be worried about? Am I misjudging the curious feeling for something else?
I decide to change the subject for now and bring it up later, after we’ve had time to catch up. Maybe if we spend some time together, she’ll let slip what’s actually on her mind.
“So have you thought about college?” I ask the first thing I think of.
Her expression immediately shifts, the corner of her mouth curling upward. She’s clearly relieved by the new topic, launching into an explanation of how she’s taking a year off to help on the farm and that she might start veterinary classes next fall. I bob my head while she talks to show that I’m listening, even though her eyes remain glued straight ahead.
When we roll into town, she’s chipper again.
The first place we stop is the grocery store, or what Maddie calls the market. It looks just like any of the small grocers back home, with everything from fresh fruit to canned goods lining the tall shelves. After that, we walk across the street to the butcher, where we pick up several pounds of meat and carry them in a cooler back to the truck.
Lastly, before we head back to the house, we stop by a little diner for ice cream.
“You have to try Lucinda’s milkshakes,” Madelyn brags as we take a seat in a small corner booth. The seats are so worn that the material is splitting, and a corner of the glass tabletop is chipped and covered with duct tape. “They’re the best you’ll ever have.”
I highly doubt anything will top the gourmet milkshakes from a restaurant called Ice Box back home, but I don’t bring it up. If Madelyn is this excited, I don’t plan to argue. I might even let her believe she’s right.
An older woman in a knee-length yellow dress and a flowered apron saunters up, a notepad and a pen in hand.
“Good mornin’, Maddie,” she says with a grin, peering over the edge of her small, round spectacles. “Or should I say afternoon?”
“Hey, Mrs. Lucinda. This is my cousin, Cassie.” Madelyn jerks her thumb in my direction. I smile awkwardly, but she doesn’t slow down long enough for me to speak. “She’s staying with us for a while, and she wanted to try the world’s best milkshake.”
The lie makes the old woman giggle, and she nods her head. “Two milkshakes, coming right up. Would you like a slice of apple pie?”
Madelyn nods enthusiastically. “Yes, please.”
Lucinda turns and looks at me. “And for you, honey?”
“No, thank you, I’m?—”
“Yes ma’am! Bring her a piece too,” Madelyn cuts in rudely, a sickly-sweet smile on her face.
I get the whole southern hospitality thing, but I don’t even like apples.
“What the hell?” I hiss when Lucinda is out of earshot, headed through a swinging door to the kitchen.
“You don’t have to eat it,” she mutters under her breath. “I’ll take it home to Momma, but you can’t turn down Mrs. Lucinda’s pie.”
“Sure you can,” I argue, my brows knitting together in confusion. I keep my voice low to avoid unwanted attention. “You just say no. It’s not a big deal.”
Madelyn shakes her head slowly without breaking eye contact, and my temper flares. Why is she being so stubborn?
