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to?”
    “I’m working with my uncle.”
    Janie took a step back and looked at Uncle James. “At the funeral home?”
    Richard hung his head. “Yes.”
    “Ooh creepy, but sort of cool, like in a freaky way, you know.”
    Richard looked up. “Yeah, it is.”
    “Wow. Okay, well maybe I’ll see you around again. Have a good summer.”
    “You too.”
    Uncle James patted his hand and said, “Good going. She’s awfully pretty. I told you so. She’s got her eye on you. You handled that one just right.”
    “Thanks.” Richard watched Janie Keaton walk away, her long hair, the color of sunshine on wheat in the late afternoon sun, swung from her ponytail, made him feel funny, but a good funny. He hoped that he would see Janie around again and be able to look in those blue-sky eyes.
    After lunch, Uncle James taught Richard the art of applying makeup to the deceased. His favorite part was when they sewed Ruth’s lips together then applied a thin layer of wax across them before putting on her lipstick.
    Richard’s thoughts kept wandering back to Janie Keaton. When Uncle James had to take a phone call, Richard escaped to the bathroom where his mind floated from Ruth’s exposed genitals to Janie. He touched himself thinking of what it would be like to do all the things to Janie that they’d done to Ruth today. He felt weird but wonderful, as his body grew warm and tingled all over.
    As he pleasured himself, he wondered what color he’d paint Janie Keaton’s lips if she were lying on the table.

CHAPTER SIX

    Frankie dove for the phone, hoping it was someone wanting to hang out. She doubted her luck could be that good. Her best pals were on cheer squad and at practice, and another was grounded for sneaking out with cutie pie Dean Ryan the other night. No, most likely it was probably Dad making sure she was doing her chemistry homework. College was less than two years away, something he repeatedly stressed. His major rule was homework before play, and though she resented it, she figured it had some merit.
    “Frances?”
    “Leeza?” she whispered. Frankie hadn’t heard her voice in over a year. But it couldn’t be mistaken, with a little-girl pitch and the slight southern lilt Frankie knew she’d tried hard to get rid of.
    “That’s right, it’s me. How are you, darling?”
    “What do you want?”
    “Well, honey, I wanted to say how sorry I am about everything. I’ve thought a lot about it lately, and I feel real bad. You were always a pretty good kid, and I suppose I didn’t treat you so well. I’m really sorry about that.”
    “Next, you’ll tell me you’ve gone all Jerry Falwell on me and found Jesus. If I remember right, your interests run more along the lines of Jerry Springer.” Frankie picked at her fingernails. “Looking for forgiveness, are you? If that’s it, Leeza, you’re calling the wrong girl. I actually used to pray at night that you’d go away and I’d find out you weren’t really my mother. Thank God that prayer came true.”
    “Oh dear, I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
    Frankie stopped picking at her nails, a knot wrenched tight in her gut. “No, Ma’am, I haven’t. That’s how I got through all your abuse.”
    “Now, Frances, there’s no need for so much spite. I called to tell you that I am sorry—truly. I hope someday you’ll accept that, and maybe realize that I really do love you.”
    “Love isn’t in your vocabulary. I don’t know what you’re up to this time, but I don’t really care. You can’t hurt me anymore.” Frankie slammed down the phone, then snatched it up again and threw it against the wall. She put on her Fuel CD, and as the music blared from her speakers, she collapsed on her bed and began to cry.
    Before long a fitful sleep took hold, and she dreamed she was walking along a cliff, her dad beside her. They talked about her not having a mother, how that must feel to Frankie, how sad it was. Up ahead, a figure emerged through the fog.