Got Your Number

drinking. Or both. She pulled under the carport so they could enter the house without getting wetter. Lurching over the uneven ground roused Angora, and when Roxann turned off the engine, her cousin opened her eyes.
    "We're here," Roxann announced.
    Angora groaned and moved slowly, lifting her head to squint out the window. "Where?"
    "My dad's, remember?"
    Her cousin winced. "Oh, yeah." Her crown sat at a precarious angle.
    "Come on, Queenie, let's get you into some dry clothes."
    She swung down, then walked around to collect Angora, who practically fell out of the van after she unhooked her seat belt.
    Angora cried out when she saw the part of the train that had been flapping against the van for the past twenty-some miles. "It's ruined."
    "Were you planning to wear it again?" Roxann asked wryly.
    "No, but..." Angora burst into tears again, and fell against Roxann, who hustled her to the side door.
    The key on Roxann's ring still worked, as she'd expected. She led Angora into the musty kitchen, flipping on lights before depositing her into the only chair at the table that wasn't stacked high with newspapers—her father was a voracious reader. A fishy smell permeated the air, and dust motes floated lazily, disturbed by the opening of the door. The old brown linoleum popped and cracked under her feet.
    A crucifix adorned the wall next to the kitchen table, testament to the fixation on morality Walt Beadleman had developed after the divorce. At every chance, but especially when he drank, her father sermonized the virtues of chastity and honesty. Look at what her mother's deceit had done to their family, he would rail, and how it had led to her untimely demise.
    I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.
    Shaking off the heebie-jeebies, Roxann glanced around the cramped space, her heart squeezing at the clutter and neglect. Old feelings of shame resurfaced. She'd hated other kids knowing that she lived in River Hills, and her father was so slovenly, she'd been too embarrassed to have friends over. Angora had never been there—God only knew what she must be thinking.
    "I'll get my bag so we can change clothes." Roxann trotted outside, and after two grunting attempts, slid open the van door.
    "Who's there?" an elderly voice called.
    She looked out to see her father's neighbor standing in the weedy driveway, his neck craned.
    "It's me, Mr. Sherwood. Roxann Beadleman."
    The man's face rearranged into a smile. "Roxann! Child, it's good to see you."
    "Good to see you, too, Mr. Sherwood. Do you know where my father is?"
    He nodded. "Him and Archie Cann drove to Gramercy for a fishing tournament. Going to be gone all weekend long."
    "I should have called," she said, harboring mixed feelings. Although she felt an obligation to see her father, it was never a wholly pleasant experience. And with Angora in tow, the visit would have been doubly awkward.
    "You going to be staying a while?"
    "I'm not sure," she hedged. "If I have to leave, I'll write Dad a note."
    "He'll be sorry he missed you."
    She managed a smile as she hauled out the bulging duffel bag. "Thanks, Mr. Sherwood. You take care."
    She slid the van door closed and waved, then reentered the house. Angora stood at the sink that was piled high with dirty dishes, running water into a dented teapot. "I thought we could use some tea," she told Roxann primly.
    The incongruity of a bride in full regalia making tea in her father's dilapidated house was almost incomprehensible. Personally, Roxann was craving a beer, and she was almost certain her father didn't have any teabags, but she said, "Sounds good," then nodded toward her duffel. "Dry clothes."
    "You'll have to help me get out of this dress." Then Angora proceeded to scare the crap out of Roxann by trying to light the ancient gas stove. The flash melted the sequins on Angora's bodice and left Roxann's eyebrows feeling crackly.
    "Let's see if we can find my old bedroom," she urged, then crossed the kitchen into the shabby living room, a throwback to the Harvest Gold and Burnt Orange decorating era. Books and magazines occupied every vertical and horizontal surface, including the floor. The faded carpet was footworn, and the familiar cabinet-model television squatted under the window, taking up too much room. A naked bulb in the center of the ceiling cast a garish glow that blinded while leaving the corners dark. More or less, everything was the sa—
    Roxann came up short at the sight of her college diploma hanging over the couch