***

Maggie set the beef out to thaw. Later she would pan fry it up with some packet taco seasoning and a can of green chiles, then microwave it in with the Velveeta the way her mom had taught her. A cracking sizzle sounded behind her as her friend Taryn spit into the pan of dancing grease, testing it. Hot and ready.

“Lotta trouble for a woman can’t move,” Taryn brushed the dirty blonde hair from her face and grabbed a plate of mac and cheese wrapped in crescents of Pepperidge Farm dough.

“She can hear, though,” Maggie scolded.

Taryn lowered her voice. Slightly. “Her brains are probably mixed up, right? Not being able to talk or move five years going it’s gotta be like a can of nuts rattling around in there.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Walnuts, probably.”

Maggie started chopping apples for the pie. Quick, hard strokes. There was always a pie.

“Honey, I’d get it if it were your mama. I really would.  She’s sweet when she’s alive. But Pooch’s? That’s a cold woman you got in your living room.”

The strokes got harder. “You know,” Maggie said, teeth set. “All those years Pooch’s dad beat the hell out of him, that woman never did a thing about it.” She was quiet for what Taryn thought was a long time. Then, “She’s family… Got regrets like everybody else.”

Taryn laughed. Dry little yelps. She put a Newport between her lips. Offered one to Maggie.

“No offense, but I am not trying to get a hole put in my throat like Clyde.”

“Shit please, that thing’s been a goddamn godsend. I finally get some peace and fucking quiet. Hey, ya still want me to get some girls from the church together?”

“That’d be nice.”

“She a believer in life?”

“Still living.  And no, far as I know. Pooch says she just never talked about it.”

“You don’t talk about it, you don’t believe it. That simple,” Taryn gave a sharp bob with her head, putting a period right there on the end of that. “I don’t know if that’s okay.”

“What’s okay?”

“Praying over a non-believer. Like, she can’t defend herself, you know. ‘Sides, she coulda been into voodoo or devil worship or some mess for all we know.”

“Prayer’s for everybody, Taryn.”

“You can come down there without Pooch. The girls miss you.”

Maggie nodded.

“Hell, most mornings Clyde’s laying around at home pawing at himself on the couch, making that weird ass noise he makes now when he comes.”

“Palm Sunday,” Maggie said.

The women laughed together and for a moment it drowned out the sound of the suck and the click from the living room. A clip of Courtney French reading the last night’s news highlights came drifting in underneath the old woman’s machine.

“My God, you seen that Courtney French? Shit, I signed a gym contract just to watch him on the elliptical.” Taryn folded up the mac and cheese. Edge to edge, corner to corner. Soon they’d be fried up golden brown. A cheesy sunset. “And he’s fast, too. He’s got these calves that… Unh! Forearms like Jesus Christ. I like to just watch him slide the sleeves of his sweats up those damn arms. Wreck him. What I’d do. Ran track in college, I heard.”

Maggie didn’t say anything.

“Ain’t got a little gut like Pooch.”

Maggie stabbed the spoon into the bowl. It stood straight, defiant.

“Pooch’s got to know he’s gonna lose or he’s a complete fucking idiot and even I don’t think Pooch’s that.”

For a long moment, the women worked in silence. Finally, Taryn stubbed the smoke out and pulled the pack. This time, Maggie did not say no.

Exhaling, she thought back to just a few years before, the track wins, the backseat giggling, that strong jawed smile lifting her up to dance on the top of Sugar’s bar. Back to the promises she had made to him, knowing the scars on his body.

“Say something enough, it’ll come true,” Maggie said.