Sandy Morrison and the Pack of Pussies

Chapter 9

Maggie sat up when her door opened, but lay back on her bed when Leon stepped into her room and shut the door behind himself. He carried a tray with one hand, and even from across the room the scent of fried catfish wafted to her nose. Along with the fish was a glass of tea, and once Leon lowered the tray, she also saw fried potato wedges and hush puppies. The only thing on her plate not deep-fried to a dark brown was the coleslaw. (And Maggie had suspicions that the men of her family might fry that if they could only sort out a binding agent to keep the cabbage and carrots together.)

Despite the greasy appearance of the meal, Maggie’s stomach growled, compelling her to sit up as Leon moved to the bed. He rested the tray over her lap, and then cupped her cheek, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Miserable,” Maggie said.

This was the truth, but not the whole truth. Not knowing where Leon’s loyalties lay, Maggie was forced to leave her partner in the dark about her plans. But she was still miserable over the death of Velma, and over her role in the innocent woman’s death. She hurt as much over Velma as she did for her cousins, and grief and guilt both robbed her appetite often.

For now at least, it seemed like guilt was willing to take a back seat to her survival instinct.

Leon said nothing while she ate. He had been partnered with her in a treaty with a rival clan, and there had been concerns that they might not work out together during the first few months.

He had come to Texas from his clan’s home in Oklahoma, and his parents bought a house when he started high school. He and his folks were not considered part of the local clan, but they were treated like family anyway.

It was clear that he and Maggie were perfect for each other, and their partnership helped to mend a rift between the two clans over fishing rights in Lake Texoma. The dispute started in the sixties, and had almost come to a small-scale war before a truce was proposed and partnerships were arranged. Maggie and Leon weren’t the only ones being set up, but they were one of the few couples that had worked out so smoothly.

They liked each other, and they had similar tastes. But the secret of their success was that neither demanded anything of the other. Leon treated Maggie as a friend and equal, and not as a possession. Maggie did the same, never thinking of him as an obligation, even if their relationship was.

Leon’s gaze wandered to the window, where a pair of sparrows were engaged in a duet, a dirty limerick involving a mockingbird and a baffled human.

Under other circumstances, Leon would have been smiling, as the song was one of his favorites of the local flock’s selections. But his mouth remained in a deep frown even after the birds moved to the punch line.

He glanced over at Maggie and said, “After lunch, why don’t we go for a walk?”

Maggie nodded, but said nothing, her mouth still full. When she finished, he took the tray to the kitchen. By the time he got back, Maggie had pulled on her shoes. She stepped off in the bathroom to wash her hands and face, and then they wandered away from the house.

The Cartwright home was on the outskirts of town, and behind the house, the woods were thick with wild growth. Trails were scattered around the woods, walking paths worn down by repeated trips made on foot or bikes. The trails were so thin, Maggie and Leon could only walk in single file until they got to the stream. Then they followed the sloping, moss-covered bank walking side by side. Leon’s hand closed over Maggie’s, not so much holding it as supporting it. If they’d fallen out of rhythm, her fingers would have slipped away from his grasp without the slightest effort. But her arm swayed in time with his, and he kept his stride short to match her pace.