The bray of the ringer was so loud that the phone cord vibrated in a spasm barely visible to the naked eye. One ring, two rings. A third. Lura watched the phone from the comfort of her second-hand sofa late on Saturday afternoon. A fourth bell sounded, followed by a hiccup of stillness, a pause just long enough for Lura to hope for a hang-up. Then the answering machine kicked in, and a voice rasped out, “Hello? Lura! Lura Lee Biddix!”
“Shut up, for God’s sake,” Lura told the machine as she spun down the volume control to transform the speaker’s words into a low buzz. She forced herself upright, pushing against a debilitating combination of dread and arthritic knees, and headed into the kitchen for a glass of water. Lura stood at the sink and swished the water against her teeth and tongue to clean her mouth. It didn’t work. She felt coated in grime. She spit into the sink and patted her lips dry with a paper towel.
Listening to the message was pointless. Lura knew the caller was her next-door neighbor Sadie Tedder. Sadie saying: “I need cream for my coffee,” or “I need pastries for breakfast,” or “I need a load of clothes washed,” or “I need to borrow $2,000.” ...
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