Despite the lack of sleep, Beverly felt surprisingly good, mainly because no one had so much as driven on the gravel road past her house all night long and she’d somehow been able to finish the kitchen. Nor had Tommie had a nightmare; when asked how he’d slept, he shrugged and told her it was fine and ate his cereal, just like he did most days.
She saw him off to the bus and waved at him after he took his seat. To her delight, he raised his hand as well, which made her think he was getting used to his new life.
Inside, the kitchen walls were a bright and cheery yellow, and the cupboards seemed as though they belonged in a showroom. It was amazing how much a single color could change the entire atmosphere, and Beverly suddenly remembered her idea about collecting wildflowers for the jelly jar. She went outside again, plucking whatever blooms she could, put them in the jar, and brought the arrangement to the table. Stepping back, she took in the kitchen as a whole, feeling pleased. It was beautiful, the kind of kitchen she’d always wanted, and she wondered again who had been crazy enough to think that orange walls could look half as good.
But the burgundy wall in the living room had to go, even though a nap was probably what she needed more than anything. She knew she was running on nervous energy stemming from yesterday’s scare—just as she knew she’d likely collapse later—but the burgundy felt intolerable, like something from a creepy funeral home.
She turned on the radio before getting started. First, she disconnected all sorts of cables attached to the television. The cabinet against the wall was heavy and she had to empty it of its contents, including the television and DVD player, leaving the items scattered around the living room. Even then she could barely move the darn thing. By the time she’d made enough room to squeeze behind it, her arms and back were aching. She returned to the kitchen and rinsed the roller and the paintbrush, shaking out the water on the front porch, replacing them with dry ones. There was hardly any primer left, but it would have to do. Bringing everything to the living room, she poured the remainder into the pan. She rolled it onto the hideous burgundy wall in long, wide swoops, like she was directing a marching band, and with every stroke, the room looked better and better.
Now and then, the deejay came on between songs, telling jokes or announcing concerts or highlighting the latest news, always from somewhere else, places she’d never been. This town, as far as Beverly could tell, was the kind of place where nothing exciting ever happened at all, and she felt her mind filtering back to her worries about Tommie’s nightmare and Peg and cameras in the bus stations and the man with the truck who’d come to her house. She scolded herself for allowing her paranoia to run unchecked and wondered if she was going to be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life, but she assumed she probably would.
“We’re safe because I worry,” she whispered. “And I worry to keep us safe.”
The primer ran out when the wall was halfway finished, and she wondered whether there was more on the back porch. She glanced around at the living room, which looked as though a tornado had swept through it—Tommie would probably think she’d gone crazy—but unless she was willing to move everything back into place, then move it all again tomorrow and one more time after the wall was finished, the living room would have to remain in this state for a day or two. Besides, she couldn’t exactly leave the wall half-primed.
On the way to the porch, she grabbed the can of yellow paint, thinking she might as well put that away while she tried to find more primer. But as she was placing it on the shelf, she accidentally knocked over another can. It toppled to the concrete floor, sounding strangely empty. She noticed that the lid had partially opened, and mildly curious as to why someone would store an empty paint can, she lifted off the rest of it. Inside was a large baggie filled with marijuana, along with a pipe and a lighter.
She wasn’t a prude—she’d smoked weed in the past—but she hadn’t liked the way it made her feel, so it wasn’t her thing. There wasn’t a whole lot—not like the bricks she’d seen in movies—but to her, it seemed too much for a casual user. Raising her eyes, she also noted the number of other paint cans on the shelves and couldn’t help wondering if any of those contained marijuana, as well. In the corner was a low step stool. After putting it in place, she checked the other cans one by one, feeling the liquid slosh when she shook them. She breathed a sigh of relief; the last thing she needed was to be found in a house filled with drugs. If kidnapping didn’t put her away for life, then the drug charges definitely would. She brought the baggie to the kitchen, wondering whether the people who’d lived here before—no doubt the same ones who’d painted the kitchen the god-awful orange—had either forgotten about the drugs or left them behind on purpose because they hadn’t wanted to be caught with them. Either way, it explained why the house had been in move-in condition; just as she’d assumed, the former residents were likely on the run. It also explained why the owner hadn’t asked too many questions and was more than happy to take cash. She was used to tenants with issues she’d rather know nothing about.