Thistle and Twigg Read Free Page B

curious look on her face, one that questioned my sanity.
    “What I’m thinking, Jane,” Phoebe said, politely ignoring the incident, “is, rather than you going and buying an electric blanket, let me just give you one.”
    I was taken aback. I tried to protest but she insisted.
    “No, see, here’s the thing. My sister Geraldine gave me one for Christmas two years ago. I tried it one night and nearly burnt up, even on the lowest setting. I’m just naturally hot-natured. I only used it that once, and it was with the sheets and comforter straight out of the dryer, so the blanket is clean and like brand-new. I put it right back in the box, so it doesn’t even have any dust on it.”
    “My goodness,” I said. “That’s very generous. I’ll be happy to pay you for it.”
    “Heavens, no. You’ll be doing me a favor, getting it out of my way. Here’s my car. Where are you parked? Come on and follow me over to my house, why don’t you? That’ll take care of that, and you won’t have to go buy one. Save your money. You might need you some more bullets,” she said with a wink.
    We drove to a quiet, older neighborhood only a few streets away from the square. The houses looked as if they were built in the twenties or thirties, most in a bungalow style. Phoebe’s house, painted a cheery lemon yellow, had a screened porch in front trimmed in white. A variety of mums and pansies filled her flowerbeds with a beautiful display of color. Ivy grew beneath dark green window boxes and shutters. An American flag attached next to the porch’s entrance moved gently in the breeze. Leaves from large maple trees made a beautiful sound in the wind as shade and sunlight dappled the front lawn.
    “What a beautiful place,” I said as we walked into the backyard and up the steps to her back door.
    “Why, thank you. Come on in. Don’t mind the mess.”
    There was no mess. We stepped into the kitchen that was tidy as could be. The aroma of baked fruit pies filled the room, which was shining and spotless.
    Phoebe led me through to the living room and said, “Make yourself at home.” She reached into her brown bag from Wriggle’s, came out with the box of bullets she’d just purchased, and set it down on a table by her couch. She eyed its position a moment, then moved one end of the box about a quarter of an inch. “Now then,” she said, and with a satisfied smile, she disappeared up the staircase.
    Light flooded the living room through four paned windows where pastel coral curtains had been drawn aside. The hardwood floor shone as if freshly waxed and polished. Several large beige rugs highlighted in oranges and browns lay scattered about the floor. They had a Native American look, as did the entire room. On each wall hung paintings of Indians on horseback or in family settings. Several dream catchers of twine and feathers decorated one of the windows.
    I walked to her television set. Video boxes, all lined neatly and in alphabetical order, filled a shelf underneath a video player. The first were how-to titles:
Appliques for Every Occasion, Country Cooking with Carlene, Gardening for Four Seasons, Make Your Own Slipcovers, Martha Stewart’s Simple Springtime Entertaining.
Next came movies:
Cobra, Delta Force, Dirty Harry, Missing in Action, Ramho: First Blood, Rambo: First Blood Part II, Rambo III, Red Heat, The Trouble with Angels.
    The table where Phoebe had placed the bullets held other objects of interest. I walked over to see them more closely. A lamp took up most of the space, its shade an Indian pattern in turquoise and deep brown. A white satin rectangle with a picture of a waterfall and the words “Ruby Falls” covered the table. Royal blue tassels hung off the corners over a red underskirt. Figurines of a black bear and two cubs huddled close to the lamp. On the wall above it, a novelty clock in the shape of Elvis Presley clicked the time, his dancing, splayed legs rocking left, right, left, right as a pendulum.
    When