The Peripheral

57

Her mother said rich people looked kind of like dolls. Seeing Corbell Pickett in her mother’s living room, she remembered that. Every square inch of him was probably the same perfectly even tan, his full head of preacher hair as evenly silver.

She’d worn an old fishtail parka of Leon’s up from the trailer. He’d used that evil hydrophobic nanopaint on it, because it hadn’t been waterproof at all, in the Korean War Leon said it was from. Not the one he and Burton had been two years too young for, but the one before that, ancient history. She’d found it on Burton’s clothes rod, after she’d used his shaving mirror to put on some lip gloss, the rain still smacking on the Airstream’s cocoon. Tried not to touch the outside when she put it on. They’d shown PSAs about that paint, not touching it, in high school, when the government was first getting the stuff off store shelves. Fit her like a tent, stiff with paint.

“Damn,” she’d said, looking down at the white controller on Burton’s army blanket, “it’s cabled to my phone. Don’t like leaving my phone, but I don’t know how you disconnect that.”

“Leave ’em. Anybody you aren’t already on a first-name basis with tries to walk in here, tonight,” Tommy had said, zipping up his jacket, “they aren’t walking out.”

“Okay,” she’d said, from beneath the cavelike hood, as he’d opened the door into the rain, wondering if she was getting that “meaty” thing Ash had told her about, from being back in her own body. Like the supersaturated color in an old movie, maybe, and everything with a little more texture?

So she’d followed him out, feet slipping in the mud when she stepped down. Not hydrophobic, her shoes, and not even that comfortable. She’d wished she had her other ones, but then she’d remembered they were in a future that this world didn’t even lead to. And maybe weren’t even her size. She’d thought of the peripheral on its bunk, then, in the back room of that giant RV. Made her feel some emotion there might not be a name for, but was that just being back in her body too? Her shoes and socks already soaking through, she’d followed Tommy up the trail, thinking the rain made a little sizzling sound, as it tried its fastest to get off the coated cotton.

When they’d gotten up to the backdoor, she’d wiped her shoes on the mat. Opened the door on Edward, Vizless, finishing a sandwich at the kitchen table. He’d nodded to her, mouth full, eyes wide, and she’d seen, through the door into the dining room, that her mother had the good china out. Nodding back at him, slipping out of the parka, which was perfectly, scarily dry, she’d hung it on the rack beside the fridge.

“And here’s your pretty daughter, Ella.” He was beside the fireplace, with Burton, her mother sitting in the middle of the sofa. “And this must be Deputy Tommy.”

“Evening, ma’am,” Tommy said. “Mr. Pickett. Burton.”

“Hi,” said Flynne, almost silenced by how much anybody like Corbell Pickett was never supposed to be in their living room. “Remember you from the Christmas parade, Mr. Pickett,” she said.

“Corbell,” he said. “Been hearing good things about you. From Ella here, and your brother. And Tommy, by way of Sheriff Jackman. Good to finally meet you, Tommy. Appreciate you coming out.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Pickett,” said Tommy, behind her, and she turned to see him. He’d hung his black jacket on the rack beside the parka, and now he put his hat on the hook. He turned, in his starched tan uniform shirt with the patches on the sleeves, badge flashing in the light, expression neutral.

What she really wanted, she realized, was to ask Burton if they’d managed to buy the governor yet, but her mother was here, not to mention Pickett.

“Hey,” said Burton, how he stood reminding her of Conner in the peripheral: off-centered but just so, ready to swing either way.

“Hey,” she said.

“You must be tired.”

“Not sure.”

“Bring in the coffee, Flynne,” her mother said. “Help me up, Burton. I’m past my bedtime.” Burton crossed to her, took her hand. Flynne could see her staying on top of her sickness, something she could still do when she needed to. Unwilling for Pickett to see it. The oxygen was nowhere in sight.

She went back into the kitchen and got the pot off the stove. Edward was just sneaking out, under one of those giveaway rain capes with the Hefty logo across the back. He gave her a nervous half wave. The plastic blinds on the door’s window clattered as he closed it behind him.

“Eat his sandwich?” her mother asked, from the living room.

“He did,” Flynne said, coming back with the coffee.

“Knew his aunt. Reetha. Worked with her. Sorry I have to turn in, Corbell. Pleasure to see you. It’s been a long time. Pour Corbell some coffee, Burton. Flynne, you help me to bed, please.”

“I will,” she said, and put the pot down on the coffee table, on a thing made of big wooden beads that Leon had done in Scouts. She followed her mother through the door beside the fireplace, closed it behind them.

Her mother bent down, plucked up her oxygen, turned the knob, stuck the little clear plastic horns into her nose. “What are you and Burton up to with that man?” she asked, voice down so he wouldn’t hear, and Flynne could see her being really careful not to swear, which meant she was seriously angry.