Shaking out the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

wild. Survival always does.
    But the tantrums ended when the packing began. Rachael was silent, smoldering, on the edge of helpless tears. Two of Margaret’s friends, Marley and another woman Tatum had met at the funeral, packed Rachael’s things. Both were cool toward Tatum and confident that she wasn’t qualified for the job. One, then the other, pulled Lee aside for hushed conversations. Tatum pretended not to notice. An hour after the women left, Tatum knocked on Rachael’s open bedroom door. Hearing nothing but the TV, she knocked again and then peeked inside.
    â€œHello?” she said, entering.
    Rachael was watching cartoons in her pajamas. She didn’t acknowledge Tatum’s entrance. Her suitcases, tidily packed just an hour before, had been ripped to ribbons, clothes strewn everywhere.
    â€œI wanted to check in with you about tomorrow,” Tatum said. “Do you have any questions?”
    No answer.
    Tatum sat on the edge of the bed and looked over the undies flung across the little play vanity, the sweaters tossed everywhere. One big corner of a suitcase was crammed in the too small trash basket.
    â€œYou don’t want to go, I guess.”
    Nothing.
    â€œI don’t blame you,” Tatum said. “I know you’re sad right now, but your dad is pretty sad, too. He needs some . . . time.”
    Tatum couldn’t bring herself to ask an eight-year-old to be strong for the grown man who was dumping her.
    â€œBut more important,” Tatum said, “is that you need some things, too.”
    Tatum smoothed the Disney sheets beneath her hand. The Cinderella story unfolded across the soft cotton. Evil sisters. Glass slippers. A handsome cartoon prince. As a child, what had stood out most to Tatum in Cinderella was the carriage turning into a pumpkin at midnight. She thought the consequence of breaking the midnight curfew was to be trapped alive in a pumpkin, in the damp darkness with stringy pumpkin guts and seeds hanging in your face and no dry place to sit, forever and ever after. That’s what you get when you break the rules. She was an adult before she realized it was the social faux pas the fairy tale was concerned with, the resulting embarrassment when one’s carriage turns out to be nothing but a gourd.
    â€œLook,” Tatum said, “I know you don’t like me. But when things are real sad, it can be good to get in the car and drive away for awhile.”
    But Rachael had shut her out. She turned up the television’s volume. Tatum touched the image of the fairy godmother and acknowledged herself as an unworthy substitute. No gowns. No princes. No glass slippers. Just a Celica and a spare room. Fortunately, Tatum thought, it wasn’t her job to get Rachael to a ball. Rachael didn’t need a fairy godmother. She needed a good right-hand man, someone to escort her through hell, drive her to the showdown and be there while she walked her fifteen paces and turned.
    â€œWe leave in the morning,” Tatum sighed. Not eloquent, not comforting, but all she had.
    Then Tatum placed her hands on her knees about to push up and leave when Rachael leapt from the floor and flew at her screaming no . She was red-faced, little fists chopping through the air, not belting Tatum, only with the greatest restraint. She stood right in front of Tatum engaged in battle, kicking, punching, every body part scrunched up or flying wildly. It was as though there were an invisible shield between the two of them, like Rachael had been taught not to hit, but boy, if she were allowed, this was what Tatum would be getting.
    Tatum was surprised at first and drew herself back. Then, realizing none of the blows were landing, the situation seemed strange and curious. She didn’t know why, but she reached through the shield and gave Rachael’s chest a little poke.
    Rachael stumbled backward, just a step, snapped out of one rage, the next one coming on fast. She grabbed