She shakes her head as though discussing something sad, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that says she’s enjoying bearing witness to whatever awfulness she blames on Zoey. “You’re too good-looking for a witch like her. Shame to see you in a pine box sooner than the good Lord intended because you got bewitched by her.”

She flicks her hand from me to Zoey’s trailer, ash falling to the ground at her feet as she threatens me with impending doom.

“Oh, yeah, awful thing what that girl did to her momma and daddy, and then her grandparents. I heard she talks to the bodies down at the morgue,” Louise adds, dropping her voice to finish, “and she thinks they talk back to her. Creepy, if I say so myself. Talking to the dead, touching them . . . disgusting.”

They nod with sneered faces like they smell something rank, each echoing the sentiments from the other. Before, I let Zoey fight her own battles with Bubba at the beer barn and Alver at work. But she’s not here now, and I feel righteous in defending her since I can’t allow people to talk badly about someone I care about. Especially when they’ve done nothing to warrant it and aren’t here to stand up for themselves.

I square up and stand tall, letting all charm and kindness fall off my shoulders.

Sorry, Mom. Some people don’t deserve manners.

These two busybody biddies certainly don’t.

“Here’s what I know . . . she’s had a rough life, with some painful loss. Ironically, people think losing her family is reason enough to heap more pain on her shoulders. And somehow, though she’s surrounded by ugly, small-minded people,” I growl, slowly looking them up and down, from their permed hairdos to their worn house dresses and slipper-covered feet until they shift uncomfortably, “She’s managed to stay good and kind at her core. More than I can say for most people I’ve met out here.”

Bitter, harsh, hard words . . . I mean every single one.

Thelma harrumphs, not put off by the judgement of some ‘city boy’. “Your funeral.”

I’m not going to change their opinions of Zoey, as much as I’d like to. And I might as well not throw dynamite on their bonfire, no matter how much I’d like to hand them each a Molotov cocktail to go with their cancer sticks. “Have the day you deserve, ladies.”

That’s the most pleasant good-bye I can offer, because my middle fingers are itching to fly high and proud. As I walk back to my car, I can hear them talking behind me, making no effort to keep their voices down. “Know what I heard? She takes their nails, the dead folks’. Grinds them down into powder and puts it in her conditioner. That’s how she gets her hair that shiny and pretty. T’ain’t natural.”