Hell Hath No Curry by Tamar Myers

my heart just to think about my dear, if somewhat aggravating, pseudo-stepdaughter and her future family living on a farm near Hernia. I would have pseudo-step-grandchildren to play with, and when I finally became infirm, either Alison or one of her daughters would feed me with a silver spoon and escort me to the privy. What more could one ask of a life well lived?
    “Heck yeah,” Alison said, excitement rising in her voice. “We could tear down that stupid barn and them nasty silos, and build us a great big shopping mall. And ’cause we’d own the mall, we could get all the stuff from it for free. Man, I’m going ta build me a tunnel that goes straight from the Gap to my bedroom.”
    Disappointment is a bitter pill to swallow, but I managed to choke down most of mine before turning onto the gravel lane that dead-ends at Caroline’s drive. An enormous white dog appeared out of nowhere, barking loudly, and escorted us the rest of the way to the house.
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    Myers
    “Alison, you’re not afraid, are you?”
    “Heck no, I ain’t.”
    “Good. The dog’s name is Cujo. He’s really a sweetheart, unlike your Auntie Susannah’s little mutt.”
    “Hey! I like Shnookums.”
    “But you can’t—never mind. Do you know what alopecia is?”
    “Yeah. A girl in my class has it. It ain’t fair, if ya ask me.”
    “We’re not meant to understand everything in this life, dear.”
    “That don’t mean I gotta like it. Trish don’t have ta worry about fixing her hair at school, or getting it all messed up during gym.”
    “Wait a minute. You’re jealous of Trish?”
    “Who wouldn’t be, Mom? The boys think its sexy, and she’s got this cool sticker for her locker that says, ‘Bald is beautiful.’
    Amanda Brinkwater’s mom let her shave her head, but the principal expelled her. He don’t say nothing ’bout Trish. It ain’t fair, just like ya said.”
    “You said that, not me.”
    The door to the house opened and out swept the most beautiful woman in all of Bedford County. Caroline was draped in a red and gold sari, no doubt something she’d picked up on her recent trip to India. The woman gets around more than a bad pun.
    It’s a wonder she had the time to have an affair with Cornelius Weaver.
    “Welcome, visitors!” she said as she bowed low to the waist.
    “Having a condition doesn’t stop her from being a fruitcake,”
    I said, charitably under my breath.
    I could have said much worse, mind you. Carolyn Sha is an artist—Buffalo Mountain seems to be awash in artists—and gives new meaning to the word eccentric . The stone facade of her spacious home gives no hint that the interior walls are made of paper.
    I mean that literally. They are double-sided panels that slide along HELL HATH NO CURRY
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    tracks, an idea she claims to have gotten while visiting Japan. Her furniture consists of nothing more than colorful cushions, and her bed is just a mat, for crying out loud. Even invited guests are required to remove their shoes before entering the house, and don’t expect to consume a proper meal, unless you count soy as at least two food groups and are adept at eating with chopsticks.
    While Alison played with the wolf in a white dog’s clothing, I explained the nature of our visit to Caroline. Other than a trembling vein near her right temple, she displayed no change of emotion.
    “Certainly,” she said, and led me into the main room, which at the moment pretty much included the entire house. “I’m letting the chi settle a bit,” she said as if it were an explanation. “Sometimes there is just too much motion for me to think.”
    “That’s nice, dear. An overactive chi can lead to chi-kiness, and we certainly don’t want that.”
    She motioned to an array of beautiful, brightly colored, silk-covered cushions scattered about the floor. I knew that Caroline had designed the fabric herself and that this, in fact, is what she did for a living.
    “Have a seat,” she said. “Sit anywhere you