by Cathy Gohlke
“He’s not a thief!” Celia shouted. She wouldn’t let Marshall be accused one more time because of her cowardice. But this time Miss Lill squeezed her hand.
“Because you’re sweet on him, ain’t you, girl?” Troy ignored Celia and pushed, mocking.
Ruby Lynne shook her head—not so much to deny it, Celia thought, as to refuse to answer.
“The father was overheard last night, a confession clear as any a courtroom might require.” Reverend Willard looked steadily at Rhoan.
Rhoan straightened. Everybody knew he could be a mean drunk, and Celia wondered if he feared what he’d done in a stupor.
“Nobody’s accusing you, Rhoan, of anything but jumping to the wrong conclusion—and of not being here to protect your daughter.” Reverend Willard did not back down. “Isn’t that right, Troy?”
Troy shifted, his eyes caught in disbelief. But he recovered quickly and feigned bravado. “I never accused Rhoan of nothing. All along I’ve said it was—”
“It was you!” Miss Lill nearly spat. “You raped your niece when your brother wasn’t here—and you did it more than once!” Then she glared at Rhoan. “While you were off running moonshine, no doubt.”
Rhoan flinched. “Now, look here, woman—”
“Yes, see here!” Miss Lill all but shouted. “Your own daughter’s been too afraid to tell you that your brother—”
“Lies!” Troy shouted. “Pack of lies! Rhoan, you know you can’t believe this slut! She ran off from her own husband.”
“You better have proof, Preacher,” Rhoan threatened. “Comin’ into my home, accusin’ my own brother—”
“I heard him.” Celia’s words came out hollow. Everybody turned to her and she turned to Troy. “I heard you last night, at the hanging.”
“Goes to show she’s lying—there was no hanging!” Troy laughed too loud.
“Because Reverend Willard and Doc Vishy stopped it when your gun went off!” Celia was mad now.
Rhoan blinked. “How do you—?”
“I was there. I hid in the back of Doc Vishy’s car and followed Reverend Willard into the woods. They didn’t even know I was there till afterward.”
“Little brat’s makin’ things up.” Troy stubbed his cigarette on the floor.
“I heard you say you’d make half a dozen babies with that girl—and not one would see the light of day.”
Ruby Lynne’s face flushed bright and her red-rimmed eyes flared in fear, then anger. She looked from Troy to her father, everything in her turned to pleading.
Miss Lill groaned.
Rhoan looked as if he’d been slapped awake, the air sucked right out of him. “Troy?”
“Lies! You know I’d never—”
“Ask her!” Doc Vishy ordered. “Ruby Lynne, you must tell the truth. Now is the time.”
“Ruby Lynne, you’ve got to say!” Celia pleaded. “Tell him. Your daddy won’t hurt you—he’s askin’ you. Tellin’ the truth is the only way to stop Troy from doin’ it again.”
But Ruby Lynne didn’t look convinced. She looked terrified and most of all like she wanted to seep into the floorboards.
Rhoan took his daughter’s arm. “Ruby Lynne. Is what this girl says true? Answer me.”
Troy stepped forward. “Now, Rhoan—”
“Shut up!”
The room grew quiet.
“Ruby Lynne,” Troy started, “you don’t want to be turning on family just because you’re sweet on some—”
“I’m not sweet on anybody!” Ruby Lynne near exploded. “I never was.” Now she spoke to her daddy but stared full at Troy. “He came when you were gone—always when you’d gone up to Asheville or wherever you go for—” She stopped.
“The girl lured me, Rhoan. You know what a vixen she can—”
“You raped me!” Ruby Lynne whispered, whimpered, but her tears were lost when Rhoan pushed her aside and rushed his brother, shoving him to the floor. He pummeled Troy’s face with his fists.
“Rhoan! Rhoan!” Reverend Willard grabbed Rhoan’s right fist in midair and Dr. Vishy grabbed the other, pulling him off Troy before he beat him to death.
Miss Lill swept Ruby Lynne, weeping uncontrollably, into her arms. Celia was left standing on the sidelines, not knowing what to do or where to look.
“Let the law handle this, Rhoan.” Reverend Willard kept hold of the man.
“He won’t live to see the law!” Rhoan wiped his mouth on his sleeve while Troy pulled himself to a sitting position on the floor. “Don’t even think of running out that door. I’ll shoot you dead before you cross the yard!”
“We need to calm down.” Reverend Willard stood between Rhoan and Troy.
“I’ll kill you,” Rhoan threatened Troy.
“And go to jail for murder!” Miss Lill’s voice surprised everybody. “That won’t help Ruby Lynne. You being gone is the worst thing in the world for her. That’s what gave your brother the opportunity in the first place! She needs your protection, Rhoan Wishon, not your anger.”
“Then you best call for the sheriff before I do him in. I’ll see you put away for the rest of your natural life, Troy. Ruby Lynne will—”
“There’s got to be a better way than dragging Ruby Lynne through a court of law and all over the front page of the newspaper.” Reverend Willard relaxed his hold on Rhoan.
Rhoan turned on him. “Then you tell me what that is, Preacher. He ain’t goin’ free.”
Doc Vishy loosened his tie. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Please!” Miss Lill spoke despite Rhoan’s glare.
“Reverend Willard made a good point last night. Young men are needed to fight Germany and Japan.” Doc Vishy turned to Troy. “Enlisting would get Troy away from No Creek for however long this war lasts—at least. Longer, if he promises never to return to the county.”
“You can’t do that! You can’t make me!” Troy attempted to rise from the floor, wiping blood from his nose, but only got as far as his knees.
“How old are you, young man?” Doc Vishy asked.
“He’s twenty-one,” Rhoan answered for him.
“I’m not going!” Troy’s eyes widened. “You can’t make me. We agreed to pay—”
Rhoan pushed Reverend Willard aside and grabbed his brother by the shirt collar, jerking him to his feet. “You’ll enlist tomorrow morning first thing or you’ll leave here today with a bullet between your shoulders.”
“If you stay, Troy, you’ll go to jail for rape,” Doc Vishy said. “I will testify to the beatings and violation I’ve treated Ruby Lynne for over the last months.”
Troy fumed.
Rhoan winced at the doctor’s words. He wiped his jaw, considering. “You’ll enlist, and no matter what, you’ll never set foot in this house again—not anywhere in No Creek. You hear me?”
“Rhoan,” Troy pleaded, “you got to understand—”
Rhoan jerked Troy’s collar upward until Troy stood on tiptoe to keep from choking. “You hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you.” Troy was strong and muscled, but he was no match for his work-hardened older brother. “I got it.”
“Until then, Rhoan, perhaps you can ask Sheriff Wilkins to give your brother a room in his jail tonight.” Doc Vishy’s solution surprised them all. “For everyone’s safekeeping.”
Reverend Willard placed a hand on Rhoan’s shoulder. Rhoan dropped Troy to the ground.
“I’ll telephone the sheriff,” Doc Vishy spoke quietly and stepped into the kitchen for the phone.
Chapter Sixty-Six
WHEN THE SHERIFF ARRIVED, I watched as the ropes binding Troy’s wrists behind his back were exchanged for handcuffs. No one mentioned that Celia had recognized the sheriff in the woods the night before. Having Rhoan Wishon appeal to the sheriff made all the difference.
When they’d left, Rhoan sat down on the couch, propped his elbows on his knees, and ran his hands through his hair and across his jaw.
“I didn’t think you’d do it. I didn’t thin
k you’d stand for me against Uncle Troy,” Ruby Lynne spoke softly, still from the kitchen doorway.
Rhoan looked up at his pregnant daughter. “I had no idea. None.”
Ruby Lynne looked away, relief and sorrow weighing down her shoulders.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me what he was doin’ to you all this time?”
“I never thought you’d believe me. I feared you’d believe him. You always believe him—your baby brother. You protect him—all the time.”
“But I didn’t protect you.”
“You never did. Not even from you, when you’re drunk.”
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.” Rhoan shook his head, too sorrowful to look full in Ruby Lynne’s face, but reached his arms toward her, waiting for her to come to him. She didn’t. “What can I do? How can I make this right?”
I couldn’t hold back. “You can’t. But you can stop accusing an innocent boy to begin with!” I wanted to dig my nails into Rhoan Wishon’s arm and make him see, make him feel.
“And stop drinking,” Ruby Lynne spoke, still quietly. “When you get drunk, you don’t know what you’re doing, Daddy. And when you’re sober, you don’t remember.”
The lump in Rhoan’s throat went up and down. “Did I—did I ever—?”
“No.” Ruby Lynne crossed the room then and sat beside him. “Only Uncle Troy ever did that. I couldn’t stop him. I wasn’t strong enough. But you slapped me around—left bruises a couple of times on my arms, my face. You can’t do that anymore. I’m gonna have a baby. I’m gonna be a mother.”
Rhoan buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I never should’ve done it. I never will again, I swear it.”
“Does that mean you’ll stop drinking?” I wanted to know.
“Miss Lill!” Celia urged, and I knew she was cautioning against demanding the impossible.
“Yes,” Rhoan said. “Not another drop. I swear it.”
By the time we left an hour later, Ruby Lynne and Rhoan sat across the table from each other with hot coffee and a fragile peace. I felt Ruby Lynne would be all right for now, that Rhoan was so horrified by what his brother had done that he now meant to protect her.
But I didn’t believe Rhoan would give up hard liquor and said so to Reverend Willard and Dr. Vishnevsky. “Leopards don’t change their spots.”
“No, I’m not sure I believe they do,” Reverend Willard replied, resigned as near as I could tell. “But I hope for more and better from him. He’s going to be a grandfather one day soon. Surely that changes a man for the better, doesn’t it?”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
CELIA’S TWELFTH BIRTHDAY came on the fifteenth, but even that momentous event seemed lost to her—an anticlimax to all that had gone on.
She heard the phone ring and her mama take the call Monday morning before school. Why is it every time that telephone rings it’s bad news? She couldn’t tell what was going on at the far end of the line, but she saw the squaring of her mama’s shoulders. Celia heard the click as her mama replaced the receiver in its cradle, and she waited long moments till her mama turned, a smile pasted across her pale face.
“Your daddy’s being released a few days early—this afternoon. I’ll go up to fetch him. We ought to be home on the last train.”
Celia felt like the earth had just opened up and swallowed her whole. Turning twelve was not all it was cracked up to be.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
WE HEARD OVER THE RADIO that the train was delayed for ice on the tracks. We celebrated Celia’s birthday quietly, cutting the applesauce cake Gladys had baked that morning—a recipe Celia loved and one that had been passed down through their family for generations. But Celia barely ate.
I tucked Celia and Chester into bed around eight and said prayers with them. Neither asked to stay up and wait for their family’s reunion. Both prayed for their parents’ safe return that night, but neither looked excited, not about Celia’s birthday, not about their daddy coming, not even about Christmas.
My heart ached for the uncertainty in their faces, for the nervous twitch in Celia’s eye and Chester’s need for extra hugs. I understood how they felt—what it meant to not know whether to trust someone and wonder, even fear how they were going to treat you, no matter how many times they said sorry.
I went to my room after that but heard the door open and close about 9:15. I turned off my light and pretended to sleep. I knew the children pretended the same. Best to give Gladys and Fillmore some time to settle in. It was their first night together in nearly two years. About ten I heard footsteps on the stairs—two sets—and a little giggle from Gladys. I turned over, breathed easier, and went to sleep.
•••
Granny Chree hadn’t been to my kitchen since Thanksgiving—far longer than our usual stretches between tea and conversation—so on Wednesday, the week before Christmas, I decided to pay her a visit. It was a good time to be out of the house while Gladys and Fillmore spent time together—only a few days left before school let out for the holidays.
I’d met Fillmore the day before. He seemed to be settling in with this family pretty well, though Celia kept her distance from her father. It had to be hard for him with no real privacy with Gladys and the children. My being away for a few hours might help.
The week before, I’d made up packets of the herbs Granny loved that grew in Aunt Hyacinth’s garden beds. I’d dried them at the end of summer and tied some with red ribbons. Monday morning, early—even before Gladys had left to get Fillmore, the morning Gladys had baked Celia’s cake—I’d baked several loaves of pumpkin-cranberry bread, intending them as gifts. We’d already heard talk about the likelihood of sugar rationing but were determined to make this a sweet Christmas—one to remember, what with Fillmore coming home and all we’d been through.
My basket was heavy, laden with all the good things I thought Granny Chree might accept from me. Along with the herbs, I’d slipped in a loaf of pumpkin bread, a tin of loose tea, and a pound of coffee.
Frost crunched beneath my feet as I walked through the fields and up the mountain, the earthy scent of damp ground and molding leaves strong in pine-sheltered places. Clouds hung dark and heavy, pregnant with the coming snow. I was glad to make the trek now. By evening we might be battling a winter storm.
The first sign of trouble was that there was nothing but cold on the winter air—no scent of woodsmoke from Granny’s cabin chimney, no fragrance of soup bubbling or fatback frying from her outdoor kitchen.
“Granny!” I called from the edge of her cabin’s clearing, wanting her to know a friend was near. “It’s me—Lilliana Grace!” But there was no answer. “Granny?” I’d reached the door. I knocked, something I’d never had to do to reach Granny’s welcoming arms—arms that reminded me of dear Sarah. Still no answer. I pushed against the cabin door, but the bar on the other side must have stood in place.
I walked around to the side of the cabin and peered on tiptoe through the window glass. No fire burned in the grate. No lamp lit the darkness. If the bar had not been set, I would have thought Granny was out. Now fear swelled in my throat. I knocked on the window—Granny’s only window—tentatively at first, then frantically. I couldn’t quite see her bed, but the foot of the cot looked as if a quilt was bunched there—not neatly made as Granny would leave it.
I couldn’t get in the door, but if I could climb on something, I could crawl through the window if it wasn’t locked—or break it if necessary. I dragged a thick log from her woodpile by the front door, standing it on end. Steadying myself against the cabin wall, I climbed and pushed up the window.
“Granny? Granny Chree?” Still no answer. Grasping the window’s ledge, I pulled myself up and through and into her dry sink—bone-dry. I scrambled over the side and felt my way through the dark to Granny’s little bed near the fire.
There was something beneath the covers, but I couldn’t quite see or bring myself to touch it. I felt for the table, the
n for the kerosene lamp and box of matches that I knew stood there. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the flare of the lamp and courage to turn and see what I might find. The cabin wasn’t freezing, and that gave my trembling heart hope. The fire or the stove couldn’t have been out for long.
“Granny?” I whispered, lifting the lamp and turning toward the bed.
She lay peaceful, a woolen blanket pulled up to her chin. I felt for a pulse, as I’d seen Dr. Vishnevsky do, but knew, even before I touched her, that I wouldn’t find one. “Oh, Granny!” I sank to the floor beside her bed, clasping her hand—cold as the stones in our garden.
Instantly, there were a thousand things I wished I’d said, questions I wished I’d asked, love I wished I’d found more ways to pour into this dear woman, this precious friend to my aunt, to me. The weight of this hard land with its hardened souls and its unspoken codes, added to the loss of Mama and Aunt Hyacinth and now Granny Chree, pressed my heart to the ground.
I lost track of how long I sat on that cabin floor, my hot head pressed against Granny Chree’s cold hand. Tears came, washing my face and her fingers—an anointing for burial. I cried so hard that eventually against all sense, I slept, then woke, having dreamt of the fierce little lady who met me first among the herb beds at Garden’s Gate, digging plants I’d known nothing about then. How much I’d learned from her—about plants and flowers and herbs and the ways of nature, about other people, about the love of the Almighty, about me.
At last I dried my tears and sat back, looking full in Granny’s face. I wanted to remember that the lines of care and age were gone, how relaxed and near lovely she looked. I noticed for the first time there was something clasped in her other hand . . . paper.
I pulled the lamp closer. It was a note, and beside her hand, on the bed, was a man’s sock, stuffed with something that crinkled, like paper. I saw the word Testament at the top of the page and gently pulled it free from Granny’s grasp.
My Last Will and Testament