by Mary Gray
Flour smears a gingham apron, cakes Grammy’s long, skinny fingers. She teaches me how to roll out dough with a patience Job would find surprising. She uses a rolling pin, spreading dough counter-clockwise.
“Do it like this,” she says, “to keep it from tearing.”
She hands me the rolling pin, and it’s a baton of hope after Edgar sucked the light out of life.
“You taught me how to bake!” I sound like a child, but it’s all coming back. So many things are coming back, and I’m not even nagging Tansy.
Grammy’s pretty, thin lips quirk into a smile that reminds me of her actress days. “It didn’t take you long to surpass your teacher.”
I survey the deep country sink, the red painted apples on the tea towel hanging over its side. How many times did I wipe my hands on the thin fabric when I needed to return to my baking?
Grammy hands me a thick book—The History of Deep Creek—a reward for our pie-baking enterprise. “Read it,” she says. “Read it to understand our history.”
I read the first two sentences aloud, and she tells me to shush. Edgar will be home soon, and I should get the book out of sight. “Our little secret, my darling.”
Instead of absorbing the subtleties of our past, though, I skip ahead and look to the tours and adventures to be found in the eastern part of the United States ...
An opaque flash of me teaching a group of people about old houses steals over my vision, and I blurt, “I became a tour guide!”
Grammy pats my hand before setting the table with a plate of peanut butter sandwich cookies. Numbed to all that I’ve already discovered, I sink into a curve-backed, wooden chair. When was the last time I ate something?
Only, my fingers don’t know how to reach for the cookie. Instead, they curl under the chair as I remember something Tansy had said about WT. You don’t remember how effortlessly successful he was, G. I suppose that means I had to work hard for the successes I got, while he inherited every one of his wins and station in life. But that downplays any effort he ever made.
“Did I have to come home,” I ask Grammy, “from working—wherever I was—because I couldn’t hack it?”
Grammy woofs a laugh. She raises her baby-blue coffee cup to her lips and takes a long, slow drink. Lowering it, she eventually says, “My dear, you came home to help me.”
A long procession of trucks tail a pearly white limousine. Headlight burn bright. A choir of old women sing Rock of Ages. At the viewing, everyone says Edgar looks natural, even though his mustache is trimmed way too high.
“He ... had a heart attack,” I recall faintly.
Grammy nods. “Even though he had a heart condition, nobody expected him to die a year under ninety.”
Oh, I remember; at the time, she said I didn’t need to come home, but it was her insistence that she could handle what was going on that convinced me to come back ASAP.
“I couldn’t believe how quickly you showed up after I called you. Twelve hours later, you were on my doorstep.” She holds out a cookie. “All bound and determined you were to work locally. You had a wonderful position in Williamsburg, but my Gemma gave that up. To help me.”
Accepting the cookie, I remember that, too. Edgar was the reason why I left Grammy in the first place. But why didn’t she leave him?
“How long ago did I come back from Virginia?” Oh, the death date on Edgar’s grave is a couple of years ago, February. “Wait, what month is it?”
Frown lines frame Grammy’s face. “February.”
Oh, wow. How could it be February already? Okay ... “So, it’s been about two years since Edgar died. How long ago was it that I first met WT?”
A far-off look settles over Grammy’s eyes. “You meant to return to your job, but you refused to leave after you met him.”
I try to think back to when that could be, but no more mental images surface. “You ... wanted me to leave?”
A flash of hurt skims across Grammy’s face. “In all my years, I have never wanted such a thing. But all too often, what we want and what we need become the two great opposites of our lives.” Grammy taps her mug, finishing off her statement with understated authority.
Mulling over her words, I take a careful nibble of the cookie. The peanut butter is flavorful and sweet. Because of the salt. I remember Grammy saying a pinch of salt always enhances the flavor.
Accepting a glass of milk from her, I find the gumption to ask, “How did we meet, Grammy? WT and me.”
Startled, her aged gaze drifts out the window, then back to me. “That, my dear, is something you would wish to remember for yourself.”
“But Tansy won’t let me ..." I feel like I’m four years old, complaining that my teacher’s being mean. But it’s how it is, and I’m loving how I can be honest with Grammy.
She catches my hand. “Go to your bridge. You were doing the ten o’clock tour in July.”
20
I tear out of Grammy’s house so fast, I nearly forget to say goodbye. An old wreath on the pantry door I think we made together reminds me, though, so I turn around and throw my arms around her boney shoulders.
“Thank you!”
Her frame melts in my embrace, and I’m out the door, nearly knocking into her metal rooster along the way.
My bridge is probably a full two miles from Grammy’s. I tear past cedars and leafless oaks like the distance is only a hundred feet. Even the moon is fuller than I had expected, burnishing silver in the indigo sky.
When I make it to the bridge’s red metal trusses, I grab the sun-bleached rails, trying to force my subconscious to another time—when oaks and willows staunchly hoarded their foliage. Cicadas roared. The scent of honeysuckle must have drifted through the air, pleading with me to try a taste.
A mess of people bunch together on the wooden planks of the bridge—on my right—and we’re in various stages of being fully cooked in the summer heat. Sweat blends with adrenaline as groups of two and three tourists stand at rapt attention, hungry to be fed a story.
Almost like a hardy meal, and the main course is supposed to be supplied by me.
Taking a deep breath, I inhale the summer air. Taste the perspiration and humidity. “Goatman’s Bridge hasn’t always been this peaceful,” I say with great weight. “In 1938, a certain African American goat farmer was murdered here by the local KKK.”
A hush steals over the group. My words are poison, but I feel that I must tell the truth and expose what happened all those years ago in this place. While most of the tourists have probably already read about the Goatman online, each of them has booked the midnight tour to hear more specifics from a trusted source. I won’t squander the responsibility.
“It is said that the Klansmen lynched the goat farmer.” I brush against the metal rail to find my footing. “They hung him with a noose over the side of the bridge like it didn’t matter to take a life. When the group checked the rope to confirm that he was dead, his body was nowhere—out of sight.”
A pair of women in matching skull hoodies look to one another, jaws clamped. A younger girl clutching a notebook looks down, pain crinkling her blonde eye-lashed eyes.
“One version of the legend says the bridge is still haunted by the Goatman’s wife,” I say. “When the Klansmen finished with the goat farmer, they hunted down and killed the rest of his family.”
A sharp gasp comes from one of the ladies in the hoodies while a college-aged kid folds his bulging arms. “Why?”
“Because.” I tread toward him, careful not to obscure the truth. “They did not like the successes of the Goatman’s business dealings.”
Disgusted, the kid’s jaw loosens, and he kicks one of the steel railings. He’s feeling the way I felt when I first read about it. He sees the injustice. It’s right that he should feel the pain.
“I realize this is a horrific point in our history.” My stomach twists. “I almost didn’t offer this tour because it’s not a comfortable topic for anybody. But if we don’t shine a light on the past
, we risk reliving the horrors of our ancestors’ crimes.”
The discomfort of the group is so palpable, I wish I could scoop it up and place it in a jar for them to feel every time they’re tempted to sweep something wrong under the rug. But we have to hold up a mirror to our history. It’s how we sow the seeds of change.
“Has this tale been recorded in the county archives?” asks a sultry male voice.
The women in the skull hoodies turn to look at who’s speaking. He’s a few paces back, respectfully giving them space. Clad in a leather jacket and ripped blue jeans, he boasts the perfect amount of scruff and an especially kind face.
“I ..." What was his question? Oh, if the story’s been recorded in the county archives. But I can’t help noticing how still he is—how closely he’s watching me. Like my answer really matters, but he doesn’t even know me. “I would have to check ..." Most people don’t ask about my sources, but I will do anything to help a fellow historian—especially one who looks ripped enough to be in the Highland games.
When the handsome stranger’s gaze continues to bore into mine, I patch together some words. “I can call and ask. If you like.”
He smiles, close-lipped. Mysterious. Fascinating. I doubt I’m the only girl who’s fallen under his trance. I shouldn’t let myself get sidetracked while the entire group waits.
Busying myself with details of other nearby hauntings, and a few hints about how some people believe that the Goatman haunts the bridge to this very day, I eventually reach the end of the tour and lead us back to the parking lot. The stranger makes a beeline for his motorcycle, which gleams black and metallic in the moonlight. Grabbing his helmet and slinging his leg over the bike, he raises two fingers from a closed fist and offers me a peace sign.
I almost give him one in return before my arm awkwardly thwacks the side of my leg.
“He’s cute,” one of the hoodie women says.
“I’d let ol’ James Dean play Twenty Questions with me any day!” Her friend laughs, toying with the strings of her hoodie.
With a gasp, I release the rails of the bridge, remembering how I did search the county records, but, apart from the Goatman story, I didn’t see anything noteworthy. It was almost like the records had been scrubbed—or the court recorders had been lazy at the time. But I didn’t know if I could believe in a conspiracy.
And now? As the wind tousles my hair, and the leaves shimmy like broken jewels against the grapevine, I know I have to get to the bottom of what happened.
Whatever it takes.
21
Eggplant and fuchsia-colored cupcakes salute me from the kitchen counter when I make it back to our place.
We don’t have the ingredients. Tansy couldn’t have made these.
Also, if Tansy were to bake, she’d make something like bran muffins infused with quinoa and split peas.
Icicle lights have been looped around the candle sconces on the walls almost like gingerbread icing, and with the curtains drawn and windows boarded up, they actually provide a healthy amount of light. Maybe Tansy deciphered my wish for Christmas decorations ... now that it’s February. For all I know, I’ll find a giant, inflatable snowman in the library.
“Hello, hello!” comes a far too chipper, female voice—a voice, I might add, that does not come from me. There’s someone in the house? Who would bring cupcakes?
When I spin to see who it is, though, I plow right into Natalie. She’s wearing that tan blazer again, her peaches and cream complexion a dermatologist’s dream ad for curing acne.
“I was just coming to check up on my bestie!” The dimple in her chin is an exact replica of the dimple in left her cheek. “Hope you don’t mind. I looked under the rock and found the key.” She plucks up my hand and plops the freezing key into my palm. “After seeing you in the office, well ... you had me worried!”
Natalie raises her gaze to the ceiling, where another glob of Christmas lights have been wrapped around a Tiffany chandelier—next to a painting of a man with a healthy amount of chest hair and only one eye. His beard’s on fire, and he’s smoking a pipe.
Lowering her gaze, Natalie seems to accidentally set her sights on another one of Tansy’s paintings—a headless woman standing in front of a fountain, holding a bouquet of dead roses. The woman’s surrounded by the tallest of tombstones, which stretch like skyscrapers from a floor of red clay.
Natalie stares for a good fifteen seconds before lifting her hand to her forehead as if trying to think. “I didn’t really believe your memories were gone until you acted like you didn’t know me at the office yesterday.”
I absorb her wavy locks and the fact that one of her eyebrows is partially shaved. So I am supposed to know her. Question is, how, exactly?
“You really must have forgotten all that happened,” she prattles on, waving nonchalantly like we’re old pals, visiting on a lunch date. “Otherwise, you would have reached out to me. You do know you don’t have to be a stranger, even if I am the Sheriff’s wife.”
Oh, so she’s married to Jesse Beauchamp. Wonderful human being. When Tansy learns I’ve broken Rule Number 2: Don’t let anyone in the house, she is going to kill me.
Adjusting the headless woman painting so that it’s somewhat less crooked, I try to come off as reasonably friendly.
“Hey, Natalie, have you been to Hey, Sugar lately?” Now that she’s here, we might as well discuss what she knows about my past—anything she can do to help me.
Natalie stares at me like I have three eyes.
“Okay ... when was the last time you came over?”
“Oh, not since WT ..." She glances furtively at the headless woman in the painting like WT suffered a similar fate. “I wanted to check on my bestie, is all. Don’t you go and say that’s a crime.”
She fumbles with her jacket, suddenly acting anxious. Part of me wonders if she’s being twitchy because she’s thinking of Jesse. Natalie seems so open and honest, and Jesse is . . Jesse. It makes me wonder how well they knew each other before they got married. Makes me wonder if they have cute, beady-eyed children with matching police helmets and shaved hair on the sides.
Natalie surveys one of the Texas stars on the wall, which has also been draped in another mad frosting-like dollop of lights. Not sure what Tansy was up to, but thankfully, Natalie doesn’t appear to be too peeved by the state of the place.
Trailing deeper into the hallway, she says, “Jesse mentioned that you were digging a hole round back.” She catches sight of herself in Tansy’s mirror and smooths her flawless, beach-blonde waves. “Everything all right?”
“Just some roadkill I had to take care of.” I shrug like people bury roadkill all the time.
Right in front of a bust of someone with a grand mustache, who’s now covered in bright coral seashells, Natalie stops to stare at me. Emotion simmers below the surface of her eyes.
“I miss you! Ever since, you know, WT went MIA, we never see you anymore.” She leans in and drops her voice to a whisper. “And don’t you worry—I know you didn’t do anything.” Straightening up, she resumes her normal chatter. “Think you’ll start coming round again to the block parties?” I want to ask her how she knows I’m innocent, when her gaze fixates on something about shin-height.
Preparing myself, I turn. Looks like Tansy’s painted a raccoon that’s been sawed in half, blood dripping down its middle a little too realistically. Is that ketchup or red paint? The painting’s been nailed to the wall literally a foot from the floor.
Natalie spins away from the painting, giving her head a quick shake. She strolls deeper into the house, and I would have taken down that dress from the moose’s antlers—and fishnet pantyhose—if I’d known we were having company.
Pretending she doesn’t see the strewn clothes, Natalie drones on about the neighbors and an upcoming artichoke party. She refers to some expected improvements to be done to the grounds around the courthouse—courtesy of past funds from WT and his daddy—before delivering a final zinger: “Needles
s to say, if Edgar were still head of the city council, no way would they be bringing in a taco place.”
Wait ... so WT and his father donated to keep up Deep Creek. And I almost trip over my next inquiry. “You knew Edgar?”
“Of course, silly. We’ve known each other ever since he took you in ... after your parents died.”
Parents. I hadn’t even gotten far enough to think about parents. What does that say about me?
“So then”—I accidentally bump into the table near where she was just standing—“what do you know about him—them—him?” I’m standing a little too close for comfort, but I’ve stumbled upon a new lead. Trying to appear cool, calm, and collected, I work moisture back into my mouth. “What was Edgar like?”
Natalie takes an awkward step back to give us a natural buffer. “Well, uh—hey! Maybe this is a perk of your amnesia! You don’t have to remember what he did to you or your grandma!”
Lifting a hand to ask her what she means, I accidentally bump into one of Tansy’s teacups with a new candle poured inside. It clatters on the table but doesn’t quite fall. “What does this have to do with Grammy?”
Natalie blanches. “Nothing, Gemma. Nothing!” She pats me on the arm way too cheerfully. “Why stir up old memories?” She practically gallops to the front door. “You asked me never to speak of it. To be honest, you’re putting me in an awkward position, bestie.”
Stopping just before the door, she leans in and kisses either side of my cheek. Not sure if this is something we used to do all the time.
“Don’t be a stranger now!” She places her hand on the doorknob, shoulders pinned up, proving she knows she’s leaving me high and dry. But her conscience must twinge, because, slowly, she turns back to me, stoic-faced. “Don’t you worry yourself over the likes of Edgar or Jesse. All these rascals need is a little reminder that you’re not wanting to stir the pot. You’ll see.”