by Mary Gray
“‘Gold digger,’” I whisper, mortified.
Tansy’s nodding. “They feel like you stole him from them, G.”
“But what does this have to do with Francesca? Are her husband and daughter holed up somewhere with him?”
Tansy shakes our head. “That I cannot say.”
Spinning around, she has us survey all the boarded-up windows, the window glass that’s now resting next to a broken wineglass—and I hate this powerless feeling that she’s once again muzzling me. I would do anything to go out there, guns blazing.
Sensing my anger, Tansy says, “I’m afraid some people are willin’ to do anythin’ to hold onto their backward beliefs.”
Another gunshot booms in the air, this time in the back yard. Tansy and I tear off for the hallway.
“Do not fear, my love.” She bear hugs the chains. “I have gathered enough food to keep us afloat for a very long time.”
34
We’ve been locked up for I don’t even know how many days.
It wouldn’t feel so long if Tansy would let me disappear, but she’s scared. We all know she likes having me in reserve just in case. She says my joints hurt less when it comes to cleaning up glass and finding new homes for the bricks our neighbors threw inside.
When the chores are done, we still have to live Tansy’s version of an idyllic life. Her idea of dinner is eating a parsnip whole, and her “exercise” consists of lifting paperweights like dumbbells between creative projects.
It kills me, hiding in here while Klan members have duped the town into believing that Francesca’s death was an accident. And I hate knowing that Francesca’s little girl could be held hostage somewhere. I should call the police. But from what Tansy said, it sounds like Jesse Beauchamp’s just as much a part of the Klan as WT.
In the meantime, Tansy’s content living her blind, idyllic life. I don’t even want to think about the kind of pushback she’ll give me if I insist on going out. So, I weather these nineteenth-century shawls and petticoats. Ignore the piles of necklaces, bracelets, and broaches she’s so fond of wearing. She’s even pinned up our hair with a crown of dried flowers and feathers. I wish our dress was at least a different color. Canary-yellow washes out our face.
I wonder what the townspeople have decided now that they can’t get inside the house. Would they burn it down? I suppose they wouldn’t want to harm the home of their precious WT. So maybe they put up roadblocks until they can get Jesse to take me away. Jesse seems like he’d love nothing more than to bring me in, but Tansy said Calhoun made him agree to some sort of arrangement because of Tansy’s and my eccentricities.
What I really want to know is why Calhoun doesn’t lock me up, ASAP. Is it because I’m Edgar’s granddaughter? Some sort of twisted way of honoring his bloodline?
Honestly, I have no idea what to think. For now, I have to sit in the library and look at some gigantic aquarium Tansy’s drawn, chockfull of plants and randomly ripped apart arms and legs.
“Does everything you paint have to be so ... murdery?”
Tansy sticks out her tongue, sassing me. “Better for me to paint it than for us to see it in real life.”
“So you’re saying that painting is your therapy. I don’t ever dream of killing people, Tansy.”
“It’s not that I dream of killing them.” She dips her paintbrush into her favorite color—chartreus mixed with pollen and other “natural oddities.” “It’s just what the muse prompts. I pick up a paintbrush, and before I know it, I’m drawing guys falling off of roofs and lions eating people alive.”
I keep my gaze centered on Tansy’s green well of paint. Maybe she really did kill WT and has yet to admit it. “You certainly have a morbid sense of creativity.”
She heaves an almost pleasurable sigh. “Fear has a way of making me pay attention. Keeps me awake.”
I open my mouth to ask about dinner, when a scuffing noise from the French doors has us turning.
Dwayne, in a plaid shirt and Wranglers, comes marching in, spurs jingling. He pauses just past the doorway—obviously waiting for a welcoming reaction from Tansy or me—but Tansy flat-out ignores him, dipping her brush in the green paint.
“Don’t be rude,” I internally say, but she doesn’t even bat an eyelash. I’d say hello—maybe ask Dwayne if he knows if any of those townspeople are still outside—but Tansy keeps my tongue under lock and key.
“You need to find another place to live,” Dwayne says. His spurs jangle as he crosses the floor to warm his hands at the fire.
Dwayne glances back, but when Tansy refuses to look up, he turns around and slips a pair of bolt cutters into the back pocket of his jeans. Oh, so that’s how he got in. But I thought we chained the doors from the inside.
Nonchalantly, Dwayne goes back to warming his hands, betrayal flashing in his muddy eyes. He takes his time clearing his throat. “You know this place isn’t safe.”
Clearly unimpressed, Tansy rolls our eyes so hard, I’m afraid they’re going to get stuck that way. “We are quite capable of takin’ care of ourselves, Dwayne.”
He spins around, spurs clinking. “Just who do you mean by ‘we’?”
Tansy has us dab a yellowish hue of paint into her masterpiece, obviously buying time. I think she’s going to ignore him altogether when she huffs, “Are you goin’ to tell me why you’re here, or are you goin’ to keep hanging around like a lost puppy?”
Dwayne balls his hands into fists. Pulls his cowboy hat off his head before stuffing it back on his head and marching directly in front of Tansy. “Everyone is sayin’ that you killed him. That you’re claimin’ that hairdresser was murdered. That you’re cra—” He holds up a hand. “I know you’re not. Crazy. Gemma, I need you to tell me what happened. Talk to me.”
Tansy suddenly lurches forward, paint dripping from her paintbrush, gaudy bracelets jangling. “You get outta here, Dwayne Bone! I never wanna see your face!”
Hurt, sharp as a cutlass, flashes across Dwayne’s eyes. While I’m not exactly sure how he’s gotten under Tansy’s skin, I do know that our heart is thundering in our chest, it’s hotter than a sauna in here, and we’re seeing spots—the boy’s gotten us into quite the tizzy.
The tip of Dwayne’s nose darkens. “I have been waitin’ for you to come to me.”
Tansy digs our fingernails into our palms, obviously trying to restrain herself. Heat surges up and down our chest while the corset strains against our ribcage. She scratches the silk bodice, clearly distracted while the wheels in our head spin in a melee.
Suddenly seizing our wrist, Dwayne tugs us toward him. Our skirt brushes into him like he’s Rhett Butler and we’re Scarlet O’Hara having our feud of the week. I think she’s going to slap him when, as if on a slip of paper, Tansy discreetly slips me a memory.
He brands the cattle, sweat glistening off his bare chest beneath the blistering summer sky. She knows she shouldn’t stare, but she can’t tear her eyes off him while he bales hay.
She offers him a chicken salad sandwich. He graciously accepts without any idea that it isn’t me. In the garden, he watches her dance to a funny mashup of bluegrass and jazz, and she’s dressed in one of those old-timey dresses with a modern flair of lace cut-outs. He chews his sandwich like a peeper, silently watching.
Snipping the connection, Tansy flings us back to the present by saying, “Dwayne.” There’s the slightest of quivers in her voice. “I want you good an’ gone. I need you well and good outta my life!”
It seems we’ve grabbed a girandole. Tansy and I have raised it high above our head, and while I’m not entirely sure why she feels the need to club him, it does occur to me that he could be a member of the Klan. Maybe she didn’t know he was tied to them before she developed feelings.
Tansy pulls back our arm to clock him upside the head. Dwayne ducks, but we do succeed in smacking him on the shoulder. Not sure whether to be scared or electrified.
A million daggers shine in Dwayne’s eyes. “Three days. You need
to stop playin’ your games and come to me in the next three days.” When Tansy doesn’t retort, he adds, “I don’t know exactly what it is, but I reckon Calhoun and Beauchamp are plannin’ something. Pretty sure Calhoun’s about to go back on the deal he made.”
The deal? To not lock me up? Why might that have changed?
No doubt sensing the fear coming off Tansy and me, Dwayne’s tone softens. “Despite everything goin’ on, despite everything with WT ... you n’ me both know what we have is real.”
He waits for a hint of validation, but Tansy doesn’t so much as quirk our lips in response. He presses his lips together in frustration, turns to the French doors, and leaves.
35
I watch Dwayne go, spurs jangling the entire way. To think that he really expects her—me—to join him. And Calhoun and Beauchamp changed their plans? What does that mean?
“How did he even get in? We chained the house from the inside!”
Tansy shrugs, causing her dozen or so necklaces to clang against our clavicle. “He’s keeper of the grounds. Master of gettin’ in wherever he tries.”
I fight back a shudder. “We should go find the door or window he crawled through and secure it with double the chains.”
Limp as a ragdoll, Tansy perches on the arm of the reading chair. “Soon enough, my sweet.”
She’s tired. So worn out, she’s relinquishing control to me. Feeling the buzz of wanting to repair the lock—I content myself with padding to another room. Maybe Tansy will let me fix the door or window in a little bit. Besides, it’s been eons since we left the library.
There’s not a lot of firewood left, but I suppose the broken chair in the den will do nicely.
Sure enough, in the back corner of the house is the old dining room chair with only three legs. I break it apart and steeple three pieces of wood in the fireplace. Of course, I would offer to go chop wood, but I’m not going to jinx the fact that Tansy actually let me leave the library.
When she still hasn’t said a word for another full hour, I settle down for a heart-to-heart on the stone hearth.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I gently nudge her where she sits beneath her bed’s canopy.
Last thing I want is to come across as pushy. Strange as it is, I can’t help feeling bad for Tansy. I got to be married to a man I loved—even if he likely deserves to be locked away for the rest of his life—while Tansy was alone. I had no idea she had such strong feelings for Dwayne.
“He is pretty cute ..." I nudge her again, marveling at how he could ever think that Tansy and I are one and the same. If he knew about our condition, he’d probably run for the hills. Poor Tansy.
Pulling on another tufted quilt, I try to keep us warm. The temperature outside must be dropping. The fire’s already starting to die down, and I guess we forgot to pay the gas bill. For all I know, it’s March by now. I suppose I could feed the fire with more chairs ... or a grandfather clock. . . if I wanted to feel even more terrible about my life’s choices.
“How long ago did it start?” I nudge Tansy for the third time.
Grabbing the fire poker, I tuck a loose chair leg between the flames. Of course, we could talk about the fact that we live in the worst town in the history of forever—but I’d rather settle on something light.
Tansy groans. “Won’t you please let me be?”
“Hey, you’re the one who’s chosen not to banish me. You could make me go any second you like. Though, if you don’t want this fire going out, I should probably stay.”
“It was all a big, fat, stupid mistake.” Tansy curls our fingers in our lap, the knots in our stomach twisting. “I knew WT only had feelings for you, so I watched and waited and took somethin’ that could be mine.”
A fresh wave of sympathy tolls through me. “Maybe we could find a way to include Dwayne in our life ..."
This bitter, high-pitched laugh tears from Tansy. “Says the girl who was oblivious to him in the first place.”
I set the fire poker on the hearth. “Hey, I’m trying to be nice. You obviously have feelings for him, and I know how difficult love can be. Plus, it’s not my fault that you’ve always been in the driver’s seat.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Actually?” I grab the iron poker again. “All I ever know is what you tell me, Tansy.”
She’s silent for a long time, so silent that the only noise between us is the crackle and hiss of the fire. Listless, our eyes trace a makeshift outline of a mockingbird in the venetian flames. In some ways, I wish this was the only thing we had to worry about in life. Find warmth. Roast hot dogs and s’mores. Listen to Ludovico Einaudi.
Tansy’s knees pop as she heaves us up, blankets and all, from the fireplace. Moving like an ages-old ogre, she has us settle into a wing-back chair pointed toward a boarded-up window. Surprisingly, this rectangular window’s not broken at all, though it’s smaller and less decorative than the stained-glass ones in the library.
Sinking into the velvet tufts puckering from the frame, Tansy holds our blankets close. She puffs a perfect, cloudy circle of white.
“I’ll tell you some things you’d like to know,” she says, teeth chattering.
“Well, now, I’m on the edge of my seat. What do you want in return?”
“Ab-so-lutely nothin’.”
My breath hitches. I can’t help wondering if she’s being honest with me. Could it be possible that Tansy’s really going to be truthful about our past?
I nod, not wanting to break the spell.
“Before I tell you, I need you to tell me the truth.” Steepling our fingers, she says, “I need you ... to explain why you want to leave.”
This isn’t a topic I was expecting. “It’s ... who I am.”
She shakes our head, bobby-pins loosening. “While I understand that, I, as a person, took on your artistic qualities—your flair for drama n’ history—I need to know exactly what you are hopin’ for, adventure-wise.”
My throat goes Gobi desert dry. Why in the world is this important to her? “I suppose it’s just like you said. I want to see the world. Staying in here all day makes my skin crawl. I wasn’t built to be locked up in such a tiny space.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s all I get? Hmm?”
“Hmm.”
“Okay ..." I wish I knew why she wanted to discuss that, but we’re not getting any younger or warmer, so I knock the arm of the chair to get her to start talking. “I think it’s only fair now that you explain why you never want to leave.”
Tansy smooths the lace bodice of her yellow dress. Which now has a bit of soot on it, thanks to me. “I suppose, it has somethin’ to do with when we were younger—a little girl, to be precise. But I need you to brace yourself for this one. Are you ready, G?”
I nod, simultaneously wondering why she thinks I need to be ready.
She rearranges her bracelets, obviously stalling for time. “We accidentally happened upon somethin’ we shouldn’t have seen.”
Well now, that’s not vague. But her warning tone just about hits me like a whack-a-mole, and I’m reeling. “Are you about to tell me the reason why I created you in the first place?”
Tansy stares unblinking into the fire. “I suppose I am, G.”
I can barely form words. I know I’ve said I want answers, but I really don’t know if I’m ready. I mean, why is she willing to tell me now, after all this time? What if we accidentally bring on the avalanche, because, even if she’s ready, I’m not?
Bringing a shaky hand to our forehead, Tansy says, “I’m tired of keepin’ all this to myself. It’s a monumental task, dearest. It’s why I have to paint. But I’m tired of harborin’ all the secrets, and I am tired of you not trustin’ me. I think it will be easier if you understand why I am who I am. You need to truly know exactly why leaving our home isn’t safe.”
“Okay.”
Shifting in the chair, Tansy asks, “Are you ready?”
I give a half-nod. “Ready.”
Sucking in a shaky breath, she clasps her necklace with her hand, fist tight. “We saw a man. In the cellar. We must have just turned five. We weren’t supposed to see what happened to him, but Edgar—he killed him. He was the man who was responsible for our parents dying.”
Parents. What kind of a person am I? I haven’t even thought about their existence since my discussion earlier with Natalie.
“The man was a drunk driver. Felt terrible about the accident. He even sent money. But since Edgar’s a devil of the tallest order, he kidnapped him. Murdered him. And we stumbled upon the body.”
A flash of the image I saw as a little girl suddenly hits me square in the eyes. A corpse. In a dank cellar. Throat slit; severed arms and legs.
Automatically, I close my eyes. My stomach churns. Any second, I’ll be dry heaving.
“It’s why I paint.” Tansy’s voice becomes bleak. “It’s how I deal with it. G, I ... no matter what I do, I cannot get that image outta my mind. Thankfully, Grammy never saw the body. But she suspected Edgar had somethin’ to do with the guy’s disappearance. It was in the papers and everythin’.”
“Tansy ..." I think back to my recently discovered memory. The cellar was dark, so it was hard to make out the details. “What was the man’s race?”
She closes her eyes. Barely breathes. “He was from Israel.”
I about rip off our necklace.
“He was Jewish, G.”
Bile and sickness roll through my stomach in caustic waves. “Edgar killed him like that because ... he ..."
“Edgar was a White Supremacist, yes. As unconscionable as one can be. But as you know, the devil wears many faces in Deep Creek.”
I tense to rip off the arm of the chair—feed it to the fire. Anything to get these callous, disgusting, demonic people to stop hurting people. To think I’m related to him. That I have his DNA.
“The world is evil,” Tansy whispers as the fire goes out. “It is why I can never leave.”