The Girl at the Hanging Tree

by Mary Gray

  As more cars rumble past, I very nearly run into a ground pyramid corn dog sign. But I square my shoulders and right my footing.

  Maybe I can ask to borrow the store attendant’s phone—if I knew how to get ahold of Grammy. I’ll just wait a few minutes in here while the mob passes.

  Hopefully they won’t break into the mansion and find the bog body.

  I still can’t believe Tansy was able to mimic the conditions of a real Mesolithic period bog body. How in the world did she do it? In the summer, it never would have worked. But it’s been unusually cold this winter and now, early spring, so, if she had the right ingredients, I see how it could work ... for a time.

  I’m just standing in front of the candy display, running over every scenario of how she must have created the bog body, when a firm hand grasps my bicep.

  I turn to find a stoic face—covered in scruff, and massive shoulders, about twice my width, the perfect height.

  My breath hitches.

  It’s him.

  Him.

  WT.

  41

  But I saw his body. In one of Tansy’s memories, I watched him die.

  It takes everything I have not to let out a rip-roar of a scream. He’s here. Not dead. How could he be alive?

  On autopilot, I wrench my arm out of the Klan leader’s grasp. “You’re part of them.” What I want to know is, how did Tansy lie to me?

  The shop owner—a bald, portly man with a fist-sized birthmark on his face—eyes us from behind a rack of cell phone chargers. I still think I might be seeing ghosts when WT, with his calm and confident demeanor, gently murmurs, “Come with me.”

  Part of me wants to summon Tansy. Either she’s mistaken when she thought she finished him off, or she outright lied to me. I’m thinking the latter. That doesn’t help in any way.

  Still, Francesca and who knows how many other people are dead. Because of him. Their precious King of Deep Creek. Oh, how the people mourned his loss. They were practically foaming at the mouth to kill me.

  Still unable to fully grasp the moment, I let my husband lead me to a row of tables on the far-right side of the store while a tired-looking couple wanders in to pay for gas. The woman’s gaze lingers on my yellow dress, but, luckily, the shop owner says something, pulling her attention away from me.

  “Sit.” WT stands there in his stupid green plaid shirt like he has the right to bark orders all day.

  I lift my chin, daring him to try.

  He hands me a bottled water, and I don’t remember the last time I drank, so I rip it out of his hands and guzzle it. I’m exhausted, so I crash into his offered seat.

  The truth is—and I try to keep myself from noticing—he’s as rugged and handsome as that rosebush pruning memory.

  No, I’ll choose to remember how he looked when Tansy’s rope zipped him off the roof. How’s that for fantasizing?

  I still can’t believe he’s here.

  He’s supposed to be a pile of sludge, silty goo, and sphagnum—Tansy’s scientific experiment of a bog body. But here he is, in the flesh. Tansy has some serious explaining to do. What other lies has she told me?

  Baseball cap pulled low, WT sinks into his folding chair across from me. While he impassively studies my face, I can’t help staring back at his longer-than-usual scruff and oval-shaped face. He looks tired. Thinner than usual. He probably hasn’t been sleeping well or eaten a decent meal in weeks.

  “I assume you have a million questions,” he says in his subdued, baritone voice. Who in the world was that bog body? “It’s been torture not being with you.”

  He tries to take my hand, but in a knee-jerk reaction, I pull away. I want to trust him—my stupid, romantic instincts say I can trust him—but, obviously, my instincts are fried.

  With the customers gone, the store owner eyes us while restocking the gum and candy. Either he doesn’t know who WT is, or he wants to see how things play out before he does anything.

  Absorbing WT’s longer-than-usual beard and auburn, medium-length hair, I don’t know whether to laugh or punch him in the face. Did he hurt Francesca or Tim or Delilah? I hold onto the brittle ledge of the table to stop myself from doing anything too hasty.

  “Why are you here?”

  WT’s pupils enlarge as he stares at me for a full five seconds. “Gem—” He extends his hand again, and I flinch back so hard my chair rocks back.

  Blanching, WT rubs his bloodshot eyes. He casts a militaristic glance over his shoulder. “I need you to trust me.”

  What I want to know is, how does one prepare for this? For their hate group leader husband to rise from the dead? I’d give anything for Grammy to be in this room, coaching me.

  “I—” somehow I have the wherewithal to weigh my words very carefully—“didn’t even know you were alive.”

  The sound of several heavy boxes crashing to the floor tells us the store owner misplaced something. Bending over in the aisle, he grumbles about not being able to find any good help nowadays.

  Not wanting to get off track, I adjust the lace on Tansy’s frilly sleeves. Not what I would have wanted to wear when facing him, but there’s nothing to do but make the most of it at this point. “Tansy showed me your body.”

  WT’s eyes widen in surprise. Groaning, he scrubs his face with his left hand, which, of course, is missing his wedding ring. I suppose Tansy took it. But when? Why?

  “I’m not sure whose body you saw,” he says, “but as you can see, that wasn’t me.”

  Catching my eye, he tilts his head to the side to show a horizontal scar on his neck that looks like Edgar slit his throat with a knife. But that wasn’t Edgar. Tansy. No, she hung him with a rope ... so maybe WT cut himself while trying to break free?

  The upper skin on his neck is layered; puckered pink. I doubt it will ever fully heal. I don’t know whether to be glad or terrified.

  “I understand why you did what you did,” WT says. “You asked Tansy to take control. Take care of me. But a long time has passed since then. There are things I need to explain.”

  But I can’t trust anything he says. All I can do is regard him like an infected animal. A coyote with rabies. I won’t be so dumb as to be lured by his charm. I peel out of my chair and back up until the small of my back presses into the fountain drink machine.

  “Stay. Away. From me.”

  A fresh wave of pain flashes over WT’s eyes. “Gemma, I’ve come to set things right.”

  “What, the way you ‘helped’ Francesca? Who else have you ‘helped,’ WT?”

  His jaw slackens as his brow furrows. “Who’s Francesca?”

  “You killed her! You and your friends ..."

  Maintaining eye contact, WT sets his jaw but still says nothing.

  Taking a step toward him, I smooth the front of my skirt. “You or your friends smashed her head into a sink. Though now I suppose you’re going to tell me how that robe isn’t even yours.”

  I hadn’t meant to raise my voice, but it’s grown loud enough that the store owner is muttering something. I’m just about done with people lying to me.

  Leaning in, WT plants one hand on a knee. “We need to get out of here.”

  But there’s no way I’m going anywhere with him. He’s been lying low until he can, I don’t know, kill me off or something.

  Thankfully, Tansy’s taught me how to be resourceful, how to defend oneself if need be. The toaster oven on the counter could be a charming weapon, but it’s attached to a cord, and the cord’s plugged in, out of sight.

  I need something that can truly make a mess of things ...

  Thinking fast, I slump my shoulders and let my skirts drag on the floor as I inch toward the fridge full of drinks. Lacing my voice with this false sense of helplessness, I say, “All right.” I choke up—actual tears and everything. “But first, I need you to hold me.”

  I’ll let him think I’ve given up. That he’s far too much of a temptation. I’m still madly in love with him and willing to do whatever he likes.r />
  Avoiding any and all eye contact, I try not to sound too pathetic as Tansy’s corset constricts my airway. “Please?”

  Gradually—clearly not trusting me—WT rises from the table. Shifts his feet. I can tell that he wants to help but he’s being cautious. Smart boy.

  “I’m ... sorr—” My voice breaks off, and I successfully don’t finish whatever it is I’m sure he wants me to say.

  I wait for him to draw nearer. And he does—oh, he does—one fatty bootstep after the other.

  He’s fully within reach, but I need him to think that I’m ready to collapse in his arms. Be the Damsel in Distress I’m sure he’s always wanted me to be.

  He’s only half an arm’s-length away. I could reach out and kiss him if I wanted to, but Gemma Louise Coldiron wasn’t born with a last name like that to be weak.

  Seizing the door of the beer fridge, I slam it straight into his right shoulder, catching him so off-guard he doesn’t make a noise.

  I’ve only hit him once, so I swing the door closed before whacking him again.

  The thrill of getting the upper hand rushes down my shoulders. WT staggers, but he still hasn’t fallen, so I reach into the freezer and grab a beer bottle. Heaving it, I smash it straight into his face.

  He staggers again, but, unfortunately, he’s still awake.

  So I grab the fridge door and smash it into him so hard that the glass shatters on impact, bursting into a million diamonds around his scalp and knees.

  Fully covered in glass, WT twists and falls into the cotton candy. I think he’s finally going to come after me, when he steps forward, and his boot lands on the fallen beer bottle. He flips onto his back, smacking his head on the cold concrete.

  He’s out.

  By sheer, dumb luck, he’s out. And I’m off, scot-free!

  Grabbing the revolver in his belt—figured he’d be carrying—I gather my skirts and tear after the store owner before he tries calling the police. Feeling very “Annie Oakley,” I level the revolver straight at the guy’s face. Pumpkins, shot gun shells with nothing but white-tufted buffalo grass for company. Ah, looks like I’m recalling shooting lessons with Grammy.

  “Car!” I bellow, re-grounding myself next to the gum display. “Where’s your car?” I spy the owner’s nametag. “Marty.”

  Marty shakes his head, a generous amount of neck skin flapping.

  I cock the revolver, proving this isn’t your ordinary day when Marty holds up his hands.

  “All right, all right!” He clutches the counter like a scared weasel. “In the back. P-please! Just don’t kill me.”

  I tower over him, partially wanting to freeze-frame the moment. Scrapbook a black and white Wanted poster where I’m holding a rifle with a swath of tassels and a cigar between my teeth.

  “Gemma Louise Coldy,” the Wanted poster says.

  Well. It’s the best I can do at this time.

  Looping my pointer finger through the trigger guard, I give the revolver a little whirl. And it spins too fast, bringing me to the end of my outlaw days.

  Smoothing out the front of my puckered bodice, I find my cool. I find my grit. “Now, Marty. Give me your keys.”

  42

  Grammy’s house is exactly as I remember it, except the icicles are gone on the windmill, and it’s missing a few blades. New potted petunias have been upended on her porch, and mud coats the stairs in heavy streaks.

  Discretely, I shut the driver’s side door of Marty’s banged-up Dodge Dynasty. Picking my way across the rocks, I wish I had my sneakers since bits of glass from the gas station have embedded in my feet.

  The porch steps groan in protest as I tiptoe my way toward the front door, trying to avoid the mud but not entirely succeeding. A shotput-sized ball descends on my throat. Did those people I saw earlier come here? I hope I’m being paranoid.

  Peeling open the screen door, I half-expect Grammy to come out with a plateful of peanut butter cookies. But all I get in response is the lonely squeak of the floorboards as I step inside.

  Her knitting projects lie in mish-mashed piles on the wobbly table where all the TV remotes used to be. The smell of cinnamon hangs heavily in the air; she must have already eaten her oatmeal this morning.

  When I tread toward her knitting chair, I can’t help but notice something that looks a lot like oatmeal has been spilled on the recliner’s arm and side. On the hardwood, too—raisins and walnuts rest on bits of porcelain like Francesca’s sink.

  My heartrate thrums faster.

  If her oatmeal’s here, where’s Grammy?

  A rumpled form on the rug about Grammy’s size makes my knees give way.

  She must have taken a fall.

  A terrible fall.

  Paprika hair covers a lifeless face.

  I need to check her pulse. Check her pulse. She has to be okay.

  Blood pulsing in my ears, I take the three or so steps to reach her and kneel at her side. She lies so still, she could be a sleeping bag full of straw, but on her head, just like Francesca’s, is a crater where her perfectly round skull used to be.

  Blood drips from her ear to her nose in a straight line.

  Grammy.

  My heart seizes.

  No, no, no. Not Grammy.

  She can’t be dead. I take her freezing fingers in mine. “Gra—” I break off with a sob. The people on the road ... they were coming from here. I could have stopped them if I hadn’t been such a coward and decided to hide.

  I cradle Grammy’s head in the pleats of my lap, and it’s cold—too stiff and weak. Will my memories always be limited to the precious few we shared around the table and in the cemetery? I can’t accept that. We’ve been robbed of our time.

  How could the Klan do this? How could they be so callous and violent and so ugly?

  I try to keep it together, but another sob wracks my body. Air—it’s gone. I can’t believe they would attack a frail woman like Grammy.

  Almost like it’s coming from a source I don’t recognize, a crystal-clear image floats into my mind. Arms outstretched, and in a slim, stately dress, Grammy delivers a soliloquy from Rachel Lynde in Anne of Green Gables. She tells Marilla she’s doing a mighty foolish thing. The theater is packed. Everyone hangs on every gossipy word she says.

  Weeks later, Grammy takes me hiking around Possum Kingdom Lake. We pose before a sunset for a picture with the perfect lighting.

  She takes me down to Fort Worth with its welcoming skyline. We stroll amidst the crowds past a spice shop beneath a spray of icicle lights. She introduces me to a makeup artist. Tells me that he kept her the same age for nearly a decade. We stop to buy peanut butter. She insists there’s more flavor in the crunchy kind.

  Edgar accuses me of not sweeping the front porch fast enough. His gray hair flops up as he gets closer—closer—close enough to slap me. Grammy stands between us, receiving his punishment. Never complains.

  Limping across the porch, she wraps me in her arms and takes me out for a girls’ lunch at Sweetie Pie Ribeye’s. After the entrée, we finish with butter pecan ice cream. I ask her why she married Edgar. She says, after performing for so long, she just wanted her own love story. Unfortunately, she met the wrong man and jumped headfirst and blind into the wedding. Then she inherited a granddaughter she never knew could be more precious than life.

  One day, we take in a cat that shows up on our doorstep. We feed him until he gets plump, about six months. We call him Humphrey Bogart. Grammy tends the chickens. Feeds the birds, instilling an unnatural love for all winged creatures in a now dissociated part of me.

  Grammy.

  She was nurturing, loving, an unfortunate romantic; fierce, kind. From what I can tell, she never knew what Edgar did to the man who killed my parents, but she did everything she could to protect me.

  I don’t know how long I sit on the floor and hold her, but much later, heavy bootsteps ascend the porch steps. I’m too tired to see who it could be.

  The screen door pops open. Remotes on the near
by cabinet clatter as the person’s footsteps shake the floor as he tears after me. It could be WT. He’s finally putting on his Klan leader hat, come to finish me off, but I don’t care. Grammy’s dead. Just like Francesca.

  Against my better judgment, I look up to find a fresh cut now graces the side of WT’s face. He just got that from me. I suppose the revolver I stole from him is beside me on the floor—didn’t realize I brought it with me. I should pick it up, point it at him, but my arms are heavier than lead. He’s not looking at the gun anyway.

  Sinking to the ground, WT washes pale as a sheet. He swings his fist. Knocks over a lamp and Grammy’s beautiful pile of yarn.

  “NO!” he screams.

  He pounds the wall. Like that will make her come back to life.

  Before shoving over a few other lamps and the cabinet holding all of Edgar’s remotes—lovely—WT finally calms down enough to kneel next to me. After a few deep breaths, he reaches out for me, simultaneously pinning down my skirts with his knees.

  I slap him hard. Shove him off.

  He grabs me again, and I slap him even harder across the face.

  My hand burns, but, still, he doesn’t hit me back. Instead, his face sags, and somehow he’s secured me in his arms, his brutish hands cradling my back along with my dress’ silk tufts and lace.

  I don’t know how or why I do it, but for the tiniest of moments, I do let him hold me. After all, I could reach for the gun and shoot him before he even admits to killing Francesca or Grammy. My bones have turned to mush. I barely feel alive.

  I don’t know why I notice this, but my face fits perfectly in the nape of his neck, his skin several degrees warmer than mine. I try not to smell the cedar wafting off his skin, drawing my mind into a blank.

  Quick as a cat, I shove him off.

  It takes catching sight of Grammy’s smashed-in skull for reality to sink in for real this time. She’s dead. She’s not coming back. No more trips to Fort Worth, no more impromptu luncheons at Sweetie Pie Ribeye’s.