by Mary Gray
Heart flopped over, I stagger over to the screen door while WT says something. I should have grabbed the gun, but I can’t even bring myself to touch it now. Not that it matters. Not after all the death I’ve seen.
He shouts something else—something about them framing it as an accident—but I can’t do this again. I’m about to lose my mind. Right as I hit the exit, I stumble straight into Natalie’s petite frame. She’s clutching a basket of poppy seed muffins and has the most clueless grin on her face.
Why is she here? I elbow past her, Tansy’s ridiculous skirts whooshing.
Shocked, Natalie drops her muffins. I should apologize, but all I can do is run.
Grind the breading of the muffins into the porch with my bare feet.
43
Deep Creek’s population is exactly 439. Or, that’s what it was. Now we’re down to 437. Guess I shouldn’t have ever thought I could beat the Klan. Grammy stood up to Jesse Beauchamp, and he had her killed last night. What did she say to him? If she lived here for years, why did it take her until now to stand up to the local police?
Once again, my status quo is to walk around town blind. There’s no way I’m ready to head home and face Tansy—especially with that bog body. I wonder who it is. Wonder why she insisted it was WT. To convince me to never leave the house? I don’t even care at this point. Of course, if the person was from this town, we’re down to 436. Population’s dropping like flies.
Regardless, I keep walking. Even if I’m in Tansy’s stupid dress, blood smeared on the bodice’s lace. I couldn’t stand out more if I wore blinking Christmas tree lights.
I’ll walk to the next town. Rent an apartment with the whole thirty dollars I stashed away. I knew I should’ve kept that jewelry. Though the last time I wandered off, I had a seizure. I’m really good at being an independent lady.
I don’t know how many hours pass before I find my way back to the bridge. My bridge that I thought was magical when I first met WT. Not that the history behind the tour was magical. That made me sick, even back then. But at the time, that’s all it was. History. Where else is the Klan running around and terrorizing anyone different from them? They can get me any minute. Kill me for the same reason they killed Grammy. Makes me wonder if they even know WT’s still alive.
As I sit on the edge of the bridge while the sun goes down, I come up with a solution for what to do next with my life. I’ll tell Tansy I’ll go away for a couple of years. Let her live it up in the house, making any random statements of art she likes. Then, after her time is up, we’ll see how the town’s shaped up. By then, maybe somebody else will have stepped in and found justice for all those who’ve been wronged by this filthy place.
The worst sound ever comes in the form of WT’s boots scuffing along the wooden planks. I don’t even bother to look up as he settles his barrel-chested body next to me. Why did he even bother to come back? Does he want me to string him up, this time above the creek?
Part of me still argues that maybe he’s guilty of killing Grammy. But no matter how good an actor he is, there’s no faking that reaction.
I’m so confused.
I’m about ready to break.
In the distance, a train blares its brassy horn at the exact time WT murmurs, “She was a good woman.” What makes him think he deserves to talk about her? He looks at his hands. “Anne was unfailingly patient with me.”
Anne. I knew it, but I’d forgotten that was her name. I curl my fingers into my palms. He isn’t worthy of using her name. I’m not sure I can trust myself not to push him off the bridge—in a fateful twist of the Goatman reenactment, naturally.
“I’m going to help you bury her.” WT stares at the newly leafed black willows with their scraggly bark and thin leaves.
He’s waiting for me to speak up. Say something, but all I can think about is how both Francesca and Grammy had head wounds on the sides of their temples, almost like someone took a hammer to their skulls just above the eyes.
I can’t get it out of my head.
Wait ... WT just said that he would help me bury Grammy? “No.” I slice my hand through the air. “No way. Grammy gets a proper funeral at the church—” I was going to say where she and Edgar were married, but I’m sure he knows as well as I do that Grammy wouldn’t want to be laid to rest anywhere near Edgar’s grave.
“I already have her in the back of my truck.” WT stands and strides toward his vehicle like he’s been chosen by God’s good prophet to handle her body.
“You’re not touching her.” My skirt rustles as I jump to my feet. Slivers embed in my heels, along with the glass. Feels great.
WT ducks his head as he peels open the driver’s door to his truck, his plaid shirt unusually crinkled with rolled sleeves. “Gemma, either I can take her alone, or you can come with me.”
That’s it. I’m literally ducking my head and tearing across the bridge, feet pounding wood. Time to take him down. It’s all I can think.
All at once, my palms collide with his chest—fifteen-pound anvils hit a turbine. My arm swipes the broad side of his beard, and I’m shoving him so hard, my wrist pops back painfully. Ooh, it’s a reminder of when Edgar hurt my wrist all those years ago. Some injuries never go away.
I should have grabbed the gun when I was at Grammy’s. Why was I so stupid in leaving it behind? He probably has it in the back waistband of his pants like before. I plow my head into WT’s stomach. Reach for the gun, but it isn’t there, so I push him like I’ll bury him beneath concrete.
Wrapping two impossibly strong arms around me, WT grunts while I launch a fist into his meaty side. I don’t care that he groans while I pound my fists into his stomach. Or that my knuckles go sore. This will teach him what pain truly feels like.
He’s still standing. Part of me wants him to fight back, so I raise my hand, and pop him straight in the eye.
He staggers. I think he’s finally going to beat me to a pulp or pull his revolver from its secret location on me, but, instead, he gently says, “They get their hands on her, and they will desecrate her body.”
I flinch. Is that what they did to Francesca’s body?
“Calhoun and Beauchamp—they control what happens in the funeral home. They’ve always controlled the Joliffes.”
Joliffes. Olly. Grady Dean’s.
I curl my arm to take another swing—WT’s eye is already looking deliciously red and puffy—but he catches my hand and firmly yet gently lowers it. “Gemma. Let me help you bury her with whatever dignity we can. Please.”
But I can’t handle this. Tears are threatening to blaze a trail from my eyes. “How dare you act like you get to handle her body?”
Holding out his hands, he says, “You’re right. Tansy did have a good reason for wanting me to die, but”—his beard ripples in a shivery gust of wind—“we need to talk about this later. If they find your grandmother, you will never forgive me.”
I don’t know whether to gut-punch him or wrestle him to the ground for the gun and actually pull the trigger this time. How does he feel like he can still be involved in my life? How does he think he deserves that?
But Grammy ... Grammy’s body has to take precedence over any of my needs.
Wrenching open the shotgun side of the truck, I growl, “Take me to the cemetery.”
WT pauses at the hood of his truck. “We can’t take her there. I’m sorry.” Visions of burying Grammy next to the squirrel and the magpie plague my mind while WT hurdles inside the truck. “I have a place.”
44
“You don’t have to help me dig.” WT grabs a shovel from the truck bed, then another. “But it’ll be faster that way.”
I try not to stare at the red, white, and blue Texas quilt he’s lain over Grammy. She used to pull that over her legs when she came over to watch a movie. Casablanca. She cried every single time. I still can’t believe she stayed married to Edgar after he made her limp for the rest of her life.
She stayed to protect me.
Lea
ding me to a meadow of bluebonnets and a pair of twisted mesquite trees, WT pauses before a cluster of Indian paintbrush. The orange pop of color reminds me of when he gave the same flowers to me. When a bumblebee buzzes past my ear, I shake away the memory.
After picking what looks to be a random spot and digging for about five minutes, WT says, “My mother is buried here.”
I glance around to find a simple, wooden cross near an oil rig with its metal head in the ground—a giant, metallic woodpecker gone to sleep.
“I was five,” he says. “She wasn’t caught up in the politics of this place, but she did have an affinity for liquor and marriages. My pa was her last of five.”
I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but I stare at the rig, absorbing every single detail he says.
“Cirrhosis of the liver.” He leans on his shovel. “That’s how she died. From there on out, Pa was in charge of raising me.” He returns to his digging, heaving the clay-like soil as if that little introduction is all one needs to understand his family.
But he can’t stop at that. I draw closer while still giving him a wide berth of space. Dig like this is a normal way to spend our time. I don’t know if I believe everything he says, but ... hearing about his past somehow dulls the pain.
“Calhoun and Beauchamp don’t know about this place.” He bats away the bee. “Years ago, when Pa struck oil here, he moved my mother’s body to the cemetery. Didn’t want to knock into her, so to speak. But the oil soon dried up.” He digs again, disrupting the brown-red clay. “We thought, for years, that was the last of it. Turns out, we had more oil closer to home.” He nods to the rig across the field. “That rig should’ve gotten moved, but I kept it here. Ma always said oil rigs made her feel safe. So, I eventually brought her back to her final resting place.”
I’m not sure why he’s telling me about how he keeps moving his mother’s body, but, if he’s telling the truth, I suppose he did it out of love. Duty. Besides, I’m not entirely sure how an oil rig could make anyone feel safe—except for the dividends one would see ...
Ah. Smart lady.
“So if we bury Grammy here”—I nod to the hole we’ve been digging—“they won’t touch her?”
WT gives me a hard nod, and I’m not entirely sure why I feel like he’s being honest with me. Maybe it’s because he’s not pulling a “snake oil salesman,” as Grammy used to call Edgar anytime he upsold a customer at his auto shop.
He was a mechanic. Oh, I remember. Yay.
Without another word, WT and I slip our shovels into the ground and dig until our arms are sore and the grave’s a good four or five feet deep. The clouds are welling up and drizzle on us like syrup on pancakes. Blisters coat my hands. I’m a little glad that Grammy can lie next to someone else who didn’t fit in at Deep Creek.
Truthfully, I wish I could talk to WT about the pies Grammy taught me how to bake. The Encyclopedia of Italian History she gifts me.
Taking me round back, she shows me how to hold a shotgun—just in case. We use pumpkins and empty coffee cans as targets, but Edgar is always near, watching. She scraps the guns and ships me off for my very first internship in Washington, D.C.
I write her letters, and she responds—always slipping in a few extra dollar bills when Edgar isn’t looking.
Oh, why did I leave her? I could have—should have—protected her. Beat Edgar somehow. Beat all the Klan in Deep Creek.
Before I know we’re doing it, WT and I are already lowering Grammy into the humble grave. I hate that this is what’s come of our lives. The Texas quilt is far too thin. She should be protected in a coffin. Guards should be stationed about to scare off coyotes.
Fighting back the tears, I grab my shovel to get back to work—can’t think about any of this—when WT’s thick fingers block my hand.
“I can do the rest,” he says.
I laugh, because if he thinks I’m not going to do my part, he’s crazier than Tansy.
Unloading the loose soil onto Grammy’s slight frame becomes therapy. She always loved gardening. She grows gladiolas, daffodils. Her smile is enormous when they burst through the soil for the first time in spring.
Ah, but Grammy was supposed to tell me what to do next. She was supposed to help me know how to deal with the corruption of this place.
Suddenly dropping his shovel to the ground, WT barks, “Get in the truck.”
I glare back, not in the mood for his barking.
He clutches my arm. “Gemma, get in the truck now. Someone’s driving up. It could be Calhoun or one of his cronies.”
I shake him off. Sure, I’ll listen, but in my own time.
WT throws me on the ground, my skirts whooshing. Without any shape or form of propriety, he slams his body on top of mine. His thick torso becomes a blanket of armor I didn’t expect. He smells like the clay of the soil, and, no, his body does not feel good as the vehicle rumbles by.
By the time we look up, a Tesla, of all things, is cruising around a bend in the road, ’70s disco music blaring. WT continues lying there, though, and I try not to notice the safety I feel with his warm chest heaving against my neckline. Or the heat now pouring from my chest and face.
When the Tesla’s well and good out of sight, WT rolls off, and I hate how I’m immediately left feeling ridiculous and empty. Knowing what I know, I don’t understand how he can affect me this way. But I will kick this weakness. Once I see the complete picture of what’s happened, it will be easy.
When WT holds out a hand to help me stand, I push off from the ground. Shake the dust from my skirts, ignoring him the exact same way Tansy ignored Dwayne.
Taking the hint, he stoops to pick up the first of the two shovels and stands it against the weathered trunk of a mesquite tree. Scooping up the second, he seems to mull over a thought before finally saying, “I’m not great at eulogies, but we could say some words. If you want. About your Grammy.”
I straighten my dress. Pretend he’s nowhere nearby before stuffing my hands into my skirts and quietly recalling the day she taught me how to make cornbread muffins—and how to shoot a bullseye.
45
It’s nothing fancy, but WT finds us a motel, keeping the curtains closed and door dead-bolted, I suppose to keep us safe. Luckily, he’s also gotten us sandwiches, and I’m thinking he would have finished me off before he bought them if he truly wanted to kill me. Though he does deposit his revolver on the end table as if inviting me to grab it any time I like.
My fingers itch to grab it. Anything to fill the void. It’s almost pretty, with its engraved brass scrollwork. Surely an antique.
The turkey club’s delicious. I do my best to pace myself between bites. When WT hands me a cream soda and salt and vinegar potato chips, I get déjà vu, because we ate the same snacks while watching Casablanca with Grammy. While he sits next to me on the bed, I do my best not to make any sudden movements. I don’t even open my chips. That would be too noisy.
Stomach growls.
He doesn’t say a word when I give up my vow of silence and open the chips. They look too good not to eat.
Rubbing his thumb on his ring finger, WT hunches his shoulders, obviously thinking deeply about something. Makes me wonder what he could be thinking about—if there’s really a good and evil side of him like Tansy said on the roof. I suppose that makes sense—why, regarding him, she and I feel so differently.
I’ve just downed the last of the cream soda—fizz sizzles on my tongue like a dream—when WT takes the bottle and sets it on the bedside table next to the revolver with somber grace.
I don’t mean for it to happen, but my eyes slide to every movement he makes. How relaxed and confident he looks in that plaid shirt with his rolled sleeves. He’s rarely dressed so casual. Really, he seems almost too likable, with his unassuming presence. What I want to know is, how he was involved in Francesca’s murder. Grammy’s.
“How is she treating you?” WT asks, staring at his clasped hands before raising his hazel eye to look at me.
I try not to notice the answers that seem to be lurking there, the sheer intensity. Lowering my gaze, I stare at his finger where his ring used to be. Maybe Tansy stole it before she hung him from the roof? Also, he must have a killer metabolism if he was able to survive the foxglove poisoning. “Tansy doesn’t get out much nowadays.”
WT’s gaze drifts to my lap—no, my hands. Seems I’ve been picking at a hangnail. It’s bleeding.
“Did she ever tell you how we met?” His voice is so soft, it’s hard to imagine him threatening to hurt anybody.
“On the bridge?”
“No.” He fixes his gaze on my chin. “Tansy and me.”
I never considered the fact that WT and Tansy would need to meet. But, I suppose, even Kay had to learn who the real Michael Corleone was eventually.
While he gestures to a pillow to my left, laughter, of all things shines in his eyes. “Why don’t you rest for a while and let me tell you about it.”
I don’t think his intention is to take advantage of me. What’s crazy is, it’s the first time he’s suggested that I do something without flat-out ordering me. My turkey coma is starting to settle in, and since he’s finally popping open his own cream soda, I take that as a sign that he’s not going to do anything sketchy. A bit of rest might do me some good. I’m sure I could sleep for weeks.
As I lay down, not exactly comfortable with the corset’s stiff boning, I do find a way to settle in on my side.
WT shifts to face me. “I had just gotten home from a fourteen-hour workday. Headed straight to the library. I must have been in there for hours before I heard something in the parlor, so I went out to check on the cause of the noise.”
He takes a swig of his cream soda, arm muscles beneath his shirt bulging. “It was funny, see, because you and I”—he gestures between us—“had only been on one date. I’d brought you to the house after we saw Cirque Du Soleil and Tansy ... well, she was on her hands and knees, days later, hiding the fact that she’d collected all my late great-grandmother’s jewelry. She claimed that she’d been there for hours. Wanted to see Hardin Mansion with her own eyes. I thought it was bold—cute, even—in an unnerving way. Still, having her in the picture was more than I bargained for, so I tried to break things off with you.” His chest heaves. “But you were impossible to get out of my mind.”