Ghost Wood Song

by Erica Waters

  “There’s nothing wrong with living in a trailer.”

  “I know that,” I say, even though I don’t. “But that trailer doesn’t mean anything to me. It could burn down tomorrow and I wouldn’t give a damn.” Sarah raises her eyebrows, but she doesn’t say anything. “This house is so much realer, so much more a part of me. It was my daddy’s house, and his parents’ before him. It’s old and it’s creepy and it’s—”

  “—haunted as hell?”

  I smile. “And it’s haunted as hell. But it’s the place I grew up, it’s the place where my daddy lived, where he taught me to love music . . .” I can feel the ghosts all around us, their murmurs almost too low for human ears. They seem to be crowding in, waiting.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Sarah says, leaning forward in the chair. Her face is open, interested, like she’s seeing me for the first time. Maybe I’ve been holding back even more of myself than she has.

  I brought her here not knowing if I’d have the courage to say what I want to, to confess what I want to confess. But right now, Sarah is leaning toward me like there isn’t anything I could say she wouldn’t accept as truth. And somehow getting her to understand what I feel for her is all tied up with getting her to understand about the music and the fiddle and—

  “What is it, Shady?” she whispers, and my eyes are drawn to her mouth, how her lips are slightly parted, the barest hint of the gap between her front teeth. And I want to tell her about the fiddle, but I want to kiss her, too. I want to run my fingers through her hair and press the truth into her mouth with my lips. Skin to skin, lay out everything I am, everything I feel. It’s all too much.

  “Sarah,” I say, my voice breaking on the second syllable. As if unaware of what she’s doing, Sarah leaves her chair and sits on the bed beside me.

  After last time, I’m afraid to make a move. I can’t stand for her to reject me again. But Sarah’s gazing at me and I don’t know what to do. I look down at my hands in my lap. Sarah shifts beside me on the bed, but I don’t look up until she puts her hand on my knee.

  “You’re amazing, you know that?” she whispers. “You’re beautiful and you’re smart. You’re talented and you’re kind. I didn’t need to see this house to know any of that.”

  “Then why don’t you want me?” I ask.

  Sarah’s eyes are uncertain, questioning. But she puts her hand on my cheek and then slides her fingers gently into the hair at the back of my neck, her thumb brushing my skin, sending a shiver through me. “Who wouldn’t want you?” she says.

  And then her mouth is on mine.

  The room drops away, and I am nothing but skin. Lips and tongue and fingertips. Pulse and breath. Sarah held back so long, but now she is kissing me like she’s never going to stop.

  I meant to tell her about Daddy’s fiddle, the songs in the woods, the shadow man in my dreams, the way I felt when Cedar and Rose played “Shady Grove.” I meant to tell her who I am. But instead I lean into her kiss, wrap my fingers in her hair, and forget that I’m anything except the girl kissing Sarah Woolf.

  “Shady,” Aunt Ena calls from downstairs, her voice high and urgent. “Shady Grove!”

  With a jolt of panic, I untangle myself from Sarah, whose face registers my own shock. I’m out of the room and down the stairs before I even have time to think. Aunt Ena’s standing with the landline phone in one shaking hand, her eyes enormous.

  “Shady, your mama just called. And, uh . . . darlin’, I don’t know how to say this. But . . . Jim is dead.”

  Seven

  My stomach drops into an icy ocean. “He’s . . . dead?”

  “He was found at the construction site. The one in that new suburb.” Aunt Ena’s face is so pale. “Shady, they think he was—they think someone killed him.”

  “Your stepdad?” Sarah asks, appearing beside me. I nod, but my mind is already throwing up walls on every side. Jim can’t be dead. Because if he’s dead . . .

  “Where’s Mama?” I ask.

  “She’s at the police station, answering questions. She wants you to come get Honey.”

  “What happened? Who did it? Who—”

  “She didn’t say. I don’t think they know yet, but she was too upset to talk long.”

  “And Jesse?” I ask. He was in his room when I left, so he couldn’t have anything to do with this, right?

  Aunt Ena pauses for a long moment. “I don’t know. Your mama said he went to work with Jim this morning, but she didn’t say where he is now. She didn’t tell me much, mostly that she’s going to be at the station awhile, and she needs you to get Honey.”

  I feel dizzy and sick, and it’s a struggle to keep my thoughts in one place. “I left her car at Sarah’s,” I say, staring at a place on the wall by the phone where the wallpaper is torn. Jesse used to pick at it during his fiddle lessons, back before he finally worked up the courage to tell Daddy he wasn’t going to play anymore.

  “That’s all right,” Sarah says. “I can drive you to the station, and then back to my place for the car.”

  Aunt Ena steps forward and pulls me into her arms. She rubs my back, squeezing me tight against her. “I’m so sorry, darlin’.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Ena,” I say, pulling away. “I’ll call you later.”

  “All right. Y’all drive safe. It’ll be okay, Shady.”

  That’s what they said when Daddy died. They said I would be okay, that everything would be all right. They were wrong. It wasn’t okay, I wasn’t all right. Before he died, I had a sun and a moon in my parents, a balanced world. When he died, he took the sun away with him, left me without anyone to sing the morning into being.

  But Jim’s not Daddy. He’s just Jim. My world doesn’t spin around him. He’s not even a star. So why do I feel like I’m suddenly drifting?

  I tug open the rusted passenger door of Sarah’s old green truck and climb in. We pull away from the house, tires crunching gravel. Her truck is so old it has manual window controllers. I don’t even know what they’re called. Rollers? I work the one on my side, and the window lowers, the breeze coming in, warm but alive. In Florida, hot air is better than nothing. But there’s something else drifting into the open window. From the woods comes a high, wild fiddle tune, so shrill it makes goose bumps erupt on my arms. I glance over at Sarah, but she doesn’t seem to hear it.

  We drive in silence for several miles, leaving the woods and the ghosts far behind. We turn off the main highway and are halfway to downtown Briar Springs before Sarah says anything. “We’ll pick up your sister, and then I can take you back to my house. You can stay with Dad and me if you want, until your mom’s done at the station . . .” She throws a worried glance at me but doesn’t say anything else. Her lips are still red from our kiss. Now her cheeks are red too.

  “Thanks,” I say, watching the tire stores and fast-food joints fly by. “I’ll see what Mama wants us to do.” I can’t think. Can’t form coherent ideas. Why does Jim’s death make me feel so lost?

  Maybe anyone’s death would.

  When we pull into a parking spot at the police station, Sarah turns off the engine and looks at me, biting her bottom lip. “Do you want me to come in, or should I wait out here?” She’s so nervous, and I feel bad she’s been dragged into this.

  “Can you wait out here? I’ll try not to take too long.” She nods, so I get out of the truck and head toward the door of the station alone, trying to push down my rising panic.

  The police station is small, and it only takes a moment before I find Mama in the waiting area. Her eyes are red, and every muscle in her body looks tensed, like she’s ready to snatch up my baby sister and make a run for it. Honey is in her lap, playing with the necklace that dangles down Mama’s chest, oblivious to everything that’s happening.

  Honey. My little sister’s daddy is dead now. I feel the ache of it, that loss. She’s too young to understand it, but she’s going to live all her life with that ache too—just like Sarah, just like me. Jim was no saint, but he was
better than nothing.

  I reach them in a few strides, and Mama leaps up to meet me, putting Honey down into the chair. I pull my mother into a loose hug. She’s not a woman anyone would call fragile, but she feels breakable right now, like if I squeeze her too hard she’ll crack like an old teacup. She lets me hold her a minute, but then pulls back. “I can’t start crying again, not right now,” she says, like having a foot of space around her is the only thing holding the tears back.

  I remember how that was. How I would stop crying over Daddy, but someone would touch my hand or speak gently, and the well of grief would brim over again. Human touch like a dowsing rod for tears.

  “Shady-Shade,” Honey says, kicking her legs against the edge of the chair. She looks so little, so vulnerable.

  Mama doesn’t need my touch right now, so I give it to my sister, who reaches both arms out, wanting to be picked up. I don’t tell her she’s getting too big for such babying. I hold her close and let her play with my hair, even though I know she’s going to make it frizzy.

  “Do you know what happened? Who—?” I ask, but Mama shakes her head.

  “We’ll talk later, when I get home.” She takes a deep breath, like she’s building a wall inside herself, a fortress made of space and oxygen.

  “Where’s Jesse? Was he there when it happened? Is he all right?”

  Mama shakes her head. “I don’t know. He hasn’t shown up yet, but I’m sure he’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  I’m hesitant to leave her alone here, but I can tell she wants me to go. “Will you be okay? You want me to call anybody?” I ask.

  “No, baby, just go home. Make Honey some dinner.” She looks so tired, and I remember she’s already done all this before. She knows the steps to this dance.

  “Give Mama a kiss,” I tell Honey, and my little sister reaches out and puts one hand on Mama’s face. A tear rolls down my mother’s cheek, and Honey wipes it away before pressing her lips to Mama’s eyelid.

  Then I carry Honey out to Sarah’s truck, my whole body suddenly an ache. I yank open the rusty door and plop Honey on the seat.

  Just then a huge, shiny blue truck pulls up next to us, its engine an ugly roar. A long, bulky body climbs out. It’s Frank. His eyes light on Honey and me and fill with tears. He breathes in so deep his nostrils flare, like he’s pushing down some emotion trying to dig its way out. He reaches into Sarah’s truck and touches a large, work-toughened hand to Honey’s face. I start to ask him if he knows what happened, but he clamps his mouth shut and continues into the station, his work boots smacking against the sidewalk.

  “Sarah, will you watch her for one second?” Sarah eyes Honey uncertainly, but she doesn’t complain, so I sprint into the station behind Frank. I don’t exactly know why, but some uneasy feeling in my gut draws me after him.

  He’s talking to the officer at the front desk, his voice already raised. “No, I won’t take a seat and wait. I want to know what the hell’s going on. I got a call from one of my workers saying he found my brother’s body in one of our houses. Said he was dead, blood all over. I want to know what’s going on here.” Frank’s voice breaks, a sob pushing against the underside of his words. “He’s my brother.” The grief in his voice is guttural, ancient-sounding.

  I stop by the water cooler and wait to see what will happen.

  “Frank,” Mama says, crossing the room to him. She eyes him warily.

  “Shirley,” Frank says, his voice ragged. “What the hell is going on?”

  “He’s gone,” Mama says. “He was hit with a hammer. Killed.”

  Frank’s eyes widen. “No. That’s not possible. He wasn’t even supposed to be at that site today. Only Jeremy and Brandon were supposed to be working. What was he doing there?”

  Mama crosses her arms over her chest. “He took Jesse over there to make up for yesterday, for . . . missing work.”

  “You mean for showing up high as a kite?” Frank booms, anger cutting through his grief.

  Before Mama can answer, a man who must be a detective steps out of a side office. He has dark-brown skin and close-cropped hair, and he’s wearing a nice suit. “Frank Cooper?” He reaches out for a handshake, which Frank returns automatically. “I’m Sergeant Martinez. We’re doing everything we can to find out what happened to your brother. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your employees, if you have time.” He motions toward the office he stepped out of. “If you’ll just follow me.”

  Frank doesn’t respond or move at all. The detective tries again. “I’d just like to know who all had access to the construction site, any contractors, vendors, anything you can think of.”

  Frank’s face looks wild now, like he’s barely holding himself together. “I don’t need to answer your questions. I know who did it.”

  Mama reaches toward him but stops as soon as she starts, like she meant to slap him or hush him but thought better of it.

  But Frank saw. He turns on her. “Apple don’t fall far from the tree, does it, Shirley? I told Jim not to get mixed up in your family.”

  Mama’s face twists into an awful, angry smile. “Never could let that go, could you? Never did learn to take your licks like a man.”

  The detective steps between them. “Sir, ma’am, if we could . . .”

  Frank’s face flushes a deep, murky red. “That sonofabitch coulda killed me. And now his boy killed Jim.”

  I’m trying to puzzle out who he means when Mama looks away from him, laughing bitterly, and catches sight of me. “Shady,” she says, stopping short. “What are you still doing here? I told you to take your sister home.”

  I walk the last few yards toward them. “What’s he talking about, Mama?” I glance between her and Frank’s hulking form. He’s sobbing now, his face buried in his hands and his big shoulders bobbing up and down.

  “Don’t you worry about it. Your daddy gave him an ass whipping he ain’t never got over, that’s all. Don’t you mind that bag of hot air.”

  “Mama,” I gasp. I can’t believe she’d talk that way about Frank—after all he did for Jim. While he’s standing there grieving. But if Frank was bad-mouthing my daddy and blaming Jesse for Jim’s murder . . . My hand goes to my mouth, and I feel dizzy, so dizzy. Fear settles in my stomach, hard as a peach pit.

  “My brother is dead,” Frank chokes out.

  Mama turns to the detective, who looks like he’s about ready to arrest someone, he’s just not sure who yet. “Sir, I apologize. Let me walk my daughter out, and I’ll come right back.”

  She grips me by the elbow and steers me to the doorway. “Go on, now.”

  I peer around her to study Frank. “What was he talking about? Did he mean Jesse?” The pit of fear in my stomach is putting out wicked tendrils, wrapping around my insides.

  “Don’t you mind it. Just go on home. I’ll come as soon as I can.” She pushes me out the door and walks quickly back inside, her shoulders squared against the coming storm.

  I stumble back outside into the ludicrous sunshine, feeling like the world’s crumbling beneath me. I hold Honey’s hand the whole way home, the warmth of her small fingers all that keeps me from falling into the chasm widening under my feet. I tell Sarah the police don’t know what happened yet, and she doesn’t ask any questions. As we drive on, she grows quiet and distant, and some small part of my mind that’s not focused on Jim’s death and Jesse’s possible involvement worries Sarah is already pulling away from me.

  I hear the fiddle again as soon as I step out of Mama’s car at home. Did Daddy know what was coming? Is that why he’s been playing for me?

  I stand and listen so long Honey starts yelling my name from the back seat. It takes all my effort to turn my back on those desperate notes and carry my sister into the trailer.

  After I make some butter noodles for Honey and me to share, we lie together on the couch watching whatever’s on PBS. It’s just noise to me, friendly voices driving away the silence and the fear. Honey falls asleep with her thumb in her mouth. I lie
next to her, my mind churning over questions I can’t answer, questions I’m afraid to answer.

  The trailer door bangs open, and I bolt upright, my heart racing as I peer through the twilight gloom.

  Jesse walks in, weaving slightly. I disentangle myself from Honey and lean forward, reaching for him. “Where’ve you been?”

  Jesse pushes past me and staggers to the recliner, sinking into it with a slight groan. “Out.”

  “Are you high again?” I turn on the light, and Jesse winces away. “You are high,” I snap, trying to keep my voice low. Honey has seen and heard enough today.

  “So what?” Jesse lies back in the recliner.

  “Do you know about Jim?” I say, struggling to keep my voice level.

  Jesse doesn’t say anything.

  “Do you know that Jim is dead?” I ask again, then glance at Honey to make sure she’s really asleep.

  Jesse doesn’t open his eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

  “Weren’t you there with him this morning?”

  “Yeah, but I took off.”

  The tightness in my chest eases a little bit. “Was anyone else there with him when you left?”

  Jesse gives a slight head shake.

  I wait for him to say more, but of course he doesn’t. “And you didn’t think maybe you ought to come home and help us instead of going out and getting stoned?”

  Jesse finally opens his eyes and crosses his arms. “You seem all right to me.”

  “Have you talked to Mama?”

  “Nope.”

  “The police are going to want to talk to you,” I say. “You shouldn’t have taken off.”

  Jesse’s almost asleep already. He gives a noncommittal grunt.

  Headlights flash across the window, and my stomach twists. “Get up and go to your room. Mama doesn’t need to see you like this.” When Jesse doesn’t move, I kick the recliner lever down, bringing his chair up so fast he nearly tumbles out.