Where the Truth Lies

by Anna Bailey

  NOW

  The Maddoxes live in a big wooden lodge just off Elkstone Bend, densely hemmed in by trees, a couple of miles from the Tall Bones. Andie Maddox is from east Texas: Sheriff Gains can hear it in the whispery way she says ah instead of I. “Can ah get y’all some sweet tea?” she says, as he and Deputy Saidi take a seat across from Jerry Maddox and his son.

  “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  Jerry Maddox asks, “Any news about that poor girl?”

  “Poor girl,” his wife echoes. “How are the family holding up?”

  Well now, there’s a question. “They’re very concerned, of course,” says Gains, because that’s what he’s expected to say, just as that’s what Andie was expected to ask. “Very concerned.”

  There is a TV about the length of a man’s arm span on the wall behind, and young Hunter Maddox cranes his neck to continue watching a muted Broncos game over Gains’s shoulder.

  “So, now, what can we help you with, Eli?” Jerry is half looking at the TV as well.

  “Do you keep any firearms on the property, Mr. Maddox?” It’s been a long time since he cared to call him Jerry.

  “Hm? Oh, firearms, sure. We’ve got the Weatherby, the Finnlight, couple of Rugers, and, Andie, do we still have your dad’s old Marlin? Now that was a deer-hunting gun, that’s for sure.”

  Deputy Saidi gives a low whistle. “My old man had one of those back in the day. Landed my first doe with it. Beautiful machine. They don’t make them like they used to.”

  Gains knows that isn’t true—Farid Saidi’s father was a prison guard in Algeria, and the only does he ever shot were johns—but he keeps quiet, lets Saidi have his story. That sort of thing is important to men like Jerry Maddox.

  “Amen,” says Jerry. “I tell you, that Finnlight gets hot enough you could fry an egg on it.”

  Gains leans forward. “What about a 9mm semiautomatic, Mr. Maddox? Do you own one of those?”

  Jerry scratches the back of his head. “Ah,” he says slowly, “no, nothing like that.”

  Hunter isn’t looking at the TV anymore. Gains tries to catch his eye, but the boy is staring rigidly out the window.

  “What about you, Hunter?” he asks. “You ever see a gun like that?”

  “Now, Eli.” Jerry glances quickly at his son. “What’s this all about?”

  “We found a shell casing this morning,” says Saidi, “belonging to a 9mm.”

  Jerry frowns. “You think this has something to do with that missing girl?”

  “There’s no way of knowing what time the gun was fired,” says Gains, “but we do know that somebody recently discharged a firearm in the same stretch of woods where a teenage girl went missing—the same woods that border both the Tall Bones and your property. It would be of great help to our investigation if you and your family could think back, try to remember if you saw or heard anything that might help us pinpoint when the gun was fired.”

  “Well, of course, Eli,” says Jerry. “We’ll have a think for you, but I’m sure if any of us saw or heard anybody firing a gun, well, we’d have remembered it, wouldn’t we, hon?”

  “Certainly,” says Andie. “We’d remember a thing like that. But, Chief, you know there’s all kinds of guns up in these woods most times of the year, what with hunting and the like. Couldn’t it just be something like that?”

  “A 9mm’s no deer-hunting gun, hon. Probably just some kids messing around.” Jerry glances at his son again. “Anyway, Eli, you want to know what I think? I reckon that girl probably hopped on a bus and hightailed it out of here. You know what those Blakes are like.”

  Gains thinks back to the Blake family in their cold living room, mugs and whiskey tumblers and even an old paintbox strewn about as ashtrays, the torn-out pages of Abigail’s diary. “You’re probably right,” he says. You couldn’t blame a girl for wanting to get out of a place like that. “Just covering my bases.”

  * * *

  After the sheriff leaves, Hunter is subjected to a stiff hug from his mother, who digs her chin into his shoulder as she says, “I didn’t like that, Jerry. I didn’t like that at all.”

  “I know, hon.” His father makes the same sort of wheezing sound as an old school bus pulling into a stop. “And since when has Eli let some Muslim fella in the department? What this country’s coming to…”

  “Oh, I know, honey, but you did fine. At least they were only asking about some gun.”

  Hunter shakes his mother off and heads for the door.

  “Don’t you slouch away with that look on your face, young man,” she says. “Not after what you’ve put us through this year. You’re the one who’s going to be in trouble if the police start poking around up here.”

  He thinks his father looks almost sympathetic then. “It’s your future on the line, Hunter. That’s what really matters—state playoffs, college, real opportunities. The missing girl is a tragedy, of course, but when all is said and done, she was a Blake. I mean, what can you expect? There’s something not right about that family. Something unclean about those kids, for all their daddy cries ‘amen.’ Your little… problem shouldn’t be dragged into it.”

  Andie nods wearily, and Hunter has to bite his knuckles to keep from telling his mother what he saw that night—how, standing at the edge of the road by the old Winslow ruins, he saw his own father come creeping through the trees.

  9

  THEN

  Today, Pastor Lewis announces, he will be talking about the homosexual. Noah is only seven years old, and does not know who the homosexual is, but Pastor Lewis clearly doesn’t like him because he calls him “arrogant” and “heartless” and, worst of all, a “God hater.”

  The pastor is not a very tall man or, rather, he looks as though he should be, but God got bored of making him halfway down, so he has an elongated torso carried around by two short legs. In spite of this, he has always seemed huge to Noah. He gives his sermons from a raised platform at the front of the congregation, and now, brandishing his red-letter New King James as he mounts his podium, he’s already beginning to tremble with the thrill of holding everybody’s attention. Noah listens intently, hoping to get some idea of what the homosexual has done to make everyone so mad, but the more the pastor talks the less he understands.

  “The liberal society that we live in preaches that there is nothing wrong with same-sex relationships; your children and grandchildren are being taught this on TV, and I have to ask, my brothers, how have we gotten here? The answer is that most Christians do not understand how God views homosexuality, or when they do, they do not have the backbone to stand up and show His love to those who are struggling.”

  Noah listens with his hands in his pockets and thinks it is a very strange thing to say. Backbone is something his father talks about a lot, and he knows it’s very difficult to love his father. According to Samuel Blake, Noah does not have much of a backbone either. He wonders if that’s why he finds it so difficult to love God too.

  Pastor Lewis has a lot to say about the homosexual. Everyone has to look at some quotes from Romans and Leviticus that Mrs. Lewis has photocopied for them. Noah’s father underlines a few things, so he does the same. The pastor also reads them a passage from Genesis about Sodom and Gomorrah. Noah likes that one better because God blows up an entire city, and that’s kind of exciting, but he’s still not sure what it has to do with anything. So Sodom was a city full of boys, big deal. He’d rather live with boys than whiny Abigail, or his mother with her smoky smell that makes him feel sick. Boys, on the other hand, smell sort of salty, the kind of salt that makes your lips swell when you’ve eaten too many potato chips, which is probably why Noah always feels so aware of his mouth when he’s around them.

  “See now,” Pastor Lewis is waving his Bible frantically, “why would someone even begin to think that God gives credence to people who follow this lifestyle? A lifestyle that is so clearly not in line with His teachings. Must we now accept adulterers into our churches? What about thieves and drun
kards? What about murderers? Yet because of the pressure on society from this particular group, the world deems homosexuals to be acceptable. Because to deny them is to be called a homophobe or worse, and, oh, we could not bear to be disliked because we dared to stand up for God! We could not bear to be laughed at by our children or goaded by strangers on the news! But in our cowardice, we have allowed mankind to step in and have the gall to try to tell God how things need to be run.”

  By now Pastor Lewis is quite red in the face, and the joints in his fingers have gone white from gripping his Bible so hard. He takes a swig of water from a plastic bottle beside the podium, like a rock star pausing between songs.

  “But there is hope. That hope is in repentance and turning to Jesus Christ for cleansing. As Christians our job is not to condemn, but to pray for the souls of these misguided individuals. It is our duty to show them the way to the forgiveness and deliverance that is in Jesus Christ. Do we dare take up this responsibility? My brothers, my sisters, do we dare?” He punctuates the last three words with a jab of his finger at the congregation. Then he smiles, nods, and says, “Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.”

  One day, Noah will read on some colorful corner of the internet that being in the closet is like having someone constantly tapping you on the arm. At first it’s just annoying. Then it becomes unbearable. In the end it’s all you can think about. For the rest of his life, he will look back on that Sunday as the very first tap.

  On their way out of the church, Samuel cuffs his son round the back of the head and says, “I hope you were paying attention.”

  Noah waits until his father is walking ahead of him, and then sticks out his tongue. Of course he was paying attention. He’s always paying attention. Years from now, he will see something not meant for his attention at all, but much like Pastor Lewis’s sermon, he won’t understand its significance until it’s too late.

  NOW

  “Dolly, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times…”

  Standing in Abigail’s bedroom, Dolly can hear her husband coming up the stairs. She feels cornered by the sound of his voice, but she cannot bear to walk away from all the things her daughter has touched. Not yet.

  “You don’t put the frying pans in the dishwasher. The coating’s come right off them. I’m not buying new ones, Dolly. I don’t have money to throw away.”

  Why don’t you do the dishes for once, then? She runs a hand over the surface of Abigail’s desk, dismayed to find it furred with dust. Already things are beginning to change.

  “What’s the matter with you that you can’t remember that, huh, Dolly? Dolly? Hey, you up here?”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead she kneels beside Abigail’s bed where her daughter’s shape is still gently pressed into the bedding, a few of her red hairs still clinging to the comforter. It is a strange semblance of prayer—her kneeling there with her hands clasped together, the rough carpet making static with her pantyhose. Is this my punishment? She raises her eyes to the ceiling, feeling like some child who still thinks God lives in the sky. Are you punishing me because we don’t talk like we used to?

  “What are you doing in here, Dolly?”

  She starts at the sound of Samuel’s voice and turns to see him sloping through the door. All of a sudden, there doesn’t seem to be enough room for both of them.

  “You praying?” Her husband leans against the desk, his cracked-dry hands knocking over a cup full of pencils that rattle to the floor. Dolly swallows. She can’t explain it, but somehow she feels that if they leave the room exactly as it is, they might wake up one day to find Abigail still asleep under the covers, filling out that shape in the bed that belongs to her.

  She can’t remember the last thing she said to her daughter, or even the last time she really saw her. She just recalls Abigail’s vague presence moving down the stairs and out of the door to catch a ride with Emma Alvarez, and Dolly must have said something like, Don’t be home later than nine, or Keep your phone turned on. It definitely wasn’t I love you.

  “You praying for little Abi?” Samuel asks, and now Dolly wonders why she ever liked the low-down sound of that Louisiana drawl. “Or you praying for yourself?”

  She stretches her neck, easing the tension, then gets to her feet. “I’m just praying, Sam. It’s nothing.”

  “Prayer ain’t ever nothing, Dolly. Of all the women in the world, the Lord’s making some time to listen to you, even after everything you’ve done. That ain’t nothing.”

  “All right, then. Maybe I was praying for Abi. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing wrong with it.” Samuel shakes his head, smiling slightly at his knuckles as he clenches and unclenches his fist. “It’s quiet without her, don’t you think? She was always singing, humming something or other. I’ve been missing it.”

  Dolly doesn’t know what to say to that. She reaches out to touch Samuel’s shoulder, because she thinks that’s what he wants from her, but he snatches up her hand, squeezing her fingers until she fears he might snap them.

  “Maybe you ought to pray for a bit of backbone, Dolly.” His voice is steady. “Pray for the backbone to do what needs to be done. I have spoken with the Lord, and I know why He’s taken Abigail from us. We have allowed sin in this house. Get that whimpering look off your face—you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He clenches her hand tighter still, and she has to suck on her tongue to keep from making a sound.

  “The boy, with all his sneaking out, I know what he’s up to. He’s doing it again, Dolly. We’ve neglected our duty. We have to show him the way to repentance through Jesus Christ. Cast out the sin, and then God will bring Abi back to us.”

  After Samuel has left, Dolly crouches beside her daughter’s bed again and rests her cheek against the covers. The fabric is cool, bordering on damp, but it still smells of her, of hair spray and artificial strawberries and the something else that has always reminded Dolly a little of freshly baked bread. Downstairs she can hear the rattle of her husband slamming the dishwasher door. She rubs her sore hand and thinks, If God really did take my girl away, it’s because He knows anywhere is better than here.

  10

  Whistling Ridge can barely keep its eyes open. In the Aurora diner, at the junction of Seventeenth and Main, Emma and her mother blow idly on their second coffee of the morning, looking out over the main drag. The tourist season has finally come to an end, and the last of the pop-up summer businesses are shutting up shop, having plundered the town for all it’s worth. Drifts of dead leaves line the sides of the roads, punctuated by telephone poles and chipped public benches. Above it all, the mountains rise up solid and white, sharpening the wind as it funnels down the slopes into town. It’s the same view Emma’s been staring at since before she can remember, only something feels different, unattainable, like returning to a conversation with old friends who all have their own in-jokes now.

  “I think some time out from school might do you good,” Melissa says quietly, so that no one else in the diner will overhear. “Some time away from all this drama, just for a couple of weeks. What do you think?”

  Emma nods and takes a sip of her coffee. She doesn’t really know what she thinks. They finally had a talk about the drinking, after her mom found her kneeling over the toilet, retching up the last of the Wild Turkey. Melissa held back her hair and spoke softly, saying it was all going to be okay, but then Emma had stood on the landing afterward and listened to her mother gasping as though she was trying not to cry. She didn’t mean to listen for as long as she did, but she knew that when she moved the floorboards would give her away, and she didn’t want to embarrass her mother.

  At the same time, she hated Melissa for crying. It’s not like Emma got drunk to hurt her. It wasn’t about her: it was about control. The only control Emma has is over this angry little body of hers, and screwing it up for a while feels like power, the way a mad king might slaughter his people, just to prove he can.

  Can you believe Emma
Alvarez just left her there?

  She hasn’t told her mother about befriending Rat: this grown-up boy who lets her drink his whiskey. Instead Emma made up some story about a girl at school with a fake ID, which will keep Melissa distracted for a while. Rat is hers, and not for anyone else just yet. Sometimes she feels as if he only exists at the trailer park, and she is the only person who can see him. He was funny about her wanting to investigate the woods, but maybe he was just looking out for her; she thinks she understands that now. As he will understand, too, the next time she talks to him, why she has to do this, and together they’ll prove it was Hunter Maddox out there in the woods, and Emma won’t have to drink cheap bourbon ever again.

  She smiles into her coffee, and her mother seems to take this as a good sign.

  “I’ve been saving up my vacation days. I thought maybe I could take some time off with you. We could drive over to the national park. We used to do that all the time when you were little, do you remember?”

  Emma has only a vague memory of a long road under a blue sky, surrounded by white on all sides, but then those trips weren’t really about her anyway. They were so that her parents could sit together in the front of the car and marvel at the wilderness rushing past their windows, glowing side by side in the surety of that “us against the world” feeling that kept them together for as long as it did.

  But Emma knows her mother doesn’t want to hear that. Melissa no more wants to talk about Miguel Alvarez than she wants to talk about her daughter’s drinking. They are reminders of a road not taken, of her own sense of guilt at a choice she made a long time ago. Emma knows guilt now, recognizes it in the cracked skin on her mother’s hands, in the deflated shape of her body lying in bed past her alarm, in the sobbing she tries so hard not to let her daughter hear. So instead Emma says, “Yeah, Mom, sounds good.”