He leans forward across the counter and takes Esther by the chin. Roughly, but not quite rough enough to bruise. He holds her face still as her eyes try to elude him. Eyes gone dark with fear. Been a long time since he saw that in a woman’s eyes. Her cheek beneath his squeezing fingers feels baby soft. Tears well in her eyes, but do not fall. He leans in closer, an inch from her lips. He can smell her hairspray he’s so close. Can smell the cakey chemicals of her lipstick. The sourness of her breath. He turns her face from one side to the other. ‘You used to be such a pretty girl …’ Esther recoils and he releases her, pushing her face back, disgusted she exists, disgusted at himself for caring that she judges him, for caring he falls short. His hand lowers back to his side.
Joanne’s hand slips into his once again and squeezes. Her face looks up to his as though searching for his answer, but he can’t recall the question now, or even if there was one. His halted laughter hangs heavy in the silence of the shop, suspended in the heat. The ceiling fan clicks as it rotates. There’s a slight wheeze to Esther’s breathing. And that odour of cat piss somehow smells fresh again. He wonders who the cat belongs to. Where the cat is. Or if maybe the smell stems from Esther, not the carpet.
Joanne’s gaze holds fear inside it. And something else, too, he can’t quite name, but that he knows he hasn’t seen for quite a while.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, voice shattering the stagnant calm. He looks up and around as though just woken and still dazed. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’ He smiles down at the girl beside him, turns to Esther. She’s trembling. Shaking on the stool so that her fat jiggles. Her eyes are wide upon him, electric blue lids barely visible. ‘Esther.’ He releases Joanne’s hand and shoves both of his deep into his pockets, shoulders hunching with the motion. He looks down at the stained carpet beneath his feet. Looks back up and finds Esther’s eyes with his own. Fear still lives in her gaze. He smiles. ‘It was awful good seein’ ya, Esther. Been a long time. I’d be obliged if you’d tell Roy I was askin’ for ’im.’
He nods once, then turns. Doe Eyes is waiting for him, one arm outstretched to take his hand again. Joanne. Joanne is waiting for him. There’s this funny smile on her lips – seems unnatural with the fear still in her eyes, her face cast in shadow, the light of the shop window behind her. Tanned and lean and wiry. Brown and gold and blue. More and more traces of woman quickly creeping in every day, taking over. She looks almost like an angel standing there. No wings, but dark blonde hair as a halo shining. He thinks of his mama. Her deep faith. Thinks again of Melvin Douglas and his fondness for little girls. For the first time, he thinks he might just understand what about them got Melvin ticking. Almost. He takes Joanne’s hand and follows her.
Jasper glances back just once, through the glass of the door as it shuts behind them, bell chiming. Esther still sits motionless, paper fan closed, clutched tight to her chest. She does not call after them. Does not rise. Or try to stop them. Fat still floating in orbit around her as she spills off her stool. Her hot-pink lips lie in a thin, straight line. Tears silently roll down her cheeks, leaving trails through her rouge. To Jasper’s surprise, Esther raises her hand. It does not wave, just hangs in the air between them, suspended.
Lizzie swings the cab door open and throws Jasper’s new second-hand clothes onto the seat. A tangled pile of blues and blacks and greys. A bit of off-white. She slams the door and leans her forehead against the hot glass. Closes her eyes. Can feel the metal of the door handle still burning hot in her hand. She tries to let her mind go blank. Tries to focus on the heat against her head. The heat in her hand. But she can’t clear her mind. Can’t calm it.
‘Mom? You OK?’
Lizzie stands up quickly, head pulled off the glass. ‘I’m fine,’ she snaps, smoothing the front of her blouse as she straightens.
Katie nods. Looks down the street. Arms crossed before her. ‘You want me to drive home?’
Lizzie stares down the road, eyes following the same path as her daughter’s. Sun so bright it’s hard to see. Concrete cooking in the heat. Mirages down the way. Small shops line the street, some open, most closed years, now rusted shut. Butcher, baker, both long boarded up. Grocer only open half days most of the week ever since the Piggly Wiggly opened up off I-10. The barber’s red and white post still spins, door left open to let whatever breeze might wander in. The elementary just up the way is shut for summer. City Hall lies back down the road behind them. Courthouse, jail, what used to be a fire station, all rolled into one. The garage where Bobby once worked looks more like a scrapyard than a repair shop, rusted bits of cars and bicycles piled high, like raked leaves gathered up and discarded together. Each window in town seems dark in contrast to the brilliance of the day. Not a cloud in sight. She looks back to her daughter. ‘I reckon I can drive still.’
‘All right.’
Flags still hang from nearly every lamppost left over from the Fourth of July. Lizzie turns to lean her back against the hot metal of the pickup’s body. She runs a hand through her tangled hair. Windblown. Feels the sun upon her. A small white Ford sedan drives past, old Mrs Anderson behind the wheel. Seeing her, Lizzie waves without thinking. Even feels a smile spread automatic on her lips, though she would not have thought herself capable of smiling in that moment. Mrs Anderson was one of Mama’s schoolgirl friends. Married to a lawyer. No family of their own. When they were children, Mrs Anderson used to bring them a plate of fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies still hot from the oven every Saturday afternoon when she’d call round to visit. And Mama would always pause whatever chore was at hand. And Lizzie and Jasper would take the plate of Mrs Anderson’s cookies out round the back, and they’d hide in the sheets hung out on the clothesline and giggle and stuff their faces till their stomachs hurt.
Once Lizzie got chocolate on the sheets. Mama’s nice clean sheets hung up to dry. New sheets, too. Little sticky fingerprints, all dark and brown and chocolaty. Lizzie had caught her breath. She’d be in for a spanking for sure. Big tears had welled in her eyes. But Jasper had just smiled. ‘Don’t fuss,’ he’d said, and winked. Tears choked her throat, making it hard to breathe. Chocolate still coated her lips, her tongue. Her fingertips. ‘Now watch,’ said Jasper, and he’d smiled. He took another cookie off the plate. Broke it open to its gooey centre. Lizzie’s throat had relaxed a little. Mouth watered. She sat up straighter, watching. Jasper took the broken open cookie and ran it over where Lizzie’s fingerprints had stained. He pushed the chocolate in hard to the fabric, gooey centre right on the cloth. Ran it in circles, wider, bigger. A big brown stain beside them. Sheet still cool and wet from Mama’s wash. ‘It’s just mud now,’ Jasper’d said, and they’d laughed. They’d laughed till their sides hurt. Till tears stung their eyes and they could open them no longer. And later that night when Mama’d pulled the washing in, Daddy’s belt had come down hard and swift, but Jasper had not cried out. Not even once. Lizzie had wanted to tell Daddy it was her fingerprints. That Jasper’d only been helping. But she was too scared. Tears ran down her cheeks as she’d seen Daddy’s belt unfasten. ‘You think you’re smart, boy? Well, this will smarten you up …’ and then she’d run from the room before her brother’s spanking.
Years later Lizzie’d called round their house to ask Mr Anderson to represent Jasper at trial. He was the best lawyer in the county. Everyone knew that. Mrs Anderson had answered the door. Silver hair tied up. But still a smile on her lips. Always a smile there waiting, warm as chocolate and just as rich. ‘Elizabeth! What a surprise!’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.’ Lizzie had shuffled her feet. She could remember that. Had shuffled her feet on their welcome mat. Joanne just a baby there on her hip. Moths buzzing and thudding as they beat their fragile bodies against the porch bulb. Light a muted yellow gold, night dark with heavy rain. ‘Is Mr Anderson here? There’s somethin’ awfully important I got to speak with him ’bout.’
The smile had left Mrs Anderson’s face. Lizzie would never forget that. The smiling woman strip
ped of her smile. Skin suddenly older, sallower, a different shade of pale. ‘Of course.’ Mrs Anderson had stepped aside, letting Lizzie enter.
Their house was beautiful. Hardwood floors, a deep dark oak. Walls crisp and white and filled with nicely framed family photos. Mostly black-and-white. Some coloured. An oil painting of the sea hung above their marble mantel, waves violent and frothy, foaming as they beat a lone sailboat ashore. She’d stood uncertain for a moment in the door to their sitting room, just taking it all in. The deep mahogany bookshelves that ran floor to ceiling. The leather couches lined with tiny brass buttons. The red and gold carpet. The deep gold curtains that reached all the way down to that dark floor.
‘Come in, Elizabeth.’ Mr Anderson was seated in an armchair by the darkened fireplace. Wrong season for a fire. But it’d been raining out that night. She could remember that. A chill to the late March air. A freshness kin to cold.
Mr Anderson already knew why she was there. She could tell that much from the sad knowledge in his eyes as he regarded her. She’d never known Mr Anderson well. Had only really made his acquaintance through formal handshakes at church gatherings. He was semi-retired. Overweight, but not fat. A puzzle lay scattered on the coffee-table before him, less than a quarter complete. A watercolour of a museum piece she did not know or recognize. He smiled at her, that same sadness still lingering in his eyes. ‘Come in, sit down.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Lizzie sat on the couch across from him, shifting Joanne to balance her on her knee.
‘Coffee, dear?’
A gentle hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. A soft squeeze. She looked into the weathered blue eyes of Mrs Anderson, and felt warmth there. Shook her head, ‘No, no, I’m fine.’
‘Nonsense.’ That lovely warm smile. ‘I’ll brew a fresh pot.’ And Mrs Anderson slipped from the room. The smell of cinnamon lingered behind her.
‘Do you like puzzles?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Puzzles.’ He gestured to the table before them. ‘Do you like them?’
‘I … I wouldn’t know, sir. I haven’t played too many.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Why’s that?’
She hesitated. ‘Seems I always end up missin’ pieces.’
He reached down and took a border piece into his hand. Turned it to study it. ‘They’re good for the mind. Puzzles.’ A smile tickled the corner of his mouth. An ornate Victorian clock ticked the passing minutes. Raindrops beat against the windowpane, racing down the glass.
‘Sir, I ain’t here to learn ’bout puzzles.’
‘Aren’t you?’ A bemused smile now broke his features, deepening his wrinkles. No malice in it, but Lizzie felt uncomfortable all the same. She felt herself go hot and red.
‘I find,’ he said, more gently, ‘that puzzles relax my mind.’
‘It’s my brother, sir.’ Her voice faltered. ‘It seems he’s in a bit of trouble.’
‘Yes.’ Mr Anderson fit the puzzle piece into place. Sat back to admire its placing. ‘I’d heard.’
‘We need a lawyer, sir.’ Her turn to pause. ‘I was hoping you might be him.’
A long silence stretched between them. He leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, fingers entwined before him.
Regarded her.
Somewhere, far off, thunder rumbled. The call of a barn owl caused them both to turn towards the window. Glass streaked with raindrops. Raindrops caught the room’s light, tiny rainbows reflected in each tiny drop before its downward race. Odd to hear an owl call like that in such a heavy storm.
His voice, deep and calm, like thunder, he said, ‘I’m not sure you can ask that of me.’
‘Why’s that?’ She turned quickly with the words, eyes defiant, jaw tight with stress. And hope.
The wind howled as it cut round the house. A high, whiny sound, slow to fade. Fingers still entwined before him, he shifted in his chair. ‘I have a conscience.’
The words slapped her. She stiffened. In her arms, Joanne gurgled and found her thumb with her mouth and sucked. Lizzie bounced her slightly on her knee. A mother’s instinct. ‘You think I don’t?’ Words harder than intended. Joanne squirmed.
Mr Anderson shook his head. ‘That’s not what I said, Elizabeth.’ A throat-clearing pause as he looked down to his hands, then up again. ‘Do you think your brother’s innocent?’
‘He wouldn’t hurt no one.’ She knew her words untrue even as she spoke them. Anger in her tone, her heart. She looked back to the window. Past the raindrops out to the darkness beyond. Then softer, scarcely a whisper, ‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’
Mr Anderson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands newly clasped together. He had an earnest face. One deep-set wrinkle that creased his forehead. Crow’s feet round his eyes, his mouth. ‘That girl still in hospital?’
‘Yessir.’ Voice barely a whisper. Throat too tight to swallow.
‘She doing OK?’
‘She’ll live.’ A hollowness to her words.
He nodded. ‘It may not seem it now but, trust me, that’s a blessing.’
Lizzie leaned back, the leather of the couch smooth and cool against her back. Held Joanne tight to her. ‘They called Bobby in, too. You hear that? Called ’im in to question.’ Her voice rising, spiralling.
His still calm. ‘They have reason to?’
‘Bobby didn’t do nothin’.’ Words spat more than spoken.
‘They charge him?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘They didn’t keep ’im long.’ A pause that felt like hours. She broke it. ‘Jasper turned up at his shop, that’s why. Turned up there all covered in blood.’
Silence between them a moment. He was the one finally to break it. ‘I don’t like being the one to tell you this now, Elizabeth, but I feel it’s best you know what rumour’s spreading.’ He paused. ‘They’re sayin’ Jasper couldn’t have acted alone. Not on this one now, but the others. Folks are sayin’ he had help. Seems most fingers are pointing at Bobby.’
Lizzie snorted. ‘That’s ridiculous. Bobby never hurt a fly.’
‘I know, I know.’ Both hands up as if to stop her. Something soothing in his tone. ‘But don’t you worry, that Saunders girl will clear Bobby. You’ve nothing to worry about there. She’ll say who put her in that state.’
Lizzie let out a long breath. ‘She ain’t sayin’ nothing, though. That’s what I heard. She ain’t said even one word yet.’
‘An’ Jasper?’
‘He ain’t said much neither.’
Mr Anderson leaned back in his armchair again, crossing his legs as he reclined. A flash of lightning lit the room an eerie blue, and Joanne let out a tiny cry as thunder shook the house. Lizzie rocked and shushed her, rocked and shushed her, holding her close to her chest. Raindrops still beat with fury against the windowpane.
‘You’ll be hard pressed to find a jury that will let him walk.’
She let his words hang between them. Knew them inside her as true. Shook her head. ‘He ain’t done all they sayin’. He ain’t capable of it.’ Defensive. Petulant. Like a child.
Mr Anderson’s voice softened. ‘Elizabeth …’
She raised her eyes to find his.
‘I can’t defend a man I think is guilty.’
The door swung open. Mrs Anderson’s warm smile brightened the room as she entered. ‘Now, here we are, dears, fresh hot coffee! Do you take milk and sugar, Elizabeth?’ Kindness and something close to sadness hidden in those blue eyes. Bright and clear as crystals. She set the tray down on the edge of the coffee table, shaking her head as she brushed puzzle pieces aside.
Mr Anderson let out one dissatisfied breath and tossed his hands up in mock frustration. ‘The problem with puzzles,’ he said, smiling, turning to Lizzie, ‘is having the space to sort them!’ And then he winked. Lizzie had long thought back on that wink. Had wondered if maybe there’d been some meaning in it. Some code or double message she’d been meant to take away.
She’d tried to take heart from, to find strength within, that wink, but as the years had passed, and Lizzie’d thought back on that moment further, that smile further, she’d thought more and more that maybe he was just a kind old man, only offering her reassurance, no deeper coded meanings. No secrets. Just a smile. Just a playful wink. And nothing more.
Desperation rose in Lizzie’s throat. Somehow she found the words, ‘No, ma’am, black is fine.’ Her cup was poured. Set before her. Dark as the night outside.
She left soon after, too proud to beg for his aid. Too soul-weary for chit-chat. Coffee barely touched. Throat too tight with worry to let her drink. In the hallway as she was leaving, right before she’d reached the door, Mrs Anderson had caught Lizzie’s arm. Her grip firm, fingers digging into Lizzie’s skin, their eyes had met. ‘Sometimes,’ she’d said, ‘when there’s evil in this world, all we can do is pray.’ The older woman’s eyes searched Lizzie’s another moment. ‘Be careful, hon.’ And she released her arm.
Lizzie squints slightly as she follows Mrs Anderson’s sedan with her gaze. Right into the sunlight. She blinks and the car’s already turned, crossing the railroad tracks heading west, back out into the open stretch of the prairie. Early mornings, the tracks are scattered with migrants, Mexicans mostly, looking for work for hire. The sun is high in the sky now, though, and even the last stragglers not to find a day’s work have cleared out and moved on, leaving the tracks empty. Tyre-tread marks lead from the paved road to crisscross each other in the sand beside the tracks. The only remaining testimony that the ranchers and oil men driven in from the bigger towns looking to hire had in fact been there. Lizzie’d known it wouldn’t be easy, Jasper being home. She’d known that trouble might raise its head again. But she hadn’t expected Esther to refuse them like that. She’d hoped maybe life could go on again. Could resemble something close to normal. To how life’s meant to be.
A bell chimes and Lizzie turns. Jasper and Joanne walk up the sidewalk towards them, shop door swinging shut behind them. Hand in hand. Like father and daughter might. Lizzie feels her throat go dry. Jasper meets her gaze. Holds it a moment. Looks down to where his hand holds Joanne’s. Releases it. Joanne looks up at her uncle, opens her mouth to speak.
The Last Days of Summer Page 12