by Ann McMan
Byron seemed particularly careful about not expressing any opinions himself. Charlie wanted to ask him if he had any ideas about what might’ve happened that day on the river—and who, if anyone, might have had a motive to kill the man.
Charlie worried that part of Byron’s silence on the matter came from his concern for Watson’s daughter, Dorothy, who was now staying out at Dr. Heller’s. The one detail everyone in town knew was that Dorothy had confessed to hitting her father in the head with a piece of driftwood to stop him from attacking Buddy Townsend. It seemed to Charlie that the point of the inquest was to establish whether or not anyone else had contributed to Watson’s drowning—or whether his death happened as a result of the head wound he had sustained from his daughter.
That outcome wasn’t one anybody wanted to think about—at least, not the people who had any inkling about the extent of the abuse the girl had suffered at the hands of her father. She knew this was especially true for Byron and Dr. Heller, who had pretty much become Dorothy’s de facto parents since the 4th of July.
More than anything, Charlie wanted to ask Byron if he knew her own father was back in town. Charlie hadn’t heard from him and, as far as she knew, he hadn’t been by her house again. But hearing Roma Jean’s account of how he had stopped by her place the other night had rattled her to her core. She hated the way it made her feel. And it angered her that she’d reflexively lashed out at Roma Jean, who’d only asked questions about him to be nice.
It was her own fault that she’d never told Roma Jean any details about her childhood or the circumstances that led to her father leaving Jericho. She regretted that now. She owed it to Roma Jean to come clean about it all—even though that meant telling her about her first relationship with another girl. It didn’t make sense that this bothered Charlie so much. After all, Roma Jean was smart enough to know that she wasn’t Charlie’s first . . . girlfriend. Still. Talking about what had happened at summer camp that year with Jimmie was just . . . hard. It was true that Charlie’s father had beaten her so badly she ended up with broken ribs and a fractured collarbone. But she thought what Jimmie’s parents had done to her was worse. They’d packed her up and shipped her out to live with some crazy evangelist in Kentucky. He was supposed to “deprogram” her and save her from the sin of homosexuality.
Charlie never heard from Jimmie again. But she knew from cousins of hers that Jimmie hadn’t stayed with the Kentucky family very long. She’d managed to escape during one of their remote revival tours, and she never came back.
But Charlie never forgot her. Jimmie’s youth and sweetness—and the gentle, innocent first explorations they’d shared—would always live in Charlie’s memory. They’d been like two newborn colts, learning to stand on their spindly legs—and, finally, daring to run free in the blazing sun.
She looked up from her coffee to find Byron watching her intently. She didn’t realize she’d been silent so long.
“What’s on your mind, kiddo?” he asked.
He never called her that . . . not unless he was in what she called “full-frontal dad mode.”
“It’s . . .” she nearly said, “nothing,” but stopped herself. Byron, above all people, deserved better than that. He deserved her honesty. She took a deep breath. “It’s my father. He’s back in town.”
Byron’s expression changed from one of mild interest to one of angry concern. He’d shifted into sheriff-mode.
“Where is he?” he asked. His tone was not forgiving.
“I don’t know,” Charlie told him. “I haven’t seen him. But he came by my house on Wednesday night, looking for me. Roma Jean was there,” she added. “But she had no idea who he was. She said he asked for ‘Charlene,’ and that he seemed ‘strange,’” she made air quotes around the word, “but harmless.”
“And he hasn’t reached out to you in any way since?”
Charlie shook her head.
“Why the hell would he come back here?” Byron seemed to be talking to himself more than to her.
“I have no idea. But I doubt it can be for any good reason.”
Byron regarded her for a bit without saying anything. He was absently rocking his empty Styrofoam coffee cup back and forth on the table.
Charlie knew him pretty well, but right now, she had no idea what he was thinking.
Finally, he spoke.
“Do you want me to find him?”
Did she? It hadn’t been an accident that Charlie hadn’t looked for him herself. It wasn’t like there were an infinite number of places in town he could be staying—if he were even still in town. Roma Jean had described his car as an old beater with South Carolina tags. She could’ve at least tracked down his vehicle.
But she hadn’t. Why not?
Was she still afraid of him? Did she want Byron to take care of him for her—just like he had the last time?
She didn’t know the answers to any of these questions.
“No,” she said to Byron. “No. I’ll handle it.”
“Okay.” He held her gaze. “But you let me know if you need backup. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir. We do.”
“All right, then.” Byron slid out of the booth. “I’m getting more coffee. You want a refill?”
Charlie handed him her cup. “Yeah. More coffee would be great.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Henry and Dorothy carried the tin bucket full of gnarled carrots, dandelion weeds and cast-off vegetable tops out to the pasture fence. Henry collected the special treats all week and saved them to give Before on Fridays, when Dorothy came home from school with him.
It was one of their traditions. Just like being allowed to do their homework outside at the table on the front porch overlooking the pond. Syd would fix them big glasses of lemonade and make sure the overhead fans were turned on to move some air around.
August had been really hot. Hotter than most summer months she could remember. Dr. Heller and Dr. Stevenson . . . Maddie, she reminded herself . . . both had air conditioning in their houses. Dorothy wasn’t used to that. Her father had always refused to turn on their one window unit, even on the hottest nights when sleeping was next to impossible. Her room had been the smallest one on the second floor of their small house, and it had only one window, which faced east. Not even a stray breeze could ever find its way to that window. And it didn’t help that Dorothy never kept the door to her room open.
Some nights, long after she was sure her father was asleep, she’d sneak out of her room and tiptoe up the stairs to the attic. She’d practiced enough times to know where all the creaky floor boards were so she could ascend the steps quietly.
She didn’t ever want to wake him up.
The high-ceilinged attic had steep peaks framed with rafters, and windows in the gables at both ends. That meant there was almost always a breeze blowing through the lofty but cramped space. Dorothy discovered that even on the hottest nights, having warm air moving over you was better than no air—and even without a breeze, the space was inviting to her for other reasons.
All that remained of her mama had been haphazardly boxed up and stashed up there after her death. Dorothy spent hours going through the boxes and carefully examining each item. A scarf that still smelled like lilac. Old house shoes that resembled the feet that had worn them. Aprons decorated with brightly colored appliques that had been sewn on with tiny, even stitches. A recipe book with yellowed pages and a broken spine. Some scattered index cards containing handwritten notes—directions for how to unclog drains using baking soda and vinegar, or how to use cut-up potatoes to take the salt out of soups and stews.
And there were her mama’s books—lots and lots of them. Books about everything.
Dorothy’s favorites were the ones that looked like her mama’s old school books: copies of Silas Marner and an illustrated Great Expectations, two books about Greek mythology, an introduction to civics textbook, an oversized copy of Goode’s World Atlas, a three-ring notebook containing dozens o
f Butterick and Simplicity patterns for dresses she was sure her mother never got to wear, and her favorite: a first-edition, hardback copy of Catherine Marshall’s Christy.
Dorothy had stayed up late many nights, squinting to read her mama’s copy of Christy by the stray shafts of moonlight that shone through the north window. She’d read the book so many times, she had practically memorized the tale of a young woman who left the safety of her suburban home in Asheville to teach school in a small, backcountry region of the Great Smoky Mountains. Christy had been idealistic and heroic as she faced poverty and depravity on a scale she could never have imagined. Through it all, the resiliency of Christy’s faith in God and her belief in the innate goodness of all people triumphed over even the worst adversity.
Dorothy was certain this had been her mama’s belief, too.
And no matter how difficult things were in her life, she chose to cling to this belief like a lifeline that promised to guide her toward a better place on the other side of her father’s cruelty. Most nights, that place seemed as far away as one of the distant countries in her mama’s atlas. But Dorothy knew it existed. She could locate it on one of the oversized pages and outline its borders with her finger.
It was real and it was out there.
She just had to hang on long enough to find it.
Henry was busy shoving turnip tops and clumps of dandelion through the fence to the grateful heifer. Before chewed with practiced ease. She didn’t need to be in a hurry because she didn’t have any competition to grapple with for best access to the bucket of treats.
“Do you wanna give her some, Dorothy?” Henry extended the pail to her.
“No. That’s okay.” Dorothy wasn’t as confident as Henry when it came to putting her fingers so close to the heifer’s large mouth. “She’s used to taking food from you. I might not do it right.”
“It’s hard to do it wrong,” he explained. “Before pretty much just takes whatever you hold out in front of her.” Henry demonstrated by offering the cow a couple of fat carrots, which were quickly dispatched.
Dorothy watched Before chew. “How much do you think she weighs now?”
“Maddie says maybe eight hundred pounds. But Uncle David says a thousand. He thinks Before needs to go on a ’terranean diet. Do you know what that is?”
“Um. Do you mean a Mediterranean diet?”
Henry nodded. “He said she was starting to look like somebody called Lizzo—only without the talent.”
Dorothy laughed. “A Mediterranean diet means you eat a lot of fish, beans and eggs.”
“Before doesn’t like fish.”
“She doesn’t?”
He shook his head. “Once I tried to give her half of my tuna fish sandwich, and she spit it out.”
“Well, I think Before is beautiful just how she is—and so is Lizzo.”
Henry thought about what Dorothy said. “Why do people say mean things?”
“I don’t think Uncle David meant that to be mean. I think he was trying to be funny—like he always does.”
“I know. I was thinking about other people.”
Dorothy was quick enough to pick up on Henry’s unintended revelation. “Is somebody being mean to you?”
He shrugged.
“At school?” she ventured.
“Sometimes.”
She had to tread carefully. She knew what it felt like when people tried to trick her into talking about things she wanted to keep to herself.
“I’ve had that happen, too,” she told him. “It isn’t nice when they do that.”
Henry looked at her with his clear, blue eyes. Sometimes, like right now, he really did look like Dr. Stevenson.
“Who was mean to you?” he asked.
She hesitated before answering. “Mostly my father.”
“Is that why he died?”
Henry’s words fell between them like chunks of iron. Dorothy felt the meaning of his innocent question reverberate beneath her feet like a tremor rising up from deep inside the earth. She was amazed that Henry didn’t seem to feel it, too.
“No,” she told him in a shaky voice that didn’t sound like her own. “No, that’s not why he died. People don’t die because they’re mean.”
“I think maybe they should sometimes. Especially when they’re mean to people who are just trying to do the right thing.”
“Life doesn’t work that way, Henry. People die for all kinds of reasons—because they’re sick or old. Or maybe they make bad choices or have accidents they can’t come back from. And sometimes, other people might hurt them. But they don’t ever die just because they’re bad. There’s always some other reason.”
“I’m sorry your daddy was mean to you.”
She did her best to smile at him. Whatever was worrying him was enough. She didn’t want to add her own troubles to his list.
“Thanks. I’m sorry, too.”
Henry finished feeding Before the contents of his bucket and they walked back toward the barn. Maddie’s golden retriever, Pete, jogged along behind them until he spotted a couple of deer who’d been brazen enough to come out before dark to try and sneak a drink at the pond. He took off at a fast lope, barking all the way.
“Maddie hollers at him when he chases deer down there,” Henry explained. “But I think Pete gets confused because he’s allowed to chase them away from the garden, so he thinks they shouldn’t be allowed by the pond, either.”
“That seems to make sense to me, too,” Dorothy agreed.
“Does Django chase the deer at Gramma C’s?”
“No. He pretty much sleeps on the patio. Sheriff Martin says visiting Dr. Heller’s is like a night off for him.”
“I like Django.”
“I do, too. It’s great when he gets to stay over.”
“Buddy says Django is like the golden hound that protected the head god when he was little.”
“Zeus?”
Henry nodded. “He said the golden dog saved Zeus from a really mean orange dog that wanted to hurt him.”
“I don’t know anything about orange dogs. But Django mostly sleeps on a chair in the sun.”
They’d reached the barn. Henry stashed his bucket and called Dorothy over to Maddie’s workbench.
“Do you wanna see the sewing machine Maddie is fixing for Mrs. Hall?”
“Sure.” Dorothy approached the workshop area of the big barn. She noticed the big tuxedo cat, Rosebud, stretched out across the hood of Maddie’s Jeep. Rosebud stretched lazily before jumping down and following her.
Henry pointed out all the small parts that had been removed from the big unit and laid out in tidy rows.
“Maddie is letting me help. My job is to keep things all together so they can go back in the right order.”
“Do you like helping her?”
Henry nodded with enthusiasm. “It’s great to fix broken things. Maddie says that with enough time and care, you can help most things work better again.”
Dorothy wasn’t sure how true that was, but she didn’t want to disagree with Henry.
She picked up a tiny ring with sprockets on it. It was probably a gear of some kind.
“There are a lot of small pieces in this thing.”
“Yeah. Sometimes the hardest job is figuring out a way to make things work when a part is missing. Maddie says that’s when you have to be creative and not give up. She says you’ll never know what might fix something until you’re willing to try it.”
Dorothy looked around the space. There were shelves filled with all kinds of tools and small appliances. They all had white tags attached to them.
“So she never throws anything away?”
“Nope.” Henry considered his quick reply. “Well. Sometimes. I have an alarm clock in my room that Maddie said was a goner. But I think I can fix it if I try hard enough.” He sighed. “Syd says she’s giving me two more weeks, and then it’s getting eighty-sixed.”
Dorothy laughed.
Henry gave her a quizzical loo
k. “What’s ‘eighty-sixed’ mean?”
“I think it means thrown away.”
“Probably. Syd doesn’t like to save stuff . . . except for bride magazines. We’ll never run out of those.”
Dorothy was about to reply when they heard a car pull up outside the barn.
“That must be Lizzy.” Henry was excited. “Let’s go and see her.”
He took off running for the driveway.
Dorothy took a last look at the dismembered sewing machine.
Maddie was right. The hardest part was when there was no way to work around the missing parts.
She knew that meant she was probably a goner, too—just like Henry’s alarm clock.
She made her way to the driveway, with Rosebud following close on her heels.
◊ ◊ ◊
The Osborne Motor Lodge had been the only motel in Jericho for decades—until a shiny new franchise place had opened up on the hill overlooking Food City. The only people who ever stayed at Osborne’s now were hunters or fishermen, who didn’t much care about things like good housekeeping or satellite TV reception. Some of the migrant men from Mexico who worked up at the tree farms on Mount Rogers stayed there, too—until they could make enough money to move into small houses spread out along the New River.
Charlie figured her best bet to find Manfred Davis, unless he’d managed to find someone willing to put him up, was to look for him at one of the two area motels. She cruised the parking lot of the new inn first, looking for the car Roma Jean had described. She wasn’t surprised not to see it there. From what she remembered about her father, he’d never be willing to shell out good money just to have a view of the roof of the local shopping center.
Osborne’s was her best bet. The ramshackle place was off the beaten path enough that he’d be able to avoid notice—if he were even still in town.
Something told her he probably was. She’d run into Sonny Nicks at the post office yesterday, and he told her about seeing Manfred out at Bone Gap for preaching on Wednesday night. That part made no sense to her at all. Her father had never been one for going to church on Sunday—much less, any other time.