by Lori Roy
“Just for a few minutes,” I say, as he walks toward me with the bag of ice. “I just want to see it.”
Setting the bag on my leg, he stands over me as if watching to see if it will stay put. He nods as he backs away, looking just like Mama as she backed away from the doctor who asked how my wrist got hurt. When the door at the top of the stairs shuts, I close my eyes and listen. Three locks. I will hear three locks being locked. Sometimes, after he has left me, I make myself say out loud all the names of every kid in the fourth grade. Already I’ve forgotten the girl who sat in the last desk on the front row, and I don’t remember Mrs. Wilton’s name before she got married. I say everything I remember about Ellie and Fran and Julie Anna too. And mostly, I say everything about Mama—her yellow hair that shimmered like a silky curtain and the flowery smell of her skin and her lips that she outlined with a glossy red pencil—because I’m most afraid of her slipping away. I’m already so alone, and if I forget her too, I don’t know what will happen to me next.
When the last lock snaps into place, the clock reads 4:28, and it’s Wednesday. He comes here at four o’clock on Wednesday. Next time he comes, I’ll ask for a pencil because I know more and more things and I want to write them all down so they won’t slip away.
Chapter 18
IMOGENE
Today
Jo Lynne is the first to text Imogene back. REALLY? her message reads. Imogene replies, PLEASE. It will take Jo Lynne twenty minutes to dress, tie up her hair, and at least do her eyes and lips. And because she and Garland recently moved into a new home, one they had built on the west side of town, it’ll take her another fifteen to drive to Mama’s place. For the past year, Jo Lynne has spent every free moment picking out finishes, floor trim, and window treatments.
Setting aside her phone, Imogene checks that the boy is still asleep, turns off the TV in Mama’s room, and closes the door. The kitchen still smells of the jar of fire-and-ice pickles someone dropped during the reception. Out in the living room, Imogene closes all the drapes and lowers all the blinds. Not knowing what else to do, she thinks to pull out the vodka again but instead drinks a glass of water and then takes a seat on the sofa to wait for Jo Lynne and Eddie. Scooting to the edge, she sits with a straight back, her feet squarely on the ground and her hands resting in her lap, because those are the things that make Jo Lynne happy, and if Jo Lynne is happy, she’ll take care of the boy and anything else that needs taking care of.
Startling at the sound of ice dropping in the freezer, Imogene wishes she’d left Mama’s TV on. In the silence, she can hear the wind catch in the roof vents and the pop of the house settling, and every sound makes her squeeze her hands tight and hold her breath, afraid a knock at the door will follow or a window will break or footsteps will begin circling the house. Letting her posture go, she drops back on the sofa. On the mahogany table directly in front of her is a picture of Daddy and Mama. Jo Lynne set out as many as she could find for the reception. In mismatched frames, another two dozen have been displayed all around the room. The picture sitting on the coffee table was taken many years ago, because Mama is smiling and Daddy is standing next to her, one arm draped around her shoulders. It was taken before Grandpa Simmons died. Daddy had yet to take over for him, and Mama’s heart trouble had yet to begin. All before Imogene was born.
Standing from the sofa, quietly though she isn’t certain why, Imogene moves around the room and gathers up all the pictures. Most are of Daddy with the family, but there are a few of him wearing a white robe and holding his hood—the color he wore before ascending. The faces of all the other Klansmen he stands with have been blacked out with ink. Once her arms are full, Imogene dumps the pictures in a laundry basket in the washroom and closes the door on them.
She thought she’d convinced herself it couldn’t have been Daddy who kept the boy locked away, but some part of her hasn’t been persuaded. She’s gathering the pictures so they can’t frighten the boy or maybe so he won’t be able to identify Daddy as the man who kept him in the basement, but only because it’ll devastate Mama if that turns out to be true. And when the sheers over the window finally glow yellow for a moment and fall dark again, she turns the first picture she noticed upside down on the coffee table, the only one she didn’t pick up, and drops onto the sofa again.
Normally the slap of the screen door would have been followed by Jo Lynne’s slender heels clicking across the pine floors, but tonight those footsteps are softened by slippers. Hopefully, she won’t wake the boy, and there’s no chance of Mama waking. She takes pills these days to help her sleep. Up until about a year ago, Jo Lynne counted those pills at least once a week to make sure Imogene wasn’t stealing them again. And she wasn’t. Isn’t.
“So, is it every day now?” Jo Lynne drops her purse on the coffee table. “Or did you just start drinking special for Daddy’s funeral?”
Shifting her weight to one foot, Jo Lynne stares down on Imogene. Instead of heels and a belted dress, she wears slippers and a terry-cloth robe.
Imogene gathers her hair at the nape of her neck and, with the tip of her tongue, touches her top lip. It’s swollen, though probably not enough that Jo Lynne will notice. But she might notice the scratch the boy gave Imogene on her cheek.
“I didn’t start anything up again,” Imogene says. She never promised to stop drinking, just to stop drinking so much.
“Is it Vaughn and Russell?” Jo Lynne asks. “I’d understand if—”
“No,” Imogene says, not wanting their memory to get tangled up in this mess.
“Then what in God’s name is going on?” Jo Lynne says, and that toe starts tapping. It means Jo Lynne has compassion, God knows she has compassion and patience too, but enough is enough. “Is it Mama?”
“Mama’s fine,” Imogene says. “I want to wait for Eddie.”
Just as she says her brother’s name, another set of tires rolls to a stop outside the front porch. Imogene rocks forward from her seat on the sofa, stands, and she and Jo Lynne walk into the kitchen as a car door opens and closes. Jo Lynne flips on an overhead light, crosses her arms, and leans against the counter. All her life, she’s had a look for every occasion, even this one, whatever it turns out to be. Her blond hair is pulled over one shoulder and tied off loosely with a pale blue ribbon. A single long curl sweeps around her jawline, framing it softly. The sight makes Imogene run both hands over her hair, smoothing it as best she can, and she wishes she had brushed her teeth and washed her face.
Normally, Eddie would throw open the screen door and then the kitchen door and ask first thing for someone to put on the radio so he couldn’t hear Mama’s ticking. Big as he is, what with a squared-off jaw and every bit of Daddy’s height, Eddie can’t abide that ticking, though he doesn’t like to let on. He’s always one to help Mama when something needs fixing but never stays for supper or sits down for a cup of coffee. Mama always says she understands and even seems relieved, because sitting across from her son and hearing him talk like all the other men in her family must strain even a mother’s love. Jo Lynne gets on all right with Mama’s heart if she keeps herself busy doing something else and doesn’t look Mama straight on, which is why Mama’s kitchen is always cleanest after Jo Lynne’s been to visit. But when Eddie’s feet hit the porch, heavy as usual because he always wears black steel-toed work boots, there is silence. And Eddie is never silent. Probably because he has never been quite the man Daddy had hoped he’d be and so is always trying to remind people, convince them, he is someone to contend with. The worst came when Daddy would close his eyes and shake his head at something Eddie had done wrong. Those quiet shows of disapproval seemed to weigh heavier on Eddie than when Daddy hollered at him.
About the time Eddie turned twenty-five, Daddy stopped hollering. He seemed to give up hope. That’s when Eddie started trying to fill up as much space as he could, whether it was with his heavy stride or his loud voice or the weight he had been putting on ever since. All of it was his attempt to make up for every
other way he fell short. So as the silence on the porch stretches out, it’s unusual, and Jo Lynne and Imogene look at each other. As Jo Lynne sets aside the rag she has been using to wipe down the counters, the door flies open.
“Jesus, Immy,” Eddie says, not asking about the radio. His brown hair is damp because he sweats when he drinks, and he wears a heavy flannel shirt left untucked, loose-fitting jeans, and those black boots. “What in the hell is going on down at the old house?” His eyes settle on Imogene as he draws a hand over his squared-off jaw.
Jo Lynne grabs Imogene’s arm, pulls her close. She smells like the lavender water she sprays on her pillow every night. “What on earth is the matter?” she says.
Eddie doesn’t answer but instead picks up the house phone and jabs a thumb toward the driveway as he dials.
Out on the porch, the bright light of the kitchen behind them, Jo Lynne walks toward the corner of the house while Imogene stands at the top of the steps leading down to the drive. Both are searching for what has upset Eddie. It’s too dark beyond the porch to see anything. The smell of smoke is stronger now, stronger even than when Imogene first got home. Sometimes Mama uses wet wood and it smokes real bad.
“Here,” Jo Lynne shouts. Standing at the edge of the porch light’s reach, she is little more than a faint outline.
In the few steps it takes Imogene to reach Jo Lynne, she already knows what is happening. A faint orange glow rises over the ridge to the east. It’s fire. Something is burning on the other side of the lake. The old house likely or the field just beyond the rise. It’s all on fire.
It Falls Again
During the 1920s, under the leadership of a Texas dentist, the KKK began to make unprecedented political gains. In August 1925, forty thousand Klansmen paraded down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC. By the mid-1920s, the Klan was regularly terrorizing communities with whippings, shootings, and lynchings. Additionally, women deemed immoral became targets. However, lawsuits, internal power struggles and scandals, and increasing coverage by the press of Klan violence began to take a toll on its membership. The Great Depression led to a continued decline, and in 1945, the Internal Revenue Service filed a lien of 685,000 dollars against the Ku Klux Klan for back taxes on income earned during the 1920s. These factors combined to cripple the KKK for the second time.
Chapter 19
TILLIE
Today
As Mrs. Tillie begins to talk, every so often smoothing her nightdress, Tillie nods along. She says they won’t be leaving Simmonsville because of stolen watches, and Tillie is glad of that because leaving behind their home would’ve been like leaving behind Russell and Vaughn. Russell is there in the shop, behind the counter where he stood on a stool as a little boy so he could reach the register and punch at its keys. He’s out on the porch, where he’d sit to tinker with his fishing poles. And Vaughn is there too, right in those same spots alongside his daddy, because he didn’t grow up enough to make memories of his own. Relieved to be staying, Tillie leans back in his chair, and his aching joints finally loosen. Mrs. Tillie always knows what to do. It was the same all those years ago when Tillie came home crying and shaking and knowing he had to get out of the Klan but not knowing how he could do it. Once he had quieted down, Mrs. Tillie leaned back and said . . . this here is what we’re going to do.
Nearly forty years ago, the Kmart had been scheduled to open the day after Tillie came home, crying and shaking. That had been the thing keeping Mrs. Tillie awake every night since the Simmonsville Herald first started writing about it coming to town. Our little shop won’t never be the same after that ribbon is cut, she’d been saying for weeks. So that’s likely why she’d been awake and sitting under the glow of that same lamp. Her hair, smooth and brown in those years, hung loose to near the center of her back when she stood.
“There’s only one way Robert Robithan will let you out,” she said, and as she began to pace, her white nightdress brushed her calves with every step. “Family.”
Tillie nodded, though he didn’t understand, nor was he entirely paying attention. The crying and shaking had stopped, and the house smelled of the cinnamon, cloves, and honey Mrs. Tillie used to spice her grape jam. And because he was feeling better, he couldn’t help noticing the way Mrs. Tillie’s curves were being backlit by the lamp and how he was seeing them through her nightdress right here in the living room. Seeing her soft, round parts out in the wide open made something hum inside Tillie in a way that it didn’t generally hum.
“You’ll tell folks I’m sick,” Mrs. Tillie said. “You’ll go to that godforsaken ribbon cutting tomorrow and tell folks I’m ill. Tell them I’m proud and been hiding it for weeks.
“I’ll skip church a few times too,” she continued, sitting in her chair again. “And stay in the back room down to the shop so folks won’t see me working. And then in a month’s time, you’ll tell Robert Robithan I’m sick and ask him what you should do. He’ll tell you a man tends his family and then you’ll ask his permission—his permission, I’m saying—to leave the Knights so you can tend your wife. When I’m better, you’ll return.”
“I’ll return?” Tillie said, wanting never to go back again after what he’d seen that night.
“You’ll just say that,” Mrs. Tillie said. “You won’t really mean it. We’ll drive once a week to Macon and make like we’re going to a finer doctor over there. Even close the shop for a few hours so folks take notice. And we’ll start attending services in Macon too. Say my only niece lives there. I damn sure ain’t going to pray with that bunch no more.”
Tillie nodded but knew he was going to have to ask Mrs. Tillie to explain it all again.
“And we’ll keep it up a good long time?” Mrs. Tillie said.
“Yes,” Tillie said.
And they have kept it up a good long time. It’s been forty years now. They don’t make like they’re going to the doctor anymore, and when Mrs. Tillie got pregnant with Russell, they made out like it was a miracle and folks mostly stopped asking after her health. Tillie thought it was all far behind them, but now they got a whole new mess and Mrs. Tillie has a whole new plan.
“We have fourteen thousand two hundred seventy-four dollars tucked away,” Mrs. Tillie says. “And we’re going to give five thousand of that money to Natalie Sharon for them watches.”
Tillie starts to stand because he damn sure isn’t giving away his money, but then he understands.
“And she’ll give it to Tim,” he says. “That’ll make Tim happy, and Robert will never know Timmy stole from him.”
Mrs. Tillie nods. “Then you’ll drive them watches over to Robert Robithan and say a fellow you don’t know brung them into the shop. Say you knew they was stolen the moment you seen them. Say you give that man money out of your own pocket to keep them watches safe.” She pauses then as if thinking some more. “And you’ll tell him you didn’t call the police because you know Robert likes his business kept private.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Tillie says. “So come Monday, I’ll head into the bank, get that money, and call Natalie back down to the shop.”
Mrs. Tillie holds up a finger at the sound of the phone ringing. She keeps her eyes pinned on Tillie as she mostly nods to whoever is talking on the other end.
“The Coulter place is on fire,” she says after hanging up.
“Was that Imogene?” Tillie asks.
Mrs. Tillie shakes her head. “One of the fellows over to the police station. Anything you need to tell me?”
Tillie shakes his head. “Is anyone hurt?”
“Tillie, is Imogene Coulter mixed up in all this?” Mrs. Tillie asks. “Is that why she was at the shop this morning to see you? Because the Coulter place is on fire and Robert Robithan is missing seventy thousand dollars’ worth of watches and something don’t seem right.”
Chapter 20
IMOGENE
Today
At the sound of the door off the kitchen flying open, both Imogene and Jo Lynne turn. Eddie walks out of
the house and onto the porch, takes two long steps, and pushes through the screen door. Once across the drive, he disappears into the dark. Before Jo Lynne can pull Imogene back into the house, he reappears.
“The gate’s already open,” he says, yanking on the screen door and holding it as he stands in the threshold. His face is damp even though it’s nearly cold enough to turn their warm breath to clouds of fog. “Was it you, Immy?”
Imogene pulls back, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks to Jo Lynne, who is looking at her just like Eddie, both of them waiting for her to say something.
“Was what me?” she says. The way Eddie is staring down on her, his eyes wide, not blinking, is making her want to back away from him.
“Gate’s open. Means someone’s been down to the old house,” Eddie says. “What the hell did you do?”
“Imogene?” Jo Lynne says.
Imogene takes a few steps toward the end of the porch closest to the fire and points. “I did not do that. That’s not why I told you both to come.”
“The whole damn place is up in flames, Immy,” Eddie says.
“I didn’t start any fire.”
Imogene is a child again, twelve years old, and it’s the day Jo Lynne hauled her from the lake before she could drown. Don’t you dare tell, Jo Lynne and Eddie said once Jo Lynne had dumped Imogene on the banks and wrapped her in a towel. It was the two of them against Imogene, and they knew for certain Imogene would tattle on them because she had a way of ruining everything. She even ruined Mama by being born. But Imogene didn’t tell. She didn’t tell about Garland bringing beer or Jo Lynne and him kissing under the pines or Eddie teasing her about the earwigs, and she mostly didn’t tell how she wanted to swim all the way across so she could finally see her real daddy and know his name and see if he had red hair too, how she wanted all those things because she had stopped believing he was evil like everyone always said.