by Lori Roy
“We found her,” Warren says, and because of the way he takes Imogene’s hands, not worried about her yanking away from him, she already knows the young girl is dead.
He goes on to tell Imogene that the girl, Bethany Jane Liddell, was found dragged back up into the trees not too far from the house. His best guess—Garland killed her while Jo Lynne was serving biscuits and gravy to the Klan in Mama’s kitchen and the fire was barely out at the old place. He figures Garland wanted to kill both Bethany and Christopher to sever any ties to him.
“Probably was holding out hope he could still get your mama to sell the place and take care of his debts.”
“This whole time,” Imogene says. “Even before Tillie could find the necklace she left for him in his shop. She’s been gone.”
Warren also tells her that the young girl, Bethany Jane, wasn’t Christopher’s real mama. Imogene already knew that, though she hadn’t told Warren. It was something Eddie said, or maybe it was Jo Lynne when they were all up on the ridge. She can’t remember what it was, but it had rooted itself and she was afraid of what it might mean. Christopher might have a family out there who would want him and Imogene would have to let him go. She nods and runs her thumbs over the backs of Warren’s hands. She’ll have to tell Christopher that his mama is dead, and she’ll have to be strong enough to see the look in his eyes when she does. She’ll have to be strong enough to see Vaughn in those eyes and not turn away. She’ll have to be strong enough to keep holding on.
“Eddie won’t tell us anything about Christopher’s real mother, not even her name. Says Garland killed her and doesn’t know where the body might be. Killed her because she tried to run. I figure he won’t tell because he wants Christopher here with you.”
Imogene nods and turns to go, but Warren holds tight to her hands.
“I’m still worried about that money,” he says, tilting his head so he can look down into her eyes. “They’ll keep coming until they get what they’re owed. Men who’ll do what I seen done to Garland, they’ll keep coming. What your daddy was hoping to get for those watches, that wasn’t even going to put a dent in what Garland needed to pay back.”
“You know what’s almost funny?” Imogene asks, ignoring what Warren said. “I remember Edison having a fit when he realized the house, this whole place, was in Mama’s name alone. Granddaddy had to explain to him twice how it was best to only have her name on the deed so it couldn’t get seized in a lawsuit. Not even sure if that’s true. But instead of Mama protecting it from some lawsuit, she’s kept the Klan from getting hold of it. That’s almost funny, isn’t it?” She pauses and looks up at Warren. “Now Mama is the last Simmons who will ever own this place. And I can guarantee you’ll never see another Knight on this property.”
“Please, Imogene,” he says. “You and your mama really need to think of leaving here. Your mama owns this place, you’re right about that. And it’s hers to sell. So sell it and move on. Natalie Sharon, she’s gone, and you can bet it’s because she’s afraid, and that was over a couple of watches.”
The hardest part for Imogene has always been imagining the final moments of her son’s life when he realized she wasn’t there and that she wasn’t coming. Did he miss her, wonder why she wasn’t sitting alongside him in the back seat like she should have been, almost always was. Worst of all, was he frightened? She hadn’t been there for either him or Russell because she’d stayed home to get caught up on the laundry. Daddy had told her she was no kind of wife or mother. You got no food in the house. Dishes is piled in your sink. That child ain’t had a haircut. You ain’t no kind of wife or mother.
And so when Russell and Vaughn went to the park to ride the swings, Imogene stayed home to do the things Daddy said needed doing. If she hadn’t been folding the laundry and chatting with Jo Lynne about something she can no longer remember, could she have seen the truck coming up from the right? Could she have seen that it wasn’t going to stop and warned Russell in time? Every day, for the past five years, those last few final moments have unraveled in exactly the same way and so the ending has never changed. And every day, for the past five years, she has hated Daddy because everything he was, every belief he held, destroyed her life when she lived instead of died. Destroyed it until now.
“Christopher is staying, yes?” Imogene asks.
“Do my best to keep him here with you,” Warren says. “Don’t have a hope in hell of finding out if he has any family out there. But please, think about what I said. You all need to think about leaving here.”
Sometime in the days after the accident that killed Vaughn and Russell, Warren told Imogene that her son’s and husband’s final moments were really final seconds, split seconds, because it had happened that fast. There was no time for fear or suffering. That’s all she’s ever had to hope for. Warren told her Vaughn and Russell were gone instantly, both of them were. But maybe Warren only said that to spare her. She knows him well enough now to know he’s kind like that.
“Come on inside,” Imogene says, leading Warren toward the house. “Mama’s cooking.”
There will come a day when a new family moves into the simple farmhouse that doesn’t look much like what people imagine of a plantation home. They’ll scrape and paint the clapboard siding, marvel at the tall baseboards they’re certain are original, and think the worn patches in the pine floors are authentic and quaint. And maybe they’ll learn that the Klan once gathered alongside the lake just east of their new home. Maybe they’ll occasionally feel the chill of the history that hangs over the house, though they’ll never quite understand that, while those men no longer march past, dressed in their robes and hoods and carrying torches, they’re still out there, just underfoot. The town, Imogene hopes, will never forget that the hate is still simmering and that it can rise again. If they’re never gone too long from remembering, they’ll always be ready. Mama and Imogene will be staying in the house for now, for as long as Mama wants. This house, this land, will never again be a foothold for the Knights of the Southern Georgia Order.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to the many fine people at Dutton who supported this novel. Thank you to Christine Ball for her many years of commitment to my work, and to Maya Ziv for her guidance, enthusiasm, and keen eye. Thank you also to Emily Canders, Madeline Newquist, and Elina Vaysbeyn for their professionalism and for taking such great care of this novel. And much appreciation to Jenny Bent of the Bent Agency for her many years of guidance and support and for the late-night tweets that made me laugh. I would also like to thank James Sewell for his insight and Brenda Kocher for sharing some of her knowledge with me over a few cups of coffee. I am especially grateful to Brenda and Tibet, as are many in our community, for the important work they do. And thanks to Stacy, Kim, and Karina for their ongoing support and friendship, and thanks to Roy Peter Clark for sharing his journalist’s eye. I’ve also been thinking lately about several of the writing friends I first met many years ago. While we may only see each other online occasionally these days, my thanks to Adam, Lisa, Scotti, Michael, Chris, and Angela.
Lastly, thank you to William, my first reader, and to Andrew and Savanna, who haven’t read my work but who are always eager to discuss a story line and make a suggestion or two.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lori Roy is the author of Bent Road, winner of the Edgar Award for Best First Novel; Until She Comes Home, finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Novel; Let Me Die in His Footsteps, winner of the Edgar Award for Best Novel; and, most recently, The Disappearing. She lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, with her family.
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