by Meg Moseley
“Done.” She salvaged a good hanger from a hideous floral jumper. The skirt ballooned as it sailed through the air to land on the growing heap of discards. “Done, done, done.”
She worked her way toward the back of the closet, toward clothes she hadn’t worn in years. The further she went, the closer the memories came until finally she leaned against the back wall, hiding her face in a faded blue dress she hadn’t worn in nine years.
Carl never knew she’d laundered it and hidden it. The stains hadn’t come out, and she was glad. They proved Jeremiah had existed.
Holding the dress to her heart, she stumbled out of the closet and faced the bed where she’d given birth to her first baby, in a different house. On the same bed, here, five years later, she’d held him for the last time. The bed had seen blood and anguish at the beginning of Jeremiah’s life and again at the end of it.
He’s gone, Carl had said, over and over. He’s gone. Crying won’t bring him back. Shut up, shut up, shut up!
But Carl had wept when he’d thought she was sleeping. He’d blamed himself for everything. He’d loved Jeremiah too.
Miranda curled up on the bed and pressed the dress against her face. She tried to muffle her crying at first, but Carl wasn’t there to silence her. He wasn’t there to forbid her to speak Jeremiah’s name.
“Jeremiah,” she said softly at first, then louder and louder. “Miah, Miah, Miah!”
She heard footsteps. Then Jack was kneeling by the bed, stroking her hair and letting her cry. Her grief finally broke out of her in a wail that she wished could wake the dead.
twenty-six
Voices filtered through the open windows to the porch where Miranda sat rocking. Martha sounded out a story about a bear while Jack explained the Jacobite rebellions to Timothy. Jack seemed to know something about everything.
The door creaked open and shut. Jonah came out onto the porch, clutching a picture book to his belly. Rebekah had already read it to him, over and over. It was a silly tale about a friendly family of dragons.
Mason would have said the dragons were demonic. Miranda didn’t care.
“Read, Mama?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Sit on my lap. Gently.”
He climbed into her lap and opened the book. The print was large, and her vision had cleared enough to make the reading easy.
Jonah pointed to the smiling dragon on the first page. “Good dragon.”
“He’s a good dragon and you’re a good boy.” She kissed the top of his head. “Did you know your birthday is coming up soon?”
“Cake?”
“Yes. Cake. With two candles.”
She smoothed his curly blond hair against the curves of his skull. Leaning her head against his, she inhaled the smell of baby shampoo. Her last baby, so much like her first.
Jonah pointed at a splash of water on the page. “Rain?” He giggled. “Mama’s raining!”
She wiped the tear from the paper and began reading. Jonah let out a happy sigh and slumped against her, then straightened again, no doubt remembering Jack’s earlier warning: Hold still as a stone or lose lap privileges.
“The baby dragon laughed and laughed,” she read. “Even the daddy-dragon laughed and laughed.” On she went, scarcely comprehending the story but quickly reaching the end.
Satisfied, Jonah slipped off her lap. Giving her a sweet smile as good as spoken thanks, he ran for the house with the book.
Jack held the door open for him and stepped outside, pulling his phone from his pocket. He sat beside her and pushed the phone’s buttons with his thumb. “Marvelous invention, text messaging. Ever tried it?”
Stealthily, she wiped her eyes. With her emotions firmly in check, she faked a smile. “Don’t try to bait me. You know I’ve never even owned a cell phone.”
“You should get one. The signals aren’t always reliable in the mountains, but it’s better than nothing. Especially in an emergency.”
True. With a cell phone in her pocket, she would have been able to summon help within moments. Jack’s tiny phone looked like a toy, but maybe it could have saved Jeremiah’s life. She would never know.
Trying to escape those unanswerable questions, she watched Jack’s thumb flying over the buttons again. Texting. Another skill she’d have to learn.
The first time she used a cell phone, she would feel as if she’d rejoined modern life. That day would come soon, Lord willing. If she could outsmart Mason.
“Did Jonah ask for the dragon story again?” Jack asked.
“Yes, it’s his favorite.”
“The new stories aren’t as good as the old fairy tales, like St. George and the dragon.”
Miranda shivered. “I don’t like the gory ones.”
“No? I do. Speaking of dragons …” He went back to texting. “Farnsworth. Good Lord, deliver me.”
And me, Miranda mouthed silently.
While Jack dealt with his messages, she imagined herself as a modern St. George—except she was a woman. St. Georgia.
It was no laughing matter. She couldn’t let Mason slither out of town with his lies intact. She had to finish him off or live the rest of her life in fear.
Jack sat on the porch’s top step, watching the kids wash his car. Again. He’d never thought of car washing as a privilege, but their enthusiasm was inspiring. If life itself was a privilege, so was every mundane part of it.
Michael had appointed himself boss of the operation. He rinsed the car with enthusiasm, making a stream flow down the driveway and into the grass. Jack was drawn into the bad memories of his thirteenth year, but he shook them off.
Rebekah ran outside with old towels, and the kids swarmed over the car, drying it. Even Jonah tried to help.
Timothy, however, was nowhere in sight. He’d been doing that. Disappearing for hours or retreating into long silences that bothered Jack more than the occasional flare of temper.
“Somebody’s coming,” Gabriel yelled, slinging his towel over his shoulder.
Jack prepared himself for a van full of clones or the head guru himself, but a sheriff’s cruiser came around the bend. He stood and walked down the steps, his heart lifting as if the cavalry had come thundering in.
Dean flashed the car’s blue lights and whooped the siren to make the kids laugh, then pulled up next to Jack and lowered the window. “I just thought I’d check on the family. How’s everybody doing?”
“Very well, thanks.” Jack checked to make sure nobody had wandered within earshot, but all his helpers were still drying the Audi. “Miranda’s leaving Chandler’s church, so everything’s changing for the better.”
“Good.”
“But I’m going to be spending more time in Chattanooga soon. Could you swing by now and then? Create a little more police presence out here?”
“Is this just about a widow who’s spooked about living on a back road, or do you have particular concerns?”
“I don’t know. I’m a worrywart.”
Dean smiled. “Nothing wrong with that. We’ll keep an eye on her. To protect and to serve, that’s what I’m here for.”
“I’m very grateful, sir. And I’ll be here, off and on. Next weekend, I’m going to borrow a big tent so we can camp out in the yard.”
“Just check the weather first. Those spring rains can be frog chokers.”
“Will do.”
“Good man. Take care now,” Dean said.
It sounded like a farewell. Like he thought everything was fixed, as fast as glue could mend a porcelain trinket.
Jack wanted to say, Not so fast there, we might still need you, but he settled for shaking hands. The car pulled away, the kids and Dean waved at each other, and Jack sat down again.
Miranda opened the door a crack and peered out. “I heard a siren.”
He rose and motioned toward the rockers, but she didn’t budge. “That was Deputy Dean, showing off for your young hoodlums. He’ll swing by now and then to make sure you’re okay.”
“Jack, no! I don
’t need the sheriff’s department on my doorstep.”
“There you go again, acting like you’re allergic to law enforcement.”
“I just don’t like … interference from the government.”
“You’ve absorbed a little too much of Carl’s attitude. Repeat after me, darlin’: the policeman is my friend.”
While she was still rolling her eyes at that, tires ran through the gravel again. Yvonne’s car pulled around the curve.
“It’s like Grand Central Station around here,” he said. “Were you expecting Yvonne?”
Miranda stepped onto the porch, smoothing her skirt with one hand. “Yes.”
“What’s up?”
“You’ll see.”
Hauling a sequined tote bag, the family’s gum-chewing guardian angel climbed out of her car, and the kids mobbed her. “Hey, everybody,” Yvonne said. “I just saw Tom Dean leaving. Isn’t he the nicest fella? He’s been through a lot, that man.” She smiled at Miranda. “Ready, hon?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, clear the decks. Men and boys, y’all need to skedaddle.”
“Excuse me?” Jack said. “Why?”
Yvonne parked her hands on her hips. “Because I said so.”
He tried to sneak a peek into her tote. She whipped it behind her back.
“But what are you up to?” he asked.
“None of your beeswax.” Yvonne popped her chewing gum. “Men and boys, shoo. Stay out of the house until you get the all clear. If you need a drink of water, there’s a hose. If you need to eat, go to town. If you need to pee, pee in the woods. We don’t want any men underfoot, but the girls can stay if they want.”
“Stay, stay!” the girls shouted.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Miranda said. “It was a last-minute, now-or-never idea, and I thought it was important.”
“Fine. Carry on.”
“We will,” Yvonne said, smiling. “As soon as the menfolk get out of our way.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw that Timothy had come close enough to listen. “Is there a decent pizza place in town? Or Chinese?”
“Both,” Miranda said.
“Do the boys like Chinese?”
“I don’t know. Carl didn’t like Chinese, so the children have never tried it.”
Jack turned to Timothy. “What do you say? Chinese or pizza?”
Timothy surveyed his siblings with those cool blue eyes. “Pizza.”
Of course. He was his father’s son.
“Because if the girls aren’t coming with us,” Timothy added, “we should wait to get Chinese sometime when they can try it too.”
Something melted in Jack’s heart. He gave the boy a gentle cuff in the shoulder. “Good thinking, man.”
Timothy was Miranda’s son too.
Yvonne had brought another load of hand-me-downs. She asked the girls to fetch them from the car. When they raced outside, their braids swinging, Miranda knew she might never see them that way again, dressed alike in denim jumpers and braids. Another door was closing on the bittersweet past.
The girls struggled inside, lugging one huge, black trash bag between them. They dumped the bag’s contents on the rug and began pawing through the clothing.
“There are some jeans that might fit you, Miranda,” Yvonne said. “And some light sweaters, just right for spring. There’s a beret. Some women can’t wear hats, but I think you can.”
Miranda’s eyes misted. Auntie Lou had loved her hats. The other church ladies never wore hats except on Easter, but Auntie Lou wore them whenever she pleased. Plenty of jewelry too, inexpensive and glitzy. And flirty shoes.
“See how pretty?” Martha held up tiny jeans, embroidered with pink roses on the pockets and hem. Her face fell. “Oh. I forgot. Jeans are for boys.”
Yvonne laughed. “Would your brothers wear jeans with pink flowers?”
“No!”
“Well, then. Those must be girls’ jeans. Try ’em on, baby.”
“Can I, Mama?”
“May I. Yes, you may. You too, Rebekah. Try some jeans. You may wear anything that’s modest and appropriate for your age.”
After a brief, shocked silence, the girls squealed. Rebekah pounced on a pair of flared jeans, slung them over her shoulder, and dug through the pile for more.
With no embarrassment about changing clothes in front of Yvonne, Martha wriggled out of her jumper and sat down to pull on the jeans. She stood up, conquered the zipper and snap, and ran a hand down her thigh. “It feels funny. Hey! We can climb trees better now.”
“And ride bikes without getting our skirts caught,” Rebekah said, running toward the bathroom with an armload of clothes.
Martha picked up a bright red T-shirt. “Is this one okay to wear? Pastor Mason says red isn’t for ladies.”
“You may wear any color that you find in creation,” Miranda said.
“Huh?” Martha frowned, tilting her head first to one side, then to the other. “That’s all colors.”
“Exactly. God didn’t make any bad colors.”
Martha smirked. “See, Rebekah?” she hollered. “All my Valentine colors are good.” With lightning speed, she stripped off her white turtleneck and replaced it with the red shirt. “Now I feel like a regular kid. I mean, child.”
“It’s all right to say ‘kid,’ too,” Miranda said. “I know you’re not a baby goat, even if you smell like one sometimes.”
Martha went into gales of giggles, then found a pink beret, set it at an accidentally jaunty angle on her head, and ran off to look in a mirror.
“You’ll have to steal that beret back,” Yvonne said. “It’d be cute on you. Now, what’s this business about red not being for ladies? Is that more of Mason Chandler’s foolishness?”
“Do you know him?”
“Not personally, but word gets around. The man has a few screws loose.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Why have you put up with his rules, then? Did your husband go along with them?”
“Yes. In some ways, Carl was stricter than Mason.”
“Stricter than that? And I suppose you obeyed him, no questions asked.”
Miranda checked to make sure the girls were out of earshot. They were, but she lowered her voice anyway. “Sometimes I disobeyed. Not often enough.”
“Well, like my daddy used to say, if you obey God with your whole heart, you’ll usually scare off the folks who want you to obey them.” She chuckled. “I haven’t heard him say that in years. He’s like a broken record now, says the same thing every time and thinks it’s a new word from the Lord. At least it’s a good word.”
“What do you think?” Rebekah romped around the corner, wearing a black T-shirt and sequin-spangled bell-bottoms that were years out of style.
“You’re beautiful.” Miranda’s vision blurred. “No matter what you wear, you’re beautiful, inside and out.”
“I sure feel prettier in pretty clothes.” Rebekah scooped up more clothes and ran for the bathroom again.
“You’re beautiful too,” Yvonne said, taking Miranda’s chin and tilting it upward. “Inside and out. Hold your head high. There. That’s it. I’d love to get a look at that preacher’s face when he sees the new Miranda.”
Miranda swallowed. Her new streak of independence might make Mason think twice about tangling with her, or it might only infuriate him. “Don’t take too much off. Be careful.”
Yvonne let go of Miranda’s chin and began undoing her braid. “You’ve spent half your life being too careful. It’s time to go for broke. Now, I’ve done hair for years. You let me have free rein, and I’ll do you up right. I’m thinking something flippy and wild and a little on the messy side. You know what I mean? Good messy, not bad messy.”
“Just leave it … long enough to play with.”
Yvonne moved behind Miranda, freeing the last of her hair from the braid. “Jack will play with it, all right. He can’t take his eyes off of you.”
Miranda
’s face warmed. “You’re crazy.” Her scalp tingled, a strange combination of relief and pain.
“No, he’s crazy.” Yvonne lowered her voice when Martha came back. “He’s crazy to be interested in the mother of six kids. But wait till we’re done with you.”
Miranda cleared her throat. “Martha, the bags of hand-me-downs Miss Yvonne brought us earlier are in my room. You and Rebekah may go ahead and see what you can find.”
“Can I have the pink party dress?” Martha asked with longing written all over her face.
“Yes, sweetheart. You may have it.”
Martha’s mouth dropped open. She let out a squeak and ran for the bedroom. A normal, all-American girl in jeans.
Again, Miranda wanted to cry but couldn’t understand why. “They’ll never want to wear denim jumpers again.”
“No great loss. Let’s get started. My, my, this’ll be fun. Jack won’t know what hit him.” Yvonne fluffed Miranda’s hair and clucked like a cheerful hen. “I brought makeup. I brought nail polish. I brought perfume. Poor Jack. He’s a goner.”
Afraid a reply would lead to more teasing, Miranda didn’t answer. She pulled a chair into the middle of the kitchen and sat, her pulse speeding. She hadn’t had a real haircut since she was eighteen.
Yvonne reached into her tote and pulled out scissors, a comb, a squirt bottle, and a thin cape of shiny black fabric that rustled as she draped it over Miranda’s shoulders.
“This is the only kind of cape I intend to wear for the rest of my life,” Miranda said.
Yvonne laughed. “Amen. Face forward, baby. Chin up.”
Miranda obeyed. She focused on a crooked line of hearts of all colors, taped to the refrigerator door, then on Martha’s crayon drawing of a spiky yellow sun over a strip of green grass and gigantic pink flowers.
Directly below, under a daisy-shaped magnet, was the business card of R. Jackson Hanford, PhD, also known as Unkul Jack. A man who loved to dig for the truth.
Below Jack’s card was Thomas Dean’s, with a phone number scrawled in the white space between the simple silver-foil star of the sheriff’s department and the intricate design of the county seal. She remembered him as a kind man, but he was part of the justice system. He had sworn an oath to uphold the law of the land. Like Jack, Dean was committed to digging up the truth. It was a lawman’s job to bring lawbreakers to justice.