Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

  “My shift started two hours ago,” she said, gloomy.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We just spoke with your boss.”

  “So you’re my personal pink slip, I’m guessing.”

  I nodded, apologetic.

  She inhaled deeply, then let her breath out in a slow, steady stream. She closed her eyes and shook her head as if clearing the cobwebs. “Okay. Moving on.”

  She came back to life and studied me. Every detail it seemed, my clothes, shoes, the purse slung over my shoulder. Then finally her gaze lifted to meet mine. Her eyes were clear blue, slightly puffy, and completely devoid of recognition.

  “Who won?” she asked, indicating my eye, fully bloomed in its purple glory today.

  “Shower door.”

  “Ah.” She looked thoughtful. “Last night’s not all that clear. Sorry. Hope I didn’t say anything untoward.”

  The formal word made me smile. “You didn’t. Not to me anyway. It’s just that you seemed to recognize me.”

  She nodded, this way and that, like she was trying to recall. She stepped closer. “We haven’t met, have we?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Not formally.”

  And then her face changed, a lightning shift from curious to alarmed. “Oh. Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “I’m pretty sure I did something really stupid.”

  “What?”

  She turned away, scratching at her scalp, staring at the floor. It was as if she were talking to herself. “It was so stupid. I should’ve known my instincts were right. That you were coming. I swear to God, when the hell am I going to start trusting what I know . . .”

  “Ember. What’s going on?” I asked.

  She glanced at me. “You’re here for the bones, aren’t you?”

  My mouth went dry.

  “So you can clear Ruth’s name.”

  I stared at her, unable to respond.

  “The thing is,” she said mournfully, “if you are, it’s too late. I know I’m such an idiot, but I sold them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Florence, Alabama

  1934

  Brother Comer did enjoy his moonshine, that was for sure. Ruth had spotted him as she, Bruna, and Arthur had crossed the railroad tracks on their way toward Sheffield. He was tipping back a jug a good hour before the service and was nowhere in sight when six o’clock rolled around.

  This left Ruth and Bruna in charge of entertaining the antsy crowd, which was going to be a hell of a feat from the annoyed looks on the congregants’ faces and their discontented murmurs. Even Bruna seemed out of sorts, her face fixed in a grim scowl after her regular private talk with Arthur.

  She and Bruna had been singing for over thirty minutes when Ruth finally told the lion story. But after she was done, the girls were running on empty, Arthur scowling, and Brother Comer was still nowhere in sight. They’d have to launch into “God Bless America” if that rat didn’t show up soon.

  Not that this crew would know the difference. In the one good turn of the evening, the folks had gotten so drunk in the Spirit that they were swaying and sweating, crying real tears and jabbering in tongues. But Ruth knew that, in the end, they’d really come for Brother Comer, not the Hawthorn Sisters, and eventually they’d turn on the girls if the star of the show didn’t appear.

  “What about ‘Rivers of Delight’?” Ruth whispered to Bruna.

  “You can reach those notes?”

  Ruth gestured to the listless crowd. “You think they’ll notice? We could sing ‘The March of the Valkyrie’ and they’d sing hallelujah right along with us.”

  “We should just sneak out the back.”

  Ruth shook her head. “I’m not leaving until I’m paid.”

  Bruna sighed. “From the looks of it, we aren’t going to be.” She glanced at Arthur, fiddling with his tie in the wings. “And Arthur’s going to be fit to be tied.”

  “Let him,” Ruth said. “We should do ‘Steal Away to Jesus’ again. They like that one. But this time the last stanza. Just follow me.”

  “Oh Lord, Ruth. Are you trying to get us in trouble?”

  Suddenly they heard a voice behind them.

  “It’s gone!”

  They turned to see a woman, about sixty or so, with a large hat, half-crushed and sprouting curled feathers, pulled down low over tight gray curls. She was dressed in shades of brown, and an old-fashioned reticule dangled from her wrist.

  “The growth is gone.” She pointed to her neck. “It was here, right here, when I came tonight. But then you began to sing, and it began to shrink.” She clasped her hands over her neck. “Someone call Mr. Foshee. He’ll know. He’s the one who took me to the doctor in Decatur!”

  Bruna’s eyes looked like they were about to spring out of her head, and she dug her nails into Ruth’s palms. “Jiminy! What do we do now?”

  “Mr. Foshee is just down the way,” the old woman called out to the crowd. “He promised that he was coming along shortly.”

  “He musta got waylaid by a blind pig just like Comer!” a man yelled. Laughter rippled through the tent. A blind pig was what folks called a speakeasy.

  “I know this Mr. Foshee,” Ruth said to the woman. “He’s tall, right? Works for you . . .”

  The woman nodded, her hand still wrapped around her neck. “At the butcher shop. That’s right.”

  Ruth addressed the crowd. “Then, I ask you, why do we need the word of Mr. Foshee, of any man, when we have the word of a good woman? A kind and forthright woman of impeccable honor and dedication to those in service to her family?”

  The woman blinked at her, and Ruth put her hand on the woman’s back.

  “‘Bless the Lord, O my soul,’” Ruth said. “‘And all that is within me, bless His holy name.’”

  Bruna put a hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “‘Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits: Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases.’”

  Her voice rang out, clear and firm in the tent, and the crowd amened.

  “This woman’s been healed,” said Arthur, rounding the end of the stage. He looked like he’d been surprised out of a nap, tightening his tie, smoothing back his hair, and blinking hard. “Let us praise the Lord and sing him a new song!”

  Ruth had the briefest inclination to kick him in the balls, but she was grateful for him all the same. He had a showman’s sense of timing, that was for sure. And Bruna had started up another round of “Throw Me Overboard.” In seconds, the girls were swarmed, people pulling on their dresses and begging for prayer. Arthur tried to keep a semblance of order, making the people wait their turn in orderly lines. It was near midnight when they prayed over the last person.

  “A piano leg’s not going to do the trick,” Arthur crowed as they trudged back in the direction of Florence. “I’m going to have to find another hiding place.”

  Ruth, her arm linked through Bruna’s and her body wracked with weariness, didn’t want to talk about the money. All she could think of was the old woman who claimed her tumor had disappeared. She had been mistaken, there was no doubt, or was out-and-out lying, but now the horse was out of the barn. The Hawthorn Sisters had a reputation.

  Bruna leaned her head on Ruth’s shoulder and groaned. “I just want to go home and sleep.”

  Arthur sidled up on Bruna’s other side, and Ruth saw his hand snake up behind her, at an angle lower than it should. Bruna yelped and skipped forward, tossing her head, straightening her skirt, and sending a saucy look over her shoulder.

  “Fresh,” Bruna said.

  “Just how you like it,” Arthur replied.

  Ruth stayed quiet. Eventually Bruna fell back to join Arthur, and the two continued to walk, heads pressed together and whispering things Ruth couldn’t hear. Ruth contemplated them with new eyes. She’d known Arthur and Bruna liked each other, even loved maybe, but now she saw the truth. They were sleeping together, sure as shooting. What’s more, they were going to get married.

&nbs
p; She could see it so clearly now, the simple fact, as if it were a revelation straight from heaven. And understand the implications as well. If Bruna and Arthur got married, they would no longer have any need of her. Surely, they would ditch her, and the thought of that happening, the fear, consumed her. So much so that she failed to notice the tall, thin man standing on the side of the road in a black hat tied at the brim with a pink satin ribbon.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Florence, Alabama

  Present

  “It was about a month ago. The guy was waiting for me when I got home from work,” Ember said.

  “Did you recognize him?” Griff asked.

  “Well, I had met him once before, but I never found out his name.”

  “What did he look like?” Althea asked.

  “Like every old redneck around here.” She sighed. “The first time I met him, I was hammered, spaced out on Xanax too. I went to a bar in town, Toasties. We started talking there . . . I don’t know exactly what was said, but I’m sure it’s all”—she swirled her hands above her head—“up there somewhere, in the cloud.” She turned back toward the murky shadows. “All I remember is the man acted like he was just one of those Alabama history wing nuts. He said he’d heard I had Steadfast Coe’s bones, that he thought the old man’s maid had killed him, and he wanted to give me a thousand dollars for them. A couple of nights later he showed up at my house.”

  “Did you also have a document with them?” Griff asked. “Like an old letter? The guy said he had a signed confession.”

  “Nope,” Ember said. “Nothing like that. Just the bones.”

  “Okay, back up,” I said. “You didn’t think that was weird at all? That he wanted some old bones? And he had an opinion about who killed him?”

  Back still to us, she peeled off her tank and pulled on a threadbare plaid flannel shirt. I averted my gaze to an old lawnmower, plastered with grass clippings and dirt.

  “Believe it or not,” she said, “bone collecting’s a thing. Naturalists, oddity freaks, people who get off on that stuff. He said he’d been looking for a full male skeleton, and I guess word got out that I had one.” She shrugged. “I’m used to it. The religious nutjobs, the loonies who worship the Hawthorn Sisters, asking me for mementos.”

  She appeared in a weak shaft of light. “It’s old-timers mostly. I’m told the Sisters were quite the superstars back in the day. Anyway, my dad had the bones for years. He kept them down in our basement. After he and my mom died, I cleared out their house and brought them over here.”

  “Not trying to be a smart-ass here,” Althea said, “but you knew Steadfast’s disappearance was never solved. If you had his bones, why didn’t you turn them over to the police?”

  She let out a short, nervous breath. “I was a kid when I first found out about the bones. Like, I literally stumbled across them in my parents’ basement one day. When I asked my dad, he told me it was my great-great-grandpa Steadfast Coe and that he had found the bones on our family property. In Alabama, if you find human remains on your property, you’re not required to report it.”

  “Why didn’t your dad have them properly buried then?” I asked.

  “Because he was a jerk.” She shrugged. “He told me not to tell anyone. I was twelve; I didn’t question him. My dad was not the kind of guy you messed with, if you know what I mean.”

  “I hear you,” Althea said.

  “Of course, later, I connected the dots,” Ember went on. “Realized that maybe he was protecting somebody he cared about, maybe a family member, from being implicated in something less than legal.”

  So not Dove. I couldn’t help it; I wilted in relief.

  She raked her fingers through her short hair. “But if my dad was protecting someone, that person’s probably dead now, so why should I give a shit? I could’ve gone to the cops with the bones, I guess. But why? Nobody around here cares anymore who killed the guy . . . and I could use the cash.” She turned to me. “But that’s not what I feel so bad about. The thing is, I knew. I fucking knew you’d show up eventually.”

  I felt a chill roll through me. “How?”

  “I just had a feeling, I guess.” She fixed me with an incredulous look. “Didn’t you see the sign out front?”

  I stared back. “I don’t believe in psychic abilities, Ember.”

  “Okay. Then maybe it was because Granny Bru was one of the Hawthorn Sisters, and I heard the rumors about Dove, and I figured one day it might come back to bite you.”

  This line of conversation was getting us nowhere. Time was ticking and I needed something concrete to help me in my search.

  “So this is your house?” Griff asked.

  “No,” Ember said. “It’s Jason’s. He lets me stay rent-free, which is nice, and I appreciate it. My parents are long gone and my launch was what you might call . . . rocky.” She shut her mouth, clearly trying to dam the flow of unwanted information.

  But the picture was becoming clearer. Jason and Ember had some kind of miserable cycle of family dysfunction going on and I’d landed smack in the middle of it. Navigating it may get sticky, but I had no choice. These people were all I had.

  “What about the Flowing Hair Dollar?” I said. “You got that stashed away back here, too?”

  “No,” she said, wary again. “Why do you ask?”

  It was time to lay all my cards on the table.

  “Because the guy with the bones thinks I have it, Ember.” I pointed to the bruise. “He did this to me, then told me he wants to make a trade. The coin for the bones. If I don’t give him the Flowing Hair Dollar by tomorrow night, he’s going to turn the bones over to the authorities and say Dove murdered Steadfast.”

  Her face crumpled and she put a hand over her mouth. “Oh Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, Eve.”

  She moved to place her hand on my arm, but I angled away, just out of her reach. “Then help us now, please,” I said. “If you know where the coin is, if you have any idea whatsoever, I really need you to tell us.”

  Her smile was full of bravado. “I know I must look like I come from the criminal branch of the family, but I swear to you, I don’t know anything about the coin. And if I did, I sure wouldn’t be living here.”

  Hopelessness washed over me. Dove had lied about her past, about her work for Steadfast and the accusations that had been leveled against her. And now those lies were gathering into a giant wave. Gathering and cresting higher and higher above me every minute that passed, and I couldn’t do a single thing to protect everything in its shadow.

  Ember had positioned herself in front of me, her face gone soft with genuine curiosity. “So, Dove’s granddaughter. I can’t believe we’re finally meeting after all this time. You look so much like her, you really do. To be honest, it’s really freaking me out. Like, look . . .” She thrust her arm in front of me and pushed up the sleeve. Her arm was covered in goose bumps.

  I wasn’t about to say it, but mine was too.

  “Wait,” she said abruptly. “I do actually have something you might be interested in. The reels.”

  Griff perked up. “Reels? What reels?”

  “Old recordings that my Granny Bruna left me. I’d never give those away.”

  Griff and I exchanged glances. The bootleg tapes Margaret Luster was talking about. Ember had them.

  “Would you allow us to take a look at them?” Griff asked.

  “I mean, you can see them,” Ember said. “But not watch them. I don’t have the right kind of film projector. They’re inside.” She turned back to me, a slight smile on her face. “Did you see the tree out front?”

  “The decorated one? Yes.”

  “It’s a hawthorn. Kind of our family tree. Did you feel anything when you passed it?”

  I tilted my head to one side. “Like what?”

  “Like a flash. A picture in your head. Or a particular pain somewhere in your body?”

  “No. Not really. Sorry.”

  She grinned at m
e. “It’s okay. It was worth a try. Anyway, the tree’s great because, it pisses Jason off. Treat me like the black sheep of the family long enough, I’ll give you the blackest sheep you ever saw. Freakin’ black hole, dark night of the soul, after midnight . . . sheep.”

  “Here, here,” Althea said.

  A phone buzzed behind us, and Ember dug it out from under a pile of God-knows-what on the cot. “What?” She was quiet for a long time, biting at a ragged nail, her raccoon-ringed eyes, large and white in the gloom, latching on to me. Then she started to speak in low, whispered tones.

  I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. What she’d just asked me had piqued my interest. She seemed to be suggesting there was a connection between Bruna and Ruth, her and me, and a hawthorn tree. Which was ludicrous, of course. Absolutely ridiculous. Dove never had a gift. Ember’s psychic business had to be a con. And the tree? It was nothing more than a freaking tree.

  But that’s what these kinds of people did. They planted ideas, stoked secret hopes and dreams. And then, just when their marks were good and vulnerable, they ever so gently relieved them of their cash. And yet, as much as I hated it, I felt myself drawn by Ember’s suggestion. By the allure and mystery of it.

  I still wanted to believe, in spite of everything I knew.

  “Oh God. Okay,” Ember said to the person on the other end. “I don’t need the car. She’s here with me. We’ll be there in five. Have coffee, okay?” She ended the call. “Gird your loins, y’all. Little Lord Jason has summoned us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Florence, Alabama

  1934

  The Hawthorn Sisters were deluged with invitations to minister at all the spring camp meetings, from Killen to Waterloo, all the way down to Grove Hill—and two in Corinth, Mississippi, and Lawrenceburg, Tennessee. The most illustrious of all the requests came from the organizers of Billy Sunday’s famed tabernacle meeting that was scheduled in Huntsville for a date in June.