I nod. We sit in silence for several seconds, as if paying our respects to the spirits of the dead who are everywhere. If I didn’t feel the need to protect Lily, I would have already left.
“My aunt didn’t tell me that Johnny died,” she begins again. “I had to find out from the letters. All this time, I imagined he was still living in this cabin, up to no good.”
I wonder if she’s come to Katy’s Ridge for answers.
“Do you remember when it happened?” she asks me.
“It was a long time ago,” I say, thinking it was more like a lifetime.
“You know what’s odd?” she asks, without waiting for an answer. “It’s odd to me that Johnny died by falling down a mountain. Johnny knew these hills up, down and sideways. He would never have been that reckless.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine, as though she’s challenging me to a game of truth or dare.
“From what I heard, it was winter,” I say. “The footbridge was icy.” These are the facts. But what I don’t tell her, is that I would have killed Johnny myself if he hadn’t fallen.
Her eyes narrow. “How do you know this?” she asks.
“I know because Daniel and Nathan found him,” I say, which sounds innocent enough.
She sits straighter in her chair, as though curious. “They must have been looking for him to find him at the bottom of the ravine. It’s not like there’s a clear view.”
Melody is clever, and I search the past for the truth. I was the one who spotted Johnny at first. I saw something shiny at the bottom of the gorge. Johnny was wearing the gold medallion he had stolen from me. Later, I thought that Johnny taking the necklace was his way of getting his mama back. Lily wears it now, unaware of its history. I wanted to give her a piece of the gold Mary. But I wonder now if I was also giving her a bit of her father.
I force myself out of the past. “Why did you come back, Melody?”
She squints from the cigarette smoke. Then drops the butt in an empty jelly jar with an inch of water in the bottom. It gives a short hiss.
“Like I said yesterday, I came back to sell the place. Not that anyone would have it.”
Melody glances around as if calculating the cabin’s worth.
“In his last letter to my aunt, Doc Lester said she might want to come and meet Lily. He said she was a very special girl. Imagine my surprise to learn I had a niece.”
I exhale, hearing the imaginary other shoe drop. Melody looks at me like a cat waiting for an apology from a mouse.
You’ll get an apology when hell freezes over, I want to tell her.
The only sunlight in the room is hidden by a cloud and her face falls in shadow.
“Listen, I can’t imagine that you actually wanted to have Johnny’s child,” she says. “He forced himself on my sister, Ruby, too.” She glances out the window toward the oak tree.
At the time of Ruby’s death, news of her unborn child flew through Katy’s Ridge like a flock of sparrows going from tree to tree. I remember seeing Ruby in that small coffin, knowing she had a tiny unborn baby still in her belly. Over a decade later, I still shiver with the thought.
Secrets get buried all the time. I’ll keep mine buried, too, especially if they might cause Lily to suffer. I clinch my jaw. I’ve spent the last fourteen years making sure that my shame didn’t touch my daughter, and Melody could erase all that in a day.
My thoughts capture me, and I’m startled when Melody begins speaking again.
“Did it ever occur to you that we might like to know that Johnny had a child?” she asks.
“I didn’t think you’d care,” I say, though in truth, it never occurred to me that Johnny’s family had any rights to my child.
“My aunt is near death and would like to see her,” Melody says.
“I thought you said your aunt was dead.”
Melody’s eyes dart toward the door, as if looking for a way out of her lie.
“I meant to say she’s dying,” Melody says.
“She even sent money for the bus, so I can bring Lily home.” She pulls a few bills from her tattered dress pocket. I’m not sure which story to believe.
The sun returns but offers little comfort. “Lily’s home is here,” I say.
It never occurred to me that a member of Johnny’s family might get curious and come looking for Lily. Or that the news would ever go beyond Katy’s Ridge.
However, if there is anyone who might want to bring trouble to the McAllister family, it is Doc Lester. He hates Aunt Sadie, and was less than useless after Daddy’s accident. Not to mention his suggestion to get rid of Lily before she was born. I’m not sure what he had in mind, but if she were a kitten he probably would have drowned her in a bucket. His treatment of us since then hasn’t been much better.
I always thought it would be Preacher who would condemn me to eternal damnation and treat me accordingly. But even he has managed to swallow whatever judgments he has about me and Lily, which I imagine are considerable. Perhaps it helps that Lily sings so beautifully in his struggling choir and often sings solos that bring the old widows of Katy’s Ridge to tears. Tears that guarantee to up the totals in his collection plate.
“So you haven’t told her who her father is?”
Melody’s eyebrows arch toward the sagging ceiling that has a greenish tint. If Mama were here she’d take a scrub brush and a bucket of bleach to it.
“I don’t blame you,” she quickly adds. “I’d make up a story myself before I’d say Johnny was the father. Hell, that’s like admitting you had a thing for Hitler.”
Her giggle sounds childlike, as though all these years she’s never left this cabin. Even today, she’s barefoot, like the last time I saw her when she was a girl. At least we have one thing in common. It appears she hates Johnny as much as I do. I can’t imagine hating one of my sisters as much as she hates her only brother.
Melody puts the wad of dollar bills on the table as though offering to buy her. My scalp tingles and my secret sense gives me a nudge to get out of there. But I can’t go just yet. I need to get what I came for.
“Are you going to tell her?” I ask.
She smiles and I remember Johnny’s crooked teeth.
“I might,” she says. “Don’t you think she deserves to know?”
Lily has said similar things.
All of a sudden the dark cabin feels like it might swallow me.
“I guess I’ll leave it up to Lily,” I say. “But if you really care about her—” The words tighten my throat. Melody doesn’t even know Lily. There’s been no time for caring to grow.
Silence fills the room. It is Melody who studies me now, as if disappointed my fear doesn’t give her more pleasure.
“I’ll leave it up to Lily, too,” she says finally, and folds the money into her pocket. “If she asks, I’ll tell her what I know. If she doesn’t, I’ll leave it alone.”
A lone cicada sings, trapped in this cabin for so long it has no idea whether it’s day or night, summer or fall.
“But what about your dying aunt?” I ask. “I thought she wanted to see Lily.”
She hesitates. A smile comes and goes so quickly I question whether I’ve imagined it.
“I can always keep the money and tell her Lily changed her mind after I’d already bought the bus ticket,” she says.
The deep breath I take makes her smile again, as if she realizes how she’s held me hostage.
“Lily is a great kid,” Melody says, and I wonder how she would know that after only laying eyes on her for the first time yesterday. “No doubt that’s your influence. Though Johnny wasn’t all bad, either.”
Her generosity surprises me.
“From what Ruby told me, he was actually a sweet boy before Mama died. He was my older brother, by about six years, so we weren’t really close. By the time I knew him he wasn’t that nice.”
She looks around like her family’s history is recorded on the walls like ancient cave paintings. A history she would rather not rev
isit, either.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” she begins again.
“No,” I say, though the opposite is true.
“Does it bother you that she looks so much like Johnny?” she asks.
Though everyone must think it, no one has ever spoken these words. Lily is Johnny’s child, if only in looks. She is tall, thin and has his intense eyes. Eyes that won’t let you get away with anything. Eyes that penetrate and see the things you wish they didn’t see.
I stand. “To me, Lily looks like Lily,” I say.
What I will never tell Melody, is that it did bother me at first. Immensely. Even when she was small, I could see Johnny in her bone structure, her way of standing. If Johnny was still alive, all Lily would have to do to confirm paternity would be to look at him. But Johnny isn’t living, and nobody —until now— has even brought it up.
“I’ve got to get to work,” I say. I stop at the door and turn before leaving. “So you promise you won’t tell Lily anything unless she asks you?”
“That’s right,” Melody says.
Something causes me to linger. I want to give her something more so she might keep her promise. “I hope life has been okay for you, Melody. You know, in recent years.”
She stares into the teacup resting between her hands like June Sector does when she reads tea leaves. I imagine her tea is cold now, yet she holds it as though it warms her hands.
“It could have been better, I guess,” she says.
We end our conversation with the pleasantries that often begin one. But something tells me that the trouble is far from over.
CHAPTER NINE
Lily
The morning is crisp and the dew makes the path down the hill slippery in places. When I reach the bottom, Mama’s truck is gone, and I wonder why she felt the need to leave the house so early. At the road I hesitate, wondering what I’ll miss at school today, and then turn toward the old Monroe place. I have never skipped school before. Not once. But today I have a higher quest. I need to find out the truth.
With every step my guilt rises with the oatmeal in my stomach. I stop at the crossroads where one road leads to the elementary school and the other leads to the mill, and rethink my decision. Even though I’ve missed the bus, I could still go to the mill and make up a story. I could tell Mama I wasn’t feeling well at first, but that now I would like to go to school. Then either she or Uncle Daniel could drive me into Rocky Bluff.
Going to the high school is the only break I get from the smallness of Katy’s Ridge. While the population here hovers around fifty, Rocky Bluff has almost 1500 residents, and is a metropolis in comparison. Still, it’s not like me to break the rules.
A truck drives around the bend, and I’m relieved it’s not Mama. The driver slows when he sees me. It’s my Uncle Cecil. Not my favorite person. The truck idles as he rolls down his window. From the passenger side, Janie looks at me with her flat expression. Uncle Cecil’s birthmark reminds me of my geography teacher saying the Soviet leader, Khrushchev, was a scary man.
“You miss the bus?” Uncle Cecil says.
I pause long enough for a fresh wave of guilt to crest. “I’m helping out at the elementary school today,” I say.
Janie turns her beige face toward me like my ‘helping out’ is news to her.
“Hop in. That’s where we’re going.” He leans over Janie and opens the door so I can get inside.
“Actually, I’m enjoying the walk this morning. Mama says walking is good for me.” I give him a smile, surprised by how easy it is to lie.
Uncle Cecil shrugs and closes the door before giving me a short wave and driving away. He is new to the family, but is nice enough, and I can’t believe I’ve just lied to him. It’s not like I can get away with it, either. If Janie doesn’t tell, it will come out when he tells Aunt Meg that he saw me on the road this morning. There is no way I won’t get in trouble for this, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
For the longest time I stand at the crossroads kicking rocks from one side to the other. A feeling comes over me that I’ve had more than once. A feeling that someone is watching me, even though nobody is around. A gust of wind brings down a flurry of leaves that scoot along the road and gather in a dusty whirlwind before dancing away. I pull my sweater close and remember the stranger from the day before with her mud-caked shoes. The thought of her gathers me up in her whirlwind, and I turn in the direction of the Monroe property. Since I’m probably already in trouble, I might as well do what I set out to do.
Around the bend in the road, I hide my lunch pail behind a boulder, planning to pick it up again on my way home. A few steps later I take off my heavy sweater and tie it around my waist. The sun, having risen above the ridge, is now warming up the day. When I get to the dirt road off the main road, Mama’s truck is pulled off on the side.
What’s Mama doing here? Her empty coffee cup sits on the seat of her truck. Is this why she tossed and turned all night? Was she dreaming up a plan to visit the stranger? I take off down a narrow dirt road that is pocked with mud puddles.
One summer, Bolt and Nat and I went in search of the empty Monroe cabin. We’d heard for years that it was haunted and wanted to check it out. Back then we were in the midst of a dry spell so it wasn’t this muddy.
In no time, mud cakes around my good shoes Mama bought me for my birthday last July. My feet get heavy, and I wonder how the stranger managed to keep her shoes as clean as they were. At this rate, I’ll be scrubbing mine for hours, removing the evidence of where I’ve been. To avoid the deepest mud holes, I perch on mounds of grass when possible, leaping to the next clump of grass. Several leaps later, I come upon the small cabin. When I see Mama standing in the doorway talking to the stranger, I duck behind a large sycamore tree. I am too far away to make out any of their words.
A circle of oak trees guards the house, and I remember the story of the girl who hung herself. The place would feel creepy even without knowing the story. The dark forest makes this place look like a Hansel and Gretel fairy tale. I half expect to see breadcrumbs in the mud, leading the way out of the forest. If I were smart, I would probably follow them.
The wind pushes the cabin’s bitter smell in my direction. This old house has been in the process of falling down for years. Patches of light green moss grow on the roof and vines as thick as three fingers hold the house hostage. I wonder if I can get close enough to hear what Mama and the lady are talking about. I hide behind trees and underbrush, inching my way closer to the cabin. I crouch at the right side of the porch behind an old rusty washing machine. I listen to Mama’s lower voice and the stranger’s higher one. A duet in a minor key. Although I can’t make out any words, I can tell from the way Mama’s holding her body that she’s not happy.
When Mama walks out the front door, I drop to my knees to stay hidden. She takes the path back to her truck, and the look on her face is one I’ve never seen before. Regret? Sadness? Cold mud soaks into my bottom of my dress. Now I’ve ruined my dress, as well as my shoes. Trouble piles on top of trouble.
Seconds later the stranger steps out on the porch without shoes, wearing the same dress from yesterday. She mumbles something under her breath about teaching Mama a lesson, and then goes back into the house. I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or angry or just acting normal.
I keep an eye on Mama, just in case she comes back, prepared to dive into the dark recesses under the porch. I don’t move until her truck starts up and the gravel spews as she drives away. Then I stand and look down at the red Tennessee clay pressed into my knees, as well as the mud damage to my shoes.
I sit on an old log next to the house and lean against the rotting wood to decide what to do next. Not only have I skipped school, but I’ve ruined my things. The woman inside the cabin begins to sweep. I contemplate whether I should just walk away or knock on the door.
Warmth comes to my face. I decide to make the best of all the stuff I’ve ruined, and stand and brush myself off. Then I make a
wide circle back through the woods so I can approach the house as though I’m just now showing up.
When I get to the porch steps I call out ‘hello.’
The stranger comes to the door, broom in hand.
“Does she know you’re here?” She looks out into the forest, the way Mama left.
“No,” I say.
“So you were hiding out here the whole time?”
“Not the whole time,” I say.
She gives a slight grin like I remind her of somebody.
“I wondered if you’d have the guts to show up,” she says.
When her grin grows into a smile she looks younger and not nearly as scary. She is pale, like her life has seen very little sunlight. “Come inside,” she says. “Leave your shoes at the door.”
“You have something to tell me?” I ask, not moving. I don’t even want to think about what Mama would do if she knew I was here.
“You willing to listen?” she says back.
“Depends on what you have to say,” I answer.
“Come inside,” she says. She goes into the house leaving the door open.
I can’t move. It’s like my feet are anchored to the earth with mud, and I’ve been made a prisoner.
“Come on,” the stranger says, from inside the house.
I think of Hansel and Gretel again. Is there a big stove in there that she’ll throw me into?
You read too many fairy tales, I tell myself.
I wish I had Mama’s secret sense. It would tell me what to do. But the secret sense is a language I’ve never learned to speak. At least not yet.
The rickety steps lead to an unstable porch. It helps that I just saw Mama leave here alive and well. I approach the door not knowing what I might find inside. The stranger sits at a small table in the corner. A chair is pulled out where I imagine Mama sat. I take a seat and glance around the small, dark room.
“Could you tell me your name again?” I ask, feeling bold. “I don’t remember from yesterday.”
“Melody,” she says, in a sing-song voice, like she recognizes the irony of someone so sad having such a beautiful name.
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