Tears blur my vision as I pick up the Mason jar from the ground and open it. A repulsive stink spreads, worse than any skunk. Moonshine. The same stuff some of the men from the mill passed around behind the church, after Jo and Daniel’s wedding. My face grows hot as I imagine Johnny Monroe spitting tobacco juice on Daddy’s grave. Careful not to touch where Johnny Monroe’s mouth has been, I throw the jar into the woods.
Revenge fills my mind. Revenge I can’t act on. Daniel must have made Johnny really mad and he wants me to know it. Telling Daniel again might make Johnny do something even worse, like come after me or Meg or one of my family. If he’s willing to defile the final resting place of a good man who was kind to him, I know now that there is nothing so low that Johnny Monroe wouldn’t do.
Since it’s the anniversary of when everything in my life changed, my tender memories feel all exposed.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say. “It’s all my fault.”
I wrap my arms around his marker, touching my cheek to the rough stone. It smells of crushed leaves mixed with tobacco and it feels cool to my touch, even in the noonday sun. The coolness reminds me of the day he died. His skin kept getting cooler as the warmth left him, like a fire slowly dying away. I force the memory away, wanting only to remember the good things.
In the distance, Miss Mildred practices the organ for Sunday service, the faint tune resembling The Old Rugged Cross. Johnny Monroe knows better than to get anywhere near the church on Sundays, on account of Preacher wanting to snatch his soul from the devil and claim it for the Lord. Preacher would probably get an extra reward in heaven for bagging a big sinner like Johnny. To hear Preacher talk, saving souls is like a baseball game between God and the Devil. Every sinner saved is a home run for the Lord. But Johnny deserves to suffer the fires of hell. If I wasn’t convinced of this before, I am now.
The willow tree sways with the breeze and the sun flickers from behind the clouds. A small whirlwind dances on Daddy’s grave before skirting down the hillside toward the mound of newly packed earth on top of Ruby Monroe. Her grave remains unmarked, except that somebody has placed a handful of wilted flowers on top of the dirt. Ruby will probably never have a marker because the Monroe’s are too poor to get one and it isn’t like anybody at the church will take up a collection for it, either, like they did for Daddy.
A twig snaps behind me and I jump. Fear crackles up my spine. Word is there are still mountain lions up in the high hills, though nobody have seen one for over twenty years.
“Well, look who’s here,” a voice says. In that instant I know that it’s a human predator I am dealing with instead of an animal one.
The shock of seeing Johnny Monroe freezes me in my tracks. Goosebumps crawl up my arms. His clothes are covered with dirt and he has a bruise under one eye like somebody beat the fire out of him.
“Hello, Johnny,” I say, hiding my fear. If you come across a rattlesnake you’re supposed to stop, then slowly back away. But I am still on my knees and backing away isn’t an option.
“I thought I’d come visit your daddy,” he grins. Whoever blackened his eye, knocked out one of his teeth, too. “Yeah, me and your daddy had a little party up here last night. Did you know he liked moonshine whiskey?”
I clinch my jaw. Anger surges inside me again, but I figure this is just what Johnny wants, an excuse to come after me. I force myself to take a deep breath instead of the short, jagged ones my anger insists on.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” He pokes me in the shoulder.
“No, I just need to be going, that’s all,” I say. “Mama’s waiting for me.”
“No she’s not,” he says. “I bet she has no idea you’re up here.”
My insides churn. Johnny is right. He moves closer. His breath stinks of moonshine.
I start to stand, but Johnny pushes me back down. “You ain’t goin’ no place,” he says. He grabs my wrist and squeezes tight. It hurts like blue blazes. When I try to pull away, he holds me fast.
“Okay, maybe I can stay for a while,” I say. Even though I act calm, my heart is racing. I decide my best chance of getting out of there is to act like Johnny’s friend. “How are you and your Daddy doing, Johnny? I was so sorry about Ruby.”
He looks confused and glances over his shoulder at Ruby’s grave. For a split second I wonder if he put those flowers there himself. Maybe he misses her. But when he looks back at me I know his rage has left no room for tender heartedness. I wonder if I can outrun him. Maybe if I catch him by surprise. His eyes narrow, as if he has heard my thoughts.
“You don’t care about my family,” he says.
“It must be hard not having a mother,” I say. “Kind of like me not having a father.”
I’ve never seen Johnny Monroe look puzzled. “I’ve been watching you,” he says through gritted teeth.
“So what,” I say, trying to act casual. “People watch other people all the time.”
Johnny holds my wrist tighter. In the distance, Miss Mildred and Preacher come out of the church. I yell to them, “Hey, up here! Help!”
Johnny puts his hand over my mouth and squeezes my face. His grip hurts and his hands smell of tobacco. When I scream again, it comes out muffled. Besides, Preacher and Miss Mildred are far enough away that it won’t do any good. Preacher locks the door even though there’s nothing in there worth stealing—a few hymnals is all, and Miss Mildred’s organ, which I can’t imagine anyone taking the time to lug down the road.
After they leave, Johnny uncovers my mouth and grabs my wrist again. He looks smug, like he’s gotten away with something.
“I really need to go, Johnny. Daniel’s going to come looking for me any minute.” When I try to jerk free, his grip tightens until my fingers turn white.
“Daniel don’t know you’re up here. Nobody does. I saw you leave your house,” Johnny says.
I knew he’d been watching me and this just confirms it. “Let’s just forget all this,” I say. “I’ll go home and you can get on back to standing on your road and nobody has to know anything about it. I’ll even put in a good word about you to Meg.”
Johnny leans closer and runs his free hand up and down my arm like he is calming a calf before slitting its throat.
A breeze blows through the willow tree and jiggles the leaves like gold coins. Johnny touches my hair. His hand is awkward, clumsy. “You like that, don’t you,” he says. His try at tenderness is scarier than his roughness.
I pull away, but the vice of his grip holds firm.
“You’re feisty, aren’t you?” Johnny says. “I like feisty.”
The voice in my head screams out for help, but I am alone. Daddy is gone. I fight back the sadness as hard as I fight back Johnny. It doesn’t matter how loud or how long I scream up here, nobody will hear me.
“Johnny you need to let me go,” I say again, my voice sweet as molasses. “Your mama wouldn’t like you acting like this.”
“My mama didn’t give a shit about me,” he says. He spits and I see in his eyes how much he believes it.
“I’m sure she would be here to help you out if she could, Johnny. Just like my daddy would be here to help me out if he could.”
“Your daddy can’t do nothin’ for you now,” he says, “not since he got hisself cut in half.”
Johnny’s words grip my chest like he’s reached in and squeezed my heart with his dirty, bare hands. I aim my fist right at Johnny’s nose and swing and hit him as hard as I can. The punch connects. He moans. Blood squirts from his nose onto my face.
“You bitch!” he yells. He grabs his nose and loosens his grip long enough for me to pull away. I run for the shortcut as fast as my legs will go, forcing myself to not look back or it will slow me down. My feet pound the ground with every step, yet it feels like I’ve sprouted wings. I leap over roots and branches and anything in the path. I’ve never run this hard. I smile with the thought that I might get away. Then I hear Johnny coming down the hill behind me.
My hea
rt pumps wildly. The footbridge lies over the next rise. If I can make it to the bridge and get across before him, I might have a chance. Johnny weighs more than me. He’ll have to slow down to get across. I grip the necklace around my neck while I run and ask Daddy and God and Mary to save me, and anybody else in heaven that will listen.
Through the trees I catch sight of the old footbridge up ahead. Johnny’s breathing is heavy and close. Just when I think I’m going to make it, he tackles me to the ground. The fall knocks the breath out of me. I gasp for air. Johnny flips me over hard. He yanks my hair. His nose is red and swollen. Blood streaks across his face like cat’s whiskers. His stink smothers me, a foul stench of moonshine, tobacco and rotten teeth. He pins my shoulders to the ground.
At that moment the thought occurs to me that the two things I fear most are right in front of me: Johnny Monroe and the threat of dying young. If Johnny has his way, he’ll put me in the grave right next to Daddy so he can spit tobacco juice on my name, too.
Out of breath, Johnny leans over me and smothers me with his body. His whiskers hurt, brushing my cheeks and neck like a thousand sharp needles. He yanks my hands over my head and holds them there. I pull hard against his grasp but have no strength to move him. Johnny forces his mouth against mine and I taste his rotten spit. I gag and choke. Then he bites my lip and shoves his tongue down my throat. I struggle, jerking my mouth free.
“Johnny, don’t!” I cry. He grins at me and I feel like I am looking into the face of the devil himself.
“There’s nobody here that can save you,” Johnny says, and I believe him.
Then he slaps me so hard my ears ring like the treble notes of Miss Mildred’s organ. I taste blood in my mouth and my face is hot and stinging with pain. I turn my head to the side and throw up. This seems to make him even angrier. He slaps me again. The pain is a hundred times worse than anything I’ve ever felt. When I scream again he covers my mouth with his hand. I bite his hand hard and he slaps me, closed fisted again, so hard this time the pain crescendos into numbness. Urine soaks my underwear and the warmth spreads down my legs.
Seconds later, the pain goes away. I have the odd feeling that I am floating outside of myself, watching the scene. This isn’t happening to me at all, but to a stranger, some other foolish thirteen-year-old girl who didn’t listen to her secret sense and is powerless to get away.
“What’s the matter, Louisa May?”
“My name’s Wildflower,” I mumble, defiant.
“Wildflower?” he laughs, “Nah . . . people should call you Weed.” He grabs my hair again and pulls. “Yeah, I think I’ll pull this weed.”
As he drags me screaming to a clearing, I search the woods for salvation. But the chance of anyone finding me is about as slim as the chance that Johnny will have a change of heart. Hot tears streak my face and pool in my ears. I tell them to stop so Johnny won’t see my weakness but they keep on like the trickle of a stream seeking the river.
“Let’s get you comfortable,” he says, pulling me over on a bed of leaves. It’s as if his motions have nothing to do with me. I could be anybody, or anything—an animal he wrestled to the ground. He pulls a jack knife from his pocket and unfolds it. Then he waves it in front of me, inches from my face. The metal glitters in the patchy sun, as if recently sharpened.
Something moves in the distance and I look past him into the trees. I gasp. Ruby Monroe is hanging by the neck swinging in the breeze. Her eyes, wide open, stare down at me. I watch her until the image fades away.
“What are you looking at?” Johnny says. He throws down his knife, takes my jaw in his hands and holds my head so that I have to look at him.
“Nothing,” I say, as if I might get Ruby in trouble.
He rips off my dress; the new one Amy made me for my birthday that I put on this morning in honor of the anniversary of Daddy’s death. The seams are tight and not easily torn, but he manages with the help of his knife. The air is cool on my skin. He stares at the yellowing camisole that all my sisters wore before me. Then he takes his knife and cuts it off. His eyes take in my fledgling breasts and he cups a rough hand over each. I dig my heels in the dirt and push away. He pulls me back.
“Well, look at this,” he says. He holds Grandma McAllister’s medallion in his hand. “Looks like real gold.”
“Leave that alone,” I say through clenched teeth. He rips the necklace from my neck. The chain stings my skin and I remember what Jesus said in the Bible about not throwing your pearls before swine. But Jesus didn’t say what to do if the swine turned out to be bigger than you and stole your pearls without asking.
Johnny gazes at the necklace. For a moment, his eyes soften. But then he sees me watching him and his expression changes as fast as a lightning strike. He touches his nose. A fresh trickle of blood comes from inside. With new determination, he wraps his fingers around my neck until I can’t breathe. I squirm to get away and search his face for a sign of mercy. There is none. It occurs to me that Johnny Monroe’s hateful face will be the last thing I see before I die.
He loosens his grip to whisper in my ear, and I suck much-needed air into my lungs. “If you tell anybody about this, I’ll kill you,” he says. “Y’hear that? You can’t hide from me. I’ll find you and kill you dead!”
I nod, thinking it’s over, that Johnny’s had a change of heart. He’s going to let me go, as long as I promise not to ever tell anyone. But instead he tightens his grip again and unhooks the belt on his pants. There is no fight left in me. My heartbeat echoes in my ears. I pray to God to be rescued and ask him to send Daddy. I offer wordless prayers to the trees, the river, and the land and then apologize to Mama for getting myself hurt and to Aunt Sadie for not paying attention to what she taught me about the secret sense.
I close my eyes and surrender. Seconds later Daddy comes toward me. He stands, surrounded by light, and holds out his hand for me to take. I float toward the treetops to meet him and he takes me into his arms. When I look back, I see my body still lying on the ground, Johnny on top of me. I wonder briefly how I can be two places at once. But it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that Daddy is here. A year ago he left, but now he’s back. He’s come to take me with him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
One Year Earlier
Daniel McBride comes to the schoolhouse during recess. I’ve seen him around because he works at the Blackstone sawmill with Daddy. Jo has had a secret crush on him ever since he came to our house last Christmas. Daddy always invites anybody that doesn’t have family nearby to come to our house on holidays because he says we have enough family and food to share. Daniel used to live up North and he is the only Yankee I’ve ever seen up close. Since jobs were scarce, he moved to Rocky Bluff to take a position with the railroad. When that didn’t work out he took a job at the sawmill, where Daddy is his supervisor. Most people have forgiven him for being a Yankee on account of how nice he is.
Breathless, Daniel’s sweat soaks into his shirt. He leans over and whispers something to Mr. Webster, my teacher since first grade, who is sitting in the shade grading papers. Mr. Webster turns and looks over at me on the swing, his face solemn. Mr. Webster is strict, but fair, and always wears a suit coat like being a school teacher is as important as the President of the United States.
“Louisa May, you need to go home right away,” Mr. Webster says.
“Why?” I ask. I’ve never in six years of schooling been told to go home.
He looks at Daniel and then back at me. “You’re needed at home,” he repeats, as if this is all the reason I should need.
“But why?” I ask. “What’s happened?”
Mr. Webster hardens his face and I remember the last time I had to write I will not talk back to Mr. Webster a hundred times on the blackboard.
“Come on, Louisa May,” Daniel says. He stands and motions toward the truck.
“What’s going on?” Mary Jane asks, walking over from the swing.
“Nobody will say,” I tell Mary Jane, �
�but it can’t be good.”
“Good luck,” Mr. Webster says as I leave.
It feels weird for Mr. Webster to wish me anything, especially good luck. Not to mention how strange it is to go home so early in the day. Sometimes on the last day of school we get to go home early, but never at the first of the year and never before lunch. Even if a big snowstorm hits, we are expected to make it in and stay the full day.
Daniel holds the door open to the sawmill truck while I step inside. He gets in on the drivers side and starts the truck. Flecks of sawdust stick to the sweat on his forehead.
“What’s happened?” I ask, still trying to get answers.
He hesitates, as if weighing the consequences of his words, and then says, “There’s been an accident. They’re taking your daddy home.”
“If he’s had an accident, why aren’t they taking him to the hospital in Rocky Bluff?” I ask.
Daniel pauses again, his arms resting on the steering wheel. When he finally speaks his voice is softer than I expect. “We’ll find out when we get you home.”
My chest tightens, making it harder to breathe. Something is up, and I am convinced that something isn’t good. “Does Mama know?” I ask.
“Yes. She’s waiting at the house,” he says.
We ride in silence the whole way and it is the longest ride home I’ve ever had. I am afraid to ask any more questions, afraid to know the truth, or maybe I don’t want to make Daniel more uncomfortable than he already is. Though he seems nice enough, I hardly know him at all.
Daniel takes it slow over the bluff like everyone does, respecting the sheer drop that accompanies any false turn. After the road levels off, he parks below our house, securing the parking brake despite the level ground. I jump out of the truck and run ahead, realizing halfway up the hill that I forgot to thank him for the ride.
The Secret Sense of Wildflower Page 7