by Kristin Gore
Lyn looked at her expectantly.
“You may not want to discuss this and I may be out of line,” Jiminy continued a bit breathlessly. “But I heard something that I want to ask you about.”
“Shoot,” Lyn said, and wondered why the girl winced.
Jiminy took a deep breath.
“I heard about what happened to your husband and daughter,” she said.
It was Lyn’s turn to breathe deep. Here was the abyss, suddenly at her doorstep.
“I heard how they went missing, and how they turned up killed,” Jiminy continued. “And I am so sorry. I don’t know the words to say how sorry.”
Lyn didn’t say anything back. She sank down onto the stump Jiminy had vacated, setting the paper bag of potatoes she’d brought with her on the ground and letting her purse slide down her arm to keep it company.
“She had my name,” Jiminy blurted.
“You have hers,” Lyn replied quietly.
“Right, of course, I have hers. I didn’t mean . . . My mother knew her?”
“Your mother worshiped her.”
“How uh . . . how old was she when she passed?”
Bo’s great-uncle hadn’t been completely sure. He’d said around fifteen. Willa had said nearly eighteen, though she really hadn’t wanted to say much about it at all.
“She didn’t ‘pass,’ she was shot in the head and thrown in the river,” Lyn said evenly. “There was nothin’ gentle or natural about it.”
Jiminy kept her eyes trained on the ground, but Lyn saw they were leaking tears.
“She was seventeen,” Lyn continued. “Smarter than all get-out. What I lived and breathed for.”
Besides Edward, Lyn added in her head. She’d lived and breathed for him, too.
“And your husband . . . ?” Jiminy asked.
“Edward was shot in the back. Thrown in the river, too.”
They weren’t very good swimmers, not that it would have mattered by that point. Still, it was something that had tormented Lyn, the thought of their souls trying to leave their bodies and not knowing how to swim to the surface. She had to imagine they’d left earlier. She had to imagine that, or she’d go insane.
“Do you know who did it?” Jiminy asked softly.
The only answer that would make any sense to her was some demon up from the underworld, something that sucked and snorted pure evil.
Lyn was shaking her head. Which is what Willa had done, and Bo’s uncle before her.
“They really never caught them?” Jiminy asked incredulously.
Lyn raised her gaze to meet hers.
“You act like they even tried.”
Chapter 4
Jiminy began sneezing immediately upon entering the Fayeville Public Library. There were no other patrons inside the tiny two-room building to object, but the librarian behind the counter looked startled.
“May I help you?” she croaked.
Jiminy wondered if she was the first person to whom the librarian had spoken all day.
“Yes, thank you,” Jiminy replied, sneezing again. “Sorry, I’m allergic to dust.”
The librarian looked offended. Jiminy forged ahead.
“I’m trying to find information on something that happened in Fayeville in June of 1966. Do you have newspapers from that year?”
The librarian blinked once, twice, three times. Jiminy wondered if this was some physical manifestation of her mental process. Maybe she was flipping through options in her brain, clicking them forward with her eyelids like an old-fashioned slide show. Finally, she spoke.
“Nothing besides the Fayeville Ledger. You gotta head to the big city library for the big city papers.”
And the fast-talking, big city gals, Jiminy added to herself. The librarian didn’t seem to be using these terms with any sense of humor, but they struck Jiminy as fake, like they’d been written in a script to be used when outsiders came a-callin’.
Was she an outsider? Jiminy felt connected to this town through her family, though she’d really only spent a little over four months of her life here, all totaled up. She’d been raised elsewhere—not too far away, but definitely elsewhere. Her mother hadn’t ever wanted to come back to Fayeville, even before her breakdown.
“I’m Willa Hunt’s granddaughter,” Jiminy offered, to prove that she wasn’t completely out of place here. She felt it was important to make that known.
Sure enough, the librarian softened.
“Your grandma’s a good woman,” she said. “Taught me biology, matter a fact.”
Jiminy knew that Willa had been a schoolteacher, but she still had trouble picturing it.
“She encouraged me to be a doctor, actually,” the librarian continued. “Said there was no reason a woman shouldn’t be. Said she’d always dreamed of being one herself, but it wasn’t meant to be.”
This was a surprise to Jiminy. She’d never thought of her grandmother as someone who harbored unfulfilled dreams.
“You said June 1966?” the librarian queried.
Jiminy nodded, realizing she’d been mutely preoccupied with her inner monologue. Her tendency to do this didn’t do wonders for her social interactive skills. She goosed herself to speak.
“I’m looking for any write-ups about something that happened that month. A couple of murders,” Jiminy replied.
“Well that woulda been front page news, so it should be easy to find,” the librarian answered. “I don’t remember hearing about anything like that though. You sure you got your facts right?”
Jiminy nodded.
“All right, the old papers are over there.”
The librarian directed Jiminy to the Fayeville Ledger archives, which consisted of a stack of cardboard boxes filled with yellowed newspapers in various stages of decomposition. Jiminy found the “1966–68” box and sneezed her way through to June. Since the Ledger was published biweekly, there were only two thin copies from that month, and neither had any mention of Edward and Jiminy Waters.
There was an opinion piece that caught her eye, though. It was titled “Coon Season” and it was written by Travis Brayer. She assumed he was related to Bobby Brayer, who was currently running for governor. The Brayer family owned a huge old cotton plantation just outside Fayeville. Jiminy didn’t pay much attention to politics, but a person couldn’t help but notice the billboard at the edge of town that read, “Fayeville: Proud Home of State Senator Bobby Brayer.” Several “Brayer for Governor” signs had colonized the patch of grass beneath it, along with most of the yards in town.
According to Travis Brayer’s article, he was upset about the “Negro uprising” happening in a neighboring state and felt compelled to warn the citizens of Fayeville that such dangerous unrest could spread to their own backyard if they didn’t stand guard and tamp it down. He made reference to “that uppity Meredith boy” and urged his fellow townspeople to stay vigilant.
Jiminy closed her eyes and tried to remember what she could about the Meredith Marches of 1966. She knew they had something to do with desegregation, something to do with voting, something to do with Martin Luther King, Jr. Unable to come up with anything more, she opened her eyes and looked around for a computer, but there was none to be found. Fayeville’s dearth of Internet connections was simultaneously charming and inconvenient. Jiminy reached for the encyclopedia set on a nearby shelf, feeling very old-fashioned.
Forty minutes later, she better understood that the summer of 1966 had been one of inflamed passions, of galvanization and conflict, of the South near its boiling point. This apparently had made for a place and time when innocent people could be slaughtered and forgotten. But really? Could they really?
She checked the July issues of the paper, and the August and September ones, just to be sure. There was no mention anywhere.
“Find what you’re looking for?” the librarian asked between bites of the salad she’d brought for her lunch.
Jiminy shook her head.
“No, actually. There were two brutal
murders of people who lived right here in Fayeville, and there’s not a single mention of them anywhere.”
“You must have your dates wrong,” the librarian replied. “You can check the 1965 box if you like.”
“It was 1966. Lyn Waters’s husband and daughter, Edward and Jiminy, were murdered that June. They were driving back from a leadership seminar Jiminy had won an essay contest to attend and they went missing. Two weeks later their car was found stripped and burned on the banks of the river. Their bodies washed ashore nearby.”
The librarian’s expression changed as Jiminy recited these facts. She put down her fork.
“Those aren’t the sort of deaths the Ledger covered back then,” she said evenly.
“Do you remember hearing about them?” Jiminy asked.
The librarian met her gaze.
“I remember hearing that Lyn’s husband and daughter had gone and got themselves drowned. I didn’t ask any questions. We don’t talk about things like that.”
Jiminy stared back, then sneezed powerfully, grateful that her body instinctively rejected such attitudes. Unfortunately this town seemed rife with them, and she was beginning to feel allergic to simply being here.
She took her leave and exited into the bright sunshine of the courthouse yard, where, slightly dazed, she made her way to the nearest tree and sank into its shade. With one hand on her diaphragm and the other propped beneath her head, she lay on her back, closed her eyes, and focused on her breath. She began to count how many heartbeats she could fit into one inhalation and had just stretched herself to three when she sensed someone standing over her. Her heartbeat surged as her eyes flew open. It was Bo.
“You looked so peaceful,” he said.
“It’s a good disguise,” she answered.
His grin was easily unfurled. She gazed at his white, white teeth and thought of sails on Lake Michigan.
“Do you wanna go get some food or something?” she asked.
It wasn’t like her to usher an invitation, but she’d come to realize that spending time with Bo delighted her. Her life had been short on delight and she felt greedy for it now.
Bo’s grin tacked starboard as he shook his head.
“I’d love to, but I haven’t earned it yet,” he answered. “I’ve got a long date with the lymphatic system,” he said as he held up his MCAT book. “Maybe later?”
“Lymph node hussies,” Jiminy muttered.
Bo laughed.
“You sticking around?” he asked. “This is my favorite spot to study.”
Jiminy thought about it.
“No, I’ve got things to do, too,” she replied. “But call me later?”
“Will do.”
His promise flapped in the air between them, crisp and clear and healthy.
Chapter 5
Whenever Willa walked into the HushMart superstore, she felt like she was arriving in another country and should have to show her passport for entry. An entire populace could live in the building and have everything they needed at their fingertips, at low, low prices. It was a wonder of a place.
She still occasionally happened upon entire sections that seemed new to her, and she wondered if the store was secretly expanding at night. The lot that had been zoned for it backed up to a limestone cliff, so there wasn’t anywhere obvious for it to grow, but Willa had a hunch that those light green–vested managers were far too innovative to let a little geology hamper their progress.
“Have you sampled our hickory-smoked chew toys?” a voice chirped.
It was one of the green-vests, offering what appeared to be a barbecue-scented shoe.
“No, thank you,” Willa replied.
“They’re for dogs. Do you have a dog?”
Willa shook her head.
“Then you’re in luck! The store’s opening a pet zone next month, so you can buy one!”
“Buy one? Fayeville’s already got more dogs and cats than people who want them,” Willa protested.
It was true. Puppies and kittens were regularly deposited at the large collection of Dumpsters near the interstate to fend for themselves, or dropped from the bridge into the river to end things more quickly. This wasn’t a town that was sentimental about such things.
“Those are all mutts,” the HushMart minion said dismissively. “We’ll sell purebreds here.”
Willa absorbed this as she glanced around at the floor-to-ceiling shelves that seemed to stretch for miles.
“Can you point me toward the silver polish?” she asked. “I get so turned around in here.”
“Straight that way, past the photo zone, third left into Household Care,” the employee replied obligingly, before turning to thrust the chew toys in front of another shopper.
Willa made her ambling way through the photo zone, marveling at the variety of cameras and camera accessories she passed. Her husband Henry had been a photography aficionado, and Jiminy clearly enjoyed her Polaroids, but Willa herself had never had much interest. She appeared in photos if another pointed a camera at her, but she’d never played an active role in capturing images. When it came down to it, she was a fundamentally passive person—someone whom things happened to, rather than someone who made things happen. Though she and her granddaughter had never been close, until recently, she’d felt they shared this characteristic. But lately, Jiminy had seemed almost intent on shaking things up. It went beyond the Polaroids—there was a new restless questing to her that surprised and unsettled Willa. Willa didn’t feel up to any fresh challenges. She felt weary and nervous.
“Now, what was it I was looking for?” she said aloud as she turned away from an aisle filled with albums.
What she wouldn’t give to have someone sure and trustworthy beside her, whispering the answer in her ear.
Don’t be a coward, don’t be a coward, Jiminy repeated in her head, waiting for it to seep in and give her strength. She’d climbed over the fence and taken a long walk down the hill toward the river, in search of fresh views and solitude to think and plan. But now she was trapped and terrified, looking around for weapons.
The rock in her hand wasn’t large enough, and the only other things she could spot around her were twigs. Why didn’t her grandmother have a dog? Some vicious, snarling, loyal dog who’d never let her go on walks by herself? If she got out of this alive, she swore she was going to get one.
“GO AWAY! GO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” she shouted at the top of her lungs.
They moved closer, and she backed away farther, trembling.
“I guess she’s really scared of them.” Willa sighed as she stared out the dining room window. “That must’ve been why she was asking me how often they maul people. I thought she was joking. Who’s scared of cows?”
Beside Willa, Lyn chuckled harder.
Willa was aware that this was the first time Lyn had smiled in her presence since their uncomfortable phone call. Even the yellowcake had only elicited an expressionless “Thanks.” Willa beamed, grateful that her granddaughter’s cowardice could bridge this divide.
“Should we draw straws to see who has to go rescue her?” she asked.
Lyn looked at her, eyes sparkling.
“She ain’t my blood,” Lyn replied. “So you can go draw your own straw.”
Willa blinked in surprise, then burst out laughing, just as Lyn clutched her sleeve and pointed out the window.
“What’s she doing? Did she just drop to the ground?”
They both stared in disbelief.
“Sweet Jesus, she’s playing dead!” Lyn exclaimed.
Now they were both laughing uncontrollably, gasping for breath.
When Bo stuck his head into the room a moment later, Willa and Lyn were doubled over, holding onto each other, tears streaming from their eyes.
Every time Jiminy screwed up enough courage to try to cross the field again, the cows would crowd around her, practically pressing into her flesh. There were bulls in there, too. Any one of them could charge her, trample her. The only ones that loo
ked harmless were the calves, but they were the most dangerous of all, because they came with mothers who would kill to protect them. She knew she wasn’t supposed to get between a calf and its mother, but when they all crowded around her like this, how could she keep track?
She never would have embarked on her walk in the first place if she’d thought there was any chance of this sort of encounter. Her grandmother had told her that the cattle had been moved to the fenced-in fields at the back of the farm for the next few months, so Jiminy had believed the fields between the house and the river were scary animal–free. But they’d appeared out of nowhere and descended upon her, and now she was pondering the very real possibility that her last moments alive would be filled with the smell of manure.
Just when Jiminy had closed her eyes to shut out the horror, she heard another voice.
“HUP, HUP, outta the way. HUP, HUP!”
She opened one eye tentatively. There was Bo, in the farm truck, parting the herd as he drove slowly toward her. He stopped a few feet away and climbed out. Unarmed, he continued his hup-hupping. The cattle didn’t disperse, but they moved enough out of the way to allow him to reach her.
She flung her arms around his neck.
“Thank God you came,” she exclaimed.
Only the fact that she was trembling stopped Bo from laughing.
“It’s okay, I got you. We’ll just walk back to the truck now.”
“Watch out for the big one, I think he might charge,” Jiminy whispered. “I’m just going to shut my eyes and hold onto your arm.”
Bo nodded and guided her.
Even when Jiminy was safely in the passenger seat of the truck, she still worried they were in danger.
“Just hurry, but not too fast to agitate them,” she said as the cattle continued to swarm. “If a couple of them charged, they could tip over the truck.”
Bo continued to work hard not to laugh.
“They’re not going to tip over the truck. They’re not going to kill us. They don’t want to kill us; they would like us to feed them. They’re used to people walking or driving through the field to put more hay out for them to eat. That’s why they hurry over to you. That’s all they want—hay.”