In-between Hour (9781460323731)

by Claypole White, Barbara

  The fist of grief grabbed his throat, cutting off his air supply.

  “Hey,” Poppy said. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” Will forced himself to breathe. “I’m fine.”

  “Here. Directions. Take them.”

  She placed the scrap of paper on the quilt, hopped off the bed and disappeared before Will could say, “I have a GPS.”

  The odor of bleach in the room was thick, thick enough to mask the lingering fumes of death. It transported him back to a summer evening fishing on the oxbow behind the ghost field, the year after the excavation of the Occaneechi village started. He and his dad had just caught a bucket of bream when Will snared himself on a hook. Bled all over his new shorts—thrift-store new, but his mom had bought them for his first day of kindergarten. “Your mama’s gonna be real upset,” his dad said, and young Will was terrified. Mama being upset could mean anything from her dragging Will by his hair to screaming that he was worthless. But his dad told him not to fret, told him bleach was the magic cure. Possibly, but not in the quantity the old man had used. Will never wore the shorts again, and his mom never noticed.

  “Willie?”

  Will jumped. In the five minutes he’d been responsible for his dad, he’d forgotten him. The old man was standing in the doorjamb, trailing empty boxes with one hand and clasping the roll of cardboard to his chest as if it were the family Bible.

  “Had me a real bad thought while you were talking to Poppy. Heck of a bad thought, son.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. Come here, sit.” Will guided his dad onto the rocking chair. “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Nope.”

  “The gist of it?” Will crouched down.

  “Somethin’ real bad happened to Freddie. He were in a car with his mama....”

  Strange, how moments of heartbreak didn’t announce themselves, they just ambushed you. Shouldn’t there be an earthquake measuring nine point five on the Richter scale when the plates of your life shifted? But outside this room with the cheap print of Jesus and the bed with hospital corners, traffic continued to speed through the forty-five-miles-per-hour zone. And in the time it took to inhale, the cycle of grief regenerated. The wound tore open.

  Will would never know what happened in the minutes after the crash, sometime around sunset. The sudden loss of light had added to the confusion. One witness had heard screams but couldn’t determine if they’d come from a child or a woman. True or false, Will’s brain had latched on to that snippet of information and created a scenario he could never escape: his son dying in pain and terror.

  The chair clicked as his dad rocked back and forth, back and forth. “But I ain’t listenin’ to my no-good brain, son. My brain, it’s a trickster from one of your mama’s fairy tales. And I choose not to listen. Freddie’s the only good thing we got in our lives, ain’t that true? You didn’t tell me where he and his mama were headin’ this week.”

  Will fell to his knees. Relief swamped him—ridiculous, selfish relief. He could still hide behind his story, one that wasn’t finished.

  “They’re leaving for Florence,” Will said, “so Freddie can see Michelangelo’s David.”

  “Woo-wee. Who would have thought? My grandson, seein’ a real live Mickel-angelo. Remember how you wanted to see that statue when you was a boy? Darren thought it meant you was, you know.” His dad’s right hand flopped as if his wrist were broken.

  “You remember?”

  “My mind ain’t gone, son. Full of holes, but some things I remember just clear as sunlight. Just clear as sunlight.”

  Will stood and shifted the books to his hip. “Here. Let me take the boxes.”

  Jacob handed over everything except the cardboard tube. “Heck, my memory’s just fine. Ask me about how your uncle and me went fishin’ down in the Eno this past summer with cedar poles we cut ourselves. Caught a lot of suckers down there.”

  The window opened a crack, then slammed shut. Oh, Dad. You haven’t left this place in two years. And Uncle Darren died right before Mom. I know, because I paid for both funerals.

  “If you throw liquid in the Eno, it’ll end up in the Atlantic Ocean.” His dad creaked up to standing. “It joins the Neuse River down in Durham.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “And those rivers, they was trade routes and a source of food ’cos animals like bison got to have water. After the Europeans came they killed all the bison. One of the presidents, I forget which one...”

  “Dad?”

  The old man glanced around as if trying to orient himself. “When we was kids, Mother only let us play on the rivers and creeks. And on Occoneechee Mountain. It ain’t now like it was then. We was labeled colored and segregated in church, in school and in the movies, but they couldn’t segregate us in the woods. That’s how I met your mama. ’Course, she were only a little bitty thing first time I spied her.”

  “Come on, old man.” He took his father’s arm. “Let’s get you packed.”

  “Packed? We joinin’ Freddie?”

  “I wish, Dad. I wish.”

  Will stared up at the ceiling covered in bobbly plaster. Thirty-four years of practice at smothering his emotions, but how could he talk about Freddie with his dad person-to-person, lie-upon-lie, and not mentally disintegrate?

  Five

  Poppy smacked her cell phone on the steering wheel. Stupid cheap piece of shit. Best she could afford, but still... Aha! A ring tone.

  “Han, it’s me. Where are you?”

  “About to leave Saxapahaw. I had to put a Siamese cat to sleep.”

  The line crackled.

  “And how was that?”

  “Peaceful. You’re not driving and talking on the phone, are you?”

  Poppy laughed. Her friend had her pegged years ago, even before she’d liberated Miss Prissy and accused Asshole of felony animal abuse. He’d tried to bully her out of the lawsuit, since he hadn’t wanted his rich friends to know about the banging of the hired help, but it was Hannah who’d persuaded her to walk away. And offered up her pasture for Miss Pris. That was Han, the world’s biggest fan of lost causes and underdogs. Underdogs, ha! Besides, if she hadn’t done the dirty with Asshole, she might never have been fired from the interior design company for sleeping with a client, might never have branched out on her own, might never have met Will Shepard.

  Will was definitely no asshole. Plus he was the cutest guy she’d met since dumping the last putz. But dating was like baking. Pie crust didn’t always turn out right the first time, either.

  “Poppy, honey? You called for a reason?”

  “Sorry, girl. Miles away.” Poppy swerved around a black snake. Dang. Car nearly off the road. “Guess what? I just met this total hottie. Looks kinda young, but didn’t Demi Moore prove age is irrelevant? Isn’t whatshisname fifteen years her junior?”

  “What are you talking about?” Hannah said.

  “Wait, forget that. They’re divorced. Still. Age doesn’t matter these days, does it? This guy looks like a young Daniel Craig. With more hair.” Poppy fanned her T-shirt against her boobs. “Lots of hair you want to run your fingers through. Bone structure says Johnny Depp, but his abs are definitely Brad Pitt in Troy. You know what? Picture the love child of Johnny Depp and Daniel Craig. He’s mighty purty.” She slathered on the sassy Southern accent that had cost her parents a small fortune to erase.

  “Daniel who?” Hannah’s voice echoed.

  “Girl, I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.”

  Poppy pulled down her visor, grabbed the Green Day CD she’d burned with a continuous loop of “Horseshoes and Handgrenades” and shoved it into the slot.

  “When d’you last go to the movies?” Silly question since all Han did was work and sleep. Sleep was so not Poppy’s thing. Lucky if she could crash for five hours a night
. “You still there?”

  The line had gone dead.

  Piece of shit phone—oh. Out of juice. Must’ve forgotten to charge it again. Imagine that.

  Poppy hummed along to Green Day and tossed the cell phone onto the passenger seat where it bounced off the boxed-up set of mugs destined for some Duke professor. She really had meant to deliver the order before 2:00 p.m. Package was C.O.D. and that grocery money could be mighty useful. Nah. She’d make up some excuse and take it over bright and early Monday. Painting Thoroughbreds on mugs for her parents’ country club friends sucked, but she loved the stock pieces. Always rearing up, her prancing mares reminded her to keep spinning just as she’d done since she was a little girl skipping in circles, earning her nickname of Poppy Bean. “Goodness gracious, child,” her grandmama always said, “you’re full of beans.”

  But once in a while, when she looked at her painted mares, Poppy saw fear in their eyes, self-defense in their raised hooves. Not one for overanalyzing, she’d never followed that thought—until today. And it led to Hannah.

  She was creepy calm. Did she not realize that her son was in a heap of trouble? Depression had been grabbing at him for years, and yet he’d always managed to stumble free. ’Course, Poppy didn’t know too much about these things, but Galen had confided plenty when he was a teen trying not to worry his mom. Should she have told Han how far back this crap went? Nah, Hannah would only have worried twice as much. And Galen? He would’ve been spooked worse than Miss Pris during a tornado warning. One thing about her godson, he was more locked down than Fort Knox.

  Even as a kid, Galen had tried to protect his baby brother and his mom. But now he needed protecting, and Poppy could do that just fine without betraying any secrets. Steer things in a better direction. Interfere a bit.

  Yes, Han told her frequently she should stop sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Blah, blah, blah. But this idea about putting Galen in the cottage was beyond catastrophic. Give him too much personal space and who knew what could happen.

  Han had always been the one to look out for Poppy. Now it was role reversal time. And her cunning plan had nothing to do with that stud-muffin, Will Shepard. Although, technically, he was more of a twelve-pack of Krispy Kreme original glazed donuts.

  Poppy licked her lips and went back to singing.

  * * *

  The forest were his real home: his daddy and his mama, his ancestors and his past, his present and his future. ’Course, he didn’t have much future. His flame were goin’ out. But to finish his days in the forest? Now that might give him some peace of mind. There were trees all around. Not forest he recognized but didn’t much matter. If Willie stopped the car, he’d take hisself off for a walk so he could hear leaves rustlin’ under his boots.

  Maybe Darren would be there, when they got home. Him and Darren were real tight as kids. Big fight, though, over the record deal. Darren wanted to go on the road, but how could he do that and leave Willie alone with his mama?

  Be good to hear the clackety-clack and the whistlin’ of the trains again. Couldn’t hear no trains from Hawk’s Ridge. Missed home-style Southern cookin’, too. Institutional food weren’t no better than cardboard. Freddie, though, he were eatin’ real fancy food.

  “C.R.S., son.”

  “C.R.S.?” Will said.

  “Can’t remember stuff. What’s the name of that ice cream Freddie’s bin eatin’?”

  “Gelato.”

  “Gel-aaaa-to.” His grandbaby were eatin’ things he couldn’t pronounce! “Think we can get some, for when Freddie comes home? Heck, son. You need me to drive? You plum near went off the road.”

  He didn’t look so hot these days, his Will. Must be workin’ too hard. Needed a haircut and a good woman. A man his age should have a wife. Heck, he were married at Willie’s age. How old was he now? Couldn’t keep track of time. Lost August and September altogether. Now it were October. He could tell from the dogwoods.

  “Dad?” Will said. “We’re taking a detour.”

  “You’re not drivin’ to the cemetery, are you?” Jacob glanced down at the cardboard pipe in his lap. Looked like a giant bullet casin’. Freddie’s map were tucked up inside. Well protected. Good, good; good, good. “I won’t go.”

  “No, Dad. I don’t want to go to the cemetery any more than you do.”

  How many years since she’d crossed over? Three? Four? Didn’t want to know. Some memories was best left to rot. Never wanted Angeline buried. Wanted her ashes spread in the wind, but Will, he needed a grave. Needed to go visit her, make amends. Things been real bad between them when his Angeline crossed over. The boy wouldn’t even come to the funeral. It should have been him under that pile of dirt, not his angel. Ten years older. Should’ve been him.

  Woo-wee, she were somethin’, his Angeline. Flitted around like a butterfly. Filled him with awe. Put him through hell during her black spells, but did he regret a single day? No siree, not one. Tough on Willie, though, real tough. She could be a real handful. The temper on her! Been hard on young Willie, that temper. Sometimes he’d had to lock Willie in his room. The boy resented it, of course, but how else could he keep his son safe?

  Will swung the car around and put out an arm. Sort of thing he used to do when Willie were little, to keep him from shootin’ forward into the dashboard. Willie better not start treatin’ his old man like a kid. Where was they goin’? To the cemetery? He hoped not. He never visited. Couldn’t. Couldn’t think of his dear sweet Angeline under that red clay.

  “I thought we was goin’ home, Willie. This ain’t home. Goddamn it. Take me home!”

  “We can’t, Dad. We sold the old place two years ago. You had that fall, ended up at the rehabilitation center and we sold the shack. I tried to get you to come to New York, but you wouldn’t consider it.”

  “I ain’t movin’ to New York. I been followin’ the trail of my people all my life. I ain’t livin’ anywhere but in the footprints of my ancestors.”

  “I know, Dad. You made that pretty clear after your fall.”

  Fall? What fall? But he remembered Will leavin’ him in that shithole, all right. Some things he remembered clear as day.

  The car bounced around a curve. And that bubble of anger, it vanished. Pop! Gone.

  Jacob sat up straight. Real straight. Ahead were a big pasture with snake-rail fencin’ and a horse skitterin’ around. And behind? A mighty fine view. So fine it could’ve been Occoneechee Mountain. His blood were all over that mountain. Heck, his skin, too. One time he banged up his right knee real bad sleddin’ down on the back of an old rockin’ chair. Woo-wee. Flew like the wind and ended up in the Eno. Still had the scar to prove it. Willie, he got scarred on Occoneechee Mountain, too. His mama, she felt real bad about that, but the boy never would let her apologize.

  Them dogwoods, they were crimson, but the rest of the forest were still shades of green. Best color in the world. Color that made his heart sing. Didn’t he write a song about that once?

  Well, he never. And an owl at the edge of the forest! Lots of Lumbee Elders, they said the owl were a bad omen, that if he hooted four times in a row, death were comin’. But he respected the all-seein’ night owl. Could set a man to thinkin’. No matter how great you thought you was, that ol’ rascal could look down and say, “Whoo, whoo, who are you?”

  Six

  Hannah followed half-buried signposts of time: a wagon wheel and two rusty mule shoes. There was living, breathing history in this forest, history that was tangible, history that endured. Protective spirits.

  Saponi Mountain had spoken to her from the first day: You belong here. So much in life was transitory, but not the connection she felt to this piece of land. If she believed in reincarnation—and maybe she did, because her mother had been a psychic healer who taught her to discount nothing—she had lived here before, in another lifetime. And
after everything that had happened with her father, well. Leaving wasn’t an option.

  Weaving around wild blueberry bushes, Hannah turned into a shaft of dying sunlight, the orange glow of the magical hour her mother had called the gloaming. These days the gloaming descended too quickly into evening. Nothing beat the thrill of hearing coyotes and owls on her land, but nights alone were a bitter reminder that loved ones could leave and never return.

  Crispy leaves crackled under her old hiking boots, and Hannah shivered despite the late-afternoon warmth. Dry wind rattled through the leaves of the hardwoods and, for a moment, she thought she heard a car. No, she did. There was a car on her driveway. Rising up on tiptoe, Hannah found a peephole through the sweetgums.

  The back of her neck tingled.

  Trusting people was her strength and, according to the boys, her weakness. Still, she was a woman without neighbors to hear her scream. She shook her head. How ridiculous, to think like Poppy and second-guess everyone’s motives, when honestly, who ever heard of a serial killer driving a Prius? Pretty pale green one, too.

  Daisy whined, and Rosie flopped onto Hannah’s feet, rooting her to the forest floor.

  The engine died and a young man got out. His hair said Californian surfer, but his clothes of tonal greens and browns suggested urban chic. Despite his tangle of blond hair, he blended in with the forest. He was slight but not skinny. Well-toned if she had to guess from this distance. He seemed oddly familiar. Was he one of Galen’s friends? Unlikely, since Galen hadn’t brought anyone home in a while. This guy didn’t look much older than either of her sons, but he moved with the stiffness of an old man. Maybe he needed some pokeweed. Always good for arthritic pain.