“Been looking through my things, Esme?” June Rain asked, still facing the window.
I couldn’t lie to her. “Not lately,” I said.
“I want Harlan’s photo back,” she said.
Why couldn’t I have just one picture of my daddy? Why did she always have to have him for herself? That’s how it had always been, her hogging what little he gave, even when he was gone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I could feel my nostrils flaring. We were quiet then. And after a while I asked, “Where did you get your snake bite scar?” She’d nearly died of it, she’d told Bee.
She looked at me, then turned back to the window. “What does it matter, Esme?”
It did mater, that we knew nothing of her, for the less we knew of her, the easier it was for her to slip away. Even though Bee had said that June Rain had nowhere to go, I knew she had a family somewhere, plus Harlan didn’t have a destination either, and that didn’t stop him. No sirree.
“I have something I want to show you,” I told her. “It’s about Harlan.”
When June Rain followed me into the woods, the sun was starting to set, squatting heavily on a fringe of trees, and sending fiery ambered streaks across the sky. I looked back at her every now and then to make sure she was still there, worried she would drift away never to be seen again, a ghost of the forest.
I kept on walking, thinking of her singing sweetly to that baby piglet, and how she’d clung to Bo when he was a baby, and how she hadn’t wanted me. But Paps had, when he was alive. He’d loved me, had rocked me, had called me his butter bean. Tears sprung in my eyes, and I swatted them away, not wanting June Rain to see me cry.
A few minutes later we came to the little cabin. She stopped a few feet away, as though she was scared. She looked at me funny, like she’d never seen me before. “What is this?” she finally asked.
I opened the door. I leaned against it, waiting for her, wanting her to hurt. Finally she stepped inside.
Her eyes grew big as she walked around the small space looking at each painting carefully, then moving on to the next. She seemed happy to be among his paintings again. I decided not to tell her about the night swimmer and the rainbow boots. Maybe I had dreamed them up. My eyes flitted over to the spot where I’d seen the sleeping bag, but it was gone. I didn’t know what to make of that. Had Harlan been here, and then disappeared again? Had I dreamed up the sleeping bag, too?
June Rain stopped in front of the painting of me on the easel. From a distance it didn’t look much different than any of Harlan’s “ain’t-no-picture” paintings. But it was me.
She left the cabin a few minutes later, her face averted, the painting of me clutched to her chest. I shut the door and ran after her.
“June Rain!” I called. “June Rain!” But she kept on marching through the woods and didn’t wait for me.
The next day when I came down from digging on Solace Hill, I saw the Bee Wagon flying up our drive. It screeched to a halt when Bee spotted me. She rolled down the window and motioned for me to get in. Something was up. Her eyes were wild. She turned the Wagon around and hit the gas. She didn’t ask what I’d been doing or where I’d been. Maybe she knew. I glanced back as the Wagon went through the gate to see June Rain drift from the woods, from the direction of Harlan’s hut, the piglet clutched to her chest.
“All day I’ve felt something,” Bee said as we roared down the road.
I put my seatbelt on and pulled it tight. I noticed a witching stick, holly perhaps, at my feet.
“I’ve been feeling like something is awfully wrong. Whatever it is, it’s no good, Esme. Everything that’s been going on, now something else is coming. I came home with Bo to the phone ringing off the hook. It was Miss Treva, doing her best to tell me something was wrong without everyone up and down our road hearing. She told me to get there quick. I could tell from her voice it’s awful, something awful.”
I didn’t say a word as we flew down country roads, sometimes feeling like we were on two wheels around the bends, almost hitting a dog, and then barely missing a jackrabbit. I’d never seen my grandma so riled up. Never. This was ten times worse than the shotgun blast. My toes started to vibrate, a low tender hum that seemed to say, Stay away.
Finally we pulled into Miss Treva’s drive. She was waiting for us on the front porch.
Bee got out of the Wagon, and I thought for a moment I should bring her witching stick, but then realized, as Bee must have, that she didn’t need it. I followed her up the steps.
“Luther’s missing again,” Miss Treva said calmly, almost too calmly. But her face was as white as a ghost, her eyes stricken.
“You didn’t call me all the way out here for that,” Bee snapped.
I looked at her wondering why she was in such a tizzy. She’d said it was something big and awful. She was usually so calm, so calm, when she was called to find something.
“I heard a gunshot last night,” Miss Treva said. She tilted her head toward the woods. “Out there. I was too scared to go see for myself and . . .” Her voice cracked. “And when he didn’t come home, I knew something bad must’ve happened to him.”
Bee turned and started for the woods, at first walking fast, then running. I followed her, but she yelled at me to stay back with Miss Treva. I ignored her. She ran on and I ran on after her into the woods, even though I couldn’t feel my feet anymore. They were numb.
When we reached the clearing, Bee stopped. At first I only saw that dizzying swirl of pipes, tubes, and barrels—the moonshining equipment. A strange whistle sounded every few seconds as though the whole thing were on its last legs. I followed Bee’s gaze. Someone was on the ground. Still. Motionless. Wearing Harlan’s rainbow boots.
Chapter 12
A leaf fluttered from one of the trees, landing with a hushed whoosh, a fly droned, and the taste of honey from breakfast still on the roof of my mouth was sweet. My fingers and toes started to vibrate again, and I think I said aloud, “Yes, I know. I know. It’s here. You can stop now. Leave me alone. Go away.” The sky started to turn black, and I closed my eyes, picturing Harlan, smiling big at that gas pump, far away from us. “Why did you come back? Why did you come back?”
“It’s not him.” Bee’s voice sounded muted, like it was coming through a scratchy transistor radio. I opened my eyes. I was kneeling on the ground. A scream pierced the air. I turned and saw Miss Treva ten yards behind me, clutching a tree.
“It’s not Luther either,” Bee called.
I got up off my knees. I gathered my courage and looked. It definitely wasn’t Harlan. This man, whoever he was, was a good bit taller, and he had long brownish hair, sunk-in cheeks, and a long beard, like a hippie. I thought he kinda looked like Jesus. Jesus, lying next to barrels of moonshine with a rose tattoo on his arm. I knew it was disrespectful, but a wave of warm relief washed through me. My eyes traveled from his face to his chest where blood had seeped through his shirt, a perfect bull’s-eye. I quickly looked away.
“He must’ve surprised the moonshiners,” Bee said. “Go call Sheriff Finney,” she yelled to Miss Treva.
“But Bee, Luther, the others . . . ,” she screamed back.
Oh, God. My heart squeezed, thinking how Granger might be involved in all this and how much this was going to hurt Finch. This wasn’t a little notch of Aberdeen sadness; this was a whopper.
“There ain’t no way of getting around it, Treva,” said Bee as she knelt down next to the man. “No way we going to try to hide this. Go now!” When Miss Treva didn’t budge, Bee stood up and hollered. “In heaven’s name go! A man’s been killed here.” And finally Miss Treva turned and ran back through the woods.
I inched forward, wanting to get a better look at the boots. They were exactly the same, everything was, even the pink splatter from when Harlan had painted the Just Teasin’ for Sweetmaw, and the yellow splatter from painting the Galloways’ front hallway. Bee looked at the boots, too, then said softly, “I had a vision .
. . my boy’s boots . . . I thought . . .” She knelt down and reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out a wallet, seeming to know just where it would be.
“Who is he?” I asked.
She mumbled as she searched in a side compartment of the wallet. She held something up and turned it over so I could see. It was a photo of June Rain. She was young in the picture, very young, smiling wistfully for the camera, her face surrounded by tiny pinpricks of light, like fireflies. She was wearing an odd, old-fashioned calico dress, like something Laura Ingalls Wilder wore in Little House on the Prairie, and her hair was in long black braids. The photo was well-worn like it had been looked at many times.
Bee turned it over. I leaned in and read “To Harlan, from June Rain.” Bee stuffed it in her pocket. I wanted to look at the dead man’s face again, see if there was any resemblance to any of us, but I was sick to my stomach now, thinking I might barf at any moment. I closed my eyes. Uncle Hen. It couldn’t be. Something real from June Rain’s past had wriggled up from the deep and found its way here.
“We don’t know anything about him, which is the truth, Esme,” Bee said flatly. Then she pulled a pack of Salems out of his other pocket and held them up. “Knowing that he was also smoking the same cigarettes as Harlan is not going to help anyone in any way.”
“But why does he have a picture of June Rain?” I asked.
“Don’t know. Don’t want to know,” Bee said gruffly as she stood up and brushed the dirt off her dungarees.
The sound of sirens pierced the woods. If Harlan wasn’t wearing his own boots, maybe he wasn’t alive either. Maybe he was also somewhere in these trees with a seeping red bull’s-eye across his chest. My stomach turned and the world began to blacken, till I felt Bee’s hand on my back, holding me up, keeping me from falling again.
“There, there,” she said. “It’s not Harlan.”
She sat me down on a log and told me to breathe.
When Sheriff Finney reached us, he told Bee to take me on home and scolded her for bringing me here in the first place, letting me see a dead body, and getting involved in police business. He said he’d come over and ask her questions later.
Bee got Miss Treva into bed, Miss Treva mumbling “But Luther, where is he?” And where’s Granger? I thought to myself. And Harlan? Then Bee drove us home in the Bee Wagon as I tried to quiet my spinning mind. What if Bee had told the sheriff about the moonshine when we’d first found it? Would that man still be alive? What if I’d told Bee about seeing the night swimmer, the rainbow boots, Harlan’s cabin, the sleeping bag? Would that have changed a thing?
When we pulled up the drive, Sugar Pie was roaming between the peach trees and Bo was trying to catch her. And I thought about him, that dead man, who might have been the one standing there in the darkness, smoking Harlan’s cigarettes, watching our house. Watching us. Watching June Rain. Shivers crept up my back. Was he Uncle Hen? Why was he wearing my daddy’s boots? Had he hurt Harlan in some way?
June Rain was on the kitchen steps, the piglet in her arms. Sweetmaw was there, too, looking worried. Old Jack peered through the screen door looking like someone had swatted him on the head. I didn’t think he liked that piglet one bit.
Bee brushed past everyone and went inside, and I ran to the orchard to help Bo.
“June Rain thinks Harlan’s coming home,” he said.
“No,” I said as I grabbed Sugar Pie’s halter from him. “No, he’s not coming home.” I didn’t want to say it, that he was never coming home; I couldn’t do that to Bo. But I didn’t think he was. Someone else had come, come with Harlan’s rainbow boots on.
I hid under the house when Sheriff Finney pulled up a couple of hours later and hauled his fat self out of his squad car. He told Bee he was arresting her for not reporting what she knew about the illegal moonshining and that if she’d done so, none of this would have happened. She was an accessory to a murder, or something like that. I peered out between the wooden slats when he pulled away a few minutes later with Bee inside the car.
It was hot that night, and I lay on the quilt under the tractor waiting for Finch, hoping one minute that he’d come, the next that he wouldn’t. He must have heard the news by now. After the sheriff had taken Bee away, we’d sat around the table in silence, June Rain petting Jewell, Bo still sniffling, while the phone rang again and again.
It was deathly quiet on Solace Hill except for the low buzzing of June bugs around the lantern. The crickets were silent, as though they were listening. Bump was next to me on the quilt. I lay there thinking about Paps and how I wasn’t so sure I felt him with me anymore when I ran my fingers through the earth.
I heard someone coming up the hill. A moment later Finch stuck his head under the tractor.
“Did you know, Esme?” he asked.
There were lots of things he could be referring to, but I knew he was talking about Granger.
“Yes,” I said. “I was with Bee when we found the moonshine. Granger was there with Luther Stump and Johnny Wallet. I didn’t want to hurt you, Finch. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“You knew when I was wearing those stupid moon boots and new jeans and eating Bottle Caps and Red Hots and . . .” His eyes grew wide remembering. “You even ate some and you knew! You’re supposed to be my best friend and you didn’t even tell me.”
Bump ran out from under the tractor, startling Finch.
“Holy Mary, what in the heck was that?” he yelled.
“Bump,” I said, crawling out. I sat down next to Louella Goodbones. I put my hand on top of her head and breathed in deep and hard.
“Who was the dead man?” Finch asked a moment later. He was still standing there gawking at me like he’d never seen me before.
“I don’t know,” I said, and that was the truth. “But I think he might’ve known Harlan and maybe June Rain, too.”
Finch finally sat down next to me and went to work digging around Louella Goodbones. The very tippy-top of her backbone was starting to show. She was emerging from her hillside grave. But did I really want her to? Did she want to?
“Bee’s in jail,” I said.
Finch didn’t say anything, just kept on clearing the dirt.
“Sweetmaw says Sheriff Finney doesn’t have a good reason to hold her. Says we should be able to get her out, maybe tomorrow. Sweetmaw’s staying here to take care of us. She closed up the shop early today. She’s cooking up a storm. I don’t think she’s ever stayed with us, ever. . . .” I trailed off when Finch looked at me and frowned. He pushed his glasses up and continued to dig.
“June Rain’s named that piglet Jewell.” I snorted. “She’s still treating it like a real baby.”
“Are you ready yet?” he asked, looking up at me, the lantern illuminating his face.
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach then, seeing him like that, looking like the boys on the magazines that Rose Galloway and Mady Whitshaw always pawed through, even if he did have a cowlick and glasses. A new Finch was underneath, waiting to come out. I wasn’t sure I wanted that. I was never going to emerge from my Thumbelina stage, ever. I’d always be that tiny butter bean.
“For what?” I asked.
“For showing the world what you have here,” he said, gesturing to the bones.
“No,” I said. “Not yet.”
An hour later Finch left. Then Old Jack was barking and there he was with Bo.
“Sweetmaw’s worried about you,” Bo told me. “She wants to know where you are.”
I realized how nice that was, that someone was worried about me.
“June Rain took that pig with her up to her room again,” he said.
“I know, Bo,” I said, rubbing his head.
I followed him back down the hill and into the kitchen. Sweetmaw had filled every counter with all sorts of baked goods and casseroles. She turned to me, her arms wide. She folded me up in them and I never wanted to let go. No one had held me like that since Paps.
Chapter 13
I
lay in bed listening to the hushed voices down in the kitchen. Sweetmaw and June Rain were talking about Bee and what they were going to do. Bo was sleeping next to me, twitching every now and then, and I envied his sweetness and ignorance. Old Jack was in the bed, too, warm at my feet.
I crept downstairs and hid behind the kitchen doorway. The piglet was crying again. I didn’t know a pig could squeal so much.
“Here, hand her to me,” Sweetmaw demanded. “Poor thing.”
It was quiet as June Rain gave Jewell to Sweetmaw, but then she started crying out again like someone was poking her with a needle.
“Here, have her back,” Sweetmaw said.
June Rain started humming and Jewell quieted down.
“So we need a hundred fifty dollars to get Bee out of jail,” Sweetmaw said. “I can help a little but not a whole lot. You sure Bee don’t have any cash stowed away here?”
“Pretty sure,” June Rain said.
“Well, we’re in a right pickle,” Sweetmaw said. “As much as I want to leave Bee McCauley in the slammer a good long while to teach her a lesson, we can’t leave her in there. Both of us need to be at the Just Teasin’ today; there’s a country club luncheon and all the ladies are coming in. Esme and Bo are too young to be here all day by themselves.”
“They’d be okay,” said June Rain.
It was true we’d be okay; we always were. But her words still stung, as they almost always did when she chose to speak, as much for what she said as for what she didn’t.
“True-itt,” said Sweetmaw, and I had to think a minute before realizing she was talking about Sheriff Finney, “said the dead man’s name was Wilson Henry.”
Finding Esme Page 10