by Amy Sorrells
“You sure I can’t help?”
“Nah, I got it. Thanks, though.”
“Have it your way.” He pulled another cigarette out of his pocket, lit it up, and walked back to the creek.
While pounding traps into the trees, I kept my eye on Jed, who busied himself sifting through sand and studying rocks on the edge of the creek. After picking up a couple more traps out of the wagon, I walked down to the creek bank and sat down near him. “What’d you say you’re looking for?”
“Fossils. Critters. Rocks. Geodes, in particular. You seen one?”
“I’m not sure I even know what one is.”
“It’s a special kind of rock, all bumpy and dirty and useless on the outside. But if you shake it, and it rattles, you know you’ve got yourself a geode. Crack it open on the hard ground, and it’s full of sparkling crystals. You can find them in fields and near creek beds like this.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Here’s one.” He placed a bumpy rock a little larger than a golf ball in the palm of my hand. I held it to my ear and rattled it. When I handed it back, he threw it against a boulder, the crack of it loud as a firecracker echoing across the hills. He picked up the larger of the crumbled pieces. “See?”
Clear and pale yellow, golden crystals lined the inside of the hollow rock. Rays of the sun got all caught in the angles and glimmered like jewels.
“That’s not all. I got fossils I’ve found in Tuscaloosa and northern parts of Alabama, and a few I’ve found here already. Look at this one.”
He handed me a stone smoother than the first with what appeared to be a carving on it.
“Those lines there mean it’s a cephalopod.” Jed ran his finger along the ridged places on the stone.
“Looks like a dead bug.”
“It’s more like a snail or a squid than a bug. Cephalopod fossils are all over Alabama, because ocean used to cover the whole state. The fossils are old mollusks, like slugs or small octopus from over four hundred million years ago.”
“How do you know so much about this stuff?”
“I live next to the library, remember? Just ’cause I skip school don’t mean I’m not learning anything.” He pulled another dark-red, dirty stone out of his orange box. “This here’s a piece of hematite. It’s used to make iron, and it’s all over Alabama. State mineral, in fact. That’s what makes the dirt so red. Find good pieces of it, you can shine ’em up and folks fashion them into beads and stuff. I’m hoping to find a variation of it called hematite rose, which has patterns swirling through it like rose petals. That’s why they call it hematite rose, of course.”
“’Course.” I held the geode toward the sun, playing with the light bouncing around the diamond-like crystals.
“Take those geode pieces and the hematite home with you.”
“You sure you don’t mind parting with ’em?” Whoever invented the burnt-umber crayon must’ve copied it off of hematite; the red of it mixed in with the faded gray of the rock, which I would’ve thought nothing of before now.
“I’m sure. I have plenty back home, and I’m sure I’ll find plenty more. They’re all easy to find if you know what you’re looking for. Take ’em.” He grinned.
I turned away so he wouldn’t notice me blushing. “Thanks.”
I left him alone the rest of the afternoon, but the hematite and two halves of the broken geode felt warm in my pocket as I worked to put up the rest of the traps. I drove the tractor and wagon up to Comfort’s house to pick up the empty basket from her front porch, and as I walked up the steps, I noticed the asters growing taller in a soft patch of soil nearby. In place of the basket, I left a note I scribbled on a piece of scrap paper I found in the wagon, then set half of the geode on top so the note wouldn’t blow away.
Sot pase mòn yo, plis mòn.
“Beyond the mountains, more mountains.”
CHAPTER 12
Comfort
Dear Comfort,
This geode reminded me of you.
Beautiful.
Love,
Anni
Beautiful.
That’s what Solly called me. We’d sit on the front porch in separate rockers. Back and forth, to and fro, the curved wood would press and creak against the floorboards. On many visits, he’d reach for my hand, but since the incident, I hadn’t let him see me at all, much less hold my hand. But still, he visits. And when he does, he still calls me beautiful.
I don’t know if I’ll ever believe that I am.
Folks around town used to say I’m beautiful too—even Shirley O’Day, the town’s society reporter for the newspaper, when she did a write-up on me the time I won homecoming queen and prom queen in the same year. While I’d been more tolerant of such compliments before what happened at Thanksgiving, I was still surprised anytime I’d been crowned. When I won homecoming queen, Solly stood at my side and held my hand as we stood on the center of the cinder track. I leaned on him hard, feeling like I might pass out, when they called my name. Same thing when they crowned me prom queen, then county fair queen. Sure, Mama dressed me well. Nothing but the best clothes and shoes and makeup from New Orleans for me. But beautiful? That was something other girls could claim.
Especially now.
Anni meant well, leaving that geode, hollow insides sparkling like a tiara. But then, how could she understand the depths of my pain? How could anyone, really? Sadness deep in my chest threatens to explode. Sharp crystals cut against my cavernous heart. My soul rattled when Cole shook it, and even now my soul shivers, terrified of aftershocks and memories.
I throw the geode against the floor. Though shaped and formed by eternal forces, the craggy rock crumbles as if it were hand-blown glass, splitting into millions of shards when hurled against the floor. I skid to my knees, gathering the fragments, their knife-like edges piercing my skin. Maybe I can put the pieces back together again. Make it all whole again. But parts are missing. Others don’t fit right, tiny chips lost forever beneath furniture or in cracks in the floorboards.
I wrap myself as tight as I can in the quilt Ernestine made me, and lie upon my bed, watching the yellowing lace curtains float back and forth against the open window. Maybe if I can pick out one of the songs of blessing she sang over me still lingering on the breeze, I’ll still feel connected to myself. Maybe even to the world. Everything hurts so much I feel like I’m flying above a dream of myself. I strain to hear songs floating in the air, but instead I hear Abba again. I doubt it’s Him at first, but still He comes, gentle, like a cool rag on a fevered forehead.
I know the desert. I’ve walked the wastelands, too, He says.
Someplace in the shadowland between wake and sleep, He sets a dream of Solly and Anni, Oralee and Ernestine on the horizon like a mirage I strain to melt into. My mind is wavy with contemplation and apprehension, twins fighting like Jacob and Esau for their father’s blessing. But I can give neither the first rights they seek.
I dream I am running down Point Clear River, snakes slithering alongside me, legs too weak to leap from stone to stone to cross the rapids. Something worse than the snakes chases me, and I know if I do not escape the shadow gaining on me, I will not awaken. I fight the currents and sucking mud at the bottom of the river, and still the form gains on me until I fall over a waterfall, the light at the bottom offering peace and escape.
I fall.
And fall.
And fall.
And I wake before I reach the light.
Like every other of the hundreds of nights I’ve dreamed the same dream and awoken, I try to sleep and beg my mind to dream it again, praying for the courage to stay asleep and see what waits at the bottom.
Until, on this afternoon, I realize, the dream is real.
I have dreamed it since childhood.
Because Cole hurt me long before he killed Rey. Cole has been my night
mare, the shadow gaining on me, since I was very, very small. And like a mirrored lake held back, then released by a dam, memories flood through me, the surge of remembrance jolting me awake.
I sit up straight in my bed, my sheets a wet mess of sweat, the moon shining upon the truth of these memories buried since childhood. Buried since he stopped. And now, resurrected.
“You’re such a pretty girl, Comfort. You’re my girlfriend,” Cole had said.
Back then, I believed him. And why not? I idolized him. The town idolized him. Throngs of folks in hot, metal bleachers screamed and cheered for him as he threw touchdowns and raced up and down green fields and crowds raised him up on their shoulders as a hero. My big brother, the town hero, the family cornerstone, called me his most special girl.
“This thing we do, this game, is sweet and secret, baby girl. Something good big brothers do for their sisters. Don’t tell Mama. Especially don’t tell Daddy.”
And I hadn’t.
One time, Mama burst into my room in the middle of Cole playing his secrets on me. She held a stack of laundry in front of her. She looked in my eyes. I remember she did. Deep and long, she looked straight into me.
Then she turned and walked out of the room, closing the door with a quiet click.
Later that day, I’d heard her talking to herself in her rose garden. “Better her than me,” she whispered as she snipped the roses, her fingers bleeding from the thorns. “Better her than me.”
She whispered that all the time, come to think of it. Even as she washed the floors, the one task she would not delegate to Ernestine.
As if she were the only one who could scrub away the secrets.
Santi bon Koute che.
“Smelling good is expensive.”
CHAPTER 13
Anniston
I thought about Jed the whole way back from the orchards. Surely our paths would cross again if he worked the orchards all summer. But then what? I knew foster kids moved around a lot. I said a small prayer God would let him stay a long while.
Mama’s dusty, maroon station wagon was still parked in our carport. She worked more nursing shifts now than ever—nights, days, weekends—whenever she could get overtime, even though Vaughn told her she didn’t have to work at all. She said she wanted to be independent, to get us a place of our own without help.
Ernestine creaked the screen door open when she saw me climbing the front porch steps and presented me with a plate full of egg-salad sandwiches and a tall glass of milk. She kissed me on the forehead.
“Bonswa, Anni. You hungry after all that time in the orchards, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thanks!”
With a sandwich in one hand, I tossed Daddy’s shirt and my hat on the couch with the other and headed to Mama’s bedroom. A mix of Aqua Net and shampoo floated through the air. She wore her spring-blue nursing uniform, which meant she worked that night after all.
“Hey, Anni. Your granddad find something for you to do?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t forget we’re going to the Curly Q tomorrow morning for the haircut Princella arranged to get you ready for the Bay Spring Cotillion.”
As much as I hated getting my hair cut, the Curly Q’s reputation of being a treasure trove of town gossip made it a pretty cool place to hang out. The Q stood for Qarla, the owner of the place. Bubblegum-pink and shiny gold paint covered everything inside and out. Gold mirrors, pink velvet chairs trimmed in gold, gold chandeliers, gold ceiling fans, even gold-handled scissors. Sometimes, Qarla painted her fingernails gold and glued rhinestones on the tips of them. The woman couldn’t get enough gold.
Princella organized the Bay Spring Cotillion, also known as the Daughters of the Confederacy Cotillion and Bay Spring Auxiliary Auction, every year, just like Vaughn’s mama did and her mama before her. As such, Princella took it upon herself to make sure I looked pretty, even though wearing dresses and being fussed over appealed to me about as much as picking cotton with bare hands. To make matters worse, being thirteen required me to invite an official date. The thought of holding hands with a boy—even if we both wore gloves—made my stomach hurt. But Princella said I had to find an escort from an upstanding family. Mama said she didn’t care what boy I took, so long as I took one. I doubted any would want to go with me, but Princella said any young man from the right kind of family would consider it an honor to go with the granddaughter of Princella and Vaughn Harlan to the biggest social event of the year for any young person who expected to make something of themselves when they grew up.
But finding a boy to take to the cotillion was the least of my worries.
First I had to make it through the Curly Q.
The following day, Mama—late from oversleeping after working most of the night—slammed the station wagon into a too-small parking space behind a car with a Louisiana license plate and in front of the Pen and Ink Bookstore, which was around the corner from the library. I peered around to see if I could catch a glimpse of the trailer Jed lived in, but they all looked the same.
Across the street, through the glass and gilded doors of the Curly Q, Princella sat with her arms crossed, perched on the edge of a pink velvet chair. She wore her silver mink coat, so long it nearly dragged on the floor. She wore it any day the temperature in Bay Spring fell below sixty degrees. Personally, I’d swelter in such a coat. But Princella, she loved wearing that coat around so much she never cared.
“See what Vaughn brought home for me?” Princella had said when she first showed us the coat one afternoon a couple of years ago.
“It’s beautiful, Princella,” Mama gushed. I could tell she didn’t care for the coat when she turned her head toward me and winked, which I took as my cue to gush over it too.
“Must’ve taken a lot of animals dying to make that coat.” I couldn’t help wrinkling up my nose.
“Well, now, Anniston,” Princella chided, “they raise minks like the ones they use for this coat at special farms, so they’re supposed to be turned into coats someday. A coat like this doesn’t hurt a thing in the wild. Anyway, I adore the silver, like the Alabama Southern Silver Tigers. It’s perfect for wearing on those chilly football game days.”
Perfect for showing off. Princella and Vaughn’s pecan farm made them the biggest financial contributors in Magnolia County to Alabama Southern University. Ever since Cole got a full-ride scholarship there as starting quarterback, Princella and Vaughn threw money at the university like snowbirds throwing suntan oil on their lily-white bodies.
“Hello, Anniston. How’s my favorite granddaughter today?” Princella’s sugar-sweet voice grated in my ears as she wrapped her mink-clad arms around my neck. The fur tickled my nose so I almost sneezed. She always called me her favorite grandchild. Easy for her to say. I was the only one. The only daughter of her dead and buried son. A son she hasn’t talked about. Hasn’t even mentioned by name.
She ran her fingers through my hair and I shivered. “I’m fine, thank you, ma’am.”
“What are we gonna have Qarla do with that mess of hair of yours today, sweetheart?”
“I think she just needs a trim,” Mama said.
I prayed she wouldn’t argue with Mama, but of course she did.
“Well, you’re old enough we could add some color to your mousy brown, and how about some nice feathered layers like those Mandrell sisters? Feathered hair is supposed to be the rage. I saw Mandy Appleton the other day—you know, last year’s homecoming queen—and she wears her hair feathered. She looks so beautiful. And the boys flock to her.”
“Looks like a golden retriever.” I stared at my new rainbow-and-smiley-faces shoelaces.
“What’s that, Anniston?”
“I said Mandy looks golden and dreamy with that hair of hers, ma’am. I’d really like somethin’ simple.” I tried my best not to whine. Mama said to be gracious and grateful to Princella, even
if she did things for the wrong reasons. I sank back in a pink wingback chair across the room, hoping she wouldn’t talk much more to me.
Mandy Appleton.
What a laugh.
Mandy could fill a whole set of bleachers with friends. Drop-dead gorgeous, Mandy coulda passed as Brooke Shields’s twin. Princella always talked about the prettiest, most popular girls in town and wanted me to be like them. But why did she care? Especially now, with Daddy and Cole gone? Why didn’t she care about that? Buzzing around to all her social activities like nothing happened at Thanksgiving. Acting all cheery and bossy about a haircut when she wouldn’t even bring up Daddy’s name.
I picked up a giant magazine about hair that was filled with foreign languages and spiky-haired models with black lines painted across their eyelids. I wanted to cut my hair short and spiky, or maybe color it black like the crows in the pecan trees. Page after page of models stared back at me, their skin like porcelain and hair plastered in razor-sharp swaths across the sides of their faces.
Across the way, the table where Comfort worked doing ladies’ nails sat neat and empty, and Mama got into it with Princella. “We certainly appreciate what you’re doing here, but you’ve got to quit trying to turn Anni into Comfort.”
I couldn’t breathe for a second after Mama said Comfort’s name.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Princella’s eyes opened wide, and her cheeks turned rosy against the silver of the mink coat.
“You do know what I mean.” Mama came forward in her chair, her whisper rough. “Even though Rey isn’t here to defend his daughter, don’t think I won’t. Comfort was special by her own rights, and she only wanted to make you happy. Didn’t get her too far, now did it?”
Well, that musta nearly knocked the wind outta Princella, because as fast as her cheeks turned rosy, they turned gray like the inside of a raw oyster.