“Like what?”
“Like they keep calling it an assassination attempt—which is, you’ve got to admit, too weird.” I gnawed on my upper lip.
“It’s unthinkable.”
“And Daddy almost acts like he’s in a coma himself—he can’t make a decision and just sits by Momma’s bed, begging her to wake up. It’s pitiful.” I glanced at my sister and almost added, You know . . . like before.
We stepped through the sliding doors and into the muggy Charlotte Indian summer where the sky had turned black. Hannah raised her face up to the clouds and took a deep breath. “Good ole North Carolina!”
When we reached the car, I mashed the button to unlock the door.
“Thanks for coming, Paige. I can’t believe Daddy let you drive all this way alone. Especially at night.”
“It’s like I said. He’s not himself.”
“Of course not.”
“He just sits there, staring into space. Like he’s in shock.”
“He is. We all are.”
“So I’m the one answering the phone and letting all the ladies in the church know about it, and the police said to put it on Facebook, and we’re inundated with messages, and I don’t know when the last time I closed my eyes was. . . .” Even as I said it, I suppressed a yawn.
Hannah grabbed me again. “It’s horrible, and you’ve been amazing, but you need sleep.” She brushed the back of her hand across my face, the way Momma would do, then tucked a wisp of hair out of my eyes and yawned.
“So do you.”
“I’ll doze in the car, and then you can drop me off at the hospital, and Daddy and I will take the night watch.”
I put her pack in the backseat and said, “Thanks.”
She nodded off within ten minutes of leaving the airport, while I clutched the steering wheel and stared into the black night and wished this were just a larger-than-life nightmare.
———
“And Momma received two handwritten letters—I’m pretty sure they were from the same person—and they were, you know, threatening. Really creepy, kind of.” I was crawling along the interstate at fifty miles per hour in the rain, grateful that Hannah had woken up.
“When was this?”
“Oh, at least two or three weeks ago.”
“Did you show them to her?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately.”
“And?”
“Just what you’d expect. She got a bit scared, and then she felt all guilty and kept second-guessing her story. And I kept telling her that the letters were probably from a white supremacist freak who had a grandfather in the KKK, and she should chill.”
“And?”
“Well, you know how those things affect her. I wish I hadn’t shown her.”
“Yeah. I remember once when I had your job”—she flashed a smile—“Mom got a really nasty letter from this person who was barely literate. Mad about Momma using a degrading epithet in her dialogue. But it was totally justifiable; I mean, Momma was showing that the character who said it was a first-class jerk. But I’ll bet she spent a week fretting over how to respond. I shouldn’t have ever shown it to her. One out of hundreds of fan letters is mean, and she can’t get it out of her head.”
“Exactly. That’s what happened with these letters. She got totally obsessed. I finally convinced her just to ignore the weirdo.”
“Do you still have the letters?”
“Of course.”
“Then you need to show them to the police.”
“Hey, I’m the detective. Who says they get to snoop around?” But I gave Hannah’s shoulder a squeeze. “Boy, I’m glad you’re here. I know it sucks to leave France, but it’s all so unreal. And so scary. Hannie, I’m afraid she’s going to die.”
JOSEPHINE
1968, April . . . How could all the grown-ups be laughing and joking and wearing their fancy clothes as if nothing had happened? As if the world hadn’t gotten a whole lot darker in just a week.
“I’m sorry about Mr. King, Terence,” Josephine said, sipping her ginger ale and staring out at the crowd of happy people.
“Thank you for sayin’ it, angel.” He wore his tux as usual, and served up the wine and champagne and mixed drinks with a “Here you go, ma’am” and a smile. But Josephine saw sadness behind his eyes. “It’s an awful thing—to be motivated by hate.”
The dark brown whiskey bottles and the elegant bottles filled with Daddy’s favorite wines from France stared back at her, but in her head Josephine still saw the images from TV—a mass of people walking behind a mule-drawn wagon singing a song about freedom.
“These people are sorry, too, Terence,” she said. “They don’t show it right now, but they care.”
Terence bent down to her height and rested his big hands on her shoulders, hands that trimmed hedges and filled glasses with sparkling wine. “Miss Josy, you listen to me, and you listen good. There’s a whole lot of evil in this world. And you got a heart that feels it more than others. But don’t you go tryin’ to carry it—you give it to the good Lord, you hear me? Can’t be carryin’ it on your mighty thin shoulders. The Lord, now He’s got big shoulders. You tell Him about it, and then you go on out and drink your ginger ale. Ain’t up to you to fix the world’s problems.”
Josephine nodded, head down, and blinked back a few tears. “But how can I help, Terence? What can I do?”
———
1968, December . . . The party lasted way past her bedtime, but Mommy and Daddy didn’t come to get her. Josephine didn’t mind much, with the house all lit up with candles and the Christmas tree sparkling with the perfect silver balls and the twinkling white lights and the music playing Mr. Bing Crosby. Everybody liked hearing Mr. Bing Crosby at Christmastime. She liked Mr. Andy Williams even better, and when his voice came from the record player, she smiled.
She yawned and found her way to the den where Terence—dressed in his black tux but with a bright green vest—was serving drink after drink after drink. She crawled under the little gate and sat in a folding chair beside him.
“They’re all going to be drunk, Terence. They’re all going to have wrecks on the way home. I just know it.”
“Now, Miss Josy, don’t you be worrying none about them folks. Ain’t it about time for you to go on up to bed?”
“Kit hasn’t come to get me yet, and I can’t find Mommy.”
“Well, I’m sure she’s here somewhere. You want me to take you to your momma, Miss Josy?”
She followed Terence through the big den into the living room and through the dining room to the little den. Across the room crowded with fancy people, Josephine could see Kit standing beside her mother. Kit was two years older than Josephine. She wore a bright blue satin dress, and her thick golden hair was pulled back in a bow. Josephine looked down at her yellow dress—she’d picked out the wrong one, she could tell by Mommy’s expression when she first came downstairs.
“There you go, Miss Josy,” Terence whispered, letting go of her hand and turning back through the house.
Josephine eased her way in between the adults, who smiled down at her. She’d almost reached her mother when the lady standing next to Kit said, “Your Kit is the most stunningly beautiful child I have ever seen.” She drew Kit close. “You are just gorgeous, sweetheart.”
Mommy caught sight of Josephine. She gave a pasted-on smile and motioned to her to come over. “Thank you, Janie. And you’ve met Josephine before, haven’t you?”
The woman nodded. “Oh yes, of course.” But she didn’t say anything about Josephine being pretty. No one ever did except for Terence.
Mommy came to the rescue. “Our precious JoJo is so talented. She writes poems and stories and is just the sweetest, most thoughtful little girl in the world.”
Josephine squished herself up against Mommy’s silky dress.
“I don’t think mischief ever crosses her mind. Now Kit, she’s another story. . . .”
The women laughed.
HENRY
I had the radio on, and the announcer said the hit man had been an expert, which meant training, probably military. They’d even pinpointed the type of weapon.
Yeah, I’d been in the military all right, but that’s not where I learned to shoot. No, that was all Pa.
I never had the guts to say “no, thank you” to my pa, and especially not when he had a gun on him. That meant target practice, every day after school, in the back woods.
“You got the eye. Got the control. When you git a little older you’ll be a fine sharpshooter, son. I guarantee.”
What he meant, but didn’t say, was when I reached my fifteenth birthday I’d be old enough to go out with him on his “private missions.” I didn’t like thinking about it, but I didn’t argue with Pa. And by then my ma wasn’t around anymore to stand up for me. When she took sick and died, that was it. Pa pulled me out of school after eighth grade.
I switched the radio to country and tried to think of something else, but my head kept throbbing to the beat of the windshield wipers, my mind all foggy, seeing Miz Bourdillon walking and then turning and the bullet hitting her at just the wrong angle. And I kept thinking about her books that I’d seen in the store, and I got a notion to get one of those books and read it.
One thing about being off the meds, I’d get an idea in my mind and it wouldn’t go away, no matter what. I made it to our little public library right before closing time. I pulled a newspaper over my head like a makeshift umbrella to keep the rain from drenching me. Libby wouldn’t like me coming home all wet.
“Hello, Henry. How are you doing?” The librarian, Mabel Garrison, looked up from the computer and over her reading glasses just like she’d been doing ever since I was a kid. She hadn’t changed one bit in almost twenty years, tall, thin, dressed in a dark suit, hair streaked with gray, eyes bright and looking plenty smart.
“Not bad. Doin’ all right. Forgot my umbrella.”
“And your boy?”
“He’s managing. We’re hoping for a surgery soon.”
“Well, we’re praying for you at church. Every Wednesday night.”
“I sure do appreciate that, Miz Garrison.” That’s what I said out loud, but inside I hated it that everybody at that church had to know my family’s business.
I made my way to the stacks, winding through the nonfiction to the fiction, alphabetical by author. A big gap opened between Borderly and Bowers. Guess I wasn’t the only person with a sudden interest in Miz Bourdillon’s books. But there was one left, and I plucked it off the shelf like I’d found gold and took it back to the checkout.
“I’m surprised you still found one,” Miz Garrison said. “Everybody’s come in wanting the latest.” She lowered her voice. “They’re saying because it raised issues about white supremacy it might have, well . . . you know. Might have caused the assassination attempt.”
I kept my face blank.
“But I’ve read it, and it’s good. Her books are all good. Clean. Inspiring. A little mystery, a little religion, a little history. Not fluffy at all, but there’s usually a love story. This one’s about reconstruction after the Civil War, and I tell you I didn’t know half of the truth. Pretty complicated and shady.” She shook her head. “But nothing to get yourself killed over, mind you!”
Then she got a funny look on her face. “Nothing unless you were a black man living in the Deep South in the late nineteenth century and involved in politics.” She let out a sigh, took my library card, and flashed it under the lighted screen.
I nodded as if I understood, wanting to hurry her along but not wanting it to show.
“But the one you’ve chosen is her first novel, I believe. One of my favorites. I’m sure you’ll like it.” She handed my card back to me along with the book.
“Well, I don’t exactly aim to read it. It’s for my wife—ya know, she saw it on the news and all. . . . She’s never read one, so I said I’d go on down to the library and pick one up.”
“Well, there you go, Henry. You tell Libby hello from us—and we’re praying about Jase.”
“Yes’m.”
———
“Thank goodness you’re home.” Libby greeted me with a frown. “I’ve been pacing the floor like a maniac.” She felt in my pocket for my cell phone. “Don’t you know how to use this thing? You could have called.”
“Sorry, honey. Battery died.”
“Same as always. You’re not in junior high, you know. It’s called being responsible.”
“I got your text yesterday. How is he?”
“Stable. They let me take him back home. He’s in bed.”
“Lemme go see him.”
She caught my arm. “Don’t. You’ll worry him looking like you do. Go get yourself a shower and shave.”
No man in his right mind wanted his boy to be afraid of him. That was what I told myself over and over again. But in truth I handled my boy just like Pa handled me. I didn’t know any other way.
———
“Hey, Papa,” Jase said, and my heart softened. If only I could force my face to soften too.
“Hey, Jase.”
He looked wrung out—pale as the moon, rasping to breathe, bony arms reaching toward me. Pretzel arms, twig arms. One snap and they’d break.
“You hangin’ in there, buddy?”
He wheezed and nodded.
“Your momma taking good care of you?”
“Like always, Papa.”
“Well then.” I reached over and mussed his chestnut mop of hair.
“Glad you’re back, Papa.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
I turned to leave, and he added, “Did Momma tell you what the doctor said?” I tried not to hear the hint of dread in his voice, the expectation of bad news.
“Yes, she did, son. We’ll be getting you into surgery in no time at all.”
In our bedroom Libby wrapped her arms around me and nuzzled into my bare chest. “You look like you’ve had a bad day.”
I knew what was coming next.
“You been taking your meds, babe?”
I grunted yes, but truth was I’d stopped ten days earlier when the prescription ran out. Had to—I wasn’t any good with a gun when on the meds.
“I’m just worried about you is all.”
I pushed her away, and I caught the fear in her eyes. Why’d the two people I loved most on the planet get that crazy, scared look so often?
“You got enough worries with Jase. Don’t spend your time frettin’ over me, girl.”
“Henry, I am worried about you. You know what the doctor said. Going cold turkey had bad side effects the last time.”
“You don’t believe me, do you, Libby? Just like always.”
I didn’t mean to shove her as hard as I did. She stumbled backward and fell against the bed. Now she looked at me like a panicked doe before the kill.
“Libs, I’m sorry. Don’t be nagging me about the meds. About anything. I told you I’d earn some extra money, and I aim to do it.”
She wrapped her arms around herself like she was cold, and I almost went to hold her, to show her everything was fine. But I didn’t.
The first time I roughed Libby up a little, she made me go see a doctor. Psychiatrist. I got a diagnosis all right. A fancy title: post-traumatic stress disorder. Well, yeah. Any fool could tell you that, after the way I was raised and watching my pa get shot and then with everything that happened when I was in the war. The doc and the meds helped me calm down, took away a bit of the anger and, thankfully, the nightmares. Horrible nightmares where I relived all those really traumatic things again and again and again.
Now the nightmares were back, and I knew I neede
d to start up the meds again. But I couldn’t, not until I’d finished my job.
PAIGE
As she’d promised, Hannah stayed with Daddy at the hospital. They sent me home to sleep. Which I did not do. Milton practically attacked me at the door, his oversized paws on my sweat shirt and his wet tongue on my face.
“Chill,” I reprimanded and let him out to pee. Poor dog—he knew something was wrong. He’d sat by Momma’s office all yesterday afternoon and started doing this weird howling in the night. Fat chance I’d get any sleep at all.
The reporter on the late news, her name was Lucy Brant, after assuring the world that Momma was stabilized, started reciting all the stats of how many people come out of comas after a day, a week, a month, or even years. Then she told this confounding story of a man who’d been in a coma for over twenty years and everyone thought he was just a vegetable and then they figured out he’d been able to understand everything all along and now he communicated with a computer.
Great. Just great. And so comforting.
Milton pawed the door to get back in; then he lapped up his bowl of water and settled beside me on the floor. Now Lucy was informing me, with the stupidest smile on her face, that some people were put into an induced coma after a bad head injury, to give the brain a rest.
Momma’s brain sure needed a rest, I thought. Even before some wacko blasted a chunk out of it. Momma just had way too much imagination.
Evidently, once those patients woke up, they told stories of crazy nightmarish hallucinations. The drug-induced comas literally took them on a bad trip.
But Momma’s coma came from the injury itself, and people who woke up from that kind of coma, according to Lucy, said things like, “I knew everything that people were saying. I wanted to respond, but I couldn’t. I had dreams but I also was lucid at times, and I felt great comfort, knowing my loved ones were there.”
So I spent half the night researching comas on the internet and texting with Hannah, and I vowed that one of us would be sitting beside Momma for just as long as she decided to stay asleep.
HENRY
I couldn’t sleep. At two in the morning, I crawled out of bed, grabbed a can of beer from the fridge, and settled into the La-Z-Boy in the den. I popped the can open and started reading.
When I Close My Eyes Page 3