by Tara Goedjen
Mae’s stomach clenched again and she didn’t know what to do. She had to tell someone, she had to know for sure. The metal chair she was sitting in scratched at her skin through the holes in her jeans, and she looked up along the wall of the house, all the way to the attic window. Her granddad would know what to do. He would help, somehow.
Mae got to her feet and unlocked the French doors behind her, running up the back steps. When she reached Ro’s bedroom, she grabbed the jewelry box from the wardrobe. The ceramic ballerina was gone from the lid—maybe it had fallen off—but what she needed was inside. She opened the box and grabbed the ring, feeling its inner rim for the engraving she knew would be there. YOUR CHANA IS MY LIFE. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt. She left everything else in place and then hurried up the attic stairs and threw open the door at the top. A vase of fresh lantanas rattled against the table.
“Granddad?”
He was sitting in his chair, staring out the window that looked over the garden and the bay beyond. His suit jacket was draped over the armrest, his cane was beside him, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. The air-conditioning unit was pointed at him, and a tuft of his white hair was blowing up. It reminded her of dandelion seeds in the wind, the kind she made wishes on as a kid, but something about it seemed lonely.
She felt a stab of guilt. She’d neglected him lately—she’d been too worried about Cage to spend any time with him. And now what would her granddad say when she told him about the sketch? He’d be upset that she’d taken the green book against his wishes. He’d be upset about other things too, but she couldn’t carry this on her own anymore.
“Granddad, I have to talk to you.” She cleared her throat. “I’m glad you’re sitting down.”
She stepped forward, pressed the book against her chest. He was still gazing out the window. Maybe she was wrong about the family link. Her granddad would tell her what it meant. He’d say Cage wasn’t a Cole.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been up here lately, but I—I really need to talk to you.”
He still didn’t move, just kept looking out the window, his Bible on his lap. She waited, trying to be patient, even though worry was seeping from her every pore, she was trembling with it. She stared out the window, into the darkness of the woods. Overhead was the first of the night’s stars and the moon. She thought of the barn where Cage was, still sweating out the fever he’d caught from getting soaked in the downpour. The book felt heavy, and the secret on her tongue felt heavier; a bad taste was in her mouth.
“Granddad, I—”
When she turned to him, she froze. His blue eyes were open, staring straight ahead.
She waved her hand in front of him. He didn’t blink. A little smile was on his face. But it was empty. His eyes were empty.
Her stomach seized up and she panicked, shaking his shoulders. The smile stayed on his face. Someone cried out and she realized it was her.
“Granddad, no.” She reached for his hand and squeezed as hard as she could. “Please,” she said, desperation rushing through her, “wake up, please,” only there was nothing in him to wake, he wasn’t moving. “You’re okay,” she begged, “you’re okay, just breathe,” and then his mouth opened, but only because she was shaking him, because she’d clamped down on his arm, she was hurting him. She gasped and let go and saw the bruising she’d left—no, no, it was darker than that, so much darker—and she sank to her knees. His skin was streaked with soot where she’d touched him, and he looked wrong, it wasn’t really him, it couldn’t be. There was too much stillness and too little of everything else and he wasn’t supposed to leave her like this, she wasn’t ready.
“Granddad, I’m here,” she said, grabbing his hand again, trying to warm it by rubbing it. His fingers opened, just a little, and something fell from them.
She looked down, blinking in shock, staring at the wooden floor underneath her knees. Her granddad’s notepad was on the ground now; he’d been holding it. She blinked again, her eyes stinging—her whole body felt like it was floating away from him, from everything. His shaky writing was on the notepad, far below her. Her name was at the top of the paper, followed by lines and lines of ink.
Dearest little Mae, it started, there is something you should know.
BLUE GATE, 1860
GRADY DOESN’T HEAR US, EVEN though he should. It’s easier for us to get through at certain times. The moment before death, for example. At night, in the breath between sleeping and waking. And at the threshold of day, right before the sun has risen, when the eyelids start to flutter. Listen, we tell him. Listen, Grady. Look. But he doesn’t wake up, he doesn’t hear our whispers, not until the sun is high and hot. His eyes are finally opening now, wide and blinking at the blue ceiling.
Grady is startled awake and he’s not sure why, because he doesn’t know to listen. He doesn’t know to take just one moment of quiet. No, Grady is young and he sits up fast.
Sunlight is dappling across the floor and he stares at it incredulously. He must have done the impossible and fallen asleep. He hurries to get out of bed and grins when he sees himself in the mirror. He’s still dressed from last night. His hair is matted down from the pillow and his hat is smashed sideways and his shirt is buttoned all wrong. It’s stained with blood.
Lucky was born in the middle of the night. Pearl helped deliver him, and Hanna’s brother stood watch. No lights came on at the house, not one; his father slept through everything. And Hanna was fine; Pearl said it was an easy birth. Afterward, Grady gave Hanna his gift—she hadn’t even known he’d taken her apron for it. Then Pearl sent him back home, just in case. Hanna kissed him first, then let him kiss Lucky. He still can’t believe he’s a father.
“Lucky,” Grady says aloud, and his heart lifts as he says it. Maybe the little token Hanna made is working after all. That red thread tied around the baby’s wrist with his family ring, along with a sand dollar and a lodestone for good luck. Grady reckons they’ll need some luck. He’ll tell his father today—he’ll ask for his blessing.
But Hanna’s angry at him for waiting this long. She said she didn’t care about a blessing. Said she only cared about their son. She swore she’d give her life for him, for her children’s children. But there’s no reason to say things like that. His father will be fine with it, everything will be fine. And they’ll be a family together.
There’s a whistling sound, and Grady turns toward the bright window. The curtains are still, but with a sudden breeze they rustle just a bit. And then he smells it in the air. Smoke.
In an instant he’s at the glass, looking out. Smoke is rising above the treetops, somewhere near the cabin. No. No! In another breath Grady’s down the stairs and out of the house, leaping off the porch. He’s running barefoot across the yard, past the corral, past his father, who yells out his name, past Jacob, who’s sobbing, saying, Why did you do it, Papa, why? He’s running into the woods now, along the dirt trail, faster, winding through the trees, all the way to the—
The cabin’s not there. It’s not where it should be.
The only thing left is the small fireplace. Beside it, the ground is blackened. Ash is everywhere.
Grady doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. It’s not possible. He stumbles forward, collapses to his knees. He crawls over the dirt, the charred wood. A cast-iron pot. Shards of something, and—
Bones. There are bones where her bed was. It’s burned down to nothing. No. Comebackcomebackcomeback. He’s screaming, his voice is raw. He doesn’t know that we can hear him, that we’re all around him, trying to help. If he would just listen, if he would just clear his eyes and really look, he’d see she’s right here with us too. But instead, through the trees, he sees something else.
It’s resting on the tree stump past the well. Beside it is a bolt of red on the ground—her apron. And next to that are lines in the dirt, deep grooves that seem to be pointing, leading him ahead.
He gets to his feet and lurches forward, the ash all over him, the soot smeare
d on his hands, in his throat. He takes a deep breath and his lungs burn as he stumbles toward the tree stump. His eyes are stinging and everything’s blurry, but there it is. The book. And on the ground beneath it is the ax.
A NUMBNESS SETTLED OVER MAE and she still couldn’t believe what she’d found in her granddad’s hand. Now that the house was empty she could read it again.
She pulled the Bible from the shelf and curled up in the dining room’s window seat. Right now the sun was trapped behind passing clouds and the yard was as dark as her heart felt. She was meant to be choosing readings for the burial service, but all she could think of was the letter.
She pulled it from her bag, where she’d tucked it into the green book, and then carefully unfolded it. It was long, and written in his shaky handwriting. It would have taken him hours to write it, maybe days.
Dearest little Mae,
There is something you should know. When you found the book and brought it to me in the attic, I behaved irrationally. I knew it was my duty to pass it on, yet again, but I was frightened of what I might do with it.
Mae paused, looked out of the window. She remembered the terror on her granddad’s face that day. His paleness, that stammering as he tried to speak. The letter trembled in her hand and she smoothed it flat.
The book of rituals is not to be underestimated. Your sister knew this, yet I didn’t anticipate the lengths she would go to use it.
Ro had laughed at almost everything in life, except for the book. Mae knew that from the first and only time Ro had shown it to her, her breath laced with red velvet cake, her voice hushed, reverent.
When Roxanne was a child, she found the book in the attic and attempted to bring your mother back to life.
Anxiety clamped down on Mae’s chest and she closed her eyes. For a moment she was a little girl again, watching Ro carry an Easter basket. Watching her in secret, following her to the woods. Her sister had bent over the basket in her white dress, her hands busy in front of her, and when she turned, her dress had been a different color….Dark, dark red, streaked with blood.
Mae’s eyes shot open. She stared through the window at the woods where she’d hidden so long ago. Ro’s black door creaked open in her mind, and the woods spilled into the room, the smell of pine needles and dampness, the promise of hidden sweets, the giddiness of watching her older sister in secret. She’d wanted to jump out from behind the tree and surprise Ro that day, but the shock of the red dress had scared her. And then her granddad had appeared, yelling Ro’s name, swooping in to grab her basket, her knife, and the fat book that was lying on the ground. But hadn’t someone else shouted Ro’s name too?
Mae shook her head, trying to remember. She stared out at the trees from the window seat, left with the sense that someone else was there that day, but the thought was hazy, like a dream. She looked down at the letter again.
At that time she did not know—how could she?—that the raising ritual only holds its power over life within a year of death.
Within a year of death. That hot anxiousness gripped her again, right in the ribs. The anniversary of Ro’s death was tomorrow, the day of her granddad’s burial. This letter was proof that he believed in the ritual’s power, thought it could work. Was he telling her to perform it, or warning her?
Whatever you decide to do with the book—for it now belongs to you—I only ask that you leave me in peace; let me rest where I belong.
Mae’s mouth felt dry and it hurt to swallow. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of the last time she’d seen her granddad alive, standing at the attic window, waving to her. He’d died alone because she’d put off checking on him.
The ink swam in front of her and she wiped her eyes. Then there was the creak of hinges, the sound of the front door swinging open. Startled, she shoved the letter into her bag next to the book as heavy footsteps clomped down the hallway.
“Dad?”
Sonny appeared in the archway of the dining room wearing the same jeans and shirt he’d left the house in last night. One of his pant legs was shredded, and he had a gash along his forearm and a bruise on his cheek. “Time to go,” he told her.
“Time to go where?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
He ignored her. “Get in the truck.” His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at her from under his hat. “Go on.”
“But I’m choosing verses for the burial,” she said, picking up the Bible. “They need it by toda—”
“Don’t make me say it again, Mae Eliza.”
She shut her mouth, tamping down her frustration. She put the Bible in her bag and followed him out the door, the bolt scraping behind them as he locked it.
Outside, Elle was already standing beside the blue truck. She didn’t meet Mae’s eye. Her sister had sworn she wasn’t angry about the whole breakfast-for-dinner spying episode, but she’d been distant since then.
“Hurry up,” Sonny said.
A knot began to form in the pit of Mae’s stomach. She climbed into the middle, the seat scalding her skin. Elle got in after her, smashing her knees against the gearshift.
“Where are we going?” Mae asked, but neither of them answered. She glanced at the gash on her dad’s arm. The blood had dried to a blackish color and was bright red in the middle where it hadn’t scabbed over. “What happened?”
He didn’t say anything, just switched off the radio to hot silence. The knot in her stomach tightened as the truck jostled onto the dirt access road that ran through their property. Branches scraped across the windshield as Mae turned to Elle and raised her eyebrows, silently asking her to explain.
Elle shook her head—quick, like she didn’t want their dad to see—and then went back to staring out the window. Mae glanced over at Sonny. His ponytail was greasier than usual, grayish-brown strands were sticking out of a twisted rubber band, and the bruise on his cheek looked painful. He smelled of liquor; the whole truck stank.
“I can drive,” she offered, but he glared at her.
She was nervous, sweating now. Sunlight filtered through the branches and fell over the truck’s battered hood. Mae glanced down at her bag and tried not to think of her granddad, or the last part of his letter, but it was seared into her mind, as hot as the sun that sent her eyelids red when she shut them.
And remember, when the night is at its darkest, that the answers you seek can be found in King James.
And remember this too. You are quiet yet brave, Mae, which is why I have chosen you. You make me proud; you have always done so. I am blessed to have you in my life.
Your loving grandfather,
Grady Deacon Cole VI
The truck rocked over a pothole, and Mae opened her eyes and squinted at the sunlight. The bag felt sweaty on her lap; everything felt wrong. The letter was hidden under the canvas with the green book and the Bible. The answers you seek can be found in King James. She knew her granddad had been trying to comfort her, thinking she’d find some sort of peace by reading the Bible like he had, but he was wrong. Nothing could make this better. It wasn’t fair that he’d died alone, and it wasn’t fair that Ro had too and that everyone thought Cage had done it. It was an accident—she’d fallen off the boat and hit her head, drowning before she could be saved. Cage had dragged her to shore and done all he could, but no one would trust his word. Too much added up against him. He’d asked Ro to marry him and she’d said no; Lance had seen him running away from her body. She could forgive him for that, for running, even if he couldn’t forgive himself. And now he wanted the green book to bring her back, to make all the pain go away.
She wanted it to go away too. But if she brought him the book, he’d see the sketch of the ring. He’d figure out what it meant, just like she had. Would it make him feel even worse than he did now? There was a shrillness inside her head, the start of a headache coming on. She gripped the bag strap and closed her eyes.
After everything that had happened, she’d only been able to visit him twice in the past few days. He was still sick, bu
t his fever seemed better. He hadn’t eaten anything she’d left for him in the barn, though. Only one piece of bread had been touched—its crusts peeled off and cast aside. When she’d held his hand, he felt hot, but his face was peaceful, even with that cut on his forehead. She liked how when he wasn’t sleeping his eyes would steal all the beauty, pale blue cutouts from the very sky itself. She hoped he’d be awake later today when she checked on him. No matter how painful it was, she had to tell him about the ring. She owed him the truth.
Sonny passed the highway turnoff. He was holding the wheel like he might be strangling it, his eyes intent on the dirt road. They should be getting on the highway, not going straight—this way would only take them to the dock or the barn. All of a sudden Mae’s heart felt like it was in her throat, and she forced herself to breathe.
“Dad?”
He didn’t answer. She looked at Elle for help, but her sister turned away, and all she caught was the back of her head, a sheen of sweat on her neck. Sonny was still bearing down on the wheel, his hands clenched tight.
“Where are we going?”
He glared at her again, and Elle kept staring out the window. “I think you know,” he said.
Mae’s heartbeat ratcheted up. She had to concentrate on getting air, on filling her lungs. He couldn’t be going to the barn.
Sonny pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and the truck picked up speed. The trees were blurring past now, and Mae held her bag tight and glanced at Elle again. Why was she so quiet? Then it hit her—Elle had told him about Cage. Sonny was going to confront him. In the rearview mirror she could see her dad’s gun rack, the rifles mounted on it, and she felt a surge of fear. Maybe she could stop him before he got them unloaded, but if he had his pistol in reach she’d be useless.