Secrets of Southern Girls

by Haley Harrigan

  She twisted the knob and walked in, the creak of the opening door such an interruption that the teacher paused in the middle of speaking. Julie gave her what she hoped was a shy, apologetic smile. The teacher was short, with short, brown, childlike ringlets framing her thick, happy cheeks. And she only stared at Julie for the moment it took her to move quickly into the nearest seat. Which was right behind the lovely boy.

  “Big decision?” he whispered, half turning in his desk to face her. His eyes were vivid and hypnotic. She looked straight into them, and for the longest time, she couldn’t think of the right words to respond.

  “Everything is,” she finally said softly.

  “I was talking about you, coming to class.”

  “I know.”

  Later, Evan told her that when he looked at her that first time, her eyes were like dark caverns. Places most people wouldn’t dare to explore, but he was brave enough to try.

  • • •

  It’s a brick ghost town, Julie decides, finally rising to leave. She wonders why she’d needed to see this place at all, if she’d thought the decaying remains of the factory would mean something to her. The trees shake gently overhead, and she can hear the river, faintly, behind the mill. The sun is setting as she climbs back over the fence, its silver links swaying back and forth with her weight.

  29

  August sits on the yellow curb in the almost-empty parking lot. He’s thinking about the diary. Ever since that day in high school when Reba told him he needed to see it, he’s wondered what could possibly be written inside, what could have been so important.

  All through college he thought about that book, through grad school, through his adult years after that. If he hadn’t been so haunted after losing Reba, if he hadn’t felt so guilty, maybe he would have sought out Jules sooner. If he had, they might have found the diary ages ago, and he would have spared himself so many nights of sleepless speculation. He didn’t expect any bombshells. He knew that he, himself, was Reba’s secret. But, there was a certain expectation that reading her words would quiet something inside him that had been screaming ever since the night he lost her.

  He watches Jules cross the street back to the parking lot. He doesn’t know why she’d wanted to stop here at this crumbling wreck, but why argue? He’s along for the ride at this point.

  “Sorry,” she says. “You probably think I’m crazy.”

  He doesn’t respond, because there’s some truth to her words. They climb back into the car, and this time, Jules seems at a loss about where to go next.

  “What do we do now?” he asks. “We’ve got to find a way to get the book.”

  “Yeah, I know that,” she says. “I just need to think about how, okay?”

  August nods, and they pull out of the lot, past the Lawrence Mill First Baptist Church with its dingy white siding and over the railroad tracks. He assumes they are on their way back to the hotel, unless Julie has another surprise detour planned. She drives with the radio turned off and the windows rolled down so that when they pull up to a stop sign, he can hear the crickets calling in the twilight. And then the sun is disappearing. The dim streetlights and the flickering fireflies create a soft glow, so different from the lively lights of Richmond. On the other side of the windshield, stars are scattered like sparkling confetti against the dark expanse of sky. They end up on back roads August doesn’t remember, with Jules steering the car around unfamiliar twists and turns. He doesn’t know where they’re going, and he’s not sure she does, either.

  It takes a long time to get back to The Inn, but August doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t mind, anyway.

  30

  It’s been a hell of a day already, and when Nell walks into the gallery, she has a wary expression on her face that makes Toby think his day is about to get even worse. Out the big glass windows, the sun is setting, and shadows are crawling up the paintings. Creepy, but creepy is how he’s made a living all these years, so he can’t exactly complain about it.

  “Hey, Nell,” he says, turning down the angry music he likes to blast. Background noise. Adds to the ambience, or something like that. With the big, black chandeliers and the dark feel of his paintings, it’s not your typical art gallery. But hey, the shit sells.

  “Toby.” Nell smiles at him and hefts a six-pack of beer and a bag of produce onto the counter. She thinks he doesn’t eat well enough. That’s why she’s always stopping in with leafy fucking greens and the like from the farmers market in the square, usually with some kind of craft beer to sweeten the deal. Balance things out. If she brings him something he does like, there’s more of a chance that he’ll eat the rest.

  She’s right, though; he doesn’t eat. He hasn’t had an appetite in years, can’t remember the last time he craved something. Not food, anyway. He knows Nell is trying to look after him, so he can’t bring himself to be annoyed with her. It’s more than his own mother does for him these days. He’s a grown-ass man, she’d say, and he doesn’t need her to take care of him. He doesn’t need Nell either, but he can’t seem to make her go away.

  Anyway, it’s nice when Nell stops in. But today, he can see that she’s got something to tell him, and he’s antsy to hear it. She looks around the gallery and winces, the way she always does, even after all these years. She’s not a fan of the subject matter he paints, and he can’t blame her. But he doesn’t choose his art; it chooses him. Over and over again, it chooses him. When he picks up his brush, it’s always the same thing. No point in fighting it now. Maybe one day, when he’s painted Reba enough times, he’ll be able to move on. He doubts it, though.

  Toby reaches into a drawer and pulls out a bottle opener. He opens a beer for himself and slides one across the counter to Nell. The gallery’s closed already, so he leads her to a couple of chairs in one corner of the room.

  Nell settles in and takes a swig of the beer. “She’s here.”

  He doesn’t have a clue who she’s talking about, and he tells her so.

  “Jules,” she says. “Here in town, with August, of all people.”

  Shit. Jules is one thing, but the boy? “Why?” Toby asks. “They a thing?”

  Nell shakes her head. “No. But they’re looking for some answers. Don’t be surprised if she turns up here.”

  He shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “There’s no way she’ll find out the truth.” But there is a way. Nell knows. She’s the only one who does, besides him, and she cared for Jules back then the same way she cares for Toby now. He couldn’t blame Nell if she told.

  But the look on her face has him unsettled, anyway. “Don’t be so sure,” she says, patting his hand with her own.

  He doesn’t ask. If she’s going to tell, he doesn’t want to know.

  31

  REBA’S DIARY, 1997

  My daddy was avoiding everybody in town since he lost the promotion, but after several weeks of nothing but work and home, work and home, Mama finally dragged him out to church. Which meant we all went, even Jules.

  Ever since Jules moved in next door and we became fast friends, Mama has insisted that Jules accompany us to church. Jules isn’t religious, not even a little bit, but if she tries to sleep in on Sunday, it never fails that Mama will send me next door to wake her up. It’s like Jules is our little orphan sinner, and Mama is determined to save her soul. They don’t know the half of it.

  That day, the sign out front of Lawrence Mill First Baptist proclaimed, in thick black letters, that Jesus Is Lord—or it would have, if the r hadn’t fallen sideways, making it read more like Jesus Is Loud.

  We climbed out from the back of Mama’s sedan, taking care not to show thighs or undergarments. “Be ladylike,” she whispered. Jules’s dress was dark gray and knee-length, sleeveless but modest, a dress she wore only to church. She wouldn’t be caught dead in it anywhere else.

  David Nickel, who lives across the street from us, stood among
the churchgoers on the wide steps leading into the church, chatting comfortably with Joseph Evans, a local attorney and one of Daddy’s closest friends.

  “Harold,” Joseph said as we approached. He wore a dark suit, a white button-down shirt, and a blue tie. He looked like you’d expect a lawyer to look, right down to the fancy pen tucked into the front pocket of his suit. He held out his hand to my daddy. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  David looked at the three of us women, then put his hand on Daddy’s shoulder and turned him away, lowering his voice. But I could still hear him. “Listen, Harold, I know we’re supposed to pretend like nothing’s happened. But nobody, and I mean nobody, can believe what is happening at the mill.”

  Joseph shook his head. “I don’t know what they’re thinking. It’ll be the downfall of the mill, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Libby! Oh, Libby!” Nell called to Mama, and Mama moved away to gossip. Jules and I wandered, drifting toward the open doors of the air-conditioned church. I strained to hear the rest of the conversation between my daddy and his friends.

  “I mean, Harold, we can’t have…well, you know…one of them come in and take your job out from under you.” It was David talking. “It isn’t right. We’ve been speaking with some others that work over at the mill, and they are none too happy about it either.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”

  “Now, I’m not trying to offend you, Harold. You know that. Maybe I’m overstepping here. But if you feel like you need to, I don’t know, do something about it…well, you wouldn’t hear any objection from us. That’s all I’m saying. And you know you can count on Joe here…if you find yourself in need of any legal counsel.”

  I looked back, my stomach uneasy. Something like what? I wanted to ask, but I was too far away and wasn’t supposed to be listening in at all. Besides, a small group had gathered around my daddy, shaking his hand, and those low voices were now indistinguishable from one another.

  I can’t even remember the sermon from that day, but I remember the sweet Southern lilt of our preacher’s voice, the awkwardness of watching Jules shaking (during the meet and greet) the hand of the boy I know she fooled around with the weekend before, and the pleased and determined set of my daddy’s jaw as one by one, his friends approached to offer him support. It gave me a chill to watch; even an outsider could see the dirty seeds being planted and something taking root.

  32

  Julie sits on the hotel bed, restless. To calm herself, she checks in with Beck—or rather, she attempts to check in with her by leaving Evan a voice-mail message. She chews her fingernails and waits for thirty minutes until she gets a call back. And then it is Evan’s voice, not Beck’s, that she hears on the other end of the line.

  “How are things?” he asks, an unexpected inquiry into her life, so rare and casual, that she doesn’t know the correct response. “Your trip… Are things going okay?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be glad to get back.”

  There is a short pause before he speaks again. “Julie, I know there has to be a reason you decided to go back there. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” She hears the static sound as he passes the phone, and then Beck’s voice is in her ear, tinkling like a little bell.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi,” Julie says. And then Beck is chatting, telling her about school and about how Evan has promised to take her to a concert in the park on Saturday. Julie can’t ignore the feeling of being somehow in limbo, not a part of the New York world of Evan and Beck and art and music, but not a part of Lawrence Mill either, not nearly.

  • • •

  After drama class, on the day Evan and Julie first met, he looked at her with a small, flirtatious smile and asked her out to coffee. They went to the nearest coffee shop, which happened to be a Starbucks. He grumbled about it, since as promising New York actors, he felt that they should have been frequenting one of the many interesting local joints. These silly chains, Evan mused. So mainstream.

  But they never did go anywhere else. Call it convenience, but that Starbucks was theirs. Even though there was a Starbucks on every corner in the city, that one belonged to them as surely as if they owned it, belonged to that time when, miraculously, Evan forced her to leave her past behind. At least for a little while.

  On cold days, they would unravel their scarves and sit, legs touching beneath the small tables, and talk about everything, anything. Except for Reba. Julie couldn’t talk about Reba. The thoughts in her head couldn’t be translated into words, couldn’t come out in the form of sound. But still, in those first months, conversation flowed between them, a river of words, endless. He was from New York, originally upstate, but he’d spent a lot of time in the city growing up. This Julie had guessed, even before he told her. Evan wore the city like a trendy accessory, as natural on him as the woven beanie that covered his longish hair in the cold, with blond pieces of hair sticking out and curling upward into the air.

  With a native New Yorker by her side, it didn’t take Julie long to feel as though she’d acquired the hint of mystery, of sophistication that separated New Yorkers from the rest, although it did take months for her to fully rid herself of the Southern accent. But even back then, she wore dark colors, black mostly—an artsy cliché that made Evan smile. He joked that Julie always managed to look like she was in mourning.

  When the weather was warm (which she’d hated in her first year in the city, the pureness of the sunlight reminding her of Lawrence Mill, of Mississippi summers, even though this new heat wasn’t quite the humid, heavy-blanket warmth she was used to), she and Evan sat by the windows or outside, and she watched the light dance across his face. Sometimes, they played a game—an idea Evan had gotten from the words to his favorite song. Sitting with their cardboard coffee cups, they would choose a color, and then they’d count the cars of that color that passed by. The first time, the color was blue, like in the song, but then they did red, and then black. Once, for fun, they tried yellow. The total, before they grew exasperated with counting, was 157. All in a half hour. All taxicabs.

  In all of the years with all of the boys that she had secretly dated, Julie had never gone on a date with a man in the daytime. Yet for a month, all of her dates with Evan were during the day. It was weeks before they even kissed (another first). But there was never a moment when she thought, sadly, that they were only friends. That first day, he paid for her coffee, and when the wind tossed her long, dark hair across her face, he pushed the strands back behind her ear with the pad of his thumb, brushing his finger against her cheekbone, and she trembled, hoped he didn’t notice. She felt the heat between them even then, even in that tiny moment, felt that he had branded her with his fingerprint, and that she was his.

  From that point on, they were always touching, her arm linked boldly through his on their second coffee date, his hand covering hers when he leaned across the table to tell her something important, something meant only for her. He would be so close that she could feel his breath, hot, against her cheek, her ear, her neck. But their romance stretched, slowly, across days, weeks.

  They both took their coffee black. Julie liked that about him, liked to imagine things about him based solely on the way he ordered his coffee. Bold, sensitive. He liked life the way it was, not sweetened with fantasies, not watered down with distractions. Those things she pretended to know. As for her, she’d only discovered coffee when she moved to the city and needed it. Because she could hardly sleep at night, she was always cloudy-eyed and confused in the mornings.

  She never bothered with sugar or cream, or any of the more interesting, innovative coffee additions. Secretly, her taste buds recoiled, stung with the strong, bitter bite of the dark liquid. And yet it seemed fitting. Even when Evan let her forget, even when her guilt wasn’t the first thing she thought of each morning, even then, she made sure to indulge in those tiny punishments.

 
The time they spent together progressed from drinking coffee and counting cars to long walks around the city to museum visits. One day, Evan took Julie to the Empire State Building, and they pretended to be tourists, taking cheesy pictures and giggling all the way up in the elevator. But despite the silly pretenses, she’d never actually been to the top of the building, and she was thrilled with the view, and fascinated, and terrified, by the world below. She told Evan that she felt like she was in the clouds.

  There, in the biting wind, Evan took hold of her arms and drew her close and kissed her, his lips touching first the outer corner of hers and then moving inward until his mouth covered hers completely. It wasn’t gentle, and it wasn’t rough either, that first kiss, his mouth hot and her, melting.

  “I can’t believe this is real,” she whispered.

  “God, I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long,” he murmured into her ear.

  “Then why’d you wait?”

  “This waiting,” he said, his voice low and hungry, “makes it so much sweeter.”

  She was able to change his mind about that, though.

  33

  REBA’S DIARY, 1997

  I always feel a little lopsided without Jules around, like a part of me is missing. Nothing major, not enough to handicap me completely. I’m just…less. We’ve spent so much time together over the years that it’s actually strange to be alone.

  And I hadn’t seen Jules, outside of school, for a few weeks. It felt like longer. If it would have made a difference, I might have tried to talk her out of the play. Might. I probably wouldn’t have been very convincing. Knowing she wanted it so much made me want it for her. Jules has carried the lead in the school play every year since we started high school. I doubt she could stay away, no matter what.