“What did you expect?” Adam said.
“I tried to push her into the water but she snagged on that little tree. The ground was too soft to go in after her. I hoped she would just … go away.”
“This hoping things will just go away seems to be a pattern with you, Mrs. Shelley,” Hick observed.
“Yes,” she said looking down. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
The sound of a car door slamming in front of the house was followed by the shrieking laughter of children and the happy chaos of feet running up the porch. Elizabeth Shelley’s eyes filled with tears.
The drive to Broken Creek, Arkansas was made in silence. Mourning Delaney, like most of her family, was not one for conversation. Hick stared ahead as he drove, speeding toward the shimmering ponds of humidity that he could never quite catch. He was tired, but Mourning had pleaded with him in her own way. What she lacked in articulation she made up for with the eloquence of expression in her eyes. Of course Maggie had taken the young girl’s part in the discussion. A strong comradeship had sprung up between them in the ten days that Mourning had been at the house.
Hick was outnumbered and didn’t even attempt an argument. He could rest when all of this was over.
The parking lot at Our Lady of Sorrows church was empty as Hick parked his car. Even early in the day, the heat and humidity were oppressive, much warmer than a normal June day. The day lilies were no longer blooming but there were now red geraniums planted in pots near the front door. Grabbing Abner Delaney’s folder, Hick opened the door and he and Mourning walked inside. The young woman was back in the office behind her desk and her smile indicated that she recognized Hick.
Hick removed his hat and asked, “Pardon, Miss Esther, but is the preacher in?”
She rose and told him, “He’s been in there ever since Mass, typin’ away like every day lately. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
She tapped on the office door and went inside. After a moment she came back out and and motioned to them. “He says for you to come in.”
Hick entered and saw the priest, sitting across the room and typing with his back to the door. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said without turning.
Wordlessly, Mourning Delaney crossed the room and stood behind Father Grant’s chair. Putting her arms around his neck, she pressed her cheek into the back of his head. He was startled and jumped in his chair, turning quickly. His questioning eyes met Hick’s.
“This is Mourning, Abner Delaney’s daughter.”
She stepped away from the priest and put her arms behind her back. Looking at the floor she said, “I never knowed my pa. Thank you for what you done.”
“You were right. Abner Delaney was indeed innocent.” Hick placed the accordion folder on the desk piled high with papers. “His boys are innocent, too. I found the killer.”
Father Grant looked at Mourning and his eyes filled with tears. Sniffing, he said, “I’ve got a cold. Sorry.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose. He rose from the chair and put his hands on Mourning’s shoulders kneeling down and looking into her face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help to your father when he was living. And I’m so sorry you never got to meet him.”
“You believed him.” Mourning looked into the priest’s eyes with her wise gaze. “It’s enough.”
23
Hick stood on the levee and squinted out at the wide expanse of the cotton field stretching toward the tree line. The sun sat fat and low on the horizon and the sky blushed pink and gold behind gray clouds that scurried south. The smell of warm, earthy, steam filled the air. The ground was still saturated by the last storm and Hick breathed everything in and held it. He exhaled slowly, lit a cigarette, and flipped the lighter closed. At the sound of an engine, he turned to see Jake Prescott’s car jolting along the muddy road beside the levee.
Hick hurried down to meet him and helped the protesting older man to the top of the embankment. Together they looked down at the place where Gladys Kestrel had been found.
Jake stood for a moment and then lit a cigar saying, “What a damned shame.”
Hick nodded. “She never was one to think much about herself.”
“No.”
“I wonder if her boy will ever know about her … ever know the kind of woman he had for a mother.” Hick took a drag and watched the smoke evaporate, fading as if it had never existed.
“Adoption records are sealed,” Jake said with a shrug. “He’ll probably never know anything about Millicent Harris … or Gladys Kestrel.”
“I can’t imagine how devastated Gladys must have been when she figured out George fathered Susie’s baby. Gladys was incapable of thinking bad about folks. And she died because she thought she needed to help Elizabeth Shelley. Always wanting to take care of everyone around her.” He kicked at the wet grass with his shoe. “She was so worried that Elizabeth could be in danger because she believed George was a murderer. I wonder if she knew before she died that it was Elizabeth, not George, who killed Susie.” He turned to Doc Prescott. “It must have broken Gladys’s heart knowing that Susie was pregnant when she died and not being able to tell anyone.”
“It’s nothing short of heroic that she kept that information a secret all those years. That she was able to give Susie that dignity and spare the Wheelers that pain.”
The end of Hick’s cigarette glowed red against the deepening dusk. “She was a hero, and her son will never know.”
“Most heroics are done behind the scenes, behind closed doors by unnamed folks,” Jake said.
Hick threw his cigarette on the soggy grass. “I reckon.” He stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. “It’s kind of funny … life moves on and it’s the normal day-to-day drudge, and in one second everything’s changed forever. One bad decision, one instance of bad luck, one overreaction and your life has changed and will never be the same.” He put his hands in his pockets and stared out into the distance. “It seems like a completely different world today than when we found Gladys.”
Jake stared at the end of his cigar. “Hard to believe we’re at war again.”
“I reckon if those men in Washington had to fight we wouldn’t be.”
“That’s a fact.” They were silent, both thinking of the latest wave of boys who would be sent overseas and the horrors they would face there. After a moment Jake turned to Hick. “I understand Maggie talked you into letting Mourning stay.”
“Since Eben and Jed joined up to go to Korea and with another baby on the way, I reckon it’s the best choice.”
Jake nodded. “How’s Maggie feeling?”
“Sick,” Hick answered. “But so far none of the problems like before. We’re keepin’ our fingers crossed.”
“It would have been better if she’d had more time, but I know how these things go. And Mourning … she’s adjusting?”
“Maggie’s teaching her to read.” Hick chuckled. “Every night I come home from work, they’re at it. I think it’s good for Mag … it’s good for her to have company. Mourning’s not refined, but she’s good with Jimmy and worships Maggie.”
“How’d Mourning take the news about her daddy?”
“Better than me. Governor can’t exonerate Abner Delaney because that’ll get the state in all sorts of hot water on account of them executing the wrong man. Even in death, Abner Delaney can’t get justice.”
“I’m sorry,” Jake said.
“Funny, but I don’t reckon it matters so much to Mourning. That day she went to see that Catholic preacher, he told her the souls of the just are in the hands of God and she fixed on it. For years every person in town said the Delaneys were nothing but trash, but I find them to be forgiving where others would be vindictive and tolerant where others would be judgmental. I wish I could have done more … especially for Job. You know the Delaneys better than most … they may be poor and ignorant, but they’re good people.”
“It’s hard to know from appearances who the good ones are
and that’s a fact.” Jake bent and plucked a blade of grass.
Hick shook his head. “I think of all the shit that goes on behind closed doors … George Shelley and his womanizing, Elizabeth feeling like she had to cover up for him. I think about Ted Wheeler and the slap on the wrist the District Attorney gave him for killing Job, and I wonder what kind of world we live in.”
“It’s up to people like you to make it a better place.”
A breeze whipped down upon them as they stood on the levee and Hick recalled Tobe’s latest letter and how Chevrolet was putting on another shift. He knew he could get work, good work in the city. But there was a wind break of trees in the distance and the clouds above them mimicked their symmetry. The sky was enormous and golden beams struggled to break through the clouds to bring forth light that was as pure and bright as anything he’d ever seen. “It’s beautiful” he murmured.
“It is. It’s not perfect, but it’s home.”
“Home,” Hick repeated as his thoughts traveled across the miles to a place he used to know. A place where his father’s benevolence ruled and his mother made sure he was shielded from the darkness. The same house that now stood vacant with a “For Sale” sign in the yard. He thought of Pam’s home, busting at the seams with a husband, six children, and their aged mother who could no longer care for herself. And his thoughts drifted to his own kitchen where in his mind he saw Maggie cooking dinner, her hand on her abdomen and a smile upon her lips. He saw Mourning Delaney sitting at the kitchen table struggling to read while Jimmy lay napping in the playpen.
He knew life would never be perfect. It would always be a sloppy concoction of right and wrong, anger and jealousy, misunderstanding and complacency and, yet, life was good in spite of it all.
The wind picked up bringing with it the smell of another storm and somewhere, far off in the distance, a long, low rumble rolled across the fields. Jake turned to head back to his car. “Best get off this levee,” he told Hick. “It’s fixin’ to storm.”
Hick hesitated a moment and looked at the place where Gladys had been found. Had the hatred in Elizabeth Shelley’s eyes shocked her just before she died? Did it break her heart to find out that George Shelley, someone she loved and admired, had been a fraud? Did she wonder if she had been wrong about others, about Hick’s dad? A fat drop of rain plopped on the ground beside him then another hit his arm. He saw Jake slip his way down the levee and jump in his car. He glanced once more at the scrawny tree. It waved in the breeze and for a moment he felt as if Gladys was with him. And then he turned and made his way down to his car. It had been another long day. It was time to go home.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to all those who have grown to know and love Hick Blackburn and asked for more. Thank you to my writer’s group: Paula Birchler, Deborah Weltman, and Tom Boyd for all the encouragement, and to my readers: Bob Dilg, Angela Dobbs, and Steve Graham. Thanks to Ronni Graham, Katherine Ising, and Debbie Pilla for the support. Thank you to all who have given advice and help (you know who you are). And, lastly, thank you to Kristina Blank Makansi, Donna Essner, and Lisa Miller for believing in me. Without you, there would never have been a Cherokee Crossing, Arkansas.
About the Author
As a child, Cynthia A. Graham spent every weekend and vacation in the cotton belt of Missouri where she grew to love the mystery and beauty of the stark, delta plane. Today, Cynthia lives in St. Louis where she graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Missouri – St. Louis with a B.A. in English. She has won several awards for her short stories and has been published in both university and national literary publications. She is a member of the Historical Novel Society and the St. Louis Writer’s Guild.
Behind Every Door is her second novel.
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