Breaking TWIG

by Deborah Epperson

  Johnny took off his gray Stetson. "They call me John now, Rebecca."

  I smiled. Rebecca. The name sounded almost foreign to me. Nobody had called me that in five years, not since Johnny had been sent away. Now here he was standing on my front porch, knocking on my door. But something was different. His faded jeans and dark tee shirt—his trademark attire in the sixties—had been replaced by a crisp, gray uniform. "You still in the military, Johnny?"

  He pointed to a man standing behind him. "Not exactly."

  Behind Johnny stood a black man dressed in a similar uniform. He was older, early fifties I guessed. A thick mustache hid his upper lip.

  "Good morning, ma’am. I’m Sheriff Nathan Hays." He took off his hat and stepped up even with the younger man. "Sorry to bother you like this, Miss Cooper."

  A small gasp escaped my lips. "You’re a cop, Johnny?"

  He laughed. "I guess I’m the last person you’d expect to become a law officer considering my history with Sheriff Tate. But things change, Rebecca. People change."

  I studied Johnny. His hair was shorter, but still thick and black. Even through the uniform, I could tell the hardened muscles of a man had replaced the gangly legs of an eighteen-year-old. His hands were weathered some. Were they still as gentle? I wondered.

  "May we come in?" the sheriff asked.

  Nathan Hays stood at least six-two. Broad shoulders topped a lean, muscular frame. The color of his skin reminded me of the way I liked my morning coffee—half coffee, half milk, all stirred together.

  "I heard how you beat out Roy Tate for sheriff."

  "Yes, ma’am. I guess everyone in Georgia heard about a black man being elected sheriff." Hays ran his fingers alone the edge of his Stetson. "I reckon it didn’t set well with some folks."

  I grinned. "Reckon not." I turned my attention back to Johnny. His brown eyes still had that twinkle. A mixture of mischief and mystery.

  "What the hell does that Mexican boy want?" Momma yelled.

  Heat rose in my cheeks as I pushed open the screen. "Some people never change."

  Once in the living room, I introduced Momma to Sheriff Hays and held my breath. But she surprised me by being polite. "You remember Johnny, don’t you, Momma?"

  "I remember Sheriff Tate telling him he’d best not set foot here again."

  Johnny took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, exhaled. "That was five years ago, Mrs. Wooten. Like I told Rebecca, things change."

  "Not where you’re concerned. Sheriff Tate warned you what he’d do if you came around here bothering us again."

  "Roy Tate isn’t sheriff anymore," I shouted at Momma. "Mr. Hays is sheriff now, and Johnny is his deputy." The room went silent as all eyes focused on me. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell."

  Sheriff Hays sniffed the air. "Something’s burning."

  "My pie!" I ran to the kitchen.

  Spirals of smoke seeped out the sides of the oven door. I yanked it open. A thick cloud enveloped me. I started coughing and waving my arms in a frenzied attempt to breathe.

  "I’ll open the backdoor," Johnny shouted as he entered the kitchen.

  Fresh air cleared the fog enough for me to see the burned pie. I foolishly grabbed the hot pan. "Dammit!"

  "Get out of the way." Johnny wrapped a dishtowel around the pie pan and deposited it in the sink. "Let me see your hands."

  I offered no resistance as he inspected my burned fingers. He led me to the sink and turned on the faucet. "Cold water will ease the pain. Do you still keep an aloe vera plant on the back porch?" He didn’t wait for an answer before heading outside.

  The water ran across my fingers, fell on the burned pie, and disappeared down the dark drain, carrying clumps of yellow pie filling and blackened meringue with it. The squeak of the screen door announced Johnny’s return.

  He laid his hat on the table, then walked over and opened the second drawer in the cabinet and pulled out a fresh dishtowel. "I guess you’re right" he said, clutching three pieces of aloe vera in one hand and the cloth in the other. "Some things don’t change. Hold out your hands."

  I did as I was told.

  Johnny squeezed the gel from the plant onto my fingers, taking care to make sure every patch of burned skin was covered with a thick layer of the healing balm. I closed my eyes, content to trade burned fingers for his touch. The tender, circling motion of Johnny’s fingertips against my own stirred a deep-buried pain and a long forgotten need.

  "Johnny," I whispered as I opened my eyes.

  He looked up. His eyes widened as if surprised by what he read in the green eyes watching him. He pulled away, walked over to the sink, and washed his hands. "That should help, but you should call your doctor. You might need an ointment or something."

  "I’ll be fine."

  Johnny dried his hands on the dishtowel. "Shame about the pie."

  I pointed to the Hoosier cabinet that stood against the far wall of the kitchen. "I’ve got another one. I’ll give it to Randy."

  He wadded up the dishtowel, threw it across the hall. It landed in an empty clothesbasket in the laundry room. He grinned. "Haven’t lost my touch." He turned his attention to the Hoosier. "Don’t see many of these anymore." He rubbed his hand over the white porcelain countertop that pulled out for rolling dough or holding home-baked goodies in need of cooling. "This pie sure looks good. By the way, who’s Randy?"

  The kitchen door swung open. "Everything okay in here?" Sheriff Hays asked.

  Johnny pointed to the sink. "I’m afraid our visit interrupted Miss Cooper’s baking."

  The sheriff walked over and looked into the sink. "Too bad. Lemon is my favorite."

  "She has another one, but it’s for Randy, whoever he is."

  I frowned. Sarcasm was not a trait I remembered Johnny possessing.

  Hays picked up the flattened aloe vera leaves. "Someone get hurt?"

  "I burned my fingers a little."

  "I told her she should call a doctor."

  "And I told you, Deputy Santo, I’ll be fine."

  "I remember exactly what you said, Rebecca. I just didn’t realize you’d got a medical degree since the last time I saw you."

  "Are you sure you’re okay?" Hays asked.

  "I’m sure." I thought Johnny might argue the point, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned against the Hoosier, crossed his arms, and focused his dark eyes on me.

  Sheriff Hays cleared his throat. "You’re probably wondering why we dropped by."

  I nodded.

  The sheriff pushed open the swinging door. "Let’s go back in here. Shall we?"

  In the living room, I gave Momma a brief report on the ruined pie.

  She pointed at Johnny. "Trouble always did follow you."

  "For God’s sake, Momma, I burned the pie. Not Johnny."

  "Don’t you use the Lord’s name like that in my house."

  "I’ll do whatever I please. I’m not sixteen—"

  "Excuse me, ladies," Sheriff Hays interrupted. "I’ve got some bad news for you."

  "What kind of bad news?" Momma asked.

  "I afraid your stepson, Donald, is missing."

  Momma frowned. "What do you mean by missing?"

  "My office got a call this morning from Sy Lambert, the assistant manager of Cooper’s Hardware. Neither Mr. Wooten nor Gordon Zagat, the store manager, has reported to work since last Friday morning."

  "I know who Gordon Zagat is," Helen said. "My first husband, Becky’s daddy, hired him. I never trusted the man much."

  "How can you say such a thing, Momma? Mr. Zagat has worked for us for twenty years. Papa trusted him completely."

  "Your daddy was a fool when it came to running a business."

  It wasn’t Momma’s words that surprised me. I’d endured her spiteful slurs against Papa all of my life. But for her to make such a remark in front of others was a betrayal. A betrayal of those nasty secrets families keep hidden behind pulled curtains and locked doors. Secrets spoken to torment someone society tells us we’re
suppose to love.

  Johnny had returned. Not for me, but nevertheless, he was here. Standing in front of me, talking to me, touching me. For the first time since Frank’s death, I felt a flutter of joy. But Momma still hated Johnny and needed to destroy my moment of happiness.

  Sheriff Hays pointed at the sofa. "Maybe you’d best sit down, Miss Cooper."

  Grateful for his intervention, I did as he suggested.

  The sheriff began again. "According to Mr. Lambert, your stepson and Zagat got into a heated argument last Friday. Nobody at the store in Sugardale or Kirbyville has seen or heard from either man since."

  "Did they call Mr. Zagat at home?" I asked.

  Sheriff Hays nodded. "Deputy Santo and I went by his home earlier. No one was there. Neither the mail nor the newspapers have been picked up for several days."

  Momma turned off the television, lit a cigarette, sat back down. "Did you talk to Gordon’s son, Josh? He works at the Kirbyville store."

  "He did," Johnny said. "He walked off the job late last Friday after he got a phone call from his mother. Didn’t give a reason. Just said he wouldn’t be back. He and his wife are missing too."

  My scalp began to tinkle. "Gordon’s wife has family in Mississippi. Perhaps they had a family emergency and had to go out of town suddenly."

  The sheriff shrugged. "You’ve worked with Mr. Zagat before, Miss Cooper. Is he the type of man who’d miss work without calling in?"

  I shook my head.

  Johnny removed a small notebook from his shirt pocket, flipped it open. "Donald told his secretary, a Miss Wanda Gimmer, he’d be in Kirbyville Friday afternoon, but then called to say he had problems with his truck."

  Helen pulled at the top of her turtleneck. "Did you check with his wife, Charlotte?"

  "We haven’t been able to contact her yet," the sheriff said. "She and her daughters are visiting her parents in Athens. I left a message for her to call my office as soon as possible." Sheriff Hays patted the back of a blue striped wingback chair. "Mind if I sit, Mrs. Wooten?"

  She frowned. "You can sit down, but not there. Sit in the rocker."

  "The sheriff can sit anywhere he likes, Momma."

  "It’s harder to get sweat stains off upholstery than wood, Becky Leigh."

  "Your mother is right, Miss Cooper," Hays said. "My wife tells me the same thing. You’d think I’d know better by now."

  I couldn’t tell if the lawman was telling the truth or being polite. I glanced at Johnny. His lean form rested against the mahogany molding that framed the opening between the living room and front hall. He studied his boots, shook his head, tried not to laugh. Some things may have changed in the past five years, but not Momma. I knew that. So did Johnny.

  Sheriff Hays settled himself in the rocker. "When was the last time you saw your stepson, Mrs. Wooten?"

  "At church a couple of weeks ago."

  "And you, Miss Cooper? Is that the last time you saw him?"

  "Becky hasn’t been to church in awhile," Momma said. "She’s been a bit under the weather. She hasn’t seen Donald since the week of his daddy’s funeral."

  Sheriff Hays twisted to look at me. "Is that right, Miss?"

  Momma slapped her hands hard against the arms of her recliner. "I just told you she hasn’t seen him. Do you need a hearing aid, boy?"

  Johnny snapped to attention. He took two steps forward, his face set in battle mode.

  The sheriff waved him back. "Deputy." Hay’s voice was soft and controlled, but he gave Johnny a look that signaled he wouldn’t allow any interference, even on his own behalf.

  Johnny resumed his position in the doorway. I wrapped my arms around my waist, held my breath, and waited for the explosion.

  Sheriff Hays rose from the rocking chair. He strolled over to the dining table, pulled a Queen Ann dining chair out from beneath the table, and placed it next to Momma’s recliner. The big man sat down and leaned forward, bringing his dark, brawny frame closer to her. "You know, Mrs. Wooten, my wife asks me the same question a couple of times a week. She claims men don’t know how to listen."

  Helen pulled the lever on the side of her chair until it reclined a notch. "I agree."

  Sheriff Hays straightened and let out a husky laugh that resonated throughout the living room. "I do too, ma’am."

  I started breathing normal again.

  "Does Donald come around here very much?" Johnny asked.

  "No." I knew the concern on Johnny’s face had more to do with my safety than with my stepbrother’s disappearance.

  "After Frank’s funeral, everyone came back here, including Donald and his family," Helen said. "Donald visited a little, but spent most of his time in his room."

  "His room?" Hays asked.

  I motioned toward the stairs. "He still has a room here from when he was in high school. I’ve being meaning to clean it out for years, but I don’t like going in there."

  "Why’s that?" Hays asked.

  "Donald never liked anyone touching his stuff." I glanced at Johnny. His jaw tightened; his hands balled into fists.

  Sheriff Hays stood. "May I see the room?"

  "Why do you need to see Donald’s room?" Helen asked.

  "We might find a clue as to what’s happened to him." The big man returned the dining chair to its proper place. "I promise I won’t touch a thing."

  "I’ll show you, Sheriff." At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped to wait for him. He whispered something to his deputy. Johnny shrugged, then nodded at his boss.

  Hays joined me at the foot of the staircase. "Deputy Santo will stay with your mother if that’s okay, Miss Cooper."

  I grasped the implication of his words. In Sugardale, Georgia, a young woman didn’t go upstairs alone with a man unless he was a relative or a repairman hired to fix a broken window or leaky pipe. A white woman never went upstairs with a black man. But I liked Sheriff Hays. Momma had not intimidated him one bit. By exercising restraint, he had refused to let her get the best of him. Such self-control fascinated me.

  "Okay, but you know Momma and Johnny hate each other, don’t you?"

  "I figured as much. Don’t worry, Deputy Santo is a professional."

  "That may be true," I said as I started my climb. "But Momma’s not."

  *****

  Slipping the skeleton key into the lock, I rotated it until I heard a click. I pushed open the door to Donald’s room and stepped aside to allow the lawman to enter. I stayed perched in the doorway. "I’m sorry about the dust. We had to let our housekeeper go after Frank died. And like I said, I don’t come into this room."

  Sheriff Hays didn’t reply. His eyes scanned the room in a slow, deliberate manner, stopping whenever some particular item caught his attention.

  Pictures of famous sports figures decorated the walls of Donald’s room, along with calendars of young women clad in skimpy clothes, lying in provocative poses.

  Sweat broke out around my hairline. I pulled my hair up into a ponytail in an effort to cool off.

  "Is this room always locked, Miss?"

  "I’ve babysat Donald’s girls a couple of times since he and Charlotte moved to Sugardale. I didn’t want them coming in here."

  "That’s understandable. Do you pick the girls up or does Mr. Wooten drop them off?"

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Momma had told him I hadn’t seen Donald. Clearly, he didn’t believe her. "Charlotte dropped them off. I don’t drive."

  "You don’t drive?" he asked, making no attempt to hide his surprise.

  "No. I never took driver’s training or got a driver’s license."

  "May I ask why not?"

  I hesitated briefly before relating the lie I’d told others who’d asked me the same questions over the past five years. "When I was sixteen, I moved to Alabama to help care for Frank’s sister who was ill. When I returned home, we didn’t see the need for another car. Frank or Momma took me places or I walked." I wondered if it was a crime to lie to a peace officer if you weren’t un
der oath.

  A quick smile indicated he’d heard me. His attention focused on Donald’s dresser. Wedged between the glass and the oak frame of the mirror were five photos of teenage girls, former high school classmates of Donald. The sheriff pulled out three of the pictures, turned them over, read the inscriptions out loud. "To Donald with love, Sue. To Donnie. Thanks for the good times. Love, Janette. To a great lover, Angie." The sheriff slid the pictures back into the frame. "Seems your stepbrother was quite a ladies’ man."

  "Donald was popular in school."

  Hays picked up the picture of Donald in his University of Georgia football uniform. "Wasn’t there some talk about him being drafted by the pros? Too bad about the accident."

  I stared at Donald’s picture. He was holding the game ball given to him by his teammates after a close victory over their archrivals, Georgia Tech. A drunken joyride with his friends two nights later ended in an accident that left Donald with a broken leg, a concussion and a couple of fractured ribs. By the time his injuries healed, the scouts had lost interest.

  "Playing pro football was his dream." I preferred not to think of Donald as being a person who could dream and suffer the anguish of having those dreams crushed. He was a taker. A Picker who hurt people just because he could.

  Sheriff Hays sat the picture back on the desk. "You and your stepbrother aren’t very close are you?"

  "No. Are you about through in here?"

  "Almost." He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, showed it to me. "Is this Mr. Wooten’s handwriting?"

  I examined the note. ATLANTIC REALTY INVESTMENTS, INC., HILTON HEAD, SOUTH CAROLINA—$250,000. "It looks like Donald’s writing."

  "I found this note on Mr. Wooten’s desk at the store. Do you know if he had any business dealings with this company?"

  I shrugged. "I don’t know. Like Momma said, I haven’t seen Donald since shortly after Frank’s funeral. It’s taken me some time to heal after my accident."

  "Accident? I thought your mother said you’d been ill."

  I faked a cough in order to have a moment to recall Momma’s exact words. "She said I’ve been under the weather, but it’s because I fell down the stairs."