The Lying Woods

by Ashley Elston

  I hand the part back to Gus and he attaches it to the part on the table in front of him. Finally, he looks at me and asks, “Feel better?”

  It takes me a moment to understand what he’s talking about and then I realize I’m not as mad anymore. My anger fell away with every scrape of that wire brush.

  “Yeah, I do actually.” Leaning to get a closer look at the object in front of him, I ask, “What are you working on?”

  “The weed whacker won’t whack my weeds so I’m trying to figure out why.”

  He scoots the table to the side then launches himself out of his chair. He’s in pretty good shape. He’s tall, and if his arms are any indication he’s muscular, which makes sense for someone who does a lot of physical labor. “Well, let me give you the five-cent tour and then you can get started.”

  I follow him up the front steps and through the wide front door. The smell hits me and I stagger back.

  “Yeah, something died in here a while back but I can’t seem to find it,” he says.

  It has to be a big something…a very big dead something to produce the stench that seems to coat every surface. I pull my shirt up over my mouth and thank God I didn’t have any lunch because there’s a really good chance it would end up all over the dirty floor.

  We’re standing in a massive foyer, a curved staircase wrapping around the room, and even through the chipped paint and years of neglect it’s easy to see how beautiful this house once was. “All right, we got the dining room on this side and formal living room on the other,” Gus says and he points right, then left.

  There’s trash and leaves and God knows what else littering the floor.

  “Are you sure there’s only one dead thing in here?”

  Gus’s head tilts to the side. “Well, no. Could be more.”

  I follow Gus down a hallway that opens up into a large room with windows all along the back of the house, where you can see rows and rows of pecan trees stretching out like fingers.

  Gus points to the right and says, “Through that door is the kitchen and washroom.” Then he spins around and points the opposite direction. “And down that hall is a study and the master bedroom. More bathrooms and bedrooms upstairs.”

  “You’re not living in here, are you?” I ask.

  “Hell no,” he answers. “Staying in the room above the garage. It’s been a long time since anyone lived in this house.”

  The amount of work it’s going to take to bring it back overwhelms me. “We need about twenty more people helping if you want this place clean by this time next year, much less by the time you harvest pecans.”

  “Well, did you make a few friends at school that you could call to come help?”

  My jaw clenches. “Not exactly,” I grind out.

  “Well, then, looks like it’s just us.”

  “Why now?” I ask.

  Gus acts like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “What do you mean?”

  I glance around the room. “What made you decide to clean up the house now? Are you about to sell it or something?”

  Gus shakes his head and frowns. “I’ve been tied up with other things but it’s time to make it right. It’s been left like this for too long.” He throws a pair of gloves at me that I nearly miss. “Start outside. Get those damn vines off the side of the house. I’m going to hunt up what’s making that smell.”

  I’m down the hall and out the front door before Gus has a chance to change his mind and send me on the dead animal scavenger hunt.

  My first mistake is not putting on the gloves immediately. It only takes minutes before my fingers are shredded from trying to pry away the plants clinging to the house.

  “Shit,” I mutter when I realize I’ve smeared blood down the side of the house. After I use the gloves to wipe it away, I pull them on, ignoring the sting pulsing in the tips of my fingers.

  I work for hours. I work until my hands are numb and the ground is littered with broken pieces of vines and leaves.

  “I think I found it,” Gus says as he steps onto the porch. He’s holding what’s left of some animal with his gloved right hand while the fingers on his left hand pinch his nose.

  The smell wafts through the air and I start to gag. I stumble away, desperately trying not to vomit. “What is that?”

  “It was a raccoon. Not sure what got ahold of him. But he’s got a few sisters and brothers up there in the same sorry state. One hell of a mess.”

  Gus walks across the yard, the dead raccoon bouncing with each step, and he dumps it in a large pile of debris in one of the only open spaces on his entire place. As he makes his way back to the house, he says, “Gather up all those vines and add them to the pile while I get the rest of those animals. Then we’ll burn it. It’s the only way to get rid of that smell.”

  By the time I drop the last armful of leaves and branches and vines on the burn pile, Gus steps out with what I hope is the last of the raccoon family. He throws it on the top and between the stench of the dead animals—there were seven raccoons in total rotting away inside—and the tentacled beast I fought all afternoon, I’ve never been so ready to light something on fire.

  “I’ll let you do the honors,” Gus says as he hands me a small can of diesel and a pack of matches.

  I step up to the pile and once more have to concentrate on not puking. As I walk around the mound of debris, emptying the can of diesel, I think about the last two days. The lies, the threats, the sadness, the guilt. And I’m so pissed. So pissed at everything. I step back, setting the can a good distance away, and then strike the match on the side of the box. I hold it one second then two, wishing I could get rid of all my problems as easily as we’re about to destroy the dead animals and the creeping vines. Just before my fingers start to burn, I throw the match onto the pile and with a whoosh and a flash, the flames devour everything within reach. Smoke billows up through the opening in the trees, but some of it gets trapped under the nearby canopies then spreads down the row, looking for an alternate escape.

  I turn back to the old wrecked house, staring at the section that is free and clear of intruders. I took back a piece of that house today. I ripped away what was hurting it. I destroyed what was trying to claim it.

  Gus passes me on the way to the small garage but stops and moves toward the front porch steps. He bends down near a purple plant I uncovered when I cleaned off that area.

  “Yeah, I was surprised to see something so pretty under all those vines,” I say. “Not sure if it’s a weed or not so I left it.”

  “It’s bougainvillea,” he says in a quiet voice.

  “Well, whatever it is, I thought you may want to keep it.”

  Gus doesn’t answer, just pulls his pocket knife out and cuts off a small portion from the end. He tucks the small bloom in his shirt pocket and says, “Good work today. See you tomorrow.”

  I nod and wave then turn back to watch the fire. I stand there until the smoke cleanses the foul air and everything is reduced to ash.

  I stand there until I’m convinced I can reclaim a piece of my life just like I reclaimed part of that house.

  Noah—Summer of 1999

  I’m bushhogging the grassy areas in between each tree when I see a small black sports car pull up in front of the house. There hasn’t been a single visitor since I got here and the only person who comes and goes from this house is Betty and the medical people who check on Abby every couple of days, so it’s almost weird to see the little black car in the driveway.

  Betty just pushed Abby back inside and Gus is on the back of the property so I hop off the tractor and jog to the front door so I can catch her before she rings the bell.

  “Can I help you?” I say when I get to the yard near the front porch.

  The girl spins around and almost drops what she’s holding. “Oh, hi. My mom wanted me to bring this out. It’s a casserole. We heard Abby isn’t doing well so she sent food. Because that’s what she does. She sends food.”

  The girl is blushing and shi
fting around from foot to foot. It’s pretty cute.

  “Here, let me take that.” I move closer and reach for the pan. It’s still warm and that surprises me, making me almost drop it. She makes a grab for it again and we’re tangled up, the casserole jiggling between us.

  I finally get a good grip on it and she pulls her hands away.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Sorry,” she says at the same time.

  The dish is covered so I can’t see what’s inside but after getting a whiff of it, my stomach rumbles.

  “What is this?” I ask. “It smells great.”

  She blushes and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. “Oh, it’s something I made up. It’s jambalaya but instead of rice I use bow tie pasta.”

  “You made this? Well, if it tastes as good as it smells I know Gus and Abby will be glad to have it for dinner.”

  The pink on her cheeks deepens and then she cocks her head to the side. “Who are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

  “I’m Noah.”

  She gives me a big smile. “Well, hi, Noah. I’m Margaret Ann. But everyone calls me Maggie. Nice to meet you.” She points to my T-shirt. “Were you there?”

  I look down to remind myself which shirt I’m wearing. It’s from the last Rolling Stones tour. This one, like all the other concert shirts I have, came from Goodwill.

  I shake my head no and say, “I wish, though. I’ve heard their shows are worth the insane ticket price.”

  “Hmmm…if I could go to any show, it would have to be…” She trails off like she’s thinking about her answer.

  “Oh God, please don’t say Backstreet Boys.”

  She laughs and pushes my arm. “Give me a little credit. I was trying to decide between Springsteen reuniting with the E Street Band or Prince. But really, I wish I could go back in time to Madonna’s Blond Ambition Tour. Can you imagine being in the audience for that show?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Is that the one where she was on a bed onstage and…you know.” I can’t finish my sentence.

  She laughs. “Yes. That’s the one. She also dressed up like a nun and didn’t act very nun-ly. I bet it was crazy.” Maggie nods toward the house then back to the dish in my hands. “Maybe we should take that to the kitchen?”

  I’ve never been in the house. Not once. Gus feeds me but it’s by handing me a plate from the back door and I eat at the picnic table in the yard or I take it back to the old shack near the river on the edge of the property. But Gus isn’t around and Betty is probably busy getting Abby settled.

  “Sure.”

  She follows me up the front porch steps and I hope I can figure out where the kitchen is. I push open the front door and scan the area, looking for any clue to guide me in the right direction.

  We pass through an arched opening on the back wall of the foyer, one I’ve seen Betty go through, and come out into a large den area. There are several couches scattered around the room along with some big comfy-looking chairs. And the walls are covered with pictures. Not just of Gus and Abby but of what must be their parents and grandparents.

  I look left, then right, and wish I had a coin to flip. I pick left because why not and luckily when we pass through the door, we’re in the one of the biggest kitchens I’ve ever seen. The fridge is wide and takes up the whole middle section of the wall, but when I open it, I find it’s mostly empty.

  “Looks like it’s a good thing Mom sent me out. At least y’all have something for dinner tonight.”

  “Yeah, I know Gus and Abby will appreciate it.” Actually, Gus is probably going to be pissed since it doesn’t seem like he wants people nosing around in here, but it will make Abby smile to know someone was thinking about her.

  “What’s your number?” I ask. Then add, “In case Abby or Gus want to call and thank you and your mom.” Yeah, that’s why I want to know her number.

  She gives me another smile and her cheeks get pink again. Maggie grabs a small notepad off the counter near the phone and writes down her number.

  “You could call me,” she says. “I mean, if you want to know where anything is around town. I’ve lived here my whole life so I know where everything is. I could show you one day. Or just tell you. You know, if you need something.”

  Maggie rambling nonsense is by far the best thing I’ve seen in a long time. I’m just about to take her up on her offer when Gus comes in from the back door. He looks surprised to see us in his kitchen.

  He throws me a look like we’ll have a talk about this later, and I’m worried if coming into his house makes the list of things for which he would put a bullet in me.

  “Hey, Maggie. How are you?” Gus says.

  “I’m good. Mama heard Abby wasn’t doing well so she sent me out with a casserole.” Maggie points to the fridge. “It’s ready to eat, just need to warm it up.”

  “Well, that’s really sweet. Tell her I said thank you.”

  Maggie nods and we all stand there in an awkward silence.

  “Well, I guess I should go,” she says, throwing me a look.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I tell her.

  We’re almost out of the room when Gus says, “Come back in here when you’re done, Noah.”

  “Okay,” I answer and pray I didn’t overstep my bounds here.

  I walk Maggie to her little sports car, trying to think of something to say. We stop at her driver’s side door and she holds her hand out.

  “It was nice to meet you, Noah,” she says.

  “It was nicer to meet you, Maggie,” I answer, slipping my hand in hers.

  When she drives off, I head back toward the house and hesitate before letting myself back inside. Gus told me to come back so I push through the door and make my way to the kitchen.

  He’s got the casserole out of the fridge, sitting on the counter.

  “Take this,” he says. “It’s yours. Betty will fix something for us for dinner.” He pushes the dish across the counter and I grab it before it slips off the edge and crashes to the floor.

  “You don’t want any of it?” It smells good. Really good.

  He shakes his head and moves toward the door that will take him back outside. “When people bring you a casserole, it’s because someone’s dying or dead, and we’re not there yet.”

  And just like that, I don’t think I can eat a bite of it either, even if Maggie was the one who made it.

  5

  I should go home. Mom’s been texting me for a while. So has Jack for that matter. But instead I’m picking my way through her flower bed, trying to get to the window I hope is still hers. Because if I’m going to reclaim my life I need to know exactly what I’m up against, and this seems like the best place to get the truth.

  Just before I knock on her window, I glance back at the house next door, the one I lived in until I went to Sutton’s. Just like all the houses in this neighborhood, these two look just alike except our floor plans were mirror images of each other so my bedroom window looked out at hers. Most nights I crawled out of mine, crossed the small green space that separated us, and stood right here with my hand raised in front of the glass of her window.

  Tapping lightly, I brace myself for some unknown face to yank the curtain back and the scream that will no doubt follow. But I’m startled when I hear steps behind me.

  “It’s been a long time since you’ve come knocking on my window, Owen Foster.”

  I spin around, trying not to get caught in the thorny branches of a nearby rosebush. “Hey,” I say and feel lame.

  “Hey,” Pippa says. Her hands are jammed in her jean pockets and her head is tilted to the side.

  “Can we talk a minute?” I ask.

  She’s still. No smile. Not even blinking.

  “I’m not sure I want to talk to you. I’m afraid if you open your mouth again that I’ll never get over how you’ve changed.”

  But even as she says that, she’s looking me up and down with a confused look on her face. I came straight here from
Gus’s so I’m covered in dirt and soot and I smell like a bonfire and probably dead raccoon. I’m sure she wouldn’t believe me if I told her how I spent my day.

  Dragging in a deep breath, I say, “I need your help. I need to know everything. What you know about my dad. What you know about the threats my mom has gotten. How things have been. And not just the last few months. But since I’ve been gone.”

  Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to find a trick in my request. And then she zeros in on my hands.

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Reclaiming things.”

  She waits for me to elaborate but I don’t.

  “Have you eaten?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Not since breakfast.” And saying the words seems to unleash a growling hunger from the pit of my stomach.

  She laughs quietly, and I’ve missed that sound more than I thought I would have.

  “Come inside. My parents are at parent-teacher conferences for Pacey and Parker at the middle school. But she texted that dinner’s on the stove.”

  Dodging the smaller plants, I step out of the flower bed and follow her to the front door. “Pacey is old enough to be in middle school?” I ask.

  “Just started sixth grade.”

  I’ve been gone for so long. She was just a little kid when I saw her last.

  Pippa’s house is the same as I remember, just with more pictures scattered around every surface. I study a series of her little sisters and can’t believe how much Pacey looks like Pippa did when she was that age.

  “Come eat. I can hear your stomach begging for food from here,” she says as she sets a bowl down on the kitchen table.

  I take the seat opposite of her. Her mom made chicken and dumplings and it takes everything in me not to stick my face in it. Even using the spoon, I empty the bowl in record time.

  “Want seconds?” she asks.

  “Is there enough?” I ask.

  “You know Mom always cooks way too much.”

  I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten a lot of things about Pippa.

  Grabbing my bowl, I help myself to more food, filling it until the excess spills over the edge.