Barbed Wire Heart

by Tess Sharpe

  I’m supposed to be inside, but she didn’t lock the screen door like she usually does. I want to run in the meadow behind the barn and pick the wild sweet peas that grow along the edge of the forest.

  I’m heading down there when the voices stop me. I turn around and circle back, peeking in at them through the doorway.

  “I’m not talking about this with you!” Momma says.

  “We need to,” Jake says. “This is dangerous.”

  “I am so sick of you saying that,” Momma snaps. She’s pacing back and forth, her long paisley skirt swirling around her ankles. She has silver rings on her toes. One has a moon with a face; it always makes me smile. “He’s not dangerous—not when it comes to me. And not when it comes to Harley.”

  “He’s a criminal, Jeannie.”

  “I love him,” she says. “He loves me. He would never hurt me.”

  “You sure about that?” Jake asks, and there’s something in his voice that makes my stomach hurt. That makes Momma go white and reach out and slap him, hard across the face. My eyes go wide. I’ve never seen Momma hit anyone before. She doesn’t even spank me—and she doesn’t let Daddy, either.

  “You keep your mouth shut,” she hisses. “Or you’ll be getting more than the back of my hand.”

  Uncle Jake touches his fingers to his mouth. His lip’s bleeding.

  Her face, twisted with anger, relaxes into sorrow. “I’m sorry,” she says immediately. “Fuck, Jake, I’m sorry. I just—” she sighs, pressing a hand to her forehead, staring up at the ceiling of the barn. “I don’t like thinking about it. Her and him…” She sighs.

  “Eventually you’re gonna have to deal with it.”

  “I—” Momma starts to say, but then she catches sight of me in the barn doorway. “Harley,” she says. “Honey, what are you doing out here?” She hurries forward, scooping me up. She looks over her shoulder at Jake. “I’ve got it under control,” she tells him. “I promise.”

  “I want to pick flowers, Momma!” I tell her. And she laughs and we walk through the meadow to the edge of the forest, gathering armloads of sweet peas and lupine and golden California poppies.

  I don’t think to ask her why she looks worried. I don’t ask her why she was mad at Jake. I forget about it almost immediately, my full focus on the rainbow of color in my arms.

  Momma laughs and claps her hands as I thrust a fistful of flowers at her.

  “That’s my sweet girl,” she says, reaching out her arms and holding me close. “That’s my sweet, sweet girl.”

  Fifty-Two

  June 8, 10:58 p.m.

  I sit back on the couch and I look at him, this man who had set my life on its path. It’s strange to be so close after this long. I should be more scared than I am. But instead, it feels like I’m finally standing still after years of spinning.

  “You’re not gonna kill me,” he says, and he almost sounds like he believes it.

  I set the knife—starting to cool down now, on the floor next to the couch, keeping the lighter in my hand.

  “Killing takes balls. You don’t have any. If you did, you would’ve sent Duke after me when my guy shredded up Jake’s guts.” His mouth tilts up at the memory. I bite the inside of my lip, trying to stay calm.

  He’s just seeing how to get to me.

  “You kill me, your daddy will be so pissed,” Carl continues. “He wants to be the one who does it.”

  I fold my hands together around the silver lighter with the wolf’s head engraved on it. I can feel the etching against my palm. “It doesn’t matter what he wants.”

  Carl snorts. “It’s all about what Duke wants. Always.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he wants, because he’s dead,” I say. And it’s the first time I’ve said it. He’s dead. The words are strange on my tongue, the sound of them like hail on a tin roof, it sets your teeth on edge.

  For a second, Carl’s mouth drops open; then he snaps it shut, trying to recover. He laughs shakily. “Bullshit.”

  “Before he died, he made me promise him something,” I continue. “See, at the end, he was so fucking weak, so sick, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get you. He made me promise I would. So I did. And now”—I throw my arms out wide—“here we are.”

  He shifts as best he can bound to the chair. “You’re fucking with me,” he says, but there’s doubt in his eyes.

  Real soon, it’s gonna turn to fear.

  I picture him in my mind…my daddy. A man with bloody hands and a shady heart. He had loved me. He had terrorized me. He had made me.

  I look across the room to Carl.

  So had he.

  “Duke ain’t dead. He’s in Mexico,” Springfield says.

  “Where’d you hear that?” I ask. “Buck?”

  The look on his face tells me that’s exactly where he heard it. I smile. “Buck got it wrong because I wanted him to. He won’t be working with you anymore, by the way. He’s gonna be busy, what with the Feds taking him in.”

  He sucks in a shaky breath, tensing in the chair. “What did you do?” he asks.

  “Funny, that’s exactly what Buck asked me when I visited him in jail this morning.”

  He jerks against the zip ties, making the chair jump, but it holds. “What the fuck are you up to?”

  “You know, my entire life’s been about you,” I tell him, my head tilting as I take him in. He seems so much smaller now. So much less terrifying.

  He shifts again, sweat trickling down his forehead.

  “Even when you were locked up. He could never let go, never rest. You were always coming for me. You were the bogeyman, really. But now…” I look him up and down. “I’m starting to think that fear was misplaced. You failed every time you tried to get me. And the first time I tried to get you, I did it in three days with nothing but a smile, a gun, and a little creativity. Really, Carl, what are you other than a murderous, racist fucker who thinks he’s a lot smarter than he actually is?”

  “Smart enough to kill your Uncle Jake,” he says. “Smart enough to kill Jeannie. She was a hot piece, your momma,” he says. “She had a tight little ass.” He licks his lips for good measure.

  My stomach clenches. He doesn’t have the right to say her name. To even think about her. But I’m not going to give him the pleasure. “It’s not going to work,” I tell him. “Trying to get me angry. You’ve hurt or killed every single person I’ve ever loved. There’s no getting angry after that—there’s just getting even.”

  “Were you close enough to hear the screaming that day?” he asks, and I go very still, because I wasn’t. Because this is something new from the day that defined me. That ruined me.

  “I was,” he says, and the lantern light paints his face in long shadows as he leans forward as much as his bonds allow. “She must’ve burned for a good minute before the flames got the better of her. Screaming her head off the whole time.” His smile stretches, gaping, cruel. “If I remember right, it was your name I heard.”

  I get to my feet, the knife in my hand and against his throat, pressing there hard. It’s still hot enough to sear, and his flesh peels and bubbles up in blisters instead of bleeding.

  He laughs, a choking sound that’s all triumph. “You can’t do it,” he says.

  I jerk the knife away from his neck. The long burned spot shines red.

  Goddammit. My skin feels too tight for my body. I want to stab him. Shove my knife as far into his heart as I can.

  It’s what Daddy would do.

  It’s what a McKenna would do.

  I turn back to him, the knife still in my hand.

  “You wanna know why you can’t kill me, Harley Jean?” he asks, and that smile is back, and I hate it. I hate him.

  “Not really,” I say.

  But he keeps on going, because I haven’t shot him yet. I need to shoot him.

  I need to end this. I grit my teeth. But I don’t grab the gun.

  “You can’t kill me because there’s some part of you, deep inside, that’s
telling you not to. And you don’t know why, but you keep listening to it. Over and over. I knew it the first time I saw you, in that parking lot. You didn’t scream. You just sat there and took it. Let me tear the hair right out of your head. But you never told anyone you saw me, did you?”

  I shake my head.

  “You should’ve,” he says. “He raised you to be a vicious little bitch. But you didn’t tell him. Why’s that?”

  I try to keep my face blank, but it’s hard. “I was seventeen. I was stupid.”

  “Last time, you were grown,” he says. “I waited till you were grown before I sent Andy for you.”

  I shudder. I can’t stop it.

  “I as good as killed your uncle, and even then you didn’t tell. Duke would’ve gone after me in a second if he knew the truth. But you spun some other tale, didn’t you?”

  “I was trying to prevent a war,” I say.

  “Bullshit,” he says. “You could’ve tried to kill me when I came to the graveyard. Every time, baby girl, I leave myself wide open for you, and every time, you don’t take advantage of it. You gotta be asking yourself why.”

  “Are you really complaining about all the times I’ve stopped myself from killing you?” I ask.

  “Once is luck. Twice is a coincidence. Three times? That’s a pattern. What keeps stopping you?”

  “You seem to think you have the answer,” I tell him.

  He leans forward, the lantern light filling his face, and it’s like looking into the darkest part of the water, where the things you don’t want to see lie. “You can’t kill me, because deep down, there’s a part of you that knows the truth.”

  My hand slips in my pocket, closing around the lighter. The cool metal feels good against my skin. “What truth?”

  “That you’re not Duke’s daughter. You’re mine.”

  He leans back, and it’s like he’s the cock of the walk. He smiles, because he thinks he’s won. He thinks it’s gonna destroy me. That I’ll crumble.

  But I am a McKenna. We’re always two steps ahead.

  We always win.

  I pull the lighter out of my pocket, flicking it on, and I raise my eyes to meet his. “I have your blood,” I tell him. “But I’ll never have your heart.”

  I drop the lighter onto the line of gas.

  The flames leap high.

  Springfield screams.

  Fifty-Three

  I’m eighteen when I find out.

  It’s an accident, really. Right after Christmas, we move Miss Lissa to Fir Hill. She needs round-the-clock care, and it’s for the best; we all know that.

  But Will’s quiet for weeks after the move, and Miss Lissa is so confused—even more than usual. It’s awful leaving her after each visit because she doesn’t understand why she can’t come with us.

  The nurses tell us it’s normal, that she’ll get used to her room, to the other patients. She’ll think of it as home soon, they reassure us.

  But it isn’t home. Half the time, Miss Lissa may not know who she is or where she is, but she knows she’s not home.

  I throw myself into making it better for her. I bring her quilts, her pictures, the worn paperback mysteries she liked to read. I read them to her now, and she keeps her eyes closed most of the time, but whenever I pause to flip a page, she opens her eyes, like she doesn’t want me to stop. So I don’t. Sometimes we spend hours reading.

  I cook every single recipe she’s ever taught me. I win the nurses’ devotion with her snickerdoodles, and the food seems to cheer her up the most, so I start bringing it every day for dinner. Will meets me after work as much as he can, and we all eat together, but a lot of the time it’s just her and me.

  One day, when I walk in the door carrying her favorite fried chicken and biscuits with star-thistle honey, she beams and says, “Jeannie!”

  It’s not the first time she’s mistaken me for Momma, but it’s the first time I don’t correct her. Whenever I do, she either gets confused or she starts to remember, and it’s like she’s finding out Momma’s dead all over again. So this time I decide not to put her through that anymore.

  Instead, I play along. I smile and hold out the basket of chicken. “It’s your recipe,” I tell her.

  “Did you soak the chicken in buttermilk?” she asks.

  It’ll never not be weird how she can’t remember who I am but she knows I’m supposed to soak the chicken. Why is it that the important stuff gets scrambled and the random stuff stays in reach?

  “Just like you taught me.” I set the basket down on the tray over her hospital bed and make up a plate for her. I tuck a napkin in the neck of her housecoat, smoothing it down her front.

  “Have you talked to Desi lately?” Miss Lissa asks, taking a bite out of a biscuit. A smile lights up her face. “You did a good job on these, honey.”

  “I haven’t seen Desi for a while,” I say carefully.

  Miss Lissa snorts. “I worry about her,” she says. “She has Will to think about now. I was hoping once she had him…” She trails off and sighs.

  My stomach clenches.

  “Try the chicken,” I prod gently. Despite all the meals I bring, she’s lost weight since she moved to Fir Hill.

  “I don’t know what I did wrong with that girl,” Miss Lissa sighs.

  “You did your best,” I say, because I know she did. Miss Lissa had made her mistakes, but she raised Will up into a good man despite his nightmare of a mother. But Desi’s demons, they just ran too deep.

  Miss Lissa falls silent, concentrating on the meal. And when she’s done, I clean everything up and read to her until I think she’s drifted off.

  But when I stand up to gather my stuff and go, she reaches out and grabs my arm.

  I look down at her, and my stomach drops, like I’ve slipped while climbing and am about to fall.

  Her brown eyes are suddenly alert, serious. Her fingers clutching my arm are strong.

  “Jeannie, what are you going to do about the baby?”

  I think for a second, trying to figure out the best answer. Earlier she thought Will was a baby. So if she’s still at that time in her head, that means I haven’t been born yet. Is she remembering Momma telling her about being pregnant with me? She must be.

  “I’m going to keep the baby,” I say, thinking it’ll soothe her. It’s what happened, after all. “I love Duke. We’ll get married.”

  But it doesn’t calm her. Her grip tightens around my arm and suddenly, she pulls hard. It takes me off guard and I stumble forward, settling on the bed next to her.

  “What if he finds out?” she hisses, and there’s fear in her face, in the way she’s holding me, looking at me. Something cold and clammy starts to form inside me.

  I frown. “Finds out what?”

  “This is dangerous, Jeannie,” Miss Lissa says. “You’re playing with fire.”

  “I’m being careful,” I respond, because I don’t know what else to say. What is she talking about? Is she just mixing up the timelines? Did she just not want Momma to marry Daddy? I can’t blame her for that.

  “What if the baby looks like him?” Miss Lissa asks, every line of her wrinkled face is written with concern, with genuine fear.

  Fear for Momma.

  Fear for me.

  Oh, God.

  I jerk backward.

  “Looks like who?” I ask shakily.

  But I know. I know. Oh, God, I know.

  “They’re dangerous men,” Miss Lissa says. “I know you love Duke, but tricking him like this…”

  My entire body feels like it’s on fire. She’s confused. She has to be confused.

  Duke is my father. Momma wouldn’t…

  “And what if Carl finds out?” she continues, shaking her head.

  And there it is. A scream’s rising in my throat, but I can’t let it out. I can’t scare her like that.

  So I force myself to keep my face neutral. “Don’t worry,” I say, trying like hell to keep my voice from shaking.

  “But…
” Miss Lissa frowns. “Duke’s not the kind of man who’ll raise another man’s child. Especially that man. If he finds out, Jeannie…” She wrings her bony hands.

  “I’ve got it all figured out. I promise. Everything will be fine.” I lean down, kissing her on the forehead. “I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”

  She’s got that lost, worried expression on her face, the one she gets when she’s swimming in the confusion, unable to latch on to anything real. “Okay,” she repeats softly, uncertainly.

  “I love you,” I tell her. “I love you a lot.”

  “I love you, too, Jeannie,” she says.

  I want to cry. I’ve never wanted to cry so hard in my life. She’s broken my heart, she’s torn my life apart, and she doesn’t know it and she’ll never know it and I thank God for that, because if she knew, she’d hate herself.

  She kept this from me. All these years. She kept Momma’s secret. She protected her.

  She protected me.

  But now I know.

  Now I have to protect myself.

  Fifty-Four

  June 8, 11:15 p.m.

  The fire speeds down the hallway toward the second bedroom, filling it with fire and smoke.

  Springfield jerks backward in the chair, crashing to the floor just inches away from the fast-spreading flames. He’s not laughing anymore. His eyes are wide and terrified, sweat pouring off him, panting like he’s running a race. He pulls against his bonds, but he’s not going anywhere.

  He’s trapped, and the fire will get him in the end.

  I crouch down, so we’re level.

  “Goddammit, Harley!” he yells. “Let me free!”

  There’s a whooshing sound. I look down the hall. The fire’s climbing up the walls of the second bedroom—the flowers on the wallpaper are turning black.

  It’s time to go.

  I grab my gun and knife. The smoke’s growing thick, billowing up around us.

  “Harley!” he screams.

  I look down at him, at the terror in his face, at the way he’s struggling, fighting, still, to survive.

  Is that where I get it from?

  Is this what Momma felt, this terrible heat, sweat rolling down her back in bullets, as she screamed for me?