by Bev Marshall
Sheila grinned. “I wouldn’t tell him it was frog meat; I’d say it were rabbit or squirrel or chicken gizzard. I trick him all the time.”
I was surprised. Sheila was so honest. “You fool him?” I had asked her.
She squatted down, her bare toes digging in the mud. “Sure do. Once I told him I was a fairy just pretending to be a human girl. I was going on from a story my mama had telled about this fairy that sprinkled magic dust on things that turned them into gold. I pretended cornmeal was fairy dust and sifted it through my fingers onto Stoney’s boots. Then I put them under our bed and told him that in the morning they’d be solid gold.”
I giggled. “Oh, Sheila, he didn’t believe you.”
She wagged her finger in my face. “Don’t be so sure of that. Next morning I opened one eye and seen Stoney hanging upside down looking under our bed. He said he knowed I was teasing and he was just making sure I hadn’t hid them boots somewhere else in the night.” She poked the grass with a stick. “Huh. I fooled him. He wouldn’t own up to it, but I know he was expecting to see two big lumps of gold winking out of the dark.”
But Sheila’s cornmeal held no magic and she hadn’t fooled Stoney into believing Hugh’s baby was his. I wonder what would have happened if Stoney had been able to bear children? Would he have killed her someday anyway, over something else? Or would she be sitting here beside me cradling a baby in her arms? But Stoney did kill them both. He did it. I have loved a murderer, and I know now that for the rest of my life, I can’t trust my heart.
I have to go home, back to the house to pretend I care about getting the turkey leg on my plate. I think of all those times Sheila and I ran across this ground, laughing, singing, feeling the joy of just being alive and having a friend. I have betrayed my Best Friend, believed she was a sinner. I was happy that she was burning in hell for cheating on Stoney. She would never have doubted me the way I have her. I’m the stupid one, not Sheila. If she were here, I would beg her to forgive me, and I know she would, too. She would put her arms around me and smile and tell me to just walk through that old shadow.
And I did one time, on the day that Lil’ Bit left us. The sun sat up in the sapphire blue sky exactly where it is now. I can nearly see Sheila pulling me out into the field of crimson clover, hear her saying, “Look, Annette, ain’t it pretty?” This shadow walking along beside me now doesn’t show the changes I feel inside. It looks exactly the same as it did that day, big head, long legs and long arms, but Sheila isn’t here to tell me when to turn and take a step. I didn’t learn half the things she tried to teach me. And now she’s in the ground and I guess Stoney is too. There was no funeral for him, no visitation, no after-burial feast. Grandma said she was sure the Barnes had a graveside service for him, and although I can’t forgive him for what he’s done, I hope that Grandma is right about that. If they did pray for his soul, Sheila would have been glad. I don’t know how I know, but I’m sure that she has forgiven Stoney. He took her life, but he couldn’t take her love. I remember her saying that it’s a lot easier to hang on to love than it is to cling to hate.
I know what I have to do. I’ll stand here and watch the sun exactly like Sheila did that day, and I’ll remember what my Best Friend taught me. I’ll know the true moment to take my step and then I will walk through this shadow of me. If I can get it right, do it perfectly, then I will forgive myself and Stoney too, and maybe someday I will believe in magic again.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, with great pleasure, I thank Emily Heckman, my Best Friend Editor, whose magic pencil guided me, whose optimism uplifted me, and whose immense talent amazed me. Thanks to Lisa Bankoff, who, simply put, is the agent every writer dreams of; no one could be more grateful to her than I. To the gifted people at MacAdam/Cage, I offer my gratitude for their assistance and congratulate them for their creative vision.
Thank you to the writing teachers I have been so fortunate to meet: Jay Paul, so long ago at Christopher Newport College; Douglas Glover at Skidmore, who told me to quit my day job; Tim Gautreaux at Southeastern Louisiana University, my mentor and valued friend; and Nicholas Delbanco at the New York State Summer Writers Institute, whose friendship and talent are true blessings.
I thank those who gave my first stories an audience: Chester Hedgepeth at Maryland Review, Thomas Bonner at Xavier Review, and Polly Swafford at Potpourri; in England at Mildenhall Air Force base, the wonderful women of the wives’ clubs, the “gang at PA,” who served under the leadership of General Dwight Keahola, and to all of you military members, who are ever present in my writing and in my heart.
At Southeastern Louisiana University I received support and encouragement from Dr. Sue Parrill, Dr. Richard Louth, Dr. John Miller, and too many colleagues and students to name. Thanks to all of you.
Thank you to Picket Randall for sharing his boyhood story, while sitting beside me at Maggie’s graduation, and Dr. Bruce Belt for sharing his professional knowledge.
For phone calls for research, for passages read, for dreams shared, I thank Mandy and Joey Marshall, ever there, ever in my heart.
Thanks to the loveliest of readers, Amy Acosta, Wanda Trahan, and the members of the St. Tammany Writers Group: Katie Wainwright, Melanie Plesh, Karen Maceira, Dan Butcher, and Phillip Routh. With your various pencils and pens of red, blue, and black ink you give insightful comments and suggestions for which I continue to be greatly appreciative. I offer my heartfelt thanks to three other members: Andreé Cosby, Jan Chabreck, and Tana Bradley. You are the trio who sustain me through the darkest shadows and dance with me on the brightest days. Your friendship means more to me than I could ever say.
For the support, enthusiasm, and love that only family members can give, I thank James Forrest, Shirley Tate, Zora Marshall, and the rest of my many relatives, who love me for no good reason.
From birth to this moment, I am indebted to my dad, Ernest Forrest, the storyteller, and the most extraordinary man I will ever know.
Finally, thanks to wonder boy, Chess, for patiently watching the blinds opening and closing through so many months, and for his loving hugs and infectious laughter. Thanks to Angela for being the daughter every mother dreams of giving to the world, and to my amazing husband, lover, and friend, Butch, I say thank you for choosing to fly with me through this life.