The Unremembered Girl: A Novel

by Eliza Maxwell

  Nothing would make this any easier.

  His body ached nearly as badly as his soul as he heaved the bundle over his shoulder.

  The loose weight of it nearly took him down, but he stood straight and walked toward the front door of the shack, his feet casting shadows in the light of the flashlight that he’d laid upon the floor what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Making his way through the dark of the night, Henry took the steps down onto the ground and turned to walk along the side of the shack, heading for Jonah’s rusty metal barrel.

  Dropping the bundle at his feet, Henry pried the lid off of the barrel and stumbled backward at the stench that came up and assaulted him.

  Coughing and moving away from the stinking thing to find some cleaner air, Henry pulled in a deep, deep breath and held it as he moved back toward it.

  Kneeling and lifting the blanket and its contents, Henry planned to push the thing in its entirety into the container, but his knot gave way, and pieces began to tumble out. Most of them fell inside with a sickening cacophony, bouncing off the sides and the bottom of the metal barrel with a noise that Henry would never be able to scrub from his memory. He would wake in the night, sweat-drenched, with a scream on his lips, as the sounds echoed against the walls of his mind through all the time he had left to live.

  But it was the severed foot of his stepfather that fell outside of the container, lying there on the ground, that sent Henry to the brink of sanity.

  His stomach revolted and he turned to vomit again, but this time there was nothing left inside. Dry heaving there, next to the marsh, his hands on his knees while sweat and tears mixed with the blood on his face, Henry heard himself whispering into the dark.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven,” he began, his chest heaving under the crushing weight of what he’d done. “Hallowed be thy name.”

  He felt another wave of nausea come upon him but fought it back.

  “Thy kingdom come,” he gasped, struggling to hold the tattered remnants of himself together. “Thy will be done.”

  He could feel the presence of his mother, and he imagined her warmth enveloping him, holding him close to her, in spite of everything, her tears mixing with his own.

  “On earth as it is in heaven.”

  Forcing himself to stand and face his crimes, Henry turned and retrieved Livingston’s foot, and placed it in the barrel along with the rest of him.

  “Give us this day our daily bread,” he murmured, stripping first out of his work gloves, then pulling the ruined shirt off his body. He tossed them into the top of the barrel. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  Henry continued to remove his clothing, and the humid night air kissed his skin.

  “And lead us not into temptation,” he said, raising his head to look at the stars for the briefest of moments. “But deliver us from evil.”

  Standing there, naked as the day he was born, Henry wondered if he’d ever feel clean again.

  He placed the rest of his clothing in the metal container, then replaced the lid. They weren’t done with one another yet—not by a long shot—but it was time for Henry to move on.

  Because there was no going back.

  On bare feet, he returned to the shack and gathered the tools he’d brought, careful to touch nothing but the things he was taking away, now that his gloves had been discarded.

  As he walked back through the woods in the direction he’d come, naked and bathed in moonlight, the rest of the Lord’s Prayer played across his tongue.

  “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory.”

  He caught sight of his home, the home of his father and his grandfather, standing tall in the distance, the home he hoped to share with Eve and the baby that was on the way.

  “Forever. Amen.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  By the time Henry had showered away the physical signs of the night’s work, which was almost but not quite complete, he could feel the hours of darkness slipping through his fingers.

  Dressed in clean, dry clothing, he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, the starkness in his eyes as jarring as the bruises Livingston had left behind. He wondered briefly if this was going to work. Wouldn’t Del be able to read the guilt on his face? Or Alice, with her feminine eyes that were vastly more perceptive than her husband’s?

  Shaking off the thought, he set his mind to what he had left to do. It was critical that he pay attention, canvassing the details again and again, searching for the smallest ones, hoping to catch them all.

  With a plastic trash bag in hand, he gathered up the clothing that Eve had changed out of before he’d taken her to Ms. Watson’s, all the way down to the worn sandals she had been wearing.

  The loose gray cardigan that she wore nearly every day was ruined, of course, as was the oversized dress that had helped to hide her pregnancy from Livingston.

  But there was no need to hide her growing belly now. Other secrets had stepped in to take its place.

  With a last look around the house, Henry had done all he could do there.

  Taking the bag, he left the house, shutting the door behind him with the desperate hope that when he came home again, with Eve this time, they’d be able to start over.

  As he walked to his truck, Henry realized there was one final piece of the playing field that had to be dealt with. Reaching into the bed of the truck, he took his father’s hammer from where he’d thrown it in his haste to get Livingston off the side of the road.

  He ran a thumb across the initials on the handle and dropped it into the bag.

  The truck was still parked next to the shed, so Henry uncoiled the hose from where it hung along the exterior wall, and proceeded to spray the dust and mud and blood from the bed.

  That done, he shut off the water, rolled the hose, and replaced it, wanting nothing more than to put the world back to rights.

  The darkness of the night was lessening, diluted by the first signs of the sun creeping around the edge of the world, when Henry took the garbage bag in hand and walked back to the shack in the woods.

  He thought he was prepared this time for the stench that greeted him when he removed the lid of the barrel. He was wrong. His eyes began to water and sting as his nose objected to the attack on his senses, but he managed not to dry heave in the grass, at least.

  He placed the bag on top of the barrel’s contents. He had to shove to get it all to fit, but finally it did, and he managed to tighten the lever of the lock ring closure around the lid, securing it for now.

  He wondered that he’d bothered to shower at all, since he could feel the stink clinging to his skin and his clothes. He knelt down by the marsh and rinsed his hands in the green water, knowing all the while it would do no good.

  When he was done, Henry picked up a dead branch from where it had fallen sometime, with no one to witness its descent. Branch in hand, he examined the ground at his feet. It was unfortunate that the rain had made the surface of the earth so soft, and looking at his tracks, Henry could see each step he’d taken branded into the ground.

  Using the branch, he scrubbed and swirled the damp, muddy earth, hoping to obscure what he felt was a road map leading to the answers to questions that would inevitably be asked. Answers that would lead back to him, then in turn to Eve, if he wasn’t careful.

  When he was done, he tossed the branch off into the woods, hoping it would decay and take its secrets with it.

  Working in reverse, Henry backtracked to his house. He didn’t go inside, but stepped up into his truck again, turned the ignition, and headed back to where Jonah’s boat waited for him.

  On the marsh once again, he passed by the Watson house in the distance. He didn’t know if Ms. Watson still waited and watched; it was difficult to tell in the mist that had begun to settle around the cypress swamp, with the gray light of dawn trying its best to penetrate the depths. But he had a feeling she was there, so he flashed the light twice agai
n in the direction of the house, just in case.

  He made his way across the water, silent save for the lapping against the sides of the boat. There was a splash in the distance, and Henry caught the movement from the corner of his eye.

  An alligator. Maybe Ol’ Brutal, out for a morning swim. The gators didn’t bother him. He knew they’d mind their business, as long as he minded his.

  Dawn was almost fully broken as Henry pulled the pirogue up to the shore next to the shack, and a sense of urgency was growing in him with the brightening of the day. He stepped out into the edge of the marsh and pulled the boat up to where the barrel stood waiting for him.

  He balanced the barrel along an edge, the bottom rim pressed into the soft ground, and walked it, tipping it from side to side as he went, to the boat. He had to dig his fingers into the ground to catch the bottom and lift it into the pirogue, but in it went.

  Glancing behind him, he saw the mess he’d made in the mud. Knowing what had caused it made it easy for Henry to imagine someone else being able to work out the night’s events, so again, he found a branch and set to work muddying up his tracks.

  Tossing the stick he’d used into the water behind him, Henry took a last glance. He could think of nothing else. He was used up, spent in a way that he’d never been before, his mind empty.

  Once he’d pushed the boat, heavier now with its load, away from the shore, Henry stepped in as it floated on top of the water. Using the pole to push along the bottom of the marsh, he drifted away from the shack.

  He didn’t bother to look back. There was nothing there he wanted to see.

  The light had fully taken hold of the day by the time Henry made it back to the pier that jutted out from the Watson house, which materialized from the fog as he drew the pirogue close.

  He heard footsteps making their way down the pier and looked up to see Ms. Watson, looking nearly as tired as Henry felt, walking toward him.

  “I won’t ask how things went. I can see enough by your face,” she said, holding her arms tightly across her middle.

  “I still think it’s a bad idea to tie the barrel off here. You’re taking a risk that’s not yours to take.”

  “And my own decision to make,” she said lightly. “We’ve been over this. No one will think to look here, and it’s the safest way to move forward.”

  “Burying him would have been enough,” Henry said.

  She walked to the edge of the pier, where a rope was tied to the corner post. Leaning over, she took it and threw it to Henry.

  “Tie that barrel off and sink it down in the water, Henry Martell. Just like we talked about. That barrel’s always been there. We’ve used it to store the gator bait since God was a boy, and that’s where it’s gonna stay.”

  The sound of footsteps came from the house. They were heavy, too heavy for Eve.

  Henry pushed away any hesitation and removed the bungs on the lid.

  He tied the free end of the rope around the barrel and dropped it into the water with a splash. Pushing down on it, Henry let the swamp flow in through the two small round openings. The water would soak the contents of the barrel and pull it down under the surface, where, if all went as planned, it would stay until Henry retrieved it.

  If all didn’t go as planned, well . . . Henry tried not to think about the hell that would come crashing down on all of them. For the moment, he concentrated on getting the job done before Jonah had a chance to ask too many questions.

  “I’m gonna go make that boy some breakfast,” Ms. Watson said, glancing back up to the house. “You’re welcome to join us, when you’re done.”

  Henry shook his head.

  “No offense, but I don’t think I could stomach anything.”

  She nodded and turned to head back up the pier, but she stopped and turned around to face Henry halfway there.

  “Yesterday and last night might well have been the worst day and night you’ll ever have the misfortune of enduring, Henry.”

  He met her eyes, saw the strength and the sympathy and the loyalty there. He’d done nothing to deserve her kindness. A patched roof couldn’t compare to the gift she was giving him now, just knowing that when the chips were down, he had someone on his side. He and Eve both did. Whether they deserved it or not.

  “Then again, the bad can always sneak up on us,” she said. “But I know, in my bones, you’ll get through it, Henry Martell. You did what you had to do. Don’t you forget that.”

  Henry was so tired.

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  With the mist floating around her, she nodded again, then she was gone.

  But it wasn’t forgetting Henry was worried about. It was forgiveness.

  Henry replaced the bungs on the barrel, then looked up and saw a small figure with long dark hair standing at the edge of the porch, watching him.

  Forgiveness for them all, he thought.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  It was late afternoon by the time Henry woke, slowly fighting his way back to consciousness through the fog of strange dreams full of fears and regrets. They clutched at him, pulling and clawing at his feet, but he shoved them back down, reaching for the clarity of wakefulness.

  The sun streaming through the windows was wrong. That wasn’t morning sun. For the briefest of moments, Henry existed in a place where yesterday hadn’t happened. Where the night before was only the dregs of a leftover nightmare.

  Then reality crashed in with all the noise and clanging of a tenpenny brass band.

  He remembered the boat ride back to his truck, Jonah chatting happily while he and Eve remained silent, so many unanswered questions between them.

  He remembered taking a second shower, the hot water sluicing down his body as he tried in vain to wash away the long, long night. And falling into the bed. Eve lay next to him, and he held her close, feeling the life growing between them.

  Henry had felt at that moment that he’d never sleep again. He dreaded closing his eyes, dreaded more the possibility that that moment, there alone together, might have been the most precious gift he’d ever received, and it could be taken from him in the space of a heartbeat.

  But exhaustion can’t be fought forever, and eventually Henry’s eyelids surrendered. He’d slept.

  Now, he’d have to face whatever the rest of the day might bring.

  He heard the murmur of voices from somewhere in the house, and his throat clenched involuntarily. His thoughts raced as he wondered who it could be. Perhaps he’d have to face the consequences of his actions sooner than he’d anticipated.

  Throwing back the covers, he rose from the bed. If that was the case, then so be it. He wouldn’t cower in fear.

  Henry threw on some clothes and went to find out who and what was waiting for him.

  His relief was palpable when he saw Alice with her stethoscope, listening to whatever messages the baby inside of Eve was willing to share.

  Alice barely glanced in Henry’s direction when she heard him come into the room. Gingerly she removed the buds of the stethoscope from her ears, her attention on Eve.

  “Sounds good,” she said. “But I still can’t stress enough that you should see a doctor,” she added sternly.

  Eve didn’t meet her eyes as she sat up and pulled her shirt down to cover her stomach.

  “No doctors,” she said quietly.

  Alice sighed and stood, the set of her jaw saying clearly what she thought about that.

  “Eve said you were sleeping,” she said to Henry, giving in and changing the tired subject as she put her instruments away. “You feeling okay?” She spoke without looking up.

  “Yeah. Just up late last night.”

  Images flashed behind his eyes, so he squeezed them closed and turned away before Alice saw what he saw.

  “Hey, man,” Del said from the doorway that stood open to the front porch.

  Henry’s head snapped up. He hadn’t known Del was there. He felt panic try to take hold but clamped it in a vise.

  �
�Hey,” Henry said. His voice sounded off to his own ears, but Del didn’t seem to notice.

  His brother was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hands deep in his pockets. Henry looked closer. Del was nervous. He looked like he’d pulled an all-nighter himself, judging by the dark circles under his eyes.

  “Dad around?” he asked, glancing off toward something in the distance. Henry got the feeling he was avoiding meeting his gaze.

  Guilt, Henry supposed. Guilt came in all shapes and sizes.

  “Haven’t seen him,” Henry said, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably. Del still didn’t notice, just nodded and looked down at his shoes.

  “You got a minute, Henry? I wanted to talk to you,” Del said. He looked as uncomfortable as Henry had ever seen him, and Henry realized that Del was trying to be circumspect around Alice. His wife didn’t miss much, though, and sent a puzzled frown in Del’s direction.

  “Sure,” Henry said, jumping at the chance to escape from Alice’s suspicious gaze. Del stepped away from the doorway, and Henry joined him on the porch.

  “Need to feed the chickens,” Henry mumbled, continuing down the steps and away from the women in the house.

  “That’s a helluva shiner, buddy,” Del said. “What happened?”

  Henry saw again the storm of grief and rage in Livingston’s face as he threw the punch, remembered the feel of it as it landed.

  “Accident,” Henry said, nearly choking on the word. “Clumsy with some lumber on a job.”

  Del nodded distractedly, uninterested in the specifics. He clearly had something on his mind. “Hey, about what we talked about before? About those men?” Del said.

  Henry grabbed the bucket from the side of the shed and filled it with feed, keeping his hands busy.

  “I just wanted you to know, I’m gonna take care of it.”

  “Take care of it how, Del?”

  But his brother continued on like he hadn’t heard the question. Henry thought maybe he’d practiced what he was going to say and didn’t want to deviate for fear of losing his place.