Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  Sister Ruth is in charge of the women. That’s Brother Zell’s wife. She’s thin as a broomstick, all elbows and shoulder blades, with a face like an old pickle. She doesn’t like me. I can see it when she looks me up and down—like she just got a whiff of the chicken coop. I don’t know what I ever did, or didn’t do, to make her look at me like she does, but I can tell she’s itching to bring me down a peg, so I’m careful not to give her a reason. I keep to myself and do my work, and Caroline’s, too, if she falls behind, which she does most days. You get punished here if you don’t get your work done.

  At least there’s plenty to eat—unless you get in trouble. Then they cut your rations. Or they send you to clean out the chicken coops, where the smell’s so bad you retch the whole time. But there’s one more punishment—the one no one wants—and that’s getting sent to work in the slaughter barn. That’s why most of us do what we’re told.

  There’s no proper schooling, and no books, either—except for the Bible and the notebooks they give us to practice our sums and letters. We’re not likely to make much of ourselves, they tell us, and so we don’t really need more than that. I don’t use my notebooks for sums, though. I use mine to scribble down things I want to get out of my head, like I’ve done since the day the sheriff came about Daddy. Not that I have much time, or much privacy. Lights go out at nine. But sometimes, when the moon is high, I can see enough to scribble a few lines—like now. I don’t think I could bear this place without my notebooks. I think the misery of it might swallow me up.

  I don’t sleep much anymore. Instead, I lie awake, listening to the night sounds coming through the screens, wondering how they can sound so much like home when everything else is so different. And then, every night, comes the creak of Caroline’s bedsprings, and I know she can’t sleep, either. A minute later she’s beside me, burrowing in like a tick, her face pressed into the crook of my neck, like she used to when she was a tiny thing. We drift off that way, my arm around her little body, hers around Chessie until she finally whimpers herself to sleep.

  On Sundays there’s church, and a half day off. That’s when the families come to visit—those lucky enough to have families. That’s the hardest day, Sunday. But it used to be the best day, when Mama would cook breakfast, and Caroline and I would play dress-up, or take a picnic down to the pond, back when she used to let me call her Bitsy.

  It’s not like that between us anymore. It started when I changed schools, and then the boys started coming around. It’s even worse now that we’re here. She pouts most of the time, always mumbling that this or that isn’t fair. I can’t fault her for it, but I’m scared sometimes that Mt. Zion will leave a bitter taste in her mouth, that it will end up tainting her somehow, if it hasn’t already.

  Poor thing. She’s never really had anything of her own, nothing that wasn’t some kind of charity. Her clothes, Chessie—even Mama—belonged to me first, and were all a little worse for wear by the time they got to her. Especially Mama. I had the best of her, while poor Bitsy wound up with the leftovers. I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive me for that, or that she even knows she blames me for it. She does, though, and I don’t know how to make it right.

  February 4, 1954

  Mt. Zion Missionary Poor Farm

  I’ve started to think Mama’s never coming back. It’s only been eight months, but it feels like I’ve never lived anywhere else, like I was born here, and like maybe I’ll die here. And people do die here.

  Cindy Price died here.

  Cindy was my friend, or as close to a friend as you can have in a place like Mt. Zion. She was a year older than me, and was here two years longer. She came with her mama, and a little brother named Zeke. She said her daddy went off looking for work and never came back. There’s a lot of those stories here. At least she had her mama with her, not that it made much difference in the end. Cindy took sick just before Christmas, something down in her chest that made her bring up blood when she coughed.

  They never did call a doctor. Brother Zell wouldn’t allow it. But they prayed and prayed over her. Sister Ruth said if the Lord’s will was for her to be healed, then she would be. If not, she’d meet her maker, and no doctor could change it, so why waste good money? It made me sick, all that talk about God’s will. What had Cindy ever done to make God turn his back? And all the while she’s coughing and wasting away in the infirmary. They let me see her twice, but that last time I don’t think she even knew me. She’d gone a funny color and her breathing sounded like a rusty saw. I don’t know if there’s a God or not, but I knew as sure as I stood there that day, that if there was, he had already made up his mind about Cindy.

  No one told me when it happened, or that they’d already put her in the ground. Only her mama and Zeke were allowed to go when they buried her, but I snuck out there later, when someone finally did tell me. There’s a field out behind the slaughter barn. It’s all scrub with no trees, just rows and rows of whitewashed wooden crosses with numbers instead of names. The names and numbers are written in a book that Sister Ruth keeps in her husband’s office. I didn’t know what number they gave Cindy, but I didn’t need to. She was easy to find. I only had to look for the fresh mound of dirt.

  I wish Mama would come.

  I’ve been taken from the laundry and moved to the kitchen—away from Caroline. Sister Ruth tries to pretend it’s an act of kindness, but I know better. I’m being punished for sneaking out to Cindy’s grave. I begged and begged to let Caroline come with me to the kitchen, or for them to leave me where I was, but she wouldn’t hear any of it. She got all red in the face, and called me an ungrateful bit of trash, then said maybe I’d like to take the matter up with Brother Zell. I could see by the way she was smiling at me, like she had pinned me in a corner, that she didn’t think I’d go. I did, though, the very first chance I got.

  It was the first time I’d been to his office. It smelled like stale cigarette smoke, and the fried pork chops he’d just had for lunch. The plate was still on his desk, a half-smoked cigarette crushed out in the cold gray gravy. For a moment, I couldn’t look away from that plate, as if everything I needed to know about Harwood Zell was there somehow.

  I’m still not sure what it was, maybe the lazy way he looked me up and down with that cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, like I was one of those pork chops he’d just eaten, but it made me want to run out of there, and keep right on running. I didn’t, though, because of Caroline. Instead, I made myself look him in the eye.

  He was dressed all in black—black trousers with a black shirt buttoned up tight against his Adam’s apple. Even his suspenders were black. His straw-colored hair was slicked down hard, shiny with tonic, but one lock kept falling forward, like a little bit of himself that refused to be tamped down.

  He sucked hard on his cigarette, looking up at me through the smoke with a half smile that made his eyes look piggy. “Sister Ruth says you’ve been a naughty girl, Lily-Mae. Is that true?”

  It wasn’t until then that I realized I’d never heard him speak, except from his pulpit on Sundays, when his voice would thunder down into the pews and scare us all to death. But his voice was different now, soft and steely—like a trap. The urge to run was there again, but my legs wouldn’t move. I wanted to say I was fifteen, and that fifteen-year-old girls are too old to be called naughty. Instead, I kept my eyes on my shoes, and tried to explain.

  “I made a promise, sir, having to do with my sister.”

  “A promise?”

  “Yes, sir, to my mother, the day she brought us here.”

  “And what was this promise?”

  “To look after my little sister until she came back for us. That’s why I don’t want to go to the kitchen. Because I’d be breaking my promise to look after Caroline.”

  Brother Zell folded his hands on the desk and looked me over some more, as if he was sizing me up for a new dress. It made me want to cross my
arms over my chest, but I didn’t. I just stood there, staring at that cigarette butt, drowning in its puddle of gravy.

  “She’s younger than you, you say?”

  I nodded, though I was sure he already knew this. “She’s almost thirteen.”

  “Thirteen. Well, now, that’s not so young. I should think she’d be able to get along by herself.”

  “No, sir. The work is too hard.” I had blurted it without thinking, and saw by the look on his face that I had better explain. “She hasn’t been herself since we came to Mt. Zion. She misses our mama and wants to go home.”

  “And what about you, Lily-Mae? Don’t you miss your mama?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “And yet you manage to finish your work, and most of your sister’s, too, from what I’m told.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Obviously someone had seen me swapping my finished sheets for Caroline’s dirty ones, and told Sister Ruth. My stomach knotted as I stood there, wondering what my punishment would be.

  But Brother Zell didn’t look angry. In fact he was smiling, the grease from his lunch glistening wetly on his lips and chin. “You know,” he said, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette. “I’ve seen you around, in the mess, and at Sunday service, and I can see that deep down you’re a good girl. If you’ve broken any rules it was only to keep your promise.”

  My legs went rubbery with relief. “I can stay in the laundry with Caroline?”

  The greasy smile widened, as if he were about to share some great secret. “I think I know a better way to help you keep your promise, Lily-Mae.”

  There was something in his voice that kept me from saying thank you, something that made me feel just a little bit skittish. I waited.

  He reached for a pack of cigarettes and lit one, pulling hard on it. “I could see to it that Caroline was sent to the kitchen, where the work is easier. Would you like that?”

  “She’d be with me?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he blew out a mouthful of smoke, and pointed to the chair across from his desk. I didn’t want to sit, but I did as I was told. I could tell something bad was coming, and that maybe I had better be sitting when it did.

  He stretched back in his chair and hooked a thumb into his belt. “Actually, I have something else in mind for you. Can you read and write, Lily-Mae?”

  I stuck out my chin. “I want to go to the kitchen with Caroline. Or for the both of us to stay in the laundry.”

  Brother Zell pretended not to hear. He just kept on with that bland smile of his, that smile that all of a sudden didn’t feel bland at all. “Are you good with numbers?”

  “But you said—”

  “I’ve been thinking lately that I could use a little help here in the office, someone to copy down my sermons, look after the ledgers, that sort of thing. I think you might do nicely.”

  “Can’t Sister Ruth help you with those things?”

  His eyes went hard and small, and for a moment I thought I saw the smile slip. “My wife has enough to do, Lily-Mae, looking after our girls, as well as her duties for Mt. Zion. I couldn’t possibly ask her to help me here, too. That’s why I need you to do me this favor.” As he sat up and smashed out his cigarette he locked eyes with me. “And in return, I’d be willing to do you a favor. I’ll help you keep your promise.”

  “How?”

  “By seeing to it that you don’t have to worry about Caroline. No one will bother her, or count how many potatoes she peels in a day. So long as you’re working for me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  But somehow I did, and all at once I knew why Sister Ruth had always disliked me. Because she’d always known that someday her husband would ask me this favor, and because she knew there would be no way for me to say no when he did.

  July 24, 1954

  Mt. Zion Missionary Poor Farm

  More than a year now, and still no word from Mama. No letters, either. Every day when the mail truck comes I hurry to the office, but there’s never anything with my name on it, and I have to tell Caroline there was nothing again today. Her dislike has begun to harden now, into something deeper and more permanent. I see it in her eyes, in the narrowed looks she throws at me when she thinks I don’t see. Because I can’t fix this, and because no matter how badly I want to, I can’t make Mama come back.

  I try all sorts of things to lift her spirits. I make up songs and games, the kind that used to make her laugh. And I talk about the things we’ll do when Mama comes and takes us away from here—or I used to, before she stopped believing them. I wonder if it’s because she can hear in my voice that I’ve stopped believing them, too.

  And there’s something else now, between us. She doesn’t say it, but she’s mad at me for working in Brother Zell’s office while she’s stuck in the kitchen, shelling peas and scrubbing pots. She’s jealous of the presents, too—the books and candy and hairpins—even though I’ve never kept a single one for myself. She’s happy enough to take them, but they don’t make her happy for long. Nothing does. She thinks I’ve left her to fend for herself. She doesn’t understand that I’m trying to protect her, or that I’d much rather be in the kitchen shelling peas or scrubbing pots than anywhere near Sister Ruth’s husband.

  It’s not the work I mind. I answer the phone and take down his messages, file lots of papers and empty his ashtrays. And there are the ledgers to keep, two full sets, one red and one green, where I record all sorts of payments. Brother Zell’s very particular about his ledgers, about them not getting mixed up, and making sure they’re always added up properly. He’s never said what they’re for, or where all the payments come from, and I never ask. The less mind he pays me, the better.

  It’s not a very Christian thing to say, I know, especially with him being a man of the cloth and all, but I don’t like him very much. Or maybe trust is a better word. I don’t trust him. He watches me when he thinks I don’t know it. And then, when I catch him, he smiles that sly smile of his, like a rat who knows where the cheese is hidden.

  And if it isn’t Brother Zell studying me, it’s his wife. I can hardly turn around these days without finding those sharp gray eyes of hers on me, looking me over like I could use a good scrubbing. She’s always hovering, turning up in places she knows I’ll be. One night last week I left supper early to go back to the dorm. I was alone when she came in, sitting on the edge of my cot. I don’t know if she was surprised to see me there or not, but something told me she knew good and well I’d be there, like maybe she’d followed me on purpose.

  I was sewing a button onto one of Caroline’s dresses. I didn’t look up from my needle. I didn’t want to meet her gaze. She has a way of making me feel like I should be apologizing for something. But I could feel her standing there, just watching. It was her way of letting me know there was nothing I, or anyone else, could ever hide from her. But I already knew that. Everyone knew that.

  I’m just glad she didn’t catch me with my notebook. I wouldn’t like her reading the things I’ve written about her husband, like how he hides behind that big black Bible on his desk, pretending to be all pious and godly while there’s something not quite right about all those ledgers, or how it seems fishy that he makes me leave the room when certain people call.

  Not that she doesn’t already know those things about her husband—she does. It’s me knowing them that she wouldn’t like. She knows her husband’s sins same as Mama knew Daddy’s, because that’s how it is with married folk. She knows, but she’ll protect what’s hers. And somehow I knew as she stood there, that that was exactly what she was doing. Protecting what was hers—and sending me a warning.

  SEVEN

  1995

  Hideaway Key, Florida

  Chessie—the doll’s name was Chessie.

  Lily came awake with a start, feeling gritty and drained and a little dismayed th
at for a second straight night she’d slept in her clothes. She had pored over the notebooks until well past two, devouring entries until she no longer had the heart to read what came next. A dead father, an alcoholic mother who casually abandoned her daughters in order to catch herself a new husband. What was she supposed to make of it all?

  Mt. Zion.

  She’d never heard of the place, or of Harwood Zell, but Lily-Mae had painted a clear enough picture. How had her mother never spoken of such a horrid place? Or of being abandoned by her own mother? And what of Lily-Mae? She had submitted to the attentions of a predator in order to protect her sister, only to have that sister end up despising her.

  It was inconceivable, and yet there it all was, written in Lily-Mae’s own hand. And there was more. She eyed the remaining three notebooks, stacked beside Chessie on the nightstand. For as long as she could remember, she had wanted, perhaps even needed, to understand the broken relationship between her mother and aunt. Maybe it had to do with being an only child, one who had always longed for a sister of her own. Or maybe it was a need to understand the mother who had raised her from a distance, who claimed to love her, but had always done so at arm’s length. Whatever her reason, it seemed the answer to her questions might be within reach, threaded through the unread pages of Lily-Mae’s diaries—if she had the stomach to know the rest. And she wasn’t sure she did, at least not before giving her mother a chance to fill in the blanks for herself.

  Slipping off the bed, she padded to the old beige slimline phone she had seen on the desk, praying as she lifted the handset that the thing was still working. This wasn’t the kind of call she wanted to make from a pay phone. She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the dial tone, then another of frustration when the answering machine picked up after four rings—her mother’s voice, cool and Tennessee-free, promising to return the call at her earliest convenience. Of course. It was Friday. She’d be on her way to play bridge with the ladies at the club.