Gather Her Round

by Alex Bledsoe

“No. I have someone else in mind.”

  This brought Bliss up short. “Wait, you … what?”

  “I have someone else in mind to help me with this.”

  Bliss had been Mandalay’s advisor, protector, and confidante since the girl first learned to talk. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “Bliss, you’ve always been there for me, and I know you always will. But right now, I need someone else.”

  “Luke?”

  That made Mandalay laugh. “No. He’d do it in a heartbeat, but he’s only thirteen.”

  Bliss nodded. She knew better than to respond, So are you.

  “It’s no reflection on you,” Mandalay added. “I still need you.”

  “If you say so.” She made a hand sign of respect and fealty.

  Mandalay responded. “I have to go. Hopefully we won’t need you tonight, and you and Jack can have a nice relaxing evening together.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be relaxing much,” Bliss said, but the girl was already gone.

  She stood alone after Mandalay departed, staring up at the stars. A few clouds driven by the winds scudded across her field of vision. She’d cared for Mandalay since the girl was born, protecting her and standing up for her while she learned her place in the world. And even though Mandalay had denied it, Bliss couldn’t help but think this marked some kind of separation.

  And she tried to think of whom Mandalay would turn to for help. Who else could do what Bliss did?

  * * *

  Janet’s father knocked on the bedroom door. “You have company,” he called.

  Janet quickly stubbed out the joint, and Ginny sprayed some neutralizing air freshener around. They’d perfected the routine, so by the time she opened the door, Janet’s room smelled like old sage had been burned.

  Mandalay Harris stood beside Janet’s father. She was dressed in jeans and wore an old denim jacket. “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Uh … sure,” Janet said, and stepped back. She caught her father’s eye, and his unmistakable Remember who that is and behave yourself look.

  Janet and Ginny both made the elaborate gesture that signaled their respect for Mandalay. She made the response. Once the door was shut, Mandalay said, “I need your help tonight.”

  Janet and Ginny exchanged a look. “What can we do for you?” Ginny asked.

  “Not you, Ginny. Just Janet.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice.

  “It’s nothing personal, Ginny. It’s something only Janet can do, and it’s dangerous, so I don’t want to involve anyone I don’t have to.”

  Janet remembered the terror of that night at the grave. “Dangerous how?”

  “Probably nothing bad will happen to us. But I can only say ‘probably.’ And if something bad does happen, it’s liable to be real bad.”

  “What is it you need me to do?”

  “Drive me to two different places.”

  “You need a chauffeur?”

  With a faint smile, Mandalay said, “No, but I don’t think you could keep up with me any other way.”

  “That’s a fair point,” Janet agreed. She looked at the window. “Do we need to sneak out? It’s fairly easy, we just shimmy down the—”

  “No, it’s okay. We’ll use the front door.”

  “Well,” Ginny said snarkily as she repacked her overnight bag, “can you guys drop me at home on your way?”

  “Yeah,” Janet said. “I mean, if that’s okay.”

  “It is,” Mandalay agreed. “And I’m sorry, Ginny.”

  “Let me guess: She won’t even be able to tell me about it tomorrow, right?”

  “Actually, I don’t think she’ll have to. I suspect everyone will know by sunrise.”

  27

  Mandalay and Janet waited in Popcorn’s living room. Janet sat in a recliner that smelled like cats, whiskey, and a few things she couldn’t quite identify. Whatever it was, she was sure she’d never get the odor out of her hair. It’s all material, she reminded herself as she shifted and heard something make a wet squelch. All grist for the song and story mill.

  Popcorn emerged from the back room with the instrument shrouded in a heavy dark cloth. He placed it reverently on the table, then stepped back with a sigh.

  “Is that cerecloth?” Mandalay asked.

  “It is indeed,” Popcorn confirmed.

  “What’s cerecloth?” Janet asked as she stood beside Mandalay.

  “It’s a burial shroud,” Mandalay said. “It’s coated with wax on one side. It’s an old tradition that doesn’t get used very much anymore.”

  “So the banjo’s dead?”

  No one responded to her joke. Popcorn picked up a mason jar of moonshine, screwed off the lid, and took a swallow. Even at this distance, the fumes made Janet’s eyes smart as she extracted herself from the recliner. What she’d assumed to be a pillow at the small of her back turned out to be a cat that scrambled free as soon as she moved. “Can we see it?” she asked, nodding at the banjo.

  “Not so damn fast,” the old man snapped. “This is more’n just an instrument. More’n just pieces of wood and skin and ivory. You think I don’t know what you want this for?”

  “I know you do,” Mandalay said.

  “You’re right about that,” Popcorn said with a snort. He took another swallow of the moonshine. “Great gosh a’mighty, that’ll put hair on your innards.” He offered the jar to Janet.

  “No thanks, I’m hairy enough inside.”

  Mandalay shook her head as well.

  He closed the jar and took a fiddle and bow from a nearby shelf. He handed them to Mandalay and said, “I ain’t giving it away until somebody plays ‘The Song of the Lost Soul’ over it.”

  Mandalay held the instrument awkwardly. “Why?”

  “Because I fucking said so. You don’t like it, go see someone else.”

  “Why don’t you do it?” Janet asked, and then said along with Popcorn, “Because I fucking said so.” She smiled with flat humor. “I knew it the moment I asked.”

  “You ain’t as stupid as some,” Popcorn said.

  “You charmer,” she said, and he barked out a laugh.

  Mandalay handed the fiddle to Janet. “You know that song?”

  “‘The wicked man is dead, his wife goes to his tomb to pray’? French song?”

  “That’s the one.”

  She tucked the instrument under her chin and laid the bow on the strings. “Yeah, I know it. But I know a better song for this.” And she drew out the first long notes of Joy Division’s “Atmosphere.”

  As the sad song filled the shack and cast its spell, Popcorn’s lower lip trembled. To the girls’ amazement, tears filled his eyes. He wiped at them hard with his sleeve, then drew back the cloth covering the instrument. The metal gleamed, the skin shone, but all Mandalay could look at were the four yellow-white tuning pegs on the head.

  Janet finished the song, lowered the bow, and said, “Wow.”

  “That’s all you got to say?” Popcorn snapped, his voice still a little ragged. “Goddamn, girl, I’ve worked these old fingers so hard, I could’ve used my own bones for another set. This is a thing of beauty, a work of motherfucking art, and all you got to say is, ‘wow’?” He sneered the last word with all the contempt of the old for the young.

  Janet was oblivious to his abuse. “How does it sound?”

  “How does it sound?” Popcorn roared. “You can just haul that tight little ass of yours right out my door, you disrespectful little MTV-watching bitch!”

  “Popcorn!” Mandalay snapped, but Janet hadn’t even been listening. She bent close and studied the banjo’s construction with an expert’s eye. At last she said, “Can I play it?”

  “Yes,” Mandalay said before Popcorn could respond. The old man hmphed and took another sip of moonshine.

  Janet reverently picked up the banjo. It didn’t have a strap, so she sat on the nearest kitchen chair.

  “Open back,” she said to herself. “Low action.
Who’d you build this for?”

  Again, before Popcorn could answer, Mandalay said, “I’ll tell you later.”

  Janet plucked expertly at the strings, and quickly adjusted the pegs to a standard C-G-D-A tuning. She played a little, and let out a low whistle. “Wow.”

  Mandalay glared at Popcorn, who said nothing.

  Janet began playing Dale Ann Bradley’s “East Kentucky Morning,” and unlike the violin, this didn’t swirl around and fill the space. Instead it pricked at the listener’s skin, like the sensation of a sleeping limb coming back to life. Without realizing it, Mandalay and Popcorn both backed away from her.

  Then she began to sing. She sang plainly, with very little inflection, letting the aching tragedy of the lyrics do the work. Her voice was strong, and her touch on the strings sure.

  When she finished, the shack was silent. Then they all heard the unmistakable sound of two coyotes howling outside, sounding for all the world like they approved.

  Janet looked at Popcorn. “You’re really an artist, Mr. Mantis. I’ve played a lot of instruments, but I’ve never played anything that was as smooth and proper as this.” She handed it back to him.

  He took it and mumbled, “Thank you.”

  Mandalay held out her hands. “I’ll take that now, Popcorn. And thank you.”

  He said nothing to her as he handed it over.

  To Janet, Mandalay said, “Let’s go. We have somewhere else to be tonight.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  Mandalay gave her a knowing little half smile that was so mature, so filled with knowledge and history and power, that on her thirteen-year-old face it was like seeing the image of some ancient pagan goddess. “You won’t believe me when I tell you.”

  * * *

  Bronwyn Chess opened the door, wondering who would be stopping by this late. She was even more perplexed when she saw who it was. “Duncan,” she said. “Renny. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Duncan said quickly, unable to meet her eyes. Her position in Tufa society was so high, and so powerful, that he felt like a child meeting the police chief after being caught egging someone’s house.

  “We’re sorry to bother you, Mrs. Chess,” Renny said, and made a gesture of Tufa respect. “Hope we didn’t wake your little one.”

  “No, she could sleep through a Metallica show.”

  “We’re actually here for your husband.”

  Bronwyn gave them a dubious look. “Really?”

  “Yes. Is he around?”

  “Sure. Come in.”

  They followed her into the living room of the parsonage, located next door to the Triple Springs Methodist Church in Unicorn, just across the county line. Bronwyn’s marriage to a non-Tufa had, briefly, caused a wave of outrage among the First Daughters: she was one of the dwindling numbers of Tufa purebloods, and it was expected that she’d marry one of the others, to help keep the Tufa together. The uncertain (to everyone else) parentage of her now-three-year-old daughter ameliorated it somewhat, since that big-eyed, black-haired, precociously kind little girl clearly belonged more to her mother’s lineage than to that of her her sandy-haired, good-natured father.

  But now that father rose from the couch to greet them. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, he looked more like an Ivy League frat boy than a minister. “Hello,” he said easily, and shook Duncan’s hand. To Renny he said, “I haven’t had a chance to express my condolences for the loss of your brother, Miss Procure. I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Renny said.

  “Honey, y’all visit as long as you want, I’ve got some work I can do.” He kissed Bronwyn on the cheek and started to leave, but she caught his hand.

  “Actually, they’re here to see you,” Bronwyn said.

  “Really? Well, what can I do for you?”

  Renny looked back at Duncan, then said, “We want to get married.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Craig said. He did not look at her belly when he said it.

  “Right now,” she continued. “Here.”

  “I see,” Craig said calmly, as if this happened every night. “I seem to remember Bronwyn saying that there was a big ceremony planned.”

  “There was. We’ve changed our minds.”

  Craig looked at Duncan. “‘We’?”

  “We,” Duncan said.

  “Okay. Well, let’s sit down and talk about it a little. Honey, would you mind putting on some coffee?”

  “Sure,” Bronwyn said. “And I’ll make decaf, so you can have some, too, Renny.”

  Duncan and Renny followed them to the kitchen. Renny noticed their wedding invitation pinned by a magnet to the refrigerator. She squeezed Duncan’s hand for reassurance, but wasn’t sure whether she intended to give or receive it.

  In the kitchen, Craig gestured for them to have a seat. Duncan held Renny’s chair until she was settled; he’d taken to using old-school manners around her, as if it would somehow add incrementally to the karma he was trying to build up to balance what he’d done.

  As he took his own seat, Duncan was most startled by all the evidence of Craig and Bronwyn’s daughter: drawings stuck to the refrigerator with magnets, sippy cups drying in the dish drain, a laundry basket filled with toys and stuffed animals tucked in a corner. Would his home soon look like that? The thought filled him with a mix of terror and something very like contentment, or at least similar to how he remembered contentment felt.

  While Bronwyn set up the coffeepot, Craig joined them at the table. “So,” he said gently, “can you explain to me why you want to be married now, instead of waiting?”

  “It ain’t because of this,” Renny blurted, gesturing at her belly. “Everybody knows about this. At this point, I couldn’t hide it if I wanted to.”

  “Okay,” Craig agreed.

  “It’s just … what do they call it, the sword of Damien’s Sleeves?”

  “What?”

  “You know, when you feel something’s hanging over your head.”

  “Damocles,” Craig corrected.

  “Yeah, it’s like that. I’m not having second thoughts or anything, but the waiting is driving me batshit.” She caught herself. “I apologize for my language, preacher.”

  “Call me Craig,” he said with an easy smile. “And I’ve heard the word before, you can be as blunt as you want. Duncan, is that how you feel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Craig thought a moment before speaking. “I suppose you realize I’m a Methodist minister. I’m not a justice of the peace. If you ask me to perform your wedding, it’s a religious ceremony, not a civil one.”

  “What’s the difference?” Renny asked, her voice harsh from fear and worry. “We’ll still be just as married, right?”

  “If you’ve got the license, yes, you’ll still be just as married.”

  “Then it’s fine. Give him the license, Duncan.”

  Duncan took out his wallet and handed over the folded paper. It was printed on linen paper, declared itself a MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE OF CLOUD COUNTY, TENNESSEE, and the elaborate design incorporated music staffs and notes. Craig, of course, didn’t know that the notes were not random, but were actually from the fourth bar of Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love.” Craig looked it over, nodded, and put it on the table between them.

  “Honey,” Bronwyn called from the hallway. “Can you come here a minute? I need a hand.”

  Craig immediately stood. “Sure, hon. If y’all will excuse me?”

  When he was gone, Renny looked down at the tabletop. “They’re talking about us.”

  “Why?”

  She snort-laughed, the way you do when you realize you might be the butt of the universe’s joke. “Because we’re two white-trash Tufas wanting to get married because you knocked me up.”

  “That’s not true at all.”

  “Maybe not to us, but that’s what it looks like to them. And it’s all because of me being scared.”

  “Renn
y—”

  “Just let it go, Duncan, okay? I don’t need reassurance that you’ll always be here.” She closed her eyes and turned away from him.

  * * *

  In the hallway outside their daughter’s bedroom, Craig said softly, “What’s up?”

  “Are you going to marry them?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t know them well enough to know if I need to talk them out of it. They’re going to be parents, so they’re already connected.”

  “No, that’s not it,” Bronwyn said. “Do you remember the boy and girl killed by that wild hog last fall? The girl was his girlfriend, and the boy was her brother. That’s what brought them together.”

  “I see.”

  Even softer, she said, “I’m not convinced the full truth about that has ever come out.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “His girlfriend might have been sneaking around with her brother.”

  “Okay, wait, you’ve lost me. His girlfriend, the one who’s sitting in there—”

  “No, his girlfriend before, the one who died. Kera. Kera might have been sneaking around with Renny’s brother. And he—” She nodded toward the kitchen, and Duncan. “—might have had something to do with what happened.”

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “That’s because there’s no real evidence. If there was, he wouldn’t be sitting in our kitchen right now.”

  They looked at each other seriously for a long moment. Craig trusted his wife completely, and she in turn knew not to abuse that trust. At last he said, “If you don’t think it’s a good idea, I won’t do it. But someone will.”

  She nodded, thinking.

  “Do you need to call somebody?”

  “No. Technically, they’re not my problem. They belong to Junior.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Those poor kids.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “All right.” He kissed her. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For your insight.”

  “It’s not insight, it’s just gossip. Are you going to do it?”

  “They planned to get married anyway. They just want to do it sooner. I don’t see any reason to turn them down.”

  “No, I guess there’s not one.”

  “Certain you don’t need to check with anyone?”