Kate Fox & The Three Kings

by Grace E. Pulliam

  The sour lady parked her Audi in front of a miniature white plantation house, with a silver tin roof, black trim and accents, and a red door with glass inserts on either side. Roses climbed the lattice under the porch and ivy clung to the sides of the house, rising to the second story. A single lemon tree adorned the expertly manicured yard, with dinosaur-egg sized lemons hanging from the branches. My grandparent’s last name, “Moon,” was written in bold letters across the wrought iron mailbox. The house was just as I’d remembered it.

  I opened my door and pulled myself out of the car without saying another word or even glancing back. The Audi sped off in a loud screech as I opened the white gate and walked through. There were two cars parked in the driveway, and the sun was setting. I prayed someone might be home as I tiptoed onto the porch and rang the doorbell with a shaky finger.

  Wrecked with nerves, I momentarily considered turning back to find a cozy spot under the bridge, but footsteps padded on the other side of the door. And then I saw her face, older and plumper than I remembered, with more lines around her mouth and on either side of her eyes. Her hair was short and dark, fashioned into a neat bob. Her checkered apron hung over her t-shirt and sweatpants.

  “Yes, dear?” she asked, standing in the threshold.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  “Is everything alright, honey?” a flicker of worry flashed across her pleasant expression.

  “A-a-aunt June?” my voice cracked.

  She faltered, her voice turning hard as she gripped the edge of the door. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I’m Kate…” I choked out, disheartened by the sudden absence of her warmth. “I’m Kate Fox,” my knees wobbled as I turned to leave. Aunt June didn’t want to see me. I should’ve known she wouldn’t want to put up with me. I wasn’t worth caring for. Determined not to let her see me crumble, I hurried down the porch steps and told myself I’d wait until I scrambled outside of the gate, then I was allowed to cry.

  “Wait!” Aunt June called after me, scurrying off the porch. The solar lights lining her yard blinked on. Her warm hands shook when she grabbed the sides of my face, and a single tear trailed down her cheek. “It’s…it’s not possible...But you look just like Jamie-Lynn,” she sobbed.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” a young woman with auburn hair called from the porch, defensive with her cell phone in hand.

  “We went to her funeral,” Aunt June told Billie, pulling me into a hug, talking about me like I wasn’t there. “How is it possible?”

  “How is what possible?” Billie sounded annoyed, confused even. She stalked forward, recognition clouding her face. “Kate?” Billie breathed, studying me as she cautiously approached. I nodded as Aunt June combed her fingers through my hair, pulling the bangs away from my face. Billie eyes flicked from me, to Aunt June, then back to me. Her brows crumpled in disbelief. She reached out to touch me like I might disappear.

  “What funeral? I’ve been in Kentucky living with a cult for the past six years! Why didn’t you try to find me?” I demanded, feeling anger bubble inside my chest, struggling to detach from Aunt June’s embrace. My lips quivered and tears stung my eyes. “I waited for you. Every night, I’d pray that you’d come for me. But nights turned to weeks, and weeks turned to years, and…” I was interrupted by choked sobs.

  “We thought you were dead,” Billie said with a glazed expression, still standing at a distance. “Did you…Did you escape?”

  “Yeah. You could say that,” I snapped back, balling up my fists.

  “I’m sorry,” Billie whispered.

  “Please come in,” Aunt June spoke softly, wiping away tears and tugging me toward the house. I didn’t resist. Even though I was angry, deep down I still wanted to be wanted. I couldn’t handle being refused again. I believed I might shatter at any hint of rejection, so I let her lead me into their home.

  The foyer was open and airy, conjuring happy memories of Grams wiping down mine and Billie’s feet before we ran inside, after a long day at the beach. White lace curtains danced across dark wooden floors as the sea breeze flowed through the windows. The walls were filled with faces of family and friends. A photo of me and my grandparents hung near the entryway. The picture was taken our last visit, all huddled together on the beach, barefoot with matching white shirts and blue jeans. Repurposed shelves forged of driftwood adorned the soft yellow hallway, crowded with trinkets galore. The scent of fresh baked bread and something savory filled my nostrils, and my stomach groaned from the absence of sustenance for over 24-hours. We shuffled into the kitchen in silence. Aunt June seated me at the giant farmhouse table.

  The moment felt surreal, as though the entire scene was fleeting and would disappear with an unexpected jerk back to Brushy Fork reality. I tugged on a short arm hair to grant myself pain and to ensure that I was, in fact, not dreaming. Aunt June and Billie appeared as rattled as I was, both exchanging lingering glances without really saying anything. Aunt June continued squeezing my hand and stroking my hair back from my face.

  “Mom, she’s hungry,” Billie raised her eyebrows, directing her glance at me then nodding her head at the stove.

  What an astute observation. I was famished and tired and filthy. With a sense of purpose, Aunt June shot up from her seat and marched to the stove, stirring a pot of something steamy and thick. She retrieved a paper wrapped package from the fridge and dumped it into a cast iron pan with garlic and butter.

  “It’s really you,” Billie spoke softly. I nodded, not knowing what else to say. Aunt June placed a big bowl of grits in front of me, then ladled a pink and white mixture over the top.

  “I should’ve asked if you liked shrimp!” Aunt June said to me, exasperated and running her hands through her hair, as I stared down at my bowl. “I’ll make you something else. Anything, honey. You used to love grilled cheese. I can make you a grilled cheese. Anything you want. Name it,” she rambled.

  I’d never had shrimp before. I scooped up a spoonful of shrimp and grits and devoured the first bite—delicious, rich, and warm. Billie scooted a piece of buttered sourdough bread my way, and I was in heaven. I felt self-conscious about how much I was eating and how I enjoyed the food. I typically didn’t care to eat in front of others. Joy would’ve reprimanded me for showing such pleasure and allowing myself to have a big bowl of something caloric, rather than a salad, but I tried to silence her shrill voice pounding in my head. Aunt June seemed pleased that I appreciated her cooking, and she insisted I have a second helping. I obliged without protest and finished off the rest of my meal with cold iced tea. When my belly was full and I couldn’t possibly eat another bite, I took my plate to the sink in an attempt to wash it off, but Billie intercepted and told me not to worry about the dishes.

  My cousin led me upstairs, to the bathroom, handing me a set of fresh, white towels. I desperately wanted to feel clean, to wash away the grime and blood from the altercation at the church and hours of wandering through the forest, but something about how fluffy and soft and nice-smelling the towels were stirred up a fit of tears that I couldn’t suppress. My throat was still sore from Gideon’s rough-handling. I caught a glimpse of my reflection above the sink. She was a stranger, with wild eyes and a thick mane tangled in every direction. Her face was streaked with dirt and dried blood, and her neck was bruised badly, with varying shades of purple lingering across her throat.

  Billie wrapped her arms around me. She smelled good, like dryer sheets and flowers. I expected her to tell me to stop crying, to suck it up, to quit feeling sorry for myself, but she never did.

  “I’ll stay with you,” she murmured, her voice sad. I tore my attention from the mirror and nodded, wiping tears from my face. I undressed and started to fold my clothes neatly, knowing I didn’t have a spare pair for when I got out of the shower. “No,” Billie said, grabbing the clothes from me and tossing them in the wicker trashcan. “You can have something of mine for the time being. You’re not wearing those again.�
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  I relished in my first hot shower in over six years. I squeezed and lathered on every bottle of fruity-smelling liquid in the shower, watching the dirt and sand bead off me and roll down the drain. Billie sat quietly on the counter and waited, handing me a towel when I was done. I followed her to her bedroom, where she picked out a pair of sleep shorts, underwear, and a t-shirt for me to change into. I worried her clothes wouldn’t fit me, but it seemed like we wore a similar size. I thanked her, and she urged me to perch on the wooden chest in front of her sleigh bed. My toes wiggled around on the cowhide rug that adorned the floor. Her room was lined with shelves of books and twinkly strings of lights. She had a walk-in closet and her own bathroom. Billie’s room wasn’t particularly clean, but not particularly messy either, more like she had tried to choose from several outfits that day and ended up throwing all the options on the floor.

  Billie sat behind me on the bed and tugged a brush through my wet hair. Her touch was gentle as she combed through the knots, not pressuring me to speak. When she was finished, Billie braided my hair into a simple braid and tied it off with an elastic. Aunt June joined us a while later, with a tray of hot tea and honey. I realized with a sense of dread that I eventually had to tell them the entire story, and I needed to hear their side of it, too. I thought I might as well tell them while the wound was still fresh, then, maybe, it could have time to heal.

  My mind wandered back to the summer before seventh grade and settled on the Thursday I’d never forget. I spent my summer break with my neighbor and classmate, Tabby Hathaway. Her parents inherited an ancient home with long expanses of pasture and opportunity to act out whatever hypothetical situation Tabby and I concocted. With freedom to roam and enough imagination to keep us preoccupied, avoiding mischief proved downright impossible for us. After an intense morning of outrunning a bull in the nearby cow pasture, dodging patties and calves, we tip toed into the musty, old house General Sherman spared during his march through Atlanta. Tabby and I snuck upstairs, past the hallway of curling, gaudy wallpaper, and tried on every mothball-ridden dress from decades past, giggling and fantasizing about where we might wear such fancy frocks.

  Evening rolled in, and I waved good-bye to Tabby after her mom sent me home with a red cherry popsicle. I’d nearly finished the icy treat by the time I reached my grandparents house, and walked inside to find Jilly by the door and a note written from Grams taped to the fridge. The note was time stamped at 5:33 p.m., and Grams said that she and Grandpa drove to the pharmacy to pick up some Ibuprofen for her arthritis and should be back within the hour. I washed the sticky red popsicle syrup from my hands and glanced at the clock. It was 6:45 p.m.

  “Grams and Grandpa didn’t come back that night. They…they were only suppose to be gone for a few minutes—at least that’s what Grams relayed in her note. I waited with Jilly for them to get back. But they never came back. I stayed up all night with Jilly, sitting by the door. I got scared and called the neighbors that morning, but no one answered. A social worker came by around lunch and told me my grandparents were dead. She instructed me to pack a bag and get in her car. Jilly growled at her. I asked what would happen to Jilly,” my bottom lip quivered.

  “‘She’ll have to be put down,’ the lady said, grabbing me by the wrist and dragging me out the door. That was the last time I saw Jilly…or my grandparents house.” I paused, feeling a tinge of pain at Jilly’s memory, and attempted not to let my mind mull over how she was dealt with.

  “I don’t know how long we drove. I cried until I fell asleep, and when I woke up, the social worker jerked me from the car and into the Smith’s house. Joy and Bob weren’t able to have children, or at least, that’s what the social worker told me, and they were eager to adopt. Joy showed me to my room and didn’t let me leave the house for a week. She’d open the door once a day to place a plate of food on the bookshelf, maybe a glass of water. Joy told me it was part of being cleansed of sin, to be quarantined and fast. She always looked at me like I disgusted her. Bob wasn’t home most of the time, but when he was, he yelled at me, and would raid my room for contraband. The first time I left the house was to go to church the following Sunday after I arrived—The Smiths were part of Blood of Christ Baptist Church,” I breathed, and realization crossed Billie and Aunt June’s expressions.

  “You’ve heard of them?” I asked, and they both nodded. “Then you know their practices are a bit…unconventional, to say the least. They hate women. They hate outsiders. They hated me. I was the leper, but they tolerated my presence and included me in all their extracurricular. Brushy Fork’s school system was an extension of the church, so most of the classes were scripture-based,” I was getting off-topic, but I wasn’t sure what parts to omit. “Anyway, I made friends there. It wasn’t always awful…until things got physical during the school year. The teachers would smack us with a ruler or switch in front of the class if we were disobedient, but I’d never gotten beaten at the Smiths until recently,” I rubbed my wrists.

  I tuned out Billie and Aunt June’s faces until I finished my story, as they were distracting. “Women don’t ever leave Blood of Christ. They’re the brood mares of the town. But I had to leave…it was too dangerous to stay. So, when the opportunity presented itself, I ran away,” I relayed, skimming major details. I wasn’t a good liar, but I attempted to fabricate something believable. “I knew where y’all lived, so I caught a bus…and here I am,” I trailed off.

  Aunt June embraced me, sobbing, but Billie remained stoic, giving me a once-over glance. I wasn’t sure I had convinced her of the final details, but neither of them questioned me any further. It was my turn to question them.

  “You went to our funeral,” I stated, hoping Aunt June would elaborate on my grandparent’s funeral, and what, she assumed, was my funeral, too.

  Aunt June sniffled and cleared her throat, “Yes, it was only days after we heard the news of the car accident. The police reported three individuals in the car. There was a fire after the impact, and no one was able to escape. Mom and Dad’s bodies…they were scorched—only identifiable by their dental records. The police assumed you were the third. The body belong to a child, your age,” she choked back another sob. “They were certain, Kate! They were certain the third body was yours. There was a ceremony. We spread your ashes. We mourned. We even prosecuted the damn truck driver. There was no reason to believe you were still alive!”

  “Why would someone want us to think that Kate was dead, Mom? Why would they take her away? To Kentucky, of all places? It’s…it’s insanity!” Billie interrogated Aunt June, furrowing her brow.

  “I don’t know, honey. Kate’s here with us, now, though,” Aunt June patted my knee.

  “Do you have eyes, Mother? Look at her!” Billie pointed to my neck, and I felt a sudden sting of shame, which I had been conditioned to experience anytime too much attention was placed on me. Billie hopped off the bed and paced the room. “Someone still wants to hurt her. What if they come looking for her? What are we going to do then?”

  “We’ll worry about that in the morning,” Aunt June murmured after a long time. “Good night, girls. Tomorrow, we’ll go into town and get some clothes and supplies for you, Kate. If you’ll have us, we want you to stay here,” I was staring at the quilt underneath me and my eyes shot up. “Don’t feel pressured to make a decision tonight. Just sleep on it.”

  Billie insisted I stay in her room for the night. I grabbed a throw pillow off of her mound of pillows and laid it on the cowhide. Exhausted, I plopped down on the floor. My eyelids became heavy and I almost dozed off, but Billie emerged from the bathroom and shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Sleeping,” I responded without opening my eyes.

  “Not on the floor, you’re not! Seriously, get up,” she nudged me with her foot, motioned to her bed and lifted up the quilt for me to get under. When I was tucked in, she sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m going downstairs to chat with Mom for a bit. I’ll be back up in a while, though,
” I nodded, wondering why Billie was giving me a play-by-play of her evening plans. The bed rose from her absence. “You’re not going to leave…are you?” She asked from the doorway.

  “No, if you want me to stay, I’d really like that,” I yawned.

  “I want you to stay.”

  When sleep finally came, my dreams were filled with Grams and Grandpa. With heat on my face, my lungs filled with smoke as I struggled to pull them out of their station wagon. I reached into the flames without being burned, but no matter how hard I tugged on the doors or smacked the windows, they’d never open or crack. I watched my grandparents in their final moments, struggling to free themselves while attempting to console me. Grandpa was overtaken first. He kicked at the windows, exerting energy and swallowing too much smoke. When his body stilled, his eyes closed and the fire took him in his sleep. Grams fought to jerk him away from the flame, which proved to be beginning of her end. Her hands were burned, exposing raw flesh and bone, leaving her unable to unbuckle herself. Her death was slow, and unlike Grandpa, Grams was awake for all of it—until she wasn’t awake at all.

  “Shh…it’s okay,” a soft voice cooed from beside me.

  My eyes shot open and squinted shut as sunlight filled the room. I was a ball of warmth nestled under a soft quilt. An auburn-haired girl with emerald green eyes and a sweet face lay next to me, tucked under the covers, stroking my hair with a concerned expression. I calmed myself down with deep breaths, reassuring myself it was only a dream, and I needed to live in the present, which appeared more promising than the last six years of my life.

  “How does breakfast sound?” Billie whispered from the pillow beside me.

  “Good,” I muttered as I watched her crawl out of bed, and I did the same. She disappeared into her walk-in closet and reappeared moments later with a black tank top, a pair of cut off jean shorts, and rainbow flip-flops and tossed them on the bed beside me.