Gone South

by Meg Moseley

  Her dad had grown up in the Motor City, and he’d given her a pretty good education about Detroit’s finest products. She knew what a Chevelle Super Sport could do.

  Zero to sixty in about six seconds, probably. The thought gave her a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t like fast cars.

  The floor squeaked behind her. She caught a whiff of cigarette smoke mixed with shampoo—her shampoo. Tomorrow, maybe, they could hit Target and buy Mel some necessities.

  “You’re too nice to be a McComb,” Melanie said. “Thanks for letting me borrow the clothes.”

  Turning, Tish studied Melanie—or Mel, as she preferred. “You’re welcome. We can round up some more clothes later. Some things that fit you a bit better,” she said, eyeing how baggy the clothes were on Mel.

  Mel moved closer to the portrait. They seemed to be sizing each other up—Nathan and Letitia with their deep-set eyes staring out of the past, and the skinny, big-eyed waif regarding them solemnly from the present. Crooks, all three?

  But it was far easier to picture Mel as a demure young miss in a gown from the Civil War era, her brown hair bound back in a snood. Her face was as lovely and delicate as Olivia de Havilland’s when she’d played the fictional Melanie on the silver screen.

  “Maybe they did some bad things,” Mel said, “but people can change. People can be sorry for what they’ve done, you know?”

  “I do. But being sorry doesn’t always repair the damage.”

  Tish sat on the couch and looked around her half-unpacked living room. She’d hoped to spend the day working on the house and enjoying it—but now she shared it with a stranger she couldn’t trust. She couldn’t enjoy it anyway, though. Even the doorknobs reminded her of Miss Eliza Clark’s tall tales.

  Tish held up the book for Mel to see. “Have you ever read this?”

  “No, I’m not much of a reader.”

  “In this case, I’m glad.”

  “Pretty bad, huh?”

  “Very. If it’s true.”

  “But maybe they weren’t as horrible as everybody says.” A small smile warmed Mel’s face. “Maybe I’m not horrible either.”

  “But George tried to talk me out of letting you stay, and he must have his reasons. He’s known you all your life, hasn’t he?”

  Mel’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Yes, but he doesn’t know the new me. Please let me stay. Please. I’ll pull my weight. I’ll scrub toilets. I’ll wash windows. I’ll do anything, but I don’t want to be on the street again.”

  The tears were very nearly contagious. Putting the book down, Tish regained her composure. “Maybe I can help you out for a little while, if you’ll meet my conditions.”

  “What are they?” the girl whispered.

  “Without getting into fussy details, pretend I’m a strait-laced, old-maid schoolteacher. No, a Sunday school teacher. Anything that would offend an uptight, old-maid Sunday school teacher is something you can’t do. No alcohol, no drugs, no men in your room.” Tish inhaled a whiff of tobacco that reminded her of a crucial rule. “And no smoking in the house.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Okay.”

  “And you’ll look for a job, and you’ll help with the groceries when you can.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “And you’ll help around the house and the yard.”

  Mel nodded with enthusiasm. “I love to work outside.”

  “But this is the most important thing. You’ll try to make things right with your parents.”

  Mel’s tears spilled over. “You think I haven’t tried already?”

  “Of course, but you need to try again. And again and again. Will you do that?”

  Mel didn’t answer right away, but maybe that was a good sign. She was giving the question serious thought. She frowned, she worried her lower lip with her teeth, and finally she nodded.

  “With my mom, it might work,” she said. “My dad, though, he’d rather not see me again. Ever.”

  “Will you at least try, though? You don’t know how long he’ll be around. Don’t miss your chance.”

  Mel gave a slow, reluctant nod.

  “All right, then. You can stay. But be on your best behavior. And please, always be honest with me? Please?”

  “I will. Thank you.” Mel grabbed her in a fierce hug. “I’ll make you proud.”

  “That’s what I want to hear.” Tish gave Mel’s shoulders an encouraging squeeze but stepped away again quickly. At such close range, the smell of smoke nearly made her ill. “I’m going to sit on the front steps and enjoy the sunshine for a few minutes before I get to work. You can join me if you’d like.”

  “Sounds like fun. I love fresh air. I love having room to breathe, you know? Do you mind if I smoke?” Mel grabbed the matches from the coffee table. Pulling a smashed pack of cigarettes from her back pocket, she headed for the front door. The hinges creaked when she opened it.

  The fruits of his thievery … elegant doorknobs and sturdy door-hinges.

  But that was then. This was now. Tish wasn’t responsible for Nathan McComb’s wrongdoing—if it was even true. His reputation had put a damper on her excitement about living in the house he’d built, though. She might as well pin a scarlet C for carpetbagger on her shirt. That was how people saw her—especially if they thought she’d taken unfair advantage of Silas Nelson when he was desperate to sell. She was a villain who’d swooped in from the North and cashed in on his troubles.

  Joining Mel on the porch, Tish pondered her policy on cigarettes. Never having lived with a smoker, she’d never had to consider a no-smoking rule. For that matter, she’d never had to hide her valuables either.

  Hiding important papers and her jewelry was only sensible, but hiding the napkin rings seemed miserly and mean. They were symbols of hospitality and festivity. She’d always used them when she invited friends over and wanted to set a pretty table. But they would never grace her table again if someone stole them and pawned them.

  Who was she kidding? An anonymous someone didn’t worry her. Mel did.

  Tish sat on the top step and far to the left, hoping to escape the smoke, but a faint breeze wafted it right into her nostrils. Blowing it out again, she gazed down at the neat part in Mel’s clean, shiny hair. A new wreath of smoke drifted up and hovered over the girl’s head like a halo.

  This was not the way Tish had pictured her new life in Noble.

  At the Super Target in Muldro, Mel leaned into a rack of raspberry-colored sweaters and inhaled. She’d already changed into the jeans and one of the tops from the thrift store, and she was grateful for them, but there was nothing like the smell and feel of new clothes.

  Someday, she’d have spending money again. Someday, she could drive past the dealership without feeling a thing too. She wished it wasn’t so close to Target.

  “Here, see if these fit.” Tish handed her a couple of T-shirts on hangers and a pair of folded jeans.

  Mel shook her head. “We already found jeans at the thrift—”

  “A girl can never have too many jeans, and they’re on clearance. And you need to pick out pajamas and socks and underwear.”

  “Um, when you say underwear, do you mean a bra too?”

  “I mean bras, plural. Get a couple.”

  “But you already spent thirty bucks on me at the thrift store. It’s too much.”

  “No,” Tish said gently. “No, it’s not.”

  To hide her tears, Mel pretended to examine the tags on the T-shirts. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tish checking the tiny notebook that held her shopping list.

  Tish pointed her cart toward the grocery section. “Grab a cart and pick up whatever toiletries you need too,” she called, walking away. “We can meet somewhere around the checkouts.”

  “Okay,” Mel managed.

  She felt like such a jerk. She’d thought Tish asked her to come along because she didn’t trust her alone in the house, but it was really all about the shopping. With Tish’s money. She was like a fairy godmother.
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  Mel latched the dressing-room door behind her and pulled off her thrift-store shoes. The floor was cold and gritty beneath her bare feet.

  She could hardly wait to break into a bag of new white socks. And to have good jeans again. Jeans that fit. The thrift jeans fit okay, but they weren’t exactly in style, and the ones she’d borrowed from Tish were way too big.

  But when she zipped up the brand-new jeans, they were baggy too. They gapped at the waist. Instead of hugging her thighs and hips, they fit like mom jeans.

  She pulled them off, found the size label and turned it this way and that. Was it a 5? No, it was a 3. She was skinnier than she’d thought.

  When she tried on the Ts, she forced herself to take a hard look in the mirror. Her ribs showed, like the ribs on the stray cat she’d tried to feed in Florida when she’d still had some money. Bra shopping wouldn’t be any fun at all. She’d probably only fill out an A-cup. Making a face, she changed back to her own clothes and left the dressing room.

  It was a cinch to find pajamas, panties, and socks, but it took half an hour to find a bra that fit right and wasn’t too expensive. Then she pushed her cart through the health-and-beauty section, making herself stick to the basics. Shampoo, deo, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a box of what her mom always called “feminine products” in the special, soft voice she saved for talking about subjects like that.

  Mel stopped by the men’s toiletries and allowed herself a tiny sniff of Old Spice. She closed her eyes and pretended Grandpa John was right there beside her, about to crack a joke or pull a quarter from her ear.

  “Stop it,” she whispered. She returned the container to the shelf and sneaked her hand up to wipe her eyes so quickly that nobody would notice. Then she maneuvered her cart through a traffic jam in the main aisle and hurried toward the checkouts.

  Tish was browsing through a display of half-off calendars, her fully loaded cart beside her. The cold foods were piled on top—yogurts, ice cream, freezer waffles. Chocolate milk too. Mel’s mouth watered.

  Tish looked up with a smile. “There you are. Find everything okay?”

  “Mostly, but the jeans were baggy.”

  Tish’s smile faded. “Size 3 is baggy?”

  Mel tried not to roll her eyes. “I’m not anorexic. I just haven’t been eating right.”

  “I don’t think you’ve been eating at all.” Tish glanced down at the food piled high in her cart. “We’ll put an end to that. Come on, let’s find a short line.”

  Tagging along with her own cart, Mel decided she’d better not ask Tish to buy cigarettes. She seemed like the clean-living type who wouldn’t want to. Besides, she’d already been way too generous.

  As Mel helped pile the groceries on the conveyer, she gave herself a lecture. She would not sneak the trail mix in the middle of the night. She would not drink all the chocolate milk. She would not hoard the fresh fruit in her room—not much of it, anyway.

  Tish pushed her empty cart out of the way and pulled Mel’s forward.

  “It’s too much,” Mel said. “I’ll put some things back.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ve only picked up a few basics. Are you sure you have everything you need?”

  Mel nodded. She wanted to say a big, loud “Thank you,” but she knew she’d start crying. So she only nodded and emptied her cart.

  Needing a distraction from the bank of cigarette cartons behind the register, Mel checked out the magazines. Her mom thought she was too high class to read the gossip rags, so she only bought the women’s magazines that were full of recipes and health stuff and decorating ideas. The same old same old, every time. Mel picked up People instead. She hadn’t seen one in so long that she didn’t recognize half the celebrities in the photos.

  “That’ll be two-ten thirty-six,” the checker said in a sweet, high-pitched voice. Like baby talk.

  Mel froze—partly because she couldn’t believe the total came to over two hundred bucks, and partly because she’d known that cutesy-baby voice since first grade.

  Turning slowly, she held the magazine in front of her face and took a peek. Yep. The checker was Amanda La-Di-Da Proudfit. Maybe she’d flunked out of that fancy college, or maybe her folks ran out of money, but she was back. Even in a Target shirt, she looked like a model. Shiny hair, clear skin, perfect makeup. She wore gold hoop earrings and a sweet little gold heart on a gold chain.

  Mel had never felt so ugly, wearing thrift clothes and very uncool shoes and no jewelry. Her lips were chapped. Her hair was full of split ends, and it probably smelled like the cigarette she’d smoked on the porch in the middle of the night. Well, she’d only be uglier if she acted like Amanda.

  Returning the magazine to the rack, Mel worked up a friendly smile. “Hey, Amanda.”

  Amanda glanced her way. “Hey,” she said in her baby voice.

  Mel had never known anybody who could make one little word sound so snotty. It still hurt too, like it always had. Like she meant I don’t care how much money your dad has, you’re still a loser.

  Mel wanted to smack her. Or at least cuss her out. Gripping the handle of her cart, she strung a few nasty words together in her mind.

  Tish looked over her shoulder, frowning at her. A silent signal: You okay?

  Mel let her breath out. Nodded.

  Holding Tish’s credit card in perfectly manicured fingers, Amanda stared at it. She looked up at Tish, then down again, moving her lips as if she were sounding out the name. Mel groaned a little on the inside. Amanda knew the old McComb stories too.

  Tish smiled. “Is there a problem with the card? Is it expired or something?”

  “No …”

  “Oh, good. I’d hate to hold up the people behind us.”

  Amanda swiped the card and handed it back, giving Tish another long stare. It didn’t wilt Tish’s friendly expression as she waited for her receipt.

  Amanda handed it to her. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too,” Tish said, pushing her cart toward the exit.

  Amanda had already turned toward her next customer. Tired of feeling invisible, Mel made sure Tish was out of earshot, then got right in Amanda’s face.

  “Okay, Sweetsie-Pie Proudfit. You don’t like Tish because she’s a McComb, and you don’t like me because I’m me, and you don’t have to, but don’t ignore me. Got it?”

  Amanda’s eyes nearly bugged out. “Got it.”

  “Good.” Mel smiled politely, like Tish. “Bye, then. It was nice to see you.” She walked through the automatic doors, holding her head high. Like Tish.

  Maybe George was right, Tish thought. She was hypersensitive. Imagining things. The name on the credit card hadn’t really flummoxed the checker at Target.

  Tish rolled her shoulders to rid them of tension. The ride back to Noble would be relaxing if she would take time to enjoy the rolling landscape and the piney woods. Northern Alabama in winter was almost as green as Michigan in the spring. The morning chill still hadn’t burned off, though.

  She glanced over at Mel, dressed more appropriately for the weather now. Before they’d pulled out of the Target lot, she’d put on a pair of her new socks. She’d practically cooed over them.

  Now she’d opened the bag of trail mix. One handful after another, she sorted it out in her palm, eating it in the same order every time. Nuts first, then raisins, then sunflower seeds, and finally the M&M’s, saving the red ones for last. It would have been funny except she was so reverent, as if she were performing a religious ritual.

  At the checkout, Mel had been like a little girl at Christmas, her eyes shining but timid. Afraid to believe all those special presents were really hers. But really, it was nothing special. Just toothpaste and socks and cheap clothes. The look she’d given the employee at the register, though … that was decidedly not like a sweet little girl.

  “The checker at Target was somebody you went to school with?” Tish asked.

  “Yeah. Nobody important.”

  “Everybody’s important to so
mebody.”

  “Especially if you’re Amanda La-Di-Da Proudfit,” Mel said in a perfect imitation of the girl’s prissy, infantile voice. “She’s so special. She’s a cheerleader and an honor student and a teacher’s pet.”

  “Sounds like you two have some history, and it’s not especially pleasant.”

  “It’s nothing personal.” Mel sounded like herself again. “She was one of the people who decided who got to be popular and who didn’t, starting in first grade. And I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t either.”

  “You know what I’m talking about, then.” Mel reached for the bag of trail mix again.

  “Take it easy, there. Don’t make yourself sick.”

  “Sorry.” Mel closed the bag in a hurry.

  “No, I didn’t tell you to stop. Just slow down a little.”

  Mel shook her head and dropped the package into the shopping bag where she’d found it. “I’d better save some for you.”

  “I don’t really like trail mix myself, but I thought you could use the extra calories.”

  “You bought it for me? To fatten me up? Wow, thanks. Thanks for everything. The clothes, the shampoo and stuff. You’re too nice.”

  “I can’t spend this much money every week, but I think we both needed a jump-start on groceries and essentials.”

  Tish frowned, hoping she had a job waiting. She’d check in with Farris soon, to make sure he’d received her letter and résumé. He didn’t seem like the type to believe wild stories about a woman’s ancestors. Or even if he believed them, surely he wouldn’t hold them against her.

  Mel straightened and pointed ahead. “Hey, see that street sign up there? Rock Glen Drive? Can you turn off there?”

  Tish took her foot off the gas. “What for?”

  “That’s where my folks live. I just … I just want to drive by.”

  “Sure, we can do that.” Tish signaled for the turn. “Is this the house where you grew up?”

  “Yeah. My brother grew up in a little house closer to town, but they built this one later when they had more money.”