Gone South

by Meg Moseley

“That’s amazing. A family that lived in only two different houses, all those years. When I was a kid, we moved so many times I can’t keep it all straight in my head.”

  “How come?”

  “Nothing too terrible. It’s just that my dad was always chasing the American dream. He never quite caught it.”

  Mel let out a quiet snort. “My dad thinks he caught it, but I think it caught him.”

  She’d forgotten to say ex-dad, for once.

  Making the turn, Tish was already impressed. The homes were spaced far apart and set a substantial distance from the road. Long driveways curved between pines, hardwoods, and carefully planned landscaping. Some of the driveways were gated, but the gates stood open as if to say the residents were prepared to be friendly or defensive, as necessary. These weren’t cookie-cutter homes. They displayed individuality, good taste, and prosperity. Maybe the homeowners made a living in the hustle and bustle of Muldro but preferred to do their living in the more rural atmosphere on the outskirts of Noble.

  It didn’t seem like Mel’s kind of neighborhood. Pondering that, Tish cast a sidelong glance at her passenger.

  “It’ll be awesome to drive by in a car they won’t recognize,” Mel said with a grin. “Totally awesome.”

  That was it. Twenty years old, she had the vocabulary of a twelve-year-old. She didn’t sound well-read. That was true of a lot of young adults, though, and she’d already admitted she wasn’t much of a reader.

  Tish slowed for a speed bump. “I hate speed bumps.”

  “Me too, but my dad hates ’em worse. Ex-dad, I mean. He got into a big argument with one of the neighbors. He’s this old banker dude who runs every morning when it’s still dark out. I guess he nearly got run over a couple of times, so he started a petition to add the speed bumps.”

  Tish’s mind spun in circles. A banker with an athletic build … “Do you know the banker’s name?”

  “Yeah. Farris. He’s nice, but he and my ex-dad can’t stand each other.”

  “Please stop calling him your ex-dad. It’s disrespectful.”

  “Yeah, because I don’t respect him.”

  Tish shook her head, wondering what kind of man he was. If a personable businessman like Farris didn’t like him, maybe the man simply wasn’t likable.

  Mel pointed again. “It’s up there on the right. The last house before the side street. Slow down a little so we can get a better look.”

  “What are we looking for, exactly?”

  “I wonder what they’re up to. That’s all.”

  Tish checked her mirror. Nobody was behind her, so she slowed to a crawl.

  It was a sprawling, one-story brick home with a large porch. Four white rocking chairs sat there, two on each side of the door. A wooden privacy fence enclosed the backyard. The house had a two-car attached garage and a separate two-car garage off to the side.

  “Nice setup,” Tish said. “A man can never have too much garage space.”

  “He added the second garage when I was about ten. To make room for his toys. His boat, his Jet Skis, stuff like that.”

  “Beautiful landscaping,” Tish said, turning onto the side street. “I wish I could see the backyard too, but that’s a pretty effective privacy fence.”

  “Yeah, they’re really good at keeping people out. See the tree that hangs over the fence? That’s how I always used to sneak in if I was locked out.”

  “Were they in the habit of locking you out?”

  “It got to be that way.” Mel leaned toward her window. “I didn’t learn much in high school, but there’s one poem I remember. Our teacher read part of it out loud, and we were supposed to read the rest ourselves, but I never did. I guess it’s about an old hired hand who comes back—”

  “Robert Frost?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. The dude who wrote it, I mean. There’s this line that goes, ‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in,’ but for me it’s more like ‘Home is the place where, if they won’t take you in, you know it’s not home anymore.’ ”

  “Aw, Mel, I wish I could help you get past feeling that way. I’d love to see you reconnect with your folks. I think it’ll work out if you’ll just give it another chance.”

  “I’m not the one who won’t give it another chance,” Mel said.

  Tish wanted to pin her down, but it didn’t seem like the right time.

  “When I was a little, I had a Shetland pony in the field behind the house,” Mel said, pointing. “His name was Buddy.”

  Tish smiled at the evidence that Mel’s parents had given her something that most little girls could only dream of. “That must have been fun.” She proceeded to a home farther down the road and made a careful T-turn at the driveway. “You said your dad sells cars for a living?”

  “Yeah, he owns a dealership in Muldro. Makes big bucks.” Mel made a face.

  As Tish drove down Rock Glen toward the main road, a big silver SUV came from the other direction. Mel whipped around to follow it out of sight.

  “Aw, geez, that was my brother. He’s pulling into the driveway. They kicked me out, but they’re letting him stay while he’s getting his house remodeled. That’s so unfair.”

  “Patience,” Tish said. “Things might still turn around.”

  Mel only shook her head. She was silent all the way home. She helped unload the car, but then she shut herself in the guest room.

  Tish left her alone and unpacked groceries, praying for Mel the whole time.

  At her bedroom window, Tish stood entranced by a cloud of golden diamonds glittering at the back of the lot. They winked and trembled in constant motion. They were only the garage lights, seen through windblown trees and shrubbery, but it was a magical sight from a distance.

  She kept catching snatches of laughter and music. It was like eavesdropping on a party. She was invited, though. George had said she was welcome anytime. After all, it was her garage.

  He and his uncle had arrived, driving separately, when she and Mel were finishing their supper. Mel wolfed down her last few bites and searched for her hoodie, but Tish stayed at the table, saying two men intent on fixing a car wouldn’t want female interference. That was probably true, but the deeper truth was that she needed some time to herself. Mel had all the emotional maturity of a thirteen-year-old, and her presence was draining.

  Speaking of maturity … Tish wrinkled up her nose and faced the real problem: although she and George had apologized to each other, they still had their differences. She didn’t look forward to their next conversation, but if half the town despised her for being a McComb, she’d better take good care of the few semifriendly relationships that she had.

  Tish pulled on a sweater, sailed down the wooden stairway she loved more and more each day, and went out through the back door. By moonlight, she navigated through the dense plantings without running into anything. A bluesy guitar solo grew louder as she approached the last barrier, a thick hedge of camellias so tall they were practically trees.

  She rounded the hedge and stopped. The cloud of diamonds had vanished. Ordinary light spilled from the opened door on the right of the garage, and music poured out of an ancient boom box on the floor.

  George stood in the wide doorway, wearing a bulky jacket and taking pictures of his big black car with a tiny camera. Mel and Calv stood farther inside, poring over a magazine. Daisy’s leash dangled from Mel’s other hand, and the dog snoozed at her feet.

  “Hello,” Tish said.

  George turned toward her with a cautious smile. “Hey there. How’s everything going?”

  She smiled too, equally cautious. “Pretty well. No new conspiracy theories.”

  He laughed softly. “That’s good news.”

  Once she’d stepped out of the nippy wind, the temp in the garage wasn’t bad. “How’s it going for you?”

  “We’re not trying to accomplish anything tonight,” he said. “Just having fun. Celebrating.”

  “That explains why it sou
nds like a party from the house.”

  Calv chuckled and turned a page of the magazine. “It’s a party, all right.”

  George snapped a picture of Calv and Mel. “Tell you what,” George said. “When I finish the work on the car, I’ll throw a real party.”

  Calv lowered his half of the magazine—no, it was an automotive parts catalog. “Listen carefully, Zorbas. You ain’t never gonna finish. If you want a finished car, go see Miss Mel’s daddy and buy a brand-new one right off his showroom floor.”

  So, Mel really was who she claimed to be.

  Mel let go of the catalog. Its pages fluttered as Calv grabbed her half of it. “No, you’d better not do that. Never trust a car salesman, especially if he’s named Dunc Hamilton. And by the way, he’s not my daddy anymore.”

  “Sure he is,” George said in a mild tone.

  She jammed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “He’s not. Ask him sometime.”

  “Is Stu still your brother?”

  “I doubt it. He’s his daddy’s boy.” Mel handed the leash to Calv. “And don’t anybody argue with me. I know what I’m talking about. He told me not to go to his house, ever—” She brushed past Tish, broke into a run, and disappeared in the darkness.

  George tucked the camera into a little black case and shook his head. “That’s one crazy, mixed-up kid.”

  “Yep.” Calv transferred the leash to George without waking the dog. “Looks like the party’s breaking up. I’ll mosey on home and look up the particulars on the wiring harness and all. See ya later, George. Good night, Miss McComb.”

  “Please, call me Tish. Or Letitia. I don’t care anymore. Good night.”

  “All right, then. Good night, Tish.” Calv walked away, catalog in hand. The lights reflected off the slick paper, then the darkness swallowed him too.

  “See?” she said. “A McComb shows up, and the place empties.”

  George flashed her a quick smile. “There’s that conspiracy theory again,” he said. “No, Calv was itching for an excuse to leave. He’s addicted to reality TV, and his favorite show comes on at eight.”

  “I hope that’s all it was.” Tish turned toward the car, admiring its sleek lines and glossy black paint. A Chevelle Super Sport in decent shape could be pricey, but George lived in a dinky bachelor pad above his shop. Maybe a nice house wasn’t important to him.

  Remembering the Hamiltons’ neighborhood, she frowned. “How well do you know Mel’s parents?”

  “I used to know them pretty well, from a kid’s perspective anyway. Her dad was my coach in Little League. Dunc’s a jock. He sells cars for a living, but his world revolves around sports. Suzette—his wife—is a small-town Martha Stewart.”

  “And what’s the brother like?”

  “Stu? A nice guy, last time I checked, but I haven’t seen much of him the last few years. When Mel was little, she practically worshiped him.”

  “Not anymore, huh?”

  “Doesn’t sound like it. I’m assuming she hasn’t contacted him since she’s been back. Is she behaving herself?”

  Tish nodded. Nothing had gone missing. She’d even dropped a crumpled five-dollar bill in the corner of the kitchen by the trash as a test. Mel had found it and brought it to her immediately. Of course, she might have known it was a test.

  “She’s ridiculously grateful for little things,” Tish said. “And she works hard. This afternoon she washed windows for hours and never complained.”

  “Hard work might keep her out of trouble anyway.” George stepped away from the car. He crossed his arms and stared. “She’s so pretty.”

  It took her a second to realize he didn’t mean Mel. “Very pretty, but she’ll cost you a fortune in gas.”

  “It’ll be worth every penny. Calv says it’s my midlife crisis project, a little early.” George checked his watch. “He expects me to bring some eats over to his place, so I’d better get going. Mind holding the dog for a second?”

  “Not at all. Come on, Daisy.” Tish picked up the dog, who blinked once and snuggled against her. The warm little butterball certainly wasn’t starving.

  George turned off the music and the lights, shoved the heavy wooden door shut, and locked up. He pulled a stocking cap over his head, and they began walking slowly toward the house. She glanced over her shoulder, recalling the image of Nathan and Letitia setting out on a buggy ride from their carriage house. That notion was tarnished now with harsh realities.

  Her shoes crunched on dry leaves in the dark, and then there was the softness of grass again as they made their way around the side of the house. George kept pace with her as if he were shepherding her safely home. A gust of wind blew through from the street, whipping her hair into her eyes.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  The question made her want to giggle and snatch that silly cap off his head. When she was a kid, she’d run around outside barefoot in colder weather than this.

  “It’s a little chilly,” she said.

  “Careful, there’s a big exposed root coming up,” he said. “Right about … there.”

  Now she saw it, like a pale snake lying across her path. She stepped over it. “Do you know every inch of the yard?”

  “Just about. Remember, I grew up here.”

  “I keep forgetting that.”

  George stopped at the corner of the porch. Amber light from the living room filtered through the blinds. As he reached out to take Daisy, he asked, “Apart from its history, is the house what you’d hoped it would be?”

  Was that a hint of sentimentality in his voice? “It has its eccentricities, but I love it.”

  “It’s solidly built.”

  “So that’s one positive about Nathan McComb. He built a solid house as well as a terrible reputation. I wonder which will last longer.”

  “It’ll all work out as long as your descendants hear nice stories about you … a few generations from now.”

  Tish laughed. “When I’m moldering underground. That’s a cheerful thought.” She tipped her face toward the magnolia tree whose leathery leaves were rattling in the wind. “That reminds me. If all the Carlyle sons died in the Civil War, how can Marian at the bank be a direct descendant? Did they leave children behind, or were there daughters too?”

  “The sons died young, without heirs, but there were two daughters. Marian’s descended from one of them. Have you tangled with her again?”

  “No, but you should have seen the looks I got from the checker at Target. I don’t know if that was about being a McComb, though. Maybe she hated me for being with Mel. It was obvious that they didn’t like each other.”

  “That’s no surprise. Mel was never very diplomatic.”

  “But she can be sweet too. She tries so hard to please. And she’s so … needy. She didn’t even own a decent pair of socks. She told me she lost a bag full of clothes in Florida. That’s why she wasn’t dressed for the weather.”

  “Florida? I thought she went to Vegas.”

  “Maybe she went there too. I’m trying not to be too nosy.”

  “Be nosy enough for your own good, though.” He started toward his van and then turned around. “The rent money I paid you. The cash. Did you stick it in the bank?”

  “No.”

  “Keep a close eye on it, then. And on your keys.”

  “I’m not stupid about things like that.”

  “Of course not.” Shaking his head, he proceeded to his van.

  Tish climbed the steps to the porch, wondering once again if she’d hidden her valuables well enough.

  George was exiting the Shell station with a pizza box warming his hands when a monster-sized SUV pulled into the parking space directly in front of him. Stu Hamilton climbed out, looking half-asleep as usual, and his two boys scrambled out of the back. George could never keep their names straight, but he’d sized up their dispositions. They weren’t bad kids, just typical daredevil sons of the South whose tolerant parents used the old “boys will be boys” excuse to cover a multi
tude of mischief.

  It was hard to believe that Stu had kids approximately the same age he and George were when they tackled their first business. A lemonade stand. Stu had made the signs, George had handled the money, and they’d conned his mother into providing the lemonade at almost no charge. It was his introduction to the buzz of making a huge profit and had probably set him on the road to majoring in business.

  “Evening, Stu,” George said. “How’s everything going?”

  “If I said everything was fantastic, I’d be lying.” Stu offered a weary smile. “We’re staying at my folks’ house while our kitchen’s torn up for remodeling. I thought it was fine the way it was, but I’m not the cook so my opinion doesn’t count.”

  “Learn to cook, then. Problem solved.”

  “Too late now. Stop that,” Stu told the younger boy, who was kicking white pebbles out of the landscaping strip and into the darkness on the side of the building.

  “Yes sir.” The kid hopped backward and collided with the older boy, who shoved him off in a fairly civilized manner.

  George glanced at the van, parked a few spaces down from where he stood. Daisy paddled her front paws against the passenger window while she whimpered and carried on. Two more minutes of abandonment, and she’d be in hysterics.

  “So Mel’s back in town,” George said. “You must have been glad to see her.”

  “Actually, I haven’t—”

  The older boy went airborne. “Dad!” he shouted. “You didn’t tell me! Aunt Mel’s so much fun. You gotta call her. I know her number.” He rattled off a phone number.

  “Impressive memory,” George said with a smile.

  “But the number’s no good,” Stu said. “Sorry, Nick.”

  The kid frowned up at him. “Why is it no good?”

  “Your grandpa stopped paying her bills when she moved out.”

  “Maybe she has a new number. We need to find her.”

  “No we don’t,” Stu said. “She’s a bad influence.”

  “Huh? No, she’s not. She’s great, Dad. I like her.”

  “That’s the problem,” Stu said in a dry tone. “If she wants to mess up her life, that’s her decision, but I don’t intend to let her affect yours. Jamie, stop that.” He grabbed the younger boy’s shoulders and propelled him away from the landscaping pebbles again.