Gone South

by Meg Moseley

  “He ran over to the auto-parts store in Muldro.” Calv lost his grip on the tiny metal part, and it bounced off his bony knee and onto the cement. “Oh, foot. Where’d that thing go?” He climbed off the stool. After a leisurely hunt, he retrieved the part and climbed onto the stool again. “Would’ve roont my whole night if I’d lost that little doohickey.”

  Roont. It took Tish a second to translate. Ruined.

  “Where’s the dog?” she asked. “With George?”

  “Yes ma’am. She ain’t my problem—she’s his.” Calv laughed. “Poor George. His mama adopted one itty-bitty dog after another. Sometimes two or three at the same time. Maltese, all of ’em. One would die, and she’d bring another one home. Daisy was the only one left when Rue passed away, but she was barely out of the puppy stage. The week after the funeral, I caught him online looking up the life expectancy for a Maltese.”

  Tish stifled a laugh. “He wants Daisy to die?”

  Calv shrugged. “He treats her right. He just don’t love her.”

  “I’ll bet she knows it too. Poor baby.”

  “You’re too soft-hearted to be a McComb.”

  “I’m a few generations removed from Nathan and Letitia, you know.”

  “Good thing too. I had a great-aunt who was a little girl when the stories were fresh.”

  Tish propped one elbow on a massive red toolbox very similar to the one her dad had hauled all over Michigan. “Well … are you going to share them with me?”

  “Sure, but they’re not pretty.” Calv bent over his project and lowered his voice. “My great-aunt used to say Letitia kicked kittens and slapped other folks’ children and wasn’t too particular about the bonds of holy matrimony.”

  Tish sighed. “Right. Unchaste and unkind. Forever sharing the infamy and dishonor, et cetera.”

  “Say what?”

  “That was in an old book George let me borrow. It also said the house is a vile monument to Nathan’s greed.”

  “I guess it is, but no monument can stand forever.”

  “Especially if somebody burns it down,” Tish said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I just caught Mel smoking in her room.”

  “Ah.”

  “I have a smoke detector right in the hallway. I don’t know why it didn’t go off.”

  “There are ways, and I know ’em all. I know all about bad habits too. Mine almost earned me an early grave. Miss Mel’s a smart girl, though. She might turn around before she goes too far down that road.”

  “I hope you’re right. Do you think George might hire her at the shop? Just to give her a chance?”

  Calv shook his head. “He’s got about enough business to keep one person busy, most of the time. I help out sometimes, but he don’t need me. Not really.”

  “Okay. Just thought I’d ask.” Tish frowned. “This is nosy, but how can George afford a project car like this if he doesn’t have more business than that?”

  “He’s a smart boy, ol’ George. He makes his real money online, buying and selling. He started that years ago, before most people figured out how.”

  “I see.” Why had she asked that? It was none of her business.

  “And if I could just teach him how to text, he’d make more money still,” Calv added with a grin.

  Tish had no idea what he meant. “Well, I’d better make sure Mel isn’t setting the monument on fire.”

  “Yeah, and if you’ve got any silver spoons, you might want to count ’em.” Calv gave her a sad smile, softened with a wink.

  He was a nice old guy. Kindhearted. Like George, he seemed to like Mel but didn’t trust her any more than Tish did.

  Walking back through the chilly night, she wondered if there was even one person in Noble who trusted Mel.

  George exited the parts store approximately fifty dollars poorer than when he’d walked in, but he wasn’t complaining. At least they’d had the necessary tools and cleaning agents in stock.

  About to run for the van to rescue Daisy from the terror of five minutes of solitude, he stopped to wait for a disreputable-looking pickup truck to pass. Si Nelson was in the driver’s seat, his scrub-brush hair wilder than ever. He must have sold his nice silver truck. This one was a downgrade in size and age, and he wasn’t keeping it clean. It worried George a little. Not just that Si’s prosperity had vanished, but that his spunk was gone too.

  The truck slowed to a crawl, its ticking engine a clue to its ill health. Si lowered his window. “George,” he said with a deep sigh.

  It was appropriate, George decided, for a man who sighed so often and so theatrically to call himself Si.

  “Hey,” George said. “How goes it?”

  “Not good. I’m here to buy a fuel pump for the wife’s car.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.” Si studied the bag in George’s hand. “I guess you’re buying parts for your fun car. Must be nice to have money to spend on frivolity like that.”

  George wanted to argue that he’d earned every penny he spent, and the Chevelle could be seen as an investment anyway, but arguing Si out of his opinions was like trying to talk a tiger out of his stripes.

  “It’s not a rich man’s car,” George said. “It’s a ’Velle, not a ’Vette.”

  “You’re a durned sight richer than I am now. So’s that McComb woman. That crook.”

  “Come on, now. She didn’t hold a gun to your head to make you accept the offer.”

  “She might as well have. I was barely awake. She’s a thief.”

  “Jesus welcomed at least one thief into paradise, you know.”

  Si pointed his forefinger toward George. “Only because that one repented.” He hit the gas. The truck lurched forward.

  “You have a nice evening too,” George told the truck’s taillights.

  Approaching the van, he frowned. Daisy wasn’t hurling herself against the windows or making her ungodly and undogly howls and moans. Hope stirred in his heart. Maybe some idiot had swiped her.

  No. There she was, delicately sneaking cold fries from the container he’d left on the console.

  He yanked the door open. She dived for the floor, her tail between her legs, and peered up at him with guilt-stricken eyes.

  “Bad dog,” he scolded, climbing in.

  She whimpered and flattened herself on the floor.

  George let out a sigh as dramatic as one of Si’s and patted the seat. “Come. Sit.”

  She obeyed, all happiness and gratitude, and kissed his hand.

  Wiping his hand on his jeans, George decided that if dogs went to heaven—which was doubtful—Daisy would fit right in.

  As far as Tish could tell, Mel hadn’t ventured out of her bedroom all evening. The good news, though, was that when Tish came in after her visit with Calv, she didn’t smell fresh cigarette smoke.

  After tidying up the kitchen and locking the front door, she was about to head for bed when her phone rang. It was her mother. “I found your dad’s box of family papers,” she said. “I’m looking through it right now. You wouldn’t believe what a mess it is.”

  “Oh yes I would.”

  “Genealogy charts, copies of deeds, and marriage licenses. A few old photos. Oh, here’s a copy of somebody’s will. Somebody named … I can’t make it out. Anyway, it’s from both sides of your dad’s family. You do want it all, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but there’s no rush. Can you bring it when you come for a visit?” As soon as she’d said it, she remembered the guest room was occupied.

  “Sure,” Mom said against a backdrop of rustling noises. “Let me just dig to the bottom of the box and see if there’s anything besides genealogy junk in here. Oh, here’s a book. Hmm, looks like it’s about the town’s history.”

  Tish froze. “Which town?”

  Her mom chuckled. “Oh, what a title. It’s called The Proud History of Noble, Alabama, as told by—”

  “Dad had his own copy and never told me? He knew about the McCombs?”

 
; “Knew what?”

  “Turn to the fourth chapter, Mom. Take it with a grain of salt, but read the first page or so.” Silence ensued while Tish paced the living room with the phone to her ear and Calv’s remarks about his great-aunt’s stories playing through her mind like a recording.

  “Letitia kicked kittens …” Tish managed to shut it off before it reached the worst part.

  “Oh my,” her mother said at last. “Nathan McComb was a liar and a blaggard?”

  “You don’t have to read it to me,” Tish said. “I’ve practically memorized it.”

  “Why? How?”

  “It’s pretty wild. There’s a guy here, George, an antiques dealer, who let me borrow his copy of the same book. Dad must have bought one when we made that trip down here.”

  “I see … I guess.”

  Reality was sinking in fast, and Tish didn’t like it. “Mom, this is strange. It means Dad knew the dirt on the McCombs but kept it to himself.”

  “Well, no wonder! Listen. Letitia McComb, that most unchaste and unkind—”

  “Please stop. But now I know why Dad wrapped up our visit to Noble in such a hurry. It was after we’d hit the used-book store. He must have read that section, and that’s why he switched his focus to his mother’s side of the family.”

  “Honey, my head is spinning. You mean you’ve known about it for a while?”

  “No, I haven’t known long at all. I can’t believe he knew. Dad used to laugh at people who scrubbed their family histories to make them look respectable, remember? But that’s what he did!”

  Her mother clicked her tongue. “Your Grandpa McComb’s family stories weren’t exactly accurate, then. Or the book isn’t.”

  “That’s what I’d like to think. It isn’t an academic work. It’s just a collection of local stories without any references to back them up. I know what I need to do, Mom. I need to unpack the McComb letters and see if they show another side to the story.”

  “No, sweetheart. You need to forget ancient family history and make some new friends.”

  “It’s not that ancient, and I am making some new friends. I just want to settle this once and for all. I know where the letters are too.” Tish hurried into the dining room where several moving boxes still sat, unopened. “There. I found them already. Gotta go, Mom. Thanks for calling.”

  Hardly hearing her mother’s good-bye, Tish found a pair of scissors and used them to cut the strapping tape on the box labeled Letters, perc, gloves. It was one of the hodgepodge boxes that she’d packed when she was running out of boxes and time. She was only being practical, tucking items in wherever they fit, but anyone who’d seen the box would have thought she was as disorganized as her father. He wouldn’t have seen anything wrong with packing gloves, old letters, and a vintage electric percolator in the same box.

  She lifted the box’s flaps. The manila envelope lay on top, supported by a layer of thick cardboard, with her mother’s red scarf and gloves snuggled into a corner beside it. They might come in handy during northern Alabama’s brief, mild winter. Even if Tish never used them, they were a reminder of the gloves she’d always found in her Christmas stocking. Those childhood gloves were never high quality. They weren’t even especially warm, but they’d added color to gray days, like colorizing a black-and-white photo.

  Tish decided to pull out the percolator too, so she’d have one more box emptied. She reached into the nest of papers and unwrapped the percolator, enjoying its shiny belly and the exuberant scrolls and folderols of its curvy handle. Its chrome finish had stayed as clean and beautiful as it had been when it was brand new in 1940 or so, only seventy-five years after the Civil War had ended. The percolator still worked perfectly too, but it wasn’t practical for fewer than a dozen people.

  Tish sighed. She wasn’t sure she could round up even a dozen friends in Noble.

  She placed the percolator on the sideboard she’d bought at a yard sale years ago. Then she stashed the scarf and gloves in her rattan étagère before reaching for the manila envelope. She held it flat in her palms like a little boy carrying a ring-bearer’s pillow and made her way up the stairs to her office, where her scanner waited. She would stay up for hours if she had to, scanning the letters and searching them for clues to the past.

  It had been at least half an hour since Mel had heard water running in the upstairs bathroom, and she hadn’t heard the computer chair rolling around after that. Tish was probably in bed by now, so it was safe to come out. About time too. Mel was so hungry she hardly cared if Tish popped out of hiding and wanted to know what was going on.

  Not that Mel had done anything wrong. She hadn’t. But if she had to explain, she would cry.

  She tiptoed to the door and turned the knob slowly, slowly, trying to take the noise out of the clicking of the latch. Not too bad. But then the hinges creaked like crazy.

  She held her breath for a long time and then started breathing again. She opened the door the rest of the way and tiptoed into the hall. All the lights were out so she walked into the living room.

  Out of nowhere, it hit her again. Darren had looked at her like she was a criminal, not a woman to fall in love with. He’d called her “kid” like he was the grown-up and she wasn’t. He thought she was too young and stupid and criminal for him.

  She had to stop thinking about it. Maybe after she’d had something to eat.

  She walked quietly into the kitchen. The fridge was a paradise of food, but she had to find something she didn’t have to nuke. The ding-ding-ding of the microwave might wake Tish.

  Settling on yogurt, a banana, an orange, a PBJ sandwich, chocolate milk, and cookies, Mel carried everything back to the bedroom. It took two trips, scurrying around in the night like a sneaky little mouse. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she ate every bite.

  “Thanks, Tish,” Mel whispered, raising the last of the milk in a toast. “You’re awesome. And I’m really sorry about smoking in my room. And screaming at you and everything.”

  Someday, she would get better about apologizing out loud.

  She stuffed the fruit peelings into the yogurt cup, tiptoed back to the kitchen, and put everything in the trash. After rinsing her glass and leaving it in the sink, she walked into the bathroom.

  It was the coolest bathroom ever, with a claw-foot tub and a medicine cabinet that looked about a hundred years old. It was also cool because all the toiletries from Target reminded her again how awesome Tish was. She’d bought them without squawking about the cost.

  Mel pressed her lips together, hard, so she wouldn’t cry. Nobody had ever been that sweet to her before. Nobody but Grandpa John.

  He might not approve of her crazy plan.

  He would like Darren, though. Darren was what Grandpa John would call a stand-up guy. But a stand-up guy wouldn’t fall in love with the girl who’d been walking down the sidewalk in thrift-store clothes, who’d been camping out at the park. He’d been sweet to her, but his eyes had been missing the spark that said he was interested even if she wasn’t exactly a model citizen.

  Next time she ran into him, she had to look good. She’d been working on her plan to get some of her own clothes back. Except for some details, she nearly had it worked out.

  “Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” she whispered, “help me do this.”

  Closing her eyes, she tried to get into her mom’s skin. Into her mom’s head. Her way of thinking, her way of moving. Even her way of breathing fast and shallow because she was on edge, all the time.

  Mel opened her eyes and threw herself into the role. The way Mom always tilted her head when she wanted to ask a favor. The way she smiled, her eyes so big and innocent that you could almost forget the way she treated you sometimes.

  “Hey, baby, it’s me,” she said softly. “Be a sweetheart and do me a favor.”

  Mel shook her head. That was all wrong. It was too whispery.

  She cleared her throat and tried again, putting some volume into it. “Hey, baby.”

  Now sh
e was too loud. She couldn’t risk waking Tish.

  But she’d never get it right if she couldn’t say it out loud. She’d have to wait until she was home alone, or she’d have to go somewhere private to practice, but then she’d need an excuse for being gone.

  She wished Tish would find a job in a hurry so she wouldn’t always be hanging around the house.

  No, that was wrong. Mel made a face at her reflection in the wavy old mirror. She was the one who needed a job, ASAP. She couldn’t keep mooching.

  But she didn’t even have transportation. She’d be limited to jobs within walking distance—in Noble, where everybody knew her and nobody trusted her.

  “Help me figure it out, Grandpa John,” she whispered.

  This time, she couldn’t imagine his answer floating down from heaven. He was too far away. She was on her own.

  Seated cross-legged on the garage floor and petting Daisy, Mel looked up at Calv, who was leaning over the Chevelle’s engine. “Where’s George?”

  “At church.”

  “Why aren’t you at church?”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “Why aren’t you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not a churchy kind of person.”

  She’d started the morning with a fierce headache from her crying jag, but it might turn out to be a pretty good day if she could find a private place to nail down the details of her plan. The house was no good because Tish was there, doing something on her computer upstairs, and the garage was no good because Calv was there. He was fun to hang out with, though. Mel wasn’t exactly trying to avoid Tish, but things had been a little weird ever since that screaming match.

  “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Calv muttered at something under the hood.

  “Why did George buy this car? It’s an old-person kind of vehicle.”

  Calv let out a hoot that made Daisy twitch her ears. “Don’t tell him that. He’s already mighty sensitive about his greatly advanced age.”

  “Yeah, I know he’s really old, but why does he like this kind of car?”