Liar's Bench

by Kim Michele Richardson

  Sometime later, I managed to pull myself out of my deep sleep and answer the knocks at my door. “Baby,” Daddy said softly, “come on down and let me fix you supper.”

  I bolted up and checked the alarm clock. “Why didn’t you wake me? It’s after five.” I slipped on my flip-flops. “Not hungry, but I’ll start your supper.”

  He held his hand up and slowly shifted his weight to the other leg. “I can fire the grill. You take a break.”

  I knew he had an old knee injury from his school days. It’d been acting up more in the last years, though he never talked about it, just let his fingers worry it a lot when sitting.

  “I don’t mind,” I said, patting his shoulder as I moved past him. “I thawed out chops this morning. It won’t take long to fry ’em up for you.” I hurried down the steps, needing to do something routine to feel normal.

  I went into the kitchen and put on the apron that was hanging on the tack beside the back door. I fumbled with the apron strings. For a second my head felt weighted as I tried to complete the simple task of tying the knot. Then I realized my footsteps had mimicked Mama’s yesterday. My grip weakened, my fingers stopped working, and the apron slipped to the floor.

  Thrilled to show Mama the birthday present, and my superb driving skills, I rushed over to her house yesterday (probably a little faster than Daddy would’ve liked) and was surprised to find a silver Mercedes sitting in her drive.

  After knocking softly on the door so I wouldn’t wake up a passed-out Tommy, I waited. When I didn’t get a response, I edged open the door and peeked inside.

  Genevieve was asleep in her playpen. Careful to not let the screen door clap, I stepped in and crossed the living room to go check on my baby half sister. She lay sprawled out with a faded pink blanket snugged under her chin. I couldn’t help feeling a little resentment that she had Mama all to herself and whenever she wanted. That she’d never have to call to make an appointment, or sneak around to see her. But, again, at the price of Tommy . . . I sighed and placed a fold of blanket over her little chubby leg and smiled down at her face. Then I heard a sharp smack in the kitchen. I stood abruptly, frozen. Surely Mama would’ve called if Tommy was awake.

  Genevieve rolled over on her stomach, snoring softly. I took off my flip-flops, my wide bell-bottom jeans swish-swashing as I padded over to the kitchen’s wooden French door.

  I placed my hands lightly on the door and leaned in to listen. A man spoke in an angry whisper, his words flying fast. “Ella,” he hissed, “as a banker’s daughter, you damn well know your numbers. I’m tired of waiting for that Rooster Run ledger.”

  A murmur leaked past the door.

  “Ella, no more excuses! You best get my ledger tidied and back to me real quick,” the man said. “And, if I find out you’re lying, stashing away one red cent of Rooster Run’s money, my money, you’ll have more to worry about than a couple of little red marks—”

  Muffled exchanges. Then, another sharp slap.

  The man said, “I’ve been putting up with you moonlighting over at that clown sheriff’s office, but don’t you go forgetting who butters your bread. And if you’re wondering who has the biggest—”

  “Put that gun away, Roy, please,” Mama whispered.

  “I do,” he growled.

  My legs jellied.

  Heated whispers.

  The kitchen door flew open; the hard smack of wood against my forehead, watering my eyes. I stumbled back, surprised to see Roy McGee standing inches from me. He was a handsome man dressed in fine clothes, not the dirtbag I’d been expecting from what I’d just heard.

  “Mr. McGee,” I sputtered, lowering my gaze to the floor, “I . . . uh, I came to call on Mama.” I raised my head and met cold blue eyes. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  McGee glared like an old barn cat, disturbed from its catch. I tried to look away, but he hooked his thumb under my chin and squeezed hard. “Better put some ice on that noggin, looks like you’ve got yourself a snooper-scrape, and a goose egg popping up. You know what happens to snoops, don’t you, gal?”

  “Let her go, Roy!” Mama begged, close on McGee’s heels.

  McGee’s eyes never left mine. “Get my numbers, Ella.”

  “Roy, please go.”

  He turned to Mama, lifted a lock of hair that clung to her breast, and stroked. Mama grimaced and looked away. He gave a sharp tug, before slipping out the door.

  We stood there in the living room staring at each other for what seemed like forever, the baby’s soft breath the only sound.

  The wind blew the door shut and the baby let out a cord of hiccupped snorts. I carefully touched my forehead and, sure enough, felt the tenderness of a bump.

  Mama moved in quick, leading me by the arm into the kitchen. She set me down at the Formica table. Digging into the side pocket of her floral sundress, she pulled out a rubber band and swept her long chestnut curls up into a tight bun. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, but I could see that hers were damp, troubled, as if a storm had pulled up the ocean’s depth.

  “Here, Mudas, before we get started”—she shifted her eyes and quickly patted her side for another rubber band—“let’s ponytail your hair. It’s such a hot day. My, it’s grown at least two inches this summer, and, oh, look at those honey highlights the sun’s brought out. Beautiful!”

  I took the band and twirled it between my fingers. “Mama?”

  Silence.

  Somewhere near Knobmole Hill the whistle of an afternoon train broke the stillness, its steady click-clack echoing over wooden cross ties.

  “Mama, what’s going on with—”

  “Sugar, let me get you an ice pack.” She opened the freezer and got out a dented aluminum ice tray, dumping its contents into an empty bread bag and handing it to me.

  “Mama?”

  “Oh, aspirin! I should get you some aspirin. And a Band-Aid. There’s a tiny cut on your head.” She rummaged through a kitchen drawer and pulled out a packet of Goody’s Powder.

  “Mama, I don’t need aspirin powders or bandages. I’m worried about you. And where’s Tommy?”

  “Let me get the water—”

  “No, Mama, talk to me.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Is Tommy here?”

  She lowered herself into the chair next to mine. “Tommy woke up earlier than usual and took a ride over to his cousin’s in Dayre County. We have all day to visit, sweetheart.” I grinned a little, and for a moment pushed aside the worry that had settled deep in me. “And, sugar, before I forget, we need to get your back-to-school shopping done. Are you going to need a track uniform this year?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I sighed. “Mama, why was Mr. McGee—”

  “Why not? Is it because of that coach?” she back-burnered Mr. McGee.

  “Sort of. Coach Grider says us girls embarrass him and it ain’t right for females to play sports. He’s angry about that new law being passed.”

  “I’m not surprised. I expected him to fight the Title Nine. Your daddy and me can come to school and have a talk with the principal.”

  “No, don’t. It’s fine.”

  “Somebody needs to set that coach straight!”

  “Mama, don’t go to Coach. Please don’t.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, shaking her head. “But, remember, you’re letting him win. It’s your right! You can best that coach’s boys any day. . . . Be happy to talk to Coach Grider—”

  “No, Mama. Please. The last thing I need is you or Daddy going over there and making a fuss and—”

  She held up a hand. “All right, Mudas. Just keep up your good grades. You can practice track on your own, sugar. Once you girls get into college there’ll be a lot more opportunities, you’ll see. By the way, are you and your girlfriends planning on going to the State Fair?”

  Friend. Singular. “ThommaLyn’s mama said she’d drive us. We’re supposed to meet up soon and make plans.”

  “Will Mrs. Green be taking a carload?”

  I brushed my toe over the
curling linoleum and shrugged, embarrassed. I couldn’t even imagine what it’d be like having more than one friend, a carload of girls to share in all the fun. I’d come close to something like that in my freshman year when Charlotte Moss had told me to join her during lunch at her popular table when school started up again. For over two weeks, I’d lie in bed each night worrying up the most fidgetiness of Freddie Fidgets. Getting my clothes ready for my first day. Practicing things to say—and how I’d act at that table. I’d fretted one year of shine off my pine boards and at least an inch of glaze from my mirror. It didn’t work. I quickly found out that she was one of those friends who’d accept you and reject you between a screen door’s closing clap.

  The second week of school, Charlotte invited me to her house for supper. After we finished washing the dishes, I excused myself to call home for my ride. That’s when I overhead her parents whispering about “bottle, divorce, and Daddy.”

  Mrs. Moss had hissed to her husband, “He drinks. And I won’t have Charlotte hanging around someone from an unstable home.”

  Mr. Moss weakly defended, “But she’s Essie’s granddaughter.”

  Then Mrs. Moss said, “Ella’s daughter.”

  Shame burned holes in my cheeks so badly that when I got home, Daddy feared I had caught a cold, and dug out the thermometer.

  The next day at school I showed up at Charlotte’s popular table, but she waved me away and called someone else over to take my spot.

  “Mudas, are those kids still calling you ‘narc’? Making fun ’cause your daddy’s the town prosecutor? I can call their parents and have a word with them. I’ll stop by school and talk to your teachers in September.”

  “No, no, Mama, it’s really no big deal. Really, it’s my last year . . . I’m used to it.” I was. Twelve years used to it.

  “You can get used to hanging if you hang long enough. I can talk with the principal—”

  “Mama, it’s okay. . . . Please don’t.” I looked at her worn, dated dress, stained with sour milk and baby food. “You can’t just waltz into my classes. I told you, conferences are for after school.”

  “I haven’t been to any.” Mama pressed down the folds of her dress. “You keep forgetting to give me the dates. You know, Jingles wouldn’t mind letting me off work to meet with your teachers. Tommy will never know. Most evenings he’s at work.”

  “Well, we don’t have many and, ’sides, Daddy always does school business by phone. And school’s fine, Mama. Just fine.” I reached over and pressed the lie neatly over her hand.

  She squeezed back. “Are you seeing a boy?”

  “No, not really . . . Well, ’cept for Bobby Marshall. He’s been hanging with me a bit. We’re just friends.” I wasn’t quite ready to share yet. But, a very cute friend, I thought, and more polished than some of the western Kentucky boys who seemed to have been fished up from mud-bottomed ponds. He was different, more like the freshwater rainbow trout I used to catch out at Tuckspit Creek when Papaw took me fishing. Born three counties over in Chetburg, Bobby and his family had moved up north to New York City when he was seven and then finally settled back in Kentucky for the last semester of his junior year. In those nine years of citying-up, he’d scraped off most of the rural rust, but had somehow managed to hold on to his country soul.

  I’d visited Mama enough when she lived in Nashville and Chicago to grab a bit of the worldly shine that came with city living. But, mostly, I’d clung to Grammy Essie’s handmade apron strings and held on to my Kentucky rural. It was something Bobby and I seemed to share—the pull of both worlds.

  Two months ago, he’d bumped into me in front of Town Square. We’d spent the day talking and people-watching on Liar’s Bench. Before we parted, he’d asked if I wanted to go swimming in Darby’s pond sometime. Maybe fish a little, too. We’d been hanging ever since. ThommaLyn and I used to be attached at the hip, but things had changed since she’d started seeing Paul Jameson. It was nice to have a new friend.

  “Bobby Marshall, hmm?” Mama pulled me out of my thoughts. “I don’t think I’ve ever talked with Mrs. Marshall.”

  “They moved here about four months ago. His daddy got a job transfer of sorts. And they don’t live in town. Their house is way out past Dark Branch Bridge, near the county line.”

  “Your eyes are grinning.”

  I closed them and smiled. “Mama, stop it.”

  “You like him? Is he smitten with you? Has he asked you to be his girl?”

  “Mama, no! He’s a friend. For Pete’s sake, he’s never even kissed me.” My cheeks burned. Eager to change the subject, I dusted imaginary breadcrumbs off the table, glanced around, and finally lit upon Mama’s fresh bruises. I reached out to touch the reddish handprint on her face. She flinched and pulled away. “Mama, what happened? What was Mr. McGee doing here? I heard y’all arguing. And look, there’s an old bruise on your neck.... Has Tommy been whooping up on you again?”

  “I’m fine, Mudas, now don’t you go prying into adult business. Roy’s one of Tommy’s bosses.”

  “Is he your boss, too?”

  “Don’t be silly, sugar. Tommy’s working part-time out at McGee’s farm, along with his bartending job in Braggs Fork. I try to help out when he needs me to look over Mr. McGee’s books, that’s all.”

  “Did you lose his ledger? Is that why he hurt you?”

  She waved her arm in the air dismissively. “It was an accident.”

  “The kids at school say Mr. McGee is a bad man. Daddy says so, too.” I set the ice bag on the table. “I heard he runs a fancy-pants compound out there on his horse farm ’bout once a month for Kentucky big shots to gamble on cockfights and pick up whores. And—”

  Mama clamped her hands over my shoulders and gave a stern shake. “Language, little Miss Mouth of the South! And don’t be spreading gossip.” She wagged her finger. “It doesn’t do anyone any good to pluck their chickens in the wind,” she admonished.

  A blaze of shame leaped up to lick my ears. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Some things are best left alone.” She stood and pressed down the wrinkles of her dress, her warning that the discussion was over. “C’mon,” she coaxed, her face softening, “let’s get that bump down and celebrate your birthday. I’ll be working tomorrow and today is my only day off this week.”

  She walked over to the stove. “I’m making your favorite dinner.” She smiled as she pulled out a casserole dish from the cabinet. “And after the baby wakes up, maybe we can take a ride in that fancy car of yours.”

  She poured us each a glass of tea, and I couldn’t help but notice it wasn’t her usual refreshment. Still, she smiled just the same as when she’d drink the vodka, only a little more jittery, but a lot brighter. And she wasn’t running to her medicine cabinet, pulling out the codeine bottle.... Something had changed.

  She winked and reached for her apron that was hanging on the back of the pantry door. I watched her carefully knot the matching family apron we’d sewn together right before the divorce. She smoothed down the ruffles and patted down the heart pocket I’d insisted on sewing onto hers. She’d done the same for mine.

  5

  Closet Monsters

  We reached for the apron at the same time. Daddy picked it up off the floor and dusted it off before handing it back to me. Our fingers linked together for a second, our eyes, too. I knew he remembered. After me and Mama had sewn those matching aprons, we’d chased him through the house with the one we’d made for him. Daddy’d escaped into the bedroom and we’d all fallen across the bed in a tangle of scarlet ruffles and red cloth and hoots, trying to pin him down. Laughing, he’d finally modeled the apron saying that when he’d grill out he’d wear it, but if he heard the neighbor’s bull snorting, he’d have to take it off.

  Daddy quietly cleared his throat and moved over to the sink. “Muddy, go on upstairs and rest. I can throw the chops on the charcoal.”

  “Thanks. Not feeling too good. I think I will.” I hung up my apron.

&
nbsp; I sat on my window seat and looked out below as Daddy lit the grill. He slipped back inside and after a few minutes came back out carrying a plate of chops. Then I watched him slide his big ol’ hand inside the delicate sweetheart pocket me and Mama’d sewn onto his apron. He pulled out a handkerchief and slowly wiped his eyes.

  I dabbed at my own tears and curled up in my bed. I got lost in my thoughts, until I heard him outside the door again.

  “Pastor’s here,” Daddy called. He opened the door. “His missus sent over a pretty sunflower bouquet.” He held up the vase. “Why don’t you come on down? He wants to say a prayer with us.”

  “I’m still not feeling so good.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell Pastor to come back another time, then.”

  I studied the flowers.

  “Daddy, wait.”

  “Yes?”

  “What about Genevieve? Do you know where they took her?”

  “I called the state police. The trooper said they took Genevieve to her next of kin.”

  “But I’m her next of kin.”

  Daddy shook his head. “You’re a minor. Law says it’s her grandmother, baby.”

  “Mrs. Whitlock?”

  “Muddy, folks say she’s a real nice lady, keeps a clean house, and attends the First Baptist church over in Dayre. Your mama always spoke highly of Mrs. Whitlock.”

  I nodded, sleepily. “Hard to believe Tommy was her son.” Worry set in. Did she have her favorite teddy, Chitterboo? Her ratty pink blanket that cradled her to sleep? Did Mrs. Whitlock know that she was quirky with mashed potatoes, but always fancied sweet potatoes? And what about her favorite lullaby I’d made up for her . . . ? Would she sing to her?