Liar's Bench

by Kim Michele Richardson

  I quickly stuffed the note inside my pocket. Anxiety thumped in my chest. Sorrow and disbelief coursed through my veins. I latched on to the metal pull on the file cabinet, my body a magnet, my brain a launched missile of alarms.

  “Mudas, we gotta book! Now! Someone just came out of the mansion. They’re heading this way. C’mon!”

  His voice seemed soft and distant, like he was trapped at the bottom of a jelly jar. He latched on to my hand and jerked hard, pulling me out of my stupor.

  I stumbled behind him.

  Bobby flung open the door.

  “Oh no, oh no . . .” I caterwauled. Roy McGee was headed straight for us, making his way across the lawn toward the Spring House in a tight line. His hands clenched to his sides, cold eyes locked to mine, he took long, purposeful strides.

  I sagged against the doorjamb.

  “Muddy Summers, you and your friend are trespassing.” McGee lifted the bottom of his linen shirt and I caught the wink of a nickel-plated Colt revolver tucked halfway down his trousers. “You got a lot of ’splaining to do,” McGee bellowed. Sweat bubbled on his red forehead, his jaw cutting steel.

  I felt a blaze of fire lick my body, then suddenly snuff, weakening.

  McGee pulled out the gun and pointed.

  Bobby squeezed my hand. “Stay put, Mudas.”

  I couldn’t move if I tried. My eyes were glued to the gun, my feet to the ground.

  Bobby let go of me. Surprised, I peered over my shoulder for a quick look. Flipping open the animal cage, Bobby snatched up Fire-Rooster by the legs and tucked the cock close to his body, snug underneath his armpit. He pushed past me, standing as a shield between me and McGee.

  “Put that gamecock back, boy!” McGee boomed. Not five long strides from us, he stopped. His hand shook as he set the gun sight on Bobby. “I shoot thieves and trespassers!”

  I looked at a rock lying a foot away to my right and tried to do the math. The distance, the speed. Summing up how good of a shot he was, him holding the gun wobbly-like, setting the sight off center. Me, how comet-fast I could snag that rock and throw.

  Fire-Rooster let out a low, mangled squawk. Bobby had his hand wrapped around its neck. He lifted the cock, leaving its claws to windmill frantically, his tiny eyes bugged.

  “Bobby, stop!” I cried. “No!”

  “You stay right there and put that gun away, or I’m gonna ring his neck!” Bobby exploded.

  McGee cursed. “Boy, I will have your neck on a platter! You hear me?”

  “Not before I can snap his!” Bobby grabbed hold of Fire-Rooster’s shanks and took a step toward McGee. Then two more until he was a very short stone’s throw away.

  “Son of a bitch!” McGee roared. “Put down my bird! I will load up your black ass with lead!”

  Bobby hoisted the bird high, tightening his grip. “Mmm! Fried chicken!” He gave a shake, jiggling the bird’s comb. “White or dark?”

  McGee straightened out his arm, the short gun barrel looming closer to Bobby’s head.

  “Bobby, no! Bobby—”

  “I said put down that bird!” McGee screamed.

  “Mmm, chicken!” Bobby taunted.

  I snatched up the rock and threw it with all my might. McGee raised his upper arm and it bounced off his shoulder. I saw the muzzle’s flash an instant before I heard the explosion. I screamed out and pitched my body onto the ground.

  Bobby thrust the rooster at McGee. The feisty cock flew up, squawking, hit the ground once, then bounced up and charged McGee, its four-inch spurs spread, seeking revenge.

  I scrambled to my feet.

  “Book!” Bobby said, shooting McGee a middle-finger salute before bolting. McGee flailed his arms trying to get the rooster off him.

  I ran. Our bell-bottom jeans rippling, swooshing in disharmony, scattering up grasshoppers.

  “The maze, the maze. Get into the maze!” Bobby urged.

  We slipped into the garden maze.

  Another piercing explosion rang out, followed by one more. I fought the urge to scream and, instead, lock-jawed my mouth and pumped my arms harder, catching up with Bobby, my lungs full and burning.

  We took a sharp right at the roses, another before the circle of statues, and then slowed near the middle of one of the maze’s paths. Bobby called out, “Can you believe that crazy coot, shooting at us? Let’s hurry! Here! Here!” He stopped and held out his hand, then moved in front of me. “Close your eyes, lower your head, and try to cover yourself. We’re gonna have to barrel our way through one of these hedges to get out,” he panted. “Ready?”

  I patted my pockets and felt the crinkly paper, worrying what other surprises lie in wait.

  14

  Coward’s Notched Trophies

  I eyed McGee’s hedgerow rising in front of us. Each bush seemed separated from the next by a mere half foot, if that.

  I took one look back. Fire-Rooster strutted past a statue, then slipped easily between the bushes, taking a string of gargled clucks with him.

  Bobby plunged forward, catching the brunt of the branches. By the time we’d both rambled through, my hair was in twig-snagged clumps full of leaves, my arms and hands were scratched and bloodied, and my shirt was barely holding itself together. I looked up at Bobby, his hair tined like a pitchfork and his arms and face chock-full of scratches and trickles of trailing blood.

  I glanced over my shoulder, then back to the land ahead of us. I poked Bobby. “See that clump of trees ahead? If we can get to it, we should be able to cross over to the big woods and work our way back down to our trail. Find your rag marker.”

  Angry shouts echoed not far behind us. McGee wasn’t alone. Someone yelled, “Find that goddamn rooster first! And, Toby, you go and head those kids off at Town Square.” Another man called, “Check her daddy’s house.” And another shouted, “Fan the woods.” A chill took hold of my legs, rattling.

  “Let’s go,” Bobby nudged. “Now!”

  I bent over slightly, rocked a trembling knee, and sprang off the ground. Speeding to the grove of trees, Bobby’s sneakers thumped close to mine. Swatting at the vines, thorns, and branches, I fought my way through clumps of overgrowth, only to trip over a log, landing facedown in rotting leaves and damp earth.

  Bobby skidded to my side. He quickly lifted me into a sitting position. “Okay?”

  I nodded, wiping away the leaves that had stuck to my sweaty face.

  Bobby cocked his head toward the clearing we had just passed through and listened for activity. It was quiet—no one had seen us.

  I looked at my wrist, thankful to see I hadn’t lost Mama’s ribbon, but my eyes filled as I remembered the scrap of paper in my pocket. The thought of her going out to McGee’s parties, sleeping with men for money—it was too much to bear. If anyone ever found out, they’d say Mama deserved her ending. Right then, I made a vow to take this to my grave. I could never tell a soul, not even Bobby.

  “Are you okay?” Bobby worried. “Your cheek’s puffed up. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

  I felt my sore cheek. “I’m okay.” I attempted a smile, but my brain reached down and corkscrewed it stiff with doubt. “Wish we’d found that ledger.”

  Bobby frowned. “Mudas, I know you didn’t want to take this to Jingles, but I think we have to. I mean, I thought it wouldn’t be that bad, us coming up here, but now we’ve got McGee shooting at us, running for our lives! And dirt on a senator? Pretty serious, if you ask me.”

  I had to admit it, he was right. This little expedition had turned out to be way more than either of us had bargained for. “Okay,” I agreed. “And it’d probably be best if we hand over this rooster invoice to Jingles. I’d like to see Yinsey go down for illegal cockfighting.” I patted my pockets. I still didn’t trust Jingles, but now that we had some hard evidence, I thought he might be willing to see things my way. Daddy would make copies and see to it.

  “Good, I’m taking you right back to town and then we’ll go straight to Jingles. If we drive around t
he knobs, then circle back, we can easily confuse any tail they might have thought about sending after us.”

  A revving and roaring of engines kicked up over McGee’s fields. Bobby hurried over to the clearing and parted the branches of a pine. “It’s a Mercedes. Silver,” he reported back.

  “McGee’s. I saw it parked over at Mama’s house last week.”

  “He’s pulling out now. And there’s a white farm truck following him. They’re heading in the opposite direction. Come see.” He motioned.

  I joined him at the edge of the clearing. “Oh, man, there’s so many of ’em,” I said, unable to stuff down my fear. “How will we get back to the woods and your rag marker without one of ’em spotting us? And what about my car? The only way back is through those woods and past McGee’s property to the spot beside the creek.”

  “They’re probably expecting us to go back through the woods,” Bobby guessed. “I bet they’ll check there first. But they’ll never see your car tucked by Persimmon Branch Creek.” He paused to calculate. “When they don’t spot us or a car in the woods, they’ll split up and take Monk Road to Town Square, and the back roads to get to your homestead. So we’ll do the opposite: trail behind ’em instead of them trailing us. We’ll wait them out. For now, we’re safe in this clump of trees.”

  “Makes sense.” I was glad Bobby was thinking so coolly. I looked over his shoulder, scanning the plantation grounds, and spied the tail of McGee’s car barreling a fair distance away from us. Bobby was right. My body slacked in relief.

  “If only we could’ve found the Rooster Run ledger,” I said, defeated.

  “I know, Mudas. We’ll come back and look again if Jingles doesn’t find it. I promise. And the next time, I’ll be ready.” He peered out of the clearing once more, to make sure McGee and his cronies had really gone. Taking my hand, Bobby said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  We made our way through the island of trees and to the edge of the clearing, then paused near an oak and scanned our surroundings. An old cemetery sat to our left, carpeted with weeds. The graveyard was bordered by a knee-high limestone fence—a slave fence—same as the walls that enclosed McGee’s property. Headstones and chipped markers, darkened from weather and time, poked up and dotted the small area.

  “Probably slave graves,” I said. My throat was dry and itchy, my lips cracked and baked. “Looks like no one’s been tending the graves for a while. It’s odd, actually: Most of the family plots around here have some of the slaves buried in them, or right next to them. It’s strange that this is all by itself, instead of with the Andersons.”

  “Well, it’s a big plantation. They could afford to spare a scrap of land,” Bobby said matter-of-factly. “For their slaves.”

  I did a quick mental count of the stones. “There’s got to be at least seven here. Look at them, Bobby.” I studied the cemetery, feeling sad for the souls it held, untended and unloved. “Do you think McGee’s in town by now or—?”

  “I dunno, but I don’t think he’s giving up. Especially when he finds out that rooster invoice is gone. Don’t worry.” Bobby hugged me. “I’ll get you to safety.”

  In his arms, it was hard to remember I had worries, only the promises they held. Still, I pulled back slightly, looking toward the tiny cemetery and thinking about Mama being put to rest only yesterday. I raised Mama’s dangling ribbon and rubbed the dangling threads across my lips. Back and forth. Back and forth. “I want to go in and have a quick look.” I nodded toward the iron gate, half-broken away from its hinge and tipping to the ground. “C’mon,” I pushed. “It’s our only chance! It’s not exactly like we’re gonna be invited back anytime soon.” I didn’t tell him that there was an urgency—something about the graveyard that whispered, pulling me in.

  “Well . . .” he hesitated, “I guess we can rest a minute. McGee and his men are gone for now. But just a minute, Mudas,” he warned. “I want to get you on back to Jingles.”

  We stopped at the entrance. A tired old catalpa tree shaded half of the graves. Its Indian cigar buds sagged and strained in the light breeze, while a skirt of its spent white blossoms and chocolate bean-pods swelled, scattered around the trunk.

  A white-hot memory rocketed to the surface and then tunneled back down just as quickly as it had come. A noose—black and white legs intertwined, one with a dangling white sock, the other, a pink ribbon. What did it mean? I tried to think about something else. Like when Mama had made my favorite dish, red cabbage casserole. It didn’t work. Feeling light-headed, I slanted toward the bark of a burly oak for support.

  “You okay, Mudas?”

  It was difficult to define the hieroglyphics in my mind—the juxtaposition of Mama, Frannie, rope, and ribbons. Easier to swallow the thoughts. “I’m fine,” I said, brushing Bobby’s concern away.

  Above, a cluster of swollen storm clouds covered the blue skies and filled the air with puffs of wind. The cool breeze lifted, leaving the prickly rise of gooseflesh in its wake. Below, an overgrowth of milkweeds, toothy bull thistle, horse nettle, and tall bluegrass had turned feral, blanketing the small area. Vines of beggarweed and wood sorrel crept and all but choked out the fieldstone markers, the sorrowful seven I had counted. A lone titmouse eyed us from atop a cluster of chicory, riding the bright blue rosette as the wind lifted and rocked the stems.

  Cautiously, we crunched our way through patches of cheatgrass and dead leaves to the center of the plot, where the cigar tree stood looming over most of the graves. I swatted at a veil of spider webs and made my way under the big old catalpa. Reaching up, I brushed the cobwebs off his shoulders, then snapped off a dying bough near his head.

  Bobby shoved his hands deep into his pockets and narrowed his eyes. “Forgotten souls, condemned to an eternity on their tormentors’ land. Can’t be bigger than twenty feet long by wide.” His eyes scoured the area, measuring, calculating. “And leaving them to rot like this? No one looking after? It’s not right.”

  “Ginny Meade usually looks after these sorts of places; I think she’s in charge of Peckinpaw’s historical cemeteries. Maybe McGee won’t give her passage onto his land. Or,” I suggested, “maybe no one’s ever gotten around to documenting it.”

  “More like no one ever cared,” Bobby grunted.

  A light wind gusted over my face like a guarded whisper, followed by a loud crack slicing through the quiet. I looked up and gasped. A large branch, half torn, dangled by threads of bark.

  Bobby charged, uprooting me from where I stood. Startled, I cried out. Just as he landed on top of me, a thud vibrated the earth beneath us. Breathing heavily, I turned my head to see the big log resting a foot away from us.

  “Jesus, Mudas! What the hell is going on today?” Bobby squeezed out in rapid breaths. “That was crazy!”

  I felt his heart against mine, thumping hard, furious. I felt strangely energized by the near miss, somehow confident that luck was on my side.

  “That’s it, get up. I’m taking you home.” He stood up, towering above me. I didn’t move. “That was a sign if I ever saw one, Mudas. We’ve got to get out of here,” he demanded as he pulled me up.

  I backed myself up to the catalpa and glared at him. “I’m not leaving ’til I have my look-see. We have time, you said so yourself. McGee’s probably long gone. Maybe even down at Town Square by now.”

  “What are we even doing here, Mudas? You’re not gonna find that Rooster Run ledger here, that’s for damn sure. So, what now? Are you gonna start digging up graves?”

  Fumbling in my back pocket, I pulled out my car key and threw it at him. It bounced off his chest and landed in the tall grass beside him. “Just leave if you need to. I’m staying, Bobby Marshall.”

  His tawny eyes narrowed and met mine, arsenic gray, cold as a wintry storm sky. Defiant of anyone who might try to stop me—searching for anything that would help me find answers. My gut told me I had to stay.

  Bobby had his jaw set tight, too. For a minute, I thought he might actually throw me
over his shoulder and carry me away. Then, with a grunt, he began to dig around in the tall weeds, muttering something about mules. At last, Bobby found the key. He stood, arms folded and eyes tired. “Look, Mudas, I know you want answers, but we’re not gonna find any here. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “I can’t leave, Bobby, I just can’t. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like there’s a reason we happened upon this graveyard. Like there’s something here we’re meant to find, or see. Bear witness to, even.” I didn’t know how to explain it, but there was something here in this precious abandoned patch of woe-begotten history and forgotten spirits that called to me. It tugged at my soul. I turned away and ran my fingers over the jagged grayish brown bark of the catalpa and peered up at the large sweetheart-shaped leaves.

  “Come here; I want to show you this.” I extended my arm, keeping my eyes focused upward on the tree’s trunk. “Please, Bobby.” Pulling him to the tree, I took his hand and gently placed his fingertips on the trunk, then placed mine on top of his and began guiding our fingers back and forth across the bark.

  “Feel that?”

  “Nothin’ but peeling bark.” He shrugged.

  “No.” I rolled his fingertips back and forth across a burrow. “Look closer. It’s notched,” I coaxed.

  He leaned in.

  “See it?” I rubbed the bark.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a hangman’s notch.” I ran my finger along the crevice. “Here. Feel it, Bobby. There’s got to be at least a dozen notches.”

  I traced the notches in the catalpa, a tier of ruts trailing upward. Some were gouged with definition, others aged and swelling with warty knots, while others were faint scars with tiny specks of budding leaves. But one cut in particular seemed fresh, its bark broom colored and raw. The furrow, deep and long.

  “That one seems new,” Bobby said.

  A chill shot up. I thought about Mama, hanged, and briefly wondered if this notch was hers. No, I reminded myself, this was a Klan-marked tree, for coloreds; it couldn’t have anything to do with her. But still, the freshness of the mark seeped in cold. “These notches were put here by bad men—more than likely the Klan. Daddy once showed me a hangman’s tree over in Kasey just like this. The pattern was identical. He told me that after the Klan strings up a man, the bastards take a hatchet, knife, whatever, and notch the tree to show how many coloreds they’ve hanged. The notches are like a ledger of their evils—their sick trophies and twisted warnings.”