Bobby jerked open the door, startling me. The journal fell to my lap and sprung off onto the floorboard before I could snatch it up.
“Bobby, you sca—” I stopped, looked at his hands, and squealed, bouncing up and down on the bucket seat and clapping my hands. I felt my eyes balloon into moon pies as I momentarily tossed my worries over my shoulder.
Bobby flashed a grin, ducked his head inside the car, and handed me an ice-cold Coke and a tall, narrow bag of peanuts. He slid in behind the steering wheel and silenced my girlish peals of laughter with a friendly smooch.
I knocked back a huge swallow of Coke and felt its burn slide down, soothing my bone-dry throat. “I was so thirsty!” With shaky hands, I ripped open one of the bags of nuts and shoveled a handful into my mouth. “Thank you . . . mmm,” I said, mumbling with a mouthful, leaning forward to snatch up a nut that had slipped off my tongue and landed on my chest.
Bobby laughed and took a long swig of his Coke, then opened his peanuts. He popped them into his mouth and crunched away.
I funneled some of my own peanuts into my Coke. “Mmm,” I moaned, taking a sip, slurping and crunching, savoring each jaw-full as if it was a fried chicken Sunday dinner. “Mmm, mmm!” I stuffed more peanuts into my mouth, famished. My tongue quivered from the salt. I washed it down with a swill of icy Coke flavored with softened nuts. Savoring the fizz, I tossed Bobby a chipmunk grin.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw old man Harper approaching our car, red-faced, wearing a tight grin with even tighter eyes. He gave a sharp whack to the hood and whisked around to the driver’s side. Resting his meaty hand on the roof, he leaned down to Bobby.
“Ain’t you ol’ man Jessum’s kin?”
“Yessir,” Bobby said slowly.
“Nigga Jessum’s grandson?”
“Sir?” Bobby replied, gripping the steering wheel and tucking his head down low. His eyes were fixed to the wheel.
Mr. Harper turned his head, opened his mouth, and squirted out a trail of spit. “I’ve seen ya wid him a couple of times when he comes in to git tires to take to the recap center. Ain’t that right?”
“Uh—”
He pounded the roof. “Answer me, boy.”
I pulled Bobby slightly back and craned forward, peering over his shoulder to give Mr. Harper a puzzled look.
“Why, Miz Muddy, is that you?” Mr. Harper acted surprised, his mouth contorted—twisted all sourball candy-like—his red lips jutted, settling into a sneering pout. He plucked off his dirty ball cap and poked his sweaty face inside the car. “Me an’ Missus Harper was jus’ talking ’bout yore loss an’ the fine service Pastor gave yore Mama yesterday. An’ ’bout the good riddance of that no-good white-trash Whitlock today. Tut, tut.” He picked at his oily nose, ratlike.
“Yessir,” I answered, growing alarmed. The stench of his grease, dirt, and sweat wafted close and settled into the car, causing me to take short, tiny breaths.
“This boy running errands for ya today?” He glanced at Bobby.
“Huh? I—”
Bobby grabbed my knee and gave a soft, loaded squeeze, before returning his hands to the steering wheel.
“Ya know, iffin’ you wanting some gasoline, Miz Muddy, I can’t serve ya wid him sitting ’hind the wheel. Only you.”
“Mr. Harper, Bobby goes to my school. And, he’s—”
“Educated nigga or not, I ain’t serving him. ’Course he can always git out an’ pump for ya.” Mr. Harper’s face was pinched, his eyes hardened to slits as he stood there studying Bobby.
Stunned, I looked over to Bobby, whose head was slightly down, his jaw clenched, and his knuckles turning stark white on the steering wheel.
“Mr. Harper, sir,” I replied, “we were just stopping by for a drink from the fountain. And we, um, bought Cokes and peanuts.” I lifted my empty Coke bottle, feeling the syrupy liquid begin to crawl up the back of my throat, like the sticky sap of a hedge ball.
“That so?” he said, his eyes darting over us. He dug into the pocket of his sweat-stained blue union suit and pulled out a palm full of change. Picking over the coins, he lifted up a nickel. “Looks like I owe my customer a bottle refund.” Mr. Harper brought his arm up to his mouth, wiping his spittle on his already dirty sleeve, and dangled the nickel toward me, waiting.
Shaking, I extended my arm past Bobby to hand Mr. Harper my Coke bottle for the standard refund. He plunked the coin into my open palm and smirked at Bobby. Mr. Harper just stood there—staring, waiting—his neck all stretched out like a turkey’s wattle, with veins threaded and pulsing below warty skin.
I lowered my eyes and murmured a polite thank you.
Satisfied, he nodded twice, jowls flapping with each bob.
Bobby sat quietly, but I could feel his contained anger threatening to spill over, a hotness oozing out.
I tugged at Bobby’s Coke bottle, but he wouldn’t let go.
Mr. Harper gloated. “That’s right. He knows the rules, Miz Muddy. We don’t refund to coloreds.” He snarled at Bobby. “They take their bottles down to Skeeter’s for their refunds. Ain’t that right, boy?”
Bobby fixed his eyes on the steering wheel.
“Answer me, boy!” Mr. Harper cursed.
Bobby gradually turned toward him.
Taking a step back, Mr. Harper stuck out his lips and spit. Thick goo landed on Bobby’s cheek, a few wayward droplets hitting my face. I gasped and hurriedly swiped my hand over my face, repulsed.
Bobby turned away, shutting his eyes.
Harper whacked the roof and edged farther away from the car to swagger around the front. Giving a fisted thump to the hood, he called over his shoulder and waggled a stubby finger in the air: “Ya tell ol’ Jessum we won’t be needing him for tire pickups anymore. Maybe he can find work over in Mallardsburg. Ya hear me, boy?”
Bobby fumbled for the door handle.
I squeezed out a sharp “No!” and quickly opened the glove box to find a handful of tissue paper. “Bobby . . . Hey, Bobby, look at me. Please.” I gently guided his face away from Harper and toward me.
Slowly, he relented, but his eyes bore into mine, heated, pained. He held the Coke bottle vicelike, the green glass threatening to burst.
“S’okay. It’s okay, c’mon,” I whispered, carefully wiping the sputter off with a tissue. “Let him go. Let it go, Bobby. My grammy always said you gotta choose your battles carefully. ’Cause the enemies, and the offspring of your enemies”—I tapped his temple—“are gonna be setting up shop in there. So you best make sure they’re worthy, ’cause I know you’ve got better things to think about. Need to leave space for all the good stuff, okay?” I wrapped my hand over his and gently stroked. His muscles relaxed and the grip on the bottle loosened.
I let out a tiny sigh of relief.
Bobby rested his forehead against mine.
“C’mon, Bobby, let’s get outta here.”
He shrugged and tossed the tissue out the window. “Prick,” he muttered, his voice rattling back up from the hurt. Setting the pop bottle between his legs, Bobby started the car and eased out onto Harper’s Road. “We’d best take Harper’s straight down to Town Square, in case McGee and his men are lurking on the back roads,” he speculated. “I reckon it’d be safer to stay on the busier road.”
It was. No more than five minutes later, we passed Jewel Johnson on Harper’s Road, her station wagon bulging with six children squeezed inside. She waved and I smiled, remembering how, just a few weeks ago, I’d babysat for her and Mr. Johnson. I especially remembered how their house had been loud and full of love, peppered with plenty of cussing an’ kissing. She’d told me she was plumb worn-out from popping out babies. “Thankfully,” she’d said, “as soon as we lugged our first TV set home, Mr. Johnson’s attentions turned.” I’d blushed at her frankness.
We sped into town, driving past the Cooper twins carrying bales of hay in the back of their pickup truck and past Joel Irving in his mail truck, slowing only to swerve around a
deer and brake for a pokey box turtle.
With my belly full, and feeling drowsy and spent, I leaned my head against the passenger window, watching as the car whizzed past the tall weeds and pines. It wasn’t long until the scene became a comfortable blur, and the hum of wheels on asphalt lulled me into nothingness. I felt Bobby reach for my hand, a gentle caress, before my eyelids grew heavy.
I awoke to the sun setting behind the Peckinpaw Jail, the late-afternoon shadows casting a freakish blue haze over the pea-green building. Peeling my forehead from the car window, I groaned. “Here already?”
“I cut over Knobmole Hill. You hit a brick wall ’bout fifteen minutes back.”
“Feels more like fifteen seconds,” I yawned, blinking twice to stretch my eyes.
Bobby leaned over the seat and lifted the Mason jar.
I grabbed the journal and met him on the sidewalk. We stared up at the old brick building. “What do you think Jingles will do?” I asked.
“Dunno. Would you rather go find your dad first? We could head to your house?”
I looked over my shoulder, worrying and wondering about McGee. “No.” I shook my head firmly. “I can’t go back there,” I announced. “I don’t trust him. I’ll be sleeping in Peggy until I can figure out where home’s gonna be.”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll let that happen,” Bobby replied, his jaw set firm. “No way.”
I shrugged.
“Listen, my gramps has a breezeway off the back of his house and if you don’t mind sharing it with Cassie, I’m sure Gramps wouldn’t mind a bit.”
“Cassie? Your grammy?”
“No, she passed.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Years ago. But thanks.”
“So . . . Cassie is?”
“Dog breath, and lazy.”
“Hmm.”
“You don’t mind bunking with a hound dog?”
“Hah.” I tousled his hair. “I’ll study on it,” I said gratefully.
“All right, you ready to go see Jingles?” I nodded. We climbed the concrete steps of Peckinpaw Jail. I moaned when I spotted the faded blue WILL RETURN IN AN HOUR sign, knowing that, in Peckinpaw time, that could mean a second, a minute, or a day.
The old jailhouse—one room with a holding cell and what was once my mama’s desk—was locked up tight. Beneath the sign was a sticker saying, IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY CALL: KENTUCKY STATE POLICE POST 126.
“It must be ’round suppertime,” Bobby said, glancing up at the sun. “I didn’t realize how late it’d gotten. Well, Jingles should be home eating. If he doesn’t doze off after, he’ll be making his rounds at the Dixie Bowl and Ruby’s. Maybe sooner if the kids split up and set off firecrackers at each end of town to keep him hopping, and away from the hangouts.”
“I ’spect Jingles hasn’t had time to replace Mama. His wife’s probably playing receptionist for the time being.” I leaned over the iron railing and pressed my face to the old wrought-iron bars covering the tall, narrow pane of glass, fixing my gaze on Mama’s desk. I spied a picture of me and Genevieve, the frame sitting angled beside her big sunglasses, all regular, like she’d just stepped away from her desk. I clamped my hand over my mouth.
“What?” Bobby leaned over my shoulder to peer into the window. “Shit-fire,” he mumbled.
I ran down the steps to Peggy and buried my face in my hands, straining to quiet myself. I felt Bobby touch my shoulder, but then his hand dropped away, like maybe I was made of porcelain, too fragile to touch. I turned to see him staring at the ground, Grammy Essie’s “disappearing look” creeping into his eyes.
“Sorry, I . . . I wasn’t expecting to see that.” I wiped my eyes, wishing I hadn’t, and wishing I’d control what was inside of me that was always wanting out. I gathered up my resolve, and said flatly, “I think you best go, Bobby.”
“Go where?” His voice was sharp.
I bit down on my quivering lips, fighting to keep my composure. “Just leave. It would probably be for the best. I think I need to be alone so I can try and work this out—”
“What the hell are you saying, Mudas? You expect me to go? Just shuffle on home after everything that’s happened today? Leave you here like a sitting duck for McGee and his bastards?” Before I could protest, he’d opened the passenger door, swept me off my feet, and placed me firmly on the seat, muttering “Hell, no,” about three times under his breath all the while.
“Bobby! What are you doing?”
He leaned into the car. “I’m not about to let you get rid of me, Mudas Summers. Thought you knew me better than that,” he winked. “I intend to make sure you’re safe. And I know the perfect place.”
Outwardly, I scowled, ever so slightly miffed at Bobby for being so downright contrary. But inside, I was breathing a big ol’ sigh of relief, grateful that he hadn’t left me sitting in the middle of Town Square, soaking in my own misery, drowning in abandonment. I couldn’t stop a teeny smile from tugging at the corners of my mouth. “All right, Bobby Marshall, we’ll do it your way. Where we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“Wait, hold on just a minute. I forgot something. Let me go use the phone—I need to call ThommaLyn.” I reached inside and opened the glove box and raked up some change.
“Fine. But you best come back now, ya hear? I’ve done enough running for one day; last thing I need is to come chasin’ after you.”
“I’ll be right back,” I promised.
I crossed over to the diner and slipped inside the phone booth. ThommaLyn answered on the first ring. “Hey,” I said, glancing out at Bobby, “I need you to cover for me. . . . No, I’m fine, everything’s fine, really. . . . Listen, ThommaLyn, my daddy’s probably gonna come looking for me later and I need you to cover for me. . . . Well, we had a big fight and—I actually don’t have time to talk right now, I’ll explain everything later, I promise.... Yeah, okay. Just promise you’ll . . . Okay, thanks.... See ya soon.” Satisfied, I hung up.
Bobby was in the car, waiting for me. I smiled as I slipped back into the passenger seat.
“All right, mister. Where to?”
16
The Hill
Bobby drove us toward the outskirts of town. The car filled with the quiet of two people who’d done plenty enough for one day, and the sorting that comes with it. Strange emotions bubbled up inside me. This was the worst time of my life: Mama gone, her memory tarnished, Daddy a stranger, McGee and his henchmen on my tail. But here with Bobby—my cheeks rosy and my heart aflutter—I felt wholly loved and protected, like never before. It was hard to find a middle ground. I wasn’t even sure if one existed.
“I think we both need to get some rest,” Bobby interrupted my musings, “so we can think clearly in the morning. We can try to find Sheriff then, okay?” He glanced at my thumb, again flying over each finger.
Basking in his comfort and in ThommaLyn’s promise, I slowly tucked my worrying fingers into a fist. “Sleep sounds good.”
Bobby turned onto Nigger Hill Road. “So, where is this mysterious place?” I asked, watching the whir of passing trees as Bobby navigated the car easily up the narrow gravel trails, winding higher and higher up the hilltop.
“Well, like I told you, my Gramps Jessum’s got a breezeway you can sleep in. His house is just up here. Real quiet, tucked outta the way. You’ll be safe there for the night.”
“Oh, yeah.” He’d told me on Liar’s Bench that he had kin living up on Nigger Hill, but I hadn’t put two and two together. I wasn’t so sure that this was a good idea. I had been up here before, but, then again, I’d never actually gotten out of the car.
“This okay with you?” Bobby asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Of course.” Still, I couldn’t help but worry. What would Daddy say if he found out? Worse, what if word spread and the Klan came looking for us? I’d never forgive myself if somebody hurt Bobby or his gramps on my account.
“It’ll be cool,” he said, as if he’d Polaroid’ed my thoughts. “You
’ll be safe here, Mudas, I promise.”
I leaned my head slightly out the window and inhaled deeply. Honeysuckle and wild onion perfumed the cool air. The song of the katydids swelled and waned, an ongoing cycle. From farther up the hill, I could hear the tickle of a fiddle climb up, up, up, and descend slowly back down. A harmonica leaped in to join the fading strings, colorful and sweet. The barking of dogs and the laughter of children echoed through the small hillside community. Dark pines cooled, cradling tiny homes. This hill comforted me, distilled all my troubled thoughts and fears, and soon, I felt my mind slipping into a cool and placid place, and then trail into a warmer one with thoughts of Bobby.
Bobby turned onto a dirt drive in front of a tiny house with a wooden porch and an old swing that hung from sagging eaves. The home was bordered by a worn but freshly painted white picket fence. He parked under a sugar maple and grabbed the Mason jar and journal from the backseat.
Stepping out cautiously, I took notice of the mimosa trees scattered around the yard, their feathery puffs of pink blossoms crayoned against the white clapboard. Clumps of daisies bordered the porch. Nearby, a snowball bush showed off its sky-blue blossoms, and pink ladies skirted high around a chipped, concrete swan. We crossed through a latticed arched gate with trails of crimson rose blooms and ivy clinging roly-poly snug to the white slats.
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