But she knew almost as soon as she saw the black screen that her phone was still dead.
“Damn it,” she cursed, picking it up and pressing the buttons, but nothing happened. Stupid. She chastised herself. Why had she let Guy get her so flustered? If it had been Mr. Franklin or Carla or Nancy, she’d have gladly put her bike in the back of the truck and taken the free ride home. But noooooo, she had to get all strangely “I am woman, hear me roar” on the man.
Hannah rushed to the kitchen and searched the cabinets. Above the sink, next to a stack of brown-paged cookbooks, was a yellow Tupperware container labeled Rice. She scooped two cups of it into a gallon-size Ziploc bag, buried her phone in the white mass, and set the whole thing on the counter.
“That should do the trick,” she said, placing the plug in the sink and turning on the hot water. Even if the rice method didn’t work its magic, one night without a phone shouldn’t cause too many issues. She could go to the Record in the morning and get caught up in a matter of hours. She’d have to call her mom when she got to the office and let her know about the phone issues and then email Laura to cancel their phone session for the third week in a row.
The only other person who might reach out would be Alex, and who was she kidding? She shook her head and shut off the faucet, damp with the condensing steam from the sink. Alex had had nine months to reach out since their breakup—he wasn’t going to suddenly come to his senses now.
Hannah dunked the bowls in the soapy water. The sink was a bit too full for the volume of dishes she needed to scrub. If Alex happened to reach out, then—he could wait. Just like she had since the day he walked out. Sure, it was easy to say when she couldn’t turn on her phone and while her hands were busy, submerged in the citrus-scented water.
In the future, if her phone buzzed and his name came up, she might not have the same philosophy, but tonight she was grateful for the break from that nagging need to check as her brain flooded with thoughts of Evelyn.
CHAPTER 7
Hannah headed to work early the next morning and ended up sitting outside the locked Record office, waiting for Monty. With her bike leaned against a tree, she sat on the front step, scribbling in her green notebook, jotting down a few ideas for a potential story based on Evelyn’s letters. It was still embryonic, just a few bullet points, but she couldn’t ditch the idea that there was something bigger here.
The morning air was chilly and smelled of fall, not altogether unlike how fall smelled up north. But the rising sun added just enough warmth to stunt the crispness she’d always found so invigorating when she’d walk her dog through the forest preserve with her dad when she was a kid, or when the first gust of lake-effect wind hit her face each September as she rushed down Stetson to the Tribune building.
God, she missed her dad. He’d sat in many of the homes and walked the halls of the Senatobia school she zoomed past each morning. This lukewarm autumn morning was his childhood understanding of fall. It was his nostalgia.
She rubbed her hands together, hoping this was one of the mornings Monty would bring in coffee so she wouldn’t have to wait for Dolores to make it. She needed the warmth but also the caffeine. Plus, another addiction was dragging her down. It’d been over twelve hours since she’d last had access to her phone, and it was driving Hannah a little crazy. The freedom from the constant checking was making her think clearer, but the withdrawal was real. She dug around in her satchel and took out the Ziploc bag she’d brought with her, breaking the seal. The earthy, slightly mildewy scent of moisture and rice puffed out into her face, making her ill.
“That is a pretty lousy breakfast you have there,” a familiar voice called out from the street. Stopped in front of the Record was Guy Franklin, driving the same red-and-white truck he’d offered her a ride in the night before, one elbow draped halfway out the driver’s side window.
Great, she thought, internally mortified. Seeing him right in front of her place of work after a less than restful night of sleep, when she was wearing a slightly different baggy V-neck from the day before, under the same Army green flak jacket, her hair unwashed and unbrushed and pulled back in a messy ponytail, and running on zero coffee or access to social media, made her want to toss the bag at his tires.
“Not my breakfast.” She smiled, opening no windows to the inner workings of her mind and emotions, wishing she’d done more than run a toothbrush across her teeth before rushing out the door. “Carla would be mortified if I let you think this came from her kitchen,” she said.
Guy sent a matching smile back at Hannah, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was real or just as fake as hers.
“My momma taught me never to make assumptions . . .”
“Because they make an ass out of you and me?” Hannah completed the phrase.
“Uh, yes, ma’am. So I’ve heard.” He didn’t laugh, though something like amusement touched his lips, but not because she was fascinating or hilarious. It was the same way Mamaw looked when Hannah said something she considered unfeminine, or when her mother was disappointed in her fashion sense, or when Alex would roll his eyes when she left the light on in the car overnight and killed the battery. He was smiling because she’d made a mistake, said it wrong, or maybe it wasn’t ladylike for a woman to swear—which ironically just made her want to swear more. This was precisely why she’d taken her bike home in the rain.
This man could make her feel like this—like a shook-up bottle of pop or the time she’d put regular dish soap in the dishwasher in her first apartment instead of dish detergent and the kitchen had flooded with suds.
“I’m headed to Broken Cup Café,” Guy went on. “You want something?”
Do I want something? Hannah repeated in her head. YES! Yes, she wanted a large cappuccino with two shots of espresso, but she shook her head.
“Uh-uh.” She smiled with closed lips this time. “Dolores makes a fine pot of Folgers Instant, but thank you.” She didn’t even forget to be polite. Damn. She was owning this.
“No problem. Hope you get inside soon.”
“Thanks!” she said, chipper as all get-out. “You too!”
He smirked and drove away, the exhaust from his ancient transmission stinging her almost as much as the embarrassment.
“You too? You too, what?” she muttered under her breath, shoving the bag of rice with her waterlogged phone deep into her bag and replacing the flap, feeling like an idiot.
“Miss Williamson?” Monty stood in front of her, somehow ninja-like in his silent approach despite his size 12 loafers and the slight rasp in his labored breathing.
“Oh, hey! Good morning.” Hannah was on her feet in an instant, twisting to switch places with Monty, who looked equal parts surprised and confused.
“I’m sorry, hun, am I late for a meeting?” Monty checked his wristwatch and dug around in his pocket for an overloaded, clanking key chain.
“No! No, I just thought I’d get in early today. Make some headway in the archives.” She carried her bike up the steps behind Monty and slid it into its storage space in the foyer, hoping he wouldn’t question her about it. He didn’t seem to notice.
As Hannah hung her bag and jacket over the back of her office chair, then retrieved her notebook, Monty paused by his office door and called out, “Miss Williamson, a moment?”
Hannah froze. Damn it.
“Coming!” she called out across the room, glancing longingly at the basement door as she rushed into Monty’s office.
She’d only been inside his cluttered work space a handful of times, including the day of her interview. It was filled with stacks of files and overflowing filing cabinets; should’ve been a clue as to what the whole organizational system of the Record was like under Monty’s guiding hand. Back then, when she was newly arrived in Senatobia and still unsure if she even wanted to stay, the dusty electric typewriter in the corner and large oak desk that was covered in papers like a tablecloth had blurred into the background of this otherworldly place her father had
once called home.
Since settling into life here, she’d found that everyone avoided Monty’s office, especially at lunchtime, when he’d heat his leftovers from “Momma” in the crusty microwave he kept on the counter next to the broken typewriter. Hannah had never been called in first thing in the morning, and the office had a stale scent of old food smells and aging paper. Monty was crouched over, placing a microwavable container of something into the minifridge behind his desk. He stood with some effort and pulled up his slacks by his belt when Hannah walked in.
“Miss Williamson, why don’t you take a seat,” he said, pointing to the chair opposite his desk. It had a stack of neatly piled files with newspaper clippings pouring out the sides. She hesitated. “Oh, put those on the floor. I’ll get to them later,” he said, flapping his hand at the files like he was moving them himself.
Hannah cleared the chair and sat, the springs inside creaking and one poking up through the fabric at the back of her thigh.
So help me, if he wants me to clean this place . . .
Monty finally sat in his large, high-backed rolling leather chair. Bits of filling poked out of cracks on the armrests. He steepled his fingers in front of his face and pressed them against his lips, making Hannah wonder what the hell he was being so dramatic about.
“Miss Williamson, I do appreciate all of your hard work in the archives. I know it’s a big job, and Terry says he’s seen some good progress even in the little time you’ve been down there.” He paused, as though Hannah was meant to respond.
“Thank you,” she said, hoping the less she spoke, the sooner she could get back to work.
“No, thank you. I fear you may see this project as somewhat of a demotion after your time at the Tribune, but I assure you that was not my intention,” he said, folding his arms.
Nothing like a good ole clearing of the conscience, Hannah thought.
“Seeing you sittin’ on the front stoop this morning made me reconsider this assignment. Your eagerness to complete your tasks is apparent, and I can’t help but think your talents are being wasted in that basement. I talked to Terry this morning, and he said that if you’d be willing to help him in the classifieds, he could trade time with you in the basement. What do you think about that?”
“No!” Hannah answered, faster than she’d intended. The only thing worse than acquiring display ads and inserts for the paper was listing weird shit for money like a common hustler. Selling puppies, soliciting love matches, exchanging half-broken junk for cash—wasn’t there an app for all that? Her boss at the Tribune always said she had a strong sense of journalistic truth and something about gumption. Which was why it was so devastating when he called her up and explained she didn’t need to come into work anymore because she was out of warnings and extensions and was being let go. She wanted to explain everything, but it was too hard back then and too embarrassing now. But this search made her feel like a journalist again.
“Pardon me?” he sputtered.
“I mean, no, thank you . . . uh, sir.” Her attempted use of polite language seemed to calm Monty enough for her to continue. “I like my current assignment.”
“You do?” he asked, incredulously.
“I do.”
He scratched the top of his balding head and pulled at his belt again like his pants were falling down even while he was sitting.
“Well, that’s fine, then. I may need to pull you back up here for some actual reportin’ at some point.”
“Of course,” Hannah said, biting her tongue and standing to leave. Monty had already wasted a good chunk of the time she’d gained by coming in early. “I should get to work now.”
She didn’t wait for Monty to change his mind or say anything else that could make her temper flare. It was already smoldering just beneath the surface. He’d said it like she was shirking her responsibilities, when he was the one who’d relegated her to the dank, concrete story-cemetery.
Rushing past her desk and by Dolores, who was fiddling around with the coffee maker, Hannah speed-walked to the green door and swung it open. It took all her self-control to not stomp down the stairs. Sometimes she wondered if Monty just didn’t like seeing her happy, so as soon as she got comfortable in one place, he wanted to shake her out of whatever tiny bit of enjoyment she’d settled into. Mamaw would say she was paranoid, and that Monty Martin was a sweet man trying to make everyone happy. But Hannah was pretty sure her frail Mamaw didn’t have enough experience going up against men who wielded their power like a weapon and a shield. And if she ever had faced such a patriarchal figure, Hannah had no doubt her grandmother would’ve bent to his strong will with a smile and wink.
When she hit the bottom of the staircase, she bounded off the last step and onto the concrete floor. She considered letting Monty in on the story. He potentially had new information as well. There were original copies of every newspaper ever printed at the Record, way back to when it was the Tate County Democrat, filed away in Monty’s office, and his father must’ve been on the job when the shooting occurred. But it was a risk. A huge risk. If she told Monty about the story and he rejected it, which he most likely would, the already nearly impossible task would become insurmountable.
Hannah flicked on the lights in the archive room, and the chaos of the disheveled filing cabinets and piles of half-sorted files in teetering stacks welcomed her. There was a buzz in the room, either from the electricity surging through the hanging bulbs above her head or from the tractor-beam-like draw Evelyn’s story had on Hannah.
Evelyn’s world was different, but there was no doubt she would understand what it was like to stand up to a Monty. And Hannah was confident that the girl with a sixth-grade education had a writer inside her, one that could’ve contributed so much to her world if people hadn’t given up on her when she ended up in a wheelchair.
Finally seated at the basement desk, she forced open the rusty desk drawer, where the original letters were starting to pile up. The two she’d taken pictures of and intended to pick through at home before her phone became a paperweight were in folders on the top of the stack. She took them out, and the electric humming in the room ticked up a notch. She craved a lot of things that morning—coffee, a working phone, the ability to forget any and all exchanges she’d had with Guy Franklin in the past twenty-four hours, a text from Alex, a chance to hear her father’s voice with his nearly imperceptible southern accent calling her “darlin’” one more time . . . but right now the one thing she wanted most of all was more of Evelyn’s story. As she took out the original documents and started to read, Hannah understood two things: one, Evelyn’s story deserved to be told, and two, this search was becoming personal.
CHAPTER 8
June 5, 1935
Dear Mr. Martin,
I hope you enjoyed my first efforts at storytelling. Though this is a dramatic tale, it is a true one from beginning to end. I’ve changed some names and places so that I am not stepping on any toes, if that was a worry. Which is also why I’ve kept my surname private as well. I will keep searching your paper with all the hope in my heart that one day I shall see my story printed there. If you do happen to publish it, I need no compensation. You may state the author’s name as: “A crippled young girl.”
In August 1928, I was operated on for appendicitis, or at least that’s what the doctor thought it was. Mother always called it a “useless expense,” but she never said if that was because she found me useless or because my appendix turned out to be just fine. All I know is that I’d been struck with terrible stomach pains one night after dinner. I thought for sure it was poison but didn’t have the gall to tell the doctor that.
While I was in the hospital and laid up after surgery, Daddy got sicker and could hardly work. I’m sure Mother was hoping he would just get on with dying since she’d get his life insurance and the house and wouldn’t have anyone stopping her from kicking out the rest of Daddy’s kids.
To make up for Daddy’s extended illness and my medical emer
gency, we took on more boarders. After the whipping and my surgery, I was a good, obedient girl for a while. In September, I returned to school and started back again into the routine of work.
I did all the housekeeping and most of the cooking. In the morning, I was the one who built the fire, mopped the stairs, fixed breakfast, called everybody to eat, and while Mother took Daddy to work, I’d clean the house up while Myrtle washed the dishes. Myrtle and I would go to school, always coming home to leftover lunch. Then, when we came back after school, the house was to be straightened and Myrtle and I had to get the coal in. Then I would go to the store, for Mother said I always did such things with numbers and budgeting better than Myrtle. Mother would fix supper, and then Myrtle and I would wash the dishes. Even if we got money to go to a show, Mother would make us take the two children who boarded with us, Mother’s two boys, and her daughter Genevieve.
So, you see, I never had a moment to myself to think. By the time school was out for the summer, I was a nervous wreck. Daddy had surgery in the spring and was never the same after that. He never held a real job again. He cried easily and often called me Ava, forgetting my momma had died so many years ago.
I missed my momma in those days more than ever. Her canned peaches were long gone by then, and the blankets she’d knitted were being used by strangers sleeping in a bed I was only allowed to touch when I changed the bedding each week. And my daddy’s hands were knobby and weak, and it was now my hands taking care of him. I can’t blame Momma for not knowing what it would be like when she left us behind—she didn’t know there would be a Mrs. Brown or that Daddy would get “sick” or that Myrtle would die or that my baby brother and sister would be raised by strangers.
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