What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  “My daddy kept the tree. Took him a while, but eventually, he dug that fence out of the flesh of the tree one piece at a time. He’d dig and carve and then let it heal and then start over on another spot.” Guy shrugged. “I still can’t say who was right, but I do know that Rosie took her first steps under that tree. And she climbed it for the first time when she was eight. And last April, my brother was married under its branches, which are startin’ to bloom again.”

  Hannah hadn’t ever been in Mississippi when the magnolias bloomed, but she could only imagine what the tree by the courthouse would look like covered in bright, fragrant blossoms. And for a moment, instead of dreading a timeline that kept her in Mississippi any longer than necessary, she hoped she was still here in the springtime so she could see it.

  “In my way of thinking—there’s no use hiding from the fact that there was a fence stuck in that tree, or even yelling about it if you’re not willing to stick around and do your part to make it better. I love my home. I want to help it bloom again,” he said firmly, a deep passion vibrating through his words.

  “Damn, that’s really beautiful,” Hannah said, her eyes moist with realization. She could see it, the tree and the fence growing into its bark and the temptation to destroy the good parts along with the bad. She usually avoided looking into Guy’s face, his eyes a deep brown she felt immersed in far too easily, but she wanted to see him clearly in that moment. The metaphor was lovely, poetic and meaningful, but the strong man behind those opinions—he was a story she wanted to know more about, wanted to be like.

  “Eh, it works in lots of ways. It’s easy to run away, you know. Staying and fixing—that’s the hard part.” He turned his body to face Hannah’s, and she didn’t break their eye contact, the connection charged with electricity. Guy was using the metaphor in reference to the systemic racism that was embedded in the flesh of his state. And pointing out that Hannah’s father could’ve chosen a different avenue by staying and investing in Mississippi in order to do his part to better the world he came from. And maybe even referencing the way Rosie’s mom walked away from her daughter twelve years ago.

  But it also reminded Hannah of how embedded Alex had been in every part of her body, mind, and heart. Dangerously so. Deathly so. And instead of doing the work to cut him out, she’d run away, first with Ambien, then with dreams of death, and finally by escaping to a small town in Mississippi. But maybe there was a different way. A better way.

  “Done!” Rosie chimed in from across the room, and the electrical current was interrupted when they both looked toward the kitchen table where she sat. She held up the crumpled Piggly Wiggly bag cut to fit like a vest and turned inside out. On the blank space on the back of the creation were figures drawn in a line like they were sentences.

  At the top was a little girl stick figure with curly hair. Next to her was a tall man with short hair and a big smile. Rosie and Guy. Underneath was a house and what looked like a cat and a rainbow heart that joined them all together. Then two more rows of stick figures, a soccer ball, music notes, paper with a pencil next to it, and finally, at the bottom, a simple drawing of a tree with flowers on it.

  “I have a feeling someone was listening to our conversation,” Hannah said out of the side of her mouth, like she was trying to hide her comment but speaking intentionally loud enough for Rosie to hear.

  “She always has had excellent hearing,” Guy whispered back, mimicking Hannah’s exaggerated style.

  “How do you ever keep anything a secret?” she volleyed back, Rosie putting one hand on her hip like she was too mature for the childish back-and-forth.

  “Who says I can?” Guy said, ignoring his daughter’s attitude.

  “Would you two act like grown-ups and tell me what you think of this thing?” Rosie huffed in feigned annoyance and placed the assignment on the table.

  “Well, fine, when you put it that way,” Guy said, drying his hands on the dishrag from the counter one last time before heading over to assess his daughter’s work. She watched them there, Guy giving his glowingly positive critique and Rosie taking it all in like she was learning from Socrates himself, and her thoughts drifted to the cartoonlike tree at the bottom of Rosie’s family story. She was glad that Guy and his father believed in sticking around and making something better instead of running away if such beautiful things could come out of it.

  CHAPTER 23

  Once Rosie and Guy said their farewells and headed home for the night, and Hannah finished the last few chores to make the kitchen presentable for Carla’s sharp eye, she was finally able to settle in and think about Evelyn again. She’d been dying for the opportunity.

  With minimal effort after setting up the pullout bed every night for three months, Hannah unfolded the thin mattress and metal frame and tossed on the pillows and blanket she used. Soon, the suite in the back of the house would be complete, and she would move into a brand-new bedroom, private bathroom included, with a private entrance out the side that would give her some autonomy as Mamaw was more able to care for herself again.

  The idea of having her own space had been compelling when Hannah first moved in with Mamaw, but after spending so much time in her papaw’s study, she knew she would miss the slightly musty smell of his old books lining the walls and the scent of pipe tobacco that had sunk into most of the furniture over the years. It was the closest she’d ever been to her grandfather.

  They’d visited for most Thanksgivings, making the long drive the day before the holiday. But she was only eight when he passed, and during the few visits she could recall that predated his death, she’d been scared of the seeming stranger who wore tall socks with slippers and puffed smoke like a steam engine. It was one of the things she’d missed out on because of her father’s decision to distance himself from his southern roots. And no matter how she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about that tree that Guy and Rosie seemed to love so much.

  Hannah quickly changed into a pair of soft flannel pants and an oversize, worn Northwestern shirt that was starting to fray at the neck. She and Alex used to fight over who owned that shirt first. He insisted that it was a present from his parents when he got his acceptance letter, but Hannah could remember picking out the shirt on her first day of freshman orientation while her parents were still there helping her get settled.

  After Alex moved out and Hannah was packing up her things to move back in with her parents, she found a second, identical shirt crumpled up and hidden behind one of the drawers in her dresser. It seemed almost brand-new, stiff to the touch like it had never been worn. Hannah didn’t know which shirt belonged to her and which one belonged to Alex originally, but she wore both of them, and they both made her remember. She didn’t fully understand why she liked to sleep in such a painful memory, but like most things having to do with Alex, she would rather have proof that they had once been happy than to let his most recent mistakes erase those years.

  Hannah sat on the bed and laid out the letters in front of her, each in a separate pile. There were four of them, dated October 10, 1935; November 12, 1935; January 8, 1936; and March 17, 1936.

  November 12, 1935

  Dear Mr. Martin,

  I hope this submission finds you well. I know it has been some time, but I write as regularly as my situation allows. Diane thinks I’m taking too long to tell you my story. But what she doesn’t understand is that there are so many pieces that come together, and I only remember some of them at some times and others of them at other times. I will write down my story in my journal as often as possible until I have the chance to put it all together for you.

  I am eternally devoted to finally sharing the truth of my story. I hope from the deepest parts of my heart that you will find pieces of my account that might help another girl in my position. Life isn’t very fair to very many of us—that’s a universal truth—and I know it gets harder every single day with this Depression going on. But I’ve learned that to give up hope entirely is to throw away your ticket to a
better tomorrow.

  Back in the summer of 1929, I was still full of hopes and dreams. Harry was my beau, and his mother lived in Kentucky. She hadn’t seen him for a while, so out of the blue Harry asked me to go with him to see his mother the next month for the Fourth of July.

  “Harry, you know Mother and Daddy aren’t going to let me go, but you may ask them.” Harry had magic over Mother because after sitting down and talking in the evening one night, Mother said it was okay as long as the lady across the street and her daughter and son were going too. But as soon as Harry left, I found out the real reason Mother was all right with me going.

  She took me up to her bedroom and sat me down on the edge of her and Daddy’s big four-poster bed. She patted the space next to her and took out a brush and asked me to take the comb out of my hair. Mother had never paid any sort of individual attention to me before. I felt unnerved but didn’t dare stand against her since she’d been so sweet about Harry and the trip.

  “You can go with Harry and Mrs. Strong if you like, Evelyn,” she said, raking her stiff-bristled horsehair brush through my short blonde hair. The bristles stung my scalp every time she set it down at the top of each stroke. “But first, I need you to do something for me.”

  I don’t know how I was surprised. Mother had never been one to do something out of the kindness of her heart. As she brushed my hair with little tenderness or care, I remembered the straps on my back from the horsewhip and the scar on my belly from the appendicitis I never really had.

  “Mr. Fred has taken a fancy to you. You know how your father and I feel about the situation. I know that you think you love Harry, and he is a fine young man. But he is only nineteen and has been a cowpuncher since he dropped out of high school. You will be poor with Harry. If you want to go to Paducah to meet Harry’s mother, you must let Mr. Fred take you out on a date first.”

  I started to protest when Mother took the hairbrush and slapped it against the top of my head, making the horsehairs feel like little daggers in my scalp. I chose my words wisely.

  “But I love Harry,” I said, remembering not to cry, though I wanted to.

  “I’m sure you think you do,” Mother said. “But Mr. Fred is a very successful gentleman. You’re lucky that he’s taken a liking to you. You have expensive tastes, Evelyn. Mr. Fred can give you those things. Harry will give you nothing but babies and swollen ankles.”

  To me, I had no other choice. If I met Harry’s mother in Paducah, he might be able to propose. Then I’d never have to do one thing Mother told me to do again. I knew how to smile and flirt. And Mr. Fred, quiet as he was at the dinner table, had lively discussions with the other boarders in the sitting room most evenings. And he had a Ford that was a silvery green and made me think of frost on the grass in December. Part of me did like that a rich older gentleman found me beautiful and exciting. So I couldn’t see the harm in letting Mr. Fred take me on a drive the next Saturday afternoon. But little did I know how wrong I could be.

  “Oh God,” Hannah said, nearly ill at the slowly developing sacrifice of this girl’s future and happiness. How, at fourteen, she saw herself as a commodity to be traded for a better life. Just the idea of it made Hannah think of the discussion she’d had with Guy in the garage earlier that evening. She spread the document out on the bed and took pictures of each page, then with a flick of her thumb she shared the images in a text, adding a quick note, and hit “Send.”

  Hannah: Mr. Fred is such a creep. Just moved to the top of my suspects list.

  Almost immediately, thinking bubbles did the waiting dance that always made Hannah, at least mentally, hold her breath. His message came in, and she let out a loud “Ha!” and responded in a flurry of typing.

  Guy Franklin: Just got Rosie to bed—will read ASAP. And agreed—super creep. But I still think it’s Mrs. Brown. #guilty

  Hannah: Did you seriously just hashtag guilty?

  Guy Franklin: I’m just trying to fit in with the cool kids.

  Hannah: Good luck with that . . .

  Her thumb hovered over the keypad, ready to respond to whatever he sent next, but no bubbles appeared. He’s probably reading, she thought, wanting to not seem so eager, the warmth of his touch still at the front of her mind.

  Focus, Hannah. She shuffled to the next letter, but instead of reading it, Hannah took pictures of all the pages and forwarded them to Guy. Then she picked up the next submission.

  January 8, 1936

  Dear Mr. Martin,

  I am genuinely sorry I cut my last submission so short. The memory of this time in my life can be quite overwhelming now and then. I know my story has a disquietude to it. But you must know that I have changed Mr. Fred’s name. I genuinely believe his influence was the reason my story never made it much further than a tiny little note in our local newspaper. But it needs to be said. Just because you’re rich and a man doesn’t give you the right to ruin some poor girl’s life.

  When it was time for my date with Mr. Fred, Mother lent me Louisa’s best dress and let me have pin curlers in my hair overnight. When she said I might wear some of her red lipstick, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. It felt so good to have Mother treat me kindly. And when I saw how beautiful I looked with my hair all done up, and my lips so kissable and ruby red, I hoped Harry would get to see me even though I had gone through great pains to make sure he didn’t find out about my outing.

  When I got down the stairs, Mr. Fred took a long breath in through his straight white teeth, and I knew that he saw what I had in that mirror. Mother let me wear her hat, so I didn’t get too much sun, and Mr. Fred held the door to his fancy car. I climbed inside, feeling a bit like the Queen of England. A part of me wanted to like Mr. Fred. I wanted to like him. My youthful beauty was a fistful of dollars that would blow away with time, and I knew it. But I loved Harry. And Mr. Fred made me feel nervous and funny. I didn’t like the way he looked at me.

  We drove around some dusty roads for a while. I lost track of where we were going with the sun beating down and not having any breakfast. There was a big picnic basket in the back that I knew Mother had packed for us, and I longed to know what it was like to eat the first serving of something from my father’s house instead of the last.

  After an hour or so, he parked his car in a big meadow, driving nearly down to the shore of a small pond with a dock built out into it.

  Mr. Fred spread a blanket that I had washed with my own hands too many times to count. We sat under a large willow tree and nibbled on sandwiches and strawberries. He told me all about his family and his job and his plans for the future. I said all the right things to make him think I was listening and that I cared a whit about his dreams of power and glory.

  “I feel like I can tell you anything,” he said to me, scooting closer to my corner of the picnic blanket, my heart beating in my chest. There had been three bottles of beer in the basket, and he had drunk every single one while I sipped on my soda pop. But now his eyes were glassy, and the nervousness that kept him quiet before dissolved into nothingness. I knew what was coming, somehow. He reached his hand out to touch my hair, and I jumped off of that blanket like it was filled with electric shock. Then I remembered Mother. I knew she’d be angry if I were rude. So I slipped my shoes and stockings off, Mr. Fred taking great interest in my bare legs, and ran down to the water.

  “What in heaven’s name are you up to?” he asked me, taking off his shoes and socks and rolling up his pants to his knees. I stepped into the water, the muddy bottom seeping between my toes. He splashed in behind me, sending dirty slashes of pond water up the skirt of the dress I’d borrowed from Louisa. I’d come down to the pond to escape, but having Mr. Fred wrapped beside me and nothing but water out in front made me feel more trapped than ever. He was breathing heavily, smiling all big like I was playing a game with him. He clasped his arms around my waist and pulled me in tight against his chest.

  “I’m far too hot,” I said, pushing away. I could see now why good girls were never
supposed to be alone with a man. And I wondered desperately why Mother had let me go so far away with him.

  “Just one kiss?” he asked, reaching for my hand again. I tucked it away and ran up the shore back to our picnic. He followed quickly behind.

  “Do you want to learn how to drive, Evelyn? Then you can have this car and everything else you want.”

  “No, thank you.” I rushed to put my stockings back on, but he grabbed my arm to stop me. I tried to wrench away, but his fingers hurt as they clamped down on my wrist. I said no again, which only made him hold on tighter.

  He said I was a tease, which made me fight back against him like a tiger. But he didn’t let go. He knelt next to me, a glassy flame burning in his eyes.

  “Can’t you see that I love you, Evelyn? You will learn to love me . . .”

  And he tried to kiss me, and I wasn’t strong enough to stop him. Somehow I didn’t mind Harry kissing me, but this man? I just didn’t like it. I took my mind away, somewhere I could forget what was happening with Mr. Fred, hoping I’d never have to remember it again.

  We drove home as it was getting dark. Mother never made me go on a date with him alone again, never even mentioned the mud on my dress or the smudge of red lipstick that stained the collar. And when Harry came to pick me up for our trip three weeks later, she stood on the front porch and wiped at the corner of her eye with her hanky as though she’d miss me.

  “Holy shit . . . ,” Hannah whispered. It was becoming clearer and clearer why Evelyn’s story had been rejected in 1936. She’d been sexually assaulted at the age of fourteen. The horrors depicted in her simple retelling were many, but they also weren’t unique. An older, powerful man making moves on a younger, beautiful girl. Her inability to protect herself. Her experience being glossed over and ignored because the truth was inconvenient. Hannah reached for the next pile of pages, eager to know what happened next, when her phone buzzed again. Guy must’ve gotten to the end of the second submission.