A Long Time Gone (34 page)

“Careful,” I said, holding up my own finger to show my wound. “It's very sharp.”

She placed the knife in her lap and leaned forward. “Let me see.”

I wasn't really surprised at her request. She'd always had an interest in all things bloody, from smashed frogs on the road to buzzards flying over dead animals. She'd once made me walk in the dried-out winter swamp to find a dead boar, a spiral of buzzards over the trees like a giant pointing finger. I'd had to turn away as the buzzards fought with the buzzing flies for pink pieces of flesh. But Sarah Beth had watched with fascination until the sun began to dip in the sky and I made her leave before it got dark. Even she didn't want to get caught in the swamp after night fell.

I held up my finger and allowed her to place it between her thumb and index finger and draw it closer to her face, as if she were a surgeon getting ready to suture it.

“It's not very deep. It looks bad because it just happened and it hasn't had a chance to scab. . . .”

I winced as she squeezed, and two large drops of red blood seeped
from the wound. I tried to yank my hand back, but she held it tight for a moment, watching me bleed, before letting go.

“Look,” she said, completely unaware that she'd hurt me. She picked up the knife and, with the sharp tip, stabbed the tip of her own finger. The knife, forgotten as soon as she was finished with it, dropped to the floor as she, too, began to bleed from the cut, the red bright against the paleness of her skin.

“See?” she said, holding up her finger. “See?” she said again, thrusting it toward my face to make sure that I did. I pushed her hand away, confused at what she wanted me to see.

She sat back in her chair, her shoulders falling as if she were feeling an enormous relief.

“See what?” I asked, angry and confused, as a drop of blood landed on my sheet, staining it red.

“It's the same color. Our blood is the same color.”

I put my finger in my mouth and sucked on it, tasting copper. “Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?”

Without answering, she stood again and moved to the window, watching the rain fall from heavy clouds. “I hope it stops raining soon. I can't put the top down on my breezer when it's like this.”

I didn't say anything about all the farmers who might be losing their crops. Sarah Beth always seemed to have a way of making everything about her, whether it was good news or bad.

“Do you remember those awful people at the festival?” she asked.

“You mean Leon and Velma? The same people we'd seen at the Ellis plantation?”

She nodded, still staring out the window.

“They're kin to Mathilda and Bertha,” I said.

She turned to me slowly, her lips slightly parted. “They're kin?”

I nodded, once again smug at another rare occasion when I knew something that she didn't. “Yes. They have a common-law marriage on account of it being illegal for different races to marry. John told me.”

She went back to the window, the shadow of raindrops on her face making them look like tears. “Do you remember what they said? About me being no better than I ought to be?”

I nodded, wishing that I hadn't. It had been said with so much malice and mean-spiritedness and with no provocation. I also recalled those
same words being said at my wedding reception by Chas Davis, and I hadn't understood the reason for that, either.

“What do you think they meant?”

I'd never seen Sarah Beth like this, questioning things she didn't understand instead of simply dismissing them with a flick of her kid-glove-covered hand.

I tried to soften the tone of my voice, the way Aunt Louise did when explaining something to me that might make me sad, like when old Saul, Uncle Joe's foreman and a man whose pockets were always full of candy, was run over by a spooked mule hauling a wagon full of cotton and got killed. As if she believed the tone of her voice would soften the blow of her words.

“I think they're just jealous of you, Sarah Beth. Because your family has money and you never have to worry about where your next meal is coming from. And you live in a big house, and wear beautiful clothes. They don't have any of that.”

She nodded as if trying to convince herself. “That's what I thought, too.” Turning from the window, she smiled brightly at me. “I should probably go and let you rest.”

I wasn't tired, but I was ready for her to leave. She bent down to kiss my cheek, then swept toward the door.

“Sarah Beth?”

She turned, her expression like that of a child caught in the candy jar. “Yes?”

“You never told me who you were in love with. Is it Willie?”

“Shh. It's a secret.”

I frowned. We'd never had secrets from each other. “You know you can tell me. I've never shared a secret.” I thought of Mathilda, and Chas, and Mathilda's fear that Robert would find out, and knew that was one secret I'd be taking to my grave.

“I know. But I'm having fun keeping it to myself right now. It's like being able to eat a whole cake instead of just a piece.”

I looked at her closely, wondering what was so different about her. There was a hint of danger in her eyes, something I was familiar with from our exploits as children that always got me the switch.

“Angelo Berlini is engaged to be married, Sarah Beth. I don't want to see your heart broken over a man you can't have.”

She tilted her head back and sucked in her breath. “That may be. But they're not married yet.”

I sat up, ready to question her further, but she'd already opened the door. With a quick wave, she closed it behind her.

I leaned back against my pillows, listening to the rain and thinking about what she'd said. My gaze fell to my sheets and to the single drop of blood. It had spread out, its color darkening to a shade of rust, and formed itself into the shape of a heart.

Vivien Walker Moise

INDIAN
MOUND,
MISSISSIPPI
MAY
2013

C
hloe and I sat in rocking chairs on the wide front porch, looking out toward the drive and waiting for Tripp's truck. Carol Shipley's history book sat closed in my lap. It was almost suppertime, and Cora and Carol Lynne were inside setting the dining table. I was just about getting used to eating from the antique dishes my family had eaten off of for generations, surrounded by my family—new and old—and conversations that meandered through all topics without settling for long on one in particular. It was a marked contrast to the silent dinners I'd had with Mark and Chloe. I'd be medicated enough that I didn't mind the tasteless food, and enough that I didn't care that Mark and Chloe spent more time texting on their phones than speaking to anyone at the table.

But the boisterous dining table was what I remembered from my childhood, where Bootsie always invited friends for supper. I'd looked forward to each evening, when Bootsie would take her time questioning Tommy and me about our days, and when we'd solve the problems of our small worlds over ham and biscuits. At least until my mother returned, and I'd started eating up in the kitchen with Mathilda.

Since my return home, suppertime had managed to once again become something I looked forward to each day, something that grounded me despite the fact that I still felt like the epicenter of the tornado that had become my life. With Bootsie's spirit in mind, I'd called Carrie Holmes and invited her and her two children for supper. It was so painfully obvious to all but the blind and stupid that Carrie and Tommy still had feelings for each other, and that left to their own devices they'd never work their way toward any kind of relationship that involved more than bashful glances from across a room.

“What should we name him?” Chloe asked from the rocking chair next to mine. The dog hadn't left her side except when she'd gone into the house. I'd told them both that he wasn't allowed inside until he'd been given a flea bath. He'd waited patiently on the porch, next to a bowl of water and dog food that we'd purchased on the way home, along with a collar and leash and other things that Chloe claimed were necessities, until she came back outside again.

“I don't think it's a good idea to name him yet. He probably already has a name, and it might confuse him to call him something else.”

“What you really mean is that you're not going to let me keep him.”

“Chloe, you don't live here, remember? And your dad has always said no to pets, because of the germs and their fur over everything, and because he thinks he might be allergic.”

“But I could leave him here with you, and then he'd be here when I came to visit.”

If only the world worked in the way of a child's logic. “I understand what you're saying. But I have no idea how long I'm going to be here, or if your dad will let you visit me.”

Her hand stilled from where it had been stroking the dog's head. “But he's letting me stay with you now. Doesn't that mean he's going to let me stay with you sometimes from now on?”

I forced myself not to blurt out that her father was a vindictive jerk, the real truth of just how much somehow eluding me until I'd stopped medicating myself and was able to look back in retrospect. I couldn't remember a lot about the divorce proceedings, and I was glad. Because what I did remember made my skin crawl with shame. For him to have been able to allow no visits and a restraining order, what was in the record must be very shameful indeed.

“I don't know, Chloe. I really don't know.”

“But you're going to ask, right? Because now I have a dog and a garden that I need to take care of.”

I gave her a sidelong glance, wondering if she was aware that in a roundabout way she'd told me that she liked it here and wanted to come back. Or that she hadn't mentioned that I'd be here, too. Maybe because, like me, she wasn't that sure I would be.

“Yes, I'm going to try. But remember, too, that we'll have to take the dog to the vet to see if he's been microchipped, and if he hasn't, you're in charge of making flyers to post on telephone poles, just in case he has an owner looking for him. He's well trained, so chances are somebody's looking for him.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, they don't deserve him if he's been gone this long and they haven't tried that hard to find him.”

I spotted Tripp's white pickup truck down the long drive, then watched as it pulled up in front of the house, a country music ballad about beer and guitars drifting from the open windows.

He was waving a bottle of what I hoped was a flea wash as he walked toward us. He paused with one foot on the bottom porch step. After greeting us, he said, “I called the best vet I know—my sister, Claire, and she says hello, by the way—and she recommended you give the dog a bath outside with this.” He placed the bottle on the floor of the porch. “There's a hose on the side of the house by the garden, and if you ask Cora real nice, I'm sure she'll give you a bucket and a sponge.”

Chloe slid from her chair and ran to the door before stopping abruptly and turning around to face Tripp. “Thank you. Sir.” She opened the door and ran inside before anybody could comment on how she hadn't needed to be reminded.

“Thanks,” I said, admiring his form as he walked up the steps and sat down in the chair just vacated. The dog lay down and offered its belly to him, and Tripp obliged.

“Apparently that dog has been evading capture downtown for over a month. I'm thinking they've either got the wrong dog or they didn't try very hard.”

Tripp grinned. “Or he was just waiting for the right family to come along.”

“Well, we're hardly a family. There's no way Mark's going to allow any dog in his spotless house, much less one without a pedigree.”

Tripp gave me one of his silent stares that I chose to ignore.

“I'd be careful about petting that dog, or I'll have to give you a flea bath in the backyard, too.”

His mouth broadened into a wide grin. “I'm confused. Would that be a bad thing?”

I shook my head and picked up the book from my lap. “Here's the book I was telling you about—it's sort of all the local history of the county, as well as the genealogies of the oldest families, including mine. Mrs. Shipley said that Bootsie helped her with it.”

He took the book from me and opened the front cover. “Well, isn't this handier than a pocket on a shirt.”

I snorted, then covered my mouth.

“What's so funny?”

“I'm just glad you didn't say that in front of Chloe. She already thinks you're a redneck. If she knew what
Deliverance
was, she'd be expecting to hear ‘Dueling Banjos' every time you showed up.”

He looked affronted. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with banjo music.”

I elbowed him and took the book back. I'd stuck in a piece of paper to mark the spot, and used it to open up to my family tree.

“Sheriff Adams was here earlier, and I showed him the watch and the photos from the paper. He told me I could hang on to the watch, seeing as how it's a family heirloom. He wanted my copy of this book, but I told him to see Carol Shipley. The thing cost me thirty bucks.”

He whistled. “Good thing you're divorced from a doctor, with all that extravagant spending.”

“Yeah, right. We had a prenup—which is good in retrospect, because otherwise Mark would probably try to take the farm just to be nasty—but it meant that I took nothing from the marriage that I didn't bring into it. Just a different car. I think my lawyer felt sorry for me and somehow managed a decent alimony settlement. It doesn't make me rich by any means, but I won't starve.”

He didn't say anything, which meant that he wouldn't until I spoke out loud what we were both thinking.

“And no child visitation. Once he brought the drug stuff up, I didn't have a leg to stand on.”

“Do you have plans to fight it?”

I blinked at him, his words surprising me. “How could I? What do I have to offer her? I own a house, sure, but I don't have a job, or career, and all I have to show for twenty-seven years is a road full of mistakes. Besides, I have no legal claims to her. I was only married to her father for seven years. I could never win.”

“But what if you took it out of a court of law and just appealed to him as a father who wants the best for his daughter?”

“I don't think he cares. All he cared about was punishing me, regardless of what it did to Chloe. It's not even worth trying.”

He rocked in silence, that space between words something I'd grown used to but now hated with a certain dread.

“What?” I demanded.

He kept rocking. “I didn't say anything.”

“I know. That's why I want you to stop.” I shook my head, realizing how stupid I sounded.

“We all make mistakes, Vivi.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Perfect. Your life is exactly as you wanted it to be. You haven't taken a wrong turn since you learned how to crawl.”

“That's not true.”

I waited during the long silence, expecting a hammer to fall.

“I let you go.”

He'd said the words softly, but they felt like a slap to my chest.

He didn't wait for me to figure out a response. “You never quit, Vivi. All those years I knew you while we were growing up, you never quit. Whether it was for some cause, or making a team, or becoming editor of the school paper, you'd always keep trying a thousand times, even when you heard ‘no' nine hundred and ninety-nine times.”

I stared down at the open book in my lap, at all the names of the people who'd brought me here, and who must be so disappointed. “Yeah, well, as I told you before, that Vivi is gone.”

He kept rocking, not saying anything, and I cursed myself for giving him the opportunity.

“She is,” I said again, trying to fill that silence.

After a long moment where I forced myself to remain quiet, Tripp
said, “Since we were little kids and all the way through high school, you would always cry whenever we sang ‘Silent Night' during the nativity play at Christmas. I think that says a lot about a person. And that doesn't change.”

A shriek from Chloe made us look out toward the side of the house, where a drenched Chloe was being chased by an equally wet dog who looked about twenty pounds smaller with his fur stuck against his body.

Tripp stood, and I could see that he was trying not to laugh. “Stop running and he'll stop chasing you.”

Chloe ran in a large circle, glancing at Tripp to make sure she was hearing him right. When he nodded, she stopped abruptly, so that the dog ran into her and knocked her over. Too stunned to move, she lay where she'd fallen while the dog proceeded to shake the water off of his fur, spraying it all over Chloe, and then licked her face in apology.

The book slid to the floor as I stood in alarm, and I was halfway off the porch when Tripp grabbed my arm. It was then that I realized that the high-pitched sounds coming from Chloe were simply squeals of delight. I stopped to watch, knowing with all certainty that my stepdaughter had never made that sound before. Or had never had reason to.

When she finally managed to sit up she looked at us with a wide grin, completely unaware that her hair was sticking up in a wild tangle, with grass and soapsuds clinging to the wet strands.

Tripp leaned against the porch railing. “You might could go around to the kitchen door and ask Mrs. Smith for some more towels—for both of you. And remember to walk—don't run.”

She stood slowly, then began to walk with exaggerated slowness toward the side of the house. Stopping suddenly, she backed up a few steps. “Yes. Sir.”

We returned to our rocking chairs, and Tripp resumed rocking in silence.

“Don't say anything,” I said, his lack of words unnerving me.

“I didn't.”

“I know!” I leaned down and picked up Mrs. Shipley's book, frowning at a crease in one of the pages from its tumble to the floor. I found the right page again, then smoothed the book open on my lap.

Without looking up at him, I said, “Mark has requested that you
stop putting personal notes on my lab reports. He finds them unprofessional and annoying.”

“He really said that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He kept rocking.

I smiled to myself, picturing Mark's face when he got the next report. “Are you staying for supper?”

“Are you asking?”

I let out a heavy sigh. Conversations with Tripp were never easy. “Sure. Since you're already here and all. And I need a sounding board to figure out a few things.”

“About Adelaide?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Sheriff Adams said that with the DNA evidence, the newspaper articles, and the ring, he's confident that the remains are hers—although we're still waiting for the rest of the lab results, including a probable cause of death. I just don't want to bury her until we know what happened. And who's responsible.”

“It was over eighty years ago, Vivi. That might not be possible.”

“I know,” I said, recalling what he'd said about how I'd never been able to take no for an answer. At least in the years before I'd discovered that the pills had taken away my desire to care if I won or not.

I studied the family tree on the pages in my lap. “I remember Bootsie talking to me about my ancestors, but I never paid attention. I think I always thought that I'd have time later to write things down so I could remember for later. When you're young, you never think that you're going to run out of time.”

My finger moved down the lines on the page, past Adelaide's name, to Bootsie's and Carol Lynne's, and then to mine and Tommy's, where the family tree abruptly ended. “I've even found myself wishing that I'd bothered at some point to hear Carol Lynne's story. There's so much I wish I understood, and it's too late now.”