Fireflies in December (16 page)

“Town’s been busy too,” Mr. Poe said.

“Usually is.”

“More’n usual, what with all that Cy Fuller business.”

My skin turned to pins and needles, and Mr. Poe’s words hung in the humid air. I finally loosened my tongue enough to say, “Cy Fuller?”

“Yep. Cy’s done turned up dead.”

I stared at my knees, hoping my loose hair hid my anxious face. My sweaty hands gripped the slats in the bench like vises, and that whooshing sound started to deafen my ears again.

Mr. Poe seemed oblivious to my discomfort as he sighed and said, “Yep, they done found ’im on the edge of his prop’ty just s’mornin’.”

“How?” I asked in a whisper.

“How what?”

“How’d he . . . how’d he die?”

“Shot clean through. Bled out, they’s guessin’. Happened a while ago, so they say.”

I stood quickly, rocking the bench with a loud rattle.

“You goin’?” Mr. Poe asked.

“Gotta get the letters,” I murmured as I rushed off rudely.

I wandered through my errands that morning without even realizing I was doing them. My mind was far too preoccupied with Cy Fuller, and the town added plenty of fuel to the fire. Cy’s death was the number one topic of conversation, and everyone had an idea of what had happened.

“Likely got himself shot over those gamblin’ debts of his,” Mrs. Tott said to Mrs. Crumley. “His wife was always wor-ryin’ about that.”

Mrs. Crumley nodded. “Be sure your sins will find you out.”

Mr. Will Calhoun thought it was an accident. “Fuller was a sight with that gun of his,” he said to Wink Burns. “Always told ’im he’d shoot his foot off one day.” He shook his head and chewed thoughtfully on his pipe. “Didn’t think he’d up and kill hisself, though.”

The theories abounded. Some believed Mrs. Fuller had shot her wicked husband in a rage, unable to take him anymore. Others felt Cy had been killed by a thief whose caper was interrupted.

I was the only one who thought I’d done it. The way I saw it, not one other person in Calloway had that blood on their hands. The stifling heat was nothing compared to the burden of guilt I carried around that day, and I felt sure that my face must have shown it. People looked at me oddly everywhere I walked, and though it was likely only due to my circumstances with Gemma, in my mind I was sure they suspected me of having a hand in Cy’s death. I was plagued by fear and shame.

Daddy didn’t say much to me on the way home, a sure sign that his mind was bent on something particular, and I was sure of what that was. He knew as well as I did that there was a real possibility I was a murderer, but neither of us was willing to say it out loud.

When we reached home, we got out of the truck silently, but on my way inside, I stopped and looked at him desperately. He stared at me long and hard, and then, reaching out to ruffle my hair, he said, “It’s all right. It’ll all be all right.”

Up to that point in my life, hearing those words from my daddy would always make things seem better. It had always been like my daddy held the controls to everything, and as long as he said it would be fine, I could trust that he’d make sure it was. But times were changing and too fast for my comfort. I was getting older, and I realized I had entered a place where Daddy couldn’t fix everything anymore.

I think that brewed more fear in me than Cy Fuller.

Chapter 14

Every now and then I’d feel Momma watching me, likely thinking I must have been sick or something to be doing my chores without complaint. One day I even went so far as to wax the floor so much that the woven rug sitting in front of the kitchen door wouldn’t stay put. Both Daddy and Luke slid on it like they were on skates, making the icebox shake and clatter as they grabbed it to steady themselves.

When I wasn’t working, I spent my time reading in the hammock, burying my worries in fictional adventures. The problem was I was running out of books, and the only way to cure that was to make the long hike out to the library. It was a good three miles there, and unless Daddy planned a trip into town, Gemma and I would have to walk the whole way. In one-hundred-degree heat, those six miles seemed like twenty. In other summers, we’d hitch a ride with one of our neighbors, but we weren’t so welcome to do that anymore. It didn’t make any sense to me, because people had always given me and Gemma rides together. It was only different to them now that she was living with us like part of our family. But whether it made any sense or not didn’t matter one bit. It was still as hot as hades, we still didn’t have a ride into town, and I still didn’t have any new books to read.

I got a break when we finally had a day with a touch of coolness in it.

“Might rain,” Gemma said in reply to my suggestion that we walk into town. She looked into the sky and held a hand out at shoulder level. “Feels like rain.”

“No, it don’t,” I argued, knowing full well that I was right. “When rain’s comin’, you can smell it; you know that. The air’s as dry as toast.”

“Jessilyn, the air’s good and damp.”

“It’s just humid. There ain’t no rain in it.”

“You been talkin’ to God or somethin’?” Gemma asked smartly.

“No, I’ve lived here thirteen years, and I know when it’s gonna rain in Calloway and when it ain’t, and it ain’t. You just don’t want to walk into town.”

Gemma yanked the last sock from the clothesline and tossed it into the basket. “I’ve been tired all mornin’. Ain’t slept well in two nights.”

“How come?”

“The air’s been thicker’n molasses all week. You know I can’t sleep right in this heat.” The wind blew slightly and tossed one of Gemma’s braids into her face. She blew at it to shoo it away. “All’s I’ve been wantin’ to do since sunup is get my chores done and take a nap.”

I sighed and pouted, but I knew I couldn’t make Gemma walk to town if she was worn thin. One look at her face told me she wasn’t exaggerating. Her eyes were droopy and bloodshot like they always got when she was tuckered. She needed a good rest, and anyway, I liked Gemma best when she was well rested.

So I left Gemma behind and headed into town alone, kicking stones along the way. Every now and again I would tilt my head skyward and study the clouds. Gemma had put a little doubt in my mind about my weather predictions, and I didn’t want any part of walking home in a rainstorm.

When I passed Miss Cleta’s, she hollered at me from her screen door. She liked to stand there on most days and watch what little there was of Calloway go by. “You headin’ somewhere in particular?”

“Library,” I said with a nod. “I up and ran out of rea-din’.”

She opened the door and peered out. “You come on in here and look at my books, then.”

I tucked my hands deep in my pockets and stared at her. I couldn’t imagine Miss Cleta having any books that I would enjoy. Mostly I figured she read only the morning paper and cookbooks. But with the hope of finding something sweet inside, I scuffed into the house.

The usual smell of mothballs and baked goods welcomed me as I entered, and I followed her down the hallway. She led me to a room I’d never seen before. “Sully’s study,” she told me in response to my wondering glance. “He read everything there was to read.”

The room was like a shrine with pictures of Sully and Miss Cleta lining the paneled walls and covering the heavy, ornate desk. Old papers lay on the desk in such a way that I imagined they had been left that way by Sully on his last day on earth. I was in awe at the bookshelves that made up an entire wall and held scores of books bound in leather.

I studied them for several seconds before Miss Cleta finally said, “Well, go on. You can touch ’em.”

“You sure? They look expensive.”

“Piffle! Ain’t no one gonna be readin’ them things now. Lord knows my eyes ain’t good enough for those small words.” She snatched two of them from a shelf and held them out to me. “They do nothin’ but collect dust for me to clean off, anyway. You just help yourself. I’ll go fix us up a snack, and you can join me when you’re done makin’ your choices.”

It took me a full thirty minutes to do that. I couldn’t believe I’d never known Miss Cleta had anything so splendid in her house. Having never known him, I figured Sully must have been just about as incredible as Miss Cleta made him out to be, and I quietly thanked his picture on the way out of the room.

“I didn’t know how many I could take,” I told her when I reached the kitchen, carrying a stack of six books.

“Well, how about you take those, and when you’re done, you can come again and exchange them for more. Sound good?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“And then we can have a snack together when you come. It will be fun to have some more company.” Miss Cleta motioned to me to take a seat and then put a mound of sugared strawberries atop my slice of pound cake and topped them with fluffy whipped cream. “How come Gemma’s not with you today?”

“She’s wore out,” I said with a sigh. “She can’t never sleep good when it’s this hot and sticky.”

“Honey, neither can I,” she grumbled, dropping into a chair across from me. She fanned herself with her napkin and patted her piled-up hair. “Lord knows this weather is enough to sap a woman’s strength. And my hair! Child, my hair won’t do a thing.”

“Why not?”

“The humidity makes it frizzy. Don’t you know that?”

“I don’t pay much attention to hair and stuff.”

“Well, you’re gettin’ to be quite the young woman, you know. Best be startin’ to think about hair and stuff.” Miss Cleta got up and retrieved a magazine from her living room. “See this?” she asked, pointing to a picture of a woman all done up and fancy. “This is what girls start to do when they become women. You’re somewhere in between, but you should start practicin’.”

“I hate fussin’ with things like that.”

“You have to fuss with them crooked old braids of yours, don’t you?”

“Well . . .”

I had just scooped the last piece of pound cake into my mouth when Miss Cleta tossed the magazine down. “Come on,” she said firmly. “You come with me.”

And that’s how I managed to leave Miss Cleta’s house over an hour later in a creamy-colored dress, shoes with the smallest of heels, and my hair tucked up in a perfect twist. I wobbled my way down the steps and glanced uncertainly at Miss Cleta.

“You made it. That’s what counts.” She waved to me with one of her shaky hands. “You come back next week, now, and tell me what your momma says about your new look.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I called. I walked down the sidewalk, almost dragging the canvas bag we had piled my clothes and borrowed books into, but I only made it about twenty unsteady steps before a beat-up old truck squeaked down the road behind me. I turned to look at it and stopped dead in my tracks.

“Looky here,” the driver drawled as he slowly passed me. “You headin’ off to a party or somethin’?”

I stared ahead of me rather than at Walt Blevins’s stubbled face and said, “I ain’t supposed to talk to strange people.”

“Who you kiddin’? You do more talkin’ than any girl I ever seen. Don’t seem to matter who you’re talkin’ to.”

I continued to walk, but he pulled the truck up a little more to keep with me. “If you’re headin’ on home, you may as well hop in. I’m goin’ that way. Maybe I’ll stop in to see your daddy.”

“You ain’t got no business with my daddy,” I said angrily. “You ain’t got no business with none of us.”

“Found your tongue there, didn’t ya?”

I looked at him in staunch defiance and said, “You just stay away from my family.”

Walt threw back his head and laughed, his alcohol-induced belly jiggling; then he flung the truck door open with a grinding squeal, and in three quick steps he was smack in front of me. He smelled like sweat and corn whiskey, and I backed away, loath to be near him.

“Now you listen to me,” he said, backing me up so that I ran into his truck and became pinned between it and him. “I don’t take orders from no little girl.” Then he looked at me in a way that I instinctively knew wasn’t right and said, “Or maybe you ain’t so much of a little girl after all.”

His face came closer to mine, and every breath he took made me cringe from the odor. I turned my head and closed my eyes as though not seeing him would keep me from knowing he was there. “Leave me alone,” I whispered, my voice as weak as my knees.

“You ain’t so tough when you ain’t holdin’ a rifle, are you?”

My mouth was as dry as cotton, and it took me three hard swallows, but I managed to rasp, “I should have killed you.”

“Like you killed Cy Fuller?” he asked with humor in his voice. I whipped my head up to look into his sinister face, knowing my eyes must have betrayed my shock. “I know all,” he said with a laugh. “Didn’t you know that, girl? I know all about you.”

I closed my eyes to avoid seeing his face and focused my attention on just breathing. It took real effort to inhale without making hiccuping noises. And then I heard the unmistakable sound of someone readying a rifle to fire. My eyelids flew open, and I gaped toward Miss Cleta’s porch.

There she stood, clad in her demure green dress and pearls, pointing a rifle at Walt’s back, her left eye squinted. “You best be movin’ on outta here, Walt. Right now!”

Walt kept his right hand on the truck beside me and turned his head, a wild smirk on his round face. “Ain’t no one told you it ain’t polite for little ol’ ladies to go pointin’ guns at law-abidin’ folk?”

“Ain’t no law-abidin’ folk I’m aimin’ at. Now move on.”

“Well now, ma’am, I was just havin’ a chat with this here girl, and I ain’t quite done with my chattin’.”

“You are now.”

Walt turned fully around to face her. “When I’m ready!”

I took that opportunity to slip away from him, and the very second I got away, the report from the rifle echoed off the truck in a deafening clang.

Dust blew up off the road, and Walt jumped further than I knew a man that fat could jump. “Are you crazy, old woman?” he shouted, sweat pouring down his face. “You almost shot me.”

“Two more inches and I would have,” she hollered. “I don’t miss by accident. Now you just get on outta here like I said. Right now!”

Once I had gotten my senses about me, I scrambled up to Miss Cleta’s porch, cowering behind her and her trusty rifle. I watched from the safety of her bent-over frame as Walt climbed into his truck, cursing and spitting. He turned and drove away in the direction he’d come from, his tires squealing and digging ruts in the old road.

Miss Cleta ushered me into the house, locking the door behind me.

I slumped into one of Sully’s high-backed chairs and rubbed the ankle I’d twisted on my run up to the porch, my hands shaking all the while. I could see that Miss Cleta was a nervous wreck, but she talked calmly to help ease my nerves.

“Well, you can’t be walkin’ home today,” she said, putting her rifle back into a nearby cabinet.

With the state I was in, I didn’t want to make a lonely trek home either. But I knew Miss Cleta didn’t have a telephone or a car, so I couldn’t quite figure how I’d get home if I didn’t walk. We eventually settled on sending me home with Luke, who passed Miss Cleta’s house at five fifteen every day on his way from the factory to our house.

For the next three and a half hours we did everything from playing cards to baking muffins. I could tell Miss Cleta was trying her best to keep my mind off what had happened. She taught me how to play gin—“So long as your momma wouldn’t mind you playin’ with cards.” I thought she just might, but these were special circumstances, so I decided that I could stretch the truth this once. I beat Miss Cleta twice, which she said was evidence that I had natural abilities, and I won ten jelly beans and five licorice drops from her.

I found out that she had a mouth full of sweet teeth. She didn’t only make baked goods every day of her life; she also kept a cupboard full of candy and gum. Her house became even more of a haven to me that day.

At ten minutes after five o’clock, the two of us went out to sit on the porch rockers. Still clad in Miss Cleta’s old dress, I sat straighter, my knees together and my ankles crossed beneath the chair, just like she was sitting. My heart started to beat more quickly as I wondered what Luke would think of my new mature look. I fiddled restlessly with the strap on the canvas bag and nearly jumped from my seat when I heard Luke whistling in the distance.