Gone South (8 page)

Her hand glided smoothly over the banister as she ran up the stairs. After turning to the right, she went straight to the bedroom window that overlooked
the big backyard with its wilderness of shrubbery. The last vestiges of the storm still dripped from the eaves, and the wet glass blurred her view. Somewhere beyond the tangle of bushes stood the garage.

After a quick peek into the antiquated bathroom, she loped downstairs and back outside to the car in the twilight. She had to bring her special treasure inside first.

She eased the portrait out of the backseat. Padded with multiple layers of towels and cardboard, it was hard to get a grip on. She lugged her unwieldy heirloom across the yard, up the steps, and inside. With care, she pulled off the wrappings and leaned the ornate gilt frame against the wall. Her great-great-great-grandparents looked solemnly back at her.

Maybe Letitia looked a bit anemic after all, but
ghoulish
wasn’t the right word for Nathan. His hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes reminded her of Abraham Lincoln.

“Welcome home,” Tish said quietly. “You’re back where you belong.”

She wanted to hang the portrait, but it wasn’t a one-person job.

Her stomach growled, bringing her back to the present. Once she’d unloaded the car, she would call in an order to Bag-a-’Cue. That was a privilege Nathan and Letitia had never known.

She’d made it home, and except for her feet, Mel had stayed mostly dry. Wet feet were the worst, though. They made her cold all over. If she hadn’t lost her duffel bag, she wouldn’t have lost her cash either. She might have had enough to buy shoes and socks and jeans. Of course, if she still had her bag, she wouldn’t need replacements.

Lowering the hood of her jacket, she lifted her face to the dark sky. It was a good thing the storm was over. Her folks weren’t home, and her house key didn’t work anymore.

She was trying not to read too much into it. People changed locks all the time. For lots of reasons. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with the big blowup. After all this time, they should’ve gotten over it, shouldn’t they?

She tucked her keys carefully into the waterproof side pocket of her bedroll with the last of her cigarettes. She couldn’t lose those keys. Even if the house key didn’t work anymore, the car key was important.

She eyed the tall wooden fence separating her from the backyard. Maybe they’d forgotten to lock the sliding glass door of the sunroom.

It was worth a try, anyway. She crossed the wet lawn to the side yard where the old oak arched its branches over the fence. She edged her bedroll over the top, and it landed with a plop. She shimmied up the trunk, crawled along the thickest branch, and dropped over. Easy-peasy, like high school except this time her bedroom window wouldn’t have been left conveniently cracked open. And she didn’t dare do anything that would set off the burglar alarm. She didn’t know the code to disarm it anymore, and she didn’t want the cops all over her. She’d be so embarrassed if Darren was one of them. He would’ve graduated from the academy by now and maybe he’d stayed in town.

She picked up her bedroll, noticing the new muddy smudge. No big deal, though. She walked over to the sunroom door and tugged on the handle.

Locked. They’d wedged a security bar in the track too.

Peeking through the blinds, Mel scanned the dark room. Even in the dim light, she could tell the rattan furniture had new cushions in a tropical print. Magazines covered the low table, same as always, and houseplants stood against the low walls below the windows.

She loved that room, especially when all the windows were open. It had been the only room in the house where she could breathe. Where she didn’t feel suffocated.

After checking the windows and confirming she couldn’t sneak in without breaking something, she dragged one of the plastic deck chairs under the wide
overhang of the roof in case another storm blew in. She wiped the seat dry with her hand, then unzipped her sleeping bag and spread it over the chair. She patted her shirt pocket to make sure her treasure was safe, then sat, pulling the sleeping bag around her and drawing the jacket’s hood over her head.

Her folks wouldn’t see her when they pulled in, but she would hear them. Hiding in the backyard was better than waiting on the front porch where the neighbors would see her and start gossiping again.

Now that she’d stopped moving, she ached all over. And her feet and ankles were like ice. She’d give anything for jeans that covered her ankles. Dry socks. Shoes that weren’t smashed and filthy.

A freezing wind blew through the yard, reminding her how cold Noble could get. She pulled the sleeping bag tighter, but it didn’t help.

Closing her eyes, she tried to pretend she was back in her own room. The room Grandpa John had helped her paint in a soft blue when she was fourteen.

“Same color as my car, almost,” he’d said.

“No, it’s my car,” she’d said, poking his shoulder to make him laugh.

“Yes, sweetie, it’ll be your car someday,” he’d said.

Grandpa John was the only person she’d never doubted. Because he’d never doubted her. He’d always believed the best about a person.

When she was a little girl, they’d passed a homeless man on the sidewalk. Grandpa John had said he would drop her off at the house and go back to buy the man a hamburger or something. “There but by the grace of God,” he’d said.

She’d thought it was a funny thing to say. Grace meant prettiness in your movements. Being surefooted. Not tripping over your own feet and making a fool of yourself. So it didn’t make sense. God wasn’t a real person with feet.

“Good night, Grandpa John, wherever you are,” she whispered.

Then she tried very hard to believe he winked at her from heaven and whispered back,
“Good night, Melanie John.”

It was dark when Tish pulled her car into one of the few empty spots in front of Bag-a-’Cue and ran inside. For a Monday night in a small town, it was a busy joint that attracted a healthy mix of young and old, black and white. Noisy, friendly customers crowded a dozen picnic tables. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. A little boy ran around in red footie pajamas, his chin smeared with barbecue sauce.

She approached the counter and met the heavily lined eyes of the teenage girl working the register.

“Yes ma’am, how can I help you?”

“I called in a to-go order a few minutes ago for—”

“That’s the other end of the counter.” She pointed. “Where it says Pick Up Orders Here.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m new here.” Giving the girl an apologetic smile, Tish proceeded to the proper spot.

A grown woman presided over the pick-up station. Excessive eyeliner seemed to be a locally popular style for all ages. “Hey,” she said with a smile.

“Hi. I called in an order to go …”

“Name?”

“Letitia.”

The woman blinked. “Okay.” She collected Tish’s money and counted out her change. “It’ll be up in a minute.”

“Thanks.”

Stepping aside to wait, Tish looked back at the tables full of customers and wondered if any of them were her new neighbors or people she would run into
at the grocery store or the post office. Of course, she’d do her shopping and banking over in Muldro, a much larger town with more options and better prices. She’d go there in the morning to get the gas turned on and open a checking account.

But these people probably lived in Noble. Some of them could be her neighbors. Maybe they’d become her friends someday.

A young couple stopped at the condiment station. Loading red trays with plastic forks, paper napkins, and ketchup packets, they bantered back and forth with their friends who were already seated. The little guy in pajamas swiped a fry from his father’s plate and giggled.

“Letitia,” a man yelled. “Pick-up for Letitia.”

She turned toward the counter. “That’s mine,” she said, speaking into a sudden lull in the conversations behind her.

A burly old employee held a brown paper bag in huge hands. “Letitia,” he repeated loudly and unnecessarily. “That you?”

“Yes.” Her voice rang in the strange new silence.

The man slapped the bag onto the counter. “Here’s your order, Letitia.”

The way he said it took her back to whispered mockery of her old-fashioned name in a Michigan schoolyard. Saginaw? Yes. Fourth grade.
Letitia, Letitia, Tish Tish Tish …

“Thank you,” she said. Even the rustling of the bag in her hand sounded too loud. Too conspicuous.

Someone snickered and whispered something she couldn’t catch.

She turned around. The people closest to the counter were staring at her. No one was smiling now except the tyke in red pajamas.

Whatever was going on, getting mad wouldn’t help. She drew a deep breath and managed a smile.

“I’m new here,” she blurted. “My apologies.”

No one spoke.

Bag in hand, she fled to her car. Was Noble one of those towns where everybody was related somehow, and they refused to accept outsiders? Or—she looked down at her University of Michigan sweatshirt. Did they hate Yankees? Could they be that provincial?

No. She was exhausted from the move, and she’d let her old paranoia kick in.

“I am Letitia McComb,” she said under her breath. “You can’t change who I am.”

She started her car and pulled out of the lot. In January, without Christmas lights, Main Street had lost some of its friendly charm.

Mel jerked awake and squinted up at a bright moon glittering above the trees. She’d never been one of those Girl Scout types who could figure out what time it was, or where north was, from studying the sky. She only knew it was full dark, she was freezing, and either her folks hadn’t come home or she’d slept through the sound of the garage door going up and down.

She left her sleeping bag on the chair and peered through the blinds again. No lights were burning except the dim ones they always left on, day and night. The kitchen clock didn’t show from the sunroom windows, and she didn’t have a phone or a watch that worked.

Putting her ear to the cold glass, she listened. No voices. No TV. If it was three in the morning and they were sound asleep, it wouldn’t be cool to pound on the door. Last time she made that mistake, her dad almost wouldn’t let her in. He’d grounded her instead. Tried to, anyway.

She figured they’d still treat her like a little kid this time too. They would feed her, though, and they’d let her sleep in her own bed where she’d be warm and dry and safe.

Golden light pooled suddenly across the kitchen floor. Someone had turned on a lamp in the living room.

Moving fast, she rolled up her sleeping bag, trying to hide its muddiest
parts. She finger-combed her hair, straightened the collar of her jacket—her dad’s—and practiced a smile. Smiling was the hard part.

Bedroll in hand, she knocked on the glass sliding door. “Mom? Dad? It’s me.”

No one came. She tried again, knocking harder and speaking louder.

“Mom! Mom, it’s Mel. Let me in, please!”

A shadow darkened the pool of light. Slowly, someone came into view. Someone short. Mom, the soft touch.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Mel made a rat-a-tat-tat on the glass with her fingernails. “Mom, it’s me!”