Liar's Bench (18 page)

I helped Bobby carry the dishes to the sink. Jessum picked up his pipe, poured himself another cup of coffee, and headed out to the porch still humming my birthday wishes, while Bobby and I washed the supperware. Above the clatter of dishes, we talked about the hearty food, his Grammy Sara, Jessum's garden, all light conversation after a long day of heaviness. Outside, the porch swing creaked in methodical rhythm, while crickets called the darkness.

Bobby told me Jessum offered his home for as long as I needed; then we talked a little about seeing Sheriff Jingles in the morning.

I hung the dishtowel across the rack and we shared a few of the chewy coconut candies, with Bobby eating the vanilla ones and saving the strawberry ones for me. When we finished, I poked my head out the screen door and thanked Jessum again. “Gramps, you need another cup of coffee?” Bobby asked over my shoulder.

“Nah,” he said. “Might take me a walk over yonder, pay a visit to the widow an' see how her batch of blackberry wine turned out.” He winked again.

“Okay, I'm going to show Mudas to her room.”

Jessum raised his arm and wagged a good-bye.

Bobby took my hand and led me past the sink to the back door. He pushed it open and stepped aside, letting me walk into a small attached breezeway. The walls were screened at the top half, with a waist-high skirt of wormy chestnut running down to the wooden floor. I laughed when I spotted a hound dog lying atop a narrow iron bed covered with a chenille bedspread.

“Aw, Cassie, c'mon, get off now.” Bobby stepped around me and scooted the big dog off the bed and onto the floor. Cassie peered up at us with somber eyes. Bobby scratched her long, silky ears. She gave a short snort and turned in a circle before curling up on a green braided rug.

Bobby leaped over her and dug into a wicker basket. He pulled out a green T-shirt, PJ bottoms, and two ratty towels. “This is my room when I come and visit,” he explained, his face beginning to color. “Tonight I'll use Gramps's sleeping bag and sleep on the porch. I do that sometimes anyway.” He tossed the wrinkled clothes and the towels onto the bed. “Here. They're clean.” He crossed to the wooden stand beside the bed and tossed me a little package wrapped in cheesecloth. “And take this.” I removed the gauze and brought a heavy bar of sweet-smelling soap to my nose, caught a whiff of flowers, and sighed happily.

“My gramma was a soap maker,” he said, digging into the clothes basket again. “She had two goats on the back of the hill here. Fine goat's milk soap. Shopkeepers in Nashville would even order it. She made it all out there.” He stood and jerked his thumb over to the screened wall. A dense thicket of trees trailed up, a nature-made curtain of privacy.

I pressed the bar of soap to my nose and drank in long draws of sweetness. “Thank you.” My heart swelled with gratitude at everything Bobby had done for me and I sprang across the room. Bobby lifted me up and I wound my legs and arms around him. His face shone with boyish cheer. Laughing, he spun us around.

Setting me down, he said, “Okay, then. Well, the door's here.” He knocked on the obvious. “And out back, there's a water hose and the bathing bucket, and—” He hesitated, embarrassed. “Sorry it's not inside.”

“Bobby, it's perfect. Thank you.” I looked up at him. Then I bent in and gave him a soft kiss. He tasted like sweet earth. And the curiosity of everything good.

“Okay”—he took a breath—“I'm going to take a towel and head down to the creek. I'll be back in a jiff, so be sure and holler if you need anything.” He grabbed a towel and slipped out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

I brought my fingertips up to my mouth and then pirouetted around the room. All of this felt good. And this room . . . It was like a Grammy Essie hug. Home. I could see her now, padding around her worn but spotless pine floors, rugged over with puddles of sunshine. Standing in her kitchen with the wide, wallpapered border of cherries that popped off of the yellow walls like big ol' sunny lipstick smiles. Her head bent over the heavy iron skillets that sizzled in tune with the morning song of birds perched on the window's ledge. Thick jowl bacon and peppered eggs dancing on the skillet and spitting at the air, filling the kitchen with their familiar aroma.

All that changed after she and Papaw passed. Daddy'd said he “fancied some change” and brought renovators into the homestead to change the furnishings and “freshen up” the paint. I didn't think a new coat of paint was going to change anything. We were still alone. To me, the newness was a reminder of their absence, a symbol of all that we'd lost.

I shook my head, pushing the grief away. No, no, I thought. I wanted to be happy, and I didn't want to let anything take away my happy. For this day, this minute, even a second, I prayed, dear God, please let me have my happy.

I thought about Bobby, what it would feel like to find that happy in his arms.

Cassie lifted her head and sighed a hound-dog amen. I laughed and bent over and stroked her slick fur, then drank in more of my surroundings. Stepping over Cassie, I ran my hands across the soft, plush bedspread, tracing the needle-tufted yellow flowers, remembering how Grammy Essie used to have the same pattern. I pictured her and Sara sitting, sewing together, talking about life, children, and family. In my mind, I clung to her ghosted apron strings and a warm homecoming swept over me.

I untied my sneakers and gladly kicked them off. Picking up the soap and towel, I walked to the back door and stepped outside. About twenty feet to my right, an outhouse butted up to the steep hill rising behind it, and a well with a red-flaked iron pump stood nearby. To my left, a water hose snaked behind a tightly woven grapevine screen. I spied the spigot at the far end of the house and hurried over to turn on the water, then followed the hose trail back to the screen.

I stepped behind the thick grapevine and wiggled my toes in the cool grasses, digging them into the thick fescue. Lifting the water hose to my mouth, I gulped—each swallow a sweet charge surging through me like electric nectar. I carried the soap and towel, along with the hose, over to an old wooden bathing bucket lined with thick cowhide, and scooped up the stringed cork stopper dangling off its side to plug the drain. After I tossed in the soap, I slung the spout over the rim and watched as the bucket began to fill.

Taking one last look over my shoulder, I glanced at the grapevine screen, then back to the tree-thick hill rising in front of me, offering privacy. Satisfied, I stripped off my clothes and draped them over the tall screen. A breeze tousled my hair and a rise of gooseflesh crept over my body.

Ever so slow, I dipped my toe into the tub, shuddered, and then forced myself to step fully into the water bucket, gasping at the shock. The water, witch-tit cold, lapped at the hollows of my flesh. I took a deep breath and stared up to the evening sky. Fireflies ghosted light across the dusk as an evening chill floated down the mountain. The sun disappeared behind the hilltop and the silver moon hid behind her shadow.

I shrugged off the cold and washed briskly, eager to escape the frigid water. I dried off and couldn't help notice the sweet scent that Bobby's goat soap left on me. I sniffed my hand. Dear Lord, I thought, I hope that what I smell is Grammy Essie's true scent, and it doesn't turn sour. I want more than kisses from that man, but I want it to be right, too. Mama'd always said there's only one first at anything in life, and you get only one chance to do anything the first time, so make sure that when you grab that first, it's right.

When I walked around the screen in my towel, I found Bobby pacing, holding a bottle of Calamine lotion and a tattered old army jacket, with an oil lantern hooked over his arm. His wet hair was slicked back, and drops of water glossed across his bare chest. “Thought you might need this.” He placed the lotion on top of the screen and rubbed a wet hand on his jeans. “And this,” he said, setting down the lantern and holding up the huge jacket. “I just . . . I reckoned you might get cold,” he blushed.

“Oh. Thanks,” I managed, my throat suddenly dry.

Taking a step forward to hand me the coat, Bobby tucked a lock of wet hair behind my ear. I shivered at his touch. His eyes darted over my mottled skin, goose bumped from the cold. I looked at the coat, then back to him.

“Oh,” he said, turning his back so I could slip it on. “Yeah, sorry.”

I pressed one side of the enormous jacket across me and folded the other side over it. Underneath, the towel loosened and fell to the ground. I pulled the coat closer to my body, soft against my skin. “Thanks,” I murmured.

Turning back around, he pointed to the path up the hill. “I was just heading back down to Soldier Creek. It's over the hill and down a little bit. I can't seem to find my knife—it must've dropped out when, uh . . . while I was putting on my jeans. Can't lose that. Gramps gave it to me when I was ten.” He started for the path. “I'll meet you back at the house.”

“Wait.”

Bobby turned back.

“I'll go with you. I can help you look for it.”

He stood studying me a bit, then finally nodded and lit the lantern, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I followed him through the pines, a carpet of soft pine needles cushioning my bare feet.

Slips of moonlight flickered through the trees. The howl of a lone coyote lent song to the orchestral swell and fade of crickets, accompanied by the
quonk
of tree frogs. I ducked under an orb weaver's web, where drops of dew were suspended, shimmering like jeweled beads on gossamer.

After a few minutes, the slope leveled out and we came to a small clearing. A nearby creek came to life. Rushing water splashed over the rocks, misting into the sweet air. Bobby stopped and raised the lantern high. “It should be close.”

I scanned the ground and immediately spotted the knife lying next to a dead branch at the edge of the clearing. “Over there, Bobby,” I pointed.

“Sharp eyes, Mudas!” He slipped the knife into his back pocket and set the lantern back down on the stump. He smiled. “Thanks. A Kentucky boy's best friend.”

“Sharp knife,” I grinned back.

I stood under a tall pine and watched the fireflies light along the path and into the trees. “When I was little, Mama used to help me catch lightning bugs. She always said the best part was setting them free.” I smiled, remembering the joy that used to light up Mama's eyes. She'd always worn the most beautiful smile. I couldn't help thinking that she'd want me to wear one now, too. I pushed back a curl from my face and caught a whiff of the lovely goat soap again. “Pretty up here,” I said.

Bobby was staring at me, his brow knitted, all thoughtful-like.

“What is it, Bobby?”

He shook his head. “It's just . . . well, I just can't believe how pretty
you
are.”

A warm, swooping sensation hit my midsection and my breath quickened.

“Even now,” he laughed, “barefoot and wearing that big ol' ugly jacket. Especially now.”

His scent carried, trailing thick on the night breeze. Feeling giddy, light-headed, I leaned against a tree trunk, my eyes never leaving Bobby's.

After a moment, Bobby shifted and cleared his throat. “Well, I guess that's that. We should get back to the house.” He turned and began walking back down to the house, lantern in hand.

I took another breath of the hill.

“You coming, Mudas?” He turned back.

I shifted and dropped my gaze. The coat slipped down over my shoulder.

His broad chest rose, falling into a slow, deep rhythm. “Mudas . . .”

I grappled for my sleeve, fumbling with a shaky hand.

“Here. I . . . don't want to take advantage of you,” he said hoarsely, helping me pull it back up with his own shaky talking hand.

I slowly shook my head.

“Mudas?”

We both took a hesitant step toward each other. Cupping the back of my head, he seized a fistful of tangled wet curls and pulled me closer, his bare chest warm again mine. For the first time in a week, I felt my muscles relax—an emotional nod to surrender—and was gripped by an urgency to take this protected break from all the bad and churn it into a sweet physical release.

Pulling back, Bobby tenderly traced a thumb along my cheeks, my lips.

I looked up at him, searching.

Dark with wanting, his eyes met mine, questioning.

I let myself fall into those wide wading pools of sunlit amber and nodded a hungry yes.

Bobby pulled me down to the damp, cool earth and rolled me over onto the soft army coat.

Somewhere amidst the soar of nature's sweet music and the bitterness of life's gritty, we surrendered and laid down our burdens. Letting go of everything and anything that could steal our attention, we fed gloriously on the sweet.

I
stretched to the sweet, low-pitched hoot of an owl. Running my hand across the earth, I scrunched up a patch of damp leaves and brought them to my face. I inhaled the aromas sweetened with the scent of life—him. Tossing leaves into the air, I let them fall like confetti on my bare skin, celebrating my passage into womanhood, marveling at the rush of immortality.

Bobby rested on his elbow, watching me. His crooked smile warmed. I'd always thought this would be an awkward moment. Instead, it felt right, like Grammy Essie's true-love tale. There were no pangs of regret or guilt—just us, hungry to know more, eager to reveal the pieces of ourselves we'd never been brave enough to share before. I sat up and covered myself with the coat, leaning into him.

“This field jacket sure does look better on you than it does on me. Or my brother.” He laughed and gave me a quick kiss.

“Oh, wow”—I touched the collar—“it's Henry's?”

Bobby lifted the sleeve draped across me. “Yeah, he left it for me last time he was home.”

“Does he get to come home soon? I heard that President Nixon is pulling out all the troops now.”

His eyes lit up, jeweled like tiger-eye stones. “Yeah, I can't wait 'til he gets here! The last ground combat battalion is coming home in two weeks. I've sorely missed him. Can't wait for this crazy war to end.”

I nodded. “I read about what that actress, Jane Fonda, did last month. Horrible.”

Bobby scratched the whiskers budding on his jaw. “Yeah, traitor. When I was in Boston, I saw the photo of her sitting on the North Vietnamese battery. . . . Henry served this country for two tours in Vietnam, and for others, they served with their lives, and that's how she repays them. Jesus, I'm just relieved it's almost over.”

I snuggled the coat, feeling safe and a part of Bobby, and all that he was a part of. “I can't wait to meet him.”

He brought his mouth down and kissed me lightly, our mouths still trembly. We laughed off the awkwardness and snuggled closer.

“Do you spend a lot of time here with your gramps?”

“Yeah, in between looking at colleges, I'm here for the summer.” He frowned. “I like it here, and it makes it easier . . . my dad's really uptight.”

I rested my head against his chest. “Didn't you say your daddy worked in numbers in Nashville? Gone a lot?”

“Yeah, he's a corporate accountant. Hardly ever see him anymore,” he sighed. “But when he's around, he expects everybody to bow—struts around with a grin that looks like he's just swallowed a pail of Kentucky coal and crapped out the Hope Diamond.” He shook his head. “I dunno, it makes me nervous. Like I told you a few weeks ago, he's just so unpredictable. Easy to rile.”

I reached up and massaged his shoulder. “How's your mama doing? You said she was sick. . . .”

“She's . . . she's still not well.” He looked away.

“I'm sorry, Bobby.”

“It's those damn pills—Black Beauties,” he grimaced. “Spends half her time shopping 'round for them, the rest hopped up and driving everyone around her batty.”

“Oh, I . . . I'm sorry to hear that,” I said, thinking of Daddy's drinking, Mama's hidden refreshments, and suddenly seeing a glimpse of the little boy Bobby had been, his sadness bruising my heart. “I know what that's like.”

“You do?” he looked up, surprised.

“Daddy has a weakness for the bottle,” I confessed, my face heating at the thought of outing Mama, or having another person thinking her “white trash.” And latching it on to me like a Mason jar lid.

His eyebrows shot up. “But he's so . . . together.”

“Yeah, he gave it up. It's been years since . . . but still, the worry's always lurking in the shadows.”

“That's good that he turned it around, Mudas. Real good.”

“Maybe your mama will, too,” I said, sending a silent wish and prayer for her like I'd done for Mama so many times.

“Naw.” Bobby shook his head. “She hasn't been the same since . . . Well, when I was six, Mom found out my dad cheated on her, and went”—Bobby drew air circles next to his temple—“cuckoo. I came in from school and found her sitting on the floor in our living room, next to a big ol' pile of family photos. She'd taken a red crayon and waxed an
A
for adultery over Dad's face in every single one. Then about a week later, he caught her with—if you can believe it—the deputy sheriff of our town.”

“Oh, no, Bobby, really?”

“Yeah, got her revenge, I guess.” He hesitated. “My old man drove me and my brother over here to Gramps, then took Mom up to Louisville to one of those asylums where they give electric shock treatments. We moved up north the very next year, a fresh start. But Mom never could get right after all that. Never seemed to care much about me or Henry. Never knew how to take care of us.”

“Oh, Bobby.” I wanted to take a soft cloth and wipe off the misery puttying his face. Instead, I took his hand and squeezed.

“Well, I'll be gone soon enough.” A spasm of pain seeped out and haloed Bobby's voice.

I thought about Mama letting me take up running and those funny shoes she'd bought long ago. How she was forever giving me Band-Aids and our tradition of phone calls. Grammy Essie insisting I sign up for track.... Like most my age, I wasn't entirely sure of a lot of things, especially now, but despite everything I'd been going through, I was beginning to realize how much I'd been blessed with the surety of love from two women, and I almost felt the urge to apologize.

Lacing his fingers between mine, Bobby raised our fists to the sky and gave a little shake. “What about you, Mudas Summers? What do you want?”

I felt a catch in my throat. I couldn't remember the last time someone had bothered to ask. What I wanted, more than anything, was to clear up all this mess about Mama. Clear her name, and the guilt I'd been carrying for leaving her on that porch. Or, better still, for it to have never happened. But I didn't want to talk about that now, not when I'd just been gifted with life's perfect release.

“You know I love the track team, but I'm giving it up this year.” I paused. “I'm an okay runner, and I thought that maybe I could get a scholarship. The coach from Mallardsburg came over and said I was really good. Said that I had better times in me, and the right amount of coaching and workouts, and should try out for one.”

“What? Really? Man, Coach Hall's a top coach!”

“I know. But, hell, nothing's gonna happen unless they give us a good coach—a coach who thinks it's okay for girls to play sports. We can't even use the school track most times.”

“I've seen you over on the boys' track. You're faster than some boys I know.” Bobby slid his leg down over mine. “I hope it works out that you can go to college, even without a scholarship.”

“I don't know . . . ThommaLyn's not going. She's gonna stay to marry Paul Jameson. Her daddy wants her to help out the family.”

“PJ seems like a nice fella and a hard worker. They'll make a great couple. It's good she's going to stay and have her babies here.”

I wasn't so sure. ThommaLyn was a whiz at biology, pulling straight As and dreaming about being a nurse in the big city. We even talked about how we'd get a cute little apartment together, a place of our own with bright wallpaper and a lazy cat. But her daddy let her start dating at thirteen. “The quicker she gets hitched,” he'd said, “the quicker her man can help me grow more crops that'll bring in bigger cash.” ThommaLyn fell hard for Paul within a year. Her daddy couldn't have been happier. And I knew we wouldn't be getting that cat after all.

“Maybe,” I said, “but I had hoped ThommaLyn would get out of this Podunk town.”

“Well, I can't wait. I hope our senior year goes by real fast.”

“It can't get here soon enough. My daddy rides me pretty hard, expects me to make all As.” I didn't mention how the kids at school made fun of me and my cow-plop name. I'm sure he already knew about it; he was just too cool to bring it up.

“The year will go by quick, Mudas, you'll see,” he said, tapping into my thoughts.

“I really can't wait to get out of this town one day, but now I may have to back-burner that for a bit.” Life in a small town moved slowly enough—even slower in sadness. “I've been thinking a lot about it this past week. Thinking maybe I should stick around here another year before going. Because of my baby sister, Genevieve, and all that's happened. I dunno. . . . She's going to need me.” And if I was being perfectly honest with myself, I knew that I was going to need her. She was the very last reminder of Mama.

Bobby looked at me as if deep in thought about plans. His, mine.

“If I ever do get out of Peckinpaw, I'm cutting a path straight across western Kentucky to Louisville for a degree in business.” I picked up a leaf and traced it, thinking about what Daddy expected me to do: stand beside his lawyering boots and do secretarial law,
and
become a female Olympic runner. “I'd really love to run . . . maybe make it to the Olympics one day.” I laughed even though I was dead serious. When Bobby didn't snicker back, I dipped farther into the water. “And I'd also like to follow in my grammy's footsteps as the county librarian. Who knows . . . maybe even open the first bookstore in these parts.”

“Neato,” Bobby said, his eyes holding mine.

“I even know what I'd call it . . .”

“Yeah? C'mon, spill,” Bobby teased, lightly tickling my ribs.

“Okay, okay. Dandelion Books. It's for my Grammy Essie; she used to make all kinds of things with them. Jelly, coffee, wine, you name it. Anyway, it's silly, but dandelions make me think of her, and she would've loved to have a bookstore here in town, like they do in Louisville. It's silly,” I shrugged.

I held my breath, waiting for him to laugh at me. But he didn't. Instead, Bobby smiled warmly and stretched for a buttercup. He ran the petals over my lips. “Bet you could serve those book lovers a Mason jar of that recipe and they'd empty their wallets, big time.”

“Mmm.” I grinned lazily, savoring.

“Mmm-hmm,” he echoed. The corners of his mouth lifted and, in a swift and easy movement, he sat up and pulled me on top of him, scattering pine needles and leaves. Cupping my face with both hands, Bobby dragged my mouth to his. I watched as his long, thick lashes fluttered open to expose his deep amber eyes. He let out a long sigh and ran his fingers through my twisted curls, and brought the strands to his mouth. “Mudas,” he breathed my name, sweetening its syllables. I loved the way he abandoned my nickname—loved the sweet drawl he sowed into my given name when he spoke it.

I felt a deep warmth torch my ears. “We should probably scoot, before your gramps comes looking.”

Laughing, Bobby placed one arm behind him, wrapped the other around me, and lifted us both off the ground. He swung me around, then planted me on my feet and brushed his lips over my temple. He tilted my chin and looked up with sincerity and determination. “Mudas Elizabeth Summers, I mean to make you mine one day, to honor, love, and protect, like no other. To love you right an' tight.” My eyes widened, but before I could react, he plowed forward. “In the meantime and before anybody else can lay claim: Will you come to senior prom with me?”

Gasping, my hands flew to my cheeks and tears sprang to my eyes. I had resigned myself years ago that I wouldn't be attending senior prom. Sure, for a moment I'd thought I had a chance with Tripp, but not now that I'd kicked him to the curb. And it was practically here, like tomorrow-here. People were already talking about it. Sewing machines had been dusted and tuned, and people were going to White's department store in the city.

Still, I would have been content to see it through ThommaLyn's eyes. She hadn't missed a single dance in all the years I'd known her. And it was a given that I'd go over and fix her hair and makeup before every date or dance. Then her mama would pull out the old Polaroid. I always tried to beg an excuse, but Mrs. Green never failed to huddle me, ThommaLyn, and her date into a semicircle and snap our picture, leaving me embarrassed, a third wheel splotched with red paint.

Afterward, I'd go home to my running field. There, I'd wear myself out until I numbed the hurt, the rejection, and the loneliness. The next day, I'd break and beg ThommaLyn for details. Watching her eyes light up as she recounted the dance was the next best thing to being there, I reckoned, and about as close to Heaven as I'd ever get.

“Mudas?” Bobby took my hand and squeezed, pulling me back to the present.

I grinned wide and nodded, before he could change his mind and before the what-ifs could take hold of my thought-ticking hands and send them flying. “Yes, yes!” I blurted out, bursting with that “prism full of colors” Mama had told me about.

“Yes!” he beamed, planting a big ol' kiss on my lips, leaving me lighter than air. Snatching up his jeans, Bobby dressed and turned to grab the lantern. I slipped the army coat back on. Gathering our things, both of us were quiet in the newness of us, our expectations, the possibilities, and the undeniable tugging scent of our physical and emotional oneness.

Bobby came up behind me, plucked an orange leaf from my hair, and handed it to me. I studied the color and what my Grammy said long ago. Oddly, orange meant change, and desire and warmth. All the things I needed.
And all the things Bobby gives me.

“Mudas”—Bobby rested his jaw on my shoulder—“you're so beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely, nuzzling my neck. Protectively, he looped his arm around my waist and we headed back to the house.