Liar's Bench (26 page)

“Scum. I can't wait to see McGee fry.” Daddy cut switchblade eyes. “Punk's been a thorn in my side ever since our first scrape in high school. Remember that, Daniel?” Daddy bent over and rubbed his knee. “I had to settle our score in the school parking lot one day after a couple of friends caught him keying my new car. And again when he bullied John Jukes.”

“That's right . . . Ol' JJ . . . the moonshiner's son,” Daniel mused. “You were quite the runner back then, before you tore up the knee with that scrape . . . Yeah, I remember all that, too.” The agent gave Daddy a friendly whack on his back. “I'll never forget the time we got a'hold of his daddy's 'shine and used Mrs. Jukes's canning funnel to drink it. Chased the hooch down with her pickle brine! Damn, that was a long time ago. Wonder whatever happened to that scrawny kid?”

“Well, Daniel,” Daddy said, returning a friendly slap to the agent's back, “that scrawny kid grew a few more inches, went to the city, and became a kickass police captain on the Louisville Police Department.”

The men laughed softly, easing the tension in the room.

I went over to the sink to splash some water on my face, then reached for two mugs and filled them. I handed one to Bobby, and said, “So Daddy ran . . . I never knew.” We both sat down, sipping more on the men's conversation than the drink.

Daddy glanced over at me. He looked so tired—hollowed—but he managed a ghost of a smile. I felt all the hurt and anger that had hugged stubbornly to my shoulders melt away. Though I knew bitter words that branded the heart could not be easily cooled by the tongue, I made myself a promise right then. He was family. Every bit a part of my being, from my grit-colored eyes to the sturdy spirit that hammered at my soles. He was there, just like Mama was. I figured it was going to take a while and some more learning on my part to reckon with our heartbreaks and the past that hounded us in the present. But one thing was for certain: I needed him, and I would do whatever life called for to keep him close.

Before Special Agent Daniel left, he shook mine and Bobby's hands. “Nice work, kids. You've broken a case we've been working on for years. And because of this, a lot of folks are gonna be mighty appreciative.” He turned to leave, but stopped, flipped open his briefcase, and pulled out the journal of the mistress of Hark Hill. The agent thumbed through its delicate cotton pages, then wagged it in front of Bobby. “Son, the trooper put this in the file, but I don't think we'll need it. I've cleared it with the assigned prosecutor. Maybe you'd like to have it as a keepsake for your kin?”

“Thanks, sir,” Bobby said, taking the diary and holding it tight.

After another exchange of handshakes, Daddy pushed open the screen. I heard the agent's murmurs piggyback onto the screen door's clap. “Sorry about your loss, buddy. I know how much Ella meant to you.” They moved onto the darkened porch. I shifted to a nearby window, leaning into their words with Bobby behind me.

Daddy grunted. “I worried like hell 'bout her being involved. Too dangerous.” Grief hung in his throat. “Damn, if only I had protected her—gotten her out in time.”

“Adam, we all thought Ella would be safe. You couldn't have known how bad and deep it ran. Hell, no one did. She agreed to keep McGee's books, to help make ends meet. Had no clue about his illegal dealings. Once she found out, she came straight to us. And, damn, I sure felt bad asking her to sign up as one of McGee's escorts for that upcoming party, just so we could get more witness on him. Guess I thought she could get us enough one last time and then get out quick and safe.”

I let out a low breath, relieved, and let those words cycle around. My mama wasn't a whore. I'd felt it all along. Known it couldn't be true.

“Yeah,” Daddy murmured, “I worried about how that would turn out, what with McGee's wandering eye and all those big shots looking for a good time. But she didn't listen to me. And here, I'd been blind drunk with guilt 'til I met with the Assistant U.S. Attorney today and compared notes. Turns out, Ella had already given them enough on McGee to move on the indictments, even without that ledger.” He laughed, low and bitter.

“Sorry, buddy,” Daniel said. “Seems like only yesterday when I'd stood at the wedding, toasting you two.
Damn.
”

I turned to Bobby, my eyes wide. “I can hardly believe it,” I marveled.

Bobby smiled and draped his arm across my shoulder. “That's real cool, Mudas. Guess they really did love each other after all.” I nodded, a wistful grin spreading across my face.

“I had big hopes,” Daddy mourned. “Wanted to start over for real. Had this big plan: I was gonna take her to Liar's Bench and beg for her hand—do a headstand on an Osage ball, if that's what it took to get back to where we started. She'd gone to counseling, given up her bottle, same as me. I was real proud. Hopeful, Daniel . . . That gal had a rough life, losing her three sisters, her parents . . . and then what I'd put her through.”

Bobby said, “Your mama sure was gutsy taking on all those powerful assholes. Brave like you.”

“Brave . . .” I tasted the word and let the surety idle in my heart.

The two men stepped down from the porch and walked up the drive to the agent's car, the conversation fading as they went.

Alone, I clasped Bobby's hand. “You know what? Holding this diary makes me feel like I'm holding the truth—and shedding all those lies about Frannie and this town. Just like the Rooster Run ledger erases the stain on Mama and shines light on her truth. I'd like to show this to Ginny Meade, so she can set things right.”

Bobby grew silent for a moment. “It's like Liar's Bench,” he whispered, and touched the leather journal. “Your mama and my great-great-great gramma—bounded together by rope and by wood that soaked up the poison of all those lies—lies spun up on Hark Hill Plantation.” He shook his head. “And both unbound by the plantation's books . . . there's blood in them books.”

Daddy offered to take Bobby home since his truck wouldn't start, but he declined, asking if he could place a call to his parents for a ride instead. I knew Bobby did that for the two of us, so we could have a few more moments together.

After Daddy gave us permission to wait on the porch, he took a seat next to us. Bobby and I waited for him to leave. When he didn't, I fixed him with one of Grammy Essie's horned looks. He slipped quickly inside and let the squeak of the screen door smother his chuckle.

Bobby took my hand. We sat on the porch swing, fully charged, winding and rewinding everything that had happened, both tuckered out, but higher than two kites sailing on the gust of an April wind.

The air stirred. A warm breeze of jasmine and neighboring tobacco crops comforted us like a welcome-home hug. I rested my head on Bobby's shoulder and watched as the moon cast bluish slivers of light across our joined hands, disappearing into the wooden slats along the length of the porch.

We stood when a car's headlights bounced off the trees and watched as its beams illuminated the bottom of the drive.

“That's my folks.”

“Guess you better go.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” I shifted.

“Yeah,” he whispered, and slid his hand into his pocket and jiggled coins.

“ 'Night, Bobby.”

“Good night, Mudas.” Halfway across the porch, he glanced back. “Girl, are you gonna kiss me good night or not?”

I lit across the boards. “I am.” I laughed, pressing my lips to his—a lingering kiss that became a deep embrace. He lifted my hand, studying the cameo ring on my finger. “Tomorrow, I'm going down to Peck's and buying up all their Cracker Jacks. When I get my super-duper decoder ring, will you go steady with me?” He grinned a little sheepishly, waiting.

I felt my heart burst with happiness. “My Lucky Star wish comes true.”

Bobby pulled me to him. I rested my head against his chest and snuggled in closer, inhaling his scent, savoring. The “good” scent, the one Grammy Essie had told me about. The one I'd been searching for. The one that curled toes and brought a dance to the eyes. The one that squeezed the heart, sweetened the tongue, and Tilt-A-Whirled the brain in sweet rays of warm sunshine.

In Bobby's arms, the world and all her cruelty slipped away, and the heaviness of my recent days disappeared on the night breeze.

I
t could've easily been left unnamed, but unlike most small towns carved out from the back roads of Anywhere, USA, that had their staples of folklore and history, Peckinpaw, Kentucky, had its Crow's Perch—a bench commemorating the benevolence of one of its most honorable daughters, Frannie Crow.

Used for both the telling of tales and for courting, the bench sat nestled between two pansy-filled copper pots that rested on the curb in front of the town's diner and leather goods store. And in western Kentucky, a good epilogue is the happily ever after of any tale, just as sure as the bench's weathered planks of oak and wrought-iron arms were the support.

Less than four weeks after we found Mrs. Anderson's diary, and a little more than a century after the hanging of Frannie Crow, I stood beside Daddy in Peckinpaw's packed, smoke-filled courtroom, with Genevieve cozied tight to my hip.

Daddy petitioned the judge to posthumously exonerate Frannie of her crimes, presenting Evelyn Amaris Anderson's journal as evidence—his only evidence—and two teens as the only eyewitnesses to its discovery. In closing, Daddy argued that the ruin of truth through cruelty only serves to weaken the very marrow of a town.

Three weeks later, the mayor delivered a proclamation to the townsfolk, dedicating the old Liar's Bench to Frannie Crow.

The summer after our senior year, Bobby headed to Boston, and I stretched my runner's legs to Louisville. I'd gotten my full track scholarship. Even Coach Grider smiled and congratulated me. I reckon Southern minds can bend with time, though not enough of them, or fast enough.

After the pleas and sentencing of McGee and the others, and after the deeper investigations and media reports had all died down, and folks' talk turned church-mouse-quiet when I happened upon them, I began to understand the part that would never leave me—that would never go away: two hangings more than a hundred years apart, as different from each other as the standing oak is from the sunflower in the field. But connected, too—connected by the fertile Kentucky soil and the evils they foretold.

Sometimes still, if I sit on Crow's Perch and cock my head just so, I can hear Grammy Essie quoting old St. Jerome, her words blowing through the Osage leaves like pieces of paper rattling around in a Dixie cup: “The scars of others should teach us caution,” she whispers.

And somewhere, whether in Heaven or Hell or in between, the ghosts of Frannie Crow and Ella Mudas Tilley are smiling.

Below are old family recipes from mother-in-law Gladys Richardson's recipe box that you may want to try.

 

 

 

Cook a few slices of bacon in skillet, set aside, save the bacon fat, and mix it with the sugar and jelly. Stir. Add onion and sauté. Stir in vinegar, nutmeg, and caraway seeds; then heat five minutes and set aside skillet mixture. Layer the thinly sliced cabbage and sliced apples in a lightly greased casserole dish. Pour on skillet mixture. Mix in crumbled cooked bacon. Add salt and pepper to taste. Pour in ½ cup water. Cover dish. Bake at 350 degrees for 75 minutes or until cabbage is tender.

Boil potato with peel on. When done, remove skin and mash. Mix in powdered sugar while potato is hot, adding sugar a little at a time. Sprinkle a biscuit board with powdered sugar and knead mixture like dough. Roll out and spread the dough with peanut butter like you would a slice of bread. (If using bourbon, mix in with peanut butter before spreading.) Then roll up like a jelly roll. Let the roll rest for 5 minutes before slicing.

 

 

The suggested questions are included
to enhance your group's reading of
Kim Michele Richardson's
Liar's Bench
.