Liar's Bench (5 page)

The second week of school, Charlotte invited me to her house for supper. After we finished washing the dishes, I excused myself to call home for my ride. That's when I overhead her parents whispering about “bottle, divorce, and Daddy.”

Mrs. Moss had hissed to her husband, “He drinks. And I won't have Charlotte hanging around someone from an unstable home.”

Mr. Moss weakly defended, “But she's Essie's granddaughter.”

Then Mrs. Moss said, “Ella's daughter.”

Shame burned holes in my cheeks so badly that when I got home, Daddy feared I had caught a cold, and dug out the thermometer.

The next day at school I showed up at Charlotte's popular table, but she waved me away and called someone else over to take my spot.

“Mudas, are those kids still calling you ‘narc'? Making fun 'cause your daddy's the town prosecutor? I can call their parents and have a word with them. I'll stop by school and talk to your teachers in September.”

“No, no, Mama, it's really no big deal. Really, it's my last year . . . I'm used to it.” I was. Twelve years used to it.

“You can get used to hanging if you hang long enough. I can talk with the principal—”

“Mama, it's okay. . . . Please don't.” I looked at her worn, dated dress, stained with sour milk and baby food. “You can't just waltz into my classes. I told you, conferences are for after school.”

“I haven't been to any.” Mama pressed down the folds of her dress. “You keep forgetting to give me the dates. You know, Jingles wouldn't mind letting me off work to meet with your teachers. Tommy will never know. Most evenings he's at work.”

“Well, we don't have many and, 'sides, Daddy always does school business by phone. And school's fine, Mama. Just fine.” I reached over and pressed the lie neatly over her hand.

She squeezed back. “Are you seeing a boy?”

“No, not really . . . Well, 'cept for Bobby Marshall. He's been hanging with me a bit. We're just friends.” I wasn't quite ready to share yet. But, a very cute friend, I thought, and more polished than some of the western Kentucky boys who seemed to have been fished up from mud-bottomed ponds. He was different, more like the freshwater rainbow trout I used to catch out at Tuckspit Creek when Papaw took me fishing. Born three counties over in Chetburg, Bobby and his family had moved up north to New York City when he was seven and then finally settled back in Kentucky for the last semester of his junior year. In those nine years of citying-up, he'd scraped off most of the rural rust, but had somehow managed to hold on to his country soul.

I'd visited Mama enough when she lived in Nashville and Chicago to grab a bit of the worldly shine that came with city living. But, mostly, I'd clung to Grammy Essie's handmade apron strings and held on to my Kentucky rural. It was something Bobby and I seemed to share—the pull of both worlds.

Two months ago, he'd bumped into me in front of Town Square. We'd spent the day talking and people-watching on Liar's Bench. Before we parted, he'd asked if I wanted to go swimming in Darby's pond sometime. Maybe fish a little, too. We'd been hanging ever since. ThommaLyn and I used to be attached at the hip, but things had changed since she'd started seeing Paul Jameson. It was nice to have a new friend.

“Bobby Marshall, hmm?” Mama pulled me out of my thoughts. “I don't think I've ever talked with Mrs. Marshall.”

“They moved here about four months ago. His daddy got a job transfer of sorts. And they don't live in town. Their house is way out past Dark Branch Bridge, near the county line.”

“Your eyes are grinning.”

I closed them and smiled. “Mama, stop it.”

“You like him? Is he smitten with you? Has he asked you to be his girl?”

“Mama, no! He's a friend. For Pete's sake, he's never even kissed me.” My cheeks burned. Eager to change the subject, I dusted imaginary breadcrumbs off the table, glanced around, and finally lit upon Mama's fresh bruises. I reached out to touch the reddish handprint on her face. She flinched and pulled away. “Mama, what happened? What was Mr. McGee doing here? I heard y'all arguing. And look, there's an old bruise on your neck.... Has Tommy been whooping up on you again?”

“I'm fine, Mudas, now don't you go prying into adult business. Roy's one of Tommy's bosses.”

“Is he your boss, too?”

“Don't be silly, sugar. Tommy's working part-time out at McGee's farm, along with his bartending job in Braggs Fork. I try to help out when he needs me to look over Mr. McGee's books, that's all.”

“Did you lose his ledger? Is that why he hurt you?”

She waved her arm in the air dismissively. “It was an accident.”

“The kids at school say Mr. McGee is a bad man. Daddy says so, too.” I set the ice bag on the table. “I heard he runs a fancy-pants compound out there on his horse farm 'bout once a month for Kentucky big shots to gamble on cockfights and pick up whores. And—”

Mama clamped her hands over my shoulders and gave a stern shake. “Language, little Miss Mouth of the South! And don't be spreading gossip.” She wagged her finger. “It doesn't do anyone any good to pluck their chickens in the wind,” she admonished.

A blaze of shame leaped up to lick my ears. “I didn't mean—”

“Some things are best left alone.” She stood and pressed down the wrinkles of her dress, her warning that the discussion was over. “C'mon,” she coaxed, her face softening, “let's get that bump down and celebrate your birthday. I'll be working tomorrow and today is my only day off this week.”

She walked over to the stove. “I'm making your favorite dinner.” She smiled as she pulled out a casserole dish from the cabinet. “And after the baby wakes up, maybe we can take a ride in that fancy car of yours.”

She poured us each a glass of tea, and I couldn't help but notice it wasn't her usual refreshment. Still, she smiled just the same as when she'd drink the vodka, only a little more jittery, but a lot brighter. And she wasn't running to her medicine cabinet, pulling out the codeine bottle.... Something had changed.

She winked and reached for her apron that was hanging on the back of the pantry door. I watched her carefully knot the matching family apron we'd sewn together right before the divorce. She smoothed down the ruffles and patted down the heart pocket I'd insisted on sewing onto hers. She'd done the same for mine.

W
e reached for the apron at the same time. Daddy picked it up off the floor and dusted it off before handing it back to me. Our fingers linked together for a second, our eyes, too. I knew he remembered. After me and Mama had sewn those matching aprons, we'd chased him through the house with the one we'd made for him. Daddy'd escaped into the bedroom and we'd all fallen across the bed in a tangle of scarlet ruffles and red cloth and hoots, trying to pin him down. Laughing, he'd finally modeled the apron saying that when he'd grill out he'd wear it, but if he heard the neighbor's bull snorting, he'd have to take it off.

Daddy quietly cleared his throat and moved over to the sink. “Muddy, go on upstairs and rest. I can throw the chops on the charcoal.”

“Thanks. Not feeling too good. I think I will.” I hung up my apron.

I sat on my window seat and looked out below as Daddy lit the grill. He slipped back inside and after a few minutes came back out carrying a plate of chops. Then I watched him slide his big ol' hand inside the delicate sweetheart pocket me and Mama'd sewn onto his apron. He pulled out a handkerchief and slowly wiped his eyes.

I dabbed at my own tears and curled up in my bed. I got lost in my thoughts, until I heard him outside the door again.

“Pastor's here,” Daddy called. He opened the door. “His missus sent over a pretty sunflower bouquet.” He held up the vase. “Why don't you come on down? He wants to say a prayer with us.”

“I'm still not feeling so good.”

“Okay, I'll tell Pastor to come back another time, then.”

I studied the flowers.

“Daddy, wait.”

“Yes?”

“What about Genevieve? Do you know where they took her?”

“I called the state police. The trooper said they took Genevieve to her next of kin.”

“But I'm her next of kin.”

Daddy shook his head. “You're a minor. Law says it's her grandmother, baby.”

“Mrs. Whitlock?”

“Muddy, folks say she's a real nice lady, keeps a clean house, and attends the First Baptist church over in Dayre. Your mama always spoke highly of Mrs. Whitlock.”

I nodded, sleepily. “Hard to believe Tommy was her son.” Worry set in. Did she have her favorite teddy, Chitterboo? Her ratty pink blanket that cradled her to sleep? Did Mrs. Whitlock know that she was quirky with mashed potatoes, but always fancied sweet potatoes? And what about her favorite lullaby I'd made up for her . . . ? Would she sing to her?

“I've already called Mrs. Whitlock. Genevieve is doing fine. We'll run over there soon,” he said, pricking through my silent worries. “You sure you don't feel up to seeing Pastor, for a few minutes? Maybe try an' eat something?”

“No, thanks, I need to sleep.”

“All right, then, Muddy. . . . Oh, by the way, a boy named Bobby called. Is this one of your school friends?”

“Huh? When did he call?” I straightened up.

“Fifteen minutes ago. Told him you were resting and he said he'd try back tomorrow. You get some rest.” He shut the door.

I took an old gown of Mama's from my dresser drawer and managed to slip into her thread-worn flannel and climb into bed, pressing the folds of the nightgown close.

When I was five years old and feeling scared, Mama'd let me choose from her many gowns to chase away the nightmares. I'd always reach for the one with the hyacinth blooms, trimmed with cotton lace. It was so huge on my body way back then that Mama would have me sweep up the bottom and knot it so I wouldn't trip when walking. Once in bed, it had felt like I was wrapped in Mama's soft hug, sheltered and safe. When she left us for Tommy, she'd left the flannel gown in Daddy's dresser.

I lay in bed watching the silhouettes of branches flicker across my walls, their shadows growing larger as the sun set. I closed my eyes and drifted off. Soon, images of lemons filled my dreams. I found myself surrounded by them. Smothering. I kept knocking them off onto the floor, but they kept piling back on, only to have me knock them off again, and again. The thumps of fruit echoed and grew louder.

I awoke with a start, thinking about Mama fixing my birthday dinner, yesterday. She'd accidentally knocked a bowl of lemons off the counter and the fruit had scattered everywhere. I'd jumped up to help her gather them, but she'd shooed me away and pointed to my ice pack.

 

I put the ice pack back to my forehead. The smell of stale yeast from the bread bag assaulted my nostrils. I winced. The bump that McGee had given me was starting to swell. “You knew about the birthday pony, didn't you, Mama?” I tried to smile.

Mama placed the last fallen lemon back into the bowl and set it down on the table. “Uh-huh, Adam told me about it as soon as he bought it. You got yourself a powerful pony there. Just be careful not to let it get away from you. And always wear your lap belt, sugar.” She lit the pilot light on the stove. “Hey, Mudas, do you remember the day you helped with the red cabbage casserole?”

I did indeed, and answered with a giggle. The last time I tried to make the dish, we'd waited hours for the casserole to cook only to pull it out and find raw cabbage. I'd forgotten to put in the apples and to turn on the oven.

“Well, how 'bout today you just watch me cook and then I'll write the recipe down for you after?”

Red cabbage casserole really was my favorite dish. Daddy's too.

“And, oh my,” Mama chatted on, “remember the Thanksgiving dinner when I asked you to wash the turkey before I stuffed it? I stepped out for a minute, only to come back and find the sink overflowing with bubbles! Joy dishwashing soap bubbled up from that turkey's cavity like
The Lawrence Welk Show
!” She chuckled, wiping away a happy tear.

Caught up in Mama's mood, I leaned in close. “Without a doubt, that year the Summers had the cleanest and most joyous Thanksgiving in all of Peckinpaw!”

Mama laughed, but her eyes took on a distance.

I studied my sneakers.

I'm sure she was remembering, just like me, that it was the Summers' last Thanksgiving dinner. The last one before Daddy cheated, the last one before she hooked up with Tommy. And the last one before she started sporting Tommy's bruises.

“Listen, Mudas, I don't want you to tell your daddy, or anyone, about what happened today, okay? It's complicated. And there's no sense in riling up Adam's temper with this, do you understand? My hands are full enough with my job and taking care of Tommy and the baby. I don't need to be worrying about Adam going off half-cocked. Okay, sugar? Promise me?”

“But—”

“I know you're worried, but I'll handle it. I am handling it, Mudas. I promise. Your mama's not all out of tricks just yet. You'll see. Now, let's have that promise.” She raised two fingers.

Reluctantly, I brought two fingers up to my mouth, kissed, then raised them in the air, like she'd taught me long ago, knowing she wouldn't be pleased and the promise wouldn't be sealed until I did. “Promise.”

Mama kissed her fingers, pressed them to mine, and nodded. “Now, wait till I show you what I found!”

“What?”

“Go get the box that's sitting on my bed.”

I found a medium cardboard box on her sagging mattress and lugged it to the kitchen table. Mama plucked off the blue tissue paper that had been stuffed inside and pulled out my toddler blanket (or, the shreds that were left of it), a dog-eared copy of
Heidi,
and my junior chemistry set.

I laughed. “I haven't seen this stuff in ages.”

“I found these in your memory trunk last week and thought it would be a good time to show you. It's not every day you turn seventeen, sugar. This age is special. It's the twilight between youth and adulthood. Sometimes a bit gray, sometimes a prism full of colors. You'll want to savor it.”

I pocketed her words.

“Look here, Mudas,” she said, holding up the wad of faded yarn that was the remains of my baby blanket. “Nothing but strings left here! Lawd, you sucked on that blanket so much when you were falling asleep, I feared you'd end up with a ball of yarn in your belly big enough to knit a new one.”

I picked up the old chemistry set and unfolded the metal accordion-style box. “I remember how bad I wanted this thing and how excited I was when I got it.” I ran my fingers over the test tubes.

“Yes, and you drove us all crazy with your experiments! Especially that invisible ink—marking up everything you could get your mitts on!”

“Uh-huh.” I chuckled. “And do you remember me mixing up those smoke bombs? I still remember how: Take sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate, and voilà!”

“I'm not likely to forget your famous stink bombs, Mudas. I do believe a couple of them found their way onto Jingles's porch, and that a certain young lady”—she sly-eyed me—“ended up doing time with a month of prayer study over at the pastor's house.”

I snorted with laughter at the memory.

“Your granddaddy Tilley gave me a chemistry set a lot like this when I was your age. Oh, I wished you had met your grandparents. You would've loved your granddaddy Tilley.”

“We hardly ever talk about your mama and daddy. Or any of the Tilleys. I do wish I could've met them.”

“Me too, sugar. God, that was so long ago, but to me it feels like yesterday. It was more than I could bear, losing them to that crash. And then losing Adam so soon after that . . .” She placed her hands in her lap and folded them prayer-like.

Unsure of what to say, I looked down at my own.

“You know,” she said, clearing her throat and plastering on a stiff smile. “Your granddaddy Tilley used codes and invisible ink in World War I, just like you did with your chemistry set. He sure did love showing me all of his old war stuff. And, before you came along, Adam and I had our own secret notes we'd pass back and forth. I taught him what my daddy taught me.” She smiled wistfully. “Your daddy even wrote me a poem once, and it was the sweetest thing.”

“He did? What did it say?”

“I can't remember now. It was silly,” Mama said, a spot of red heating her cheeks. She turned abruptly. “I think I hear Genevieve squirming around. Why don't you go get her up and put a change of clothes on her?”

We spent the afternoon playing with Genevieve and eating. Inviting scents of simmering red cabbage, onions, and apples filled the room, helping our happy chatter along.

Mama sang “Happy Birthday” to me, and the baby cooed and clapped. Afterward, we went outside to the car. I wanted to show off Peggy, but instead I nervously chewed on a fingernail, worrying it was too much, me getting this cool car and all. I would be riding in style while she drove a fifteen-year-old rusted pickup truck, trailed by streams of blue smoke as it coughed and sputtered around Town Square. Snooty townsfolk would wrinkle their noses, and some even shouted out rude remarks. But Mama was never curt to those folks, forgiving to a fault. She'd always feign indifference or offer an explanation for their insults: “Mrs. Kern's been having tough family problems,” she'd say, or “Who cares what Doris thinks?” or “James lost his job last month.”

“Really sharp ride, Mudas,” Mama said sincerely.

I stammered, “Mama . . . I've been thinking. I can drive Peggy over here in the mornings and walk to school, so you can use her during the day.”

“Thanks, sugar, but the truck runs just fine,” she responded, tamping the offer.

I nodded even though I knew ol' Blue had stranded her twice last week.

She let me drive her and baby Genevieve down the road, first to Harper's Filling Station, the only gasoline pump in town, for my first official fill-up. Old man Harper took his time filling up the Mustang, wiping off the windows, shooting wolfish glances at me when he thought Mama wasn't looking, and letting his sweaty hand linger on mine when he gave me back my change. His three little boys played over by the air pump, spraying each other with bursts of air, giggling. Mr. Harper cut them a look; then he leaned in close to my ear, his breath soured with beer, and whispered, “Now that you're old 'nough to drive, maybe you're old enough for some other grown-up things, hmm?”

I expected Mama to ream him out with a good tongue-lashing, but when I looked over for help, I saw that she had turned her attention to the baby, trying to calm her fussing. I tucked my chin under, wondering how to best blunt Mr. Harper's advances. Harper followed my gaze and shot Mama a nasty smirk before running his tongue over brown teeth. Then Roy McGee pulled into the lot. Harper gave two raps to my roof, before strutting over to McGee's car. I breathed a sigh of relief. Harper leaned into McGee's window, with his elbows resting on the door, and turned back once to eye me. He set to wiping down McGee's windows.

“Time to go,” Mama said when she saw McGee's car, waggling her hand at the windshield urgently.

We decided to head to town to share an ice cream. I pulled in front of the Top Hat Café, showing off my parallel-parking skills by squeezing the Mustang perfectly in between two other parked cars.

I waited beside Liar's Bench with Genevieve hitched to my hip while Mama went inside the diner and bought us a strawberry cone. Genevieve grinned up at me. Her sweetness was irresistible. I kissed her soft cheek and blew raspberries on her chubby arms and neck. She squeezed her eyes in joy and beamed up at me. I couldn't help but worry about the kind of life she was going to have with Tommy. I hugged her close. A good-natured baby, she hugged me back real tight, lapping up all the attention.