The Last Days of Summer (8 page)

For supper they'd had leftover brisket and mash and peas straight from the garden. It was Joanne's job to shell the peas. Slow, monotonous work, but she likes peeling open the husks and finding the tiny green balls cradled inside. She likes how every pod holds a different number of peas. Grandma used to do it with her. Back when Grandma was alive. She'd sit in her rocker on the front porch, Joanne in a little heap on the floor beside her, the pea pot placed between them, Grandma rocking back and forth, creaking the floorboards of the porch with every rock. Joanne liked that sound. Misses it. Grandma used to give the pea pods names. Said every one was a family they knew. Peeling one open, four peas inside, she'd say, ‘Look here, hon, you see this? This must be the Philips.' And then she'd dump the peas and shuck the pod away and move on to the next, six peas, the Adams, or five, the Clarks. She knew it was silly, but Joanne still liked the game. It always made her giggle. She still plays it as she shucks the peas herself, even though there's no one there to tell the names to. Says them softly to herself instead, whispers without sound.
Three peas, the Teagues
.
Five, Gordons. Four, Walters. Seven … a hard one … Grandma would have known.

Dinner had been long and boring. Uncle Jasper didn't
say much, his face a hard mask that scared Joanne a little. And Mom had that stressed look she'd had when Grandma died, and when Joanne had tried to ask if they might go swimming real soon, Mom had snapped at her, ‘You just be silent now 'n' eat your supper.' And Joanne hadn't tried to say much after that. Katie didn't even try to talk. And when she'd cleared her plate Joanne was grateful to be excused.

It's late now. Joanne doesn't know the time, doesn't care about the time, but it's late enough the crickets have stopped calling, and she can see a sliver of the moon high in the sky through Katie's parted curtains. Katie's murmured counting is the only sound beside the creaks and groans of the house. The light woke Joanne, even though Katie only switched on the small lamp by her vanity and not the brighter overhead. Tangled in bed sheets, in silence Joanne watched her sister change from her diner uniform into shorts and a cami. As she watched, she wondered when her body might start to curve like that.

‘… forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.' Katie sets down the brush and moves her long hair from one shoulder to the other. She picks up the brush again, eyes never leaving the mirror. ‘Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three …' Brush gliding smoothly through the hair, not one single tangle. Voice steady and slow as a lullaby. As hushed.

‘Katie …' Sleep thick in her voice.

The brush stops. Katie turns. Blonde strands lifting from her shoulder with the sudden movement. ‘Shit! Sorry, Lady, I didn't mean to wake you.'

‘It's OK.' A yawn she can't control.

Katie turns back to the mirror. Brush back to hair, steady once again. She watches her younger sister's reflection. ‘Go back to sleep. I'll only be another minute.'

Joanne rolls onto her side, facing her sister. Fluffs the pillow up more under her head. Kicks one leg free from the tangled sheets. Shadows from the lamp cross and overlap each other on the wooden floor. Joanne can make out what some shadows are – Katie's perfume bottle, a teddy bear, the roses hung up and dried that Josh had given Katie when he first asked her out – but other shadows are lost in darkness, and all shape is lost to Joanne's sleep-filled eyes. ‘It's OK. I'm not tired.'

Katie laughs. ‘Yeah, right, kiddo.
OK
.' And she winks at her sister in the mirror. Playful. Teasing.

Joanne smiles. Tries to hide another yawn. Fails.

‘Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three …' The brushstrokes almost hypnotic on the gently glowing golden hair. It's like Katie's hair lights up the room. Joanne wants to touch it. Wants to comb through it with her fingers, wants to hold that light, but she knows Katie won't let her. She never lets her play with her hair.

‘Katie?'

‘Ummmmm?'

‘Why do you think Mom was so cross?'

‘When?'

‘At dinner.'

‘Was she?'

‘You didn't notice?'

The brush pauses. Resumes. ‘Yeah, OK, I guess I did.'

‘Do you think she'll take me swimming next week? I don't understand why askin' made her so angry.'

‘It wasn't you, hon. Mom's just going through a lot.'

Silence stretches through the room, broken only by the distant ticking of a clock. Joanne bites a hangnail. Pulls the skin loose with her teeth and swallows it. She tastes blood from where the skin broke and sucks her finger to stop the blood spreading around the base of the nail. She likes the rubbery feel of the skin in her mouth. Works it between her teeth. A bad habit. One she's only half trying to break.

‘That's gross.' Katie's seen her in the mirror. Nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘That is
so
disgusting.'

Joanne giggles, embarrassed. ‘No, it's not!' Still giggling, she pulls the sheets up higher to her chin. Kicks her other foot free.

Nose still wrinkled, Katie shakes her head. ‘Ewww.' Brush glides smoothly.

Joanne watches, silent. Downstairs, the grandfather clock strikes the hour and its chime echoes softly through the sleeping house.

‘The Saunders' new truck drove by earlier.'

Katie's hand freezes mid-air, brush suspended. Cautiously, she lowers it back to her hair. Resumes. Voice forced passive, steady. ‘What happened?'

‘Nothing. It just drove by.'

‘You're sure it was that truck?'

Joanne tosses onto her back. Suspends a leg up long into the air and looks at her foot. Indian brown with dirt
under the nails. She wonders if maybe she should start painting her nails. Like Katie does. Wonders if maybe Katie might let her borrow her polish. ‘I think so.'

‘You have to be sure, Joanne. This is important.' Strain in the hoarseness of the whisper.

Surprised, Joanne looks back to Katie. She's turned around on her stool and is facing Joanne, leaning forward slightly, a line of worry etched into her brow. Same line Mom has, but not as deep. Joanne lowers her leg, feels the coolness of the sheet meet the arch of her foot. Likes the feeling. Curls her toes around it.

‘Why don't we talk to the Saunders, Katie?'

Her sister looks at her long and hard. A sizing-up look, and Joanne knows it. Can feel it. She wonders what it is that Katie is trying to see in her. Prays to God she finds it. Whispers, softly, ‘Please tell me.'

Katie turns slowly back to the mirror. Picks up the brush, discarded on the vanity. Turns it over in her hand, regarding it before raising it to her head. Starts again to brush her hair, slow and steady, as though each stroke holds weight. ‘Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven … If Mom won't take you swimming next week, I will. How's that sound, Lady?' In the mirror, Katie smiles.

Joanne sits up so fast she's dizzy. ‘You
know
, don't you? I just know you
know
! Why won't you tell me? This is
so
unfair!' The last words a high-pitched whine.

‘Ssssh!' Katie hisses. ‘Shut up or you'll wake Mom.'

Joanne bites her pouting lip. Glares at her sister's reflection. ‘It's 'cause of
him
, isn't it?' She can't keep the excitement from her voice. ‘It's 'cause of Uncle Jasper.'

Through the mirror, eyes lock and hold. At length, Katie nods.

Joanne pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Even across the room she can smell grease from the diner still thick on Katie's skin, cigarette smoke still cloudy in her sister's golden hair. Most nights Joanne would hate sleeping next to her sister when she smells like that. But not tonight. Not now that she can feel Katie softening. Excitement rises like butterflies in Joanne's chest.

‘He hurt someone, didn't he?'

In the mirror, Katie nods.

Joanne can feel her heart racing, slamming against her ribs, trying to break free as she tries to pull her still sleep-clouded thoughts together. ‘He hurt one of the Saunders? That's why they won't talk to Mom?'

A hesitation. In the mirror, Katie nods.

‘What'd he do?' She crosses her legs and leans forward on the bed, whisper strained with excitement.

‘You ask too many questions.' A snapped reply. Then, softer, ‘Just be careful, OK? Don't talk to the Saunders.'

‘They don't talk to us anyway.'

Katie's reflection is drawn and serious. A cloudiness across her eyes Joanne does not recognize. It clears, and Katie smiles. ‘Just don't talk to no strangers, OK? Saunders or no Saunders.' She winks. Forced wink. Forced smile. Brush back to hair. Slow and steady with each stroke. Under her breath, ‘Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six …'

Mind racing, Joanne listens to the whispers fade. There's a million questions she wants to ask, but she
knows Katie won't answer them. Not now. She's got to be careful. She likes that her sister is trusting her more. Doesn't want to push and spoil it. Joanne wonders if maybe one day they will tell each other secrets again, like they did when they were little. She picks one floating question. One of the millions spinning round her head. One she thinks Katie might actually answer. ‘Was it like that when Daddy was around?'

Brush strokes pause mid ninety-nine. ‘Was what?'

‘Dinner. Was it always silent like that? Is that what it's like to be a family?'

Second half of ninety-nine somehow tangles, catches in the hair, and Katie pulls it free. ‘We've always been a family.' Eyes search for hers, reflected in the mirror.

One hundred does not catch, and Katie places the hairbrush down.

‘Morning, Elizabeth.'

The truck door slams behind him, the sound foreign among the softer tones of morning.

‘Reverend.'

He smiles. ‘Mighty fine day, isn't it?'

She regards him coolly. Takes in his gut, the sweat on his brow, the sweat marks already forming on the crisp white of his newly pressed shirt, small circles round his armpits quickly forming, spreading. Now that he has emerged from the comfort of his fancy new pickup's a/c, the reverend struggles in the heat, large form moving awkwardly in the thick humidity. She says nothing. Waits for him to speak.

Around them the prairie stretches brown and dry as
ever, parched earth screaming for rain, the sky unmerciful blue and cloudless. He pauses at the foot of the porch steps. Smiles. ‘I know I said it last time, but your roses truly are divine, Elizabeth. My wife would be mighty jealous if she saw them.'

‘Come on in, Reverend.' No welcome in her tone.

They sit across from each other at the kitchen table. Coffee's already been poured and now sits before them cooling. At length, the reverend breaks the silence. ‘How are you, Elizabeth? And the girls. Y'all doing OK out here?' She watches him survey the room, glance out to the hallway. She can guess what he's looking for.

‘We're just fine, Reverend. Good as ever.'

‘I'm glad to hear that. I truly am. I know you've kept yourself scarce from church since your mother died – no, don't argue, Elizabeth, you know it's true, and that's not for me to question. I reckon that's between you and God. I ain't here to lecture you today.' He chuckles. ‘I just want you to know that we haven't forgotten about y'all. We still remember your mother in our prayers each Sunday.'

‘That's mighty kind of you.' Voice hard, unrelenting.

‘Well …' He regards her a moment and shifts his weight. ‘It ain't really a matter of kindness, Elizabeth, it's just the Christian thing to do. And, as I said, we worry about you and the girls all alone out here.'

‘Reverend, I don't hold much on ceremony so I'll cut straight to the point. As I see it, small-talk wastes breath. Mama's been gone a long time now, and it's only the last few days that y'all found it in your hearts to remember my girls 'n' me. We both know why you're really here.'

He doesn't try to deny her statement. Sips his coffee
instead. Looks at her long and hard over his cup as he chooses his words with care, thinking each over in his head. At length, he says only, ‘Is he here?'

‘Yes.'

The reverend smiles. Nervous. A quick smile that does not reach his eyes. ‘Is he … well?'

‘Depends what you mean by that, Reverend. Something makes me guess you aren't enquiring about his health.'

A nervous laugh. In the silence that follows, a drop from the faucet can be heard falling. A stair creaks under the pressure of a footstep. Laughter drifts in from outside where Joanne is chasing chickens as she does their feed. A bobwhite calls its name, falls silent and calls again. A fly buzzes in the window and rests and is still.

‘Morning, Reverend.' His voice still husky with sleep, hair a tangled mess, one of their daddy's old flannel shirts unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He fills the doorframe and leans just inside it. Not overpowering. Not aggressive. And yet there is a menace to his presence that makes Lizzie miss a breath and wonder once again whom she has let into her home. The reverend tenses. He places his coffee cup down quickly, too quickly, and coffee sloshes over, spilling onto the table. Milky white in the brown as it pools.

‘Morning, Jasper.' He struggles to regain his composure. ‘I – I – I was just, ah, asking about you there.' His smile twitches where the lip turns up. Freezes there and sticks.

Jasper moves with ease into the room. As though he belongs there. As though he has always belonged there.
He crosses it in four easy strides, takes a mug from the press and pours himself some coffee. The kettle is still hot. Carefully he adds milk. Stirs in sugar. Then he smiles at the reverend. An easy Sunday-morning smile like he's no care in the world. ‘I've been meaning to call in to you, Reverend. Was thinking I might stop by on Sunday morning. It's been far too long since I heard a proper sermon.'