The Steep and Thorny Way (28 page)

Mama and I paced the entry hall.

My mother kneaded her scalp and tousled her hair with her fingers. “I'm going to start sorting through all the boxes in the basement. I don't think we'll stay here much longer. Go look through your belongings. Set aside anything you don't absolutely need.”

“All right.” I gulped down a bout of nausea and trudged up the staircase.

“And at some point I should fix your poor, bobbed hair,” she called up after me. “Good Lord, it's uneven as heck.”

“I don't care about my damn hair right now, Mama.”

“Mind your mouth, Hanalee.”

“I don't care!”

I slammed my bedroom door shut, slid the box of toys out from beneath my bed, and plucked a spare bullet from the cardboard container of ammunition.

I MADE MY EXIT WHILE MAMA SCOOTED BOXES AND trunks around in the basement. The racket of crates screeching across the basement floor, the hullabaloo of Mama swearing and tossing about our belongings down in the musty hollow beneath the house, allowed me to click open the front door and close it behind me without interrupting her task. I brought my key along so I could lock her in and keep her safe. To keep her from fretting too badly, I even left a note on my bed:

Mama,

I'll be back within the hour. I'm not far, and I'm safe, but I fear Joe isn't.

All my love,

Hanalee

My search for Joe commenced in the stable. I found a peach pit lying in the stall where I'd sat with him the night before, but all other traces of him had vanished. A lump filled my throat. I gathered up my courage and ventured into the forest, but not without
first stopping by the log that concealed the derringer inside the oilcloth. I emptied the gun of the used cartridge case, loaded the pistol with the second bullet, and strapped the holster to my right thigh. Once my legs firmed up and a wave of dizziness passed, I carried the weapon into the shadows of the forest, my eyes and ears alert for all movements. My back refused to straighten to a fully upright position; I prowled across the deer trail, hunched and wide-eyed. I held the gun with both hands, the barrel cradled in my left fingers, my right hand clutching the grip, and my feet sounding too loud to my ears.

The shed at the edge of the Paulissens' property lay empty as well.

A jay screeched above my head and soared over the shed with outstretched wings darker than sapphires. Something moved in the water beyond the little white building—a slight ripple of sound, scarcely a murmur. I kept the pistol out in the open, gripped with all my might in my sweating hands, and in near imitation of the manner in which I had stalked toward the pond the first time I hunted down Joe, just four long days earlier, I tiptoed through the rushes and made my way around the shed.

“Joe,” I said in the quietest voice I could muster without actually whispering.

Another ripple.

“Joe?”

“Hanalee?” he asked from somewhere unseen.

I approached the pond's bank. “Where are you?”

“Back over here, around the bend.”

“Bathing?”

“Yes.”

Whether he wanted me to see him or not, I hustled down the slope to the pond and maneuvered myself around the trunk of a wide fir. Around the bend, I reached a small inlet, sheltered and shadowed by trees cloaked in moss an electric shade of green.

Joe's head and neck stuck out of the water from among a cluster of lily pads.

I lifted my skirt past my right knee and shoved the pistol into the holster. “Get out of there!” I yelled in a whispered shout. “Laurence is at his house right now, carrying one of his guns, surrounded by the Wittens, the Kleins, and Harry and Al.”

Joe stiffened. “You saw them?”

“Yes! Uncle Clyde drove Mama and me over there, and—”

“Why were you going there?”

“I'm not going to explain anything right now.” I stepped into the pond, shoes and all, and squished my feet through muck I couldn't see down below the murky surface. “Get out of there. Now!”

“Don't panic. I'm coming.”

“Hurry!” I waded two feet farther, soaking the hem of my dress.

Joe swam backward, away from me, but he got hung up in the lily pads.

I grabbed my head in frustration. “Get out of the damn lily pads!”

“Stop panicking.”

“Where are your clothes?”

“Over here.” He rolled onto his stomach and swam to an area where his feet must have touched the ground, for he stopped treading water and started walking.

“Jesus, Joe! You're as slow as a turtle.”

“Stop snapping at me. It doesn't help.” He climbed out of the water and onto the bank without a stitch of clothing on his body.

I cupped a hand over my eyes, but my absence of sight made me feel as though I stood in an open field in the middle of a lightning storm. I dropped my hand from my face and hustled around the edge of the pond, my pulse drumming in my ears. Joe moved about in the rushes, facing away from me. I saw him turning the legs of his cotton drawers right-side out.

“Hurry—please!” I said, shading my eyes with one hand to avoid looking at him. “Put your drawers on backward if you need to. Just move faster.”

“Haven't you heard of privacy?” He shoved a foot through one pant leg. “Jesus Christ, Hanalee.”

“They hanged my father, Joe.” The hand cupping my eyes wavered. I lowered my fingers to my jaw. “They hanged him from the oak tree at the Dry Dock that Christmas Eve.”

Joe slid his other leg into the drawers and pulled the waistband up to his navel. He turned around and faced me, and his eyes softened. “They hanged him?”

I nodded. “They got to him before you even drove down that road. They raised him off the ground by his neck—a mock lynching. A ‘necktie party.' They told him to get out of town. His left arm hurt badly afterward, and he could scarcely breathe, and that's why he tripped into the road in front of your car.”

Joe picked up his trousers from the ground. “He came out of nowhere.”

“You shouldn't have been driving after drinking, Joe. Uncle Clyde said he's ninety-five percent sure Daddy was already dying before you reached him—his heart was failing. But you shouldn't have been out there like that.”

“I know.”

“It was stupid. You could have killed people.”

“I know.”

“I hate you for that.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I hate you.”

“I'm really sorry.”

“I can't fully forgive you.”

“I know.”

“But I don't want you to die.” I wiped my hands on the sides of my dress. “Put your trousers on. We are
not
going to let a bunch of bigots put us in graves in the prime of our youth.”

Without a word, he bent over and stepped into his pant legs.

I picked up his shirt. “Where are the rest of your belongings?”

“I hid them inside your stable.” He buttoned up the pants.

“Come on.” I tossed his shirt at him. “Throw the sleeves over your arms, and let's get going. You can button up later.”

He did as I asked, sliding his hands through the openings in the sleeves and shrugging his shoulders into the shirt.

We circled back around the inlet. My flooded shoes squeaked and slipped on dirt and mud, but I didn't care. I just wanted to get out of those woods. I grabbed hold of a low branch and swung myself around the fir that marked the entrance to the shore of the main pond.

“Joe?” asked someone up ahead, from the opposite side of the shed.

I froze. Joe edged closer, but I put up a hand to stop him.

“Is that you?” asked the voice again—a familiar voice. A boy's voice I'd known all my life, although it had deepened over time. Deepened and hardened.

I peeked back at Joe, and he mouthed the name
Laurence
.

Before I could duck back behind the fir, Laurence stepped around from the front of the shed.

His shoulders jerked when he saw me. “Hanalee?”

“Go back, go back!” I said to Joe, and we turned and dashed back around the inlet with our feet squelching through the mud.

Joe reached behind himself and grabbed my hand, and he hoisted me to higher ground above the slippery bank.

“Stop running!” called Laurence.

I glanced over my shoulder and spotted him brushing through the leaves no more than twenty feet behind us.

With my hand still in his, Joe darted us down another slope and around a bend. We circled so fast, my head spun, and before I knew what was happening, Joe was pulling me by his side on the ground behind a downed spruce, amid a patch of ferns that towered above us. We lay there and panted with our hands cupped over our mouths.

Laurence ran across a cluster of nearby leaves, and his feet came to a stop not far beyond our log.

“Joe?” he called out, and he sounded as though he were turning around a full three hundred and sixty degrees.

Joe lay behind me, his heart beating against my back. He tucked
his arm around my waist, as though creating an extra barrier between Laurence and me.

“Hanalee?” called Laurence. “I don't have a gun. You don't have to hide.”

I willed every muscle in my body to remain still. Silent breaths escaped my nose, and I kept my mouth clamped shut out of fear of releasing an unintended gasp.

“Come on.” Laurence's shoes trampled through the undergrowth beyond the log. “Stop hiding. I need to talk to you both.”

With a slow and cautious movement, Joe lifted his arm off my middle and eased his hand down the side of my thigh. I stiffened at first, then tried not to laugh, for his fingers tickled.

I peeked over my shoulder at him, my eyebrows raised, but he just shook his head and mouthed,
Shh
.

“You've got to get out of here—
now
,” said Laurence, still rustling through the nearby leaves and grasses. “The plan is to torture and terrify you, Joe.”

Joe grabbed hold of my skirt and lifted the hem past my knee, exposing the leather of my holster and the bulge of the pistol inside.

I nodded and reached down for the gun beneath the flap, but Joe took hold of the wooden grip first.

“Let me take care of this,” he whispered into my ear.

“You don't know how to shoot,” I mouthed to him over my shoulder.

“He's my problem. Let me take care of him.”

“No,” I squeaked, louder than I'd intended.

“Joe?” asked Laurence.

Joe flinched, and I managed to slide my hand under his and grab the pistol.

“Joe?” Laurence hopped on top of our log and gave a start when he saw us lying down in the ferns.

I jumped to my feet and pointed the pistol straight at him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Laurence raised his hands and stumbled backward off the log. “Put that down, Hanalee.”

Something ugly snapped inside me when he said my name. I climbed after him with the derringer aimed at his chest, and my finger hungered for the feel of a pulled trigger.

“Put the gun down.” Laurence backed into the base of a fir. “Put it down!”

“No! Not before you answer a question.”

“What question?”

My right thumb hesitated on the hammer. “Were you at the Dry Dock the night the Junior Order of Klansmen lynched my father?”

“Stop pointing the gun at me!”

“Were you there?”

Laurence looked away from me. “No.”

“Don't lie to me.” I raised the pistol toward the center of his forehead, seeing the shine of perspiration there.

“C-c-come on.” Laurence's hands trembled in the air. “P-p-put down the gun, Hanalee.”

“You taught me how to use this gun, Laurence. You taught me how to shoot with my aim dead-on, and you told me, ‘Don't ever let
them hurt you, Hanalee. Don't ever let them make you feel small.' Do you remember that?”

His lips turned a grayish shade of blue, but he managed a meager nod.

“Do you remember how you swore you wouldn't let anyone hurt me or belittle me?”

“P-p-put—”

“Were you part of the group that tied a rope around my father's neck and raised him off the ground?”

“No!” cried Laurence. “I swear, I wasn't there.”

“I sure don't remember seeing you in church that Christmas Eve.”

“I wasn't there.”

“I don't believe you; I didn't see you.” I stepped two feet closer to my former friend—my beloved, blue-eyed boy who resembled Fleur so much it hurt my chest—and I shoved the gun against the skin above his eyes.

“Oh, God.” Laurence burst into tears and lowered his elbows.

“Hanalee, don't!” yelled Joe behind me. “He's telling the truth. He wasn't part of the Klan that night.”

“I don't believe that. I
know
I didn't see him in church.”

“He wasn't there,” said Joe. “I know—because he was with me.”

The pistol quaked, Laurence shook, and the entire world seemed to quiver and rumble and brace for a volcanic eruption. Joe's words changed and re-formed and replayed in my brain before they made any sense.

He was with me
.

The boy.

The other boy in the car.

Laurence.

I glanced back at Joe, my aim still centered on Laurence's head. “He was with you that Christmas Eve? In the Model T?”

“Yes.” Joe nodded.

“But . . . the boy . . .” I shook my head, confused. “The boy from the party?”

“I never went to any party.” Joe took a step forward. “It was just him and me, sharing a drink, finding a moment to spend together.”

“That's a goddamned lie,” said Laurence, spitting as he spoke. “I know what you're implying, Joe, but that wasn't me. I've got a girl right now—Opal. Voluptuous, eager-to-please Opal.”

“You want to die by Hanalee's hand, Laurie?” asked Joe, planting his right foot against a log with a fern growing out of the middle. “Or do you want to speak the truth?”