The Truth According to Us (11 page)

Jottie slipped wearily into her room and lowered herself onto the bed. Her eyes stung from the smoke. They were red, too, she knew. Just a little rest, she thought. She opened one eye to look at the clock. Three. She had time for a little rest.

“Hey, Josie.”

Her heart thudded once and she stilled it. If she didn't move, if she kept quiet, she could have him back for a minute, maybe two. She let her breath out, slow and even.

“Vause?” She scanned the rain-heavy garden
.

“Here.” He stepped out from the shadow of the barn into the watery sun
.

The apparition made her breathless. “What're you doing out here so early?” she managed to say
.

He grinned crookedly. “Early for some. Late for others.”

“You've been up all night?” she asked, instantly jealous of whatever, whomever he'd been with. “What were you doing?”

“Felix and I took an unexpected trip,” he said, and winked at her. That meant they'd hopped the train. “And were unavoidably delayed on our return.” That meant they'd had to walk part of the way back. He shook the rain from his shining hair and added, “You're looking pretty this morning, Josie.”

She blushed, more breathless than ever, and he stepped closer, his eyes curious. For a moment, it was as if they were all alone in the garden for the first time, watching each other like animals
.

“Josie?” he murmured at last
.

She nodded dumbly
.

“Today's my birthday.”

“I know,” she said, and then wished she'd pretended surprise. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I'm eighteen.”

“Of age,” she said, feeling like a child
.

“Of age,” he agreed. He snickered suddenly. “I could get married.”

“Don't,” she blurted, and her cheeks flamed once more
.

He laughed, delighted. “Don't, huh? You don't want me to get married?” He bent down so he could see her face. With her eyes on the ground, she
shook her head. “All right,” he teased. “I'll tell Thelma.” Thelma was his girlfriend. “Good old Thelma,” he added absently. There was a pause. “Say, Josie, I've got a present for you.”

“But it's your birthday,” she protested, relieved to wash up on the shore of a new topic. “I should give you a present.”

“Shh. Close your eyes,” he said, stepping near. His warmth furled around her, cloaking her against the cool of the morning. “Give me your hand. Like this.” He placed her hand in his. “Now. Close your eyes.”

She obeyed, feeling the landscape of his palm—calluses and softness
—
under her fingertips. There was a tiny, cool touch on her hand. Then another and another
.

“There,” he said. “You can look.”

She looked. Her finger glittered with raindrops
.

“See?” He smiled. “Diamonds.”

A brisk tattoo of footsteps arose from the front walk.

“Why, Mr. Romeyn, you're home early,” cried Layla's voice.

“Josie?”

Jottie rolled onto her stomach and thrust a pillow over her head. There, that was quiet.
“Vause?”
But he was gone. Miss Beck had driven him away. No, she knew that wasn't fair. Vause was always an elusive visitor.

“I could say the same to you,” Felix's voice replied. “Aren't you supposed to be chasing down the history of Macedonia?”

Layla laughed. “I was! I went to the library and the jail, by mistake. I came back here to ask Miss Romeyn if I could borrow a map, but Bird tells me she's resting.”

“Is she?” said Felix. “Well, I bet I can find you a map. You wait right here.”

“I don't mean to keep you from your business, Mr. Romeyn.”

“No trouble at all. Don't want you to get lost in the great metropolis.” Felix's voice faded as he entered the house.

Now Jottie was curious, and curiosity was guaranteed to send Vause packing. He slipped in only when she hung between sleep and wakefulness, only when she was weak enough to long for him. She could fend
him off when she was upright. You just get out, Vause Hamilton, she commanded, punishing herself for her weakness. You're a liar and a thief. And I don't care if it's your birthday. She threw the pillow back to the top of the bed for emphasis.

Layla's voice again: “Oh, thank you, Mr. Romeyn. That'll be a big help.”

Paper crinkled. “See, here's where we are. Academy Street.”

“I've got to go see Mr. and Mrs. Davies tomorrow,” said Layla. “Do you know where Locust Street is?”

“You ride high, Miss Beck.” Felix laughed. “Locust is over here. So Parker's going to give you his version of things?”

“Yes. He said he had a lot of material about General Hamilton. You know, the founder of Macedonia.”

“Sure, sure, our noble founder. You want to know a secret?” Felix's voice lowered. “General Hamilton wasn't really a general. But don't tell Parker. It'll break his heart.”

Layla giggled. “He sent me a long list of people to interview. He says the book is supposed to include accounts of Macedonia's first families.”

“Huh. Some history,” said Felix. “Aren't you supposed to write about what happened around here, the War Between the States and all?”

“Well, that, too,” said Layla. “And a little bit about civic and natural sites of moment.”

Felix burst out laughing. “What civic and natural sites of moment?”

“Um. Flick Park?”

“Flick Park?” Felix snorted. “A natural site of moment? It's a park.”

“The Caudy House? Macedonia's oldest structure?”

“Macedonia's oldest chicken coop, more like.”

“Dolly's Ford?”

“Well, okay, that's historical. How are you going to get out there, though?”

“I don't know, exactly.” Jottie could hear the tiny lift in her voice. “Where is it?”

“Look.” He was sitting next to her now, Jottie knew. She'd be watching his face, a little dazed, hoping he'd smile again. Jottie had seen it a
hundred times. More. “It's all the way out here,” Felix explained. “You can't walk that far. Especially in those shoes.”

“I have other shoes.”

“Uh-huh, but it's still too far to walk.” There was a pause. “How about I take you?”

“Oh, Mr. Romeyn, that would be wonderful! But—you're busy and all…”

“I'm not so busy. Listen, will you stop calling me Mr. Romeyn? It makes me feel like a grandpa. My name is Felix.”

“All right.” Layla sounded shy. “And mine is Layla.”

“I know. I can remember all the way back to yesterday. Okay, Layla. We'll go to Dolly's Ford on—well, let's see—better make it Saturday. Will that suit you?”

“Oh, yes!”

Flutter, flutter, thought Jottie sourly. Felix making plans! Felix never made plans. Or maybe he just didn't tell her about them, she reflected. Maybe this was the way he did with all those girls she never met. Jottie frowned at her ceiling. Didn't seem like a fair fight, Felix going after a girl who had to board in his house. My house, she corrected herself. Pooh. She was being foolish. A girl as pretty as that surely had a man somewhere. Maybe she wasn't watching Felix atall. Maybe she was impervious to his charms. And that, thought Jottie, cheered, is a show I'd like to see.

“You got any more natural sites of moment on that list of yours?” inquired Felix.

“Yes, a few. It's in a letter that Mr. Davies sent me. Upstairs.”

“Well, you show it to me before we go. Maybe we can kill a couple of momentous sites with one stone.”

Layla laughed. “Thank you so much for helping me, Mr.—Felix.”

“Close.”

“Um, Felix.”

“Very good, Layla.” He broke her name into two slow sounds.

“Father! You're home!” Willa let the screen door slam behind her.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said easily.

“Guess what.”

“Hm?”

Willa paused for effect, and Jottie braced herself. She knew what was coming. “Mr. Hamilton burnt a boot today.”

“He did, did he?” Could anyone else hear the ice in his voice? Jottie wondered.

“Yes, but Jottie got him to stop.”

The porch creaked as he got to his feet. “Is that right?”

“She's a saint.” Jottie smiled at the echo of Belle Fox.

“She sure is.” His voice faded as he went indoors.

And he's gone, thought Jottie. Poor Willa.

On the porch, there was a silence with little crackles in it as Layla Beck folded up the map. “What have you been doing today, Willa?” she asked.

“Watching Mr. Hamilton burn his boot,” said Willa patiently.

“Who's Mr. Hamilton?” asked Layla.

“He lives around the corner.”

“Why did he burn his boots?”

“Just one. He just burnt the one. Because he's sad about his son dying.”

“Really?” said Layla, surprised. “That's an odd thing to do.”

“Oh, he's always doing it,” said Willa breezily.

“My! When did his son die?”

“A long time ago. He smothered to death. In a fire.” Upstairs, Jottie took a sharp breath. Who told her? How long had she known?

“Oh, how awful!” exclaimed Layla.

“He was stealing money from my grandfather, and he smothered to death while he was doing it,” said Willa with grisly satisfaction.

Stop it, thought Jottie.

“That's just awful!” Layla said again.

“Well. I guess. But don't you think it served him right? For stealing?”

Stop it. Stop it right now. You didn't know him; you can't talk about
him. Blindly, Jottie reached for her pillow and pulled it over her head, but the muffled nothing didn't help her. Vause was gone and gone and gone.

It was late in the afternoon, and flies were thick in front of Macedonia's oldest structure, their idiot careening providing the only movement in the landscape. From behind the snaggled remains of a picket fence, Layla batted away flies and tried to find a way to be interested in the stricken building before her. The Caudy House, built in 1824. Could it have been a gathering place? Could it have held dances or meetings or tragic deaths? She eyed the flimsy, bowed walls and the narrow windows and couldn't care. It must have been a terrible place, even in its prime. Its existence was a fact without meaning. And yet she was supposed to find a meaning in it. She sighed, stepped into the yard, and approached the splintering front wall. On an impulse, she slapped it and felt the whole edifice sway from the blow. Hastily, she backed away and stood gazing, in the airless heat, at history.

On Layla's return, Prince Street was crowded with men in work clothes. She paused and moved close to the building beside her. They were all moving in the same direction. Must be closing time at that American Everlasting factory, she thought, and, pleased with her acumen, she smiled genially at a cluster of four or five men arrayed around a lamppost. Their narrow faces stiffened in response; hands went automatically to caps, and one young man—lounging at a dramatic angle against the post—straightened up in a caricature of attention. Embarrassed, Layla turned away, affecting interest in the window behind her, which was usefully full. Teenagers sharing sodas over tables, a child dribbling ice cream, his mother fruitlessly dabbing at his shorts, two older ladies in dark suits—how could they, in this heat—and a man turning away from the counter with a carton: It was Felix! Layla smiled and waved, and he looked at her curiously. His smile grew as hers faltered—it wasn't Felix at all. This man was taller and bigger, and he
didn't move with Felix's swift, peculiar grace. But his eyes were almost black, and his hair, too, was thick and dark. Through the glass, the man who wasn't Felix pointed to himself and then to her and lifted his eyebrows in a question. Layla suddenly realized how long she'd been staring at him and began to blush furiously. He lifted a finger, detaining her, and moved toward the door. Layla glanced at the men around the lamppost, raised her chin haughtily, and plunged into the stream of passersby.