In Place of Never (2 page)

The broader one noticed me first. His smile vanished and his posture stiffened. He locked his wrists behind his back and nodded. The short sleeves of his shirt nipped his biceps. The ridiculous breadth of his chest tested the limits of the thin black material. His clothes probably hid the grotesquely oversculpted figure of a body builder.

My feet slowed instinctively, weighing the merits of crossing the street to avoid them. Crossing meant moving away from my destination, staying meant eventually sharing a three-foot patch of cement with two guys already filling every spare inch.

The leaner, younger-looking one turned his face toward me. Black ink crawled up his neck from the collar of his shirt to his earlobe. A scar pierced one eyebrow and a thin silver hoop graced the corner of his mouth. Dad wouldn’t approve.

I rounded my shoulders, withdrawing into my hoodie and averting my eyes.

The broad one whipped a hand out as I stepped onto their patch of cement. “Miss.”

I jumped back, wrapping my fingertips around the strap of my bag.

His enormous arm blocked my path. He clenched a mass of silk flowers in his fist. “For the lady.”

“Uh.” I pulled in a shallow breath. “No thank you.”

The younger one’s eyebrows dove together. “I think you’re scaring her.” His dark eyes settled on mine. His voice was deep and low. “Is he scaring you?”

The big guy handed the flowers to his friend and stepped back, palms up.

The younger one offered them to me, extending his arm slowly as if being careful not to frighten a wild animal. “I’m Cross. This is Anton. Anton thinks he’s a magician.”

I glanced over one shoulder at the church behind me before accepting the strange offer. A lifetime of forced manners pushed my name from my mouth. “Mercy.”

Cross’s lips twitched. “He’s a lot to take in, but he’s a marshmallow.”

I bit back an awkward smile as Anton protested the remark with a shove. “Mercy’s my name. It wasn’t an exclamation.”

Cross relaxed his posture. “Good to know.” He shoved his fingers into his pockets. “Do you live here?”

“Yeah.” A measure of unexplained confidence wound through me. “Not you, though.” I scrutinized their strange ensembles again. Their clothes were almost like costumes, or what I imagined a mortician would wear in the nineteen hundreds. “What are you doing here?” I sidestepped them, exchanging my view of the distant willows for a view of the church.

The low tenor of their voices collided as Cross said, “Visiting,” and Anton said, “Performing.”

Cross narrowed his eyes at Anton.

Interesting. A sign tucked into the corner of the honky-tonk’s window announced another round of live bands. Cash prizes and a guaranteed Nashville record executive in the audience meant lots of newcomers to St. Mary’s. Maybe these two were country singers. “Performing what?”

Again with the twin speak, Cross answered, “Nothing.”

Anton answered, “Everything.”

I frowned. “Well, that’s cleared up.” I waved the bouquet. “Thanks for the flowers.”

“You’re welcome,” they answered.

Dad’s face appeared in the church window, and I darted into the rain. “I have to go.”

I stuffed the flowers into my bag as I jogged away from the street of shops, closing the space between the willows and me. Thunder cracked in the distance. The storm was passing for now. I stepped into the pavilion outside St. Mary’s Cemetery with a sigh of relief. Willow trees lined our small town along the river’s west edge. Their craggy branches swept the earth with every gust of wind. The town cemetery stretched fingers of marble graves into the distance, marking lives lost in the mideighteen hundreds beside others lost in my lifetime. Two of those graves marked the lives of Porter women, Faith and Mary Porter. My older sister and my mother.

When the drops thinned to sprinkles, I made my way up muddy paths to their grave sites, sliding down as often as I moved forward. Dad said he’d chosen the spots at the top of the hill so Faith and Mom could look over our town. If they truly had a view, theirs was perfect.

The sopping earth squished under my weight as I left the path. A week of relentless rain had ruined the dirt roads and flooded the lowlands mercilessly.

I knelt before the headstones. “Hi. I bet you didn’t think I’d come in the storm.” Tears burned my eyes. I’d come selfishly. “You’re the only one I can talk to.”

I rubbed my wrist over each eye. “I am so amazingly sorry.”

Wind beat against the trees, shaking limbs and freeing wads of green leaves from their branches. “The storm’s gathering again.”

I wiped pine needles and dirt off Faith’s name. Wind tossed sticks and tiny American flags across the thick green grass. A batch of grave flowers rolled down the hill toward the river, reminding me of the ones in my bag.

“I have something today.” I unlatched my bag and pulled out the silk flowers. “Some very weird guys outside Red’s gave these to me. I think you should have them, Faith. I don’t bring you flowers enough. Maybe that’s why I ran into those two. You needed flowers.” I stabbed their plastic stems into the mushy ground and pressed the grass tight around them, anchoring them the best I could.

“I miss you. I wish you knew how much. Dad’s still trying to save the town. Pru’s still pretending she’s like everyone else. The color guard’s coming over for popcorn and movies.” I rolled my eyes. “I think she’s planning to sneak out tonight, and I don’t even know if it’s the first time.”

I settled in the wet grass and tilted my face to the sky. “I’ve never minded our summer storms. Remember when we used to dance in the rain until Dad begged us all inside? He’d laugh and say,” I mocked Dad’s deeper voice, “‘I guess the rumors are true. My girls don’t have the sense to come in out of the rain.’”

A sound in the distance caught my attention. A rhythm. “Do you hear that?” Wind whipped through the trees, but the eerie sound of tinny pipes and organs floated to my ears. I rubbed my palms over gooseflesh-covered arms and an icy shiver slid down my spine.

I stood on wobbly knees and moved to the hill’s edge.

A line of black vehicles crawled along the river toward the campground. Each truck was marked with the symbol that once haunted my dreams. A fancy letter
L
, circled in curlicue lines and tiny words from another language. “The Lovell Traveling Sideshow came back?”

After three years, it was back.

I turned to my sister. “I bet they came for the River Festival. What should I do?”

I sensed her presence and felt her voice in the wind, obscured by the ringing in my ears. My weary conscience screamed, “Leave it alone,” but my every curious fiber disagreed.

I’d researched, cyberstalked, and obsessed over the Lovells off and on for two years before I backed off. I squinted at the caravan of trucks below. If one of them knew what happened to Faith, I needed to hear it. Maybe someone at their campsite could help me.

Dad refused me the courtesy of knowing what happened to my sister. When I’d followed him through our home begging, he’d said I was too young. Faith was too young. I should pray for peace. I’d scoured the local paper and Internet for information. Three years later, the only things I knew for sure were Faith was dead and Dad blamed the Lovells. I’d heard him and Mom after Faith’s funeral. He hated them, but it didn’t make any sense. Faith drowned. Dad believed the Lovells contributed to Faith’s death somehow, despite the coroner’s accidental drowning conclusion.

I looked over one shoulder at Faith’s headstone. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back.” I rubbed wet palms against my jeans. My feet stumbled through the grass on autopilot. This was my chance.

I sprinted toward home, formulating a plan. First, I needed a shower and change of clothes. Next, I needed a picture of Faith from that summer. The Lovells probably saw thousands of new faces every year and three years had already passed. Expecting them to remember one girl from a town as unremarkable as ours was asking the impossible.

I slowed my pace on Main Street. Outside the honky-tonk, a fresh banner hung from the awning, a photo advertisement for the Lovell Traveling Sideshow. My mouth dropped open as my gaze swept over the ad. I missed the curb and planted one foot in ankle-deep runoff racing for the gutter. “Gross.” My palms hit the sidewalk, stopping me from a complete fall. The open flap of my bag dripped against my pant leg when I stood. I buckled the bag without looking, unable to drag my focus away from the banner. A woman covered in tattoos posed with a set of acrobats front and center. A shirtless strongman with a mask and endless muscles stood behind her. I tried to match Anton and his flowers to the masked man in the photograph. Was it possible?

A man in tuxedo tails pulled fire from his hat and a woman in a ball gown swallowed swords. Animals in black tutus and studded collars pranced at her feet. Behind the others stood a brown-eyed guy with neck ink, a guitar, and a frown. Cross was a performer all right. He was one of them. A Lovell.

The Number

The mailman stood at our mailbox, shuffling letters with junk mail. His sour expression spoke volumes.

I stopped at his side and waited.

Rain rolled off his plastic poncho, dripping onto a long, hooked nose before landing on his round paunch. The navy walking shorts with knee socks and orthopedic gym shoes were especially sporting with a poncho. He eyeballed me with a look that fell in the stretch between pity and disdain.

He placed a set of letters in my hand and blinked raindrops from stubby eyelashes. “Tell your father it was a lovely service Sunday.”

“I will.”

I splashed down our driveway, flipping through the late notices. “Shoot.”

I kicked my Chucks onto the welcome mat and shoved my way inside. Cleaning house and making meals weren’t a problem, but Dad had to pay the bills.

A puddle formed at my feet while I patted my limbs with a dish towel and wrung my hair in the sink. Steady bass pounded the ceiling.

I tossed the towel onto the puddle and stacked our bills on the kitchen table. With a pen, I wrote “Pay Me” on the top envelope before jogging upstairs. Music blared from Pru’s room. I rounded the corner and climbed the third flight of stairs to my room. At least I knew she was home and safe.

Music beat against my bedroom floor, ruining any chance of a peaceful shower. I rushed through the process and redressed in my old color-guard T-shirt and cotton shorts before dealing with my hair. My third floor room had plenty of perks like solitude and a tiny bath, but Dad didn’t allow door locks. Instead, we had a strict knock-three-times-before-barging-in policy. Dressing at my leisure wasn’t an option.

I raked a brush through tangled, wet hair. The black lines in my otherwise sandy hair were less noticeable after a shower. What had begun as one rebellious streak of mourning my sister became a dozen when Mom joined her. That was right before I checked out. Disconnected. Quit. In the reflection of my mirror, the outgrown streaks looked more like intentional black tips creeping over my shoulders. I held the blow dryer over the ends and brushed them dry.

My unmade bed called to me, begging me to let this day come and go without participation. I set the hair dryer aside. My blankets wound into a beckoning nest that I longed to crawl inside and disappear, but this wasn’t the day. I wasn’t that girl. I opened my laptop and jammed earbuds into my ears. I wouldn’t lose another day to sleep and sadness. The bass of Pru’s music reduced to a low drone and vibration against my feet. I opened folders of photos from Faith’s last summer. She was my age then.

There were so many pictures.

Faith had been my entire world. I’d emulated her. Adored her.

Lied for her.

I had dozens of shots of her in her color-guard uniform. Photos of her in her pj’s on Christmas morning. Fishing with Dad at the river. Carrying Pru on her shoulders. A hole opened in my chest as memories flooded out. Shame strangled me, the way it always did when anger jumped forward. How dare she leave me when I needed her so much? How dare I blame her?

I shut the folder and opened a search engine. I’d take her senior picture with me to see the Lovells. Meanwhile, I needed a plan. I needed the right words. My bookmarks tab had a compilation of links dedicated to the Lovell’s Traveling Sideshow. The Lovells had been in town the night Faith died. In the morning, they’d been gone. Dad skirted the details beyond those facts.
There was an accident. Your sister drowned.
Faith hadn’t gone to the river to see the Lovells, but the Lovells had been at the river and so was she. When kids from school had gossiped about her death, calling the accident a suicide, I’d died along with her. She wouldn’t have done that. I’d prayed for someone to tell me if she was alone that night. The Lovells might’ve seen her. If they had seen someone with Faith and described them, I could put a name to the description and talk with that person. As the pastor’s kid, I knew almost everyone in town. If I followed the clues, maybe I could understand why we’d lost her. The official report didn’t matter. Lifeguards didn’t drown unless they wanted to.

I hadn’t considered Faith capable of suicide, despite what everyone said, until three months later. If Mom could do it, maybe it was in our genes. God knew how many times I’d stood at the riverbank, imagined walking in and disappearing. What would that do to Pru?

I couldn’t do that to Pru.

I opened a site from my bookmarks. The Lovells’ website was basic. Shades of black and gray with punches of crimson. The pictures were affected with a basic antique filter. I hadn’t visited the website in months, maybe a year, but it looked the same. There wasn’t much to learn on the site, aside from pricing and act details. They performed at parties and events but often traveled with carnivals and fairs. I’d long ago moved on to stalking the cast and crew through social media and the blogs of others who’d seen the show. I pinned every stop on a map. For what purpose, I didn’t know. Maybe I hoped they’d return and answer my questions about Faith’s death. Maybe I needed to know she hadn’t left me intentionally.

The Lovells were a large family. Their last name suggested they were Roma, a group most people called Gypsies, but I tried not to think of them that way. I’d learned Gypsy was an offensive word to Roma. Aside from the name, I wasn’t convinced they were Roma. Probably they’d taken on the name for added mystique or legitimacy. They had a standard sideshow palm reader and psychic, but none of their acts or advertisements specifically referenced a Roma heritage. I’d researched that too.