Liar's Bench (19 page)

Bobby followed me into the breezeway. “C'mon, Cassie, let's go for a walk.” He clicked his tongue for her to follow him outside, winking at me before the screen door slammed shut.

I pulled back the coverlet and eased myself onto the old tick mattress. I took in a breath of rain and sun-washed cotton sheets. Night song whirred outside. Cassie gave off two throaty barks, followed by a shouted greeting from Gramps Jessum. In a moment, Jessum and Bobby's shared laughter dissolved into murmurs of warm conversation, lighting the dark.

I picked up the leaf I'd brought in and studied it. “Change,” I whispered. Curling myself into a ball, I closed my eyes and thought about how lucky Bobby was to have his gramps, his family. This.

Oh, how I missed my grandparents! I missed Papaw letting me run the fence row to kick up rabbits for a supper stew, whispering, “You can't catch a rabbit 'less you muddy up them boots, gal.” I missed him chasing me around the pond with frogs and then gently tossing me in to learn how to swim like one. I missed helping him plant the pumpkin patch. Missed his four-in-the-morning wakeup calls on opening day of deer season, though I didn't miss them back then. Missed getting bundled up in Papaw's worn tobacco barn coat so I could help him track game. I missed the evenings when we'd curl up in his leather recliner and he'd read
Heidi
aloud. But mostly, I missed trailing after him, my five-year-old arms winding around his legs, both of us laughing as we tumbled into a twisty-tangled hug.

And Grammy Essie, who'd patched the heartbreak and filled the holes when Mama moved to the city. I especially missed her. Who would patch this new break? I missed my grammy dabbing her expensive Evening in Paris perfume behind my ears. I missed her reading me
Ladies' Home Journal
magazines, then asking me what I thought about a particular article. I missed the old
Webster's Dictionary
sitting next to the Family Bible on her library table. Missed her quotes and the hours we'd spent poring over the marbled-edge dictionary pages, Grammy teaching me how to use the harder words and to spell them the right way. Chuckling at the words that tickled our tongues and at the made-up sentences that gave us belly-roaring laughter. More than anything, I longed for her lavender-scented hugs.

And little Genevieve. Oh, to hug her, tell her we were going to be okay, that I'd never leave her like I'd been left so long ago! Genevieve was my last piece of Mama, the very last. I felt a stabbing homesickness for Mama . . . and even Daddy, a little. My family. It was now beginning to hit home that I was alone. Completely, horribly alone. I could feel the power and consequence of that solitude. In my mind's eye, I saw the ribbons candy-caned around Mama's ankles, twirling, jubilant—mocking me.

Fighting a thunderbolt of panic, I slipped my hands prayer-like between the pillow and my cheek and, heaving a long sigh, forced my thoughts to turn to Bobby.

Plumb exhausted, my racing thumb forgot to whisper worries to my now-still fingers.

D
awn streamed through the breezeway's screen, gleaming like shards of broken glass. The nattering of tree squirrels and a mockingbird's imitation nudged the morning light, awakening the buzz of insects and my memories of last night.

A smile tugged at my heart. Making love to Bobby had been easy, like I'd somehow reclaimed myself, found something rare and truthful in the midst of all this deceit, sorrow, and confusion. I was not ashamed, or embarrassed or regretful. Instead, I felt empowered by what we'd done, by our discovery. And I vowed to use this newness as shelter to safeguard during whatever stormy weather lay ahead.

I climbed out of bed and called softly to Cassie, who was sprawled out on her side, wheezing out tiny yelps in a doggy dreamland critter pursuit. She stirred at my voice and followed me out the back door. I took in a breath of pine before slipping into the outhouse. Staring into a wood-framed mirror, I peered into the darkened glass.

My face was streaked with scratches. Bruises were beginning to banana-ripen across my cheek. I wrinkled my nose and a dusting of freckles leaped across its bridge. My hair needed a good hundred-stroke brushing, and my cheeks were sunburned, begging for balm butter. After a few minutes of troubled inspection, I smiled. Again, I warmed from last night's memories.

I searched the yard and the breezeway for my clothes, but they were nowhere to be found. Dismayed, I poked my head into the kitchen, hoping my face wouldn't reveal last night's secrets to Jessum's all-knowing eyes.

Steam rose from a kettle atop the potbelly stove, ghosting upward. To my great relief, Bobby sat alone at the table, sipping coffee and reading newsprint. His breakfast plate was half empty.

“Morn',” I said crossing the room, my heart feeling light at the sight of him, a glow pinking my cheeks.

“Good morning,” he said softly, carefully trailing me with his eyes.

“Is that today's paper?”

“Yeah, I ran down the hill and picked one up. The latest, see?” Bobby pointed to the date:
Thursday, August 17, 1972
. He bit into a sausage patty and chewed as he studied me when he felt I wasn't looking.

I looked over his shoulder, searching for Tommy's obituary. His name leaped up, the story of his death splattered across the front page, bigger than life. Feigning interest in the weather report, I flicked to the next page. “Paper says another hot day.” I plopped down onto the chair beside him. The scent of apple sausage drifted through the aromas of coffee beans and the wood-burning stove.

“Breakfast's over there waiting.” Bobby buttered a biscuit and made it disappear in two large bites. He took a big gulp of coffee and flashed a small, shy-like grin.

I grabbed some coffee and joined him at the table. Taking a sip, I peeked over the lip of the cup, trying to see if anything had changed.

“Did you sleep good in there?” he asked genuinely and in his same Bobby style.

I pulled one of Jessum's crimson roses out of the jar and blushed behind it. I hadn't slept that good in a week. “Smells good,” I murmured, and set it back. “Uh-huh, your room is really comfortable, Bobby.”

He smiled back, coloring a bit. “Hey.” He tugged at my sleeve, grinning a little mischievously.

“Hey yourself,” I blushed.

“I, er . . . well, I enjoyed . . . uh, talking . . . last night.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah?” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Me too.”

“Yup.” He lit up a smile and reached over to lightly tickle me. “Girl, are you gonna kiss me good morning or not?”

“I am.” I breathed out a laugh, sweeping my lips across his, grateful for his ease and humor. “Hey, Bobby.” I pulled back, noting the clean T-shirt and jeans he wore. “I couldn't find my clothes. Seen them?”

The porch swing creaked.

“Gramps gave your clothes a good stone scrubbing early this morning with Gramma's lye soap, and hooked them over there behind the stove to dry.” He pointed. “Your shirt was nothing but a rag, but you can keep my T-shirt.” He stretched out his long legs.

“I could've washed them,” I said guiltily. I'd been taking care of all the washing and most of the cooking for Daddy for so long I'd forgotten what it felt like to have someone take care of me. “That's really super of your gramps to go through all that trouble.”

“No big deal.” Bobby smiled. “I put the things that were in your pockets inside the basket in the breezeway.”

The screen door squeaked. Jessum walked in, carrying his pipe and coffee mug.

“Ah, a good Thursday morn' to you, Miz Mudas. I hope you slept well.” He smiled kindly. “Will you be having a bit of breakfast?”

“Morning, sir.” I jumped up. “Thank you, Jessum, for the clean clothes. And I can fetch breakfast, don't you worry,” I called over my shoulder. I grabbed a plate from the drain dry and loaded it up with a biscuit and two scrapple patties.

Much hungrier than I realized, I dug in and quickly polished off the meal. When I'd finished, I pushed away, ready to stand, but Bobby reached for the ribbon around my wrist and pulled.

“I hope you don't mind, Mudas, but I told Gramps about the ribbon.”

Gramps smiled wide. “Miz Mudas, Bobby did, and, well, I served in the war,” he added with pride. “I know about codes.”

Bobby said, “Your mom probably used lemon juice to make the message.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Mama taught me all about that and her daddy taught her. He was in the war, too.” I thought back to the chemistry set days, when Mama had shown me how to make invisible ink from lemon juice and vinegar. How the acid had stayed on the paper after the juice dried, like magic.

“When I was a soldier,” Jessum explained, “they taught us all 'bout ink an' codes. Lots of ways to make ink, uh-huh. We used words like
heat
an'
red cabbage
to let ya know there's a secret. That's 'cause you can spray red cabbage water on invisible ink or heat the paper to bring out the words.” He winked. “I ate my share of cabbage during the war . . . uh-huh. Don't have much of a taste for it anymore.”

“I love it,” I said wistfully. “ 'Specially Mama's.”

“I'm terribly sorry about yore mama, Miz Mudas. Terribly so. Tol' yore Daddy and now I can tell you. I jus' talked with Miz Ella a lil over a week ago at the Shucks Market. Shame.” He patted my hand, blinked his welling eyes, and pulled out a handkerchief from his shirt pocket.

Seeing his eyes fill brought grief to my own.

After a moment of quiet I recovered, and said, “Thank you again for having me, Jessum. Those biscuits and sausage patties were delicious.” I caught Bobby's gaze and gave a pointed look at the front door.

Catching my drift, Bobby said, “Gramps, mind if we step outside a moment and—”

“Y'all go on ahead, I need to walk ol' Cassie down the mountain an' check on the mail delivery.” He reached for his cane, which was hooked over the back of his chair, and walked to the breezeway. I heard him greet Cassie and the door's soft click as it closed behind him.

I moved over to the screen door and peered out. “Bobby, I should probably scoot. If I stay, I'm putting your gramps in danger of being a target for the Klan.”

“Maybe so, but you're safe here. Ain't a lot going on that begins at the bottom of this old hill that don't end up at the top real quick. Folks take care of one another here.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“I should probably get going now. Ol' man Harper will have been spitting out gossip.”

“I'm going with you.”

I shook my head. “I'm worried, Bobby. You saw the robe. The Klan doesn't care if you're part Indian, colored, whatever,” I pointed out. “They just care that you're different. And, remember, different around here puts a target square on your back.” I tenderly rubbed the spot they'd branded on his back.

“I'm not gonna live my life in fear of those diddle-dicks. I want to help you. Okay?” He dragged his thumb across my lips and then kissed me, leaving a tingle on my mouth. “Let's go to Jingles first. The law really needs to be in on this.”

I was relieved. Relieved he didn't hightail it far away from me and this big mess. “Okay, that's a good idea, just in case.”

“It'll be safer,” Bobby assured.

I thought about how warm and safe I felt in Bobby's arms—and how alone I felt when I wasn't.

Reluctantly, I stepped out of his embrace. “Let me get dressed.”

A few minutes later, I came out wearing my ripped jeans and Bobby's T-shirt. I joined Bobby on the porch and saw Jessum holding a tattered Bible with a solemn look on his face.

“Bobby,” he said, “if you don't mind, I'd like to show this to ya.” Jessum opened the Bible and slipped out a worn folded letter and handed it to Bobby. “I gots to thinkin' how we were talkin' bout yore gramma, Miz Mudas, an' this may be 'portant for you to know, too.”

Bobby unfolded the paper and Jessum put his hand over Bobby's, and said, “My gramps, 'Moss . . . Amos Crow, married a fine lady from Scotland. He was a goat herder. Uh-huh, an' he married a schoolteacher. That'd be my Grandma Catt, Bobby. Catt Crow, a fine, fine woman. My gramps had her write his story down.”

“Amos Crow,” Bobby studied, “you mean he was my—” We looked at each other, surprised.

“Yessir, Bobby, that'd be yore great-great gramps.” Jessum flashed a proud smile. “Taught my Sara soap making an' taught me good carpentry.” Jessum pointed to the porch washstand. “I may have mentioned him to ya. We called him Moss.”

“Oh, yeah, so, Moss is Amos. Wow!” Bobby walked over to the cabinet and ran his hands over the skilled workmanship, admiring.

“Now, y'all two go on ahead to today's bizness, let me get on to the mail delivery truck an' see what he brings me,” Jessum said.

Bobby stared at the letter in his hand.

“Go on, tuck that in yore pocket, Bobby. Don't lose it. Maybe hitch on to a quiet spell somewhere an' read it . . . visit family.” Jessum gave me one of his twinkly winks.

Bewildered, Bobby folded the letter and stuck it into his pocket.

I gave Jessum a hug and he told me to come back anytime and to give his kind regards to Daddy.

Daddy. I was starting to miss him a little more. Picturing his drawn face—his grief—and last night's release from my own, I felt more than a little guilty we'd had words. But, in my defense, or call it my own mulish ways, he'd had none to offer to me. I wondered if he'd be home again today, working on his files, since he'd cleared his calendar. What would I say when I saw him?

I pushed the thoughts away and settled into the driver's side. With Bobby's directions, I steered down the hill toward Town Square, my eyes shifting back and forth between the traveled road and the rearview, checking for anybody tailing us. Bobby suggested we go around Knobmole Hill and swing back to town.

I fretted as I passed the turnoff to Summers Homestead, wondering if Daddy'd gone out looking for me last night. Couldn't have filled up his car at Harper's, that's for sure, or Harper's wagging tongue would've already led him straight to me. But I was sure Daddy would have called or stopped by ThommaLyn's. I hoped she'd covered for me and kept her promise. It wouldn't be unlikely for me to run into Daddy on these roads now. It was Thursday, his busiest day of the week, and the day he liked to tie up loose ends before taking off for a long weekend, if he could. Though he'd said he cleared his calendar, I prayed he was taking a last-minute deposition or—better yet—called over to another county on legal business.

I wasn't ready to see him.

I needed answers first.

The truth.

The truth would out, as truth seemed to demand. Frannie Crow had to wait a hundred years for hers, and I wasn't feeling quite so patient. That Rooster Run ledger would exonerate Mama just as sure as Mrs. Anderson's diary had exonerated Frannie, I was sure of it. Now I just had to find it.