Authors: Vanessa Ronan

The Last Days of Summer (41 page)

BOOK: The Last Days of Summer

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She nods. Says nothing. Looks far out down the country road, just barely visible in dawn's half-light. No cars on it yet. âMind if I wait with you?'

He smiles again. His head is spinning from the loss of so much blood. His side throbs lightly, with its own irregular pulse. He feels thirstier than he can remember ever being. His lips and skin feel dry and parched. âI'd like nothing more.'

They are silent a long while as orioles and blue jays and flycatchers awaken to greet day with song. Orange joins the pink and stains the darkness bright. The top of the sun pops up far out over the prairie to the east. It glows more beautiful than he reckons he's ever seen it.

Lizzie's voice breaks his reverie. âThank you, Jasper. Whatever you done. Thank you for bringin' her home.'

He turns and studies his sister's face. There are tears welling in her eyes. âShe all righ'?' he asks.

Lizzie looks away from him, far off to the rising sun. âShe won' never be the same,' she whispers, âbut, yeah, she'll be all righ'.'

He nods, weighing her answer. âAnd you? Are you all righ'?'

Surprise widens her eyes. A sad smile teases her lips upwards as she speaks. âAre we ever all righ', Jasper, truly, you and I?'

He chuckles and looks back out across the prairie. The laughter hurts his ribs. More blood spills from his side. It's nearly light enough now to separate fields from sky. Headlights far off down the country road speed towards them. Jasper's smile falls. âLooks like they're nearly here.'
He's not afraid of prison. He accepted the cold fact of his return the moment Ben's skull cracked open for him. No. Sooner. He knew when he drove out there to save Joanne that his freedom was over. He is not afraid of the electric chair either, which he does not doubt he'll get. It is proving them all right â the warden, his parole officer, Reverend Gordon, everyone in this goddamn town â that makes him sick inside. They all bet against him. All thought he'd fail and wind up back inside. He wishes he could have proved them wrong. That's all. And that he does regret.

âI don't think that is the sheriff after all.' Lizzie squints as she scans the horizon. The truck, closer now, has no flashing lights.

âThe girls?' he asks.

She looks at him, confused, alarmed. âThey're upstairs. Asleep, I hope.'

He nods. âGood. I'd rather she don't see me taken off.'

Lizzie rises, standing to watch the headlights that race towards them. âI'm serious, Jasper, I don't think it's Sheriff Adams.'

Jasper does not rise. Wants to stay there, home, as long as he is able. âCourse it's 'im, Lizzie,' he whispers, staring east to the just risen sun. âWho else would come all the way out here this hour?' He turns and watches the headlights' speedy approach. âI'll be â¦' He falls silent.

The green Ford pickup skids to a stop on the country road just before their home. Its tyres squeak as rubber scars the pavement. Roy's truck. Jasper would know it anywhere after the night just gone. Confusion wrinkles his brow. Desert dust still coats the pickup, muting its
bright green. The passenger door opens, and a woman steps out. Dark hair, long and wild, blows into her face. Recognition dawns in Jasper's eyes as he rises. Smiling, he stretches one hand out. She seems to him an angel. He wonders how much blood he's lost to hallucinate like this, to imagine her here and not the law to bind him. Hand still out, smiling, he takes a step forward and softly says her name.

âYou killed my brothers, you sick son of a bitch!'

The shot, a single bullet fired from the Hungerford so carelessly discarded back in the oil site's shed, enters Jasper's skull between his eyes before âRose' has even fully left his swollen lips. He does not feel the bullet's point of entry. Nor does he feel it settle in his brain. He is smiling still as his body falls. Is smiling still as his body rolls down each step ungracefully. He does not hear Lizzie's scream shatter the peace of dawn. Nor does he hear the birds' feathers rustle in the shrubs or their cries as they startle at the sound of the loud bang. His final thought is of Doe Eyes, blinking bright upon him. Then all he knows is freedom. A world he can find goodness in, where trouble's long forgotten.

AUGUST

Lizzie takes a damp towel from the top of the basket and hangs it over the line, pulling two loose clothespins from her mouth to fasten it in place. Once, the towel was white, but years of wear and washing have coloured it some cross of grey and cream. She reaches down, hangs two socks and an undershirt of Joanne's, then shakes out a sheet, rotating it to find the shorter side.

âAfternoon, Elizabeth.'

His voice startles her. She turns, surprised. âI'm sorry, Reverend, I wasn't expectin' company.'

He smiles. His eyes soften. âI knocked. When no one answered, I thought I'd look round the back.'

She forces a smile herself. âWell â¦ you found me.'

He chuckles, but not for long. No true merriment in the sound.

The wind picks up a moment, blowing the wash, transforming all the laundry to tiny flags before dying down to let them hang again.

âWhat can I do for you, Reverend?' She hangs the sheet, secures it, and wipes her damp hands on the front of her shirt to dry them.

âI came â¦' His voice cracks and falters. He looks out across the prairie then back to her, but his gaze does not meet her eyes. âI came to see how y'all are keepin' out here.' He surveys the line of wash before them. âIs she â¦'
he hesitates, as though choosing his words with care ââ¦ here?'

Lizzie looks at him warily. âShe's in her room. She don't answer the front door no more, if that's why you're wondering.'

âIs she â¦ all right?'

Lizzie looks out across the back lawn past the old shed and the chicken coop to the prairie beyond. âSchool starts up next week. Katie refuses to go. Been workin' in the diner more. I been prayin' lately Joanne'll be ready. For school. That the kids won' be too hard on her. Won' ask too many questions.' A scowl creases Lizzie's brow. âShe don't talk much, Reverend. Not like she used to.'

A smile cracks Lizzie's scowl, but doesn't stick. Tears well in her eyes. âI bet that's funny to you, ain't it, Reverend, me prayin' when I long ago gave up on God?'

âThere is nothing funny about prayer, Elizabeth. God still hears us, even when we doubt.'

âYeah, well â¦' She doesn't look at him, stays gazing out across the prairie, tears still un-fallen in her eyes. âI got my doubts all righ'.'

A cloud passes over the sun, momentarily muting its heat.

âI see you replanted the roses. The ones along the drive.'

She turns to him. âThey ain't what they used to be.'

He smiles. âThey'll grow.'

The cloud passes, and the sun high in the sky beats down on them, its rays tanning, burning, all they touch. There were thunderstorms a week ago. Flash floods further south. But still the tall prairie grass is far from green.
The drought may be broken, but its effects still scar the land. Hens cluck in their coop, bothered by the heat.

âHave you ever thought,' he asks, âof maybe movin', of goin' somewhere you can start fresh?'

She lets his words hang around them. Lets the silence that comes after settle all around them in an eerie sort of suspended peace. She looks to the old farmhouse beside them, boards warped from weather and age. It could use a fresh coat of paint before the fall if she can scrape together the money. From an upstairs window, Jasper's old room, now Joanne's again, she sees her younger daughter peering down at them through the dirty windowpane. Their eyes meet and for a second hold before Joanne's face retreats from the glass. âThis is our home, Reverend,' Lizzie says. âWhere else we gonna go?'

Acknowledgements

Heartfelt thanks to: Marianne Gunn O'Conner and Vicky Satlow, my talented agents who believed in me from the start. Patricia Deevy, my brilliant editor, for shaping my story into its final form. Also, Michael McLoughlin, Cliona Lewis, Patricia McVeigh, Brian Walker, the sales team, and everyone else at Penguin Ireland â thank you all for making my dream come true! Keith Taylor, Sara Granger and Stephenie Naulls at Penguin UK. Also, Gill Heeley for her amazing jacket design, and Alice Chandler for her picture research. Thanks to my copy-editor, Hazel Orme, for her painstaking attention to detail, and to Brian Farell for my author photograph.

Personal thanks to: My family for their love of literature â my mother, who showed me the beauty of books; my father, who always read us the dark tales; my brother, Nick, whose imagination grew mine. All my classmates in Edinburgh who first gave feedback when this began as a short story, and to my teachers, Allyson Stack and Dilys Rose, who encouraged me to dig deeper. Cecelia Ahern, what to you was a small favour changed my life â thank you! Thanks to Erin, who never doubted, and to all my friends and extended family (including my in-laws!) for their constant love and support. I adore you all!

And endless thanks and love to my husband, my calm in every storm without whom I would be lost. X