The Secret Sense of Wildflower (9 page)

The next morning, the screen door slaps at my heels as I walk out on the front porch and a knot twists in my stomach. I have had the secret sense more often the last few days. It starts as a vibration in my chest and then extends to my fingertips like a mild charge of electricity. I pause, remembering a similar feeling the day Daddy died.

“Where you headed, Louisa May?” Mama says from behind me. I jump before I can stop myself.

“Why don’t you call me by my real name and maybe I’ll tell you,” I say. The words come out more hateful than I intend.

“Wildflower…” she says. Her patience is as ragged as Daddy’s favorite shirt I keep digging out of the rag bin because she keeps throwing it away.

“I’m not a child, Mama. You don’t have to know every single place I go.” Although I’m convinced she knows exactly where I’m going and that’s the whole point of asking me. She just wants me to say it. It is the anniversary of Daddy’s accident and I’ve been thinking about it all morning. Even if everybody else acts like they’ve forgotten him, nothing can keep me from going to the graveyard today to pay my respects.

“I’m going to the river,” I say, which is a lie. Then I’m down the path before she can stop me.

“Be careful,” she yells after me, like she used to say to Daddy every morning he left for the sawmill.

“I will,” I yell back, which was always Daddy’s answer, too.

Leaves from the poplar trees dot the ground like stars. The poplars are the first to know that fall is coming and the first to drop their leaves. Winter will follow, a hard time in the mountains. Visiting the outhouse with a foot of snow on the ground isn’t something anybody looks forward to.

At the crossroads I look out for Johnny, but he isn’t around. Daniel’s talk must have worked. I take my shortcut, complete with ritual to cross the stream, and minutes later enter the gate in the back of the graveyard. The more I come this way the faster it takes. As I close the gate, my fingers tingle with the electricity of the secret sense. For several seconds I stand without moving, wondering if this means I should turn back.

But it’s the anniversary,
I say to myself,
Daddy would want me to be with him.
I convince myself to keep going.

When I approach his marker something looks different. The knot in my gut twists tighter, a tingling premonition that something isn’t right. Then I see it. A Mason jar, full of clear liquid, lies next to one of the tree roots. The grass is torn up like somebody has stomped around on the grave. I walk closer, feeling like the ground might cave in under me. Daddy’s tombstone is streaked with a brown, muddy slash from one end to the other. An empty can is tossed a few feet away on the ground.

I kick the peach can down the hill with all my might. “I hate you, Johnny Monroe!” I yell. A faint echo bounces off a nearby hill.

Tobacco juice spews out in wide, brown arches as the can thumps end over end down the hill toward the river. My anger comes out in tears, which makes me even madder. I yank a handful of willow leaves from the branch closest to me and scrub the stinking tobacco juice off of my father’s name. The leaves are too small to do the job so I run up the hill and get poplar and maple leaves which are bigger. After spitting on the leaves, I frantically rub at the brown juice on Daddy’s marker. My knuckles get bruised and bloodied against the stone. I can’t believe that even Johnny Monroe would do such a vile thing to the memory of a dead person.

Tears blur my vision as I pick up the Mason jar from the ground and open it. A repulsive stink spreads, worse than any skunk. Moonshine. The same stuff some of the men from the mill passed around behind the church, after Jo and Daniel’s wedding. My face grows hot as I imagine Johnny Monroe spitting tobacco juice on Daddy’s grave. Careful not to touch where Johnny Monroe’s mouth has been, I throw the jar into the woods.

Revenge fills my mind. Revenge I can’t act on. Daniel must have made Johnny really mad and he wants me to know it. Telling Daniel again might make Johnny do something even worse, like come after me or Meg or one of my family. If he’s willing to defile the final resting place of a good man who was kind to him, I know now that there is nothing so low that Johnny Monroe wouldn’t do.

Since it’s the anniversary of when everything in my life changed, my tender memories feel all exposed.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say. “It’s all my fault.”

I wrap my arms around his marker, touching my cheek to the rough stone. It smells of crushed leaves mixed with tobacco and it feels cool to my touch, even in the noonday sun. The coolness reminds me of the day he died. His skin kept getting cooler as the warmth left him, like a fire slowly dying away. I force the memory away, wanting only to remember the good things.

In the distance, Miss Mildred practices the organ for Sunday service, the faint tune resembling
The Old Rugged Cross.
Johnny Monroe knows better than to get anywhere near the church on Sundays, on account of Preacher wanting to snatch his soul from the devil and claim it for the Lord. Preacher would probably get an extra reward in heaven for bagging a big sinner like Johnny. To hear Preacher talk, saving souls is like a baseball game between God and the Devil. Every sinner saved is a home run for the Lord. But Johnny deserves to suffer the fires of hell. If I wasn’t convinced of this before, I am now.

The willow tree sways with the breeze and the sun flickers from behind the clouds. A small whirlwind dances on Daddy’s grave before skirting down the hillside toward the mound of newly packed earth on top of Ruby Monroe. Her grave remains unmarked, except that somebody has placed a handful of wilted flowers on top of the dirt. Ruby will probably never have a marker because the Monroe’s are too poor to get one and it isn’t like anybody at the church will take up a collection for it, either, like they did for Daddy.

A twig snaps behind me and I jump. Fear crackles up my spine. Word is there are still mountain lions up in the high hills, though nobody have seen one for over twenty years.

“Well, look who’s here,” a voice says. In that instant I know that it’s a human predator I am dealing with instead of an animal one.

The shock of seeing Johnny Monroe freezes me in my tracks. Goosebumps crawl up my arms. His clothes are covered with dirt and he has a bruise under one eye like somebody beat the fire out of him.

“Hello, Johnny,” I say, hiding my fear. If you come across a rattlesnake you’re supposed to stop, then slowly back away. But I am still on my knees and backing away isn’t an option.

“I thought I’d come visit your daddy,” he grins. Whoever blackened his eye, knocked out one of his teeth, too. “Yeah, me and your daddy had a little party up here last night. Did you know he liked moonshine whiskey?”

I clinch my jaw. Anger surges inside me again, but I figure this is just what Johnny wants, an excuse to come after me. I force myself to take a deep breath instead of the short, jagged ones my anger insists on.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” He pokes me in the shoulder.

“No, I just need to be going, that’s all,” I say. “Mama’s waiting for me.”

“No she’s not,” he says. “I bet she has no idea you’re up here.”

My insides churn. Johnny is right. He moves closer. His breath stinks of moonshine.

I start to stand, but Johnny pushes me back down. “You ain’t goin’ no place,” he says. He grabs my wrist and squeezes tight. It hurts like blue blazes. When I try to pull away, he holds me fast.

“Okay, maybe I can stay for a while,” I say. Even though I act calm, my heart is racing. I decide my best chance of getting out of there is to act like Johnny’s friend. “How are you and your Daddy doing, Johnny? I was so sorry about Ruby.”

He looks confused and glances over his shoulder at Ruby’s grave. For a split second I wonder if he put those flowers there himself. Maybe he misses her. But when he looks back at me I know his rage has left no room for tender heartedness. I wonder if I can outrun him. Maybe if I catch him by surprise. His eyes narrow, as if he has heard my thoughts.

“You don’t care about my family,” he says.

“It must be hard not having a mother,” I say. “Kind of like me not having a father.”

I’ve never seen Johnny Monroe look puzzled. “I’ve been watching you,” he says through gritted teeth.

“So what,” I say, trying to act casual. “People watch other people all the time.”

Johnny holds my wrist tighter. In the distance, Miss Mildred and Preacher come out of the church. I yell to them, “Hey, up here! Help!”

Johnny puts his hand over my mouth and squeezes my face. His grip hurts and his hands smell of tobacco. When I scream again, it comes out muffled. Besides, Preacher and Miss Mildred are far enough away that it won’t do any good. Preacher locks the door even though there’s nothing in there worth stealing—a few hymnals is all, and Miss Mildred’s organ, which I can’t imagine anyone taking the time to lug down the road.

After they leave, Johnny uncovers my mouth and grabs my wrist again. He looks smug, like he’s gotten away with something.

“I really need to go, Johnny. Daniel’s going to come looking for me any minute.” When I try to jerk free, his grip tightens until my fingers turn white.

“Daniel don’t know you’re up here. Nobody does. I saw you leave your house,” Johnny says.

I knew he’d been watching me and this just confirms it. “Let’s just forget all this,” I say. “I’ll go home and you can get on back to standing on your road and nobody has to know anything about it. I’ll even put in a good word about you to Meg.”

Johnny leans closer and runs his free hand up and down my arm like he is calming a calf before slitting its throat.

A breeze blows through the willow tree and jiggles the leaves like gold coins. Johnny touches my hair. His hand is awkward, clumsy. “You like that, don’t you,” he says. His try at tenderness is scarier than his roughness.

I pull away, but the vice of his grip holds firm.

“You’re feisty, aren’t you?” Johnny says. “I like feisty.”

The voice in my head screams out for help, but I am alone. Daddy is gone. I fight back the sadness as hard as I fight back Johnny. It doesn’t matter how loud or how long I scream up here, nobody will hear me.

“Johnny you need to let me go,” I say again, my voice sweet as molasses. “Your mama wouldn’t like you acting like this.”

“My mama didn’t give a shit about me,” he says. He spits and I see in his eyes how much he believes it.

“I’m sure she would be here to help you out if she could, Johnny. Just like my daddy would be here to help me out if he could.”

“Your daddy can’t do nothin’ for you now,” he says, “not since he got hisself cut in half.”

Johnny’s words grip my chest like he’s reached in and squeezed my heart with his dirty, bare hands. I aim my fist right at Johnny’s nose and swing and hit him as hard as I can. The punch connects. He moans. Blood squirts from his nose onto my face.

“You bitch!” he yells. He grabs his nose and loosens his grip long enough for me to pull away. I run for the shortcut as fast as my legs will go, forcing myself to not look back or it will slow me down. My feet pound the ground with every step, yet it feels like I’ve sprouted wings. I leap over roots and branches and anything in the path. I’ve never run this hard. I smile with the thought that I might get away. Then I hear Johnny coming down the hill behind me.

My heart pumps wildly. The footbridge lies over the next rise. If I can make it to the bridge and get across before him, I might have a chance. Johnny weighs more than me. He’ll have to slow down to get across. I grip the necklace around my neck while I run and ask Daddy and God and Mary to save me, and anybody else in heaven that will listen.

Through the trees I catch sight of the old footbridge up ahead. Johnny’s breathing is heavy and close. Just when I think I’m going to make it, he tackles me to the ground. The fall knocks the breath out of me. I gasp for air. Johnny flips me over hard. He yanks my hair. His nose is red and swollen. Blood streaks across his face like cat’s whiskers. His stink smothers me, a foul stench of moonshine, tobacco and rotten teeth. He pins my shoulders to the ground.

At that moment the thought occurs to me that the two things I fear most are right in front of me: Johnny Monroe and the threat of dying young. If Johnny has his way, he’ll put me in the grave right next to Daddy so he can spit tobacco juice on my name, too.

Out of breath, Johnny leans over me and smothers me with his body. His whiskers hurt, brushing my cheeks and neck like a thousand sharp needles. He yanks my hands over my head and holds them there. I pull hard against his grasp but have no strength to move him. Johnny forces his mouth against mine and I taste his rotten spit. I gag and choke. Then he bites my lip and shoves his tongue down my throat. I struggle, jerking my mouth free.

“Johnny, don’t!” I cry. He grins at me and I feel like I am looking into the face of the devil himself.

“There’s nobody here that can save you,” Johnny says, and I believe him.

Then he slaps me so hard my ears ring like the treble notes of Miss Mildred’s organ. I taste blood in my mouth and my face is hot and stinging with pain. I turn my head to the side and throw up. This seems to make him even angrier. He slaps me again. The pain is a hundred times worse than anything I’ve ever felt. When I scream again he covers my mouth with his hand. I bite his hand hard and he slaps me, closed fisted again, so hard this time the pain crescendos into numbness. Urine soaks my underwear and the warmth spreads down my legs.

Seconds later, the pain goes away. I have the odd feeling that I am floating outside of myself, watching the scene. This isn’t happening to me at all, but to a stranger, some other foolish thirteen-year-old girl who didn’t listen to her secret sense and is powerless to get away.

“What’s the matter, Louisa May?”

“My name’s Wildflower,” I mumble, defiant.

“Wildflower?” he laughs, “Nah . . . people should call you Weed.” He grabs my hair again and pulls. “Yeah, I think I’ll pull this weed.”

As he drags me screaming to a clearing, I search the woods for salvation. But the chance of anyone finding me is about as slim as the chance that Johnny will have a change of heart. Hot tears streak my face and pool in my ears. I tell them to stop so Johnny won’t see my weakness but they keep on like the trickle of a stream seeking the river.