The Secrets of Tree Taylor (25 page)

“Well, I’ll leave you kiddies to it,” Eileen announced. “Lots of planning to do. The steam engine show is this Thursday, in case you’ve forgotten. I need to call Butch.”

As if we’d rehearsed it, Jack and I jumped into the jitterbug and burst into a terrible Elvis Presley imitation of the Hound Dog song: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog! Cryin’ all the time!”

Eileen caught the slam, that her Butch was nothing but a hound dog. Jack and I did sometimes call him that behind his
back—and also behind Eileen’s back. She tried to ignore us, but it wasn’t easy. Jack and I jived all over the living room.

“I know you think you know him,” Eileen began. “But I’m telling you that Butch—”

The second we heard “Butch,” Jack and I launched into the few lyrics either of us remembered from that song: “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog! Cryin’ all the time! You ain’t never caught a rabbit, and you ain’t no friend of mine!”

When poor Eileen couldn’t make herself heard above our howling, she shouted, “You guys think you’re pretty funny, don’t you!”

Jack and I looked at each other, then nodded in unison.

Eileen shot us death glares. “You two should be locked up.”

Which, of course, set us off with a new Elvis song and dance: “Jailhouse Rock”!

Once Eileen left, Jack asked if I wanted to round up anybody for Capture the Flag. I didn’t. I no longer had anybody to round up.

Instead, we stayed inside and tried chess again. Jack had attempted to teach me that boring game on and off for a couple of years. I’d never come close to winning, which made it the right choice for me. Maybe I could feel even more like a loser than I already did.

Jack studied the board, and I knew his brain was seeing ten plays ahead. I was still trying to figure out which way knights moved and why pawns had to go crossways to capture anybody.

At least stupid chess gave us lots of time to talk. I had so many things on my mind that I would have loved to talk to Jack about.

I moved the bishop. Why? Because I could.

“Tree.” Jack slid diagonally with his bishop and lifted mine off its square. “Want a do-over?”

I shook my head. “Why delay the inevitable?”

He took the piece and studied the board again. “What’s on your mind?”

I shoved a pawn forward. “Lots of things.”

“Like?”

Can’t tell him about Penny.… I’ve avoided Mrs. Kinney all week.… Wouldn’t do any good to whine to him again about Sarah leaving me.… Jack will be leaving me too.… Ray with the sky-blue eyes?

For some reason, I couldn’t quite bring myself to come right out and talk to Jack about Ray. So I took the back door to the discussion. “I saw you in Cameron.”

“Yeah?”

“At the drive-in movie. With Suzi.”

“Right.” He didn’t glance up from his dippy chessboard. “
West Side Story
. Did you like it?”

“It was okay. You?”

“Not much of a plot. But I’d watch that fight scene again. Great dancing.” Jack looked up at me then. He set down the queen, who had no doubt been on the verge of making a killing of some kind. “Spill, Tree. What’s wrong?”

I sighed, not really sure I knew the answer to that question. “I don’t know. It’s just that a bunch of guys … and girls … from my class were at the drive-in too. I think they were pretty paired up. But I wouldn’t know, would I? Because nobody asked me to go with them.”

“Then they’re nuts,” he said simply.

“Well, it isn’t fair. You get to ask any girl you want. And she has to sit at home by the phone and wait to be asked.”

Jack grinned. “It’s not
quite
as easy as that. I don’t think
every
girl is sitting by the phone waiting for my call. Some probably stand.”

“I’m not kidding here, Jack.” And I wasn’t. I could feel tears burning behind my eyes, pushing at my eyeballs.

The grin disappeared from Jack’s face. “Go on.”

“Why is it like that? Butch can ask Laura
and
Eileen out, and they both go. Ray … other guys I know … they can ask anybody they feel like. But girls? We can’t ask guys out. Guys have all the clout. Why don’t girls have any power?”

Jack didn’t answer me right away. I was glad he didn’t. If he had given me an easy answer, or if he’d tried to laugh it off or joke me out of my funk, I would have kicked the chessboard over.

Finally, he stopped staring at me and looked at the board again. “Tree, you have all the power. You just don’t know it yet.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I snapped.

He picked up a game piece, the king. “Some people think this is the most important piece in chess. The mighty king. The whole point of the game is to capture him, right?”

I was still sulking. “If you say so.”

“But he’s nothing. Oh, he thinks he’s king. King Butch.”

I almost grinned, but I swallowed it.

“Tell me how the king can move, Tree.”

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. Very Eileen of me. “I’m not stupid. One square, any direction.”

“Unless he’d be moving into a trap,” Jack added.

“I knew that.”

“Now, how can
this
piece move?” He held up the queen.

I grinned a little. “Any direction, any number of spaces.”

Jack smiled. “Yep.” His gaze locked onto mine then. “You are the queen, Tree. Never forget that. You have the power to move in every direction, as many squares as you want. You have the ability to plan ahead. To lure, to attract, to charm. Guys may like to think they’re kings, and you may allow them to believe it. But that’s just part of your overall game, your strategy. No matter what they think, guys can only move one square at a time. They’re on defense.”

“I’m the queen?” I tried to act like I wasn’t buying any of it. But the truth was, I wanted to buy it.

“You are absolutely the queen,” he answered, totally serious now. “You have no idea the power you’re going to wield over those poor, hapless kings. You are going to be beating guys away with your crown and staff in high school. And you have my guarantee on that.”

“Right,” I said sarcastically.

“I
am
right. Things are going to change for you, Tree. Just don’t
you
change too much. Promise me that.”

Neither of us said anything for a minute. I was trying to use Dad’s memory system to hang Jack’s words on hooks so that I’d never forget them.

“One more thing,” Jack said.

“Yeah?”

He moved his queen to my king and flipped my king over onto the board. “Checkmate.”

The day before the Steam and Gas Engine Show, old machinery and cars and tractors started rolling into town, pulling up on Main Street and out at the fairgrounds. Firecrackers popped every so often. Some kids couldn’t wait for the Fourth.

I’d promised Randy Ridings an article about the Kinneys, and tomorrow was the deadline.

When Jack stopped by the pool and asked if I needed a ride after work, I told him I had plans. I needed to see Mrs. Kinney. I knew Jack would come with me if I asked him to. And I would have loved having him beside me when I finally asked Mrs. Kinney if she had shot her husband.

But I remembered what the deal was with secrets, the responsibility that came with finding out the truth. If I brought Jack with me, I’d make him part of whatever truth I might unwrap. I couldn’t do that to him.

* * *

After work, I changed into an outfit Mom got for me in Kansas City—a kick-pleat gray skirt, sleeveless blue-green blouse, wide belt, and sandals. Then I walked straight to Mrs. Kinney’s house and knocked at the door. I had to know what really happened. I still didn’t understand why, exactly, except that Dad was right: for better or worse, I was not one of the lucky people who could choose not to see beneath the surface, down into truth, even with a friend. Maybe especially with a friend.

When Mrs. Kinney didn’t answer the door, I walked around the side of the house and found her in the backyard, planting something.

She looked up when she saw me. “Strawberries. Ever-bearings.” She pointed to the end of the row, where aluminum foil pie pans dangled from strings tied to poles. “That there contraption is how South Africans keep birds off their berries. I’m trying it on crows. Birds don’t like seeing their reflections. And they hate the noise.”

“Is it working?”

She brushed her hands together and walked toward me. “Not a bit.”

I followed her inside and went straight to my chair—no more small talk.

She must have gotten the message because she sat right down too. No hot chocolate. Not today. “I take it you didn’t stop by to hear about Mandalay Bay and them starfish that ain’t got no brains?”

I shook my head. “Please don’t get mad at me for asking you what I’m going to ask you, Mrs. Kinney. Or for what I’m
about to tell you, either. I couldn’t stand it if you stopped wanting to be friends.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t rock. “I figured something was up when you stopped dropping by.”

“I … I was here that morning. I heard the shot and followed my dad. I hid behind your cottonwood. And I saw things. I saw you come out with the rifle, and I saw my dad take it away from you. I heard Dad tell Sheriff Robinson that it was an accident. Only … only I don’t think it was an accident.”

We were both silent for a minute. I studied her face, the lines at her mouth familiar to me now. Most of the wrinkles in her forehead had smoothed themselves out. She still didn’t look as young as my mother or Donna. But she didn’t look old enough to be their mother anymore.

I took in a deep breath and smelled lilacs. She’d filled a chipped vase with branches and set it on her rickety coffee table. A bully had lived here—a bully worse than Chuck Atkinson. I kept going. “I know you had your reasons, Mrs. Kinney. I know you’re a good person. You’re smart. And you’re kind.”

I tried to bring up the image of her standing in the doorway, clutching that rifle. Only the picture wasn’t as sharp as it used to be, back when that was the only picture of her I had.

“Mrs. Kinney, I know
you
were the one with the gun.”

“I was,” she agreed.

“Everything else is guesswork,” I admitted. “I’m guessing your husband used to hurt you. I guess you might have been scared of him. I guess he might have come at you to hurt you again. And I guess … I guess you shot him.” I stopped talking
because words were spilling out of my mouth without passing through my brain first.

But it was out now.

Mrs. Kinney stared at me, her eyes never blinking.

“My dad—does he know the truth?”

“He knows what he knows, I ’spect. We ain’t said nothin’ about it, him and me.”

“But he’s keeping your secret, isn’t he?” I couldn’t help raising my voice. I’d seen the weight of her secret on him.

I think she shook her head, but it might have been a twitch.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kinney. I tried to let it go, but I couldn’t. I have to know what happened.”

She sighed. “You want to know the facts? Or the truth?”

I frowned at her.

“Fact is, I shot Alfred.”

There it was. I didn’t move. My head buzzed. I’d known all along that she shot him, hadn’t I? From the moment I saw her holding that rifle, from the moment Dad refused to talk to me about it. So why did I feel like somebody had just punched me in the stomach?

“Fact is,” she went on, “I was mighty scared of that man. He done me harm in the worst way, and that’s a fact.” She shivered, as if remembering. Her gaze flitted from the broken leg of the coffee table to the empty knickknack shelves to dark corners of the room, where terrible scenes must have replayed in her head.

She looked at me again. “Also a fact, I know my way around a rifle. My daddy used to take me hunting. He liked
to tell his drinking buddies there wasn’t but one thing his daughter was good at. Said I could shoot the eyes off a fox. And that gives you another fact. I coulda hit something a heap worse than Alfred’s shoulder, if I’d a mind to.”

I gazed around at the broken furniture, the bare walls, the emptiness. Then I looked back at the woman sitting across from me. She was right. Now I had the facts. But the truth? The truth went right past facts and into people—people with as much going on inside of them as I had going on inside of me. “How did you know my dad would keep your secret?”

Her lips parted, revealing a missing tooth I hadn’t noticed before. “He’s a good man, your daddy. Fine as I’ve come across.”

So now what? I had the facts. But this truth, this secret, didn’t belong to me.

I made my way to the door, but my fingers wouldn’t turn the knob. Mrs. Kinney had confessed. She’d really and truly shot her husband. I’d thought that once it was all out, I could move on. But it wasn’t as easy as that. I couldn’t tell how I felt now that her secret was open between us. I suspected it would take me a long time to figure that one out.

I turned back. “Mrs. Kinney?”

Her head was bowed. A shaft of light squeezed through the window and landed on the toe of her worn shoe, the same shoe my mom would have called sensible.

“Jack’s coming by for me at nine tomorrow,” I said. “If you’d like to go to Hamilton’s first-ever Steam and Gas Engine Show, we could take you.”

Jack arrived a few minutes before nine. He looked great in the role of Jesse James, with chaps, cowboy shirt, boots, and hat. Donna had even managed to get him a gun belt with fake pistols and an old bank bag from the Gallatin bank. Jesse and his brother Frank had robbed that bank without much success—no money, just worthless banknotes.

“Not bad, Tree.” Gentleman Jesse eyed my costume as I slid into the front seat.

“At least I didn’t rob anybody.” I had to admit that I liked my yellow prairie dress, though I suspected I’d resent the long sleeves and full skirt before the day ended. “Eileen’s waiting for Butch. But we need to make another stop.”

I didn’t tell Jack about Mrs. Kinney’s confession. He didn’t ask. He just carried her baskets and helped her into Fred. She’d dressed like usual, but her long black dress fit right in.

“Have you ever seen Hamilton so packed?” I asked when we hit Main Street. Most of the people were wearing prairie
costumes. Some rode horses. Others drove ancient cars. Merchants had items set out for show or sale all up and down the sidewalk. A steady waft of gas fumes blew in from the fairgrounds.