Crooked River: A Novel (13 page)

It felt good to feel the earth pushing back against my feet, to suck great gulps of air into my lungs, to crash and stomp and blaze a path through the brush. The pillowcase thumped against my back and every few steps I stumbled over a loose rock or a piece of wood sticking up from the dirt, but I didn’t fall, I didn’t slow down. The bee flew. I ran.

She stuck close to Crooked River for about a half mile, and it was easy enough to follow her. The shoreline south of my swimming hole flattened out, the river itself widening, the current slowing. Grass swished around my ankles. A flock of small birds exploded from a clump of cattails.

I’d explored this part of the river before, and there was still a ways to go before Zeb’s property ended and somebody else’s began. I didn’t think the bee would go much farther now, and I was starting to get excited, imagining what it would be like to find a wild hive. It would be in a tree hollow or a rotten log or maybe even inside a cave, tucked under the rock eaves. Once I got close enough I’d start to see more bees, maybe even hear them humming. And I wondered if they’d sound the same as Bear’s bees—comfortable, soothing, cheerful—or if the wild buzz would be more frenzied, more hurried, rushing and angry. And Bear. I pictured the look on his face when I told him how I’d tracked a bee all the way from our part of the river to wherever. Elated, grinning, proud.

I thought,
I have to be getting close now,
and glanced at the tree line. And that’s when I lost sight of the bee.

You have to pay attention. Time and time again, Bear had told me this. You have to keep your head up and your eyes wide open.

I stopped running and twisted my head around, scanning the air, the sky, the trees, every possible place, but she was gone. Vanished in the blink of an eye. I kicked at a rock. It skittered away from me and splashed into the river.

The sun inched higher. I had an hour, maybe, before Zeb and Franny and Ollie got back from church. I was close to the service road where Bear said he’d found the jean jacket. If I followed it to Lambert Road, I could get back to the farm faster and easier than backtracking through the trees and meadow. I continued upriver a few yards, following the curve of the shoreline, kicking stones and thrashing at weeds with a broken stick. Finally, I reached a break in the brush, a place where the trees thinned.

This service road—rutted, packed dirt, grass growing down the center—was similar to the one that ran between the meadow and Zeb and Franny’s barn, but instead of ending miles from the river, this road ran straight up to the water’s edge. Maybe there used to be a bridge here, or a shallow place to ford. I looked across to the other side, where the trees grew thick and right up close to the shore. Didn’t seem to me like a good place to cross. The water was too high, the current too swift.

A few feet downriver was a small island, a heaped mess of boulders, grass, and spindly trees that would never grow much taller than my waist. Debris collected against one end, limbs and leaves tangling, and it was here that the sun kept catching on something, glinting gold and reflecting into my eyes.

I took off my shoes and socks and set them with the pillowcase on a nearby rock. I rolled my pant legs up to my knees and waded into the shallows. The current wrestled me, threatening to pull me off my feet and drag me under. I leaned forward, pushing against it and wading deeper. When I reached the island, my pants were soaked through. So was the hem of my shirt. The river rushed around my waist, pressing me up against the rocks. I grabbed onto a sturdy-looking branch jutting out from the tangle of debris and held on tight with one hand. With the other, I reached for what I could now see was a necklace caught on a twig.

My fingers clasped the charm first. I tugged gently, but the necklace didn’t budge. I wiggled the chain back and forth and, at the same time, pulled. The necklace slipped off the twig, and I curled my fist around it.

I turned, pushed off the island, and splashed through the churning water back to shore. In the shallows, my feet slipped across the algae-covered stones covering the bottom of the riverbed. I steadied myself and clambered to dry land.

Water dripped from my pants and shirt, dampening the sand around my feet. I opened my hand and brought the necklace close to my face. The chain was gold and simple, and a round pendant dangled from it, a dark stone set in an intricately patterned base. I recognized the shape of it and the etchings around the stone, could see now that they were snakes, not vines like I’d thought when I saw this same necklace in the newspaper. This same pendant hanging around Taylor Bellweather’s neck.

I snapped my head up and searched the woods behind me. I’d gotten that feeling, the kind where your skin crawls and a shiver runs up your spine and you think you’re being watched. No one was here with me but the wind and the trees and a forest full of birds.

I stared at the necklace again. The clasp was broken and a bit of mud was caught in between the stone and the setting, but it was hers. Definitely hers. And because of that, I looked around and started to notice other things.

Tire tracks in the mud ran from the road down to the water and then out again. Clean and pressed deep, they hadn’t had a chance to crust over yet or get worn down by wind and rain. They were only a few days old, if that. And here, up next to one of the tracks, so close I almost mistook it for a tire tread, a single, perfect boot print. Bigger than any shoe I’d ever worn, with a waffle iron pattern and a logo that wasn’t familiar to me, but seemed distinct enough to mean something.

Here was evidence. New evidence. Evidence that would prove Bear’s innocence. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. I put the necklace in my pocket where it would be safe. Then I dug around in the pillowcase for the sketchpad and a pencil. I sat down in the dirt beside the boot print, turned to a blank page, and started to draw.

16
ollie

T
he waitress asks, “Just the two of you?”

My sister, nodding, says yes, even though there are two of us and two Shimmering.

The waitress, whose sparkle-blue name tag reads Belinda, takes menus from a box near the cash register and leads us to a booth. I slide in on one side, my sister slides in on the other. The one from the river and the one who follows me break apart in the bright sunlight coming through the naked window. They float like dust around us, brushing arms, cheeks, lips. Never settling.

Belinda lays the menus down in front of us. “Special’s meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Kids’ menu’s on the back.” She leaves us alone to decide.

Patti’s is crowded for a Monday, and people are watching us. Those two men at the bar. That woman and her husband sharing a stack of pancakes. Those three gray-haired ladies who all look the same. They whisper behind their hands the way they did at church, but their voices are not soft enough today and I hear things like “poor girls,” “arrested,” “always suspected,” “monster.”

My sister clears her throat too loudly and shifts her body. The vinyl bench squeaks. She says, “Do you know what you want?”

I point at the grilled cheese sandwich that comes with a bowl of tomato soup. Comfort food because it’s what Mom would have made me on a day like today. She would have cupped my face in her hands, kissed the tip of my nose, and said, “It’s okay to be sad sometimes.”

A bright speck floats close to my face. I wave her away.

She is not my mother because my mother is dead. And yet she is my mother. I have seen her face in the dark. We are stuck between hello and good-bye, here and gone.

Belinda comes back to our table holding a notepad and pencil. “So what’ll it be, girls?”

My sister gives our order, and Belinda goes away again. When she returns with two glasses of water, my sister starts to ask a question. “I was wondering . . .” But then she stops and shakes her head, glances out the window, and chews on her bottom lip. As Belinda is leaving, my sister says, “Can I get some coffee, please?”

Belinda brings a brown mug to the table and pours coffee from a half-full pot.

My sister slips her hand into her front shirt pocket, then clears her throat and speaks in a too-loud voice, the way she does when she’s trying to convince people she’s older than she really is. “So, that woman they found . . . what’s the word on that? Any new developments?”

Belinda draws the coffeepot close to her chest and holds it there with both hands. She watches us with thin-slit eyes. A bead of water slides down the outside of my glass. I catch the drop on the tip of my finger before it reaches the table and touch it to my lips.

It’s a good question, but not the right one.

The silence worries my sister.

One hand is still in her pocket, clutching something I can’t see, but the other is picking at the corner of her napkin, tearing away tiny pieces. She stammers, “I mean . . . since you get a lot of people coming through here . . . in and out . . . talking . . . I just . . . I thought . . . I thought maybe you’d know . . .”

“Do you want cream, honey?” Belinda asks.

My sister shakes her head quickly and grabs a sugar packet from a small container at the edge of the table. “No, thanks. This is good.”

And then we are alone again, and I want to tell her that she’s doing the best she can and to keep trying. We can’t give up. Not now. Not ever.

Not until we prove the truth.

She takes a sip of coffee, makes a face, and pushes her cup away. She stares out the window, and when the sunlight hits her, that’s when I know something is different. Something has changed. It’s her: clenching and unclenching her jaw, drumming her fingers against the tabletop. But it’s also the one from the river: coiling and uncoiling, trembling the air between us. Both of them, all nerves and racing pulse.

My sister has found something. Something important.

Something that changes everything.

17
sam

W
e went to Patti’s because that’s where Deputy Santos usually came for lunch when she was out on patrol. Today, though, her favorite booth was occupied by someone I didn’t know. I was about to march right back out the door and straight to her house then, but Ollie was holding her stomach and staring at the pies in the glass case so hard I thought her eyes would pop. Early this morning Detective Talbert had called and asked Zeb to bring the truck in as soon as he could. For processing. Ollie and I hitched a ride with him under false pretenses of going to the public library a few blocks away. The plan was to meet in front of the diner at three. We still had a few hours yet, so I didn’t see the harm in getting a booth and ordering lunch first.

I touched my hand to the pocket of my flannel shirt, checking for the thousandth time that the necklace was still there, that I hadn’t imagined everything.

Yesterday, the second I got back to Zeb and Franny’s, I’d zipped the necklace into a plastic bag for safekeeping and tucked the bag inside my pocket. I didn’t tell Ollie about it because I didn’t want to get her hopes up. And I didn’t tell Zeb and Franny because they already had enough to worry about. I did call Deputy Santos, though, as soon as I could, but she didn’t answer. That’s when I decided to take the necklace and sketches to her in person. All the rest of yesterday and this morning, too, when we were eating breakfast and getting ready and even when Ollie and I went out to feed the chickens, every minute, every second, I kept the necklace with me, safe and secure. Once I gave it to Deputy Santos and showed her the boot print, it could only be a matter of time before they let Bear go free.

I looked around the diner, surprised at how many people were here. Nearly all the tables and booths were full, and the room was loud with laughter and gossip and coffee being poured, utensils clinking on plates. I paid particular attention to the men, their hands and feet especially. Most of them wore sneakers or dress shoes, but a few had on boots, and from where I sat they all seemed to be about the right size.

One of the men glanced over his shoulder at the exact same second I was staring at his broad torso and thick neck, staring and thinking how Taylor Bellweather would have been like a matchstick in his hands. Our eyes locked. I blinked but didn’t look away. I recognized him now, his receding hairline and hooked nose, the way his mouth was always turned up at the corners even though nothing was funny, his tiny dark eyes sinking too close together.

My second summer staying with Bear, Franny came to the meadow the Sunday after I got there and told me to change into something nice because she was taking me to church. She said it was about time I felt the fear of God in my life. I told her I didn’t believe in God, but if I did, I wouldn’t be afraid of him. She told me I was going to church even if she had to drag me there. And then she said I was right, it wasn’t God I needed to fear. I was shorter then, by a lot, so much smaller and younger, and Pastor Mike Freshour seemed to me a terrible giant. Leaning over the pulpit to get closer to the congregation, he near bent double. He clutched the sides and, as his words reached a crescendo, he bore down, white knuckled, and I remember being afraid that he would snap the sturdy wooden platform into a thousand tiny splinters. I don’t remember what he preached about, but I do remember running outside as fast as I could after the final Amen, desperate for air that didn’t reek of hellfire.

He was still staring at me, and now he took a napkin from his table and dabbed at his mouth. His hands were bigger than I remembered, all knuckles and sinew. I’d only gone back to Franny’s church a few times since that first time—whenever I was visiting Bear and Franny got it in her head that my soul again needed saving—but Pastor Mike was looking at me like we were old friends, like he was about to get up and come over here and say something.

I looked away from him quickly, focusing all my attention on Ollie instead. She was staring out the window. Her fingers tapped against the cover of her
Alice
book lying on the table between us. She must have felt me watching her, because her fingers stopped moving and she turned her head and our eyes met. I smiled at her, trying to be reassuring.
We’ll be all right
.
I’ve figured out a way to fix this
.

The corners of her mouth twitched a little, and I thought I might get her to smile, but then her eyes shifted focus to something behind me, and her mouth drooped, her frown intensifying. I turned to look.

Travis, untying his grease-stained apron, approached our table. He didn’t smile when he said, “Surprised to see you here today.”

It felt strange being this close, seeing him now, going on with life as usual after leaving things so unfinished by the river. Even though it felt like an eternity had passed, it had only been three days since our almost kiss, since we ceased being acquaintances who barely said two words in passing and had become something else I didn’t yet know how to define.

“I guess you’ve heard about Bear?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yeah, it’s all anyone’s talking about.”

I pulled my coffee cup closer, wrapping both hands around it, wishing I’d said yes when Belinda asked if I wanted cream. Bear always drank his coffee with just a single spoon of sugar stirred in—that was still too bitter for me.

Travis cleared his throat. “You know it’s in the papers, right?”

“It is?”

He held up a finger—
wait
—and left our booth, dodging between tables to the front counter, where he plucked a newspaper from a wire stand near the register. He returned and laid the folded paper down in front of me. Bear’s mug shot took up the top half of the front page. He looked startled, half crazy, and his beard reminded me of a tangled nest of barbed wire. The headline in bold and all caps read
WILD MAN FRANK “BEA
R” MCALISTER ARRESTE
D AS PRIME SUSPECT IN LOCAL MURDER.

I turned the front page facedown on the table without reading the article. Ollie grabbed for it. I tried to slide it away to keep her from seeing, but she pulled the newspaper from my grasp and flipped it over again.

I sagged against the vinyl bench. “They arrested the wrong person, you know.”

“This whole thing. It sucks,” Travis said, twisting his apron in his hands. “Really sucks. But they wouldn’t have arrested him if they didn’t have proof.”

“What proof?”

Travis shrugged. “I don’t know, but they must have something.”

Ollie started to kick her feet against the bottom of the bench. I glared at her, but she just kept kicking.
Thump! Thump! Thump!

I said, “Yeah, well, I’ve got something, too.”

Travis stopped twisting his apron. Underneath the table, Ollie kicked my shin.

I yelped and pulled my leg out of reach. “What was that for?”

She blinked at me, but stayed silent.

I shrugged at Travis, said, “Sisters,” and then immediately wished I could take it back. I started to apologize, but stopped, shaking my head, motioning him closer to me instead.

“I found something by the river,” I said. “Evidence that proves Bear’s innocent.”

“Sam . . .” Travis drew out my name too long. He thought I was making it up.

“No, really. I’ll show you.” I started to reach into my pocket for the sketches I’d made of the boot print and tire tracks, for the necklace safe in its plastic bag.

Ollie lifted a straw to her mouth and blew. A spitball flew fast from the end and struck Travis’s forehead. Hard.

He took a step back, rubbing his brow. “What the hell?”

“Ollie!”

The straw came up again. Ollie puffed out her cheeks.

“Stop it!” I lunged across the table and grabbed her arm.

She pulled away from me and shot another spitball. Travis ducked, and it flew harmlessly past his shoulder.

I caught Ollie’s arm and yanked the straw from her fingers. “Apologize.”

She turned her face to the window.

I said it again: “Ollie. Tell Travis you’re sorry.”

She ignored me.

Travis touched my shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“She knows better.”

Travis shrugged. “She’s just a kid.” He glanced behind him at the swinging kitchen door like he’d heard someone calling his name. “Listen, I gotta get back to work. You staying with Zeb and Franny?”

I nodded.

“Maybe I’ll come by after my shift is over. You can show me what you found?”

“Yeah. Sure. If you want.” I tried another sip of coffee. It was lukewarm now and tasted even more disgusting than my first sip.

When Travis was gone, I turned to scold Ollie, but she was smiling, just barely—a hint there at the corners of her mouth—and I decided to let the whole thing go.

Our waitress came with food a few minutes later. She set plates down in front of us and then stood beside our booth for a stretched-out moment, tapping her pencil against the palm of her hand. She was a heavyset woman and every time she took a breath, she wheezed a little. Her bottle-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her dark roots starting to show.

I pulled my plate closer.

Belinda stopped tapping her pencil. She said, “You should be careful who you talk to about that woman.”

Ollie’s spoon clinked against the side of her bowl.

Belinda continued, “There are a lot of folks around here that don’t like your daddy and this whole situation, his arrest . . . well, it has them even more riled up than before.”

“He didn’t—” But she wouldn’t let me finish.

“Now. I like you girls. And I liked your mama. And even though I probably shouldn’t, I’m going to tell you what I remember, but you keep it to yourselves, you hear? Don’t go telling anyone I told you or I could get in some real trouble.” She waited until Ollie and I both nodded, promising our silence, and then she said, “As far as I can remember, that poor girl came in here two nights in a row. Saturday and Sunday. Sat right over there. Same booth both times. Ordered meat loaf the first night and a club sandwich, hold the fries, the second. Drank a lot of coffee. Two pots’ worth, easy. Each night. And she was writing on something, always had her hand going. When she wasn’t writing, she was flipping through a stack of old newspaper articles.”

“Did she talk to anybody?” I asked.

Belinda scratched behind her ear with her pencil. “Well, she asked me if I knew anything about your daddy.”

“And?”

“And I told her I didn’t know any more than what those articles in front of her said.”

The
Bulletin
had run some features about Bear when he first set up camp in the meadow. They praised his return to the land and quest for a minimalist life. Some even compared him to Henry David Thoreau. After he set up his hives, there were a few more articles about his honey business and how to care for bees, but the last article I knew about had been published over four years ago, and I didn’t see any good reason why Taylor Bellweather would have come all the way from Eugene to write about someone as uninteresting as Bear.

“Was there anyone else she talked to?” I asked. “Maybe someone she seemed uncomfortable around? Someone she didn’t seem very happy to see?”

“I know what you’re getting at, and no. There was no one like that.” Belinda shifted all her weight onto one foot. “Though, now that I think about it, I did see her talking to Pastor Mike. That second night she was here. But it wasn’t for very long and she was smiling at him the whole time, so stop looking like that because he didn’t have anything to do with this.”

I leaned closer to her. “Did you hear what they were talking about?”

Belinda scowled at me and dropped her pencil into the front pocket of her apron. “Wasn’t any of my business then, and it’s none of your business now.”

“It is,” I said, pushing the newspaper, Bear’s mug shot facing up, across the table to her. “Now it is.”

She sighed and her expression softened. “I know he’s your daddy and all. And I know you love him. And maybe he didn’t have anything to do with all this. Maybe he didn’t do a damn thing wrong. But maybe he did, and all I’m saying is you’ve got to be careful. Sometimes when you think you’re looking straight at something, you’re really looking at it sideways.” She rapped her knuckles twice on the table, then smiled at Ollie and said, “Eat up, sweetheart, before your soup gets cold.”

As she moved away from us, I had a clear view of the table where Pastor Mike had been sitting. His chair was pushed back and empty. His plate of food, abandoned.

O
utside it was so hot our shoes stuck to the pavement.

“Hurry up,” I said to Ollie, but she didn’t walk any faster.

The sun was bold and the asphalt mean. My T-shirt was damp, clinging to my skin.

“Ollie, let’s go!”

She had stopped in front of the Attic and was staring through the front window at the toy monkey. I grabbed her hand and tried to pull her away. Ollie shook me off and crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to leave.

“Please, Ollie. It’s important.”

I’d called the number on Deputy Santos’s business card before we left Patti’s. No one answered. I didn’t have her home phone number, but she didn’t live that far from here, about a mile give or take, on the north end of town in a cul-de-sac near the fire station. It would take us maybe twenty minutes to walk there, and twenty to walk back. Plus, if Deputy Santos was home, I’d need at least a half hour to show her everything I’d found and ask her what she was going to do about it, forty-five minutes because she might need convincing. If we wanted to be back in time to meet Zeb, we had to hurry.