Let Me Die in His Footsteps (23 page)

From the truck came a quick blast of the horn, but before Mrs. Ripberger turned to go, she handed me a box, cradling the bottom that had nearly given way.

“Clothes for the little one,” she said, drawing out a thin cotton undershirt that looked as if meant for a doll. “Some is for boys; some, girls.”

As Juna sat at the kitchen table, her hands hanging at her sides so they didn’t happen upon her bulging stomach, I sorted those clothes. We should wash them, I told her. We’ll wait for a sunny day so we can dry them on the line. Some for boys. Some for girls. But I think she’ll be a girl, don’t you? I’m certain of it.

There was plenty of mending to be done among all those tiny clothes—loose bits of lace dangling from a collar, buttons that drooped and needed a stitch or two to tighten them up, snaps that were missing their other half. And as I sorted and folded and stacked the clothes on the kitchen table, I found myself hoping Abraham Pace would see something in Juna’s baby he didn’t like or that worried or frightened him because I wanted Juna’s baby here with me.

Every dream I ever had was gone. Ellis Baine was gone for good. He would never tire of his cavorting and see me and want me. We would never ride off in a train like Joseph Carl once did and live where wheat grew taller than a man. Every dream was gone except for this new dream of mine, the dream of a baby girl living in this house, filling it up with all the sweetness I imagined a little girl brings with her when she comes into the world. We would clean this house and fix this house like we’d never bothered for just ourselves.

We’d break open the walls, put in a window or two. Maybe John Holleran would come back if I asked nice and pretended I never knew a man named Ellis Baine. And the baby would sweeten up Juna. She was softer and rounder and plump in all those places a man does love. She’d keep her sweetness even after the baby came and the softness melted away. The baby girl, who would wear these clothes so tiny they looked to be meant for a doll, would soften up every one of us. She’d soften up our lives, and so I had a new dream for myself.

In the front room, the speck of yellow swells. The glow trembles and grows larger. That’s Juna’s hair falling over one shoulder. She’s leaned over Daddy’s bed. The circle of light grows larger. That’s the curve of Daddy’s back. He has drawn himself up into a ball, his knees bent and pulled up to his chest, his arms probably wrapped around them. Still stroking Daddy’s forehead with one hand, Juna reaches the other toward the lantern. I can’t make out what she’s doing, but because the light keeps growing and its glow keeps spreading, I know she’s turning up the flame. And I know she’s fooling Daddy.

“Now?” Juna says. “Can you see me now?”

A few more sobs turn into a bout of coughing. Juna keeps whispering and stroking Daddy’s head. She’s telling him to quiet himself. She will make things better now. She has bound him to a promise in exchange for his sight.

Every day, before the last drink takes him, Daddy tells us don’t forget my light. Don’t you forget. He’s feared it all his life, waking up in the dark and never seeing light again. The whiskey, it’ll do that to a man. He’s feared it all his life.

Daddy’s coughing and crying and carrying on slow and fade until he’s altogether quiet. The lantern throws as big a light as it’ll throw. Juna keeps stroking Daddy’s head, and in no more than a few minutes’ time, his breathing turns deep and slow. He’s gone on back to sleep. I take my hand off the door and step back in the bedroom, lift up on my toes again, and without once taking my eyes off the closed door, I crawl into bed.

Daddy says it’s because we’re nothing more than animals that we find ourselves shying away from a thing and not wanting to turn our backs on it without knowing why. He’s always saying this is the thing that’ll save God-fearing folks. Instinct, he’s all the time saying. Nothing more than animals. And I think Daddy is right because something in my animal nature is warning me not to turn my back.

1952—ANNIE

WRAPPING HER TWO
hands around the deck of cards so Mama won’t see it, Annie walks back to the car, leaving Ellis Baine alone to fill the hole. Mama slips into the front seat and is staring straight ahead at the folks in the café when Annie opens the back door and climbs in. Mama waits until Annie has pulled her door closed and Caroline has rolled up her window before saying anything.

“What was that?” Mama says.

“Being kind,” Annie says.

Mama swings around in such a fashion that Annie pulls back like she might get slapped even though Mama has never, not once in her life, slapped either of her girls.

“Do not talk smart to me.”

“Wasn’t doing nothing, Mama,” Annie says. She rests both hands in her lap much the way Caroline is all the time doing, except Annie isn’t thinking of fine manners. She’s hiding the cards in her lap.

Grandma said there would be days Annie’s insides would near to spill over. She said yearning and wondering and yearning again would fill her up so full she might want to scream out. But don’t scream, Grandma had said. Take it all in until it reaches the very top of you, and you’ll make room for more.

“I thought I’d help him,” Annie says, not able to still the quiver in her voice. “Asked could I help cover his brother over. He said it was kind. Said I was kind like my mama, kind like you.”

Mama stares at Annie, stares her straight in the eyes. Annie’s black eyes don’t ever give Mama pause. After a long moment, she reaches out as if to touch Annie on the cheek, but she can’t reach, so she drops her hand and pats Annie’s knee instead. Then she turns to Caroline and says, “Let’s get on home.”

As they pass Ellis Baine, he props his shovel at his side. Mama gives him the same polite bow of her head she might give the preacher. They drive home the rest of the way in silence, and whatever is keeping Mama closemouthed, it’s keeping her thoughts otherwise occupied and she doesn’t think to wonder why Caroline, who usually chats nonstop no matter how long the trip, has not said a single word.

It started the day Mrs. Baine was found dead. Something settled on Mama’s shoulders, and it’s been weighing her down ever since. The arrival of Ellis Baine made that load all the heavier. Normally Daddy would be the one to hug Mama, kiss her, stroke her face. He’d insist she let him fix whatever troubled her. Mama would do the same for Daddy. She’d do the same by letting Daddy do the fixing. It makes him happy to be the fixer of things. But Daddy isn’t inclined to fix whatever this is, and without Daddy to help, it is getting the better of Mama. When she pulls into the drive and the sheriff’s car is parked outside their front door, the weight on Mama grows so heavy she can’t, won’t, get out of the car.

“Annie,” Mama says, staring at the back door leading into the kitchen.

She’s going to ask Annie to go inside. Mama’s afraid of what’s in there, and she’s going to send Annie instead. Not Caroline. She knows Caroline would never, could never, do it. But Mama is mistaken. Annie can’t go either. She’s no stronger than Caroline. Mama is mistaken.

The back door opens before Annie can tell Mama no. Grandma walks onto the porch and begins pacing back and forth. Her hair has pulled loose, and strands of it hang down alongside her face. Her apron, normally tied carefully at her waist, is draped over her shoulder, and when it slips off, Grandma takes no notice.

Mama crosses her arms over the steering wheel and buries her face there. Caroline glances back at Annie, having forgotten for the moment that she’s angry.

“I’m sorry, Annie,” Mama says, her head still buried in her arms. “I thought Ellis was here again. Thought he’d come back, but we just left him, didn’t we?” She lets out a laugh that might turn into a cry. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Grandma looks angry, Mama,” Caroline says.

“Don’t you worry about that,” Mama says and throws open her door.

“Is she with you?” Grandma shouts, stepping down to the second stair and shielding her eyes with one hand to get a better look in the car. She limps as she does it, which means she’s angry enough to forget about pretending. “Annie,” she shouts out again. “Is Annie with you?”

“Yes,” Mama says. The panic in Grandma’s voice grabs hold of Mama. She pulls open Annie’s door and yanks her from the car. “Annie’s here. She’s fine.”

“Inside,” Grandma says. The cut on Grandma’s face has healed over, but as she waves an arm at Annie, Mama, and Caroline, she can’t hide the blue bruising on it that only seems to have worsened since the fall. “Inside, the all of you.”

Grandma’s lavender is simmering again, and they all sit around the table—Daddy, the sheriff, and Miss Watson. Grandma is calming them all, which means something has happened. Abraham Pace stands behind Miss Watson, one hand on her shoulder, looking small for the first time in his life.

“She looked just like her,” Miss Watson says, pointing a finger at Annie as she crosses into the kitchen. “I’d have thought it was Annie staring in my windows if I didn’t know better. Was it, Annie? Was it you?”

Annie shakes her head and takes a step backward. Mama wraps an arm around Annie’s shoulder and draws her in tight.

“What’s happened?” Mama says, shifting herself around so she stands between Miss Watson and Annie.

Black smudges frame Miss Watson’s eyes as if she’s been rubbing at them or wiping at them and she’s smeared her eye makeup. Her chest shudders every time she inhales, and her hair has yet to see a comb or brush this morning.

“Then it was Juna I saw,” Miss Watson says, looking up at Abraham. “Even after all these years, I still knew her. Would know her anywhere. She looked just like Annie. Exactly like her.”

“You need to hush that talk,” Abraham says, smoothing a hand over her hair and locking eyes with Daddy.

It’s nearly out for everyone to hear. Miss Watson saying Aunt Juna looks like Annie, exactly like Annie, is as near to the surface as the secret has ever been in this house.

“Says someone was poking around her place last night.” Grandma leans in so she can whisper to Mama. “Says she got a close-up look. Says Juna looked right in her window.”

“You can’t leave me no more, Abey,” Miss Watson says. “Promise you won’t leave me no more.”

Abraham looks around the room, his eyes passing over every one of them. He’s apologizing in that silent way families have of apologizing to one another.

“I won’t leave you. And we’ll be married before you know it. Ain’t that right, Mary?” he says to Grandma, who is watching out the kitchen window and not much listening to Abraham. “Ain’t that right, Sarah? They’re going to see to a perfect day, aren’t you? A perfect day and we’ll be married. Juna ain’t going to ruin that. Ain’t no one going to ruin that.”

“Did you find cigarettes?” Annie asks, pulling away from Mama and stepping up to Miss Watson. “And did she have eyes like mine, as black as mine?”

Miss Watson’s eyes stretch wide. Even small as they are, they stretch open until they look almost like normal eyes. She nods, slow at first and then faster.

“Why is she here, Annie?” Miss Watson says. “What have you done to bring her here?”

“Don’t you ask such a thing of this child,” Grandma says, pushing between Mama and Annie to stand at Annie’s side.

“Please,” Mama says. “Let’s not stir up trouble. It was probably a neighbor, Abigail. Or kids, kids pulling a prank.”

“I’d rather stir up trouble,” Grandma says, “than see something befall this child.”

“Mother,” Daddy says, “you’ve no call to say that.”

“No call to say what?” It’s Caroline. She’s standing at the end of the table, staring at Miss Watson.

“Your Uncle Dale died because I didn’t speak my mind back then,” Grandma says. “Or rather I did speak my mind, but no one cared to listen. I knew that girl was bound to bring heartache, and I’ll not have it happen again.”

Mama takes a backward step.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” Grandma says. “I don’t mean no harm, but I’ll not let you make light of what this girl’s telling us.”

“That’ll be quite enough,” Sheriff Fulkerson says, rubbing his forehead and lifting a hand to Annie so she’ll not answer Miss Watson’s questions. “Let’s not have this get the better of us.”

The men who came from Lexington told Sheriff Fulkerson he was a damn fool for wasting their time. They drove all that way to see what killed a woman old as Mrs. Baine? Old age killed her, they said. No trauma to the head or any other part of her. No bullet hole. No knife wound. No bruises around her neck. Sheriff Fulkerson asked if those men knew of Juna Crowley. They smiled when they said they did and then silenced themselves as if waiting for the sheriff to try to explain how Juna Crowley and the girl who looked just like her had one damn thing to do with this dead old woman. The men would have called Sheriff Fulkerson a damn fool all over again if he had tried to explain. Instead, he said none of those things, and the men from Lexington had patted him on the back and said that folks who grow old have a way of eventually dying.

“John, how about you and I take a drive,” the sheriff says. “Let’s us have a look around Abigail’s place.”

Pushing back from the table, Daddy pulls on his hat. “That all right with you, Abe? Caroline’ll see to Abigail. Take her upstairs, let her clean herself up.”

Abraham nods and pulls out Miss Watson’s chair as she stands. Caroline walks toward the living room and waits there for Miss Watson to join her. As she waits, Caroline keeps her eyes on the floor, won’t look at Annie. She’s remembered about the café and Lizzy Morris and Annie saying she saw Jacob Riddle in that well, and she’s back to being angry.

“Well,” Abraham says, his voice normal again and looking his usual size now that Miss Watson has left the room. “Look at here.”

He lifts one of Annie’s hands, the hand that holds the deck of cards Ellis Baine gave her.

“Here’s that deck I was looking for the other night.”

He takes the cards, tosses them in the air, and catches them one-handed. When Miss Watson was in the room, Abraham had shrunk in on himself, but with her gone, he’s looking happy, expectant, excited even. He’s all of those things because he believes it now for sure. First Annie saw her and now Miss Watson saw her. Aunt Juna is home.

“Thought I lost these,” he says as he tucks the deck in his shirt pocket, leans forward, and shouts after Miss Watson. “See there, Abigail,” he says. “Our luck is turning already. Found them cards we was missing. My lucky deck of cards.”

•   •   •

ALL AFTERNOON, ANNIE’S
been watching for Aunt Juna from the bedroom window, but she sees Ellis Baine instead. She’s high enough to see the whole of the Baines’ place. He walks from his house, across the porch, and over to the well where Annie found his mama. He leans there, not drawing water, not doing anything, or maybe doing everything by standing where Annie can see him. He couldn’t possibly see her staring at him from such a distance, but he turns his head real slow the way a person does when he feels someone watching him, and it would seem he is looking in Annie’s direction. She steps away and presses herself flat against the wall, listening, though not sure what she’s listening for. But he doesn’t know which room is hers, couldn’t possibly know. She steps back where she can see and tries to decide if she’ll tell about the cards.

She spent most of yesterday and all of last night thinking about Abraham Pace and those cards. It means something that they are his, though she doesn’t know what. Ellis Baine will know, but she isn’t altogether sure telling him is something she should do. She’s still deciding when she hears the creaking and whining.

From her other bedroom window, she can also look down on the whole of the drive leading up to the house. She sees Ryce long before he drops his bike at the back porch. He’s here on his lunch hour again, one day after Annie saw Lizzy Morris at the café. Lizzy probably told him all about it last night. Probably told him Annie Holleran was, at the very least, wearing proper undergarments.

After dropping his bike, Ryce unrolls the one pant leg he’s all the time rolling up so it doesn’t get caught in his chain, walks up the stairs, across the porch, and knocks on the back door. Because the screen door doesn’t bounce in its frame and the hook latch doesn’t rattle for being left to hang loose and unhooked, Mama must have locked up tight when she left for town.

“Hello,” Ryce says, his voice drifting up to Annie’s open window. “Mrs. Holleran? Annie?”

Another knock. And then another. He stands at the back door a full five minutes, knocking and calling out. More and more, Ryce favors his daddy, not so much the look of him but in other ways. Ryce is already taller than his daddy and is more lean than stout. He gets that from his mama. He shares something different with his daddy, something subtle and not so altogether easy to name. Certain words he strings together, a way he nods his head while at the same time puckering up his lips, the posture he takes on when standing with his feet planted a shade too wide and his arms crossed.

Folks must see the same in Annie. Those who knew Juna Crowley must see Annie growing into her mama, taking on her ways and inclinations. Annie likely stands in a particular fashion that reminds folks of Juna, probably molds her face into an expression that is so like something Juna once did, must utter some phrase Juna was prone to uttering. Or maybe all that similarity comes from living with a person, soaking up a person, for all of sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen years. Sounding just like his daddy, Ryce keeps calling out, but no one except Annie is home to hear.

Daddy left early to make a run to the lumberyard. He’s picking up wood for cheap to build a few makeshift tables. Grandma is expecting more people than ever to come on Sunday, and late last night she decided they didn’t have enough seating and couldn’t Daddy find a way to give her more. Mama, Caroline, and Grandma went into town with Miss Watson to shop for something new and something blue and to stop her from worrying that Aunt Juna is back to ruin all her plans for a happy life. Annie had told Daddy she would be going to town with Mama and Grandma, and she told Mama and Grandma she’d be going to the lumberyard with Daddy. Everyone believed her, and now she finds herself home alone.