Liar's Bench (17 page)

The old jailhouse—one room with a holding cell and what was once my mama's desk—was locked up tight. Beneath the sign was a sticker saying,
IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY CALL: KENTUCKY STATE POLICE POST
126.

“It must be 'round suppertime,” Bobby said, glancing up at the sun. “I didn't realize how late it'd gotten. Well, Jingles should be home eating. If he doesn't doze off after, he'll be making his rounds at the Dixie Bowl and Ruby's. Maybe sooner if the kids split up and set off firecrackers at each end of town to keep him hopping, and away from the hangouts.”

“I 'spect Jingles hasn't had time to replace Mama. His wife's probably playing receptionist for the time being.” I leaned over the iron railing and pressed my face to the old wrought-iron bars covering the tall, narrow pane of glass, fixing my gaze on Mama's desk. I spied a picture of me and Genevieve, the frame sitting angled beside her big sunglasses, all regular, like she'd just stepped away from her desk. I clamped my hand over my mouth.

“What?” Bobby leaned over my shoulder to peer into the window. “Shit-fire,” he mumbled.

I ran down the steps to Peggy and buried my face in my hands, straining to quiet myself. I felt Bobby touch my shoulder, but then his hand dropped away, like maybe I was made of porcelain, too fragile to touch. I turned to see him staring at the ground, Grammy Essie's “disappearing look” creeping into his eyes.

“Sorry, I . . . I wasn't expecting to see that.” I wiped my eyes, wishing I hadn't, and wishing I'd control what was inside of me that was always wanting out. I gathered up my resolve, and said flatly, “I think you best go, Bobby.”

“Go
where?
” His voice was sharp.

I bit down on my quivering lips, fighting to keep my composure. “Just leave. It would probably be for the best. I think I need to be alone so I can try and work this out—”

“What the hell are you saying, Mudas? You expect me to go? Just shuffle on home after everything that's happened today? Leave you here like a sitting duck for McGee and his bastards?” Before I could protest, he'd opened the passenger door, swept me off my feet, and placed me firmly on the seat, muttering “Hell, no,” about three times under his breath all the while.

“Bobby! What are you doing?”

He leaned into the car. “I'm not about to let you get rid of me, Mudas Summers. Thought you knew me better than that,” he winked. “I intend to make sure you're safe. And I know the perfect place.”

Outwardly, I scowled, ever so slightly miffed at Bobby for being so downright contrary. But inside, I was breathing a big ol' sigh of relief, grateful that he hadn't left me sitting in the middle of Town Square, soaking in my own misery, drowning in abandonment. I couldn't stop a teeny smile from tugging at the corners of my mouth. “All right, Bobby Marshall, we'll do it your way. Where we going?”

“You'll see.”

“Wait, hold on just a minute. I forgot something. Let me go use the phone—I need to call ThommaLyn.” I reached inside and opened the glove box and raked up some change.

“Fine. But you best come back now, ya hear? I've done enough running for one day; last thing I need is to come chasin' after you.”

“I'll be right back,” I promised.

I crossed over to the diner and slipped inside the phone booth. ThommaLyn answered on the first ring. “Hey,” I said, glancing out at Bobby, “I need you to cover for me. . . . No, I'm fine, everything's fine, really. . . . Listen, ThommaLyn, my daddy's probably gonna come looking for me later and I need you to cover for me. . . . Well, we had a big fight and—I actually don't have time to talk right now, I'll explain everything later, I promise.... Yeah, okay. Just promise you'll . . . Okay, thanks.... See ya soon.” Satisfied, I hung up.

Bobby was in the car, waiting for me. I smiled as I slipped back into the passenger seat.

“All right, mister. Where to?”

B
obby drove us toward the outskirts of town. The car filled with the quiet of two people who'd done plenty enough for one day, and the sorting that comes with it. Strange emotions bubbled up inside me. This was the worst time of my life: Mama gone, her memory tarnished, Daddy a stranger, McGee and his henchmen on my tail. But here with Bobby—my cheeks rosy and my heart aflutter—I felt wholly loved and protected, like never before. It was hard to find a middle ground. I wasn't even sure if one existed.

“I think we both need to get some rest,” Bobby interrupted my musings, “so we can think clearly in the morning. We can try to find Sheriff then, okay?” He glanced at my thumb, again flying over each finger.

Basking in his comfort and in ThommaLyn's promise, I slowly tucked my worrying fingers into a fist. “Sleep sounds good.”

Bobby turned onto Nigger Hill Road. “So, where is this mysterious place?” I asked, watching the whir of passing trees as Bobby navigated the car easily up the narrow gravel trails, winding higher and higher up the hilltop.

“Well, like I told you, my Gramps Jessum's got a breezeway you can sleep in. His house is just up here. Real quiet, tucked outta the way. You'll be safe there for the night.”

“Oh, yeah.” He'd told me on Liar's Bench that he had kin living up on Nigger Hill, but I hadn't put two and two together. I wasn't so sure that this was a good idea. I
had
been up here before, but, then again, I'd never actually gotten out of the car.

“This okay with you?” Bobby asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Of course.” Still, I couldn't help but worry. What would Daddy say if he found out? Worse, what if word spread and the Klan came looking for us? I'd never forgive myself if somebody hurt Bobby or his gramps on my account.

“It'll be cool,” he said, as if he'd Polaroid'ed my thoughts. “You'll be safe here, Mudas, I promise.”

I leaned my head slightly out the window and inhaled deeply. Honeysuckle and wild onion perfumed the cool air. The song of the katydids swelled and waned, an ongoing cycle. From farther up the hill, I could hear the tickle of a fiddle climb up, up, up, and descend slowly back down. A harmonica leaped in to join the fading strings, colorful and sweet. The barking of dogs and the laughter of children echoed through the small hillside community. Dark pines cooled, cradling tiny homes. This hill comforted me, distilled all my troubled thoughts and fears, and soon, I felt my mind slipping into a cool and placid place, and then trail into a warmer one with thoughts of Bobby.

Bobby turned onto a dirt drive in front of a tiny house with a wooden porch and an old swing that hung from sagging eaves. The home was bordered by a worn but freshly painted white picket fence. He parked under a sugar maple and grabbed the Mason jar and journal from the backseat.

Stepping out cautiously, I took notice of the mimosa trees scattered around the yard, their feathery puffs of pink blossoms crayoned against the white clapboard. Clumps of daisies bordered the porch. Nearby, a snowball bush showed off its sky-blue blossoms, and pink ladies skirted high around a chipped, concrete swan. We crossed through a latticed arched gate with trails of crimson rose blooms and ivy clinging roly-poly snug to the white slats.

An old man in faded trousers opened the screen door, his eyes narrowed, studying on his visitors. Then he flashed a wide, toothy grin in recognition and motioned us up onto the porch, his dark skin glowing from the heat of the evening. Bobby led me up the wooden steps.

“Mudas, meet my gramps, Jessum Crow. Gramps, this is my friend, Mudas Summers.”

Bobby's gramps set aside his cane and clasped my hand in a friendly squeeze. “Pleasure, Miz Summers.” He tipped his head and a smile rippled across weathered, map-lined lips, stretching wide, and then settling comfortably into the corners of his mouth.

“Hi,” I mumbled, feeling my face slowly warm from shyness.

“Have a seat, chil'. Here, Bobby, grab Miz Summers a seat on the porch where it's cool. And fetch her a glass of sweet tea. There's a bucket of fresh ice chips in the cold box.”

“Mudas. Please call me Mudas, sir.”

Bobby pulled up a wooden rocker for me.

“How was Boston, Bobby?” his gramps asked, settling into the swing.

“Great, Gramps.” He bent over and gave the old man a hug. “I'll tell you all about it later. Be right back with that sweet tea.” He ducked inside the house, leaving me and Gramps Jessum smiling awkwardly at each other. I fidgeted with my hands, inspecting my ragged, dirty nails.

“Uh-huh,” Jessum drawled. “Uh-huh, fine Wednesday evenin' for fine company.” His amber eyes beamed bright.

“Yessir.” I stared longingly at a wooden washstand perched against the porch wall beside me. A white ceramic bowl and a jug bearing lilac flowers sat on top of it, while an embroidered hand towel and bar of soap cozied nearby. A small mirror hung above the stand. I couldn't wait to get myself cleaned up.

“Yore daddy, Adam Persis Summers,” Bobby's gramps stated matter-of-factly.

“Uh, yessir, that's my daddy.”

“Be fine to call me Jessum, chil',” he invited. Leaning back, he tucked the toes of his worn leather oxfords under the swing, lifted his feet, settling into a soft rock.

“You know my daddy?”

“Known Adam since he was wearing the cloth.” Jessum raised his hands cradle-like, swooping back and forth. “A fine boy, a finer man. Hmm-mmm,” he hummed. “An' his mama, Miz Essie, lawsy, wasn't a finer soul on this sweet earth, 'ceptn' my angel, Sara, God rest her soul. Me an' my missus used to go over to the Summers Homestead to look after Adam when the folks went down to Nashville. Lawd, he was wearing the cloth, just a tiny little thing back then, yore daddy was.” He lifted his hands again and held them maybe a foot wide. I laughed to think of my Daddy so little, so young. It was hard to imagine. “My Sara passed through the gates shortly after Miz Essie,” Jessum said, standing.

“I'm so sorry. . . .” I paused as Bobby came through the door, handing me a jelly jar full of sweet tea. I sipped it slowly, savoring the flavor. “Bobby, you didn't tell me that your grammy babysat my daddy.”

“Never knew,” he said, looking up at his gramps in surprise.

“Uh-huh,” Jessum said. “Used to ride him 'round on the tractor in yore backfield. He always loved to stop and play in that ol' Penitentiary Hole.”

“ThommaLyn and I used to play in that cave,” I laughed, twisting to Bobby. “That's what they called it. Daddy said his great-grandparents allowed it to be used as a safe haven. Grammy Essie even had this old picture from the 1800s. It's of a small group of slaves standing at the entrance of the cave. Really neat.” I blushed. “I mean, a neat piece of history, that is.”

“That's cool having your own piece of history in your backyard,” Bobby said.

“You knew my Grammy Essie, too?” I looked at Jessum. I couldn't imagine her as a young person either. Somehow I had a feeling she'd always been wise beyond her years. “What was she like when she was younger?” I ventured.

Jessum picked up a glass of water sitting on a stool fashioned from a log and walked over to a hanging basket of leggy, peppermint-swirled petunias. After pinching off a few spent flowers, he slowly watered the plant.

“Miz Essie looked a lot like you, chil'. She was a good mama, too. Toted baby Adam everywhere. Worked hard at the library. When Adam got bigger, he helped her stack the books there. And, on Saturdays, he'd carry books up to the hill here for our youngin's and our sickly elders. Gave us all those books and them books take us to places we couldn't ever go. ‘Travelin', Adam said.' ” Jessum spread his arms. “Every Saturday morn'. Adam never missed one that I knew of, even when he went to high school. Toting all those heavy books up an' down this big ol' hill. Uh-huh. . . . Miz Essie—a fine, thoughtful lady—raised a fine, thoughtful son. Mmm-hmm.” He set the empty glass down and seated himself back onto the swing.

I never knew this about Daddy. A day of wonders. For a moment, I closed my eyes, picturing Daddy toting a big bag of books, just like Santa Claus. Spreading Christmas joy and knowledge to the people of this hill each and every Saturday, in the rain, sunshine, and snow. And my heart was happy and proud—and suddenly a bit lonely for a hug from him, a little mad at myself.

“Gramps, you mind if I take Mudas inside?”

“You chil'un' go on ahead.” Jessum hiked his arm up on the swing's chain and rocked.

Bobby held open the door as I stepped into a one-room home. The walls were clean, whitewashed a robin's-egg blue. A huge potbelly stove hugged a corner of the room. Pine floors gleamed. A cot, neatly made with a coverlet, nestled near the wall under an open window. Breezes trailed through lace curtains and an old box fan's whirl cooled the room. On the opposite wall, flashes of sunlight bounced off glass whatnots and canning jars on a shelf hanging above a narrow window. An enamel sink with a ruffled bottom curtain stood beneath. Next to the sink, a small wooden table with four mismatched chairs, all neatly tucked under, held a Mason jar full of crimson roses.

Bobby walked over to the stove and opened its heavy door. The heavenly scent of hoecakes laced with onion bits rode the warm breeze, nearly causing me to sway. Bobby flashed a wicked grin, and then crooked his finger, motioning for me to come closer. He lifted the lid off a simmering cast-iron pot that brimmed with mixed beans, onion, a sprinkling of red-hot peppers, and a huge meaty ham hock.

“Smells divine,” I said, turning to Bobby. Sunbeams dropped warm rays across his face. His eyes rested hungrily on my lips, leaving me with a different and greater hunger.

The porch swing creaked and the moment was lost, swiftly magpie'd away.

He shifted his gaze to the door, and said softly, “Guess I'll set the table.”

I nodded. “Let me help.”

Bobby pulled down dishes and grabbed silverware from the drawer.

“Here,” I said, opening my hands. “Why don't I take these and you can go out and visit with your gramps. I'm sure he's missed you. You two can catch up on your trip to Boston.”

Bobby nodded appreciatively. “Thanks. With my truck battery busted, I haven't had time.”

I stacked the dishes and silver in the drain dry, but not until I took my time washing my face and hands in the sink. I stirred the soup for a few minutes. Then I wiped down the table and set it. I poked my head out the screen door and signaled to Bobby. They joined me inside.

Bobby pulled out a chair for me. I snuck a peek at Jessum, suddenly self-conscious. But if Bobby had told him anything about McGee, Rooster Run, the journal, or Frannie, Jessum didn't let on. He padded around with a contented smile.

More than once, I found myself drawn to the old man. His face was cut strong, his color, more light brown than dark. It was obvious that he'd been a startlingly attractive young man, and time had been gracious with him. I wondered if Jessum got his looks from his grammy, Frannie Crow. Wondered how he'd feel about Mistress Anderson's old journal, her confession. I suspected it would all be taken with ease—the gift that comes with age.

Jessum placed two cups of coffee on the table. Then, humming, he shuffled over to the stove, returning with a huge bowl of bean soup that he set in front of me. Smiling, he moved leisurely back to the stove, filling two more bowls for Bobby and himself, and placing them on the table.

Bobby jumped up to help. I heard the thump of the metal stove door and my stomach growled back in response. The smell of buttery hoecakes wafted heavenly, filling my nostrils.

I spooned up the thick bean soup, eating every last drop. Bobby drained the juice from his second bowl before taking two large hunks of sweet bread from the basket, complimenting Jessum's cooking after each swallow.

The bread was heavy and sweet, hitting the spot. Full, I forced myself back from the table and raised my hands. “Delicious, Jessum. Thank you for having me.”

A smile blossomed on Jessum's face. He lifted a mug of steaming coffee to his lips and blew lightly. “Fetch yourself some dessert up on the shelf above the dish dry, chil'. Mighty good bonbons that Widow Brown brought back from her visit with family in Savannah last week. Mmm-hmm! Mighty nice of the widow to think of ol' Jessum, while she was down there laying Mr. Brown to rest.” He took a long sip.

“Oh, no,” I lamented. “I'm sorry.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Jessum set his coffee onto the table. “Peoples talkin', sayin' jus' a matter of time 'fore the moonshine an' cigarettes would kill ol' Billy Brown. Uh-huh, yessum. Always had the thirst of a willow root, an' smoked like the ol' Owl Runner freight train, that one did. Uh-huh, his light plumb snuffed, near to the exact day 'fore his ninetieth birthday candles took spark. So, chil'un, best eat all yore bonbons 'fore the candles can spark.” He winked. Then Jessum and Bobby exchanged secret smiles.

I looked back and forth at the two of them. Bobby began to hum a teasing rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Jessum kicked it up a notch, singing the words in a rich timbre. Their voices slowed and blended together in a thick, gravelly, charmed harmony. My eyes filled at their kindness, the bigness of their hearts.

When they finished, I was struck by an overwhelming spasm of homesickness for home. And a family that didn't exist anymore. I dabbed the corners of my eyes with my napkin. “Thank you, thanks so much for the wishes.” I smiled gratefully, and jumped up and hugged Jessum.

Jessum winked. “Look for the brightest star tonight and toss your wish to the heavens.”