Liar's Bench (21 page)

“Oh, hon, I know you are.”

“I'm missing her something fierce. Never dreamed she wouldn't be here for my graduating year. We would've gone shopping in the city for my school stuff this week.” She'd already bought me these new Levi's. I ran my hand over the rip in my jeans.

ThommaLyn gave me a tight embrace and sniffled. “You know my mama would love to take you to buy your school supplies and new clothes, Muddy.”

“Shopping?” For a second I was tempted to tell her that Bobby had asked me to the prom. To ask her about dress shopping. But if the words fell, would I risk jinxing it? Especially here on Liar's Bench . . . it just might gobble them up . . .

She patted my back. “You should come on over to supper tonight. Let Mama put some ointment on that knee 'fore it gets infected.”

“Bobby gave me some. And thanks, but I can't come over tonight. I promised to hang with Bobby.” I pulled away.

“I just hate to leave you like this. . . .”

“I'll be okay. Bobby's here,” I insisted. “And Mayfly sounds cool for this weekend. I'll call you tonight.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Her brother gave a short horn blast and motioned to his sister. ThommaLyn whipped her head around and glared back a warning.

We both rose. I felt better already. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my jeans and rocked lightly on the balls of my sneakers.

“Bring a swimsuit and don't forget a cute outfit,” she suggested in typical ThommaLyn fashion. “That way Mama can take us to the city to shop after we're done boating. We need to get P.E. uniforms—oh, have you made up your mind about track?”

“Think I'm gonna quit,” I answered, running my eyes down the length of my legs. “Like I told you, two years of dealing with Coach Grider is 'bout all I can take—him always yelling, calling me clumsy, making fun of us girls.”

“Polecat.” ThommaLyn's voice soured.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, but right after you left to visit your aunt in Nashville, Grider called a meeting on the football field. He had the gall to tell us we needed to sew aprons onto our running shorts. Said it right in front of the cheerleaders and the football team.”

“Peckerhead!” she puffed.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “Everyone laughed, even some of the runners on our team, especially WallaceAnn and Carole. Then WallaceAnn and Carole said they were gonna ask our Home Ec teacher if we could actually sew the aprons. And put the school's letters on them in pink.”

ThommaLyn frowned. “Just heard last night that Carole's not coming back to school. . . .” She cupped her hand over her belly and slid it up and down.

I thought about the pills tucked inside my dresser. “That makes three we've lost this year.”

“Well,” ThommaLyn said, “always knew a box of rocks is smarter than those two. Carole'll be sewing that pink onto bibs now.”

I shook my head, wishing it weren't so. Carole's daddy was junk-yard-dog mean, her mama already ball 'n' chained with a litter of small kids. I reminded myself to take her a package to help with the draw checks.

“Grider's such an ornery cuss,” ThommaLyn went on. “Just yesterday, I heard him bellyaching in the Top Hat Café about how teed he was when the principal told him the government passed Title Nine and—”

“Yup, President Nixon signed it, but Jesus Christ himself could lay signature across the mighty Ohio River and Grider would still find a way to drown it. He's a joke. And I'm tired of fighting Coach Grider by myself. I'm through.”

“Bummer. You've won trophies for track; I always thought you'd get a scholarship, maybe have a shot at the Olympics someday.”

“Coach Hall over in Mallardsburg said that, too.”

“He should know, he's the best!”

“Yeah, but I dunno if I care about it anymore. And the trophies . . . well, I never said anything, and don't you either, but Daddy bought 'em for me and the other girls,” I said, cheeks heating. “He picked them up in a Nashville pawnshop after Grider said no to using the athletic money on girls.”

“Bastard!” ThommaLyn growled.

“Grider keeps saying he isn't gonna allow the silly-minded females to dry up the boys' funds.” I shook my head. “And it's the
girls'
cake-baking sales that raise money for sports in the first place.”

“Well, hon,” ThommaLyn soothed, “ya know you don't need that damn track scholarship anyway. With grades like yours, I'm sure you'll get others. Everyone knows you're gonna be valedictorian.”

One of ThommaLyn's brothers hung his head out the window and bleated her name. She flicked her hand over her shoulder, shushing him.

She nodded. “Okay, Mayfly Lake, we're on. Cool! I'll tell Mama. And glad to see you have Bobby around. I'll talk with you tomorrow and you can fill me in.” She tugged knowingly at the sleeve of my borrowed T-shirt and turned to leave.

I couldn't keep it in any longer, my one piece of happy news. I decided to take my chances with jinxing it—I just had to tell her. I took two big steps away from Liar's Bench for insurance. “ThommaLyn, wait!” I motioned for her.

She rushed back to my side. “What?”

I cupped my hand and whispered into her ear, “Remember that prom dress I fell in love with at White's department store last year? The one you insisted that I try on?”

ThommaLyn's eyes popped wide. She bobbed her head.

“Well, I'd like to go shopping for one just like it.”

ThommaLyn opened her mouth and glanced at Bobby out of the corner of her eye.

“That's right, ThommaLyn.” I dropped my whisper to barely a buzz. “I'll need help on deciding which color
prom
dress would look best for the senior prom.
My
prom.” I wanted to clap out the word in a cheer; instead, I lazied my speech. “Now, I'm a'thinkin', ThommaLyn, a warm honey, a peony pink, or maybe a soft jade?” Then I quickly placed my hand over her mouth and cut off what I knew would be an ear-splitting squeal. She grabbed me in a bear hug and danced us around in a circle until we were both drunk with giggles.

“I knew that boy would have a slow hand,” ThommaLyn teased.

Her brothers called out, complaining of the heat. I nodded to her to go ahead.

Happy, she slipped up behind Bobby and tapped his shoulder. “We're going boating this weekend, Bobby Marshall. Maybe you'd like to come along?” Then she climbed into the Nova, leaned out the window, and yelled a very winded, “Yeeeeeee-haw!”

I laughed.

“Don't forget. Mayfly Lake,” she shouted as they pulled off, her hand waving until the car disappeared around the corner of Main Street.

“What's ThommaLyn hooting about?” Bobby rested his arm over my shoulder.

“Just . . . shopping.”

“Shopping?”

“Yup.”

Puzzled, he shook his head. “I'm running over to Peck's for a soda. Need anything?”

“Nah, I'm good.”

“Be right back.” He gave me a loud smooch.

I plopped down on the bench and watched as he jaywalked across the street, then disappeared into the pool hall. Wisps of smoke and a jukebox's streaming honky-tonk seeped out.

After a few minutes, I spotted Gladydoo Mitcham, the seventy-five-year old organist over at United Methodist Church, my day brightening from seeing her and from the chat with ThommaLyn.

Mrs. Mitcham strolled out of Ginny's Bloom Up n' Dye beauty salon, her blue-rinsed hair nicely coiffed, complementing her electric-blue eyes but clashing with the long purple duster she wore. Still, her signature cherub smile made her look like the tree-top angel that Mayor McKinney put atop the store-bought pine in front of the courthouse every Christmas. She fumbled with her pocketbook, dropping her green-striped parasol.

Bobby stepped out of Peck's and stopped to pick it up for her. Mrs. Mitcham caught my eye, and I waved. She blew me back a kiss and winked, turning to chat with Bobby.

Smiling, I rested my elbows on my knees, remembering the long powdery-purple dressing gown, the one of Mama's that she'd given me to make into a play dress. I'd worn it to play in the cave with ThommaLyn. I thought about Jessum riding Daddy out to Penitentiary Hole on a tractor, and how he must have looked. I'd have to show Bobby the hole someday.

It had been years, possibly ten or more, since I'd played in that cave. An opening no bigger than six feet tall and maybe eight feet wide with a trail in about twenty-five feet, Penitentiary Hole had been declared “off-limits” by Daddy, who said it was crumbly and too dangerous. But before that, Mama had helped me bury a small time capsule inside. What and where exactly, I couldn't remember. It was so long ago. And the old cave was probably serving as a coyote den by now. Last year, while he was mending the fence row, Daddy saw a coyote carrying one of its pups out of the hole.

Bobby sprinted across the street and flopped down beside me. He pressed his hand over mine, stilling my speedy thumb, which had been sweeping across my fingertips like a cuckoo clock's hand gone cartoon crazy. I felt my cheeks take on a shine.

“That Mrs. Mitcham sure is a firecracker.” Bobby laughed and shook his head. He set his Dr. Pepper between us, opened a box of Cracker Jacks, and shoveled a handful into his mouth. “Want some?”

“She could flirt the slippers right off a Gethsemani monk.” I grinned, taking the Cracker Jacks. I poured a few of the molasses clusters into my hand and passed the box back to Bobby. “Thanks.”

“The jail's still locked and I noticed that Jingles's car is gone,” he said, munching away. “One of the guys in Peck's said he thought Jingles and his deputy ran over to Millwheat on a tip about stolen cars.”

“Damn.”

“Besides shopping, what'd ThommaLyn have to say?”

“Nothing much, just that Daddy had called to say he's running into Nashville today. Probably working on one of his cases. Guess we could head out to the homestead for a bit. Jingles might be a while if he's off in Millwheat,” I said, crunching out my words with a mouthful of nuts and popcorn.

Bobby rattled the box of Cracker Jacks, pulled out the sticky prize, and handed it to me. He tossed back the remaining candy clusters.

I ripped open the small red-and-white-striped package and laughed at the Lucky Star wishing game—a card made into a tiny pinball game, covered with a plastic bubble. I rattled it, and watched the copper ball roll into the starred-shape YES, then bounce back and slide into the NO slot.

“Make a wish.” I shoved the toy in front of him and wriggled it back and forth.

“I wish . . . I'd gotten a super-duper decoder ring instead,” he pouted.

“Um, it's NO!” I chuckled. I tilted the toy sideways and studied the words:
Yes, No, Yes, No.
“Hey, when I was little, I'd always make a wish upon a star before bedtime prayers. Grammy Essie had this quote she liked: ‘A prayer in its simplest definition is merely a wish turned Godward.' Phillips Brooks, I think.”

I hoped that was true, because lately it seemed like my prayers for Mama were ricocheting—my wishes fading like a star's final wink before dawn. I could only pray that I would keep the one I'd made about Bobby. I traced the word
Lucky
on the card.

“What's your wish, Mudas Elizabeth Summers?”

“Hmmm . . . I wish—”

Bobby jumped up. The Dr. Pepper fell to the sidewalk and shattered apart—its toothy glass neck rolling into the street. Dropping the toy, I looked up to see a silver Mercedes crawling toward us—McGee's. Manly Carter, a man Daddy had put away for a short stint a few years back, sat shotgun, sneering out the passenger window.

“Let's book, Mudas! McGee's looking for that rooster invoice. We're not safe here,
anywhere,
until we find Sheriff or your dad. Let's go find your dad!”

Panic rooted me to the bench.

Bobby grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me toward the street. He shot McGee the bird as we hotfooted it behind his car, then slammed his fist down on the Mercedes's trunk.

We barreled past to cross to the courthouse commons, and I looked back and glimpsed my Lucky Star prize being lifted off Liar's Bench by a gust of wind, my wish tossed like litter into the street. I glared at McGee and his beefy passenger.

Bobby hopped into the Mustang while I dug inside my pockets for the key.

“C'mon, c'mon.” He smacked the passenger door twice.

I fumbled with the key. Finally, I managed to grasp it and fling open the driver's side door, throwing myself into the seat. With an unsteady hand, I turned the ignition. The radio blared “American Woman.” The car lurched forward twice and died. Trying again, I took a breath and eased off the clutch. The car jerked out onto Main Street.

“Knobmole Hill! Get us to Knobmole Hill!” Bobby rasped. “Then we can make it across to your homestead. He won't dare come onto your dad's land!”

“But, Bobby—”

“We have to find your dad. He's the prosecutor—he'll know what to do!”

“Okay, okay!” I tightened my hold on the steering wheel. Looking into the rearview, I spied McGee's car making a U-turn at Liar's Bench. “It'll be okay, you'll see,” Bobby reassured me as I glanced back again. McGee's tires crushed my Cracker Jack prayers.

W
e rode without talking for several minutes, Bobby and I each locked in our own thoughts. Mine, occupied by attempts to bolster my courage, but getting crowded out by fear and worries.

The radio kicked off and on, alternately blaring melody and static. Bobby thumped the dash to change the station and an announcer called out Thursday's weather: “Hot and sunny.” My clothes seemed to melt into my skin.

We whizzed past Gib McBride's cornfield and tobacco barn, and rounded a sharp bend. I hit a straight stretch and snuck a peek in the rearview mirror. “McGee's still behind us, Bobby.”

“With a 289 under this hood, we can haul ass and leave McGee eating exhaust.” Bobby's worried eyes met mine, his hands gripping the dash. “Keep it tight, Mudas, Satan's Corner is up ahead.”

“Tryin'.”

“Lean in a little tighter. C'mon, you can do it!”

I felt my forehead bead up with sweat. I was sure I could put some distance between us and McGee if I kept my speed on Satan's Corner. I pulled into the inside of the curve, putting all my strength in my hands and wrists. If I could just hold it and come out tight and straight, maybe we'd lose them. We were almost out of the curve, when the front left tire hit something—a rock, or a branch, maybe—and the wheel jerked, loosening my hands. Puffs of dust kicked up on the right. A hubcap flew off, hula-hooping toward the shoulder. Both of my tires squealed and the wheel wobbled uselessly in my hands. I could feel the pony slipping sideways. I turned the wheel against the slide, trying to straighten out, and the whole rear whipped back—too hard and too fast. I fought to straighten out the car's fishtail course.

Bobby yelled out, “It's Satan's Corner! Ease up on the gas!”

The car straightened, and it hit me: In our haste to get out of town, I hadn't put on my lap belt. What a fool! I reached behind me, groping for the belt, but I couldn't find it and the wheel was growing unsteady in my hand. I returned my other hand to the wheel, giving up on the belt, resigned to my stupidity. Through a haze of fright, I made my way up narrow Knobmole Hill. I could feel the car gaining speed and was almost to the top of the hill when I stole another glimpse behind us. McGee's car veered around Satan's Corner. Brakes hissed and swirls of dirt plumed from the Mercedes. Then I lost sight of their car.

“Easy, easy . . .” Bobby urged.

He looked over his shoulder. “I can't see them. Maybe they ran off the shoulder.”

My thoughts were tangled, images of Mama and Daddy flitting in and out. I thought of Mama and Genevieve sitting in my car, just eight days ago. “You got yourself a powerful pony . . . always wear your lap belt, sugar,” she'd cautioned.

Desperately I fumbled again for the seat belt and managed to snatch it up. I pulled it across my waist, but it failed to connect. As I struggled, the car crested a hill and the rear wheels made a different sound—not grinding, just whipping. My pony had gone airborne.

“Whoa—” Both my hands gripped the skinny steering wheel harder, my nails digging into my palms. “Hang on!”

Bobby hissed through his teeth.

“Oh—” My brain did the math right fast, but came up short on time and distance.

For a quivering second, a flash of Bobby's kiss streamed across my mind like an airplane's trailing banner.

My stomach flipped, then grabbed my throat as the Mustang dropped and bottomed out too hard on the blacktop. The car jostled me like a Tilt-A-Whirl. My head bounced off the steering wheel, hard, blinding me for a second. The sound of Bobby's head smacking the dash broke through the roaring in my ears.

Metal screeched from the pony's underside, and tires squealed and hissed. My foot took on a mind of its own, slamming hard on the brake. I felt myself being squeezed against the door, the pony going in the opposite direction, skidding sideways. The frame tilted back to the right, onto what must've been the side of the road, and kept sliding and sliding.

I leaned against the door, bracing my neck, shoulders, and legs on anything that wasn't moving. But the car kept going and going—down, sideways, and then down some more—until it finally stopped.

I heard a whimper, maybe my own. Smoke rose from the hood, obscuring my vision and stinging my eyes. I tried to think straight.... Out—I had to get out of the car. I fumbled for the latch, pushing and kicking until the door opened. I crawled out, whimpering for Bobby and hearing nothing in response. I scrambled farther away from the car, thinking maybe I could see Bobby if I could just get away from all this smoke. I called for him again, desperate. After a weighty pause, I heard his door crack open, followed by a thud on the far side of the car as he rolled out and hit the ground. I heard him coughing and breathed a sigh of relief. He was okay. Bobby was okay. Safe in that knowledge, I rolled over and let myself drift off into the darkness that beckoned.

Sometime later, I awoke facedown in Kentucky clay, stirred to consciousness by a loud, staticky version of Van Morrison's “Into the Mystic.” I cocked my head, listening. The radio must have kicked itself on in the crash. A guitar strumming, fading into mellifluous notes, a horn laddering into Morrison's bluesy words . . . I sat up, wobbly, and spat out bloodied grit. Pieces of bluegrass and tiny shards of glass plastered my body like decorations on a cake.

I looked around, trying to get my bearings. A thicket of brush and trees obscured Knobmole Hill behind us and a steep drop beckoned a few feet ahead. The car rested upright in a deep rut beside a nearby pine. Peggy sat there, as if mocking me for not wearing my lap belt. “Uh-oh,” I blinked hard. “The muffler's hanging, Daddy's gonna bust.” I looked down at my body. No real blood, just a few pricks here and there from the shattered glass. My head felt like Jell-O.

I let myself fall backward and stared up at the blue summer sky. The ghostly promise of a full Sturgeon moon was already appearing, even though night was still hours away. I blinked and then rolled my head back and forth and raised my hands. “D-d-doet, dooet, doo ah ooo-O-et . . .” I slipped into Morrison's verse and sang softly. My fingers punched the air, orchestrating to the winds. “Doo . . . D-da . . . da-umn right it's to-oo late to stop now-o-o-ow . . .” I lulled myself back into darkness.