Liar's Bench (4 page)

I
rested my head against the porch beam with a pound of regrets slowly monkey-wrenching my brain—wishing I hadn't left Mama at Tommy's doorstep yesterday and wishing I'd let Daddy drop me off at the homestead this afternoon instead of insisting on going to the crime scene with him.

Daddy was still in the car, his head stuck to the steering wheel with his arms cradling his head. I watched from the porch, worrying for him, wanting him to be strong. I felt panic claw at my throat. “Hey,” I finally managed to blurt out, “it's hot out here. Coming?”

“Give me a minute,” he croaked.

I studied him sitting there in my birthday present, hugging the Mustang's steering wheel, and was reminded of another birthday, my sixth. I'd fallen asleep on the porch swing, watching and waiting for him to come home from work to celebrate. Mama's face had soured a bit more with each tick of the clock. My small birthday cake sat unsliced, the lard icing cementing around the six unlit purple candles. When Daddy came dragging in after midnight, his fine clothes rumpled like morning pajamas, she'd screamed at him about his “floozy.” The same floozy I'd tattled to her about a year before: the judge's pretty daughter, the one I'd caught kissing Daddy on the lips when I'd charged into his office after school to show off my latest drawing. Daddy'd shooed me out, but the very next day I'd told Mama that “the pretty lady loved Daddy, too.” I'll never forget the look in her eyes: a strange blend of grief, anger, and then the vindication that came after she'd poured herself a refreshment.

Maybe if I'd kept my big five-year-old mouth shut about what I'd seen, they would still be together. Maybe Mama would still be alive.

Again, I hollered from the porch, “C'mon, Daddy.” I saw a flash of something metal in his hands and I squinted and craned my neck, suddenly nervous that he was sneaking a drink in the car. It had been years since I'd hidden his flask, and I wasn't eager to revisit the last time. Four years ago, Daddy'd bumbled a case after spending most of the weekend glued to a bottle. When the main witness Daddy was supposed to meet after Sunday church fled on account of Daddy was hung over and forgot to show up, I heard Daddy curse loud enough to shake the dirt off a field crow. It wasn't that Daddy had missed a witness meeting, it was without that witness and the telltale ball cap the witness had seen the rapist wearing, Daddy had no case.

The rapist walked, and it wasn't a week later when he found another ten-year-old over in Mallardsburg and had his way with her, leaving her broken-boned and laid up in the hospital. Word got around about Daddy missing his meeting, and folks did some sideway talking when he was out of earshot.

When Daddy went to visit the Mallardsburg girl in the hospital, he took along a big cutting of Grammy Essie's blue hydrangeas and a fistful of field daisies. That night after he got home, I watched him bust all his whiskey bottles against the side of the barn. I took the silver flask from inside his jacket and ran and buried it under the front porch. He hadn't tried to claim it or buy another bottle since.

“Daddy, come in and have some tea. Too hot out here to be sitting in a car.”

He straightened and I saw it was only the car keys in his hand. “Coming,” he called back. Relieved, a ragged breath whisked past my lips. The rage I'd unloaded at the crime scene had left me drained and I didn't have the energy to fight any more battles. I grabbed the doorjamb for support and shot one final glance over my shoulder.

When I saw his foot hit the gravel drive, I slipped into the house, letting the screen door bang behind me, and made my way up the narrow stairs. I was suddenly desperate for my bed. My flip-flops smacked against hundred-year-old hardwoods as I hurried down the hall to my room and flung myself onto the mattress. Balling up Grammy Essie's old chenille coverlet in my fist, I pressed it to my forehead and kneaded my thoughts. After a while, I turned over on my side and studied the small picture frame on the nightstand. It was a Polaroid snapshot of me, four years old and sitting on Mama's lap in the middle of Daddy's big ol' sunflower field. Our eternal smiles, bright as the huge golden flowers that seemed to have tilted to blow petal-kisses down upon us. I fell asleep, drawn into a maze of sunflower fields, both beautiful and terrifying.

Sometime later, I managed to pull myself out of my deep sleep and answer the knocks at my door. “Baby,” Daddy said softly, “come on down and let me fix you supper.”

I bolted up and checked the alarm clock. “Why didn't you wake me? It's after five.” I slipped on my flip-flops. “Not hungry, but I'll start your supper.”

He held his hand up and slowly shifted his weight to the other leg. “I can fire the grill. You take a break.”

I knew he had an old knee injury from his school days. It'd been acting up more in the last years, though he never talked about it, just let his fingers worry it a lot when sitting.

“I don't mind,” I said, patting his shoulder as I moved past him. “I thawed out chops this morning. It won't take long to fry 'em up for you.” I hurried down the steps, needing to do something routine to feel normal.

I went into the kitchen and put on the apron that was hanging on the tack beside the back door. I fumbled with the apron strings. For a second my head felt weighted as I tried to complete the simple task of tying the knot. Then I realized my footsteps had mimicked Mama's yesterday. My grip weakened, my fingers stopped working, and the apron slipped to the floor.

Thrilled to show Mama the birthday present, and my superb driving skills, I rushed over to her house yesterday (probably a little faster than Daddy would've liked) and was surprised to find a silver Mercedes sitting in her drive.

After knocking softly on the door so I wouldn't wake up a passed-out Tommy, I waited. When I didn't get a response, I edged open the door and peeked inside.

Genevieve was asleep in her playpen. Careful to not let the screen door clap, I stepped in and crossed the living room to go check on my baby half sister. She lay sprawled out with a faded pink blanket snugged under her chin. I couldn't help feeling a little resentment that she had Mama all to herself and whenever she wanted. That she'd never have to call to make an appointment, or sneak around to see her. But, again, at the price of Tommy . . . I sighed and placed a fold of blanket over her little chubby leg and smiled down at her face. Then I heard a sharp smack in the kitchen. I stood abruptly, frozen. Surely Mama would've called if Tommy was awake.

Genevieve rolled over on her stomach, snoring softly. I took off my flip-flops, my wide bell-bottom jeans swish-swashing as I padded over to the kitchen's wooden French door.

I placed my hands lightly on the door and leaned in to listen. A man spoke in an angry whisper, his words flying fast. “Ella,” he hissed, “as a banker's daughter, you damn well know your numbers. I'm tired of waiting for that Rooster Run ledger.”

A murmur leaked past the door.

“Ella, no more excuses! You best get my ledger tidied and back to me real quick,” the man said. “And, if I find out you're lying, stashing away one red cent of Rooster Run's money, my money, you'll have more to worry about than a couple of little red marks—”

Muffled exchanges. Then, another sharp slap.

The man said, “I've been putting up with you moonlighting over at that clown sheriff's office, but don't you go forgetting who butters your bread. And if you're wondering who has the biggest—”

“Put that gun away, Roy, please,” Mama whispered.

“I do,” he growled.

My legs jellied.

Heated whispers.

The kitchen door flew open; the hard smack of wood against my forehead, watering my eyes. I stumbled back, surprised to see Roy McGee standing inches from me. He was a handsome man dressed in fine clothes, not the dirtbag I'd been expecting from what I'd just heard.

“Mr. McGee,” I sputtered, lowering my gaze to the floor, “I . . . uh, I came to call on Mama.” I raised my head and met cold blue eyes. “I didn't mean . . .”

McGee glared like an old barn cat, disturbed from its catch. I tried to look away, but he hooked his thumb under my chin and squeezed hard. “Better put some ice on that noggin, looks like you've got yourself a snooper-scrape, and a goose egg popping up. You know what happens to snoops, don't you, gal?”

“Let her go, Roy!” Mama begged, close on McGee's heels.

McGee's eyes never left mine. “Get my numbers, Ella.”

“Roy, please go.”

He turned to Mama, lifted a lock of hair that clung to her breast, and stroked. Mama grimaced and looked away. He gave a sharp tug, before slipping out the door.

We stood there in the living room staring at each other for what seemed like forever, the baby's soft breath the only sound.

The wind blew the door shut and the baby let out a cord of hiccupped snorts. I carefully touched my forehead and, sure enough, felt the tenderness of a bump.

Mama moved in quick, leading me by the arm into the kitchen. She set me down at the Formica table. Digging into the side pocket of her floral sundress, she pulled out a rubber band and swept her long chestnut curls up into a tight bun. She wouldn't meet my eyes, but I could see that hers were damp, troubled, as if a storm had pulled up the ocean's depth.

“Here, Mudas, before we get started”—she shifted her eyes and quickly patted her side for another rubber band—“let's ponytail your hair. It's such a hot day. My, it's grown at least two inches this summer, and, oh, look at those honey highlights the sun's brought out. Beautiful!”

I took the band and twirled it between my fingers. “Mama?”

Silence.

Somewhere near Knobmole Hill the whistle of an afternoon train broke the stillness, its steady
click-clack
echoing over wooden cross ties.

“Mama, what's going on with—”

“Sugar, let me get you an ice pack.” She opened the freezer and got out a dented aluminum ice tray, dumping its contents into an empty bread bag and handing it to me.

“Mama?”

“Oh, aspirin! I should get you some aspirin. And a Band-Aid. There's a tiny cut on your head.” She rummaged through a kitchen drawer and pulled out a packet of Goody's Powder.

“Mama, I don't need aspirin powders or bandages. I'm worried about you. And where's Tommy?”

“Let me get the water—”

“No, Mama, talk to me.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Is Tommy here?”

She lowered herself into the chair next to mine. “Tommy woke up earlier than usual and took a ride over to his cousin's in Dayre County. We have all day to visit, sweetheart.” I grinned a little, and for a moment pushed aside the worry that had settled deep in me. “And, sugar, before I forget, we need to get your back-to-school shopping done. Are you going to need a track uniform this year?”

“No, I don't think so.” I sighed. “Mama, why was Mr. McGee—”

“Why not? Is it because of that coach?” she back-burnered Mr. McGee.

“Sort of. Coach Grider says us girls embarrass him and it ain't right for females to play sports. He's angry about that new law being passed.”

“I'm not surprised. I expected him to fight the Title Nine. Your daddy and me can come to school and have a talk with the principal.”

“No, don't. It's fine.”

“Somebody needs to set that coach straight!”

“Mama, don't go to Coach. Please don't.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, shaking her head. “But, remember, you're letting him win. It's your right! You can best that coach's boys any day. . . . Be happy to talk to Coach Grider—”

“No, Mama. Please. The last thing I need is you or Daddy going over there and making a fuss and—”

She held up a hand. “All right, Mudas. Just keep up your good grades. You can practice track on your own, sugar. Once you girls get into college there'll be a lot more opportunities, you'll see. By the way, are you and your girlfriends planning on going to the State Fair?”

Friend. Singular. “ThommaLyn's mama said she'd drive us. We're supposed to meet up soon and make plans.”

“Will Mrs. Green be taking a carload?”

I brushed my toe over the curling linoleum and shrugged, embarrassed. I couldn't even imagine what it'd be like having more than one friend, a carload of girls to share in all the fun. I'd come close to something like that in my freshman year when Charlotte Moss had told me to join her during lunch at her popular table when school started up again. For over two weeks, I'd lie in bed each night worrying up the most fidgetiness of Freddie Fidgets. Getting my clothes ready for my first day. Practicing things to say—and how I'd act at that table. I'd fretted one year of shine off my pine boards and at least an inch of glaze from my mirror. It didn't work. I quickly found out that she was one of those friends who'd accept you and reject you between a screen door's closing clap.