The Past Is Never Page 5

  “You kids know better than to poke around like this. I can’t do nothing for you.”

  It was a mistake to come. Even if Uncle Chester knew Daddy’s whereabouts, he wasn’t likely to share any information. He and Daddy had a way of doing things that didn’t take other people into account. That was why Daddy felt justified in coming and going without ever considering our feelings. I hated them both for a moment. I figured we’d leave, head over to Granny Clem’s and have a piece of lemon pound cake, but Willet wasn’t so easily deterred.

  “Maybe you heard about Pansy,” he said. “She’s gone missing.”

  “I heard you two lost her.” Chester sounded amused.

  “Someone took her,” Willet said. “Do you have any idea who might want to take her?”

  Chester lit another cigarette. My eyes stung from the smoke. It was everything I could do to stand there and keep breathing.

  “You two were mighty careless with that little girl.” He took a long drag off the cigarette. Willet tensed up, and I thought he might throw a punch.

  “Our mother is a mess,” I said. “She’s worried half to death. We need to find Pansy.”

  Chester leaned forward, snorted, and wiped his mouth again with the dirty T-shirt. “That woman was always soft,” he said. “I warned Earl not to marry her.”

  Uncle Chester didn’t care for most people. He didn’t seem to care much for himself, and his views on marriage and family were anything but generous. Still, it seemed a hard slight to warn our father against marrying our mother. After all, we were standing in front of him, his niece and his nephew, the products of that marriage. And Mama and Daddy loved each other.

  They did.

  Daddy spent too much time away, it’s true, but Mama was always happy to see him when he came home. Now I realize her happiness might have been relief. What would we do if Daddy never came home? How would we live? For all Daddy’s criminal activity and lack of steadiness, he provided for our family. Whatever else he was doing on the road, he was earning money and he brought the cash home to Mama. That’s a kind of love.

  “You sonofabitch,” Willet said. “You know something, don’t you?”

  Chester grinned again; his stained teeth glowed. “What could I know? What could I possibly know about a goddamned thing?”

  “Please,” I said. “Just tell us how to find Daddy. Or call him and ask him to come home. Can’t you do that much?” I was begging and I wasn’t proud of it. Desperate times. “If he knew about Pansy he’d come right home. I know he would.”

  Chester leaned toward me in a menacing way. “What makes you think so?” He sounded genuinely curious. “What makes you think Earl doesn’t already know everything? What makes you think that little girl ain’t better off wherever she is now? What makes you think your Daddy gives a damn about any of this?”

  “Maybe he’ll give a damn when the police track him down,” Willet said. “Maybe you’ll be a little more cooperative when the police question you.”

  Chester stood and grabbed Willet around the neck with both hands. The cigarette dangled from between his lips, and he exhaled smoke into Willet’s face. “Boy, I know you got better sense than to threaten me with the law.”

  “Let him go,” I said. “We won’t say anything.”

  “Sure we will.” Willet’s voice strained. He squinted against the cloud of smoke swirling from Chester’s rotten mouth but he kept talking. “The police are at our house every day, and you are a damn fool if you think they won’t make their way here. They’re already asking questions about our father. They’re already looking for him. How long do you think it’ll take before they uncover your little counterfeiting business?”

  Chester kept a strong grip on Willet’s throat and both were enveloped in a thick cloud of smoke, so I don’t know how my brother was able to make such a speech, but it seemed nothing would stop him. I noticed a hunting rifle propped behind a pile of old papers. It was out of Chester’s reach, but barely. What would we do if he went for it? Was it the only gun? Unlikely. Who knew how many weapons were concealed in the mess of the trailer?

  “Look at this place. You think they won’t find your printing supplies? You figure they won’t uncover your phony bills?”

  “You’re just as sorry as your Daddy said.” Chester squeezed Willet’s throat. “A coward who won’t never be a man.” My brother wheezed and struggled. My stomach hurt and my pulse thumped too fast. Somehow in my panic, though, my brain was clear. I sidestepped toward the hunting rifle. Chester didn’t seem to notice I’d moved.

  “I got no interest in becoming a man like you,” Willet squeaked. His face turned purple.

  I took a half step to my left, a half step closer to the rifle. It was possible the rifle wasn’t loaded, but not likely. Chester was not the type of man who’d be cautious about gun safety.

  “I’d be doing Earl a favor if I slit your throat right now.”

  I noticed the knife on his belt. It wasn’t particularly large, but I figured he knew how to use it. I couldn’t stand there and watch my uncle kill my brother. I lunged for the rifle, grabbing it at the barrel from behind a stack of trash. I managed to slide my grip down and get it propped against my shoulder. I pointed it at Chester, but my arms shook. It was heavier than I expected and longer. I put my finger on the trigger. One thing Daddy taught me early was to never aim a gun I wasn’t prepared to shoot. He’d said it in the context of hunting deer and squirrel, but I could see how it applied to this situation. If I showed any hesitation, Chester would have the advantage.

  “Bert,” Willet croaked. “Don’t.”

  “Let him go,” I said.

  Chester released his grip on Willet’s neck. He laughed. “That gun ain’t hardly worth holding, little sister. It don’t fire but every third pull. Only reason it’s out is I was trying to fix it.”

  “Maybe it’ll fire, maybe it won’t.” I worked to sound steady, though my arms and shoulders ached and my heart drummed heavy in my chest. “Should we find out?”

  Chester took a step back from Willet, who rubbed his throat with his hands. “All right. We’re done here,” Chester said. “No one needs killing today.”

  “Bert,” Willet said. “Put the gun down. It’s okay.”

  I wanted to put it down but I couldn’t seem to release the cold steel. My hands became claws. I leaned back to counter the weight of the rifle. If I loosened my grip, I knew I’d fall right over.

  Willet came to my rescue. He put his hands under mine and lifted the rifle just enough to take all the weight. I relaxed and stepped away.

  “That little girl’s got twice the balls you do,” Chester said. He wheezed out a thin laugh, lit another cigarette. “Y’all get on out of here now.”

  “We’re not done,” Willet said.

  “No,” Chester said, “I reckon you ain’t done, but you done all you can today. Next time I speak with Earl, I’ll tell him you came in for a visit. How’s that?”

  We left Chester there in the hazy blue stench of his trailer. When the flimsy door shut behind us, and we were standing again on natural ground, Willet reached out and pulled me in tight. “You okay?”

  I couldn’t let myself cry, though I knew it would be a relief. “I’m all right.”

  He let me go and my legs gave out. I sat down on the hard ground with a thump.

  Willet crouched down beside me. “Get up, Bert.”

  “You know, I don’t think I can,” I told him. “My legs quit working.”

  Willet lugged me to standing. He kept a strong grip on me and pretty much dragged me toward the brick house. My legs felt useless as a rag doll’s, but I made a show of trying to step steady.

  Inside the house, Granny Clem brought me a glass of cold lemonade and a thick slice of yellow cake. Her house was neat as a pin and laundry fresh. Granny Clem wore long sacklike cotton dresses and pulled her gray hair into a tight bun on the back of her head. Coarse hairs sprouted from a mole on her upper lip and a web of fine lines snaked out
around her eyes and lips, but anyone could see how beautiful she’d once been. She didn’t hunch over like some old people. She never hesitated to step on a ladder. She was small, but not fragile.

  “You kids ought not bother Chester,” she said. “He’s not quite right.”

  “What makes him that way?” I asked.

  Willet shushed me.

  Granny Clem patted my shoulder. “He was born that way, baby. Born in violent times and in violent circumstances. Some men overcome that and others sink into it.”

  She sat across from us in a polished wood rocking chair.

  “Have you heard from him?” Willet set his plate on the coffee table.

  Granny Clem clasped her hands in her lap and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I had.”

  “He has Pansy,” Willet said. “Or he knows who does.”

  Granny Clem rocked forward and locked eyes with Willet. “I know Earl would never hurt your sister. He loves her. He loves you all.”

  “Then why won’t he come home?” I asked. “Mama needs him.”

  “I can’t say why your father does what he does, but I know he believes he is doing the right thing by you.”

  “The right thing?” Willet’s voice rose. “He ain’t hardly ever home. How is that the right thing?”

  “Not everything in this world is simple,” Granny Clem said. “In fact, almost nothing is. You might not understand your father’s ways, but you shouldn’t doubt his intentions. He is doing the best he can for you and your mother.” Granny Clem paused and rocked hard for a few seconds. She looked at Willet and then at me. “How was that cake, baby?”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “We didn’t come here for cake,” Willet said.

  “I know that,” Granny Clem said. “I wish I had some answers for you. I wish I knew where to find your father. I wish I could tell you what happened to your sister. But you all knew better than to swim in that quarry. I know your Daddy taught you better than that.”

  “Daddy says the quarry is cursed,” I said.

  Granny Clem closed her eyes, like she couldn’t bear to look at me. “Terrible things have happened there. Ungodly things. Your father knows.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Willet said. “Curses ain’t real. They’re just some nonsense made up to scare people. And I don’t believe in the Devil. I know men can be evil, but it ain’t some plot of land that makes ’em so.”

  Granny Clem opened her eyes. “What you believe or don’t believe won’t change the facts. Your father warned you to stay away from the quarry and for good reason. Look what happened.”

  “It’s all our fault.” My hands shook and I felt lightheaded from the guilt or from too much sugar.

  “No,” Granny Clem said. “I’m not blaming you, but you need to see that there are things in this world beyond your understanding. You can’t dismiss something just because you can’t see it.”

  “Like God,” I said.

  “Like the Devil,” Granny Clem said.

  “There’s no Devil,” Willet said. “I ain’t convinced God is real, but I know there’s no Devil.”

  I wasn’t sure what I believed, but I’d seen something in those woods and I thought it might have been the Devil. I couldn’t talk about such things with my brother, because he only trusted something if he could see it with his eyes or hold it in his hands.

  Granny Clem said, “The Devil is real, all right. You just have to learn how to recognize him. He’s not some horned beast with glowing eyes. He looks like you and like me and like anyone he chooses.“

  “Let’s get out of here, Bert,” Willet said. “I can’t listen to no more of this.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave. Even with all the talk of curses and the Devil, I liked being in Granny Clem’s house. I liked listening to her talk. The things she said made sense to me. It was comforting to be with someone who could believe in so many things.

  Granny Clem stood with us at the door. She took my hand. “This was not your fault.” she said. “Do you understand?”

  I nodded, though I didn’t believe her.

  “I’ll stop by for a visit soon. Tell your mother to call me if she needs anything.”

  Outside, as we climbed on to the motorbike, I said, “Willet, what if she’s right?”

  “There ain’t no such thing as a curse, Bert. People want to blame something other than themselves when bad shit happens.”

  I wasn’t sure what to believe. All those stories we’d heard from Daddy and from Granny Clem, stories about evil rising up from the quarry; we’d always dismissed those stories as silly rumors, no more real than the fairy tales we read in books. But what if we were wrong? What then?

  AS A BOY HE’D liked nothing better than listening to the stories of women. He liked the way their voices spilled out in whispers or in laughter. He liked the way they told the same stories again and again. His mother had told him painful stories, hard to hear and hard to tell but necessary, like draining poison from a wound. Sometimes he eavesdropped, but mostly he paid attention. If he stayed silent and still, there was nothing they wouldn’t say in front of him.

  When Clementine was fifteen years old, her mother fell ill. She said she was only tired, but Clementine could see it was more than ordinary tiredness. They’d spent the weekend canning hull peas and snap beans and tomatoes. Hot miserable work, but work her mother did every year. If Clementine lived to be a hundred, she couldn’t eat all the food her mother stored. Her mother said there could never be enough food. Hunger always comes, she told her daughter. When Clementine’s father came home that night, coated as always in the gray dust from his job at the quarry, he fetched the doctor. They could hardly afford the fee, but they remembered the influenza epidemic of a few years earlier. They knew the danger of letting illness fester.

  The doctor said he’d heard of similar cases, an illness that affected only women. He called it the “Sleepy Sickness.” He said Clementine’s mother would either rise up in a week or so, or she would sink deeper into the sickness and would sleep her way to death. He knew of no cure or treatment. Every day Clementine brought her mother clear broths and tea and coaxed her to swallow a few mouthfuls. It was difficult, because her mother kept falling asleep with the warm liquid in her mouth. It would spill out her slack lips and drip over her cheeks and her neck. Clementine wiped her with a damp cloth and begged her to open her eyes, but her mother seemed beyond her reach, like someone in another world.

  Clementine’s closest friend Ora visited as often as she could manage. Ora was superstitious and said a dark spirit had settled in Clementine’s mother. She told Clementine to sweep counterclockwise around her mother’s bed and to tuck a sprig of lemon balm under her mother’s mattress. Still, her mother slept. Clementine opened the window next to her mother’s bed each morning to freshen the stale air in the room. She opened it even when the morning air grew colder and frost covered the ground. A fat robin perched on the tree outside the window. It sang to Clementine and she imagined the bird was exhorting her mother to rise. She put an extra quilt on her mother’s bed and opened the window wider. There must be a hint of warmth on the breeze for such a bird to thrive. She read to her mother from the Bible and then from the novels Ora loaned her: Winesburg, Ohio and Sister Carrie and My Antonia. Clementine’s mother wouldn’t approve of the novels, but she gave no indication she heard anything at all, and Clementine could take only so much of the Bible.

  When Clementine told Ora about the visiting robin and his throaty morning song, Ora slapped her across the face. “It’s the bird of death,” she said. “Come to take your mother’s soul. It will take yours, too, if you aren’t careful.”

  Clementine cried, not because she believed a bird could steal someone’s soul, but because everything seemed hopeless. Her mother wouldn’t wake up, and Clementine could barely get her to swallow a mouthful of water each day. She was starving to death, this woman who’d built a storehouse against the threat of hunger, and no one could explain why.
Maybe this was God’s way of punishing her for being willful and going against her mother’s wishes. In the spring she’d been courted by an older boy from a family of merchants. She’d rejected him, though her mother said she wouldn’t be a pretty girl forever and might not do better. Maybe if she’d accepted the boy’s proposal, she would have enough money to help her mother now. Maybe her mother fell ill from disappointment.

  Ora took her hand and pressed it against her breast, over her heart. She told Clementine what to do; to kill the bird, to shoot it or trap it or break its neck, and then wipe its blood across her heart and her mother’s heart. “It may be too late for her,” Ora said. “Her soul is weak.” Ora told Clementine to light a candle in each corner of her mother’s bedroom and sprinkle salt across the threshold of the doorway. She told her to wash her mother’s feet with soap made from rosemary and goat fat. Clementine had no idea where she was supposed to find such soap.

  The next morning, before the sun rose, Clementine took her father’s hunting rifle and stood beneath the maple tree. When the sun stretched its fingers into the dark sky, she waited for the bird to send its first notes out into the morning, but the bird didn’t come. It knew she’d be waiting. It smelled her there and stayed away. Or maybe it had already taken her mother’s soul. Maybe the shallow breathing body in the bed was nothing but a husk. Even so, Clementine lit candles and sprinkled salt. She sliced into her own hand until blood flowed and rubbed the warm sticky palm across her mother’s breast. She washed her mother’s feet with plain lye soap. She hoped it would be enough to fool the Devil.

  The doctor visited again a few days before Christmas and said he saw no hope for recovery. At least Ora had offered hope. The doctor said her mother would not live to see the new year, but Clementine was determined to prove him wrong. She forced broth and milk into her mother’s mouth and talked to her constantly, but nothing revived her.

  Clementine killed and plucked a hen on Christmas Eve. Neither she nor her father had been eating well lately, existing on bland grits and cold beans, but she was determined to cook a decent Christmas dinner. She’d put aside a beautiful squash and would make fresh cornbread in her mother’s cast-iron skillet. She planned to make her mother’s pound cake, too, and had pulled a jar of preserved lemons from the pantry. It was a summer cake, really, and better with fresh lemons, but Clementine thought it would make her father happy to taste the cake his wife made so often. She hoped the scent of the baking cake might stir something in her mother.