Night Bird Calling

by Cathy Gohlke

  A bottle. A bottle of liquid clear as rainwater.

  Only, Celia knew it wasn’t rainwater. She shoved the book back into place as far as it would go and climbed down, roughly pushed the stool to the corner, and stood, thinking. Finding a man’s stash was one thing—near criminal as far as the unwritten code went. Touching it was enough to get some men killed. But moonshine was killing her family, bottle by bottle, run by run, day by day.

  Celia stood until she heard the clock chime the three-quarter hour. Everybody’d be coming in for lunch at noon, and she hadn’t even started the tomato soup. But now she was alone. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked louder than usual or maybe just seemed to. Undecided, Celia pulled an apron off the kitchen hook and pulled bowls from the cupboard. She opened the jar of tomatoes her mama and Miss Lill had put up in summer and started to mix the roux, just as her mama had taught her. She lifted a loaf of bread from the bread box and a crock of butter from the counter. Holding her breath, mind whirring, Celia stood for a full minute with a knife in hand, ready to slice bread. The clock in the hallway continued to tick. Funny how she’d never much noticed it.

  Decided, Celia lifted the soup pot off the burner, set the knife on the table, glanced out the window to see if anyone was near, and raced back to the library shelf. She jerked the stool into place and climbed to the top, pulling the rocks book from the top shelf, not caring that it slammed to the floor with a crash. She grabbed the bottle and, heart pounding, ran it to the kitchen. She stood over the sink, yanked the cork, and poured every drop down the drain, her chin quivering and teeth gritted together.

  “Celia?” Miss Lill stood in the hall doorway, the rocks book in her hand. “I heard this fall.” She stared at the bottle in Celia’s hand. “Is everything all right?”

  “No, ma’am. But maybe now things will get better.” Celia breathed hard, stood straight, and replaced the cork.

  She walked the bottle outside and slammed it into the trash bin on the back porch so hard it broke. When she looked up, her daddy stood ten feet away, staring at her with an open mouth.

  Celia gulped but stared back, eyes flaming, then turned and walked into the house.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED—why the book fell from the top shelf or what affected Celia so or what started Fillmore bawling as if the world had come to an end, right there on the back porch.

  Over and over he cried to Gladys that he’d turned his daughter against him, that he couldn’t live with that, that he was no good and should never have come home.

  Had he and Celia argued? Fought? I knew Celia was struggling with his presence and the fear of whether or not to trust him. But he was her father, and I knew in some conflicted way she both loved and hated him. I understood that inner war, that love and hate, that desperate need for love and yet distrust of a parent who’d hurt you. Fillmore had been selfish and irresponsible in the past, but he wasn’t intentionally cruel, and he seemed to have changed or was in the process of changing. For all I could tell he wasn’t physically or verbally abusive to Gladys or the children. He really seemed to love them.

  I’d never seen him drunk and I’d come to understand since living in No Creek what too much drink could do to a man. At least I’d seen it with Rhoan Wishon and Joe Earl—one mean, one out-of-his-head silly. As far as I was aware, Fillmore hadn’t taken so much as a drop since coming to Garden’s Gate, had never come in drunk or even smelling of liquor. That was no excuse for past behavior, but if he was truly trying to reform, shouldn’t that count for something? A second chance?

  Celia had retreated to her room, and I took the steps to my own, hoping to give the couple some semblance of privacy. Second chances were what Gerald had begged for, then demanded, and guilted me into giving time and again. But with him there was no change, no reform. Rather than my forgiveness and second chances helping him, his hitting had become more frequent, more cruel, as if the forgiveness gave him license to do it again. Each time it grew harder for him to restrain himself until he seemed to take it for granted that he had the right, as long as he begged forgiveness and reminded me of Jesus’ command to forgive seventy times seven.

  Was it that way with Fillmore? Who was I to judge the life of another, to encourage amends if there was danger or to discourage amends based on my own experience?

  And yet I knew what it was to be without love, without a father to protect me or a husband to cherish me. My heart bled for Ruby Lynne. It seemed like Gladys and Fillmore had the potential for a flourishing marriage in a way that I didn’t. It seemed that Celia and Chester had the potential of having their hopes fulfilled for a father, a family, in ways that neither Ruby Lynne nor I had.

  I sat in my room for an hour, not really understanding all I knew, until I heard a knock on the door at the end of the hallway.

  “Celia?” Fillmore’s voice called softly, sadly, tinged with hope. No answer. He knocked again. “Celia, I’m not mad, honey. I want to talk with you. Please open the door.”

  Answer, Celia. Whatever it is, talk to him. He’s come to you. I held my breath. Moments passed and I heard Fillmore’s footsteps back away. Then I heard the door open.

  “Daddy?” I nearly cried for the little girl I heard in Celia’s voice.

  “Baby, I’m sorry.”

  “Are you gonna run ’shine for Rhoan Wishon?”

  Fillmore gasped. “No—well, I thought about it. I’ll say true. There’s just no work for me here. How did—?”

  “I saw you down by the store, talking to him, taking the bottle.” Celia’s voice was older now, accusing.

  He didn’t say anything for a time, and when he did, it sounded like he was trying to get hold of his emotions. “He offered me a job. I said I’d think about it. But now I know. I won’t do it—never again. I can’t bear to lose your love or your respect. I’m sorry for all I put you and Chester and your mama through.”

  “Then what’ll you do? You can’t sit around here. Everybody here works.” Now I heard both the child and the grown-up in Celia’s words, the hope and the fear to hope.

  He sighed loud enough to breathe life into the walls. “I don’t know yet. Your mama and I are talking about it. What with the war on now, I could join up if they’ll take me. Even if they won’t, there’s factory work for shipbuilding over in Norfolk. Maybe I can get on there after Christmas. I’m handy with a wrench.”

  “You are, Daddy. You are.”

  “It might mean living apart for a time, till I can save enough to send for you all. But I could get back here, maybe once a month or every two. Your mama thinks Miss Lilliana would let you all stay here till I can get things settled for us.”

  “You mean we’d leave No Creek?”

  “Well, not right away. But maybe, in time. We got nothin’ here, darlin’.”

  “We got friends.”

  “That we do.” He paused. “Reckon we’ll just have to take it a day at a time. Can we do that, Celia? You and me?”

  “Yes, Daddy. Yes, we can.”

  There was no more talk, and I imagined a father-daughter hug just then, at least that’s what I wanted to imagine. And for just a moment, I wanted to imagine it was my father and me.

  •••

  A tentative peace settled over the little family. By nightfall I noticed that Gladys and Fillmore touched each other more—just a shoulder squeeze in passing or a hand on her back as they stood by the kitchen sink, sipping coffee, looking out into the dark together as if they could see a future the rest of us couldn’t.

  Across the table at supper, Fillmore had watched Celia and Chester with solicitous eyes, as if looking for signs of hope, determined to make any inroad count. Celia met him with brief, shy smiles of her own. Chester pretended to be oblivious to the emotions and nuances swelling around him, but from the continual jiggling of his leg and the shoe that sometimes found its way to my foot beneath the table, I knew he was not.

  What I saw was hope. Hope that things might mend.
Fragile, but real. It was possible, I knew, but not guaranteed. In watching the Percys, I realized that in order for a marriage to succeed, in order for a family to survive and thrive after hard times, each member needed to commit, to work at it, to give it all they had, even when afraid.

  More than anything I wanted with my own father what I’d overheard and now saw between Celia and her daddy. But my father had never apologized, had never asked forgiveness no matter how many times his hand or belt had been raised against me, no matter how many times he’d stepped out with women other than Mama.

  Gerald knew where I was, had been to No Creek, so surely my father knew. Not once in these months had he contacted me; not once had he tried to help or defend me from Gerald. According to Gerald, Father had gone on with his life, remarried, for all I knew taken in stepchildren. Imagining that things would change between us, that he would want me as his daughter, be willing to work to forge a relationship, was just that—an imagination, a fantasy I had always nurtured. I knew, deep in my heart, that no matter if he lived another fifty years, nothing would change because he would not—perhaps because he could not.

  It was that knowing, the realization that I needed to move forward in truth and the reality of life, which prompted my letter.

  Dear Father,

  By now you know from Gerald that I am living in No Creek, that I came to Aunt Hyacinth for refuge after Mama’s funeral. You will know by now, too, that Aunt Hyacinth has passed.

  I could not tell you where I’d gone. I overheard your conversation with Gerald in the church after Mama’s funeral and learned, though I’m sorry to say I’d suspected already, that I cannot trust you. That conversation told me so much, truths I hadn’t wanted to face before.

  I realize now that no matter how much I want or might try to make you love and care for me as your daughter—something I longed for all my childhood and adulthood—desires for your own happiness and concern for your reputation are greater than any love you might hold for me. It is a truth and freedom to say that, to stop pretending, stop hoping otherwise. I should have realized it sooner. It would have saved so many years of pain.

  I knew, even before that day in the church, that you’d long been unfaithful to Mama. You did not cherish her for the wonderful woman she was—the faithful wife and loving mother, no matter how ill you used her. I never understood why you didn’t love her—or me. There are so many things I’ve never understood.

  Gerald told me you have remarried. Please be kind to her, whoever she is, and to any children you may yet have. Love them, be true to them. Give them a chance to love you in return.

  I won’t try to contact you again, Father, and ask that you do not contact me unless you find in your heart that you truly love me, that you repent of all the hurt you’ve caused in my life and Mama’s, and that you want to start afresh. I will never expect that, but I would not turn you away. I needed to say goodbye. You have moved on in your life. Now I must move on in mine.

  Your daughter,

  Lilliana

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  ONCE I’D MAILED THE LETTER, a new freedom entered my soul. A lightness born of truth that had needed to be faced. There would still be Gerald to deal with—Gerald and whatever he planned next to secure the divorce he wanted on the terms he wanted—but I’d laid one ghost to rest, and I was thankful.

  Snow from earlier in the week covered the ground, and we were all more than grateful for the fire Olney’s son had started in the church stove Sunday morning. Reverend Willard was nearly through his sermon and about to call for the final hymn when the church door opened and a rush of frigid air blew through the pews. I was sitting midway in the church, beside Chester, but could sense heads behind me turn and saw those before me look back, craning necks. Even then I might not have turned if Reverend Willard hadn’t stopped his sermon midsentence. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

  From behind me a clapping began, a jarring, solitary set of hands slapping loudly together, breaking the peace and our concentration, combined with feet sauntering up the center aisle a step at a time.

  Before I turned, before he spoke, I knew the rhythmic steps of that swagger. My heart all but stopped beating, then pounded like mad.

  “Please come in and join us for our final hymn.” Reverend Willard, pale, spoke calmly.

  “Final hymn indeed, Reverend. And a round of applause for your final sermon.”

  “Final sermon?” Whispers ran through the church. “What does he mean? Who is that?”

  “What do I mean?” Gerald took up the question as if he’d been asked directly.

  “Please, Mr. Swope, kindly take a seat.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Reverend Willard? You’d like me to sit down and say nothing about your luring my wife to your home in the dead of night.”

  Gasps and whispers rushed through the pews.

  “You’d like that better than being named in scandal, than having your church called into question, than being cited as the culprit in my divorce case.”

  “Divorce?” The ugly word spread like miasma through the congregation.

  I closed my eyes, willing the nightmare to go away. Knowing it wouldn’t, I stood up and turned. “Gerald. Stop it.”

  “What?” He acted surprised, as if I’d pulled a rug from under his feet. “I shouldn’t come to defend my wife? Or is it you I should be questioning? Are you saying it was you who chased after the good reverend and not the other way around?”

  “Mr. Swope, this is not the time or the place,” Reverend Willard began.

  “On the contrary, it’s the perfect time and the perfect place to reach those willing to speak out.” He shrugged. “I had no choice. My wife deserted me and refused to sign the papers I sent her, forcing me to come. Perhaps that’s what you wanted, Lilliana?”

  “Gerald, please!” I begged.

  “I understand the Belvidere family has lorded it over this community for generations. Well, it stops here. Today. My lawyer is waiting outside to take affidavits testifying to the character or lack of character in Lilliana Swope—Mrs. Gerald Swope, in case any of you have not heard that she’s married—and in your Reverend Willard, a womanizer unfit to lead your congregation. At the very least, your board of elders will want to hear the facts, perhaps consider disfellowshipping them both? Your own postmistress, Mrs. Mae, was an eyewitness to their encounter. Mrs. Mae, perhaps you would like to lead the way. My attorney is waiting in my car, where he’ll keep the heater running.”

  All eyes turned to Ida Mae, who’d returned from her niece’s the night before.

  “Mr. Swope—” Reverend Willard tried again but Gerald cut him off.

  “Don’t try to silence an eyewitness, Reverend. Remember, I was there. I saw you with my wife!” He turned again to Ida Mae. “Mrs. Mae, your voice will be heard at last. Tell them what we saw. Tell them all.” It was not a request but an order, and Ida Mae stood as I would have done at his command just eight months before.

  “I—I can’t say what they were doing, Mr. Swope. They—they were just talking—like anybody who’d go to the preacher to talk over worries. I know you said what it was, what you believed, but . . . I can’t swear to something I didn’t see.”

  “Thank you, Ida Mae,” I said, still standing, still breathing.

  Rhoan Wishon stood and my heart sank. If anyone in No Creek held a grudge against me, it would be Rhoan. If anyone held sway with the men of No Creek in a perverse way, it was he. With Rhoan leading the congregation against me, others would follow, just as the Klan had followed the Wishon brothers to burn my barn to ashes, to beat Olney, to lynch Marshall. Troy wasn’t the only Wishon who’d stirred the community against me. No wonder Mama’d left No Creek the first chance she got. There was no standing against a town ruled by such ideologies, no room to grow.

  Gerald’s condemnation wouldn’t hurt my body, but it could alienate me, make me the outcast here that he and the elders of our church in Philadelphia had threatened. I cou
ldn’t stay if that happened. It would kill my spirit, rip the community apart. I sat down, my knees too weak for more.

  “Mr. Swope, my name’s Rhoan Wishon. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but everyone here does. I don’t know what your problem is, but I will tell you now that Reverend Willard is a man of the highest character and the rock of our community. He’s helped us all out from time to time, kept us from making bigger sinners and bigger fools of ourselves than we had in mind.

  “As far as your wife goes, I guess you don’t know her as well as the rest of us do. I grant she’s something of a know-it-all and stubborn to boot—like my dog when it gets ahold of a bone. But she’s a good woman and an upstanding one. She’s done a lot for our community and for the . . . the church down the road. Not a man or woman here will speak against her. You have my word on that.”

  “And mine.” Fillmore Percy stood. Celia jumped up to join them, then Gladys and Chester and Pearl Mae. One by one, by twos and threes and families, they stood. They stood for Reverend Willard and turned to face Gerald with grim mouths. Gladys pulled me to my feet again, and I saw, I couldn’t deny, they were standing for me, too.

  I turned toward my husband, the man who’d believed he owned me as men own cars or cattle. His face turned crimson, his eyes uncertain, then disbelieving. Finally, smoldering, he turned and walked out of the church, leaving the door wide-open behind him.