by Erica Waters
A hand reaches out of the darkness and shakes me, over and over again. I peer up into a hard, angular face with a heavy five-o’clock shadow.
“Shady,” Jim says. “Wake up.”
I start out of the chair with a gasp, and Jim catches me before I hit the floor. My heart races, and the blood pounds in my ears.
“Calm down,” he says. “You were only dreaming.”
There’s no only dreaming when it comes to my nightmares. I gasp in air, my lungs burning. My eyes are wide open, trying to take in every speck of light. That must have been my shadow man again, just in another form. God, why is he back?
“Your mama used to have dreams like that,” Jim says. He’s sitting beside me now, with his hands in his lap. “Back before we . . . started up. She thought they were coming from that old house.” When I don’t answer, he keeps talking, his voice distant and detached. “I had dreams too, when I slept there. Dark, dark dreams.”
“When did you sleep there?” I push my hair out of my eyes, glad to be distracted, even if it’s by the thought of Jim in my childhood home.
“Back when you and Jesse were babies. I stayed with your daddy and mama for a short while. Round the time my daddy died.” He stares at the streaked, dingy floor.
I start to ask another question, but Jim begins to stand. “Come on, we need to get Kenneth home. He’ll be out in a minute. They were just wrapping a few things up.”
Still reeling from my dream, afraid to be left alone, I put my hand on his arm. The moment my skin meets his, I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever touched him. “What did you dream about?” I ask, pulling my hand away quickly.
Was it the shadow man, or does he only visit me?
Jim settles back into his chair and clears his throat uncomfortably. He shakes his head. “It’s hard to say. I don’t believe I have the words for it.”
“Can I ask you one more thing?” I say, Jesse’s outburst from the other night coming to mind. I’ve never had the courage to ask something like this before, but it’s like touching Jim’s skin has opened up a well of truth. Besides, after he dragged me out of the open mic, answering my questions is the least he can do. “Did you love Mama before, back when you stayed there? Did you love her before Daddy died? Is that why Jesse hates you so much?” I’m still hearing Jesse’s words at the dinner table in my head . . . I know what you did. I thought I knew the truth about Mama and Jim, but Jesse’s anger makes me doubtful. Maybe I’ve been naive to take Mama’s word for it.
Jim sighs. “Your mama was always faithful to your daddy. But, yeah, I loved her from the first time I laid eyes on her, when she was pregnant with Jesse, her belly out to here.” He motions with his hands.
“Did Daddy know?”
Jim shakes his head. “Your daddy didn’t notice anything ’cept you and Jesse and that fiddle of his. It was all he had the heart for.”
My own heart starts to race again at the mention of the fiddle. “Jim, do you—”
He holds up his hand. “You said one question, and you asked at least three. Let’s get on home now. That’s enough talk for one night.” An orderly wheels Kenneth toward us, and Jim stands and walks away from me.
Six
Jesse’s just coming in the front door when I wake up the next morning. He smells like cigarettes and unwashed clothes, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark half-moons. When I try to talk to him, he slams his bedroom door in my face.
I’m the one who should be mad. It was my night he ruined. If he hadn’t started a fight with Kenneth, I would have had a fun night with Sarah and Orlando. Maybe I could even have talked to Cedar and Rose. As a way to avoid my worries about Jesse and the shadow man, I’ve been picturing myself playing music with Cedar and Rose. I’ve put whole sets together, imagined how the solos would go, how our voices would sound together. Their music has woken up new ideas in me, made me imagine possibilities I hadn’t considered.
Still wiping sleep from my eyes, I head for the kitchen, hoping everyone else will stay in bed. But Jim’s already up. He bangs out of his and Mama’s bedroom, looking mad as hell and way too tall for this trailer. “Did your brother just come in?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He stomps into the kitchen, his mouth set hard.
Mama’s right on his heels, looking just as angry. “You leave it to me, Jim. He’s my son.” She snatches at his sleeve.
Jim shakes her off. “And Kenneth is mine. I won’t have Jesse getting him all messed up like he is.” He pushes past me without a glance.
“Jim, please,” Mama hisses. “You don’t understand him.”
He swivels to face her. “You could be on my side for once, you know. Just once. Jesse’s never going to go straight if you don’t let me take him in hand. Jesse, get your ass out here,” he yells.
Jesse appears at the mouth of the hallway, pushing hair out of his eyes. “What?”
Jim shakes his head. “Don’t you ‘what’ me. I’ve had enough of this. You want to ruin your life, fine, but you leave my boy out of it.”
“He said something rude to Shady. That’s why I hit him.” Jesse crosses his arms, staring defiantly back at Jim.
“He did,” I say. “Kenneth was being a jerk.” Lesbian isn’t an insult, but the way he said it made it sound like one.
Jim ignores me. “I’m not talking about you hitting him. I’m talking about the drugs you sold him.”
Jesse opens his mouth to speak but then closes it again. He looks at his feet.
“Where’d you get the Vicodin, Jesse?” Mama asks, her voice tired-sounding, like there’s nothing Jesse can do to surprise her anymore.
“From you. It was left over from that time you injured your back. It was just a few pills. Nobody got hurt.” He won’t look Mama in the eye.
“Nobody got hurt?” Jim roars. “What do you call that beat-up face my son is sporting? What if he had gotten in his truck and drove home like that? What if he had wrecked and died? Could you live with yourself then, you little bastard? Could you live with yourself if you killed my son?”
Jesse’s face goes white with rage. He crosses the last few steps to Jim and glares up at him. “You mean like my father wrecked and died? You mean like I—”
“That’s not what he meant, Jesse,” Mama says, hurrying to put herself between them. “You know it’s not. But Jim is right—you need to get your life together, baby.”
Jesse shakes his head, his mouth twisted in disgust. “Jim’s only mad because Frank was there to see it all, and he doesn’t want to look bad in front of him. And you’re no better. You’re both such fucking hypocrites.”
Jim lunges past Mama, but Jesse leaps out of his reach. That doesn’t stop Jim’s words, which land like punches. “You don’t talk to your mama like that. I want you out of this house. Now. Go pack your shit and leave.”
“Gladly,” Jesse says, turning to go back to his room. My heart drops into my stomach, but Mama snatches Jesse by the back of his shirt and hauls him into the living room. She pushes him onto the couch.
“Sit your ass down,” she says, her voice steel. “Jim, you go sit over there. Nobody is moving out, and nobody is leaving this room until we find a solution.” She looks at me. “Except you, Shady. This ain’t none of your business. Go take a shower or something.”
I give Jesse a look that’s half scorn and half sympathy, and leave the room. He’s being a jerk too, but it hurts to know he still blames himself for Daddy’s death, that he thinks he could have done anything to save him.
By the time I get out of the shower, some kind of peace has been reached, though nobody seems happy about it. Jesse’s in his room, and Mama and Jim are eating breakfast at the kitchen table, a strained silence between them.
Sometimes I think this trailer’s going to crack wide open under the weight of all the words we never say.
Sarah never texted me back last night, but we had plans to hang out today, so I drive over to her house anyway. She lives in a subdivision full of little brick th
ree-bedroom houses that all look the same. Nothing special, but nicer than either of the places I’ve lived. The other houses have flowers growing in the yard, but Sarah’s is plain on the outside, brightened only by some boring green shrubs on either side of the front steps.
“You ready?” I ask when she opens the door. Sarah looks even more disheveled than usual. Her jeans have holes in both knees, and her shirt has clearly never met an iron. I love how Sarah dresses—like she doesn’t care what anybody thinks, like she’s got bigger things on her mind.
“Yeah, but I’m driving,” she says. “You don’t have the best attention span.”
Ouch. Maybe she does blame me. “Look, I’m sorry we didn’t win,” I say as I climb into her truck. “And I’m sorry I had to bail last night.”
She shrugs. “I guess it was stupid to think we’d win.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” I say as she backs down the driveway. “But you know you’re going to get into a good music program without having a song recorded, right? Your grades are good, and you practice harder than anyone I know.”
Sarah tries to smile. “What’d you think of all our competition last night? We didn’t get a chance to talk.”
“Kenneth was actually good,” I say. “Funny. Not everybody could pull off ‘A Boy Named Sue.’”
“You’ve got to be part clown to pull it off,” Sarah says dryly. She dislikes Kenneth on principle now, even though he’s finally stopped teasing her. He spent all last year howling at her whenever she walked by, just because her last name’s Woolf. Well, and she kind of looks like someone with werewolf potential.
“I thought Cedar and Rose were the best,” I say before I lose my nerve.
“Better than us?” Sarah raises her eyebrows.
“No, they . . . well . . . actually, yeah, they were better than us,” I say in a rush. “Their voices are amazing, and their playing. God, did you see how fast Rose’s fingers moved? And . . .” Now I’m nearing what I really want to say, but I don’t think Sarah will want to hear it.
“And what?” She leans over the steering wheel, eyebrows knit in irritation.
“The music suits them. You can tell they were raised on it, that it’s a part of them. They’re performing in a set tradition, and it makes their music feel cohesive.”
She gives a grudging sort of “hmm” but doesn’t say anything else.
“I think we should see if they’d play with us,” I say hesitantly, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice. “I heard them talking about wanting to meet new musicians.”
Sarah shakes her head. “No way. Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to,” she says.
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is, too,” she says flatly.
“Please just tell me why,” I beg.
She’s quiet a long moment. “Rose and I used to date,” she finally says, her voice almost a whisper. She stares straight ahead.
A jolt goes through me. Sarah and Rose? Beautiful, talented, terrifying Rose? I don’t know if I can follow that act.
Sarah told me about a girl she dated back in ninth grade, before she transferred to our school, but she never said the girl’s name, and I would never have guessed it was Rose. She said the other girl wasn’t ready to be out yet, and when things started getting more serious, they decided to end it. That’s all Sarah wanted to say about it, and I didn’t want to press her. Being a lesbian in a small, conservative town isn’t exactly easy.
“How did you even know her?” I ask gently.
“We were in all the same bluegrass competitions. The ones my grandpa made me do.” Sarah’s voice has gotten quiet and fragile-sounding.
“Have you talked to her since you transferred to Elson County?” I ask, the jealousy in my voice so obvious she must hear it.
“Shady, just forget about it. I don’t want to play with them, okay?” She shoots me a glance, eyes pleading.
“All right,” I say. “I’m sorry.” And I am. Is this why Sarah’s so sour on bluegrass now?
I can’t blame her for not telling me. There’s so much I haven’t said either. Maybe it’s time for both of us to stop holding back all these hidden parts of ourselves.
The thought gives me an idea.
“Listen,” I say. “I want to show you something. Will you—will you come with me to take groceries to my aunt Ena after we eat?”
Sarah seems to hear the resolve in my tone and studies me for a long moment. “Why?” she finally asks.
“Just come,” I say. “Please.”
By the time we finish scarfing down Taco Bell and about a gallon of sweet tea, things feel good between us again. And I’ve decided it’s time to see what else we can be. Now that she’s letting me in, I can let her in too.
“You seriously used to live here?” Sarah says, halting outside the front door, grocery bags hanging off her arms. “This is honestly the most haunted-looking place I’ve ever seen.”
“It is haunted,” I say, lifting my eyebrows and making my voice all Dracula-y so Sarah can’t tell whether I’m serious or not. “Veeeeery haunted.” The door’s slightly ajar, and when I push it with my foot, it creaks open as if on cue.
“Aunt Ena,” I call once we’re in the kitchen.
Suddenly, Sarah stiffens and looks around like she thinks someone’s watching her.
“I told you the house is haunted,” I say as casually as I can. “All my friends were afraid to come over to play when I was a kid.”
“It’s just drafty,” Sarah says, but her gaze darts around, as if to catch someone looking at her.
To me, the ghosts are mostly gentle presences—light as air, more like familiar smells than menaces, hardly distinguishable from the aromas of honeysuckle and dust. But I can almost imagine what Sarah is feeling as the ghosts move around her for the first time—a shiver in the air, a cool breath against her skin, that eerie, watched feeling I had when the little girl in my ceiling came to visit.
Aunt Ena comes swooshing into the kitchen in one of her long skirts that makes her look particularly witchy, banishing my anxious thoughts. Sarah’s eyes widen.
“You must be Sarah.” Aunt Ena’s smiling way too big.
“Aunt Ena, please don’t embarrass me.”
“I’m just saying hello,” she says, hands up like I’ve got a gun pointed at her.
“Hi,” Sarah says shyly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yes, it is,” says Aunt Ena. She brushes Sarah’s arm and looks into her eyes, searching her face like she’s reading her soul.
When I see Sarah’s eyes go a fraction wider, I know it’s time to rescue her. “I’m going to show Sarah around the house,” I say, and pull her by her hand, just for a second, to get her away from Aunt Ena. This time I notice how her fingers are soft, except at the tips, which are callused from her banjo strings. Letting go of her hand sends a swoop of longing to my chest.
“I’ll show you my old room first,” I say, heading for the stairs, trying to keep my embarrassment hidden. Having Sarah here feels a little like being naked, my truest, deepest self on display. It’s scary but exciting too.
The stairs are a deep-brown wood, glossy from overuse. The banister is wobbly but the steps will last forever, or at least that’s what Daddy used to say. There’s a window in the stairwell, but between the dirt and the densely hanging Spanish moss, hardly any light comes in. I glance back at Sarah and see the hesitation in her eyes. The wariness. I don’t want her to be like all the neighbors who could see only old wood and chipped paint. I want her to see the beauty of this house, the beauty of its ghosts.
I want her to see me.
The banister leads up to a landing with three rooms. The first is mine—or used to be mine anyway. I guess it still is, but it’s half empty without all my things.
Sarah takes a seat in my rocking chair and watches the iron fireplace like she expects a bat to fly out of it. I try to look at the room through Sarah’s eyes
. The peeling wallpaper, the cobwebs that have formed in the corners at the ceiling. The dead wasps in every windowsill, the ancient hardwood floors that are as much dirt as wood by this point. The whole place looks old and creepy.
That’s what Sarah seems to think of the music I love—that it’s old and creepy. I worry bringing her here might have been a mistake. I’m only giving her more reasons to think I’m wrong for her.
“My daddy made that chair,” I say, just to fill the silence. He worked on it for weeks, as a surprise for my tenth birthday. It’s actually one of the newest things in the room.
Sarah studies the armrests, which have floral patterns carved into the wood. She runs her fingers along the grooves with reverence. “It’s pretty. You’re lucky to have something like this—something he made you,” she says quietly, her eyes distant and sad. She must be thinking of her mother. Our parents’ deaths might be the deepest thing we have in common. If I can get her to open up, we can help each other.
“Do you—do you have anything like that from your mom?” I ask hesitantly.
Sarah shakes her head. “Nothing she made for me. But all her old stuff is still in the house. Dad never threw out anything of hers.”
“Really? You mean all her clothes are still in the closet?”
Sarah nods. “I like having all her stuff. It makes me feel like I know her.” She smiles, but I know it’s a sad smile because her dimple doesn’t show. There’s this loneliness at the very center of Sarah—a lack, an empty wanting. I long for something loved and lost, but Sarah longs for something she never really had.
Maybe that’s the difference between Sarah and me, the thing that keeps us apart. I want her to see how the music I love is like that chair and this house, like all her mama’s old things still filling her home, strange and beautiful and full of memories, a tie to the past. But it’s a past she can’t ever know.
“Is this what you wanted to show me?” Sarah asks, suddenly shy. “This chair?”
I plop down on the bed, and dust rises up from the old quilt. It’s been a long time since I slept here. “No. I guess I wanted you to see all this, where I come from. This is my real home, not that trailer.”
