by Erica Waters
Orlando looks up from the moth and smiles at Rose like she’s some rare butterfly that’s floated in from South America. She sees him looking at her and spits out, “Forget it, dude. You’re not my type.” Her eyes flit to Sarah, and instinctively, I move a little closer to her. Cedar follows the movement with his eyes, his brow furrowed.
This is not going well.
“Fine, here’s what happened.” I launch into the events of last night, trying to repeat Jim’s words exactly as he spoke them. I’m doing all right until I get to the shadow man, and then my breath starts to feel tight and I can’t go on.
Oddly, it’s Kenneth who jumps in, although his words aren’t comforting. “Shady, I know you don’t want to believe Jesse did it, but you just told us Dad said it was him.” He stares at me, certain now that Jesse’s guilty. I guess his anger at me has made him sure.
“Not really though,” I say. “Jim wouldn’t tell me the whole truth. He kept talking in riddles. I don’t think he wants me to know what really happened. He said it was Jesse’s fault he’s dead, but he didn’t actually say Jesse killed him.”
Kenneth shakes his head. “Dad was always straightforward. That was, like, his one good quality. You always knew where he stood.”
“Did you know he slept with my mama before my daddy died? Is that straightforward?” I shoot back.
Rose’s mouth drops open, and Orlando looks like he wants to climb under a rock and never come back out again. Kenneth flushes. “Yeah, I knew,” he says. “I thought you knew too. Jesse did.”
I guess I was the only one of us naive enough to believe our parents.
“Jesse was really touchy about it. That’s why—that’s why he beat the shit out of me at the open mic. I said something about that.”
“So you all think Jesse did it then?” I ask, gazing around the room. Everyone shifts uncomfortably. Dread pools in my stomach.
“Shady,” Cedar says, his voice gentle. “We’re all on your side. You know that.”
But Rose cuts across his reassurance. “Have you considered that maybe your brother doesn’t want you to save him? That maybe it’s better if you stay out of it?”
“Rose—” Cedar says, his eyebrows raised in warning.
“Honestly, I don’t care what Jesse wants,” I say. “I’m not going to leave him in jail. No matter what Jim said Jesse did.”
“You’re not going to try to raise Jim’s ghost again, are you?” Orlando asks, unable to keep the disapproval from his voice.
I shake my head. That’s the only thing I’m sure of. “I’m going to visit Jesse on Saturday, and I’ll see if I can get anything out of him. That’s all I know to do now.” I slump forward and hide my face in my hands. I didn’t want to be alone in this, but maybe having everyone involved isn’t helping either.
Maybe Rose is right, and I can’t help Jesse. Maybe Jesse has to help himself. That’s what I have to make him do tomorrow.
“Why don’t we play?” Orlando says. “For fun, I mean. That’s kind of what bands do, right?”
“Great idea,” Cedar says, already lifting the clasps on his mandolin case. “It will do us all good.” Everyone else starts pulling out instruments and tuning them. The room fills with discordant, intermittent music that actually makes me want to play, to be a part of it.
I put one hand on my old pawnshop case, and my fingertips throb. I lift each latch slowly, carefully. Even though I brought my ordinary fiddle, it feels like a snake, waiting to sink its fangs into me. I pull it out and bring it up to my chin, but the moment I touch the bow to the strings, the room starts to spin. Black dots pinprick my vision, and my chest feels tight.
I put the fiddle back in its case and close the lid on it. “I can’t.”
“We won’t let the shadow man get you,” Kenneth says, a nasty sarcasm lacing his voice.
“Shut up, Ken. Shady, you don’t have to play tonight,” Cedar says. “Come here and sit by me. We’ll play and you sing. Or just listen.” His eyes are tender, protective.
I nod and go back to his side, and he pushes Kenneth off the couch. I settle into Cedar’s warmth and closeness, glad to leave the fiddle on the other side of the room. Sarah’s looking at me, worry in her eyes and something else, jealousy maybe. Resignation? I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it. I lay my head against Cedar’s shoulder, accepting the shelter he’s offering.
They start playing “Wildwood Flower,” and I can feel the ripples of Cedar’s muscles against my face as he plays. As I breathe in the smell of his deodorant and laundry detergent, the black at the edges of my vision recedes. My chest loosens up again.
“Orlando, will you teach us some Cuban country?” Cedar asks once they finish the song.
Orlando grins and launches into one of his favorite songs by the Buena Vista Social Club. He plays smoothly, showing off his finger work with tremolos. No one understands the words since they’re in Spanish, but everyone is tapping their feet and clapping.
Kenneth starts trying to sing along, and they all laugh. I wish I could join in, wish I could share their joy tonight, but I feel unmoored, set adrift on an unfamiliar sea. So I lean back against the couch and close my eyes, letting their music and their laughter wash over me. I won’t worry about the shadow man tonight—he can’t possibly slip into all this noise and joy.
I wake to silence and the warmth of a blanket. Everyone except Cedar’s gone. He’s laid out on the couch with me, his back pressed against me, our warmth making the blanket like a nest I never want to leave. I put one arm over his side, and he grasps my hand, bringing it up to rest on his chest.
“How long was I asleep?” I ask, hoping he’s not about to tell me I was snoring.
“An hour or so. Everybody packed up and left twenty minutes ago. I guess your aunt went up to bed. I thought you needed some sleep.”
“You thought right,” I say through a yawn, and snuggle against his neck.
He’s quiet so long I think he’s fallen back asleep, but then he speaks again, his voice wavering. “Shady, I feel like a jerk even bringing this up right now, but . . . what’s between you and Sarah? Do you still have feelings for her? Rose says you do, and it seems like she’s right.”
Fucking Rose. I sigh. “I don’t know. She’s my best friend, except for Orlando. I guess, yeah, I do have some of those feelings, and maybe she does too, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But Sarah’s so closed off. She won’t let anybody get near her. Just when I think there’s an opening, it’s gone again, that fast.”
“So you’re settling for me?” he asks with more than a little hurt in his voice.
“It’s not like that.”
“It feels like it.”
“I like you,” I say. “I like spending time with you. You make me happy.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to change your mind,” Cedar says. “I’m afraid I’m going to . . . get attached . . . and then you’re going to decide you’d rather be with Sarah.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t promise I won’t change my mind. But right now, I’m tired of talking about Sarah, tired of everything except the warmth of Cedar’s body, the nearness and safety and goodness of him.
I pull his arm, making him turn over to face me. He looks tousled and sleepy, unbearably lovely. I put my hand against his face, run my fingers through his hair and curl them at the nape of his neck. He closes his eyes and purrs like a cat.
I laugh, but then I’m kissing him, kissing him like he’s the sun and I’ve got a whole world of darkness that needs lighting.
We kiss until we’re gasping and our hands are wandering of their own volition. I hope to hell my daddy’s ghost isn’t here to see this.
Cedar finally pulls back, his pupils enormous, his lips red and slightly puffy from my kisses. “Wait,” he says, breathing hard. “You didn’t answer. Are you just killing time with me until Sarah decides she wants you?”
“It’s not like that. I . . . I c
are about you,” I say. “I like being with you.”
Cedar’s quiet until his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and squints at the screen. “I gotta go home.” He gets up, untangling his limbs from mine, fighting his way out of the twisted blanket.
“Don’t go,” I say, making to get up. But he has already turned away from me. “Cedar.”
He turns back around, his face half longing and half anger. “Just—just make up your mind. And don’t take too long. I’m not waiting around forever.”
He’s out the door before I can say anything else, the heat of his kisses still on my lips. I shouldn’t have let him go.
When the door closes, I hear Aunt Ena’s footsteps on the stairs. “What the hell is that all about?” she calls down. “I thought you liked girls.”
“I do,” I say, “and I like boys too. You knew that.”
“I guess I was hoping you’d swear off the boys,” Aunt Ena says. “Girls are a lot less trouble.”
She’s got that dead wrong, but I don’t want to talk about it. Any other time, this push and pull between Cedar and Sarah would take up all my headspace, but right now, with everything else going on, it’s just a distraction from what matters. It’s just one more hurt in a parade of hurts.
Aunt Ena seems to sense it too. “You worried about seeing Jesse?”
All I can do is nod.
She finally comes downstairs and sits under the blanket with me. She’s wearing pajamas printed with yellow stars and crescent moons. “I know, darlin’. Jesse’s so much like William—I spent half my life worrying about your daddy.”
“If they were so alike, why did they fight so much?”
“They both love too deeply. Feel too much.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
She gazes at me. “Shady, the way you love people is sweet and openhearted and easy. But love’s not like that for everybody. Some people love until it hurts, until it’s more pain than anything else. That’s how William was, and that’s how Jesse is, too. That kind of love can break a person in half.”
I sigh. Maybe she’s right and I do love easy. But lately it feels like my love for Jesse won’t only break me—it might also get me killed.
Twenty-Two
I’m getting ready to go pick up Aunt Ena for our trip to see Jesse when my cell phone rings. It’s a local number I don’t recognize, so I ignore it, sending the call to voice mail. Several minutes go by and I think it must have been a wrong number or a scam, but then the voice mail notification dings. No one leaves voice mails anymore, so I’m curious enough to listen.
A man’s rumbling voice plays in my ear. “Shady, this is Frank Cooper. I’m calling to talk to you about what you said to Kenneth, though maybe it’s better I got your voice mail, because I need to talk and you need to listen.” His voice sounds so authoritative I automatically stand up straighter. This isn’t the angry man from Jim’s funeral or the gentle man who came to my door to apologize or the drunk man screaming into the empty night. This is Frank the Boss, Frank who could run for local office and win by a landslide. This is the Frank Jim despised.
“Kenneth lost his father, and he is grieving. How dare you accuse him of killing his own daddy. How dare you imply that he is anything but a victim in this crime. How dare you, Shady Grove.” My cheeks begin to burn with shame.
“I always thought you were a good girl, better than the stock you came from . . . I know you can’t help your breeding, but you can choose how to behave in the world. You can choose to accept the truth and move forward. But this—accusing an innocent boy, threatening him, implying that anyone except your sorry brother had anything to do with Jim’s death—it’s disgusting.”
Now my cheeks burn for a different reason. A white-hot rage licks at my insides as Frank speaks on.
“You will drop this nonsense right now, or I swear to God I will go after Jesse even harder than I already am. I will not rest until he gets life in prison. I will make him a roach beneath my boot and I will squish his guts into the ground.
“So, unless you’re ready to see that happen, unless you’re willing to do that to your brother, you’ll leave my nephew alone. You’ll stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. You’ll stay at home like a good girl and try to make something better of yourself than the rest of your family ever did.”
He goes on, lecturing me about his family name and his power in the community, the weight and influence he wields. With every word, I squeeze my phone a little tighter, all my shame gone. He doesn’t ever say the words “trailer trash,” but they are implied in every syllable he speaks. He thinks my family is nothing, is garbage, is weak. He thinks we will lie still while he destroys us. Well, he’s wrong about that.
Frank is still talking when I press the End button with shaking hands and save his message on my phone. He meant to intimidate me, but all he’s done is light a fire under my feet. The Frank I know—the Frank this town knows—would never speak to a teenage girl like that. He’s showing a side of himself only Jim seemed to know about. And that means he’s got something to lose.
Anger keeps me going all morning, until Aunt Ena and I pull up to the juvenile detention center. Only then does my rage begin to sour, turning bitter in my mouth. The place looks like an elementary school surrounded by barbed wire, which is quite possibly the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen. I wonder if the smell of crayons lingers in the air alongside teenage sweat and desperation.
As we walk through the gate, my mood plummets even further. Everything here is cold and mechanized, almost inhuman. It’s hard to believe Jesse lives here, day in and day out, locked up like a dog in a cage. Tears rise to my eyes, but I choke them back down.
We pass through a metal detector, and then a female guard checks us for weapons or drugs or whatever else we might try to bring in. We have to remove our shoes. Then she asks me to take my hair down so she can check it for contraband too.
We’re waved on by a bored-looking officer in a glass booth. Automated clicks and buzzes shepherd us through the mazelike hallways. Aunt Ena is pale, and when she reaches out for support, her hand is clammy. I feel like a monster for making her bring me here.
Finally, an officer ushers us into a large visiting room that looks less menacing, despite the uniformed, baton-wielding officers standing at attention by every door. There are tables and chairs, drink and snack vending machines. Teenage boys in blue uniforms sit with their parents and siblings, some laughing, some in heated discussion. A few play cards. There are drink cans and empty wrappers on every table.
We find a table shoved up against a wall and sit to wait for Jesse. I concentrate on the institutional gray walls and instructional posters, trying to resist the dread that’s swirling around me like fog.
“You want to get Jesse something from the vending machines?” Aunt Ena pushes a clear plastic bag full of dollar bills toward me. It’s pretty much all we were allowed to bring in. I’m glad Aunt Ena remembered to bring cash for the machines. I can’t imagine the cafeteria food here’s any good; Jesse will be glad for something different to eat.
I go to the machines and get Jesse a root beer and a Snickers bar, my peace offerings. And then I hurry back to Aunt Ena, who is leaning against the wall with her eyes closed.
“You all right?”
She opens her eyes. “Yes, it’s not so bad.” But then she closes them again, so I doubt that’s true. It took a lot of courage for her to come here with me, to face her fears of the outside world. I hope I’ve got some of that courage too. I’m going to need it.
Aunt Ena’s about to speak again when Jesse appears at the table. “Hey,” he says, his voice deeper than I remember.
The first thing I notice is his black eye, then his busted lip. My eyes fill with tears again, and Jesse thumps down into the empty chair. “See, this is why I didn’t want you to come,” he says. “I didn’t want you to see all this.”
I reach out to touch his face, but he pulls away. “Wh
at happened?” I ask, wiping my eyes.
Jesse tosses one shoulder. “Got in a fight.” By the look of his knuckles, he did his own share of damage.
“Over what?” Aunt Ena asks, though her tone says she already knows it’s something stupid.
Jesse smiles and then winces at the pain in his mouth. “I told a guy his girlfriend was ugly. He’s got her picture taped to the wall by his bed.”
“Jesse,” I say, “why you always gotta make life so much harder than it needs to be? Mama’s worried sick about you.”
“Look who’s talking. I assume you’re here because of the fiddle.”
I glance at Aunt Ena nervously, and she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. I push the soda and candy bar toward Jesse, and he goes straight for the Snickers. Once his mouth is stuffed with gooey chocolate, I take my chance.
“I raised Jim’s ghost,” I say in a low whisper. No use dancing around the subject.
Jesse slaps his palm against the table, making me jump. He swallows down a bite of candy so fast it must hurt his throat. “Jesus, Shady, I told you to leave it alone. After everything I went through to—”
“I wanted to get you out of here.”
“How did you find the fiddle? Did Aunt Ena tell you where it was?”
“No, I figured it out on my own. Why’d you hide it under the oak tree?”
“That’s where she said to put it. She wouldn’t tell me why.” Jesse shifts in his chair and worries the tab on his root beer can. At least I’m not the only one Aunt Ena’s keeping secrets from.
“What did Jim say?” Jesse grinds his back teeth, making a muscle in his jaw twitch. With his blue uniform and his beat-up face, he looks scary, angry. No wonder they want to try him as an adult. But his eyes don’t look angry—they look like a little boy’s, lost and scared.
“He . . . he wouldn’t tell me anything—not really. He kept talking in circles, making metaphors.”
