Bitter Sun

by Beth Lewis

  ‘Eric would hang it,’ I said to Jenny as I wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the edge of the sink, just like Momma taught me to.

  ‘Why are we even talking about this?’ she said, absently twisting her hair into a single braid.

  ‘What do you mean? We’ve wanted the swing back for ages.’

  She shook her head, the exasperation in her movement made me flinch. ‘That’s kids’ stuff. You can be a real idiot sometimes, John.’

  She never called me John. It was always Johnny. Another flinch.

  She came beside me, let the braid fall and unravel. She leaned in so her voice wouldn’t carry outside. ‘We have to go to Samuels.’

  My heart dropped.

  ‘You said we would,’ she kept on. ‘Right after your lesson with Miss Eaves, right after we talked it all through with Rudy and Gloria. I know they don’t want to go yet but I do. You said we would. We know her name and we know about the car. We have to tell them.’

  ‘But Samuels knows about the car and he must know her name by now.’

  ‘But not the details! Not what Rudy’s dad said. I thought you wanted to help Mary. She needs our help.’ Her sweet voice was a harsh whisper, just like Momma’s. ‘I thought you wanted to help catch whoever hurt her.’

  ‘I do but what can we do?’

  ‘We can go and we can tell Sheriff Samuels what we know, everything we know. Now. What if he doesn’t know her name? What if all that’s stopping him from finding her parents or who killed her is you?’

  ‘But the swing …’

  ‘Who cares about the stupid swing?’ Her whisper gone, her voice too loud. Momma’s laugh filtered through the windows and walls. Eric always found a way to make her laugh.

  That laugh was like a slap to Jenny. She hushed, calmed.

  ‘What if it was me?’ she asked.

  I shot her a look.

  ‘What if, huh?’ she said. ‘Would you wait all this time if it was me shot and dumped in Big Lake?’

  Every word and the pictures they conjured were knives in my chest. Her golden hair turned grey, her skin bloated, her eyes milky. What had she said last year, when I asked why she went back to the body? I wanted to see what would happen to me if a fight ever … if she drank too much …

  She leaned closer. ‘I know you’ve got secrets. Something’s been going on with you but you won’t tell me. Don’t you trust me? Don’t you love me any more?’

  ‘Of course. I love you more than anyone.’

  How could she think otherwise? Had I neglected her that much? I tried to count like Frank taught me when I got upset. One-one-thousand … but Jenny’s eyes were on me and I couldn’t think of the numbers.

  ‘So if Mary was me, would you go to Samuels?’

  ‘In a second. I’d never stop until I found who hurt you.’ My words came out in one fierce stream, my eyes on hers so she could see how much I meant it.

  Then Jenny’s arms were around me. My shoulders relaxed, my arms swept around her and hugged her back.

  All would be fine. It was just a moment. A crazy horrible moment that she put in my head and then took away. The thought of someone hurting her, the image of her dead and rotting and nobody caring, the thought of her thinking I didn’t love her, it was too much. The moment exploded and I wasn’t her Johnny any more. Right then I was vengeance. I was Death, all spiked feathers and dagger claws. Jenny brought me back, I didn’t even need to count.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said again because it was all I could think of to say.

  ‘Let’s go to Samuels. Now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  If nothing else, a visit to Samuels could stem this growing darkness in my sister, end the obsession and bring back the sunshine girl she used to be.

  Jenny put a flask of water and a handful of graham crackers wrapped in paper in her bag. We weren’t stupid. One time last summer me and Jenny took a walk through the fields toward town when Momma sent us to post a letter and pick up eggs from Mrs Morton’s hens. On the way back the track leading through Morton’s back field was blocked, the old man was working the land, parked his tractor right on the path and hollered all sorts when he saw us coming. The detour took us a mile and a half out of the way. The sun was relentless. Worst summer heat in a hundred years so they said last year. It burned our scalps, dried us out, turned our blood to molasses, sluggish, thick. Jenny fainted right on the Three Points, that spit of no-man’s-land between irrigation canals. She hit the ground and didn’t get up. Impossibly still, unbearably silent. I shouted. I cried. I couldn’t leave her, I couldn’t help her. Old man Morton found us hours later. Momma, slurring and red-faced, hadn’t even noticed we weren’t back with the eggs.

  We had a flask every day since then.

  ‘Hand me that,’ Jenny said, pointing to her scarf, the one with the blue stars, on the hook by the door.

  I did. Watched her tie it neatly around her neck. So simple, so beautiful. Her fingertips brushed her throat, pale, barely touched by the sun.

  I was invisible next to my sister, she the sun and I the moon. All I was, bright and gleaming in the dark, was because of her. Her light. Her attention. And when she shone, I happily faded.

  ‘Shouldn’t you dress smarter to see the sheriff? You look like a homeless person,’ Jenny said, her eyes running up and down me.

  A too-big white t-shirt and pair of old jeans cut off just above the knee. They weren’t cool or stylish but Eric had given them to me and I liked them. It never seemed to matter if I came home with mud or grass stains, the denim was tough and cleaned right up.

  I smiled.

  ‘I think I’m handsome enough. Ready?’ I said and took the bag, which now, along with the crackers, contained two squares of Eric’s cornbread, my favourite, and slung it over my shoulder.

  I pushed open the screen door to the front porch. Like startled rabbits, Momma and Eric sprang apart, their faces all blush and bother. Momma’s elbow knocked an Old Milwaukee and sent it tumbling off the porch, spilling frothing beer all over the ground.

  ‘Damn it, John,’ Momma said, wiping her lipstick, straightening her blouse. ‘Why do you sneak around?’

  Eric adjusted his posture, rested both arms in his lap. He wouldn’t look right at me, rather his eyes traced the shape of me, sticking to my edges.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said slowly, not at all sure what I’d interrupted. Jenny stood behind me, tense and ready to bolt.

  ‘Can we go out?’ I said.

  A moment of hush as we waited, Jenny, Eric and me, to see what Momma would say. The afternoon sun painted this side of the house, turned the greying paint a brilliant white for an hour or two a day. That’s when Momma most liked to sit outside, when her house looked the best.

  ‘Where to?’ Momma said, hard but not fierce.

  ‘The Roost,’ I said. The truth wouldn’t sit well with Momma. Any mention of Samuels or Mora’s body would send us to our room.

  Momma glanced at Eric; her blush faded, his didn’t.

  ‘Have you done your chores?’

  ‘Yes,’ we both said.

  ‘Come out here, let me look at you,’ she said, grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the doorway, exposing Jenny.

  Momma’s eyes went from Jenny’s sandals up to her hair, lingering on her legs and shoulders. ‘Where did you get that dress?’

  Jenny swallowed so loud I could hear her throat working. ‘The cousins.’

  Momma’s mouth twisted. ‘I’ll bet it looked better on them.’

  ‘Patty.’ Eric put his hand on Momma’s knee, then looked at Jenny. ‘You look very pretty.’

  Idiot. You idiot, why would you say that? Haven’t you learned anything?

  Momma threw Eric’s hand away but kept her attention on Jenny. ‘Pretty? She looks like a little girl trying to be a woman,’ she sneered. ‘Like she’d ride with any boy who asked and then say thank you when they’re done with her.’

  ‘Momma …’ I tried but the monstrous moment passed.

  ‘Ge
t out of here, both of you,’ she said and waved her hand.

  Eric gave us a sad smile and we hurried off the porch before Momma could change her mind. I heard Eric say something like, ‘You’re too hard on them’, and I thanked him in my head even though it was his fault the monster woke up and clawed its cage.

  Jenny and me walked single-file through the cornfields, the stalks tall as my ears and still growing. She didn’t speak and I knew enough not to push her. Momma had this searing, fizzing effect on Jenny, like when you burn your arm taking a pot roast from the oven. The initial contact with the hot metal is a shock, a gasp, a what-the-hell-just-happened moment. You inspect the wound and see a silver line, only hurts a little, it’s not until afterwards, when your body has had time to react and defend itself, that the pain kicks in. Momma’s words were the hot iron door and they were just starting to blister.

  When we were halfway through the field and far enough away that nobody would hear us, Jenny let the pain out.

  ‘Why does she do that?’ she said and ripped a thick, green leaf from a stalk. The stalk swayed and creaked, sent its neighbours dancing with it.

  ‘She’s just trying to look out for you.’

  ‘She’s jealous of me.’ Jenny ripped the leaf to pieces. ‘I’m young, she’s not. I’m pretty, she’s not. She’s an ugly old cow and she knows it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk about Momma like that.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ She turned on me, dropped the leaf scraps in the dirt.

  ‘No one’s. Yours.’

  ‘Whatever, John. God, you’re so annoying sometimes.’ She shook her head and started walking again.

  It pained me, deep in my chest, to hear harsh words about my mother. She was half my world and Jenny the rest. It was like swallowing giant pills, all dry and sticking to my throat, to listen and not scream in her defence. Momma is trying her best, she loves us both, I wanted to say, she’s just protecting you, making sure you don’t give out the wrong impression and get yourself in trouble like she did when she was young. It’s all for you, Jenny, don’t you see?

  ‘She’ll never change,’ Jenny said. ‘She doesn’t know how. All this, it’ll just get worse. We’re leaving that house as soon as I turn sixteen, like we always said.’

  ‘Mmhmm,’ I said. It wasn’t the gung-ho yes ma’am, we’re outta here answer she wanted. I had a worm in my gut at the thought of leaving Momma, leaving the farm and even leaving Larson. It was all I’d ever known, all I’d ever wanted. The farm was flourishing and this year I knew we’d have a corn crop to rival Briggs and Morton. It’d put the Royals on the map. Ours would be the biggest harvest, the best quality, all because of me and Eric. We’d be rolling in cash and soft white flour. How could I want anything else?

  ‘John.’ Jenny looked over her shoulder. ‘As soon as I turn sixteen we leave, promise me.’

  I met her eyes but couldn’t hold them. I nodded a false promise and that seemed to be enough for her. Like Momma always said, a promise not spoken out, so both God and the devil can take note, ain’t no promise at all.

  15

  Black clouds grew in the east, turning the edge of the sky dark as we walked into Larson. It made me nervous, the size of those clouds, the weight of them pressing down on us. I wanted to get back to the farm, protect the crop somehow. Maybe I could string up a dozen tarps, give the corn a raincoat. Rudy would help. Maybe Gloria would too. It might almost be fun. Soon as this business with Samuels was done, I’d beat the rain home and get started.

  Me and Jenny talked about a handful of things, Mary Ridley, school, the farm, which she didn’t care a stitch for, and Eric. He said he’d take Jenny, and me I suppose but he never said, to Washington DC to see the anti-war marches or to a Joni Mitchell concert in Chicago. He had a soft spot for Jenny, one that Momma liked to take a pin to. We discussed how we would tell Samuels about Mary Ridley and the car and if we should mention Pastor Jacobs. No, we decided at the edge of town, two streets from the sheriff’s station, we’d just tell him that I overheard two men talking near the pastor’s office and the girl’s name was mentioned. We would remind Samuels about the Dodge and what Bung-Eye had said, That cocksucker didn’t have to kill her. He could only be talking about Mary Ridley.

  ‘Samuels can do whatever he wants with that information,’ Jenny said. ‘All I care about is finding Mary’s parents. We should look them up, get a bus to them. She’s what matters. Her family needs peace.’

  ‘I hope he finds whoever did it. They deserve to hang.’

  Jenny smiled and took my hand, held it as we walked. At the corner of Main and Wade Street, I noticed a group of women sitting outside the beauty parlour. They reminded me of a line of crows on a fence, screeching their business, oblivious to their volume or curious ears, but when Jenny and me passed, they hushed.

  Watched.

  The nail files slowed. The lipstick stalled halfway to their lips. The crow eyes followed us and the squawks turned to whispers.

  ‘You two out for a pop an’ ice cream?’ one of the women said, the one with the puffiest hair who I recognised from school pick up.

  Jenny smiled sweetly. ‘Just a walk.’

  ‘Yah, yah,’ they said, nodding. And the school pick up lady continued. ‘Careful now. Bad folks in town these days.’

  Her eyes locked on me.

  ‘Oh you betcha,’ she said. ‘All kinds of bad.’

  The women tutted and shook heads and made squalling mmhmm noises.

  I remembered the shouts and whispers in the school halls, the ones I thought had died away over the winter. Murderer, killer, John Royal did it, didn’t he? And Darney Wills in the Backhoe, Heard you mighta even killed her. Half the town was in the diner that day. Half the town heard. They would have recounted the tale to the others, spread the infection. I remembered the man with his dog who called me a freak.

  It’s still happening, John, it’ll never end. In the small minds of a small town, once a killer always a killer, no matter the truth.

  ‘Come on,’ I said and pulled Jenny on.

  ‘Bye now,’ I called to the women and the crows snapped away from us, on to more important topics. The lipstick finished its round. The nail files scraped away snags. The birds resumed their cacophony.

  ‘What was that about?’ Jenny asked as we got to the station.

  ‘Gossips. You know what they’re like.’

  I pushed open the door to the sheriff’s station and ushered her inside as the first spots of rain hit the sidewalk. I cast a quick glance over the street. A few people around, going about their Saturday. Nobody to notice me.

  I slipped inside and joined Jenny in front of the reception desk. The station was almost empty, only one deputy and Mrs Drake, the receptionist, visible. It didn’t feel right. The air smelt different, tense and full like a coming storm.

  ‘He’s not here,’ the Drake said to Jenny. ‘Come back on Monday.’

  Jenny’s jaw flexed, teeth clenched.

  ‘Where is he? It’s important,’ I said.

  The Drake, even more waspish and pinched than last year, stared at me over her glasses, all dried-out and crooked.

  ‘Come back on Monday.’

  Jenny looked at me. ‘Tell her, Johnny.’

  ‘We need to speak to Samuels,’ I said. My voice gained power in the face of that cross. We were on the same side.

  The Drake tilted her glasses down. ‘The sheriff,’ she paused, let the emphasis sink in, ‘is not here.’

  The phone rang. A sharp trill in the empty station.

  Mrs Drake picked up the receiver, held it between shoulder and head. Done with us. Get out now. It doesn’t matter how important it is, that a girl died, that a murderer is free, that the darkest parts of Larson, the Buchanans, are involved. No sir, that doesn’t matter because the sheriff isn’t here, probably at the Backhoe relieving Didi of half an apple pie. Come back on Monday.

  We stood there, stuck, waited for Mrs Drake to be finished, but as we watched, her
face changed. The hard lines on her forehead cracked, eyes widened, turned white.

  She put down the phone with a trembling hand.

  ‘What is it?’ Jenny said, the anger and impatience gone, concern in their place.

  She didn’t say anything, just got up. Still shaking. Looked right through us. The air in the station, close and cloying from the summer heat and heavy clouds, turned electric. She took uncertain steps, like the ground had moved beneath her and she couldn’t find her footing. Using the wall, then a desk, to keep herself upright, she crossed to the other side of the room, to the single deputy on duty.

  ‘What do you think’s happened?’ Jenny whispered to me.

  ‘Something bad,’ I said. I could feel it, in the air, in my bones.

  They say twins can sense when the other is hurt even when they’re miles apart. Small towns are the same. When the town is rocked, everyone can sense it. Homely smells turn to garbage, favourite flavours turn bitter, the sidewalks, the roads, the floorboards, turn soft, uneven. Then the rumours begin.

  I edged closer to the pair, caught the tail of the panic.

  ‘Christ,’ the deputy said, grabbed the back of his neck like it was going to explode.

  ‘You have to go,’ Mrs Drake said, tapping him on the arm.

  His expression matched hers. A breath. A beat. Let it all sink in.

  The deputy snatched a set of keys from a box on the wall, and ran to the exit. Right past us. Without a glance or word. His eyes were red. His body shaking. The receptionist stayed by the desk, fixed in place like she’d been hit with a freeze ray. Me and Jenny forgotten.