Bitter Sun

by Beth Lewis

  The snow was bad that year, heavy drifts, a blizzard a week. Jenny and me used to make snowmen every January. We’d throw snowballs, make angels, but not that year. The whiteout wasn’t some magical wonderland, it wasn’t glittering and pure. That year it was prison. A chain around our house and farm and lives. Everything too cold, too slippery, too dangerous to move. Everyday life was a heave and an ache, trudging through deep drifts, and nothing but an inch or two forward to show for the effort.

  I kept my mouth shut about Mary Ridley and Wakefield. Kept that wolf at bay, at least for a while. But Momma, I couldn’t stop her and I couldn’t stop Jenny riling her. I lived that winter tense and waiting for the dagger to fall. I drew away from Gloria and Rudy, barely saw them for months. I couldn’t risk Jenny by telling them the truth and if I couldn’t tell them everything, I felt like I couldn’t tell them anything.

  By Christmas, they stopped trying to make me talk about it and we settled into a quiet distance. That hurt Gloria especially, I know it did because it hurt me too. I figured I’d hurt her less by ignoring it than ruining her whole family. It tore my heart to confetti to see her, staring at me across the school lunchroom, red eyes like mine, angry and missing each other.

  Maybe one day, when all this Mary Ridley business was forgotten, I’d march up to Gloria Wakefield and sweep her up in one of those epic movie kisses like John Wayne and Coleen Gray in Red River. Rudy and me had snuck past Hell-on-Healey to see that in the Clarkesville picture house last summer, one of their old movie matinees. That movie made me think of Gloria, the way pretty Fen had said she was as strong as John Wayne any day, could handle anything the frontier could throw at them. I wished that were true of Gloria and me. I wanted to talk to her, be with her more than anything, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

  To distract myself, I volunteered to help Frank with the younger kids’ Bible Study class on Sunday mornings. Most weekends I cleaned up the classroom in the back of the church and then Frank would buy me Coke or hot malt at the Backhoe as thank you. I wanted to tell him what Momma did that past summer to Jenny but I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him about Mr Wakefield’s threat but I couldn’t. Those Sundays were my bright spots and as the year turned over to ’73, I didn’t have many to cling to.

  The sun came back in April and melted the world to mud. I overheard Didi in the Backhoe one afternoon talking about how some folks in the next county found a dead man, soaking drunk, went missing as the snow started in December and wasn’t found until the thaw. A secret held all winter long, like Jenny’s hair and who and how and why it was all cut off. People looked, asked questions. Official story was Jenny did it to herself to spite her momma because she blamed her momma for Eric leaving and knew Momma loved her hair.

  Don’t you say a word about that day, John Royal, Momma told me, grabbed me by the shoulder, no one wants to hear your lies.

  Solid ice all around me.

  Jenny wasn’t my Jenny any more. She was some angry thing living in my house, sleeping in my room, not talking, barely eating, never smiling. It was like that strange obsession with Mary Ridley had been kicked into overdrive. More than once I caught her talking to herself, to Mary, to Eric, even to Mark and Tracy, holding whole conversations with phantoms. Those were the only times I heard her laugh and it scared the shit out of me. Fear worse than when Darney attacked me, worse than hearing Wakefield talk about murder, worse than finding a girl’s body. This was my sister, I loved her more than the sun, but I was losing her. I wanted to shake her awake, break through that hard coating and find my Jenny again, before it was too late.

  One evening, sometime after Easter, Jenny and me sat in the family room, her reading, me pretending to. Her hair was up in its scarf, the one with little blue stars Gloria had given her for her birthday, and just a few yellow strands fell over her brow. The cut on the back of her neck from Momma’s knife was healed up to a thin red curve. When her hair grows back, I thought, you’d never know it was there. That gave me a speck of hope. It would all be covered up, all the hurt and pain and blood and bad feeling. It’d be invisible again, forgotten though maybe not forgiven.

  Momma was working the late shift at Gum’s and we’d had two-days-ago meatloaf for dinner. We hadn’t spoken all evening. Every moment spent with this Other Jenny was agony to me. I had to try harder to break the shell, bring her back.

  But how?

  Find a way.

  Give her what she wants. If she gets what she wants she’ll be happy. That’s how it works with girls. Momma’s always happy when I bring her whiskey or her Lucky Strikes.

  ‘Jenny,’ I said but she didn’t look up from her book. ‘Jenny, if you could have anything in the whole world, what would it be?’

  She lowered the book and her eyes went to the window. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘I want to get out of this house of course. I want to be away from her.’ She swivelled around to me, lit up from the inside. ‘I want to see the world and smell the ocean. I want to go to San Francisco and see the White House in Washington and join the protests, Eric tells me all about them. And New York City and Chicago and Paris, France.’ Her hand went to the scarf and her tone darkened. ‘It doesn’t even matter where as long as it’s not here.’

  She stretched out her arms, a look of sadness all over her. ‘I wish I was a bird. Wake up, fly away, and never look back.’

  Then her gaze lost me, went through me, like she was talking to the distance. ‘She’ll kill me one day if I don’t. I know it.’

  I blinked, eyes suddenly hot. No, no way, not a chance, not ever. Momma wouldn’t, couldn’t, no but … but since Eric left … she was a different Momma, more drunk, more absent, more vicious. Then I saw the red curve on Jenny’s neck. A few inches to the side, a little deeper, so easy to slip, and … But that was silly thinking, come on now, John. Momma would never hurt Jenny like that. But maybe she would keep chipping away at her until my sister was all gone and she wouldn’t even want to see San Francisco or Washington or smell the ocean.

  Darney Wills’ terrible words came back. He’ll destroy the one thing you love most in this whole world. Your pretty piece-of-ass sister will be all his, and you know what happened to the last girl he took a shine to.

  Then I knew I had no other option.

  It was the last thing I wanted to do but the only thing I could.

  We had to leave Larson. At least for a while. Until all this Mary Ridley business died down.

  My heart ached. I cast my eyes around the house and out the window to our empty fields. Royal land. My land. My dream. Then my eyes found my sister, broken and bruised and not herself, and the ache diminished.

  This isn’t for you, John, this is for her. Keep her far away from Wakefield and Darney. Keep her clear of Momma. It’ll hurt for a while, a sharp sting like ripping tape off your arm, but worth it. It doesn’t have to be forever. It can’t be. I knew I couldn’t go the rest of my life without my mother and I didn’t want to, no matter her faults she was blood and the only true parent I had. The thought of leaving her made me shudder.

  They both needed distance from each other. Jenny will realise she plays her own part in riling up Momma, I’ll make sure she sees that, and when she does, we’ll come home. Momma doesn’t mean it, it’s not our real momma doing all those things, it’s the drink, the anger, the fear of losing what she loves. Momma will learn to control it. She’ll find a new Pigeon Pa to tame it. A Pigeon Pa who’ll stick around this time.

  Jenny went back to her book and I to mine, but my mind raced in circles and my chest hurt from sadness. I looked at her, the sharp angle of her jaw, the way she tied her scarf so neatly, the scar on the back of her neck, decided.

  All I needed now was cash.

  ‘Mr Westin?’ I called out, standing in front of the empty counter in Al Westin’s grocery store. The sound of boxes being moved in the back. A groaning huff from the old man. It was after school, when mothers would usually be buying their gre
ens and potatoes for dinner but the store was empty, the collards wilted in their box.

  ‘Mr Westin?’ Louder. Craned my body over the counter, trying to see through the plastic curtain separating the light, bright store from the dark, cramped back.

  ‘Coming,’ came the reply, too gruff, too impatient for Al Westin.

  I flinched. Sank back. Bad time. Come back later. He won’t listen to you now.

  Just as I was backing away, the old man swept through the curtain and rested his palms on the scratched wooden countertop. The frown set deep in his features eased when he recognised me.

  ‘John Royal,’ he said, half a smile. ‘Haven’t you shot up? Should call you Beanpole Royal now, ey, ey?’

  A fat grin grew on my face. Four inches in the last three months but Momma and Jenny hadn’t noticed. Frank had, when I saw him this past Sunday, and I’d beamed as much at him as I was at Al. I straightened my back, gained an extra half-inch. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘My Scott hasn’t had his spurt yet, still a midget in short trousers, he is. He should be here soon, after practice, if you’re looking for him. Anything I can do for you?’

  I opened my mouth but my words stuck in my throat. On the way over here I’d run through a dozen scenarios, a dozen how-to-asks and a dozen possible replies, but now here, that dozen could have been a thousand for all it prepared me. How do you do it, ask for a job? Shouldn’t Momma have taught me? Shouldn’t school?

  ‘John?’ Mr Westin tilted his head to the side.

  Just ask him, you idiot, he can only say no.

  Ah, but if he says no you’re screwed, you and Jenny, royally screwed.

  A dark laugh inside my head.

  ‘Yoo-hoo, John, come back down to earth, kid.’ Mr Westin gently touched my shoulder.

  ‘Sorry. I … uh … . I just wondered if you might need an extra pair of hands after school some days … you know … I could use some pocket money and … uh …’

  Mr Westin’s face fell. He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Ah, John. I’d love to help you out but I got Scotty helping me after school.’

  I looked at the half-empty produce trays, the sad cabbage leaves and potatoes spotted with eyes. Mr Westin saw me looking.

  ‘It’s gone to hell, huh?’ he said. ‘Ever since that damn mill. My day kid, Billy-something, you remember?’ I didn’t but nodded anyway. ‘He used to load the flour trucks for Easton when he wasn’t working here. He had a girl in Clarkesville, heard he got her in the family way and you can’t raise cats on the hourly I had him on. He ran off to Chicago with the girl, left me right up shit creek. Pardon my French.’

  ‘So you only need someone during the day, when everyone is at school?’ I said, a heavy stone sinking in my stomach.

  ‘Sorry, son,’ Mr Westin said, and I could see he meant it. ‘You could talk to Didi, the Backhoe might need a weekend washboy.’

  My cheek twitched at the thought. Too high a chance of Darney Wills seeing me, teasing me, holding my head under the brown sink water.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Westin. I’ll do that.’

  ‘Hey, John, before you scoot,’ he said, came around the counter and eyed the street outside. ‘My Scott, you know, how’s he doing?’

  ‘Good, I guess, I don’t really know.’

  Mr Westin nodded. ‘It’s just, see, he’s been roping around with the Buchanan boy, Rudy. That isn’t really a kid you want hanging out with your son, if you catch my drift.’

  It was everyone’s drift when it came to Rudy and I’d had this conversation half a dozen times.

  ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about, sir. Rudy’s not like his family.’

  ‘You sure? I heard he broke his arm that time falling out a window, they say he was stealing the church petty cash box.’

  ‘That’s a flat out lie,’ I almost shouted. ‘His father broke his arm. Rudy isn’t a thief.’

  Al Westin nodded but he wasn’t convinced. For a second I hated this town, its people, for making up lies like that about my best friend. The same people who said I’d killed Mary Ridley. All the more reason to leave, Johnny boy. I took a deep breath. Al wasn’t a bad guy, in fact, he was one of the only good ones left. I forced a smile.

  ‘It’s just gossip, sir. None of it’s true.’

  He smiled with me and nodded. ‘All right. Well you better get on before Didi finds another washboy.’

  I stepped out onto Main Street, into hot air and heavy silence. A few windows were still boarded, the wood scrawled with ugly words in garish paint. Pieces of litter and leaves, beer cans, fast food napkins, cigarette ends, caught up into a ball by the wind, swirled on the sidewalk, then dropped, scattered. A man, the only person I could see, walked right through the mess, didn’t care, didn’t want to see it. He kicked a can into the street like it was a game.

  A sad ache in my chest. A year ago, that man would have stooped, picked up what he could and found a trash can. A year ago, the chattering bird women outside the beauty parlour would have written a notice about our terrible litter problem and put it up on the church bulletin board for all to see, tut at, shame the perpetrators and clean up the town. Before Mark and Tracy. Before the Easton mill explosion. Before Eric left and Momma turned monster and Jenny changed.

  I went through town, to Mrs Lyle at the post office, to Jimmy’s auto shop, even the beauty parlour, but nobody was hiring. The chairs outside the parlour were empty of crow women in curlers. The post office was shuttered most days and the auto shop had turned chop shop to make up for the shortfall. Larson kids like me always used to get summer and weekend jobs in the mill stacking sacks of flour, breaking our backs for a buck a day. But not any more. There was nowhere left for us.

  I considered the Backhoe but just couldn’t bring myself to go inside. A washboy. Potscrubber. Kitchen rat. Cleaning up half-eaten plates of eggs and burgers in the swelter from the grill and the fryers, a thousand degrees hotter than the worst summer. Come home smelling of fry oil and meat sweat. Darney Wills would see me, wait for me after, beat me into a patty. Or maybe he would do nothing and that would be worse. Nothing for now, but just wait, let your blood boil at the thought, right up until you think you’re safe, when you least expect it. Then smash! You’re down. You’re down, and you ain’t getting up.

  I was on my knees. In the dirt. Hot breath came out of me in quick blasts.

  The sun was low, minutes from setting. Slowly, I realised where I was. The Three Points. The triangular, no-man’s-land island made by irrigation canals, set adrift between farms.

  ‘How did I …?’ I said out loud like I expected someone to answer.

  A blackout. I’d lost an hour or two, maybe more.

  I stood. My sneakers were wet. A trail of damp footprints led behind me, toward Big Lake. I felt the scratching inside my body, on my bones, snagging at my veins.

  I ran home as the starlings three fields over began their dusk dance. Always there, filling the sky, pulsing like my own heartbeat, mirroring the rush inside me.

  When I got home, sweating and red-faced, it was dark but the house lights blazed. Jenny sat rigid at the kitchen table. Music, Patsy Cline, played through the house and then I saw Momma, dancing at the stove. Apron tied around her waist, spatula in her hand, hips swaying to the rhythm.

  She spun around when she heard me. ‘Here’s my boy. My two babies are home. Just in time for dinner.’

  The smell of fried chicken hit me and my stomach kicked. Momma’s fried chicken was something special. Secret’s in the spices, she always said.

  ‘Get the plates, John,’ Momma said, and started singing Patsy’s chorus.

  I took three plates from the cupboard.

  ‘Ah!’ Momma pointed the spatula at me. ‘We’ll need four, today.’

  My chest tightened. ‘Four? Someone else coming?’

  ‘A special guest,’ she said.

  I glanced at Jenny, her eyes wide, her back rebar-straight, scarf around her hair.

  ‘Who?’ I asked, but the sound of a truck pu
lling into the yard cut above my question, above the music. Momma snatched the chicken pieces out the sizzling pan, rested them, golden and crispy, on a paper towel, then pulled off her apron.

  ‘Put those on the table,’ she said, smoothed and then tousled her hair. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Very pretty, Momma.’

  I transferred the chicken to a bowl and set it on the table beside a plate piled high with squares of cornbread. My hands shook. I met Jenny’s eyes. She shook too. Those eyes pleaded. That was fear, pure and simple fear, right there at the kitchen table.

  The sound of a slamming truck door. Heavy footsteps on the porch.

  A booming knock.

  Momma beamed at us like some giddy schoolgirl, but through the smile her words were harsh. ‘Best behaviour. Don’t you dare ruin this for me.’

  She went to the door and I took my seat beside Jenny.

  ‘Who is that? Why’s she acting so strange?’ I whispered but Jenny just shook her head, watched for Momma to reappear.

  We heard soft giggling, a rough, low voice, then footsteps. Momma came into the kitchen, holding a man’s hand. I knew him. Jenny knew him. Everyone in Larson knew him and nobody wanted him as their dinner guest. I gripped Jenny’s hand under the table.

  ‘Kids,’ Momma said, like she was displaying a first prize trophy. ‘Say hello to Mr Buchanan.’

  ‘Ain’t this a glorious sight,’ Bung-Eye said, pulled off his jacket, old leather with denim patches. His armour. He handed it to Momma without looking at her, without speaking, with just an air of expectation that she knew, as she should, what he wanted of her.

  She took it, hung it in the hall and returned to his side. A horrible silence grew between us, no matter the music, no matter the sound of the fat still sizzling in the pan.