The Last Days of Summer

by Vanessa Ronan

  Brakes and tyres screech their halt. Jasper opens his eyes. Turns to look behind him. The pickup has stopped about fifty yards up the road. Dark skid marks from the brakes darken the concrete. He can’t see who is inside. Just the shadowed silhouette of the driver turned round in his seat to look behind him. A Stetson. Wide shoulders. For a second, Jasper thinks the pickup will back up to him. When it doesn’t, he wonders if he should walk up to it. Wonders if he knows the driver. Wonders if perhaps he should wave or call out. Instead he stands in silence, hands in pockets, squinting into the reflected light from the shiny pickup’s truck bed. A mirage on the road far beyond reflects and sparkles like water. Wind rustles dry grass. Earth parched for rain.

  Jasper takes a step forward towards the truck, and as he does, it dawns on him. Dread rises in his gut. There is only one frame he can think of that matches that broad silhouette. And it’s the one frame he had hoped not to see. Not yet. The engine revs once. Jasper pauses. Confusion creases his brow. He knows in his gut who this must be, though he’d imagined their paths crossing differently, had hoped maybe time could bandage up at least some wounds. He has done his term, served society’s penance. But Jasper knows all too well how vengeance feeds. He cannot imagine a reality where her brother will not want blood. He draws a deep breath and walks forward. His knuckles crack as his hands fist. Ahead, the shadow abruptly turns, twisting to face the steering-wheel again, and the truck speeds on, tyres screeching. Jasper stops mid-stride. Watches for a moment, wondering. Eventually he can no longer find the Ford on the flat, open road. Eddie Saunders had never shied away from a fight. Jasper stands motionless, feeling an uneasiness creep up inside him. When he finds his stride again, his footsteps lead back up the road he’s walked already. Back the way the truck just sped, back towards home.

  Hands in and out of the warm soapy water. Brought in and out of the faucet’s steady drip in steady bursts of hot and cold. The heat feels soothing on Lizzie’s aching knuckles as she massages them back to life. Too long sewing, but at least the lace is done. Nearly good as new. Mama had arthritis. In her hands. Her thumbs. Her knees. Used to sit out on her rocker on the front porch, rubbing her knees with the palms of her hands as she rocked back and forth, back and forth. For hours. Used to say the movement eased the pain, but when she stood up her walk was as stiff as ever. Lizzie wonders if she’ll be like that one day. If pain runs in her blood. Shakes her head. Don’t be ridiculous. Hopes not.

  She hears the truck before she sees it. Looks up out of the kitchen window beyond the tall prairie grasses and low-lying shrubs to the road beyond. Rumbling sound of the engine low as thunder and as distant, but uninterrupted and now quickly coming closer, growing louder, faster than any storm. Cobalt blue. Bright, shiny, new. Puts her rusted Chevy parked out front to shame. Lizzie turns the faucet off. Dries her hands on a dish towel. Places it, crumpled, on the counter beside her. Her hand fists around the cool fabric, gripping, squeezing, as it knots inside her palm. To her surprise, she is not shaking.

  She knows that truck.

  Whole town knows that truck. And it’s the one truck she hoped never to see. Or at least not yet. It’s too soon. He’s only just home …

  Lizzie knows that Jasper left the house. She didn’t try to stop him. Didn’t tell him, ‘Stay.’ Or ask him if he wanted company or even a lift somewhere. He is not a prisoner in this house. And yet Lizzie couldn’t help but feel uneasy as Jasper quietly walked to the door, as he paused there, hand already outstretched for the screen-door handle. For a moment, not looking up but still fully aware of where he stood, she wondered if he might not come back. It would be easier to leave with no goodbye. A part of her hoped he might never again enter through that door. A part of her worried to let him out of her sight.

  When the door shut behind him, she looked up. Watched the empty doorframe for some time, staring through the screen into the nothingness beyond. Mid-afternoon, the sun golden above the golden grass.

  But now there is that blue pickup speeding down the road, dust rising in a small brown cloud around it, and all Lizzie can wonder is, Where is Jasper? He’s been gone – what? An hour? Two? Her fear sticks like a lump in her chest. Like the panic that gripped her when Jasper had called all those years ago from the prison cell when Sheriff Adams had first dragged him in for questioning. His one phone call. And he’d called her.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it.’ That was all he’d said.

  And her heart had stopped. Had never beaten the same since. ‘Bear what?’ But on the other side of the telephone were only shallow breaths and hiccuped sobs and then, at length, strange, hollow laughter that was not her brother’s, and was her brother’s, and then she’d cried until the opposite receiver clicked its silence, only the hollow drone of the dial tone there to question or to comfort.

  Lizzie’d known that Jasper come back home might bring its share of trouble. She’d known, but still she’d hoped the past might stay gone.

  Now, dish towel crumpled in her fist’s tightening grip, she watches as the truck draws closer. Breath shallow and short. But, to her surprise, it does not slow. And then she knows. No. Not yet. Not now. A warning. And the warning chills her, freezes her insides and her heart with dread even as the afternoon heat eases in from the window before her to slide warm and sticky, honey-thick down her skin in dripping lines of perspiration.

  Long after the pickup has sped away, Lizzie still grips the dish towel, her knuckles white from the pressure. ‘Oh, Jasper,’ she finally gasps. Then mouths his name over and over softer and softer till the word itself crumbles into a dry rasp that cannot be heard. Dry lips rub together and chap to form his silent name.

  Somewhere a blue jay calls, then an oriole, till both fall mute mid-song.

  Katie’s hair glows golden where the lamplight hits it. She’s counting under her breath, ‘… forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four …’ with every brushstroke. She looks like a princess. Like a picture from a story book Joanne remembers seeing. She can’t remember what fairy tale it was – Rapunzel maybe, or maybe it was Goldilocks, or that princess from Rumpelstiltskin. But, no, that princess was spinning golden thread, not hair. Joanne wishes she had hair like that. Like Katie’s. Soft and shiny like the models in the magazines. Like golden thread. But all her hair does is tangle. That’s why she ties it up. Wears it in the ponytail. And, anyway, she doesn’t have the patience to brush her hair like that. It takes too long to reach one hundred. Hurts when she hits the tangles.

  For supper they’d had leftover brisket and mash and peas straight from the garden. It was Joanne’s job to shell the peas. Slow, monotonous work, but she likes peeling open the husks and finding the tiny green balls cradled inside. She likes how every pod holds a different number of peas. Grandma used to do it with her. Back when Grandma was alive. She’d sit in her rocker on the front porch, Joanne in a little heap on the floor beside her, the pea pot placed between them, Grandma rocking back and forth, creaking the floorboards of the porch with every rock. Joanne liked that sound. Misses it. Grandma used to give the pea pods names. Said every one was a family they knew. Peeling one open, four peas inside, she’d say, ‘Look here, hon, you see this? This must be the Philips.’ And then she’d dump the peas and shuck the pod away and move on to the next, six peas, the Adams, or five, the Clarks. She knew it was silly, but Joanne still liked the game. It always made her giggle. She still plays it as she shucks the peas herself, even though there’s no one there to tell the names to. Says them softly to herself instead, whispers without sound. Three peas, the Teagues. Five, Gordons. Four, Walters. Seven … a hard one … Grandma would have known.

  Dinner had been long and boring. Uncle Jasper didn’t say much, his face a hard mask that scared Joanne a little. And Mom had that stressed look she’d had when Grandma died, and when Joanne had tried to ask if they might go swimming real soon, Mom had snapped at her, ‘You just be silent now ’n’ eat your supper.’ And Joanne hadn’t tried to say much after that. Katie didn’t even try
to talk. And when she’d cleared her plate Joanne was grateful to be excused.

  It’s late now. Joanne doesn’t know the time, doesn’t care about the time, but it’s late enough the crickets have stopped calling, and she can see a sliver of the moon high in the sky through Katie’s parted curtains. Katie’s murmured counting is the only sound beside the creaks and groans of the house. The light woke Joanne, even though Katie only switched on the small lamp by her vanity and not the brighter overhead. Tangled in bed sheets, in silence Joanne watched her sister change from her diner uniform into shorts and a cami. As she watched, she wondered when her body might start to curve like that.

  ‘… forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.’ Katie sets down the brush and moves her long hair from one shoulder to the other. She picks up the brush again, eyes never leaving the mirror. ‘Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three …’ Brush gliding smoothly through the hair, not one single tangle. Voice steady and slow as a lullaby. As hushed.

  ‘Katie …’ Sleep thick in her voice.

  The brush stops. Katie turns. Blonde strands lifting from her shoulder with the sudden movement. ‘Shit! Sorry, Lady, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ A yawn she can’t control.

  Katie turns back to the mirror. Brush back to hair, steady once again. She watches her younger sister’s reflection. ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll only be another minute.’

  Joanne rolls onto her side, facing her sister. Fluffs the pillow up more under her head. Kicks one leg free from the tangled sheets. Shadows from the lamp cross and overlap each other on the wooden floor. Joanne can make out what some shadows are – Katie’s perfume bottle, a teddy bear, the roses hung up and dried that Josh had given Katie when he first asked her out – but other shadows are lost in darkness, and all shape is lost to Joanne’s sleep-filled eyes. ‘It’s OK. I’m not tired.’

  Katie laughs. ‘Yeah, right, kiddo. OK.’ And she winks at her sister in the mirror. Playful. Teasing.

  Joanne smiles. Tries to hide another yawn. Fails.

  ‘Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three …’ The brushstrokes almost hypnotic on the gently glowing golden hair. It’s like Katie’s hair lights up the room. Joanne wants to touch it. Wants to comb through it with her fingers, wants to hold that light, but she knows Katie won’t let her. She never lets her play with her hair.

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘Ummmmm?’

  ‘Why do you think Mom was so cross?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At dinner.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘You didn’t notice?’

  The brush pauses. Resumes. ‘Yeah, OK, I guess I did.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll take me swimming next week? I don’t understand why askin’ made her so angry.’

  ‘It wasn’t you, hon. Mom’s just going through a lot.’

  Silence stretches through the room, broken only by the distant ticking of a clock. Joanne bites a hangnail. Pulls the skin loose with her teeth and swallows it. She tastes blood from where the skin broke and sucks her finger to stop the blood spreading around the base of the nail. She likes the rubbery feel of the skin in her mouth. Works it between her teeth. A bad habit. One she’s only half trying to break.

  ‘That’s gross.’ Katie’s seen her in the mirror. Nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘That is so disgusting.’

  Joanne giggles, embarrassed. ‘No, it’s not!’ Still giggling, she pulls the sheets up higher to her chin. Kicks her other foot free.

  Nose still wrinkled, Katie shakes her head. ‘Ewww.’ Brush glides smoothly.

  Joanne watches, silent. Downstairs, the grandfather clock strikes the hour and its chime echoes softly through the sleeping house.

  ‘The Saunders’ new truck drove by earlier.’

  Katie’s hand freezes mid-air, brush suspended. Cautiously, she lowers it back to her hair. Resumes. Voice forced passive, steady. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. It just drove by.’

  ‘You’re sure it was that truck?’

  Joanne tosses onto her back. Suspends a leg up long into the air and looks at her foot. Indian brown with dirt under the nails. She wonders if maybe she should start painting her nails. Like Katie does. Wonders if maybe Katie might let her borrow her polish. ‘I think so.’

  ‘You have to be sure, Joanne. This is important.’ Strain in the hoarseness of the whisper.

  Surprised, Joanne looks back to Katie. She’s turned around on her stool and is facing Joanne, leaning forward slightly, a line of worry etched into her brow. Same line Mom has, but not as deep. Joanne lowers her leg, feels the coolness of the sheet meet the arch of her foot. Likes the feeling. Curls her toes around it.

  ‘Why don’t we talk to the Saunders, Katie?’

  Her sister looks at her long and hard. A sizing-up look, and Joanne knows it. Can feel it. She wonders what it is that Katie is trying to see in her. Prays to God she finds it. Whispers, softly, ‘Please tell me.’

  Katie turns slowly back to the mirror. Picks up the brush, discarded on the vanity. Turns it over in her hand, regarding it before raising it to her head. Starts again to brush her hair, slow and steady, as though each stroke holds weight. ‘Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven … If Mom won’t take you swimming next week, I will. How’s that sound, Lady?’ In the mirror, Katie smiles.

  Joanne sits up so fast she’s dizzy. ‘You know, don’t you? I just know you know! Why won’t you tell me? This is so unfair!’ The last words a high-pitched whine.

  ‘Ssssh!’ Katie hisses. ‘Shut up or you’ll wake Mom.’

  Joanne bites her pouting lip. Glares at her sister’s reflection. ‘It’s ’cause of him, isn’t it?’ She can’t keep the excitement from her voice. ‘It’s ’cause of Uncle Jasper.’

  Through the mirror, eyes lock and hold. At length, Katie nods.

  Joanne pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Even across the room she can smell grease from the diner still thick on Katie’s skin, cigarette smoke still cloudy in her sister’s golden hair. Most nights Joanne would hate sleeping next to her sister when she smells like that. But not tonight. Not now that she can feel Katie softening. Excitement rises like butterflies in Joanne’s chest.

  ‘He hurt someone, didn’t he?’

  In the mirror, Katie nods.

  Joanne can feel her heart racing, slamming against her ribs, trying to break free as she tries to pull her still sleep-clouded thoughts together. ‘He hurt one of the Saunders? That’s why they won’t talk to Mom?’

  A hesitation. In the mirror, Katie nods.

  ‘What’d he do?’ She crosses her legs and leans forward on the bed, whisper strained with excitement.

  ‘You ask too many questions.’ A snapped reply. Then, softer, ‘Just be careful, OK? Don’t talk to the Saunders.’

  ‘They don’t talk to us anyway.’

  Katie’s reflection is drawn and serious. A cloudiness across her eyes Joanne does not recognize. It clears, and Katie smiles. ‘Just don’t talk to no strangers, OK? Saunders or no Saunders.’ She winks. Forced wink. Forced smile. Brush back to hair. Slow and steady with each stroke. Under her breath, ‘Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six …’

  Mind racing, Joanne listens to the whispers fade. There’s a million questions she wants to ask, but she knows Katie won’t answer them. Not now. She’s got to be careful. She likes that her sister is trusting her more. Doesn’t want to push and spoil it. Joanne wonders if maybe one day they will tell each other secrets again, like they did when they were little. She picks one floating question. One of the millions spinning round her head. One she thinks Katie might actually answer. ‘Was it like that when Daddy was around?’

  Brush strokes pause mid ninety-nine. ‘Was what?’

  ‘Dinner. Was it always silent like that? Is that what it’s like to be a family?’

  Second half of ninety-nine somehow tangles, catches in the hair, and Katie pulls it free. ‘We’ve always been a family.’ Eyes search for
hers, reflected in the mirror.

  One hundred does not catch, and Katie places the hairbrush down.

  ‘Morning, Elizabeth.’

  The truck door slams behind him, the sound foreign among the softer tones of morning.

  ‘Reverend.’

  He smiles. ‘Mighty fine day, isn’t it?’

  She regards him coolly. Takes in his gut, the sweat on his brow, the sweat marks already forming on the crisp white of his newly pressed shirt, small circles round his armpits quickly forming, spreading. Now that he has emerged from the comfort of his fancy new pickup’s a/c, the reverend struggles in the heat, large form moving awkwardly in the thick humidity. She says nothing. Waits for him to speak.

  Around them the prairie stretches brown and dry as ever, parched earth screaming for rain, the sky unmerciful blue and cloudless. He pauses at the foot of the porch steps. Smiles. ‘I know I said it last time, but your roses truly are divine, Elizabeth. My wife would be mighty jealous if she saw them.’

  ‘Come on in, Reverend.’ No welcome in her tone.

  They sit across from each other at the kitchen table. Coffee’s already been poured and now sits before them cooling. At length, the reverend breaks the silence. ‘How are you, Elizabeth? And the girls. Y’all doing OK out here?’ She watches him survey the room, glance out to the hallway. She can guess what he’s looking for.

  ‘We’re just fine, Reverend. Good as ever.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. I truly am. I know you’ve kept yourself scarce from church since your mother died – no, don’t argue, Elizabeth, you know it’s true, and that’s not for me to question. I reckon that’s between you and God. I ain’t here to lecture you today.’ He chuckles. ‘I just want you to know that we haven’t forgotten about y’all. We still remember your mother in our prayers each Sunday.’

  ‘That’s mighty kind of you.’ Voice hard, unrelenting.

  ‘Well …’ He regards her a moment and shifts his weight. ‘It ain’t really a matter of kindness, Elizabeth, it’s just the Christian thing to do. And, as I said, we worry about you and the girls all alone out here.’