by Cat Winters
A twig cracked again.
“What the hell . . . ?” said a nearby voice that made my heart stop. Cigarette smoke wafted into my nostrils.
My eyes flew open, and I found Robbie and Gil Witten standing over us, gawking, their heads cocked, as though they were viewing a two-headed creature with wings and a beak. Cigarettes burned in their right hands. A bottle of a clear booze that must have been gin dangled from Gil’s meaty left fingers. Robbie held a wooden-handled pocketknife with an exposed blade that glinted in the morning sunlight.
I froze beneath Joe’s arm.
Robbie closed his mouth and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette toward our feet beneath the blanket. “Hey, jailbird Joe!” he called out.
Joe stirred beside me. He opened his eyes to the faces above us and bolted to a sitting position. “What’re you doing here?”
Robbie took a drag from the cigarette and puffed a white cloud of smoke in our direction. “That’s precisely what we were about to ask you.”
“We were just coming out here for breakfast”—Gil tapped the bottle of gin against his leg—“and heard someone snoring.”
“I had no idea,” said Robbie, “it would be Elston’s most-wanted criminal and sweet Hanalee Denney.”
Gil snickered and turned bright red. “I thought for sure Hanalee would be naked under that blanket.”
Robbie furrowed his thick eyebrows at me. “What are you doing out here with this ex-convict? I warned you, he’s depraved.”
“Some breakfast you’ve got there,” said Joe, nodding toward the gin. “Aren’t Klan members supposed to be opposed to bootlegging?”
Gil shoved the bottle into a trouser pocket and averted his eyes from mine. “Who said we were in the Ku Klux Klan?”
“What’s more important,” said Robbie, “is what you and Hanalee Denney are doing wrapped up in a blanket in the middle of our Christian family’s property.” He sniffed the air. “The whole place reeks of sin.”
Gil snorted and slid his cigarette between his wet-looking lips.
All I could do was lie there, paralyzed, with my hand pressed around the outline of the holster beneath the blanket. The Junior Order of Klansmen pamphlet remained tucked inside my pocket.
Joe combed his fingers through his hair. “Hanalee and I are eloping.”
I kept my face stoic, despite my urge to shout, What did you just say?
“Oregon won’t allow us to marry,” he continued, “so we’re running off to Washington. We just camped here for the night before we set out to cross the hills and the Columbia River.”
“You’re eloping?” Robbie flicked more ash to the ground by our feet.
“That’s right.” Joe nodded.
Gil reddened again and muttered to his brother, “Jesus. Does Washington really allow fairies to marry mulattoes?”
“What did you just say?” Joe threw off the blanket and jumped to his feet.
“He said,” said Robbie, lifting his chin, “you two make a highly peculiar pair. Does your bride-to-be know you were caught diddling some other fellow?”
Joe clenched his hands by his sides. “What pathetic lives you must lead if you have to make up vulgar stories about me.”
“It’s not true, then?” Robbie wedged his cigarette between his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “You’re not a fag?”
“Would you have found me here, wrapped in a blanket with a girl, if I was?”
The twins eyed each other, as if to gauge each other’s opinions. Joe didn’t look back at me, but I could tell from the way he rubbed his hands along the sides of his trousers that the Wittens and that pocketknife terrified him. I kept my face and my body still, worried that the wrong expression or word would bring him harm.
“Prove it to us.” Robbie stepped closer and picked at the end of his knife. His cigarette hung out of the side of his mouth and desecrated the fragrance of the woods. “Kiss her.”
“What?” Joe glanced over his shoulder at me. “No. I’m not giving you a peep show just to prove we love each other.”
“What’s the matter?” Robbie nudged Joe backward by the fist that held that knife. “Do you feel bile rising to your throat over the idea of kissing a colored girl?”
“I think he feels bile,” said Gil, also coming closer, “over the idea of kissing any girl.”
The twins both chuckled, and Joe kept rubbing the sides of his legs.
I pushed myself to my feet, my knees wobbling, and took hold of Joe’s left hand. “Just ignore them, Joey.”
“‘Joey’?” laughed the twins, reminding me of a skinny version of Tweedledum and Tweedledee, standing there side by side, their shoulders shaking, their cheeks bright red. Even their clothing matched—tweed pants, rolled-up shirtsleeves, floppy plaid caps pulled just above ears as large as abalone shells.
“They’re just jealous,” I continued, “that no girl would ever want to sleep with them out here in the woods.”
Robbie’s face sobered, and his laughter ceased. “Is this real, Hanalee?” he asked. “Did you two . . . ?” He gestured with his cigarette toward the blanket on the ground. “Last night . . . did you . . . ?”
I slid my hand across Joe’s stomach and felt his muscles stiffen.
Robbie stared me in the eye and squeezed two fingers down upon his cigarette. “I’d sure feel more certain of all of this if I saw you two kiss.”
I gritted my teeth. “You don’t need—”
“I’ve had it on pretty good authority”—Robbie toyed with the blade of his knife again—“that your boy here likes men. In fact, I feel like puking just from standing so close to him. I feel like . . .” His green eyes darkened, and the knife and the cigarette shook in his hands.
Joe’s arm tensed beside me. I squeezed his hand.
“We just woke up,” I said. “I don’t have any chewing gum or toothpaste to make my breath nice and sweet for him.”
Gil reached inside a coat pocket and drew out his own pocket-knife, as well as a yellow packet of Wrigley’s P.K. gum. “Here you go.” He stepped forward with one foot and held out his hand with the chewing gum.
Joe and I took a stick apiece, eyeing the knife in Gil’s other hand, and then we peeled down the paper wrappers and popped the gum into our mouths. A jolt of peppermint hit my tongue, and my eyes watered from both the taste and the fear of what would happen if I didn’t kiss Joe in front of these prying jackasses. Or what would happen if I grabbed up my gun and shot one of the Wittens in the knee with my remaining bullet.
We chewed for a good half minute or so, our chomps the only sounds in the woods, aside from the pleading calls of a robin and Gil snickering under his breath.
“All right, that should do it,” said Robbie. “Spit them out and kiss. I want to be good and certain I’m not sending our sweet little girl into the world with a pervert who’ll try sticking his—”
Joe lunged toward Robbie, but before he could take a swing, I grabbed Joe’s left arm.
“Come on—let’s just show them,” I said with a tremor in my voice.
I cupped a hand around the back of Joe’s sweating neck and adjusted my footing on the dirt until we faced each other directly. We just stood there for a moment, breathing peppermint on each other, our lips wavering a few mere inches apart, not quite able to touch.
“What do you think, Gil?” asked Robbie. “Does that look like a fellow about to elope with a woman? Or does it look like someone who needs a stern lesson in masculinity?”
At that, I kissed Joe full on the mouth. Our lips just sort of smashed together at first, but then I felt his mouth moving a bit, kissing me back, and he even slid the tip of his tongue against my tongue, which the Wittens must have witnessed, for Gil whispered, “Oh, sweet Jesus.” My hand gripped the back of Joe’s neck so hard, I must have hurt him; he clung to my waist as though we were withstanding a hurricane. Without realizing what was coming over me, I started to cry, right there, mid-kiss.
Joe pulled his lips away. I dug my forehea
d into his shoulder and took deep sips of air to try to stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. I smelled the pond by the Paulissens’ shed again and wished us away to anywhere else on earth besides that cold spot of land in front of the Wittens.
“Why is she crying?” asked Gil.
Joe wrapped his arm around me and pulled me against his side. “Because you’re threatening us with knives and turning what we have into something dirty. How do you expect her to react?”
Gil scratched his head beneath his cap with the hand that held his knife. Robbie looked the two of us up and down, and my skin chilled in the places touched by his gaze.
“Well, don’t just keep gawking at us.” Joe brought us both a step backward. “You’re not going to see anything else, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”
“I thought I heard a cat yelping outside last night,” said Gil, his face reddening again, “but maybe that was just Hanalee, screaming in the throes of passion.”
“Shut up, Gil,” snapped Robbie. “This whole thing makes me sick to my stomach, to be honest.” He tossed his cigarette to the ground and rubbed it out with the toe of his right shoe. “I might have to go tell your mama and stepdaddy about this, Hanalee.”
“I don’t need the two of you tattling on me, Robbie,” I said while coughing up the last of my tears, “so just—”
“Don’t worry about it, Hanalee.” Joe slid his arm off me but grabbed hold of my left hand. “Come on. Let’s get going.”
“Well, if God sees fit, then”—Robbie turned around, away from us, yet he peeked over his shoulder and kept his blade exposed by his side—“you two will make it safely across the river to Washington. Let’s see how long that marriage lasts until you both wake up and realize how much you repulse each other.”
“Go to hell, Robbie,” said Joe.
“Oh, I’m not the one who’ll be burning for all eternity, Joseph Adder.” Robbie pushed his way through the trees.
Gil followed his brother, and their checkered hats disappeared amid leaves and cobwebs shining with dew.
Joe and I stayed still and listened to the sounds of their retreat. Chuckles and derogatory words—words clearly meant for the two of us to hear—traveled past the location of the small log cabin and then off to the west. I flinched at each sickening term directed toward me, while Joe kept his breath held tightly at the insults meant for him. The words pelted my gut like fireballs, and I wished I could think of a phrase dirty and demeaning enough to hurl back at them.
Joe let go of my hand and grabbed up his belongings at our campsite. “Let’s pack up and get out of here.”
I strapped the holster around my leg and fetched the basket and blanket.
We took off at a brisk pace, toward the east.
A half mile or so later, after hopping over tree roots and skedaddling down deer paths, Joe took hold of my wrist and pulled us both behind the thick trunk of a fir. I panted to catch my breath, and he put his fingers to his lips and said, “Shh. I want to hear if they’re following.”
I closed my mouth and attempted to breathe without making a sound, but the air rustling through my nostrils came out as a windstorm. Some sort of animal with brown fur shook through a bush beside us and made us both gasp.
Joe loosened his grip on my wrist and cursed under his breath.
“I don’t hear them,” I whispered. “Do you?”
He shook his head.
“Joe,” I said in a voice so strained and quiet it hurt my throat. “I’m sorry I started crying.”
He wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I should have grabbed your gun instead of letting them talk to us that way.”
“No, it would have just made things worse if you fired at one of them. And they had knives . . .”
“That cabin was theirs.” He swallowed. “I should have known from all the naked pictures and cigarettes. I bet they hide all their vices from their mother out there.”
“Uncle Clyde knows their father—he’s the pharmacist.”
Joe readjusted his hold on the lantern. “I’m sure he knows him for other reasons, as well.”
With that, he took off into the hedges. Branches scraped across his sides and tugged at his shirt, and I followed him, running away yet again.
A HALF HOUR OR SO LATER, I REALIZED WE WERE HEADING south, toward Fleur’s property . . . and my family’s property. My brain had been reeling too much to notice the morning sunlight of the east peeking through the trees to our left.
“Wait!” I dropped the basket in a patch of mushrooms. “You’re leading me back home?”
Joe swiveled on his right heel and faced me with the carpetbag and lantern in hand. “I don’t want them thinking they chased us out of the state.”
“But—”
“We’ll starve without food and supplies. And meanwhile, Clyde Koning will be sitting comfortably in your house—alive, healthy, and free.”
I brushed my right hand through my hair, which had come loose from the pins I’d slept in all night. “He knows I accused him of murder, Joe. I can’t go back to him.”
“Put the blame on me for everything. Tell them I seduced you.”
“I don’t think . . .” I shook my head. “No . . . What if he knows you’re not attracted to women?”
“Everyone always assumes this is something I can change. We can use that. Stick with the elopement story, but say you got cold feet and wanted to return to your mother. Apologize.”
“But—”
“We’re still better off taking care of the doc if you’re in the house with him.” Joe walked toward me, his ankles brushing through the grasses. “If we stay out here in the woods, we’re just going to end up getting scared and fleeing the state.”
Without warning, a startling pop-pop-pop-pop-pop ricocheted across the tops of the trees.
I ducked and cried out, “What’s that?”
“Some early fireworks, probably.” Joe looked toward the sky. “I think it’s the Fourth of July.”
“Oh.” I straightened back up. “I forgot about that.” I relaxed my shoulders a hair of an inch. “If I go back home, where are you going to stay? You can’t go back to the Paulissens’ shed.”
“I know.”
I sighed again. “We have an old stable at the edge of our property. Other than harvesting berries, we don’t farm or raise animals anymore, now that Uncle Clyde takes care of us. You can stay in there if you’d like.”
He readjusted his grip on the carpetbag. “And do what?”
“Figure out how to make things right.”
His mouth twitched in reaction to my words. Using the back of his hand that held the lantern, he nudged away the lock of hair that was always falling over his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He lowered the lantern to his side. “You’re off the idea of killing him, aren’t you?”
“I can’t poison him, Joe. I’m considering becoming a lawyer.”
“Hmm”—he tapped his bag against the side of his right shin—“I’ve always heard that unscrupulousness is a prerequisite for becoming a lawyer.”
I frowned. “I’m not joking. I want to become a force this state has to reckon with, not a fugitive it’s required to kill.”
He puffed a frustrated breath out of the corner of his mouth.
I turned toward the path to my house. “I know you said you would need to take your own life directly afterward if you were the one who killed him—”
“I would.”
My skin chilled at his lack of hesitancy.
“Hanalee”—he stepped closer—“look at me.”
I swallowed and did as he asked.
He stopped two feet in front of me and peered straight at me with eyes as brown as the earth beneath our feet. His peppermint-scented nearness made me remember the kiss, and I didn’t know if I should look at his face or the backs of my hands.
“No one else is ever going to bring justice to your father,” he said, leaning forward on his right foot. �
�No one else is going to give a damn about us. Those words you just heard those Witten bastards say about people like you and me? That’s how most people around here think.”
“I don’t know. I . . .” I scooted backward an inch. “There’s got to be a better way. A legal way.”
“A legal way?” He breathed a short laugh. “Oregon’s laws are written to work against us. Eugenics passed as a law. If they can pass legislation controlling who can and can’t have children—”
“If I’m going back home”—I raised my chin—“and getting smacked around or paddled because of running off into the night with you, then you can take the time to come up with a better plan. A solid plan. One that involves justice and the two of us leaving Oregon in one piece. You and me and my mother and Fleur. All of us need to get away safely.”
Joe swallowed and glanced over his shoulder, toward the path to my house.
“Promise me, Joe. Swear we’ll both make it out of this ordeal alive and free. Let’s find out if there’s someplace out there that would treat us better.”
His shoulders tightened, but he nodded. “All right. I’ll give the plan some more thought.”
“Good. See that you do.” I took off the coat he had lent me. “Stay safe out here.”
He nodded again.
I set his blanket and the coat on the basket and moved to pass him, but he took hold of my elbow.
“You stay safe with Clyde Koning,” he said, his voice low.
My chin trembled. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t let him scare you or intimidate you. Put the entire blame for last night on me.”
“All right.”
He bent down to pick up the basket.
“Joe?” I said.
He looked up.
I played with the emerald ring on my finger. “Do you want to be an architect?”
He stood up tall and rolled back his shoulders. “Why do you ask that?”
“You built all those card structures in the shed. I just wondered . . . did you do that out of boredom, or do you like to build things in general? Is that your calling?”
