Deep in the Heart of Dixie

by Heidi Sprouse

Deep in the Heart of Dixie copyright 2010 Heidi Sprouse

  “God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.”

  -William Shakespeare

  Prologue

  Owen Granville awoke sprawled across the bed, in a tangle of covers, still fully dressed, and with a pounding in his head. The sunlight stabbed at his eyes, making him squeeze them shut and cover his head with a pillow. His mouth was like cotton. “Get me coffee and some aspirin, girl! Now, damn it!”

  He didn’t know how long he laid there but the throbbing in his head didn’t get any better nor did his mood. “You’re going to be sorry you made me come out there, missy!” He growled, yanked off the covers, and stumbled out of the bedroom. There was no sign of life in the living room. A quick search revealed a bed that had not been slept in, an empty kitchen, and no one in the bathroom. The house was silent except for the sound of his harsh breathing.

  Owen squinted in the light boring into his eyes and picked up the coffee pot in hopes of making something to cure his God-awful headache when it dawned on him—his poor excuse for a step-daughter hadn’t come home with him the night before. He couldn’t clearly remember the last time he’d seen the little crybaby. He flung the pot against the wall, taking no satisfaction in the sound of the shattering glass. The girl had run away, damn her. She wouldn’t get away with it, not if he had anything to say about it. But for now...he was going back to bed. To hell with her and her mother. To hell with everyone.

  Chapter One

  “Here she is, a real beauty,” the park manager announced as the door swung open. The all too familiar smell of stale beer was a wall that almost pushed Jamie out. Backing down had not carried her this far and she wasn’t about to start now when her goal was in sight. Her spine straightened, her jaw set, and she put one foot forward to take one more step just like all those that went before on this journey. She found herself in a dingy, living room, definitely not a step-up from her last home.

  Dust motes drifted in the weak sunlight that fought its way in through dirty curtains and dirtier windows. More dust was caked on the dog-eared sofa, threadbare chair, on every surface. Mama used to say the dust bunnies were making babies; they were competing with China inside this trailer. The place was a perfect fit. It matched the way she felt on the inside.

  “All right, sweetheart. Just sign right here, hand over $150, and it’s all yours. Make sure I get the same the first of every month. The park supplies electric. You’ll have to get your own propane tank filled.” The manager’s breath was worse than the smell of the trailer. He leaned over her shoulder, making her cringe inwardly. He was greasy in every sense of the word, from his hair, to his sweat-stained t-shirt, to his spotted jeans. Slick Nichols was a name that suited him. She imagined him oozing out the door like toxic slime in a cartoon.

  She leaned on the counter stained with coffee cup rings, and quickly wrote her name, hoping he didn’t see the trembling of her hands. She stepped back and brushed a curl of flaming red out of her eyes and prayed that he would leave.

  “Dixie Mason…sounds like a movie star name. Are you a movie star, honey? You don’t look old enough, a little thing like you.” He leaned in closer, his beer belly brushing against her. A suggestive smile stretched across his face that made her want to puke all over his scuffed boots. The floor was so filthy, no one would even know the difference.

  Dixie…not Jamie, not anymore…could feel the heat blooming in her face until it probably matched her freshly dyed hair. She knew what kind of movie star he meant. Accustomed to being unforgettable, she had chosen to reinvent herself as someone bright and loud in appearance, someone she could hide behind. Snapping the gum in her mouth to pluck up some badly needed nerve, she answered smartly, “No, I’m not a movie star. My mama was a true Southern girl, through and through. That’s why she picked my name. And I’m eighteen, just turned this past December.” So what if she stretched the truth by nearly a year? She was at least eighteen on the inside. If anyone took a good look in her eyes, they would see someone much older than her years staring back at them.

  Slick took his paper, pen, and odor and left her with a key and blessed silence. Dixie put her hands to her denim hips and surveyed her surroundings. The task of making it a home threatened to do her in. There was no help for it. She had to start somewhere. But for now…tired to the bone, she dropped down on the couch and closed her eyes if only for a little while.

  She dreamed….of her beginnings, which was no surprise, when she felt like a little baby learning how to crawl. It was fitting that her independence day would dig up stories of how her life began. When she looked back on her short seventeen years, they felt as if they stretched on much longer what with the bumps, twists, and turns along the way. There were moments that stood out like bright, red dots on a road map. Her personal map had a blinking, neon sign over it on December 20, 1994. She knew the story well because it was written on her heart. She heard the words with every beat, Mama had told them so many times.

  It was a cold night, bitter cold, the kind of cold that grabbed your breath and hurt your toes. The storm started with big flakes falling. They looked like pieces of the sky were breaking apart and coming down. By midnight, it had become a sheet of white, whipped around by the wind. Laura Ray had been in labor for hours. There would be no going to the hospital. The midwife down the road would have to do. Daddy was driving truck, coming home as fast as his wheels would turn. The power went out at two in the morning, frozen on the clock on the wall to mark the time, the same time that a baby girl’s cries broke through the darkness.

  The midwife cleaned the new arrival by candlelight and swaddled her in blankets, along with the new mother. There was no heat and the woman prayed it would come on before her patients suffered from the chill. Looking at the young mother’s eyes would melt and warm anyone’s heart as she gathered her little bundle in close and breathed in her baby scent. “Hello, Jamie Ann Ray. Just wait until your Daddy sees you.” Named after her father, she had his sweet smile and wisps of soft, brown curls. But her eyes of bright blue, as big as the world, were her mama’s.

  Come morning, the power and heat returned, wrapping them all in light and warmth, bringing with it a visitor. An officer appeared at the door, a shadow of sadness darkening his eyes. Daddy would never come home, never see his baby girl. His truck had wrecked, sliding off the road in his rush to get home. As near as they could tell, when Jamie took her first breath, James Ray had taken his last.

  The next four years were hard for Jamie to remember, the pictures in her mind fuzzy with the passing of time. It must have been hard for Mama, taking care of the both of them on the salary of a waitress in a small-town diner. And yet, whatever memories Jamie had of that early part of her life, they were of happy times and Mama’s love wrapped around her like a cozy blanket, one she couldn’t live without. Then, Owen came into the diner and had his eye on Mama. He must have done something right, sweet talked her, because it wasn’t long before they married. Whatever he did right went wrong the moment he moved in and things had never been right since. They both learned quick to be scarce, like a dog kicked too many times, tucked away under the porch. Owen’s tongue was sharp, his head hard, and his hands were heavy. Mama and Dixie stayed out of his way, especially when he’d been drinking or he couldn’t sleep…or they looked at him the wrong way.

  The dream shifted to the next dot on the map, bearing an angry, bold glow what with the glare and freshness in her mind, all starting and ending with a coffin. “Sometimes, you have to turn yourself around and start from scratch. When you have a chance for a do-over, don’t fret. You’re s
ure to get it right the next go round.” Mama’s words were a hollow echo, rattling around in Jamie’s head as she knelt with knocking knees beside her mother’s still form. Laura Ray had always told Jamie that becoming a mother had been her fresh start, like the glory of a butterfly coming out of its cocoon.

  “Your turn, Mama. Time for another do-over, I guess.” Her daughter whispered. “But Mama, we were supposed to do this together. How can I make it alone?” She ran a finger down a pale, careworn cheek and the chill set her insides to quivering like jelly. Hard and cold like a statue, the wax figure lying in that coffin was not her mother. Mama was a soft and warm place to fall, all lit up, like a firefly’s flicker but her light had been snuffed out. Seeing her this way was almost as terrible as the winter creeping up inside of Jamie. An icy lump had dropped down to the pit of her stomach on the day she found her mother lying in a heap on the kitchen floor in a spill of flour and sugar. It continued to spread, numbing her until she could barely move. Get much colder and she might as well climb into that box and lie down next to her mother.

  The shaking took over, head to toe, as she huddled beside the coffin. Jamie didn’t think she would ever be warm again without the candle that was Mama. The one spark that kept her going, kept her from turning to a solid block of ice was the firm belief that Mama’s light burned someplace else, bright and beautiful as the stars they had wished on every night.

  Jamie closed her eyes and pressed her head to her mother’s chest. Nothing. No reassuring rise and fall. No hummingbird’s flurry. Mama’s heart just couldn’t take it anymore, broken too many times. There was only one good thing to come out of this—her step-father couldn’t hurt her mother anymore. It was Jamie’s turn to make tracks and she had to move fast. There was no choice. Come hell or high water, he wouldn’t raise a hand to make a mark on her again and there would be no waiting around to see him try.

  “Quit your blattin’. People are coming in.” The voice, deep and gravelly over her shoulder, grated on a spirit worn raw and made her skin crawl. It was everything she feared, everything she despised. Jamie didn’t turn around. Squaring her shoulders, she wiped her face, leaned over to kiss her mother’s cheek for the last time, and took her place to receive the mourners. She fixed her eyes on a painting on the wall of a butterfly in a meadow on a bright day. “Fly, Mama,” Jamie whispered softly and didn’t care who saw as the tears started all over again.