Gone Too Long

by Lori Roy

  “Hey,” he says, one of his boots nudging my hip. “You there?”

  The lace on that boot is untied. I point so he’ll tie it.

  “I done the best I could for you here,” he says. “You see them stairs? Don’t you set foot on them stairs. Hear me?”

  I touch the black lace that lies on the floor, but he jerks the boot away. In school, we’ve started talking about being almost fifth graders and all the things we’ll study next year. We’ll do fractions some more and learn about how plants live and how people eat and digest their food. I don’t think I’ll learn any of those things.

  “I cleaned up down here for you,” he says. “So you keep it clean.”

  I nod but don’t say anything. It isn’t clean here. The floors are like hard dirt and it’s dark here and the walls are slimy and already my clothes are wet and soon they’ll smell like Mama left them in the washer too long. And because he’s asking can I feed myself and telling me to keep things clean, I know now he’s going to leave me here alone. I’m sinking and the water is slipping over my head and the light is almost gone. I’m seeping between the cracks, falling through the seam. I’ll be alone like when I come home after school and Mama is still at work, except I think I’ll be alone here forever.

  “At least tell me you understand about the fire,” he says.

  I nod, must nod, because he doesn’t ask again. If there is ever a fire, I think I’ll let it burn.

  Chapter 15

  IMOGENE

  Today

  Taking care to keep her hands out wide so she won’t frighten the boy again, and so she won’t frighten herself any more than she already is, Imogene stands and leaves him to sit on the floor. Blood is still leaking through his fingers from where his forehead bounced off one of the stair treads. He said his mama never stays away for long and that a man always brings her back, except this time, she’s been gone too long.

  “The kitchen,” she says, trying not to look at the blood he’s left on her forearm and motioning for him to follow. Her body is stiff, and she has to force it to move, first her feet and then her arms. “We’ll get you cleaned up at the sink.”

  The boy stands, but only when Imogene walks toward the kitchen instead of up the stairs, and he follows. At the sink, she reaches for the embroidered towel, but he tells her no, not that one, in a tiny voice that reminds her how young he is. With a hand she can’t stop from shaking, she grabs a roll of paper towels instead and pulls off several.

  “Only one,” the boy says. “You only get to use one or we’ll be out too soon.”

  Imogene nods but still wads up the handful and presses them to his forehead. Once she has covered over the spot that’s bleeding, she takes another few towels, dampens them in the sink, and wipes his face. As she cleans him, he stares up at her with pale blue eyes that should be brown to go along with his dark hair, and his breathing slows. Hers slows too. Tossing the damp towels aside, she wraps one arm around him and with her free hand takes over holding the wadded towels to his head.

  “Let’s sit,” she says, still in a whisper, because she doesn’t want anyone to hear and because she doesn’t know what to do next and because the shaking has exhausted her or maybe it’s the whiskey still working its way through. The strength in her hands, legs, and arms is gone. “Let’s just sit awhile.”

  At the small card table, she sits first, pulls the boy into her lap, and lifts the towel to see the cut beneath.

  “It’s not bad,” she says, setting the towel on the table. “Not even bleeding anymore. Are you dizzy? Does it hurt?”

  The boy shakes his head.

  Again, Imogene forces herself to ask the question. “I see a cradle there,” she says, nodding off toward the bed. “Does a baby sleep there? Is there a baby who lives here with you?”

  “That’s my bed,” the boy says, resting his head on Imogene’s shoulder. “Except I’m too big for it now.”

  Carrying the boy’s weight in her arms, Imogene rests one hand lightly on his head. He smells clean, like the lotion she put on Vaughn when he was a baby, and he’ll feel that Imogene is trembling. When he starts to speak again, she quiets him. He draws in a deep breath, shudders, and the last of his crying fades. She can’t understand what all of this means—the boy knowing her name, his thinking he’ll live in Mama’s house, his saying the man always brings his mama back, the cradle that he says belongs to him. Her thoughts spin around each question, but no answers take hold. All she can figure for certain is that she must get the both of them to the top of the stairs, and later, when they’re safe, she’ll sort it all out. Waiting for the boy to fall asleep, she listens for footsteps overhead.

  Soon enough, her elbows begin to ache. Her thighs go numb, and she’s beginning to sweat where their bodies are pressed together, but still she holds the boy tight. No matter how her arms or legs or neck aches, no matter how long it takes, she’ll stay still until the boy falls asleep, and once he has, she’ll try again. She’ll carry him up the stairs and hope he doesn’t wake until they reach the car. After a time, the boy stops shifting about. To give the muscles in her arms a rest, she leans back in the chair, just a fraction of an inch, and when he doesn’t stir, another fraction, and then she stares at the wooden beams overhead.

  As they sit together in the chair, Imogene and the boy, she notices his slender pink fingers are wrapped up in the black fleece fabric of her jacket. At some point, he grabbed on, and even as he nears sleep, he won’t let go. Without moving, she studies the room around them. Clothes hang from a line strung near the stairs where the boy first hid. He went there straightaway, knew just where to squat so she could barely see him. He’s hidden there before. On either side of a small television, slender wooden bookshelves have been built, unfinished lengths of pine hung with metal brackets. The sofa has been mended with the same silver duct tape that was used to stitch together the carpet squares. And she sees it again, the cradle pushed up against the footboard. In her arms, the boy twitches and then is still. When his hand loosens where he was holding on to her jacket, Imogene lowers it to his lap so it won’t fall and startle him when she stands.

  The boy is easier to carry up the stairs than she feared. As she begins the climb, she moves steadily toward the dark door at the top, hoping with every step that it is still open. Between stairs, she pauses only long enough to listen, and once she is sure she hears nothing overhead, she takes another step. The light from below only reaches so far. She moves slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the dark as she climbs. In a few steps, she can make out the door. It’s open, and she climbs faster, with greater ease. At the top, she leaves the light on and the door open so she’ll have some light as she makes her way through the rest of the house. After taking a few steps through the dining room, she stops and wonders if she’s made the wrong choice. With the door open and the light on, he—whoever he is—will know straightaway someone has been here. But it’s too late. She won’t go back, not even a few steps.

  Passing through the dining room, she shuffles sideways around the table so the boy’s feet don’t hit the edge. She can’t help that her heart is beating faster. It’s the effort of the climb and fear. At the back door, she struggles to turn the knob, and once the door is unlatched, she uses her foot to open it, shoulders through the screen door, and they slip through.

  Outside, the night air against her damp skin startles her. She draws in a sudden breath and muffles a cough by pressing her mouth to her shoulder. Afraid she’ll have woken the boy and that he’ll cry out and alert someone to their escape, she stops walking, fights the urge to readjust his weight to ease the burn in her elbows and shoulders, and stands still until the steady rhythm of his breathing starts up again. Whatever has happened here, even knowing all that she knows about Edison Coulter, it couldn’t be his doing. And if it wasn’t him, it was someone else. She’ll get the two of them to Mama’s house quick as she can, and once there, she’ll lock the doors and call the police.

  It’s fully dark outside t
he house, dark like in the country. The air is tinted with smoke, which means Mama has started a fire up at the house in the fireplace in her room. She does it most nights when the weather is cool enough. A few feet beyond the back door, the field of pampas grass is quiet. Imogene listens for a rustling or for twigs snapping underfoot. Afraid someone, he, might be looking down on them from the second story, she doesn’t look back at the house. She tries to make her stride smooth as she begins to walk again, but the smell of Mama’s fire and the dark that has settled over her like a weight and the quiet that looms out in the field and the safety of her car make her begin to move faster and faster. The boy bounces in her arms. That little hand grabs for her jacket again, and he begins to scream.

  If twigs are snapping or leaves are rustling somewhere behind her, she doesn’t hear them. She tries to quiet the boy as she runs, his head bouncing under her chin, but he continues to scream and kick and try to twist his way out of her arms. She turns her face away, but still one of his nails scratches her on the cheek and something hits the bridge of her nose. Her eyes water. She blinks, holds her head back and away from the boy’s flailing arms. As she nears the front corner of the house, the glow coming from the car’s headlights shows her the way. Fewer canes grow along this side of the house, but as she runs, they still slap her in the shoulders and the boy turns his face into her chest. She stumbles. The ground is rocky near the drive and uneven, but she keeps on.

  At the car, she tries to push the boy inside, but he grabs the door and kicks against her. Over and over, she tells him to be quiet. He’ll hear us, she says. Stop. He’ll hear us. He throws his head back, his whole body arching in her arms as she shoves him across the seat and into the passenger’s side. Once behind the wheel, she pulls the door closed and hits the lock button.

  Crossing her arms over the steering wheel, Imogene rests her head there. Her breath is coming fast, and her chin and mouth are wet. Next to her, the boy continues to scream and cry, louder now that they’re inside the small space. With his palms, he beats on the window in his door, and when he tries to climb into the back seat, Imogene grabs him at the waist. An elbow swings around, and this time catches her top lip and then her eye. She tastes blood.

  “Ed’ll be mad,” the boy cries, slapping at Imogene as he makes his way over the seat. “He’ll be mad.”

  “Stop.” This time, Imogene is the one to scream. She wipes her sleeve across the eye the boy struck with his elbow. It won’t stop watering. “Stop it now.”

  The boy goes silent, even presses a hand over his mouth as he slides down to the floorboards in the back seat. He pulls his knees up and buries his head. Still holding her forearm to that one eye, she reaches to touch the top of his head but stops because her hand is shaking. Instead of comforting the boy, she lowers her hand to her lap and stares back at him.

  “What did you just say?” she asks.

  The boy doesn’t answer and instead pulls his knees tighter to his chest. The air in the car has turned thick. Imogene pushes her wiry hair from her face and asks again.

  “You said a name just now,” she says, softly. “What name did you say?”

  The boy’s shoulders shudder, but he makes no more sounds of crying. Someone has taught him how to stay quiet.

  “How long has your mama been gone?” Imogene says. Her heart races as if she’s stepped to the edge of a tall building. Something is going to pull her over, and she can’t force herself to step away. “You have to tell me. You know me. I’m Imogene. Red and fuzzy. How long has your mama been gone?”

  He still says nothing.

  “What do you eat for breakfast?”

  “Bread with peanut butter.” His mouth is pressed against his forearm and his words are muffled. In the dark, only his forehead and cheeks are visible and the whites of both eyes.

  “That’s good.” Imogene smooths her hair from her face. Her skin is damp and her curls are hot on her neck. “Did your mama make that for you today?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Yesterday?”

  Again, he shakes his head.

  “You made it yourself?”

  This time he nods.

  “And how many times have you made your own breakfast?”

  He says nothing and buries his face again.

  “Two times?” she asks.

  Again, nothing.

  “Was it more than two?” she asks.

  “The bread’s almost gone.”

  “But how many days?” Imogene says. The boy’s mama could have been gone for days, weeks even, since before Daddy died. If this was Daddy’s doing, what did he do with her?

  The boy says nothing else. He doesn’t nod or shake his head, doesn’t lift his eyes to look at Imogene. He has slipped away, someplace inside himself, and he isn’t going to say the name again.

  A few days ago, Edison James Coulter died. Today they buried him. Most folks called him Ed. Imogene is certain, almost certain, that’s the name the boy called out.

  Part II

  Chapter 16

  IMOGENE

  Today

  The boy is asleep again by the time Imogene parks in front of the main house, and he stays asleep as she opens the car’s back door, slips her hands under his shoulders, and pulls him out. It’s as if he’s run himself dry, either by fighting Imogene or by missing his mama or both.

  Imogene could have driven the boy straight to the police or to the hospital in town or even down to Jo Lynne’s office. It’s what Jo Lynne does. She cares for children pulled from their homes in the middle of the night for whatever reason. Without children of her own—one of the many ways in which Garland has disappointed her, because his sperm count is to blame—Jo Lynne’s job gives her someone to fix other than Imogene. More than once, over a Sunday dinner, Jo Lynne has shaken her head and said it’s unimaginable, the things those people do to their children. It’s always those people. Unimaginable how broken people can be and yet they still carry on. Sometimes she looks at Imogene as she says these things, as if Imogene is one of those broken people who, despite it all, has managed to carry on. Jo Lynne would be able to find the boy a home to stay in, a bed for the night. She’d take control, and right now, Imogene would welcome it. But something stops her from doing any of those things. It’s the smallest of itches, and even though she can’t sort through the possibilities just now, she can’t ignore that itch.

  If the boy did say Daddy’s name, it might mean Edison Coulter did the unimaginable. It shouldn’t be surprising. The unimaginable has been happening in this house for more than a hundred years. W. J. Simmons—whose grandfather was the man after whom the town of Simmonsville was named—led the climb up Stone Mountain in 1915 to reignite the Ku Klux Klan after the government squelched the original uprising in earlier years. He sold the new Klan not as a group that hanged, bombed, and burned people but as a defender of law and order and morality. And the organization he peddled grew to more than four million members.

  W. J. Simmons lived in this house, walked across this screened porch, took his coffee in this kitchen. He coddled his hatred and passed it on to his son and he to his. The wives of these men instead passed on a prayer that they give birth to no sons and that the Simmons name would die. Mama says their prayers were strong but not strong enough, not until Mama’s generation. Every Simmons man fathered one son to carry on the name until Dale Simmons. He fathered only a daughter—Lottie Rose—and the Simmons name, as it traces back to that night on Stone Mountain, died because Mama had no brothers.

  Once outside the car, Imogene muffles another cough. It’s the smell of smoke catching in her throat. She tells Mama not to start the fire herself. Sometimes she forgets the flue and the house fills with smoke. Leaving the car door ajar so as not to wake the boy by shutting it, Imogene rearranges him in her arms until she has a good grip. His head is heavy on her shoulder and his breath warms the side of her neck. One small hand rests on her sleeve, his fingers clutching the black fleece as if even in sleep, he’s hol
ding on.

  Imogene hasn’t held a child like this since she held Vaughn. But that had been for such a short time and so very long ago. That’s the thing she spent all day remembering, Vaughn in her arms, even feeling the weight and warmth of him against her chest a few times as she sat with Tillie and Mrs. Tillie during Daddy’s service, the organ music, so familiar, crushing her to the point she wanted to scream out for it to stop. After five years, Russell has mostly let go. Imogene doesn’t wake anymore expecting to see him next to her in bed, one arm slung across her waist, doesn’t see him in strangers walking down the street, doesn’t hope to hear his voice on the other end of her phone. She’s mostly forgotten how it felt to be happy like she was during that short time with Russell and Vaughn, how comforted she had been to think she knew what her future looked like, and now she’s mostly grown accustomed to the emptiness.

  But Vaughn is still holding on, or rather she’s still holding on to him. This new boy, too, is holding on to Imogene, and there’s a permanence to how he’s doing it, a vigor, as if he knows Imogene can’t do much to keep him safe. He’s been alone, possibly for several days, and he hasn’t just fallen asleep. It’s more than that. Something in him has shut down. His head and arms hang loose. He’s limp, as if he’ll slip through her arms if she doesn’t hold tight.

  The steps leading onto the porch, though there are only three of them, are harder to manage than the dozen she climbed to get them out of the basement. Imogene pauses after one step, the tops of her legs burning, her back straining to keep her upright. The adrenaline has worn off, the whiskey too, and her body is getting ready to give up altogether. At the screen door, she shifts the boy’s weight to her left side and, with her free hand, fumbles with the latch, and after passing over the threshold, she balances on one foot so she can keep the screen from slamming closed with the other. At the door leading into the kitchen, she repeats the same thing.