“Look,” he said, backing up another step. “I totally understand if you’re not comfortable with that. For all you know, I could be some kind of child molester. Just bring her whenever Earl gets home. She’ll have to sit in the stands instead of the dugout, but at least she’ll get to see some of the game.”
“No, no, it’s all right,” Mrs. Martin reacted so predictably that he could have mouthed her words. She shook her head. “Of course she can go with you. I don’t know what I was thinking. . . .”
“You were thinking about how to keep your daughter safe,” Deke commended her. “And I would do exactly the same thing. You can’t be too careful with children, even up here in little Pisgah County.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Martin said, her relief visible. “I’m so glad you understand. It’s hard, when you’ve just moved in and don’t know anybody. . . .”
He smiled. “No offense meant, and none taken. How about I wait outside in my car while you get her ready to go? I’ve got some paperwork to do, anyway.”
“We won’t be a minute,” promised Darlene Martin, clutching Avis’s uniform against her chest. “God bless you, Mr. Keener. You’re a wonderful man.”
It was amazing how easy it was, how easy it had always been. “Just give them the person they expect to see,” he muttered as he settled down in his car to wait for the next young fresh-faced girl who would come running into his life on grasshopper legs, and make him feel, at least for a little while, just as good as he had that night with Tracy Foster.
11
Jonathan Walkingstick yawned, fighting the rhythmic, sleep-inducing squeak of the old oak rocking chair. The late afternoons were killers. He’d tracked boar in Murphy, white-tail in Oklahoma, and a knife-wielding madman locally, and none of it compared to keeping up with Lily. Like him, his daughter was an early riser. Like her late mother, she had vast curiosity and even vaster energies, each day whirling through the store like a tiny cyclone, chattering to the babies pictured on the diaper display, building wobbly skyscrapers with cartons of cigarettes. Though they went into Hartsville for Mother’s Day Out twice a week and Aunt Little Tom spelled him on Friday nights, the rest of the time it was just the two of them. By four P.M. she’d exhausted him, so he closed the store, darkened the bedroom, and put her down in her crib. For a blessed half hour she slept while he rocked, dozing off only to wake moments later, wondering what in the hell he was going to do.
They had run out of room six months ago. Her toys lay scattered all over their small apartment; each night they slept not ten feet apart. He could not turn around without stepping on one of Lily’s stuffed animals or on one of Lily’s shoes or sometimes even on Lily herself. More troubling was the fact that she was shy around strangers. When he left her at Mother’s Day Out she wept bitterly, reaching her little arms out for him as if he were abandoning her forever. Though she loved animals, and could name every forest creature in both English and Cherokee, Big Bird and Mickey Mouse troubled her. “Hurt?” she would ask when she saw them in her picture books, pointing at Big Bird’s long neck or Mickey Mouse’s monstrous ears.
“No, Lily,” he would say, laughing heartily as if to cue her in on the appropriate response. “They’re funny! Ha-ha. Cartoons!”
But she continued to stare at the images, distressed, sometimes kissing the page, as if to alleviate the pain Big Bird must feel at having a neck like a yardstick, eyes like hard-boiled eggs.
He knew that if he didn’t get her more accustomed to modern American culture, she would be considered freakish when she started school—a six-year-old who could filet a trout but who wept at the sight of Ronald McDonald. He sighed. As much as he loved Little Jump Off, he’d almost reached the conclusion that it was simply not the best place for them to be. Lily needed more, and he was determined to see that she had it.
Now he sat, reading for the hundredth time the letter he’d gotten two weeks ago. Written on heavy letterhead stationery from a private bank in Atlanta, it was from a Mr. Edward Pomeroy, who, along with his three partners, was pleased to offer him a position at a private hunting reserve in Tennessee.
“We are quite impressed with your references,” Jonathan softly read parts of the letter aloud, mimicking Edward Pomeroy’s twangy Texas accent. “And would like to offer you the position of gamekeeper. In exchange for your management of the preserve, we can offer you housing, transportation, and a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars annually. As we are considering other candidates, we need your reply as soon as possible. Sincerely, E.P.”
Again, Jonathan ran his fingers over the gold crest embossed at the top of the paper. It had become a kind of ritual. Every afternoon he would read the letter while Lily slept, finger the coat of arms, then sit and wonder what working for Pomeroy would be like. The man had seemed nice enough, when they’d met back in April. A florid, cigar-smoking, cowboy-booted Texan who’d just purchased six hundred acres of land in Monroe County, Tennessee. While the broad-bottomed Pomeroy had spoken dreamily of hunting feral hogs with spears, Jonathan had paid more attention to the perks the job offered. The transportation, a bottom-of-the-line Toyota truck, and the salary were nothing to get excited about, but the job included a nice house with a fenced yard, where Lily could have her own bedroom and neighborhood children to play with. It seemed the answer to his prayers; if he signed on with Pomeroy, he could give Lily everything she needed.
He looked at the letter again. He knew he need only scratch “Okay, Walkingstick” along the bottom and Pomeroy would not only consider it a binding contract, but would probably chuckle at its Cherokee terseness. Still, something stayed his hand. Maybe it was his own selfish reluctance to leave the blue mountains that surrounded them, and the silver river that flowed just beyond their door.
“Oh, to hell with it,” he whispered. He’d decided to get up and look for a pen to sign the damn thing with when he heard the jingle of the bell over the door downstairs. Shit, he thought. I must have forgotten to lock up. Now somebody would come in wanting beer or fishing worms and wake Lily up. Rising quickly from the rocker, he stashed the letter in his shirt pocket and headed down the stairs.
He padded down the steps shoeless and silent. He’d just turned to quietly ask what his customer wanted when he felt a bolt of lightning shoot through him, making him hot and cold all at once. Mary Crow was standing there, outlined in the pale green afternoon light. Her eyes were the color of rocks in a riverbed, gold earrings winked through her shoulder-length hair, and her smile—that smile—promised a million things that even today took his breath away as profoundly as it had when he was twelve. He felt as if he’d gotten up too quickly from a dream and he closed his eyes, telling himself it was simply someone who looked like her. Mary is gone. Mary chose Gabe. Mary sends you postcards of parrots and llamas. That is all you have of Mary.
He opened his eyes. Still she stood there, her smile so radiant, it made him ache with desire. He wanted to touch her, wanted to kiss her, wanted to take her in his arms and never let her go. He realized, though, that first he needed to say something, lest she interpret his silence as hostility. The rift between them was of his own making; it was he who had succumbed to the charms of Ruth Moon, he who had chosen Ruth to be his wife.
At the time it seemed the right thing to do; only later did it turn ugly as Ruth’s jealousy drove her to murder and madness. His bride had nearly cost them all their lives. He gulped. Though he did not trust his throat to make a sound, he attempted speech.
“Sheoh,” he said warily, still expecting her to morph into just another pretty tourist right before his eyes.
“Douhdunay.” Her voice was still slightly husky, with the barest trace of a southern accent.
“Long time, no see.” Ridiculous, but the only thing he could think of to say. Though she was close enough for him to touch, they may as well have been standing on opposite ends of the solar system.
“I’ve been in Peru,” she said quietly.
Did she think he hadn’t read her po
stcards? He had, every one, many times over, both on and between the lines, finally taping them low on the refrigerator door, at Lily’s eye level.
“But now I’m back.”
He glanced past her, out the door. If Gabe Benge came sauntering up on the porch, he would take his knife Ribtickler and cut him to shreds.
“Just me.” She answered the question implicit in his eyes. She lifted the brown packing box she held in her arms. “I brought presents. For you and Lily.”
He felt both relieved and terrified. She was truly here, truly alone. What to say next, though, and not sound like a fool?
“Lily’s taking a nap now,” he said. “But she’ll wake up soon. Would you like something to drink?”
“That would be nice.”
He stumbled to the back of the store. What should he offer her? It was too hot for coffee and he hadn’t brewed any fresh iced tea. Beer seemed too familiar, water too cheap. Finally he grabbed two cold Cokes from the cooler and a jar of roasted peanuts from the shelf. It had been their favorite snack when they were teenagers. As he uncapped the bottles, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She gazed for a moment at the fireplace, then strolled around the store. Usually she avoided the front corner, the spot where she’d years ago found her mother so brutally murdered, but today she went over and gazed at the floor with her head bowed, as someone might visit a grave. By the time he’d poured the peanuts into a bowl, she was standing in front of the fireplace, smiling.
“What happened to your Ding-Dongs?”
“Got rid of ’em,” he said, secretly pleased that she’d remembered his passion for the little chocolate cupcakes. “Got rid of all the sweets.”
“All of them?” She looked shocked, as if unable to conceive of any Cherokee-owned store without an extensive selection of sugary treats.
He nodded. “Lily’s only had sugar twice in her life—a candy cane last Christmas and chocolate cake at Michael Swimmer’s birthday party. Aunt Little Tom has to give herself insulin shots four times a day now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s good that you got rid of the candy. You can’t miss what you’ve never had.”
Yes, you can, he thought, looking at her mouth, wishing he had the guts to just walk over and kiss her. You can shrivel up and die, missing what you never had.
They clicked their Coke bottles together and sat in front of the cold fireplace. He tried to make small talk, dancing around the subject of Gabe, until she finally just said, flat out, “Gabe’s fine. He’s still in Peru.”
“You two aren’t together anymore?” He held his breath, terrified of everything that rode upon those five words.
She shook her head. “I got homesick,” she said, her tone neutrally including him, the store, maybe the entire state of North Carolina, for all he could tell. “So I came back home.”
“To stay?” The question fell out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“I hope so,” she replied with a cryptic smile. Cleverly, she then turned the subject to him, asking how he’d been, what being a single parent was like.
“If I had it to do all over again, I’d make some different choices.” He acknowledged the train wreck Ruth Moon had made of his life with a bitter smile.
Mary lifted a brow, but made no further comment. They talked on. He listened, astonished, when she told him that she’d moved back to Irene Hannah’s house and had just opened her own law office on Main Street.
“So how long have you been here?” He tried to keep the hurt from his voice. Why had she not called him immediately? Had he fallen so far in her esteem that she now regarded him as just an old friend to be caught up with when she wasn’t busy doing something more important?
“About two weeks.” She laughed, then offered a lame apology. “I had to get reacclimated. Hartsville’s really changed.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. The last time I was here, we didn’t have a Mercado Hispaño on Main Street. And Hugh Kavanagh didn’t have an Ani Zaguhi in his employ.”
“An Ani Zaguhi?” Jonathan smiled, happy that she’d remembered one of the shared terrors from their childhood. “One of Aunt Little Tom’s big medicine Ani Zaguhi?”
“None other.” Mary laughed. “Hugh has no idea what-all Ridge Standingdeer can do.”
“So what’s this guy like?” he asked, loving to see her smile.
“He’s a nice boy,” she replied. “Strong. Polite. But I’ve seen no signs that he’s big medicine.”
As they laughed, a plaintive little cry floated down the stairs.
“Uh-oh,” said Jonathan. “She who must be obeyed has woken up.” He handed Mary the bowl of peanuts. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
He hurried upstairs. Lily sat in her crib, her dark eyes wide and questioning, as if she sensed a stranger in their midst.
“We’ve got company, Lily Bird,” he whispered, lifting her out of her crib and into the bathroom, hurrying to give her a quick once-over with a wash rag. “Important company. So you be good, okay?”
Lily just looked at him and chuckled.
He washed her off, changed her into the little pink jumpsuit he’d bought her in town, and carried her downstairs, again wondering if Mary was really going to still be there. She was—still sitting in front of the fireplace, though she stood up when he brought Lily into the room.
“Sheoh, darling girl!” she cried, now giving Lily that smile he’d feared he’d never see again. “You’ve grown up!”
“Look, Lily!” He said. “It’s Mary! Meyli!”
To his great consternation, Lily clung to his neck like a monkey and refused to look at Mary at all. Only when Mary opened the box from Peru did Lily loosen her grasp and squirm to be released from his arms.
“Guess what, Lily?” Mary’s eyes danced as she spoke to the child. “I brought you some presents! Look!”
She leaned over the box and pulled out a fuzzy stuffed llama. Instantly Lily grabbed it, crying, “Waga!”—the Cherokee word for cow.
They both laughed. “No, Lily,” he said. “Not cow. Llama. Can you say llama?”
“Does she speak only Cherokee?” asked Mary as the little girl clutched the toy llama like a teddy bear.
“She goes back and forth,” he replied. “Some days she speaks Cherokee, other days English.” He looked at his daughter and smiled. “Other days it’s Lily-ese. Only she understands that.”
The gifts continued. Mary gave them both hats—for him, something she called a jipijapa, which looked like a white straw fedora out of an old Humphrey Bogart movie; for Lily, a pointed woolen cap that made her look like an elf. Mary added more Peruvian toys to Lily’s collection, then for him, some small sharp arrows and a bright yellow rug for the floor. Finally the box was empty.
“You were nice to think of us.” He was ashamed that he’d sat here with his thumb up his ass, never responding to any of her letters or postcards. What a jerk she must think him.
She looked up quickly, as if wanting to say something else, but Lily bonged her in the nose with her new llama. Again they laughed, and suddenly it all felt as if they’d done this forever. He longed to ask why she’d come up here but he was afraid to speak, lest his question spook her, like a deer in the woods. It was enough that she’d come at all; to ask for more would be greedy. Still, he couldn’t just give her a Coke and some peanuts and send her on her way.
“Lily and I usually eat pretty early,” he began apologetically. “But would you join us for dinner? I’ve got some fresh corn and I can go catch us a few trout.”
She gathered Lily in her arms and smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”
So he left the two of them playing with Lily’s new toys while he grabbed his fishing pole and dropped a line in the Little Tee. Cicadas chirped a summertime rant and the late afternoon sun undulated like liquid fire on the water. Suddenly he felt dizzy, as if the world was spinning out of kilter. Mary Crow, the woman he’d always loved
, the woman he’d thought he’d lost forever, had dropped back into his life like a comet falling from the sky. Now she was here, in his house, about to eat dinner with him and his little girl. Every night since she’d gone to Peru, he’d promised himself that if he ever got a second chance, he would rectify his error of letting her go. Apparently that was happening now. As he cast his line into the water he felt the crinkle of Pomeroy’s letter in his shirt pocket. Was this what had kept him from signing it and sending it back? On some fundamental, subcellular level, had he been waiting for a second chance with Mary Crow?
“Don’t screw it up this time,” he told himself as he whipped his line beneath a moss-slickened rock where the trout liked to hide. “You may have gotten a second chance. You sure as hell won’t get a third.”
12
“Gooooooooo, Kats! Yaaaaaaaay!”
The little girls huddled in the middle of the pizza parlor, each extending one arm into a larger circle of arms, then lifting them toward the ceiling at the end of the cheer. His little pink-and-black-clad players had beaten their archrivals, the Northside Graphics Bombers, and he had brought the whole team downtown to Mick and Mack’s Pizza, to celebrate. Now as the little girls ate their way through a dozen jumbo pizzas, Deke sipped beer with their parents and relived the highlights of the game. The day that had gotten off to such a rocky start with Bethany in Mary Crow’s office had smoothed out. His drive to the ball field with Avis Martin and the Kats’ bottom-of-the-ninth victory over the Bombers made Bethany seem no more significant than a mouse squeaking over a bit of cheese. Hell, her own parents were here celebrating with everybody else. Bethany could march in here right now, put her fucking tapes on the sound system, and nobody would even look up.
“You did a heck of a job tonight, Coach!” Ray Medford came over and pumped his hand. His daughter Lisa, a pudgy freckle-face whose butt was already way too big, played a credible second base. “I thought we were going down for sure.”
Legacy of Masks Page 10
