* * *
I turn on the shower in the cottage’s black-and-white-tiled bathroom, wanting to rinse the river taste from my mouth as much as the mud from my skin and hair. When I step into the tub and under the hot stream, I lift my face to the spray. The flush of water takes my breath. I jerk back, pressing myself against the cold tile and forcing my panicked gasps to slow. I stand for a moment, pushing away the pressure in my chest and the feel of the dark water sucking me down.
When I finally step back into the stream, I’m careful to keep my face out of the water, wash quickly and get out. The storm outside has started to settle. The rain still rattles the tin roof, but with less fury. I stand for a moment wondering if I’ll panic like that every time I wash my face. Gran says you never forget the traumatic things, but they grow softer with time. I always thought the most awful thing time would have to wear down for me was Dad and Margo’s fights. But the river proved that oh-so-wrong.
The towel I drape around me is so thick and soft. Luxurious. I never had any idea the true meaning of that word until this towel. I hold it a little more tightly, breathing in its lovely, fresh smell.
Leaning over the pedestal sink, I wipe the steam off the mirror and peer closely. I’m surprised. I look like my regular self. Shouldn’t the fact that I just about drowned less than half an hour ago show?
I think of Ross, the burning concern in his eyes, the way he made me feel safe even when I was coughing up half the river. I look more closely at my reflection, turning my face from side to side, wondering if I might pass for sixteen. Not that it matters. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again.
A knock on the door startles me.
“Are you all right? The water’s been off a while.”
“Fine!” I look to make sure I locked the door. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
I hear Ross’s footsteps move away and realize I didn’t hear him walk up. Maybe he’s a perv and was looking through the keyhole. Maybe he broke in to this house. Maybe he’s a murderer on the run. He was already getting the boat uncovered when he heard me squeal. Why would he care if I was caught out in a storm? And why would he have put that wicked-looking knife in his belt? Maybe he saved me just so he can torture me and kill me slowly. Some people are sick like that.
I almost slap the hysteria out of myself. Ross is too handsome, his blue eyes too sincere, to be a killer.
Once I’m dressed in the flannel shirt and pajama bottoms, I roll up the sleeves and the legs—just in case I have to run for my life. Then I unlock the door and peek carefully around the doorframe. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.
Ross is in the kitchen, standing at the counter. He’s changed to dry clothes, Levi’s and a white T-shirt, looking like a high school quarterback, not a murderer.
“Mom always makes hot tea after a traumatic event,” he says, as he pours water from a teakettle into a cup. “Can’t say it ever helped me after a bicycle crash. But still . . .” Glancing down to the tea bag dangling from his fingers, his expression says he just realized something. “I guess it gave her something to do other than relive the blood, stitches, and broken bones.”
“Jeepers, how many bicycle crashes did you have?”
I set my blouse and folded slip on the back of one of the turquoise chairs and run my hand through my wet, tangled hair. I wish I’d nosed around in the bathroom for a comb.
He shrugs. “Dozens.”
“Are you a daredevil? Or do you just have really bad balance?”
He laughs. “Depends on who you ask.”
“So, this is your cottage?”
His brow crinkles. “Yeah. My parents’ anyway. Why else would I be here?”
“You don’t sound like you’re from up north.”
“I’m not. Why would you think I am?”
I shrug, too embarrassed to tell him Gran figured no right-minded Southerner would have a fine place like this just for hunting and fishing. And there isn’t anything else to do out here in the boonies.
“I’m from New Orleans.” His pronunciation confirms he’s not lying—N’awlins. “My grandfather built this place back in the day. Dad says it’s a waste to keep it for a couple of hunting trips a year, but Mom doesn’t want him to sell it—family history and all. She had to promise to use it on a regular basis to get him to keep it. We were supposed to be here for Mother’s Day, but Dad got called to New York on business. Mom went with him. I’m here to let the plumber in tomorrow morning. Leak under the kitchen sink.”
“Don’t you have school?” I don’t want him to be so old that he’s out of high school.
“You a truant officer or something?”
“No! I just—”
“I was joking. I cut classes today. Private school. Dad is a big donor, so I get a lot of slack.”
“Oh.”
He bobs the tea bag in the mug, then lifts it to me. “Want it?”
“Thanks, but I need to find my boat.” Please don’t let it have sunk from the downpour.
“Yeah. Okay.” He looks out the window. “Let’s give it a few more minutes. Looks to be clearing in the west.”
“The longer we wait, the farther away it’s going to be. We should have gone right away, while we were both still wet.”
“You did hear the Queen’s motor, didn’t you? Even if your boat doesn’t get hung up on anything, we’ll have it chased down in no time. No need to get drenched again for a five-minute difference.”
At least the current should have moved it in the direction of Gran’s—
A fresh bolt of panic shoots through my heart. What if it floats past Gran’s house after she gets home from Pelahatchie? What if she finds my stuff in the kitchen and thinks something horrible happened?
It did.
I shove that truth away, suddenly embarrassed I needed to be saved. I’m a good swimmer. Daddy taught me to figure my way out of situations. And still, there I was, too shortsighted to throw out the anchor when I got out on that sandbar and too stupid to take off the waders before I went into deep water. If the boat’s sunk, I’ll have lost both it and Granddad’s waders. And all of it is going to be for nothing if the mayhaws are gone.
“Let’s go. Right now!” He looks startled, so I add, “Please.”
He sets the tea on the counter. “Okay, then.”
As we walk down the steps to the dock, the sprinkles end, making me wish I had waited thirty more seconds and not yelled at him.
The sun breaks through the clouds, starting the river to steaming; rolling ghostly wisps that make me think of pirate ships. Ross backs the boat into the river and heads downstream, the bow plowing through the rising silver mist. I stand holding onto the windshield, hating my helplessness, scanning the river with a mix of dread and hope.
“Hey.” He looks over at me. “We’ll find it. I promise.”
Minutes pass as the Crescent City Queen speeds down the river, churning a brownish froth behind us. I have no idea how far we’ve gone. The only landmark I can recall between here and Gran’s is the railroad bridge just upriver of her place. I grow nauseated with fear that we’ll see the bridge’s ironwork before we find the boat.
“There!” I point through the mist to where the little boat’s nose is shoved into the green-leafed branches of a newly fallen tupelo tree. “Oh my God, there it is!”
Ross sidles the Queen close and cuts the engine.
“Let me just change,” I say, my heart so full of relief that my voice squeezes high.
He makes a show of looking down at my skirt laying in three inches of water in the bottom of Gran’s boat. “No need to put that wet stuff back on. I can come and pick up my clothes tomorrow. I’m staying through the weekend anyway.”
The last thing I want is for him to show up tomorrow and spill a single secret from the ever-growing pile today is accumulating.
“No, really, I’ve been enough trouble.” I grab my wet clothes and scamper over the side, happy to see the bucket half-full of mayhaws is also safe. My frantic
fingers locate the arrowhead in the pocket before I wring the water out of my skirt. “Turn around.” I spin a finger.
“Just wear the stuff home.”
“Turn. Around.”
I’m pretty sure he rolls his eyes as he obeys. I wrap the skirt around me before I take off the pajama bottoms, holding onto one of the tree branches to steady myself. Then I turn my back. I give Ross’s flannel shirt one last pet before I take it off and replace it with my wet blouse.
“Okay.”
I hand his clothes to him. As soon as he takes them, I shove his boat away. “Thanks!” I try to sound flip and upbeat. “For saving my life and all. I’ll return the favor someday.”
He laughs. “I sure hope not!”
As I’m bailing out some of the water, he calls to me, “I’ll follow you home, make sure you get there all right.”
“No!” I calm my voice. “That’s not necessary. I’m almost there anyway.”
Unfortunately, there’s no need to convince him, because when I pull the cord to start the motor, I can’t get it running. I open the gas cap and see there’s only a thin rainbow shimmer left in the tank.
“I guess I need a tow.” As the words leave my mouth, I’m calculating the skinny odds of beating Gran home.
* * *
The sun is down when we pass beneath the rail bridge, its rusty skeleton black in the long twilight shadows of the trees. Bats are starting to dart after mosquitoes. I send a skittish look toward Ross. Now that I know he’s a Southerner, asking him to set me loose so I can paddle the rest of the way would be wasted breath. “A gentleman never leaves a lady unescorted when darkness approaches.” Gran drummed it into Griff over and over, always reminding him that I am to be counted as a lady. I wish Ross would go faster, even though he’s already explained that he can’t while towing my boat and with dusk settling.
All hope of keeping my secrets evaporates when I see two forms standing on Gran’s dock, each with a lit flashlight. Gran and Griff.
Ross cuts the engine and glides in, tossing a rope to Griff.
“Tallulah! Thank goodness!” Gran calls with her hand patting her chest. “We were just about to call the police.”
I want to melt into the river. If she called the police, the whole town would know about my stupidity. Grayson Collie is always blabbering stories his dad brings home from work. Oh yeah, he would love to spread this one around, especially after Griff beat the crap out of him today.
The whole idea of Grayson gets my blood up. Which is a good thing, because being mad at him pushes away the lump rising in my throat from seeing the anxiety on Gran’s face. She has enough to worry over with the orchard and Dad’s hurricanes and shadows.
My Mother’s Day surprise is ruined. Suddenly the whole idea seems silly.
Griff’s strangely quiet, not admonishing me and spilling the beans about my plan.
I might be able to save face if I can get my story out before Ross ruins everything with the truth.
Gran hugs me, then holds me at arm’s length. “What were you thinking, taking the boat out on your own? And why? What were you doing?”
I send Griff a searching glance and he shrugs. Did he keep quiet for me, or to protect himself?
“I was fine, Gran. It just came up a storm.” I pluck at my wet clothes, glancing at Ross untying Gran’s boat and pulling it to Griff. “Then I ran out of gas. Lucky for me, Ross was out and gave me a tow home. His family owns that nice hunting cottage upriver.”
Ross slides a look my way. I ignore it and pray he plays along. When he jumps onto the dock and comes to stand before Gran, my heart is about to thunder out of my body.
“Ross Saenger, ma’am.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Griff taking the bucket of fruit from the little boat and hiding it behind a bush. I feel guilty for doubting him.
“Well, young man,” Gran says, “we’re indebted to you. Tallulah isn’t supposed—”
“I thanked him, Granny James. Properly. I’m sure he needs to get going. It’s getting dark.”
“Well, then, we shouldn’t keep you.” She smiles. “We do appreciate your gallantry.”
I shudder at the old-fashioned word, but it’s so like Gran that it makes me feel warm inside, too.
“Yes, thank you, again.” I mentally urge him to get going.
He starts toward his boat, but Griff stops him with an outstretched hand. “Thank you for saving my baby sister.”
I want to punch him for calling me baby in front of Ross.
Ross shakes his hand. “Glad I was there.” Then he jumps into his boat.
I’m so relieved I want to kiss him. Most boys would want to tell the whole story, soak up being a hero. I wait for the motor to rumble, only then will it be impossible for more questions to come from Gran’s mouth.
My heart sinks when she calls, “Oh, Mr. Saenger!”
He looks up. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We’re having a crawfish boil on Sunday. I know it’s Mother’s Day, and you’ll likely be wanting to be with your own mother, but we’d be most pleased if you could join us, even for a short while. Just a small way of repaying your kindness.”
I cringe. That will mean more questions about the stranded boat.
And I don’t want this boy around reminding me of my stupidity, bothering me with his handsomeness. At the same time, I hope he says yes.
I’m turned upside down when he nods and gives me a smile.
9
Saturday Margo and Dad take the twins to see One Hundred and One Dalmatians, giving me fresh hope that maybe our family is turning a corner and the mayhaw jelly can make a difference. Besides, I went to a whole lot of trouble getting that fruit. I don’t want to have almost drowned for nothing.
Losing that full bucket cost me. There’s only enough to make three jars. As I’m readying the glue-on labels (I want to write something special so every time Gran and Margo look at the jars they think of how much I love them), I pause and chew on the end of my Bic—writes first time, every time—pen. Gran is “disappointed” in me, which is much worse than her being angry. And she doesn’t even know about the waders. The gift of two jars to her while Margo gets only one might be best; I’m more likely to get back in Gran’s good graces than I am to keep Margo planted on Pearl River Plantation for the entire summer.
While I’m thinking, Griff comes in the kitchen. He almost seems like his old self when he plops in the chair beside me.
“Thanks for not spoiling the surprise,” I say, even though I know if he told Gran where I’d gone, he also would have had to admit he knew about it and let me go alone.
He shrugs. “I should have taken you.”
I sit up a little straighter in my chair. “I was fine! I don’t need to be treated like a baby.” I surprise myself with how loud I am, as if yelling it will make it more true—which is exactly what a big baby like Dharma would do.
It makes me mad that I obviously did need Griff to keep me safe.
I turn the tables on him before he asks me anything more about it, or Ross Saenger. When Griff shook Ross’s hand as if they were friends, I had a strange feeling, a kind of pride tangled with a little bit of jealousy. It makes no sense. I’m half dreading Ross coming to the crawfish boil tomorrow. The other half of me can’t wait to see him again—which is absurd because the chances of him not telling the story of me drowning are too small to calculate.
“If you had gone, I’d have put your name on the label, too.” Even as I say it, I realize what a paltry offering (Dad’s phrase) this is, not at all the grand gesture (again, Dad) I had in mind, a full year’s worth of jelly for each of them. “Where did you have to be that was so important, anyhow?” Then I add, “Not that I needed you.”
He looks like he’s making up his mind whether to lie to me. I don’t like it one bit, this new, untruthful Griff. Finally, he says, “I have a job.”
“A job? You promised Daddy no more—”
“Relax! I’m not hustling pool. It
’s a real job, at the Sinclair station by campus.”
“Then why are you keeping it a secret?”
“Because I’m saving the money to leave, and if Margo finds out she’ll probably need to ‘borrow some’ for the bills. Remember how she sent the grocery money to Tibet and then robbed our piggy banks?”
“And made us promise not to tell Gran,” I add. That was the worst. And here I am with another secret I’m keeping from her. Is this how you turn into a bad person? One tiny secret at a time?
“Leave—like go to college?” I ask. “But you can go to Wickham for practically free.” I know Griff wants to go to college away from home, but I can’t bear the thought of it. I sometimes wish he wasn’t such a good athlete, so a scholarship wouldn’t offer a chance to go away to school—pretty selfish of me.
“I quit baseball.”
“And you didn’t tell me! When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Tommy knows?”
“I made him promise not to tell you. I don’t want a big deal over it. I just want to be left alone.” After a few seconds he stands. “And I’m not going to college. I just want to get the hell away from here . . . away from all of the crazy shit in this family!”
I’m so shocked that I can’t say anything. I sit there and blink as I watch him slam out the screen door, his black high-top sneakers thudding down the back steps.
* * *
Margo’s been as skittish as a cat in a room full of rockers since someone called this morning to tell her the Freedom Riders are heading to Birmingham. After she hung up the phone, she was all wild-eyed, pacing and smoking. I tried to distract her with talk about the crawfish boil and the surprise I have for her. I’m not sure my words actually sank in, but she’s here at Gran’s—at least for now. I get the feeling she’ll be gone as soon as the last crawfish is picked out of its shell.
I’m supposed to find Griff so he and I can shuck the corn. I’ve already set Walden and Dharma to scrubbing the redskin potatoes. The second my back was turned, though, Dharma ran off. I hear her practicing her tap in the dining room for the show she wants to give this afternoon.
I push open the creaky screen door and go down the warped and splintered back steps in search of Griff. Margo and Gran are each standing next to a purge tub, stirring the crawfish gently with their paddles. Their words are anything but gentle. They’re arguing over me.
The Myth of Perpetual Summer Page 11
