Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

  “You should. Robert Sr. was quite the character. Word was, he killed his own sister. How d’you like that? Choked her with her own housecoat tie and threw her down a well.” He chuckled again, wry and weighed down with what seemed like a kind of grudging admiration. “Now that’s a man who goes after what he wants.”

  The mountain twang struck like a particularly ear-splitting bell in my head, and his words from the other night—we always known who that bitch was.

  My attacker was Griff’s father. Griff’s father wanted revenge on my grandmother, Griff’s father had killed Dove, and he was about to enact his final revenge on her because I’d failed to get him the coin. The facts were all out in the open, as simple and straightforward as they could be, but I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.

  “The tie was never found so there was some doubt as to who might’ve done it.” Bobby shook his head. “So Robert Sr. went free. Free to terrorize more womenfolk . . . and a few kids along the way too.” He winked at me, a horrible replay of earlier this evening. “Some folks might say Miss Ruth Davidson dodged a bullet, and I’m inclined to agree. But what was lucky for her was certainly unlucky for the rest of us, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I handed the picture back and tried to walk past him, but he caught me by the arm.

  “It’s passed down, you know. The meanness. It’s in the DNA, in the bones and the blood. It’s in Griff, even if you haven’t seen it yet. Oh, yes ma’am, that boy has got himself a temper. I don’t guess you’ve seen it yet. You don’t with him, not right away.”

  I jerked my arm away. But I didn’t run or push him. Was Griff in on this too? Had he orchestrated this whole thing along with his father?

  “He loved her, you know that?” Bobby purred into my ear. “From the minute he first saw her. Never got over it. In fact, I do believe it made him meaner, if you can imagine it. A man who’d strangle his own sister getting meaner?”

  He neatly maneuvered my arm behind my back. I caught my breath at the sharp stab of pain that shot through it. Panic made my skin prickle.

  “It made sense to me, though. He had to live his life without the one woman he loved, even though she was a murderer and a thief. And then on top of that, he had to deal with the fact that she was onstage beside Charles Jarrod. That she was making all that money for the wrong preacher man. Not to mention sleeping in his bed.”

  I tore free, my shoulder wrenching painfully, and pushed past him, through the kitchen and out into the hall. I faltered, the fear throttling me now.

  “You want to leave, but you can’t, can you?”

  I turned.

  Bobby stood in the dimly lit hallway, serious now. “I’ll tell you the story, if you really want to hear it.”

  I didn’t answer him. But I didn’t move.

  “You want to hear it, don’t you, darlin’? You want to know every dirty deed your sweet Dove did.”

  I hated myself for it, but he was right. I did want to know. Because of all the lies Dove had told me. Because of everything I’d lost on account of her. “Tell me.”

  He sauntered closer. “My daddy took off, and then my mama died. Lucky me, I ended up living with my grandma Anna and grandpa Robert Sr.” I could smell his minty tobacco breath mixed with the smell of beer. “He nearly beat the life right out of me. He’d get me in a corner, pin me with one hand so the other was free to swing. When I was twelve or thirteen, he started something new. He’d put his hands around my throat and choke the life out of me good and slow.”

  I felt all the breath leave my body.

  “He’d go into these rages. Break tables, smash dishes. He’d chase me around, pin me down like I told you.”

  He put out a hand and fingered a lock of my hair. His voice was a rasp.

  “He made me say my name was Ruth and that I was sorry for running from him. And then, he’d beat me.”

  Tears slipped down my face. “I’m so sorry . . .”

  “Yeah. Me too. Me too.” He picked up the key and the two hundred-dollar bills from the table. He slipped the money in his pocket, then bolted the front door with the key. “Look at that. Double cylinder deadbolt. Handy. Keep you from running.” He slipped the key in his pocket.

  “I won’t run. We can talk this out.”

  “No. No, we can’t. I thought Dove might feel bad about all the abuse I suffered at my grandpa’s hands, when I saw her that last time. But she acted like she wasn’t the least bit responsible for making old Reverend Singley the monster he was. But she was. She was.”

  “Please—”

  “Then I found her written confession to killing Steadfast Coe in a deposit box after Robert Sr. died. Don’t know where he managed to pick up such a thing, but it got me thinking that there might be a way to make things right for me after all. I tried to find the coin myself at first. Looked everywhere on God’s green earth for it, for eight years.”

  “You killed her. And then you searched her house for the coin.” I could hardly believe the words even as they came out of my mouth. “And you broke in other times too, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. “Never no luck, though. Couldn’t find that coin no matter how much I looked. Then, all these years later, I hear about the documentary and bingo. I realize my boy, my very own Griff, can work on this thing and feed me info from the inside. He got in, all right. But he wasn’t much help. When I’d call him, all he wanted to talk about was Dove’s granddaughter. The interesting and attractive Eve Candler. So that gave me a better idea.”

  I glared at him. If I’d been able to kill him with my eyes, I would have. With no shame.

  “Funny thing, ain’t it? Robert Sr.’s great-grandson falling for Dove Jarrod’s granddaughter. Like I said, some things are just in the DNA.” He shrugged.

  “You should just get on with what you’ve got to do. And I should go.” I made another move toward the door, but he sidestepped, blocking me with his bantam boxer’s body.

  I reached into my back pocket for my phone, but he grabbed it and pried my fingers loose. Then he sent it sailing across the room into the opposite wall. He grabbed my arm, the weak one, and twisted it just enough that I gasped out loud.

  “You ain’t calling nobody, darlin’. You’re staying right here and giving me what I’m owed.”

  “Listen, Bobby.” I held out my hands. “I know you’re angry. But I’m telling you the truth. I can’t find the coin. I tried, but I don’t know where it is.”

  “You did try, Eve, but you went about it the wrong way. You can find it, you just gotta believe.” He pulled me across the hallway into the dim parlor, where he yanked me to a stop.

  I heard a soft rustling and then on a chaise near the fireplace, Ember sat up. She stretched drowsily.

  The sight of her gave me a jolt. “Ember. What are you doing here?”

  She sent me a sunny, stoned smile. “I’m here to see you.”

  I whirled on Bobby. “What did you give her?”

  “I gave myself something.” Ember stood, listing slightly to one side. “Three or four somethings, in fact. And then this guy, the bones guy, stopped by the shed and said I should come with him.”

  I looked back at Bobby. He was smiling triumphantly.

  “He said the Hawthorn Sisters were going to perform one last miracle.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Muscle Shoals, Alabama

  1934

  On their second night at the fair, the Hawthorn Sisters were winding up their opening hymn when a young man in the back waved his hand, then cupped it around his mouth.

  “Steal Away to Jesus!” he shouted. The crowd clapped their encouragement, and a few people started in on the chorus. Then the band picked up the toe-tapping beat.

  Ruth winced. Arthur was not going to like them singing the spiritual again. But Bruna giggled and leaned into the microphone. Her sweet soprano voice filled the cooling twilight, stilling the ruckus.

  “Steal away . . .” Her voice was no more than a purr. “Steal away . . .”
<
br />   A hush fell over the crowd.

  “Steal away to Jesus.” She made a face at Ruth, then sidled up to the microphone and cocked one hip, then an eyebrow. She belted out the last line, long and low. “Steal away home!”

  The crowd leapt to their feet, stomping and clapping and whistling as the girls started on the first verse. It was good fun and a lively start to a meeting. It also gave Ruth a chance to search the crowd. She sauntered around the stage, scanning the crowd for Reverend Robert Singley or Charles Jarrod, but there was no sign of either.

  Just as her nerves started to settle, Ruth spotted the woman from the St. Florian meeting, the wrung-out one with nine children. She was standing behind the last row of benches, but this time she had a little boy with her, and both were dressed for the occasion. She wore a simple dusty-rose dress with a pretty straw hat, and the boy, a freckle-faced imp, had on a clean, starched shirt.

  Brimming with unease, Ruth hurried toward the microphone, and tried to fall into step with Bruna’s easy swaying. As if Ruth didn’t have enough fraying her nerves, with Arthur, Steadfast, and the horrible reverend’s threats about Dell. Now this woman, whose husband had the look of a bruiser if she’d ever seen one, was back without him.

  They sang another two songs, then Bruna called the people down for prayer. People streamed to the stage, but the woman in the rose dress hung back.

  “Only them who haven’t gotten prayer yet,” Arthur shouted at the people. “If you came last night, step to the rear of the line!”

  Ruth laid hands on as many of them as she could, praying until her throat was raw, but still the lines seemed to go on forever. Where had these people all come from? Her spirit was flagging, legs buckling beneath her, when she felt a tug on her arm. She turned to see Arthur shooing the remaining people back.

  “Backstage,” he ordered her.

  She didn’t move. The woman in the rose dress hadn’t made it to the front of the line yet. In fact, Ruth couldn’t see her at all. Had her husband snatched her away? Or maybe she was just hanging back, following Arthur’s instructions.

  Ruth pressed her mouth close to Arthur’s ear. “I can keep going. Please, Arthur.”

  “No way. Got to leave them wanting more. And I’ve got to make the announcement.”

  She felt her skin go clammy. He was talking about Steadfast.

  Goddammit!

  “Ruth.” Arthur’s eyes held a clear threat.

  But then Ruth spotted her—the woman in rose pressing her way past all the bodies. Ruth ran to the woman, grabbing hold of her hands.

  “I’m so glad to see you again! Maggie, right?”

  “That’s right.” The woman gave her a tremulous smile. “I can’t believe I’m here.”

  Arthur had stepped in front of the microphone. “Evening, ladies and gentlemen. Beloved children of Almighty Jehovah!”

  The crowd burst into applause.

  “Well, I can,” Ruth said. “I’m looking right at you. And in such a pretty dress too.” Ruth’s eyes swept the crowd behind her.

  “He went to his brother’s in Nashville. My sister’s got the kids. Well, all except Jasper here. I brought him so you could pray for him. He’s got a stubborn streak, this one. Picks at the others. Teases the baby.”

  Ruth squeezed her hands and smiled down at the little boy. “Pleased to meet you, Jasper.”

  The little boy sent her a sullen look and twisted away.

  “I want to tell you I feel something,” Arthur went on from the stage. His voice echoed through the tinny microphone, then he paused dramatically. “A heaviness in the Spirit that I just can’t shake. And I tell you, you’re not going to want to miss this.”

  Everyone on the floor was staring at him, hushed and attentive.

  “After Jasper, would you pray for me too?” Maggie snapped her back to attention. Her eyes were dark, troubled in a way that made Ruth even more nervous. “I know I don’t have the faith. Not the right kind. I’m weak and lazy and sometimes downright mean-spirited, but I believe He can help me . . . if I don’t stumble.”

  Ruth didn’t know what to say. This woman, this downtrodden woman with nine kids, was coming to her for a blessing. But Ruth didn’t have that to give. She didn’t have anything for such a woman.

  Maggie drew herself up. “You can say if it’s the kids, blocking the will of God. I swear I don’t know why, but I got a pack of bad kids, and I been trying hard as I can to point ’em the right way.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Ruth said.

  Jasper let Ruth lay her hand on his shoulder. Then Ruth rested her hand, lightly, on Maggie’s head as well. The woman’s chin tilted up to the sky, her eyes closed. Ruth’s eyes fell on Maggie’s hair. It was soft, finger waved along the side. Beautiful.

  But Maggie’s wholesome country beauty hadn’t won her love. It hadn’t kept her safe from the cruelty of the world or the savagery of a man whose heart was so small he would abuse the mother of his nine children. Was this the end of all girls? To marry men who they believed loved them, only to become the object of their husbands’ disappointment and rage?

  Ruth opened her mouth to pray, but at that very moment, Arthur appeared at her side.

  “Let’s go.” He took hold of her arm.

  She shook him off. “Arthur, no.”

  Maggie blinked in confusion, as Arthur gently disconnected the two women.

  “Come back tomorrow,” he told Maggie. “The Spirit of the Lord has a mighty word for everyone.”

  Maggie turned a pleading face to Ruth. “My husband will be back in the morning.”

  Arthur cut in. “Get on home. Fast and pray that the Lord will speak to us all.”

  He whisked Ruth away, past the grandstand and right to his waiting truck. Bruna was already there, hands folded on her lap. Ruth climbed on the bed and they drove back to Florence in silence.

  They ate a late dinner at Trowbridge’s—fried eggs, cornbread, boiled ham, and coffee. Ruth’s voice was froggy, so Arthur told her to gargle salt in warm water and go straight to bed. She agreed. She was too tired to argue. Besides, Bruna looked like she might be on the verge of tears.

  But she wanted to fight. She wanted to tell Arthur that it was wrong that he’d sent the people away, that he’d sent poor, downtrodden Maggie Kittle back to her nine kids and her glowering husband. That he was wrong to lord it over Bruna, making her confess her sins and pray for forgiveness before she went onstage.

  The waitress appeared at their table. “Gent at the counter paid y’all’s ticket. Snazzy one, with the face.”

  The three of them swiveled toward the counter, and for once in her life, Ruth felt sure she was going to faint. The man, sitting by himself at the counter, the one with the head of chestnut curls and crisp white shirt, lifted his hand. And then he directed a dazzling smile straight at her.

  At last. Charles Jarrod had come.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Florence, Alabama

  Present

  I wanted to run straight to Ember, but I knew I couldn’t. I had to play this smart. Bobby had already shown me how dangerous he could be.

  He spoke behind me in a quiet voice. “That’s right, Eve. The Hawthorn Sisters are back in business and the show’s going to be one night only.”

  I turned to him, disdain and fury making my voice unsteady. “We’re not the Hawthorn Sisters.”

  He raised his eyebrows, a sneer twisting his lips. “Well, see now that’s the thing. When I saw you at the restaurant and realized you hadn’t found the coin, I got to thinking. You probably hadn’t exhausted all your options.”

  I laughed, but it was really more of a crazed-sounding, high-pitched shriek. “How many times do I have to tell you? If my grandmother did take the coin—and there’s zero proof she did—she didn’t clue me in on where she put it.”

  “You aren’t listening to me, Eve.” He pointed at Ember. “She’s a fortune teller. Someone who communes with spirits. So I’m of a mind to believe that she’s got the raw
materials to find out.” He stepped closer. “And I think you’ve got raw materials too. If you two get together and do that Hawthorn Sisters thing your grannies used to do, maybe we could solve the mystery.”

  I wanted to cry. To scream. More than anything, I wanted to punch him in the nose. Instead, I spoke calmly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. There is no ‘thing.’”

  He pointed to his eyes, blazing with barely controlled fury. “With these very eyes I seen Dove Jarrod pray over people. I’ve seen her heal ’em, give ’em a new lease on life. And then I saw with these same eyes all the money people threw at her for it. Now it’s your turn and I don’t want to hear excuses.”

  I lifted my chin, matching his anger. “I’ll tell you exactly what I got from Dove. I got her red hair and her great skin and her ability to lie to everyone’s face.” The knot in my stomach loosened and unwound and I suddenly felt a wild, feral flash of freedom. “But here’s some truth for you. I will never help you find that coin.”

  I spit in his face. He jerked back, wiping his face with his sleeve and sending me a reproachful look.

  “My God, ain’t you a shrew. I don’t know what my son sees in you.” He snapped his fingers at Ember, and she straightened to attention. “Sit down.”

  She obeyed but fixed me with a pleading expression. “I’m sorry, Eve. I knew I shouldn’t have taken the pills. I wanted to stop. I swore when you showed up that I was going to stop.” She started to cry.

  Bobby turned to me, his face now placid, lips stretched in that genial grin, white teeth flashing.

  “You too, darlin’. Sit down. We’re about to have church.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Muscle Shoals, Alabama

  1934

  “At the Cross,” Arthur shouted from the wings over the pounding piano and squawking cornet. “At the Cross!”

  Bruna leaned toward the microphone, her face wreathed in a bright smile. “Hello, children of God! ‘This is the day that the Lord hath made’!”