“How’s the arm? I was worried it might be broken.”
Ruth shifted, trying to get comfortable. “Don’t know. Never had a broken arm before.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner. I wasn’t sure if it was part of the show.” He shook his head. “You know that fellow? The one who did it?”
“Kind of. A long time ago.” She was too tired to explain, and thankfully, Charles didn’t pry.
“When the ruckus kicked up, the police arrived and he ran. Off to do more deeds of darkness, I assume.”
“Where are we going?”
“Greenville, South Carolina. We have a tent meeting starting Friday.” He glanced at her. “That agreeable to you?”
She stared at him. When was the last time anyone had asked if she agreed to anything? She couldn’t remember. Maybe never.
“It is,” she said quietly.
They rode in silence for a while longer, then she spoke again.
“Did you see my friend? Bruna?”
“She left with the young man I believe.”
“Arthur.”
“Arthur,” Charles repeated. “But not before he had a few words with the preacher fellow that broke your arm.”
She contemplated this, but unable to imagine what Arthur and Singley would have to discuss, put it out of her mind. She wanted to ask about Dell but didn’t want to risk Charles’s questions. Instead, she pressed her cheek against the smooth leather of the seat and let the wave of wishing crash over her. Wishing that things had gone differently. That Bruna hadn’t fallen in love with Arthur. But things had gone how they’d gone, and now Bruna was lost. Which made her think of something else . . .
“You expected the two of us,” she said quietly. “You wanted both the Hawthorn Sisters.”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Well, we’ll see. Fact is, I could use a soloist. Or if you just want to help out with meals and cleaning. There’s plenty to do. You have a place with me. I mean to look after you for as long as you want or need. Or until your friend changes her mind.”
She swallowed back the tears that threatened to spill over. “Thank you.”
“There is something, though . . .” He cleared his throat. “Something to address along those lines. My team is going to wonder why I’ve brought you along. They’ll have questions.” He took a deep breath. “I decided, if you’re agreeable to it, I will tell them that you’re my wife. That we’re married.”
Ruth glanced at him. “Are you agreeable?”
He nodded and gripped the steering wheel. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen. Eighteen soon.”
“It’s not ideal, but you’re legal. I’m twenty-nine.”
“And no wife?”
“There was one.” He managed a smile. “And then there wasn’t.”
She was glad he didn’t say any more. She couldn’t bear any more sad stories. Not right now. She leaned her head back on the cushioned seat. “I reckon you shouldn’t call me Ruth. In case that preacher gets wind of us.”
“Good thinking. What would you like to be called instead?”
She thought. She used to be called Annie, a lifetime ago. But she didn’t want to be that girl again. She didn’t want to be a girl at all. She wanted to be a woman. She remembered that first day in Steadfast’s parlor, sitting with Bruna. You have a pretty voice. Like a dove. And you look like a dove too. Soft and delicate. And gray.
“Dove,” she said at last. “Dove Davidson. Half sister of the outlaw Dell Davidson.”
It was another lie. But one that felt more real than anything else in her life.
He chuckled. “Okay.”
She closed her eyes. “How far is Greenville?”
“We’ll drive all night. Should be there before dawn.”
She looked out over the flat cotton fields, thick with the fluffy bolls. In a couple of months the harvest would come and go. And she would miss it. Would anyone miss her?
“Mr. Jarrod—”
“Charles.”
“Charles. Are they real? The signs you see, the wonders you perform?”
There was a long silence before he answered.
“I don’t know. Some days I’m sure of it. Some days I doubt everything.”
“Have you ever done a real miracle? I don’t mean heal arthritis or a headache. I mean a real, honest-to-God miracle?”
He laughed. “I would like to think those qualified. But it’s clear you’re getting at something specific.”
“Have you ever moved an object with the power of God?”
He laughed outright, like she’d told a bawdy joke. “I’m a preacher, not a spiritualist. You’re talking about psychokinesis. Moving things with your mind.”
“With the power of God,” she corrected. “Well, have you? Or has anyone you know done it?”
“Ruth, if you need a package delivered, just say so and we’ll make a trip to the post office.”
Gingerly, taking great care not to jostle her arm, she reached into the pocket of her dress. She drew out a small coin, copper laced with green, and laid it on her knee. She rested her head against the door and watched it balance there, the promise of a life with the boy she had always loved. Her hope for a future. “I can’t mail it.”
Charles sighed and focused on the thin ribbon of road before the car. “I’ve never moved a physical object with my mind. But on the scientific side, I have heard of a doctor, one J. B. Rhine over in North Carolina, who says it can be done. Only, like I said, he’s talking about using the power of the mind, the fifth force.”
“But God could do it,” Ruth said, her eyes locked on to the coin.
“I suppose He could,” Charles said. “As He’s God.”
Ruth barely moved. Her arm hurt, but she was determined to see this through. “Tell me what to do. The right words to say.”
“I certainly don’t claim to know that kind of prayer . . .”
“Just tell me what you think.” Her voice was edged with frustration and fear.
He went quiet. “Just tell Him what you need. That’s all. That’s all I ever do, just tell Him what I need.”
She did as he said, right there in the car. She told God what she needed Him to do with the coin. Where she wanted it to go, who she needed it hidden for. She prayed and prayed—the request looping through her brain, coming out on her lips in audible words—until the darkness, the rattling of the car, and the hum of the tires ushered her into the oblivion of sleep.
When Charles woke her, they were parked at a motel outside of Rome, Georgia, the sun rising through a ridge of pines.
The coin was gone.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Florence, Alabama
Present
Ember’s house was actually rather charming once you got the hungover, unshowered college students out of it. She’d cleaned it top to bottom for us and lit candles on every piece of battered secondhand furniture she had. It felt cozy.
She’d also made a peppery salmon and quinoa salad and opened a bottle of icy sauvignon blanc that must’ve blown her monthly budget to pieces. She looked pretty in a simple yellow sundress, the skin of her shoulders dewy and pink. Her black hair was shiny and smoothed behind ears lined with small, sparkling studs. The bruises and split lip hardly showed at all.
“Totally clean,” she said, pulling me aside. “Six days.”
I hugged her. “Good on you, Em.”
“I’m going to do this, I swear.” She gripped my hands and I squeezed back.
“I know you will.”
We ate around a coffee table made of wooden pallets—Althea beside me, then Griff, then Ember, Jason, and Danny. Then after the meal, Ember leapt up to gather our dishes.
“I can do that,” Althea protested, but Ember waved her off and bustled back to the kitchen.
“Sit tight, guys.” Griff disappeared into one of the bedrooms.
My arm twinged, and I tried to ignore the drumbeat of anxiety rolling through me. I shouldn’t be worrie
d. Thanks to Alabama’s stand-your-ground laws, I’d only gotten a slap on the wrist for shooting Bobby Singley. It helped that I was a terrible shot and only grazed his hip. But it created enough shock and pain for me to leap over his writhing body, find Ember in the parlor, and tell her I was going for help.
After the ambulance took Bobby and Ember away, Griff, Althea, and I found Steadfast Coe’s bones in the toolbox in Bobby Singley’s F-250. They were now safe and sound in the Lauderdale County ME’s drawer, awaiting their resting place under the marker in the First Presbyterian cemetery. Dove’s signed confession was with the police, but they seemed to think it was some kind of forgery.
On the home front, Mom had agreed to check herself into a facility in Palm Springs to rest, she said, and sort through things. I had a ticket to fly out and see her the following week. We would finally have the heart-to-heart we needed, and I was feeling optimistic. Danny was sitting and eating with my friends, holding his own. And my application to Colorado was still active.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that a cloud was still hanging over me. So many areas of my life were up in the air.
Just yesterday, the cops had marched into the hospital and arrested Bobby, charging him with Dove’s murder, my assault, and various counts of kidnapping. At the moment, he was sitting in the Lauderdale County jail, probably cursing my name.
It was a lot for Griff to deal with and had made things awkward between us. We agreed that he would finish the documentary and then move on to the next gig. He had a lot to work through, but I’d be lying if I said I was okay with never seeing him again. I just didn’t know how it was going to work.
And then there was the coin, the last remaining loose end. After all this, the Flowing Hair Dollar was still missing. I couldn’t help feeling frustrated that we’d uncovered so much but failed to fully clear Dove’s name. It was still possible that she’d taken it.
Interrupting my thoughts, Griff reappeared in Ember’s living room. He was carrying a small cardboard case edged with tarnished brass under one arm and a bigger cardboard box balanced on his hand. He dumped everything onto the coffee table and went to work, snapping open the brass buckle on the box and lifting a bulky metal object out.
“What the hell,” I said.
“A projector?” Ember exclaimed.
Goose bumps rose on my arms as I watched him plug in the long black cord. “Where did you get it?”
“Margaret Luster found it on eBay, if you can believe it,” Althea said.
Griff pried open one of the cans, lifted out the film and expertly threaded it through the antiquated machine. He flicked on the motor. A beam of light shot through the aperture and an image appeared on the opposite wall.
My hand rose slowly to my wide-open mouth.
Dove—or Ruth—and Bruna were standing on a makeshift stage, clasped hands swinging, smiling and singing energetically. Bruna had dark eyes and hair, a Rubenesque body, and a megawatt smile. Beside her Dove looked diminutive, a waif with a sheet-straight bob and delicate but angular features.
No one made a sound. We were enchanted, struck speechless, by the sight of the girls, these girls we’d chased so desperately.
Bruna and Ruth were perfectly matched, impossibly pretty, and magnetic. They carried themselves like seasoned performers, executing smooth choreographed moves as they sang. A shoulder shimmy, perfectly timed dips, a pert series of handclaps. I felt like I was watching a homegrown version of the Andrews Sisters. I could see why they’d created such a stir in tiny Florence.
The scene cut again. Now Bruna stood on the stage, wearing a simple skirt and blouse, eyes closed, hands raised. Dove stood beside her in a plaid dress with a Peter Pan collar, one finger lifted to heaven, addressing the crowd. People swarmed toward them, blocking the camera, but whoever had been shooting shifted to a better angle in time to catch a wave of supplicants collapse in a heap on the straw. The girls climbed off the stage and crouched over the worshippers, laying hands and working their way through the crowd.
I felt Ember’s hand on my back, and my skin rose with goose bumps. My eye fell on the stacks of film cans, small rusty discs that held hours and hours of footage of the Hawthorn Sisters. Their singing and praying and preaching. It was a window into the past, sure, but what would watching them tell me in the end? What would it change?
A bolt of pain sliced through my arm and my hand jerked.
Griff glanced over at me. “What? What is it?”
I couldn’t say. I just held my arm and did my level best not to moan out loud.
“Eve. Tell us,” Ember said. The others gathered, forming a protective circle around me.
“I’m—” I didn’t know how to explain what was wrong with me. I knew that I felt tired and confused and scared to face life. That I was being bombarded with strange thoughts and images. That I felt massively uncomfortable being the center of their concern and my arm hurt like hell.
In my mind, I saw the tree again, that gnarled old hawthorn tree. I don’t know why my brain had gotten stuck on that particular image, but there it was again in all its white-blossom glory, burned into my mind. I looked at the box of film cans at my feet, and the vague pictures in my head began to shift into subtle patterns. It was so close, a meaningful picture, but I couldn’t put all the pieces together.
I lifted one cardboard flap and peered inside. “Are they all film, I wonder?”
“I assumed so,” Griff said. He jumped up and started prying apart the cans. Film spilled out all over the table, unspooling and snaking across the surface.
“This one.” I reached into the box with my good arm and drew out a can.
He grabbed it and twisted apart the sections. But instead of film, a packet of worn envelopes fell out. I sat up straight, every nerve ending in my body screaming.
“Holy shit,” Ember blurted. “What’s that?”
“You don’t know?” Althea said.
“I told you, I’ve never opened the cans until today.”
“They’re letters.” I grabbed the packet, tore off the narrow black ribbon holding them together, and flipped through the envelopes. “They’re all from Dove Jarrod to Bruna Holt. Dated 1934 to 1939.”
“Oh my God,” Althea said. “Oh my God. I can’t believe it.”
“Read them,” Jason and Danny urged at the same time.
I unfolded the first letter with shaky hands. “Dearest Bruna, my heart, my soul . . .” I stopped, overwhelmed.
“Keep going,” Ember said.
I inhaled.
“As you know, I have secured us a fine arrangement. Charles Jarrod will harbor us as long as need be. He’s given me his word. Room and board and gainful employment provided, not to mention protection from Arthur Holt and the despicable preacher from Tuscaloosa who attacked me. I will stay with Charles indefinitely, until such time as you come to me. Until we can be reunited and make plans of our own. I eagerly await that day and can think of nothing but your safety and happiness. Have you by chance seen Dell Davidson or heard of him about town? If so, please tell him I have something for him. Regardless, please write and let me know when you will be able to come to us. There are no restrictions. Children are welcome. Everyone is welcome. I await your reply. Your sister, Ruth.”
“Something for Dell Davidson?” Ember practically screamed. “That’s got to be the coin, right? She was concerned for Bruna’s safety, but she hid the coin for Dell!”
“Looking out after the people she cared about most,” Althea said.
“Read another one,” Danny said.
I opened the next envelope, dated 1935.
“Dearest Bruna, I won’t scold you or barrage you with tales about how delightful life on the road with Charles’s outfit is, but you must know, this life would far surpass your life with Arthur. We travel on trains often and stay in the best cabins. We eat roast duck and chicken every day. Charles is generous and kind and the work, cooking and washing mostly, is light.
“Everyone is anxious to m
eet you and Arthur Jr., as I’ve told everyone about you and him and the Hawthorn Sisters. (And, of course, your wonderful soprano voice.) I’ve not heard from Dell and, I must admit, I fear for his safety. Have you read anything in the newspapers? Charles and I do live as man and wife for the benefit of his organization, but I still love Dell with everything in my heart. Sometimes I fear he has heard I am married to another man, and I will not have the chance to explain myself. If you see any acquaintance of his, will you please tell him about our plan and where to find me? I can’t bear to think of him angry or aggrieved . . .”
I faltered, dropping the letter on my knees.
“She stayed with Charles for Bruna,” Ember said. “Because Arthur Holt was bad news.”
I flipped through the rest of the letters, skimming and reading aloud in turns, the story finally taking shape, piece by piece. A while later, I put the letter I’d been reading down and stared at the pile.
“So Dove married for convenience,” Althea said. “Only it was Bruna’s convenience, not hers.”
Ember sighed. “But even after all that, Granny Bru never left PawPaw Arthur.”
“And Dove never left Charles,” Danny said.
“Dell Davidson must never have shown up either,” Griff said. “So they all just stayed where they were. Waiting for something to change.”
We were quiet, the somber reality settling over us. Ember reached for her water glass. I picked up my glass and touched hers. More glasses clinked.
“To Dove,” Ember said.
“Dove,” everyone echoed.
There was one last letter in the stack, the only one still unread. I unfolded it as the rest of the group finished their wine.
“Oh guys,” I breathed. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Ember and Althea straightened. Griff, Jason, and Danny leaned closer.
“It’s dated 1940.” I took a deep breath. “I know you’ve asked me not to write again, but I had to, one last time. It is important. Charles confessed to me last night, dearest Bruna, a sin . . .”
A wave of dizziness hit me. And my arm began to throb.
Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters Page 27
