Journals of the Secret Keeper

by Jennifer L Ray

that big ole house by yourselves. It's the devil's house, but the devil's work ain't got to be happening

  there."

  Willetta raised one eyebrow at Andrik as

  Martha shuffled past them. It seemed the old

  woman didn't want them together after all. Andrik

  crossed his eyes at Willetta and shrugged his

  shoulders. If it had not been for Mama Jean's

  suggestion that they marry, they would have

  wondered at Martha's disinclination towards them

  as a couple, but instead they were mildly curious

  about her obvious objection disapproval. CHAPTER 13

  Volume 12, pg.4 (September 1910):

  "Sylvia Jean Thompson is the name we gave

  the new bastard baby. She got old eyes and

  look like she thinking all the time. She ain't

  causing no trouble now, but them eyes makes

  me thinks she plannin to be."

  #

  "Ms. Martha, how did you know Mama Jean

  was dead," Willetta asked. They were back in

  Andrik's car heading back to the "devil's house", as

  Ms. Martha had called the old house on Thompson

  Estate.

  "Call me momma or grandma. I don't like

  that Ms. Martha stuff you throwin at me. I'm old

  and deserve some respect for just living this long.

  To answer your question, I been in town for a

  couple of months. We heard it on the scanner." Willetta had a thousand questions rushing

  around in her brain, but for the life of her she

  couldn't settle down enough mentally to ask them

  one at a time in an orderly fashion. Nothing made

  any sense. She was thankful Andrik wasn't having

  the same problem.

  "Who were you staying with in town and

  why haven't I seen you around here visiting Mama

  Jean?" he demanded.

  "Well, ain't you just full of questions," Ms.

  Martha smirked.

  Andrik hit the brakes and the car slid a few

  feet and swerved perilously close to a ditch before it

  stopped. Red dust from the rocky road wafted past

  leaving a dusty film on the windows of the car. "Neither one of us have ever seen you

  before. Willetta just came home yesterday after

  spending the majority of her life in Atlanta, Georgia with a foster family. You step out of the weeds of a cotton field in the middle of nowhere saying you're her grandmother and that Stanley Thompson is your son, but not my father. The one and the same Stanley Thompson who treated me like crap as far back as I can remember. I'd say both Willetta and I have every right to ask as many questions as we want. You either answer them or prepare for a ride back to that bathroom you were using," Andrik

  barked.

  His voice raised an octave or two with every

  sentence. His chest was heaving and one long

  finger was pointing ominously at the old woman in

  the back seat.

  "Well, you sho don't handle surprises too

  well. Lordy be! But seein as I know who you came

  from, I sho ain't surprised. Let's get on to the devil's

  house and I'll tell you what I can. You ain't gone

  like none of it, but I always did think secrets was

  evil. Half the family hate them secrets and the other

  half hordes them like money."

  Ms. Martha reached one scraggly hand

  through the seats and settled it on Andrik's shoulder.

  She patted his shoulder and made a "tut-tut" sound.

  Willetta got tickled, but felt it prudent to squelch it.

  Andrik looked mad enough to toss both her and Ms.

  Martha out onto the gravel road.

  #

  Andrik's anger threatened to simmer out of

  control. He felt the old hag was making fun of him

  and laughing behind his back. He didn't like her

  and she didn't like him. He felt it clear to his bones.

  It chilled him and made him wonder what ugly

  truths the past held. He was reconciled in his heart

  that Stanley Thompson had not been his father. He

  had certainly treated Andrik like another man's child. Andrik wondered who his real father was and was he even alive. It made his gut churn to think that the only forthcoming answers would be from

  the hateful old woman in the back seat of his car. How could she possibly be Willetta's

  grandmother? She and Willetta looked nothing

  alike. Willetta was kind and refined. This woman

  was hard and vulgar. She had no loyalty and no

  appreciation for family. Why else had her son been

  taken from her? Why else had Mama Jean never

  mentioned her, even when she knew she was dying?

  Andrik thought about the dark and mean ways of

  his father and knew that all that had gone wrong on

  the inside of Stanley Thompson could be rightfully

  blamed on Martha Thompson. Willetta's great

  grandmother had not been able to save him. It was

  a blessing that Willetta was lost from them or she

  may have turned out like Stanley and his mother. #

  Willetta knew she would have answers. It

  was just a matter of getting the journals and reading

  them. There were so many of them. She

  instinctively knew there was a race on. She felt an

  urgent need to read the journals quickly and find out

  as much as possible. Martha Thompson's presence

  lent another edge to her uneasiness and she knew

  the secrets that Mama Jean had guarded until death

  were important and would make a difference. She

  also knew that Martha Thompson, although being

  her grandmother, was not a nice woman. She most

  certainly was not a grandmother. She was just an

  old woman who had made too many bad decisions

  to turn it around. Willetta decided to listen to her

  with her mind, but never with her heart.

  #

  Ms. Martha Thompson stepped foot in her

  childhood home for the first time in thirty-five

  years. She hid her amazement at the changes, and

  followed Andrik up the stairs to her assigned room.

  She grumbled the whole way about how she was

  too old to be climbing stairs that went straight up. "You changed everything else. Why didn't

  you put some better stairs in here," she complained. Andrik kept walking and ignored her. She'd

  caused him to lose control once and that was the

  only chance she would have. She had gotten too

  much pleasure out of his anger. He couldn't

  dispense that much energy on someone as lowly as

  Martha Thompson.

  "The first bedroom here belongs to Willetta.

  You can have anyone of these bedrooms along this

  hallway. The other side belongs to me," he said

  haughtily.

  Martha's eyes dilated as she straightened her

  old back. She looked up into the dark face of the

  young man towering over her. Something akin to

  hate flashed across her face and Andrik stepped

  back.

  "There's an old fight still left in me, but the

  one I should be fightin is dead. I ain't blamin you

  for nothing, but if you want me to use you to take

  up where they left off, that's fine. Otherwise, be

  real careful what you say young man, cuz you don't

  know what happened here. Just remember you

  three generations behind me and four generations

  behind my grandma and grandpa who liv
ed here

  first. This ain't no more your house than it is mine."

  Martha's voice had taken on a raspy whisper that reminded Andrik of the witches who cast spells in the scary movies he had seen as a child. His intense dislike for the old woman became mingled with fear. He turned abruptly away from her piercing stare and descended the stairs in search of Willetta.

  # Willetta slipped into her car immediately after Andrik and Martha entered the house. She drove as fast as she could back to Mama Jean's house. She parked her car sideways in front of the dead Mulberry tree. It took her no time at all to find the handle and lift it. This time she didn't hesitate. She gingerly got to her knees and in the gray light of late evening peered into the deep interior of the old handmade casket. There were books of all sizes, shapes and colors. Books from different people from different time periods.

  Willetta had a college girlfriend who always read the last two pages of a novel before she began reading it. Willetta always felt this was grossly disrespectful to the author and showed a disgusting lack of depth. She was neither disrespectful nor shallow. So, she fished out journals from the bottom of the casket. The black ones made of leather had to be the oldest ones. She got every one of them out. There were twenty-five in all. They were not of regular size. They were smallish measuring about four inches in length and two inches in width.

  The name on the inside covers indicated the journals were written by William Thompson. According to Ms. Martha, this must have been her great great grandfather. Willetta was instantly enchanted and intrigued. She dusted herself off and lovingly placed the journals in her trunk in the spare tire case that held no spare tire. She quickly lowered the door to the journal grave and got back in her car. She gripped the staring wheel tightly as raw anticipation threatened to make her faint dead away.

  CHAPTER 14

  Volume 13, pg.1 (December 1910): "Willetta crawled into Etta's quilt trunk and went to sleep. Etta didn't see her and put all them quilts from the clothes line on top of the child. Our Willetta aint gone never wake up no more. Them covers just smothered the life right out of her. My heart is broke and Etta look like she done lost her soul. Sylvia Jean lookin like she waitin on us to explain

  somethin."

  # Martha Thompson listened to the wind swell against the cursed house she was sleeping in. Vows were made for breaking, because she had sworn years ago never to step foot in this house again and here she was. She had turned the light off immediately upon donning the dressing gown Willetta gave her. She didn't want to see the walls that had held her mother captive for so many years. She didn't belong here anymore than her son or her mother had. But once again the old house acted like it had arms. Long arms that reached out and grabbed you and pulled you back in for a crushing hold.

  Martha felt an old hankering that she had been fighting for many years. She wanted some whiskey. It didn't matter the brand, just as long as it could do what it was supposed to do. Numb her to everything. The few months she had spent back in Mississippi had almost undone all her powerful reserve and painstaking changes. The sight of tractors, pine trees, dirt roads, rundown shacks, and cotton fields grated on her nerves.

  # Martha remembered her last conversation with Mama Jean. She was too old for rage now, but just seasoned enough to feel real sorrow for what was said and done in the past. The kind of sorrow that comes from understanding too much about a thing, knowing both sides, and having sense enough to know that nobody won.

  "Martha, Stanley is gone have to marry Anita. She pregnant and he did say he want to make up for what he did," Jean had said.

  She had a white handkerchief balled up in the palm of her hand. The dress she wore hung from her loosely. Martha had never seen a more grief-stricken woman. She had lost down to bone since the accident one week ago. They were sitting in the old metal chairs on Jean's porch. The funeral was over and the townspeople had brought their pies, cakes, and casseroles and headed back to town before the night fell.

  "Now Jean, you know I loved my nephew, but Stanley just about done gave hisself heart and soul to Maureen Jones. It was an accident. He loved Richy too. Don't make this no harder than it already is."

  The transformation that came over Mama Jean had been something to see. Martha never forgot the raw hate that swept across her face as she stood and stared down at her.

  "You ain't nothing but a drunk. You don't know nothing about lovin a child. Aunt Willetta raised Stanley. Stanley alive and Richy dead. Stanley got that drinkin habit from you. You gave him his first taste. We all know that and if he hadn't been three sheets to the wind out driving that tractor, my son would still be alive. You tell Stanley what he got to do and then I don't want to ever see your face again."

  Martha had stumbled to her feet. She was only slightly inebriated. She understood the conversation, but was having trouble keeping a hold on it.

  "Now wait a minute. You can't tell me to leave my own land and my own house. I know what you tryin to do. You just mad cause grandma left you and your momma them journals and my momma got the land and Aunt Oliva got the money. You can't have my inheritance, Jean."

  Jean turned slowly and stared daggers through Martha. Martha stumbled backwards under the fierceness of it.

  "Them journals done gave me sight. I got power over Aunt Olivia's money and your land. I could tell you, Aunt Willetta, and Aunt Olivia some stuff that could make you hate grandma and grandpa and wish to God you were never born. So, do as I tell you. Get Stanley to marry Anita and you leave Mississippi." Her eyes narrowed to thin slits before she finished. "It's for your own good, Martha," she said finally in an eerie whisper.

  # Martha shifted onto her side and pulled the covers underneath her chin. The light from the moon reflected off the wallpaper. She could see the little flower designs of the paper and she had a strange thought. Jean had lost her sight in the end. Some old people lose their ability to walk, to think, and to hear, but Jean had lost her sight. What did it mean, if it meant anything at all and what had she done with those journals? Andrik had to have them. He was Jean's grandson. He didn't seem to know it though. He certainly didn’t know who his daddy was. Now why would Jean not tell him?

  Martha had done just what Jean had asked all those years ago. She had made Stanley marry Anita and she had left town for good. She had been such a coward back then; drunk, cowardly, and irresponsible. She never asked a question, just ran away because Jean sounded like she knew something real awful.

  Martha's momma had died a couple of years before the accident and Jean's words reminded her of the last conversation she had with her momma.

  "I'm dyin, Martha. I need to tell you about a memory I done had since a small child. I don't know if it's a real memory or devil trickery, but I needs to tell you." She had asked for a cup of water and then took a few breaths before she continued. "I seem to remember your grandma Etta grabbing me up from a bed and stealing me away from my own momma. I don't think your grandma was my real momma and I don't think Willetta is the name that was given me. I ain't tryin to scare you baby. I just want you to know about that memory that's done tortured me my whole life."

  Martha remembered staying cold for days afterwards. Her momma died within hours of that conversation. After the funeral Martha had peered into the faces of her family. She stared at pictures of her momma and Grandma Etta. She saw the resemblance between Etta and her momma just as clear as day. She put the thought of a kidnapping to rest that very same day of the burying and there it lay until Jean started talking about how much power those journals gave her. Well, Martha was no longer a coward. She was eighty years old and could still see fine enough to read and she wanted those journals. There was some reading she needed to do since Jean wasn't here to stop her.

  CHAPTER 15

  Volume 14, pg.1 (January 1911): "Etta going to see her sister in Atlanta, Georgia. I'm glad she gettin away. She been too quiet here lately. She missin Willetta and blamin herself. Maybe some time away will help her heal and help me forgive."
>
  # Willetta sat in the porcelain tub and watched the steam rise around her. The four mauve-colored, musk-scented, bath oil beads she dropped in the water were now dissolving before her very eyes. The scent filled the room and promised to relax her taut muscles.

  The clock sitting on the edge of the antique dresser and face bowl showed the time to be tenthirty. Mama Jean hadn't even been dead twentyfour hours and it seemed a whole week had passed. Surely not enough time for an eighty-year-old estranged friend or relative to show up with tales of being Willetta's grandmother and Stanley's mother.

  The hours had also drawn Willetta closer to Andrik in the oddest way. They were both victims of some past confusion and were without a clue as to where they stood in the foray. They had come together quietly and inexplicably as one united force against whatever mysteries the future held.

  When Willetta had returned from Mama Jean's with the journals safely hidden in the trunk of her car and one hidden between her stomach and the waist of her pants, she found Andrik standing in the yard not unlike the first time she had seen him. He demanded that she never leave him alone again with Martha. Willetta had meekly apologized for sneaking away and promised never to do it again. She would have promised anything to keep him from asking her any questions. It was an indicator of the extent of his discomfiture that he hadn't.

  # Willetta stood from her bath and let the oily water run down her skin. The temperature in the room was just right. Fall was just around the corner and the weather in Mississippi was seasonally mild. She thought she could possibly have most of the journals read before wintertime. She could tolerate the hot temperatures of summertime, but absolutely loathed being cold. Winter was her least favorite season.

  She suddenly realized that her dry towel was on the bed on the other side of the screen. She would have to get out of the tub and wet the floor. It was wood and newly waxed so she couldn't do too much damage. But before she could lift a foot out of the tub, the towel appeared over the top of the screen dangling from Andrik's hand.

  Willetta reached for the towel and wrapped herself in it hurriedly before she climbed out of the tub with no regard for the floor and splattered her way around the screen to face Andrik.

  "How long have you been in here?" she asked wildly.

  Andrik was stricken dumb by the sight of Willetta in the wet towel. Her hair was plastered to her scalp and sticking to the wetness of her neck. The dark brown of her skin glistened and she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.