“A couple of weeks after it happened, Johnny tried to break into the house and your Aunt Amy shot him,” I say.
“Aunt Amy shot him?” A disbelieving look crosses her face.
“He was wounded,” I begin again, “but not badly. That day, your Uncle Daniel and Uncle Nathan and I went out looking for Johnny. We found him at the bottom of the ravine. He had evidently fallen off the old footbridge trying to get away.”
“So he really did die before I was born?” Lily asks.
“He really did,” I say. “He’s buried up in the cemetery. I can show you where, if you want me to.”
Lily pauses, as though trying to take everything in.
“All this time, I imagined my father was someone totally different than who he was,” Lily says. “I made up this whole story about a stranger who came to Katy’s Ridge and swept you off your feet. A soldier maybe, who went off to war, never to return.” She looks at me, her expression wistful. “I imagined the tragedy was so great when you lost this amazing man that no one could bear to talk about it. Especially not you, Mama, because your heart was broken.”
Lily’s wistfulness falls to the floor like sawdust.
“I would have preferred that story, too,” I say. “But life isn’t a romance novel, Lily, no matter how much we wish it were. The truth is, life is really hard sometimes.”
“I know that,” she says lowering her eyes again.
The secret finally out, I expect us all to look different somehow, but everyone looks the same. But then a relief comes, after finally releasing what I’ve kept a tight grip on for so many years. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. What quickly follows is fear. Fear that my secret about Bee may yet cause the most damage to our lives.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lily
With Granny feeding the chickens, I am finishing up the breakfast dishes at the kitchen sink when Mama comes in. It has been a week since she and Uncle Daniel told me about my father, and I am still getting used to not having a fantasy to rely on anymore. In addition, after a week of rain and gray days, a grouchiness has descended on me that I can’t seem to shake. A grouchiness that seems to be aimed at Mama.
“Want to go to a movie in Rocky Bluff this afternoon?” she asks. “Your Aunt Jo and Aunt Meg want to see The King and I.”
The Rocky Bluff Theater only shows movies on Saturdays, and it doesn’t usually get a movie so recently released. Not to mention it’s a musical, which is rarer, still. But I haven’t sung for over a week now, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel like singing again. Besides, my current state of misery won’t allow for anything that could be fun.
“No, thank you,” I say. Is it my imagination or does my response make the room feel colder?
Other things feel more urgent. I need to talk to Melody again, who as far as I know is still in Katy’s Ridge. The story of how my life started is like a nightmare crossing over into the daytime. My father was a monster. Yet, as Great Aunt Sadie says, even monsters aren’t only one thing, so I need to know more.
At least with Mama at the movies, I won’t have to sneak around.
“Oh, come on, sweetheart. Come into town with us.” It’s not like Mama to plead. “You know how much fun you have with Meg and Jo. We can stop at the Woolworth’s after the show.”
“No, thank you,” I repeat, this time louder in case she’s suddenly gone deaf.
I glimpse the disappointment in her eyes. It’s not right to blame Mama for any of this, but that’s exactly what I’m doing. If Johnny Monroe was so mean, she should have stayed away from him. She should have fought harder. Surely there was something she could have done to stop him.
I wish Crow were here to talk me out of my bad mood. I can’t believe I used to complain about nothing ever happening in Katy’s Ridge. Now I just want to get back to my boring, uneventful life.
I’m not the only one who has been moping around. Ever since Melody Monroe told Mama she knew about Bee, Mama has, too. As far as I know, she hasn’t told Bee about it, probably because she doesn’t want to upset her.
With Mama getting dressed to go to Rocky Bluff, I go over to telephone Pearl from Uncle Daniel’s and she agrees to go talk to Melody with me. After I get back home, I wait on the porch for Pearl and see Aunt Jo and Aunt Meg traipsing up the hill smiling. It is a cool day and requires a sweater, but the sun is out and hits the south facing porch.
“You coming with us?” Aunt Meg calls to me.
“Not today,” I say.
“But it’s The King and I,” Aunt Jo says. “Deborah Kerr and Yul Brynner.”
She looks at me like Preacher does whenever he’s rounding up sinners, full of hope and expectation.
“The singing is supposed to be incredible,” Aunt Meg says. “All the Hollywood magazines say so.”
I’m not sure I can bear to hear singing when a song hasn’t graced my lips for days. It’s like they’ve dried up after I found out about my father.
“I can’t believe you’re passing up a chance to see a musical,” Aunt Jo says, her smile fading. “Are you not feeling well?”
“Save your breath,” Mama says, coming out of the house. “I’ve already tried to convince her.”
Mama joins them in the yard. At that moment, they look like the Red Bud sisters standing there, their relatedness unmistakable. All three women are about the same size and height, their hair and eye color in harmony, their features offering the only variety. Mama looks like a photograph I’ve seen of Granddaddy McAllister. Aunt Jo looks like a beautiful version of Granny and Aunt Meg looks like a mixture of both. Aunt Amy was the unluckiest in the family, getting the big version of Granny’s nose, and the tiny version of Granddaddy’s eyes.
Aunt Amy isn’t the type to go to movies and is probably sewing today, getting dress orders ready for Thanksgiving and Christmas. She disappears every fall, which is her busiest season.
“Last chance?” Mama says.
I tell them to go on and hide my regrets. The truth is, I don’t feel like I deserve to go to the movies right now. Bad blood flows through my veins. Blood, that until recently, I thought was perfectly fine and maybe even superior to everybody else in Katy’s Ridge. Bigger places called me. I thought I was special. But it turns out I’m half-hoodlum. Destined to be unremarkable.
Shortly after Mama and her sisters leave, Granny comes out of the house carrying a basket of quilt pieces.
“If you need me, I’ll be at Sadie’s,” she says, and takes off following the others.
I go inside. It is rare to have the house to myself. The only sound is the crackling of wood in the wood stove in the living room. While I wait for Pearl to arrive, I go into the bedroom Mama and I share and open the bottom dresser drawer. This is Mama’s private space, where she keeps all her special things. Out of respect, I’ve never looked inside, but I wonder now if there’s any information about my father in there.
I pull out a large cigar box and sit on the bed debating whether to open it. I imagine my father would have done more than open it, maybe even stealing it or tossing away the contents. I give myself permission to look inside. On top are a pair of booties I used to wear and a faded bib, hand-stitched, folded in a small square. A handful of photographs are scattered within. One is of Miss Blackstone in a small golden frame. Others are loose in the box. A man is in one. The name Victor is written on the back, with the date 1946. Another one is of a girl and Mama standing arm-in-arm. The name Mary Jane is written on the back of that one, and the date 1941.
Mama would never go through my things. She would be too honorable. But it turns out I’m not as decent as she is, especially when I want information. A small white Bible is tucked in the corner the box. Inside, the date she got baptized is written in the faded blue ink of a fountain pen. I thumb through its thin pages and find two yellowing newspaper clippings. One is the obituary of Joseph McAllister, my grandfather. It tells of an unfortunate accident at the local sawmill. It then lists the names of his wife and daughters left behind. Louisa May,
age 12, is listed last.
In that moment, the poignancy of Mama’s loss becomes real to me. I imagine it is much different to know who your father is for twelve years before losing him, instead of never knowing who he was in the first place.
The second clipping is also an obituary from the Rocky Bluff newspaper and is much smaller. It reads:
Johnny M. Monroe, age 17, fell to his death in Katy’s Ridge. He is preceded in death by his mother, Mabel; his father, Arthur, as well as his sister Ruby Monroe, who died at age 12. He leaves behind one surviving sister, Melody, age 10, who resides in Louisville, Kentucky.
I stare at the words and hold the clipping for a long time. Long enough for my hand to begin to shake.
At least somebody put it in the newspaper, I tell myself, even if it is a tiny announcement. There is no photograph, and I wonder if one even exists. Mama told me once that when she was a girl, a man with a big camera would come to Katy’s Ridge every year or two to take photographs for anybody who had the money to pay for them. From the looks of that cabin, I doubt the Monroes had any spare money hanging around for such a thing. I try to imagine someone who looks like me, but who is taller and almost a man.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
Pearl startles me so bad I let out a short scream.
“You scared me to death,” I say. I put a hand to my racing heart, as though it might otherwise jump right out of my chest.
She mumbles an apology. “Are you going through your mama’s private things?” She tilts her head like the truth, and nothing but the truth, is required.
“I found out who my father was,” I say, as if this gives me permission to snoop.
“Just now?”
“No, last Saturday.”
Pearl looks hurt. “Why am I just now finding out about it?”
It is a good question. Truth is, I don’t feel as close to Pearl as I used to. It’s like life has forced me to grow up, but she gets to stay a kid.
“A lot’s been going on,” I say, which is an understatement.
“Well, who is it?” Pearl asks.
“Not who I’d hoped,” I say.
“You mean it’s not Cary Grant?” She giggles.
“Not even close,” I say.
At least she is one other person who didn’t already know like almost everybody else. She sits on the bed next to me, giving it a bounce. Pearl knows I’ve been wanting to know his identity my entire life. “Tell me,” she says.
Despite Pearl’s admirable secret-keeping about Mama and Miss Blackstone, I don’t want to risk anybody else finding out that Johnny Monroe is my father. Pearl waits for me to answer, exhibiting a patience that is unusual for her. I put Mama’s secret box back in the bottom drawer and close it.
“You can’t tell a soul,” I say, not knowing a way to back out.
Pearl licks her lips as though secrets are a delicious treat she doesn’t get that often. I make her do a double pinkie swear, and then tell her the one thing that causes my cheeks to burn with shame. Johnny Monroe is my father. Johnny Monroe forced himself on her and didn’t give Mama a choice. That means I was never meant to exist.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wildflower
Two of my three sisters are in my truck, our hips touching in the front seat. We are on our way to see a movie in Rocky Bluff. Initially, it was planned as a special treat for Lily, but she refused to come along. My heart isn’t exactly in it now, but Jo and Meg are so excited I decide to go anyway.
Earlier that morning when I went over to Jo’s to see if she was up for a movie, I telephoned Meg and Amy from Jo’s house, and also Bee. I invited her to join us and make it look like a coincidence. For the last few days, I’ve avoided Bee, not having the heart to tell her what Melody said. Maybe it’s nothing. A wild threat. But something tells me it isn’t. Someone is feeding Melody information, and I can’t put off much longer talking to Bee about it.
“How is Lily taking the news that Johnny’s her father?” Meg asks.
Daniel must have told Jo and Jo told Meg and Amy about the talk we had at the mill. I imagine they’ve all formed an opinion about it. I crack my window suddenly needing air, and Jo holds her long hair with one hand to keep it from blowing in the wind.
“She’s been very quiet about it all,” I say. “She had this huge fantasy built up about who her father was.”
“I wish she hadn’t turned down going to see the musical,” Meg says. “Musicals make anybody feel better.”
“I think she’s had about all she can stand of me for a while,” I say. “I’m trying not to worry.”
“I would be worried, too,” Jo says. “When Daniel gets quiet like that I know he’s remembering the war. And when he’s remembering the war, he shuts himself in our bedroom and doesn’t come out for a while. I hate it when he does that.”
I’ve experienced the part of Daniel that gets quiet, too, but not that often.
“You know, I haven’t heard Lily sing for days,” I tell them. “It used to be I couldn’t walk into the house without hearing her singing something.”
Both sisters turn to look at me.
“That’s not good,” Meg says.
“I know,” I say.
“It’s hard to imagine Lily not singing,” Jo says.
We ride a few miles in somber silence—the shocks squeaking with every bump in the road—as if the thought of Lily not singing is reason enough to be gloomy.
“Maybe she just needs time,” Meg says. “Things will get back to normal soon enough.”
“Lily’s good enough to sing in a musical herself,” Jo says. “She should go to Nashville or someplace where they pay people to sing like that.”
“Or New York City,” Meg says. “The King and I was a Broadway play before it was a movie. Yul Brynner starred in that one, too.”
Meg reads movie magazines and is the dreamiest of my sisters. I doubt there’s a practical bone in her body, except that she married Cecil.
“Yul Brynner is bald,” Jo says. “I like a man with hair.”
The mood lightens and the three of us laugh.
“Daniel has a nice head of hair,” Meg says.
“I’ve threatened to leave him if he goes bald,” Jo says with a smile, though I can’t imagine her ever leaving Daniel for any reason.
“Well, it’s too late for Cecil,” Meg says, with a sigh.
I’m not sure what Meg sees in Cecil. I imagine she was just tired of being unmarried. At least I don’t have to worry about Bee going bald, but I’m not about to say this to my sisters. Although sometimes I wish I could.
“We need to find Wildflower a man with a good head of hair,” Jo says. “It’s about time you settled down with someone, little sister.”
They look at me as if their matchmaking project requires a response.
“You haven’t called me Wildflower in years,” I say to Jo. “Nobody has, except Daniel.”
“Perhaps it’s time we started calling you that again,” she says.
In the pause that follows, I play around with the notion of telling my sisters about Bee. It’s hard to imagine their reactions, other than pure shock.
“What about Crow Sector?” Meg says finally, as if she’s been making a list in her mind of all the eligible men in Katy’s Ridge.
“He’s Lily’s age,” I say. “I used to babysit him.”
“Yeah, too young,” Jo says.
“Besides, Lily is the one with the crush on him,” I say.
“Really?” Jo says.
“I thought you knew that,” Meg says to Jo.
“I guess I didn’t,” Jo says.
We bounce along the main road out of Katy’s Ridge. I know this road so well I could practically drive it without looking.
Outings with my older sisters are rare these days. Jo stays busy with the house and farm while Daniel works at the mill. And most of the time Meg is distracted with Cecil and her step-daughter, Janie, who—at best—is a strange girl.
“I c
an’t imagine what it’s like for Lily to find out about Johnny,” Jo says.
“How do you make peace with Johnny Monroe being your father?” Meg says, her voice somber.
Meg and Jo both sat with me in the days that followed Johnny’s attack. They know full well what he was capable of.
“When I went to see her, Melody promised she wouldn’t tell Lily unless she asked.”
“I guess Lily asked,” Meg says. “She’s always been full of questions.”
“Reminds me of somebody else I know,” Jo says.
Meg and Jo exchange a look that tells me I wasn’t always the easiest of siblings.
“But why on earth would Melody show up now?” Jo says.
Evidently she found some old letters written to her aunt,” I say. “They were about Johnny dying and also about Lily.”
“Melody didn’t even know Johnny was dead?” Jo asks.
“Not until recently,” I say.
“How awful,” Jo says, looking out her window.
“Who wrote the letters?” Meg asks.
“Doc Lester,” I say.
She grimaces.
“It’s a shame Lily knows,” Jo says. “She’s obviously hurt.”
“I probably would have kept the secret forever if Lily had left it alone,” I say. “But I was totally naïve to think I could keep it from her.”
I wonder what else I’ve been immature about. I’m almost thirty years old and sometimes I feel like I haven’t learned a thing. I remember Melody’s threat to expose me and Bee and wonder if ‘normal’ is too much to ask for. This saga isn’t over. And if I tell Bee, I fear she may leave Katy’s Ridge again.
We go along the narrowest part of the road that hugs up against the mountain, and I grip the steering wheel tighter. We always stop talking along this stretch and hold our breath. On the other side is a sheer drop down to the river, the reason this section is called the bluff. Tree roots dangle where the road was cut into the mountain. Suspended like flailing legs reaching, to no avail, for solid ground.
I can relate to exposed roots. It feels like my private life is being cut away and revealed. Things I’ve preferred to keep buried.
Lily's Song Page 17
