Crooked River: A Novel

by Valerie Geary

  In Grandpa’s car I stared at my mud-streaked palms, trying to ignore the Shimmering who followed me from my mother’s open grave to the parking lot to here in the middle backseat. My sister stared out the window all the way home. The one between us cried and cried and made my stomach hurt.

  Four weeks, one day, fourteen hours, fifty-three minutes and she’s still here, sitting in a branch above my head and swinging with the wind. She wants me to look up, but I won’t.

  She says my name, and I ignore her.

  She says, God made dirt and dirt won’t hurt.

  And I think she’s being childish.

  She says, Listen to your mother.

  I think, My mother is dead.

  She sighs and the sound is rattling leaves and crackling bark. She sighs and my heart wants to crash out of my chest. I jump to my feet and walk away fast.

  “Where are you going?” my sister calls after me. “Ollie?”

  I pass Bear on my way to the teepee. He stops and sets the bucket on the ground. Water sloshes over the edge.

  “You okay, kiddo?”

  I walk faster though I know it won’t help. She is right behind me and getting closer. She will wrap her arms tight around me and squeeze out all my breath. I cannot shake her.

  I am living, and she is stuck in between. Where I go, she goes. She is my punishment. For the terrible thing. The worst thing I’ve done in my entire life. She is my reminder every minute, every day of what I did and am trying so hard to forget.

  5

  sam

  See if this fits.” I positioned my bike helmet on Ollie’s head. It was a little too big for her, but her helmet was packed away in a box somewhere and she wouldn’t ride without one. I cinched the straps tight under her chin and rapped my knuckles lightly on the plastic. “Snug as a bug.”

  She grabbed the handlebars of my blue-and-white Schwinn and swung herself onto the seat. Her toes barely reached the pedals.

  “Get off,” I said.

  She jumped to the ground again, and I adjusted the seat lower. This time when she climbed on, her feet reached just fine. She pushed off and away from me, pedaling slow at first, finding her balance, then picking up speed, bumping across the uneven grass toward the path that led out of the meadow.

  “Ollie! Wait up!” I hoisted my leg over a taller, heavier, black-and-red Schwinn and pedaled hard after her.

  We followed the narrow path, dodging sharp rocks and twigs, our nubby tires chewing through dirt and shredding weeds. Sunlight broke through the canopy, splashing gold on our arms in patches and streaks.

  Bear bought both bikes four summers ago. He told me he used our honey money, but Mom must have helped out some, too, because I knew for a fact we didn’t sell enough jars to afford two brand-new Schwinns. He also told me he’d bought them so he and I could ride into town together, but I’d only ever seen him ride once and he was so wobbly and slow, the whole time I was afraid he was going to fall and break his arm. I think he really bought two bikes hoping one day Ollie would come and stay with us in the meadow. I think he’d always meant for it to be me and her, sisters tearing up roads and chasing the wind.

  Approaching a slight dip in the path, I pedaled faster, and for a split second, my tires lifted off the ground. My stomach dropped, then pulled up again, and I was flying. I gave our battle cry, a combination howl and whoop—a sound I was too old to make but made anyway, just this once for Ollie—and waited for her echo, but she pedaled on silently without even a glance back over her shoulder. The front tire of my bike slammed down hard on a patch of loose dirt and started to skid. I leaned to keep from toppling, and the leather satchel I was carrying over my shoulder shifted. The strap cinched around my chest. I pulled it loose again and hurried to catch up with Ollie. When we passed the hemlock stump and the path widened into a road, I stood on my pedals and steered around her, taking the lead.

  I wanted her to shout at me, to get upset and say “I’m not staring at your big butt the whole way there. No way, José!” and pedal faster so we were racing neck and neck, but she didn’t. She kept her steady pace and pedaled on silently. I sat back down on my seat, focused on the road ahead. The long grass growing in between the tire ruts hissed and snapped, tangling in our spokes.

  We went around a final, sharp bend, and then it was a straight shot past the barn, past Zeb and Franny’s house to the end of their driveway and Lambert Road. From there it was another three and a half flat miles past grass fields and sheep pastures to Smith Rock Way, the two-lane road cutting through downtown Terrebonne.

  There were more vacant houses and overgrown yards than I remembered from the years before. More FOR SALE and NOW LEASING signs in empty storefront windows. Fewer cars driving through. Fewer people coming in and out of the shops and restaurants along the main strip. Terrebonne had always been a small town that moved at its own slow and quiet pace, but recently it seemed to be moving even slower, getting even quieter, the whole town shrinking smaller and smaller until one day it might just disappear.

  I steered my bike onto the sidewalk and stopped in front of a single-story brick building with a large picture window overlooking the street. Stenciled on the glass in white cursive letters was the name Delilah’s Attic. A toy monkey with brass cymbals attached to his paws grinned at us from inside. Propped beside him was a small cardboard sign that read DREAMERS WELCOME. I didn’t come here often. Part antique business, part curiosity shop, the store was filled with too many breakable things, and the woman who ran the place didn’t seem very fond of kids, even though she had a son a few years older than me. But it was the only place in Terrebonne with books for sale, and I’d promised Ollie books.

  We leaned our bikes against the front of the building and went inside.

  A bell rang, and a woman called to us from the back room, “I’ll be right out!”

  There was a shuffling, like someone was moving boxes, then the woman said, “Mama Rose’s granddaughter wants to bring me the leftovers from that estate sale they had last weekend. Bless her heart.” Something metallic and heavy scraped across the floor. “I’m making a bit of room before she gets here.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, raising my voice to be heard above all the noise. “We’re just browsing.”

  The sounds in the back room stopped completely for a few seconds and then started up again, her voice drifting out to us again above the scraping, “Let me know if you need help finding something.”

  I nudged Ollie toward the other side of the store. “The books are over here.”

  Past steamer trunks and aluminum milk jugs. Past Victorian-era dresses and dusty faux fur coats. Past top hats, and billiard balls, and snow globes, and empty cigar boxes. Tea sets, washboards, old radios, and Japanese screens. Pastoral paintings, jewel-toned vases, and art deco lamps. Boxes and boxes of costume jewelry. And finally, here in the back, four large shelves stuffed with books. Romance novels, mysteries, horror, classics, cookbooks, and how-tos. Hardcover, paperback, a treasure trove of words. The shelves reached to the ceiling and there wasn’t a single, empty space.

  Ollie looked at me and then at the books.

  “You think you can find four you haven’t read yet?”

  She pushed her glasses up higher on her nose and moved along the first shelf, her head tipped to one side, her hand brushing over the spines. When she reached the end, she stopped and focused her attention on a purple, wingback chair wedged in the corner and a large gray tabby sleeping on top. The cat opened his eyes and blinked at us. He twitched his tail back and forth, and then, when we didn’t come closer or try to pet him, he closed his eyes again, buried his face in his curled paws, and started to purr.

  Ollie returned her attention to the books. I glanced over my shoulder. The store owner was still in the back, moving things around. Other than her, Ollie and I were the only people here.

  Ollie pulled two books fro
m a shelf and added them to a stack she’d started near the purple chair. I wrapped both hands around the satchel strap.

  “Listen, Oll,” I said, glancing again at the deserted front counter. “I have to . . . I need to go take care of something really important.”

  Ollie stopped searching the shelves. She held a book against her chest and chewed the corner of her lip.

  I said, “Just for a few minutes. You’ll be fine here.”

  Ollie glanced at the dozen or so books she’d collected already, then looked over my shoulder toward the front counter and a curtain that must have led into the back room. After a few seconds, she tugged her braid.

  “Five minutes,” I said. “That’s it. And then I’ll be right back. I promise.”

  Ollie turned away from me and added another book to her growing pile beside the chair.

  “Don’t leave the store,” I said.

  She stood on tiptoe, reaching for a book on the very top shelf. I left her there and hurried outside.

  Before breakfast this morning, while Ollie was still asleep, Bear and I walked to the river together. The rising sun warmed the sky orange and painted the trees yellow. Neither of us spoke until we reached the swimming hole.

  “She was right here,” I said, pointing to the eddy.

  Bear scratched his beard and stared at the churning, dark water. He looked upriver, then let his gaze drift down and down, following the current to the rapids where the dead woman had disappeared. He sighed, and the sound was weighted with all the sadness in the world.

  I said, “What if I tell them I found the jacket?”

  “Sam . . .”

  “No, listen. It’ll work.” I hadn’t thought it through, but as I kept talking, I convinced myself it was a good plan, the best plan—the only one that would keep Bear out of trouble and our family from being broken apart again. “I’ll take the jacket to Deputy Santos by myself and tell her I found it at the exact place you found it, but I didn’t want you to know about it because I was afraid you’d get mad at me for wandering so far away from the meadow and then . . . and then I’ll tell her how me and Ollie found the body, too, but we didn’t tell anyone because we thought we’d get in trouble for not being able to pull her out of the water and . . . and . . .” I looked up at him. His head was lowered. “Please. Let me do this.”

  He turned and looked at me with bright, damp eyes. His lips twitched, like he was about to speak.

  I said, “We can’t lose you too,” and slipped my hand into his.

  He stared out at the river again, squeezed my hand once, and let go.

  After lunch, we stood facing each other in front of the teepee. He clutched the leather satchel in his arms and told me exactly where he’d found the jacket. Along a service road that was a mile and a half south of Zeb and Franny’s house. About fifty yards in from Lambert Road, tangled up in a hawthorn bush.

  I held my hands out, but instead of giving me the bag, he said, “If your mother knew about this, she’d kill me.” He flinched hearing the words out loud.

  “No, she wouldn’t,” I said. “She’d want me to do this.”

  He shook his head but handed me the satchel anyway.

  In the alley behind the Attic, outside the Staff Only entrance of Patti’s Diner, I found a Dumpster overflowing with black garbage bags, rotten vegetables, and soggy cardboard boxes. If I shoved the jacket down far enough, no one would notice it as anything but trash. Then, in a day or two, a garbage truck would come and haul everything away and the jacket would be gone. Forever. No one else would know it had even existed, and no one—not me, not Ollie, not Bear—would get in trouble. The meadow would go on being as safe as it had always been, and Ollie and I wouldn’t have to move to Boston with our grandparents where we’d end up trapped and suffocated by all that glass and brick and concrete. We could stay in Terrebonne. We could try and be happy again.

  I unbuttoned the satchel and took out the jacket. The back door of Patti’s popped open. I tried to duck out of sight, but I wasn’t fast enough.

  Someone called out, “Hey! Hey, you!” And then, “Sam!”

  The door thumped closed.

  I froze and turned slowly, clutching the jacket tight against my chest.

  I recognized him right away. Travis Roth. His mom owned Delilah’s Attic and I’d seen him running the register a few times. I’d also seen him at Patti’s, where he worked as a busboy. He was taller than me, older too, but not by much. His dark hair was cut short and spiked up a little with gel. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and black slacks, a stained apron tied around his waist, black army boots laced up tight. He walked toward me, smiling. Dimples creased his cheeks.

  “Almost didn’t recognize you.” He reached and twitched a strand of my hair. “I like it.”

  I blushed and took a step back, tucking the chin-length tresses behind my ears. We hadn’t said more than a few words to each other in all the summers I’d been visiting Bear. Until today I didn’t even think he knew my name.

  His gaze shifted to the jacket I was still clutching in one hand, and he asked, “What are you doing back here anyway?”

  “Nothing.” I stuffed the jacket into the satchel and buttoned the flap closed. “Just . . . you know . . . enjoying the view . . .” I tossed my hand in the air and then let it fall limp at my side. I wanted to crawl away, hide in the tall grass on the other side of the fence, be anywhere but here making an idiot of myself.

  Travis pulled a pack of Marlboros from his apron pocket and offered me one.

  I shook my head. “Those things will kill you.”

  He shrugged and cupped his hands around the cigarette, lighting one end with a shiny gold lighter. He inhaled deeply, held his breath a second, then tipped his head back and exhaled a stream of smoke straight up like a chimney.

  We were both quiet a moment, watching the smoke curl and disappear, then Travis said, “So did you hear about that woman they found at Smith Rock? It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

  “Yeah.” I wrapped one arm around the satchel. “Yeah, I heard something about it.”

  “Big deal, right? Haven’t seen people this excited since Johnny Sommers won that hot dog eating contest at the State Fair three years ago.” He took another long drag and then tipped his head toward Patti’s back door. “There’s people taking bets in there.”

  “On what?”

  “You know. How she was killed. Who did it. That sort of thing.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. “Who did it . . . ?”

  “Yeah, like her boyfriend or a jealous ex-wife. A trucker. Or some long-gone drifter. Or even someone living right here in Terrebonne. Pastor Mike, maybe.” He grinned. It was supposed to be funny, the part about Pastor Mike, but if his name was being thrown around, even in jest, then chances were Bear’s name had come up, too. And I bet no one laughed when it did.

  “I’ve got twenty on a drifter,” he said.

  I stared at my shoes.

  A long time must have passed with me staring at the ground like that, trying to think of something to say, because the next thing I knew, Travis was touching my shoulder, saying, “Hey. Are you okay?”

  “What?” I lifted my gaze.

  The back door swung open again. Travis let go of me and took a step back.

  A redheaded kid I’d sometimes seen hanging around Travis poked his head through the doorway and said, “Hey, dumbshit! Let’s go! Something’s happening at the Meadowlark. They’ve got it all roped off. A bunch of black cars and men walking around in suits—” He noticed me standing there and his expression changed, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Oh. Hey.” And then talking to Travis again, “Looks like you’re busy out here, man. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Not busy. Just having a smoke.” He took one last pull on the cigarette and then tossed the butt away.

  It
landed in a clump of tall grass at the edge of an abandoned field, and I watched it, waiting for the whole thing to go up in flames, but there was only a thin ribbon of gray and then nothing.

  The kid jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the front of the building. “So you coming or what?”

  “Yeah. We’re right behind you.” Travis untied his apron and draped it over his arm. He turned to me, arched his dark eyebrows, gave me a sly grin, and said, “You got anything else going on right now?”

  I didn’t think about Ollie or how I told her I’d only be a few minutes. I didn’t think about the jacket or Bear waiting for us back at the meadow. Right then, the only thing I was thinking about was that if this had anything to do with the dead woman, I needed to be there. I needed to know what was happening.

  The deputy inside the taped perimeter waved us away from the yellow line. “Stay back, folks! Give us some space.”

  Travis and I stood on the sidewalk, part of a gathering, gaping crowd that was starting to spill into the street. If I had bothered to look around, I might have recognized some of the people knocking up against me, trying to push forward even as we were being pushed back. But all my attention was on Detective Talbert and room 119. Everyone and everything else were just part of the scenery, blurred shapes shifting in my peripheral vision, jumbled voices rising up, falling down.

  “I bet she was a whore—”

  “A drug dealer—”

  “A crack addict—”

  “Maybe she got what she deserved.”

  Detective Talbert knocked only once before taking the keys from the motel manager and opening the door. He disappeared inside the room for several long minutes, and when he came back out, he was holding his suit jacket over one arm and rubbing the top of his bald head. He stared across the parking lot to where an entire town waited, holding its collective breath.

  Was this where she’d stayed in the days leading up to her death?

  Was this where she’d dreamed her last dream? Taken her last shower? Watched her last news program? Eaten her last meal?