Crooked River: A Novel

by Valerie Geary

  Deputy Santos grimaced. “Why don’t we sit down?” She gestured to the picnic table behind them. “This could take a while.”

  Bear shook his head. “I’m fine standing.”

  “Whatever you want,” Deputy Santos said.

  They stood silently together, watching the deputies inside the teepee, and there was a moment when I really believed that they wouldn’t find it. I really believed we would be okay.

  I took a couple steps farther into the meadow, and a small branch cracked underfoot.

  Deputy Santos turned her head, said something under her breath I couldn’t hear, then turned to Bear and said, “Stay put. Don’t interfere.” She left him and came toward me.

  Bear saw me, too, but he didn’t say anything or make any gestures or beckon me closer. He glanced at me, then looked away, returning his whole attention to the deputies who were tearing apart our lives. I wondered why he was just standing there doing nothing, why he didn’t tell them about the jacket and the key, all the things he’d been planning on telling them barely fifteen minutes ago. His silence twisted a knot in my stomach, and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that he hadn’t told me everything, that maybe he really did have something to hide.

  Deputy Santos stopped in front of me, partially blocking my view of Bear. “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  I looked down at my knees. Blood trickled thin and red from a deep gouge just below my right kneecap. The other knee was scraped up pretty bad, too, dark with gravel and dirt, more rash than cut. And there was blood on my shirt from where I’d wiped off my hands, and fresh blood still seeping from cuts in my palms and blood between my fingers that was starting to dry.

  “I fell,” I said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I looked over her shoulder. Bear hadn’t left his spot next to the teepee, but he was tugging on his beard now and scratching hard at his scalp.

  “I live here.”

  “Where’s your sister?”

  “With Franny.”

  “Why don’t you head on back to the house? Stay put until I come get you.”

  “What about our stuff?”

  Deputy Santos let out a long, slow breath. She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll bring it by later.”

  “Are you going to arrest Bear?”

  Deputy Santos rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know, Sam,” she said, and it sounded like she hadn’t slept in a few days. “But if we do, I don’t want you to be here. I don’t want you to have that memory. Please. Just go on back to Zeb and Franny’s now. I’ll come over as soon as I can and try to answer all your questions.”

  Now that I was standing still and I’d caught my breath and my heart wasn’t pounding so hard and there wasn’t so much adrenaline rushing through me, I felt my knees hurting. Like someone was striking my bones with a hammer over and over. I bent and picked a piece of gravel from the deepest cut and tried to brush the dirt off, but that only made it hurt more. I left it alone and straightened up again.

  “I want to stay,” I said.

  “No.” Deputy Santos shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

  “I’m not a baby. I can handle it.”

  She rubbed her bottom lip, like she was thinking about letting me stay, but before she could answer, someone in the teepee shouted, “Found something!”

  Deputy Santos jerked her head around and then took a step back toward Bear.

  I grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

  “Go back to Franny’s. Now.” She shook me off and left me standing there alone.

  Bear didn’t look at Deputy Santos when she came up beside him. She touched his shoulder, and he flinched. She took her hand away again, moving it instead to her holster. She stuck close to his side, her stance strong and ready, but for what I had no idea.

  Three men came single file out of the teepee. First was Detective Talbert. The other two after him were deputies I didn’t recognize. They went straight to Bear and stood in a disorderly line, the detective slightly ahead of the others, facing Bear directly.

  He held out a large plastic bag with the satchel sealed inside. “Does this belong to you, Mr. McAlister?”

  Bear nodded.

  I shifted on the balls of my feet.

  Detective Talbert licked his lips. He moved slow, like there was all the time in the world. He handed the satchel to one of the deputies and held up a second plastic bag.

  “We found this jacket inside that shoulder bag, Mr. McAlister.”

  The blue cloth seemed oversaturated in the sunlight. Too dark, too midnight sky.

  “Does this belong to you too?”

  Bear squinted at the jacket but didn’t give them an answer.

  The detective held out a third, smaller bag. “And this key?” He gave an exaggerated gesture of looking around the meadow. “Where do you park your cars, Mr. McAlister?”

  One of the deputies snickered.

  Bear glanced over his shoulder, and our eyes met.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, but not quietly enough. Everyone, now, turned and looked at me.

  Detective Talbert frowned. “What the hell is she doing here?”

  Deputy Santos came toward me again, her expression one of shock. “You knew about this?”

  “We were going to tell you.”

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  I looked down at my feet. “I called a few minutes ago.”

  She sighed and spoke over her shoulder: “I’ll handle this.”

  “God Almighty,” Detective Talbert swore under his breath, sweeping his hand over his scalp.

  Deputy Santos put one hand on my arm and started to turn me away. “We’re going to have to take him down to the station to ask him some questions.”

  “No, don’t.” I shrugged her off.

  “We have to, Sam.” She reached for me again, but I sidestepped away.

  “Please, don’t take him. Can’t you just ask your questions here? He didn’t do anything wrong. I can . . . we can explain. Just . . . it’s not what it looks like. It’s not what you think.”

  Detective Talbert had been watching us silently. Now he sighed and said, “This is ridiculous. Wentworth, get her out of here.”

  One of the deputies broke from the line and came toward me.

  Deputy Santos waved her hand at him, saying, “I got this. I can handle it.”

  “Don’t touch her,” Bear said.

  They were the first words he’d spoken since the men had come out of the teepee. No one moved. No one spoke. We all watched him, waiting.

  “Don’t you dare lay a hand on her.” He made as if to come toward us, as if he was going to fight all of them if that’s what it took.

  “Enough,” Detective Talbert said, his voice echoing into the trees.

  Bear rolled his head, but he didn’t come any closer. He cracked his knuckles but didn’t start swinging. When he spoke, his voice was almost too quiet for me to hear: “I’ll come with you, but leave my daughter alone.”

  Detective Talbert reached for his handcuffs.

  Bear took a step back.

  “Precautionary,” the detective said.

  “I’m coming of my own free will,” Bear argued. “You don’t need those.”

  Detective Talbert leaned closer to Bear. The handcuffs rattled.

  “Where’d you get those scratches, Mr. McAlister?”

  He reached to try and brush his fingers across the two scratches on Bear’s cheek. Even after four days they were still visible, though they were scabs now, more than anything.

  Bear flinched away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

  Detective Talbert scowled and pulled back his hand, then nodded at the remaining deputy standing beside him. “Get him loaded up in the car nice and easy now. I’ll radio in and let them know you’re coming.”
>
  The deputy stepped forward, his hand reaching, moving to grab Bear’s arm.

  Bear jerked away and started to walk on his own in the direction of the patrol cars. “I said, don’t touch me.”

  When he passed and then disappeared into the trees, I tried to go after him, but Deputy Santos stopped me. She gathered me close against her side and put her arm around my shoulders. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll drive you to the house so we can get you cleaned up.”

  14

  ollie

  The car taking my father away passes first. No lights. No rush. A steady pace, tires rolling over dirt and hard-packed gravel, not slowing, not stopping here. The driver stares straight ahead. In the backseat surrounded by thick bars and wire mesh, the man who is Bear who is innocent lifts his head and looks at me through the tinted glass. His eyes are hollow and dark. His mouth is partly open. He looks so very sad.

  Nana Fran lays her hand on my shoulder and says, “Come inside.”

  I shrug her away and take one, two, three steps down, off the porch and onto the stone-lined path.

  “Olivia.”

  My name, a warning, and yet not enough to pull me back.

  A second car comes around the bend, passes the barn, slows and stops in front of me. The driver’s door pops open and Deputy Santos unfolds, stretches, puts her hat on her head, and nods at me and Nana Fran.

  “What is it?” Nana Fran says from the porch, her voice hurrying where she cannot, carrying her down the steps to my side. “What’s happened? Is it about that woman? Oh, sweet Jesus, I need to sit down.”

  A shuffle, a creak of old bones and wicker patio furniture. I do not turn around. I do not go to help her. I stare through the windshield at my sister who stares after our father. The other car, barely visible in the dust, turns onto Lambert Road and vanishes over the hill.

  Deputy Santos bends over the open car door and speaks into the cab. “Come on, Sam. This is as far as I’ll take you.”

  “I want to go with him. He needs me.”

  “What about Ollie?” Deputy Santos asks. “She needs you, too.”

  This is true. But not in the usual way. I need her to believe. I need her to see. I need her to say the things I can’t.

  The shadows inside the car are thick enough for me to see the one from the river, sitting in the backseat directly behind my sister. Her hair is snakes. Her teeth are fangs. Her eyes, cold, black stones that she turns on me. She sways and hisses. She wants to borrow my voice. She wants me to say, This isn’t right. It wasn’t him. But I can’t.

  I won’t.

  If I do this for her, then I have to do this for all of them; and if I do this for all of them, my words—my own, the ones that belong to me and no one else, the ones that are only mine—will no longer matter. They will be pushed aside and shoved down deep and trampled over by all these others.

  So I am silent.

  The one who follows me can’t sit still. She is all explosion and light, here and then over there, burning scared. I am scared, too.

  Deputy Santos says, “There’s nothing you can do for him right now.”

  Nana Fran says, “Come inside, all of you. I’ll make us some chamomile tea.”

  My sister says, “He didn’t do it. He didn’t hurt that woman.”

  The one from the river strikes at the window and the thick bars dividing the backseat of the patrol car from the front.

  “Sam.” Deputy Santos rubs the back of her neck. “Sam, get out of the car. Now. I won’t ask you again.”

  I move closer to the hood. My sister sees me through the windshield. Her face is red like she’s been crying, and I wish I could tell her none of this is her fault and we will find a way to fix it.

  My sister sighs and gets out of the car. The one from the river follows. Together they walk past me into the house. The one who follows me drops like a falling star, lands in the dirt at my feet. I step over her and follow my sister inside.

  15

  sam

  Later that evening, Franny came into the guest room at the top of the stairs. She sat on the edge of one of the beds and said, “Deputy Santos and I talked with the social worker. They’re going to let you girls stay with us until we can get in touch with your grandparents.”

  Ollie and I were on the bed opposite her, sitting apart from each other. I was at the foot, nearly spilling onto the floor. Ollie was up near the pillows, pressed close to the wall. She was wearing one of Franny’s old T-shirts and had her legs curled up inside it, her chin resting on her knees, making herself as small as possible.

  Before Mom died, Grandpa and Grandma had booked a two-week cruise across the Atlantic from Fort Lauderdale to Lisbon for their fortieth wedding anniversary. A week before their departure date, they were all set to call their travel agent and cancel, but their tickets were nonrefundable and so I told them to go. Bear could take care of us just fine, they didn’t have to worry. According to the itinerary they left with me, their boat was floating somewhere now in the mid-Atlantic. Deputy Santos might be able to reach them, but they wouldn’t be able to do anything except worry about us until Thursday when they were expected to reach port in Lisbon.

  So much could happen in those five days. So much could change.

  I picked at the sleeves of the old flannel shirt Franny had given me to wear when she’d thrown my blood-streaked clothes in the wash. I could hear the machine somewhere below us, chugging and thumping.

  “Our paperwork’s not up-to-date,” she continued. “But given the circumstances and the good word Deputy Santos put in for us, Child Services is willing to make a temporary exception.”

  “What about our things?” I asked.

  “From the teepee?”

  I nodded.

  Franny said, “Maribel said she’d bring everything over as soon as they finished processing the scene.”

  The scene. Bear’s meadow. Our meadow. Our home.

  I rubbed my eyes. Ollie clutched her knees even tighter to her chest.

  “There are those boxes in the barn, too,” Franny said. “We can open those up tomorrow, see if we can’t find you both some clothes that fit a little better.”

  After Mom’s funeral, we’d gone through the house in Eugene, deciding what to keep and what to give away or take to the dump. The things we kept, we packed in boxes and brought with us to Zeb and Franny’s. Storing everything in the barn was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. We were supposed to be moving into a bigger place, an apartment or a house, with rooms and closets and plenty of space to stretch out. We were supposed to be figuring out how to be a family again, not worrying about a dead woman and how long my father might be in jail.

  “I know it’s not what you’re used to.” Franny smoothed her hand across the pink-and-yellow quilt. “But the sheets are clean. And the fridge is full. And here, at least, you’ll be safe. That’s the important thing.”

  Ollie sighed.

  “How about we go to the store tomorrow after church?” Franny said. “Stock up on a few things. Toothbrushes, underwear, socks. Mint chocolate chip ice cream.” She smiled, but it didn’t stick. She leaned forward and the bed creaked. She grabbed our hands and squeezed. “We want you girls to be comfortable here. Our home is your home. Whatever you need, just ask.”

  In the hallway, floorboards groaned, and Zeb cleared his throat.

  “Mother,” he said. “Time to let these girls alone. Let them have their rest.”

  Franny rose to her feet, rubbing her back. She shuffled to the door and stood there a moment longer, leaning in the frame, watching me and Ollie. Then she said, “We’re right down the hall if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  She left the room—Ollie’s and my room now—and closed the door behind her.

  I woke tangled in sheets.

  I woke suffocating, choking on a panicked, half-formed
nightmare in which I was being buried alive inside a grave with Taylor Bellweather, who was also somehow my mother. Bear held the shovel. Every time I opened my mouth to scream, I swallowed more dirt. More and more until I couldn’t breathe and that’s what woke me—this feeling of drowning.

  Kicking off the covers, I sat up and stared straight ahead into a dark too thick to be night. No crickets, no frogs, no wind. No scent of morning dew and damp pine needles. I wasn’t used to sleeping indoors in August, stifling between four walls and a shingled roof. I needed air. I needed to see the stars.

  I turned my head toward the room’s only window. The curtains were partway open, letting in a thin slit of silver moonlight. I wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. Ollie stood with one hand pressed to the glass, staring out into the yard. Her unbraided hair fell loose around her shoulders. The hem of her nightshirt, like an old-fashioned gown, brushed against the floor. She was still and silent, a silk-spun dream against the black night. She pushed the window open. A breeze rushed in, smelling of parched earth and stirring the hair around Ollie’s face into a shimmering halo, a flutter of pale ribbons.

  I stood, and a floorboard creaked.

  Ollie swung her head around and then, when she saw it was only me, turned again to the open window.

  We stood side by side, not touching, not talking, just staring out over Zeb and Franny’s fields toward the distant, ragged trees that surrounded our meadow. The wind hissed through the tall grass and bowed the tops of the firs. The chimes on the front porch clattered, their songs erratic and shrill. This wasn’t the kind of wind that pushed in rain clouds or cool mornings. It was a dust bowl wind, swollen with heat and sighs. The kind of wind that dried you out and left you feeling thin. In the morning, we’d wake with parched throats and burning eyes.

  “I know you’re mad at me,” I said. “I know you think this whole thing is my fault.”

  Ollie gathered all her hair in one hand and curled it around her fist.

  “And maybe it is. Maybe if I had turned that jacket over to Deputy Santos at the beginning the way Bear wanted, then things would have worked out differently.”