An image of Daddy in a state of decay came to me and I shook my head.
“It ain’t the same bed, Bert,” Willet said.
“How do you know?”
“You saw the pictures. No way they were getting that mattress clean.”
Still, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie down in the exact same spot where Daddy died. Willet shrugged. “Have it your way, but that cot won’t be none too comfortable.”
I listened to Willet snore and wondered why we’d come here. What did we expect to find? Some clue as to how Daddy spent the last years of his life? Some idea of why he left us? Some hint of what happened to Pansy?
In my dreams I sat in Granny Clem’s kitchen while she worked over the stove. When she turned to serve me a cup of tea, she had the face of a wolf. I was Little Red Riding Hood and she would gobble me whole. I woke in the early morning, my body sore from the stiff cot and the long drive, my eyes bleary and swollen, my head foggy from restless sleep. Even so, when I stepped outside, I nearly cried for the beauty of the place. Despite the stench of rotting fish, it was a stunning morning. I’d never seen sunlight glitter so bright across the gray surface of the water. I’d never seen so many birds swooping and diving for breakfast or so many men working in the early morning sunlight to unload wooden crates and nets full of fish. It made me feel better about Daddy dying there. The motel room was ugly, but there was beauty outside the door.
Willet made a bitter pot of stale coffee in the percolator, and we drank from chipped mugs. I surveyed the room in the morning light. I couldn’t picture Daddy shaving in front of the fogged mirror or dressing in the cramped waterlogged bathroom. I couldn’t picture him sleeping on the scratchy sheets or drinking his morning coffee in one of the cracked and stained mugs. Daddy liked things neat and clean. Nothing short of a fire could clean that room.
Willet agreed. “I can’t see him spending one night in this shithole. He was a sonofabitch, sure, but he liked nice things. Don’t you remember how he liked his shirts ironed stiff? How he shined his shoes?”
I remembered. I remembered the clean sharp scent of his shaving cream and the lingering clovelike odor of his hair oil. I remembered how he trimmed his nails and kept them clean even when he and Chester were printing bills. But what good was my memory, really? I remembered a monster in the woods, but Willet said monsters weren’t real. I remembered the way Mama doted on Pansy, but Mama denied giving Pansy special treatment. I remembered the fireworks and the scent of sulfur and the perfect summer evening, but Bubba said he didn’t remember a thing. And no matter what I remembered or what I’d imagined, it didn’t change the fact of Daddy’s body turning up in this filthy motel.
“Let me ask you,” Willet said. “Can you remember even one time when the sonofabitch was drunk? Because I sure as hell can’t. He was miserable, but he wasn’t a drunk.”
I poured another cup of the bitter coffee and said I couldn’t remember him drunk.
“Hell, I used to steal his whiskey all the time,” Willet said. “I watered it down to keep him from realizing the bottle was low, and he never said a thing. That’s how little he drank. How could he go from someone who barely took a nip to one of those drunks living on the street? It don’t seem possible.”
And yet they’d found Daddy’s body in this awful motel room. Maybe we hadn’t really known our father.
Willet said we ought to lay in some supplies before doing anything else. We made a list: bug spray, bread and peanut butter, fresh coffee. We’d passed a grocery store and bait shop on our drive in the night before. We bought the things we needed and a few extras: a deck of playing cards, a flashlight and pack of batteries, saltine crackers and a tub of smoked fish dip, a sack of oranges, a pint of rum, and a six-pack of Coke.
“Fishing today?” The young woman behind the counter rang up our purchases.
“Something like that,” Willet said.
She smiled and tucked a strand of bleached blonde hair behind her ear. She blushed. Willet had that effect on women. His shoulders were broad and strong from years of construction work. His hair flopped over his eyebrows in a boyish way. We had the same brown eyes, the same freckled nose, the same sharp chin, but it came together better on him than it ever did on me.
“I hear the grouper are biting,” she said.
Willet slid some bills across the counter and pulled out the creased photo. It was the same photo he’d shown to the motel clerk the night before. It was at least ten years old and surely looked nothing like the man they’d found in the motel room. No one was going to recognize Daddy from that photo.
Still, he asked her if she recognized the man.
She squinted at the out-of-focus image. “Don’t think so.”
Willet slid the photo back in his wallet. “Is there a place to rent a boat around here?”
She bagged our groceries and told us about a few rental spots. She said we’d have to get moving if we wanted to get on the water today. Most of the boats left early for fishing or bird watching. Then she mentioned the tunnels. “Best way to see those is in a canoe or a pole boat. Iggy will rent you one of those.”
“Tunnels?” Willet took the sack from her.
“The mangrove tunnels,” she said. “Plenty to see. Cypress knees, air plants, turtles, maybe even an alligator.”
Outside, the cool breeze from the morning was gone. Bottle flies buzzed around a dead bird near the trash dumpster. We headed back to our room to put the perishables in the mini-fridge and slather on bug juice. Willet said he wanted to hit the boat rental places.
“Do you know how to drive a boat?” I asked.
“You drive a car, Bert. You pilot a boat.” He rubbed his neck with sweet-smelling repellent. “Remember when Daddy borrowed that boat and took us out to Grenada Lake?” I remembered. Daddy loved fishing. Still, the lakes and reservoirs back home were drops of water compared to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean.
“I don’t see how anyone’s going to know him from that photo,” I said.
“I have a couple more in the duffel.” He pulled out a manila envelope and spread the photographs across the bed. There was Daddy leaning against his brand-new truck, smoking a cigarette and grinning. There was Daddy standing next to Mama, both of them peering down at the baby in Mama’s arms. “You?” I asked. Willet nodded. And there was Daddy, young and smiling, with Uncle Chester and a girl I didn’t know. They were teenagers. It was a terrible old photo, indistinct shades of soft gray and white. “Where did you get this?”
“I took it from Granny Clem’s house.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“I took it years ago, just after we lost Pansy.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Look at her real close, Bert. Tell me if you notice anything.”
The girl’s hair flew out in a mess of frizzy curls. Her skin was darker than the boys’ skin, though it might have been a bad exposure. Her lips were closed in a tight smile, like she was holding back a secret. Her eyes were almond shaped and sat wide on her face.
“She looks like Pansy,” I said.
Willet lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled through his nose. “You see it, then.”
“I see it.”
“She’s got to be a relative or something. Why ain’t we ever heard of her? I asked Granny Clem about her and she clammed up, tried to snatch this photo from me. Said her memory wasn’t what it used to be, which we both know is bullshit. Her mind is sharp as a boning knife.”
Willet shoved the picture in my face, holding it so close it made me cross-eyed. “Look at her hands, Bert. She’s holding something. What is that?”
I took the photo and held it so my eyes could focus. The girl balanced something on her palm, something delicate and winged, maybe a butterfly or a small bird, but it was hard to tell from the faded gray photograph. Willet brought out a cardboard box and pulled a small figure from it. He placed the delicate thing between us. It was featherlight, but not fragile: a bird carved
from bark or nut husk or something I didn’t recognize. Its wings were outstretched in a T shape. Its beak tilted upward.
“That’s sugarcane husk, Bert.”
I admired its small details. “Where’d you find it?”
“Don’t you think that’s what she’s holding in the photo?”
I set the picture next to the carving and agreed it could be the same object. Willet pulled another figure from the box—a turtle, as finely crafted as the bird. Finally, he pulled out an alligator and lined up the figures side by side.
I’d underestimated Willet. The way he’d thrown himself into work, the way he paid bills and took care of things; it seemed he wouldn’t have had time for much else, but he’d been gathering evidence. Evidence of what, I didn’t know. He didn’t know either.
“Bert, do you know where they grow sugarcane? Here. They grow it right here. I want to know who she was and where these came from.” He pointed to the turtle and the alligator. “These didn’t come from Granny Clem’s house. These were mailed to Mama about a year after Pansy disappeared. They showed up in the mailbox with no return address. The postmark, though, was right here in Everglades City.”
“What did Mama say?”
“I never showed them to her. We were getting all those fake sightings at the time. And the psychics were calling. She was sending money to the damned TV preachers. I intercepted the mail, took suspicious stuff to the sheriff’s deputies. They thought it was some sort of prank.”
All those years I’d thought Willet and I were in this thing together. We were looking for our father. We were looking for our sister, but no. I understood why he’d keep things from Mama, but I couldn’t understand why he’d keep things from me.
“You could have told me.”
“You were just a kid,” he said. “You can’t believe some of the shit people sent. Nasty letters calling Mama a bad parent. Fake ransom notes smeared with real blood. A suicide note that looked to be written by a child. The sheriff’s deputies said the world was full of sickos, people who want to be a part of any tragedy.”
“Maybe that’s true.”
“Maybe, but look at these animals. They were all done by the same person, don’t you think?”
The carvings were similar, but I couldn’t tell if the same person had made all three. It was like the macramé owl I made at day camp when I was a kid. Mine was similar to those woven by the other children, but not exactly the same. Maybe these carvings were someone’s camp creations. “Even if they were made by the same person, what does it mean?”
“It means we’ve been too willing to believe what we’re told. I’m sick of it, Bert. I want the truth.”
I remembered what Granny Clem said on the day Marianne gave birth to the sweet baby boy: People will believe what you tell them to believe. Granny Clem bent the truth to her will every time she filled out one of those fake birth certificates or erased all evidence of a pregnancy. Maybe Willet was right. We’d believed what we were told to believe. We wouldn’t uncover the truth until we poked holes in the lies. “You think the truth is here?”
“I know for damn sure it ain’t back in White Forest.”
CHESTER DROVE THEM AWAY from the diner. Some of the Main Street crowd gathered at the mouth of the alley, but Chester didn’t slow down, and they scattered to avoid being hit. He drove fast, but he avoided the roughest sections of road and slowed down where holes pocked the street. Fern dozed. Ora rubbed Fern’s shoulders and talked to her in a calm voice.
“Stay with us,” Ora said. “Now is no time for sleeping.”
Ora told Junior to keep Fern conscious. “She’s lost too much blood. If she sleeps, I can’t be certain I’ll revive her.”
Junior talked. He talked about their mother and how much she’d have wanted to see this baby. He talked about the birds in the rookery and how they fed their hungry chicks before teaching them how to fly. He reminded Fern about the source of her own name. “The Resurrection Fern doesn’t die,” he said. “It grows green and lives again.”
Clementine sat in the front seat and raged. She said she never intended to set foot in that diner again. She said it held bad memories for her, too. Ora nodded and alternately tried to soothe Clementine and Fern.
Back home, Junior lifted his sister and carried her to bed. Ora took the baby and Clementine began work on Fern’s injuries. She cleaned Fern with a damp cloth and a bit of soap. The blood from the stomach wound was bright and crusted over. The blood from the birth was dark and fresh. Fern burned with fever and seemed to be dreaming, though she did not sleep. Junior knelt beside his sister and held her hand. Clementine pulled a long piece of thread through Fern’s stomach, clinching the jagged gash closed in a crooked line.
“It won’t heal pretty,” Clementine said. “But it’ll hold.”
Clementine turned her attention to the blood seeping between Fern’s legs. “She ought not be bleeding still.” Clementine packed a large wad of cotton cloth between Fern’s thighs. She propped Fern’s feet on a pile of pillows and a folded quilt. She called for Ora.
The women consulted. Ora brought Fern a lukewarm cup of tea with herbs to slow the flow of blood. Fern took the tea by small spoonfuls. Junior cradled the baby, her warm heartbeat fluttering against his. He put his nose to the baby’s neck and inhaled the fresh milky scent. Flesh and bone and blood. He’d never been so terrified and happy all at once. Fern slept. Junior wondered if they’d made it home with their packages from the morning shopping trip. He thought about the stuffed bear they’d bought for the baby. He wanted to give it to her now. No sense waiting for Christmas morning.
Junior dozed while sitting on the floor beside Fern’s bed. He dreamed of water, deep and wide. He dreamed of the birds and the noisy clatter of their wings at sunset. The clatter came from outside his dream, though it took him some time to realize it. The clatter came from the yard and front porch. It was not birds descending on the trees, but men descending on their home. Chester shouted. Ora rushed into the room where Junior and Fern and the baby slept.
“We have to hide,” she said. “They’ve come for her.”
Junior didn’t know if Ora meant they’d come for Fern or for her daughter. Maybe both. Ora took the child and Junior scooped up his sleeping sister. She felt limp as a sack of flour in his arms. They slipped out the back door as the men pushed past Chester at the front door. Ora led Junior through the winter-dormant gardens and into the woods. They crouched in the shadow of a large oak. Junior propped Fern at the base of the tree. She opened her eyes but didn’t seem to see anything. The men came around the back of the house. They tore through the empty plant beds, their boots kicking up mounds of soil. They were the same men from the diner. Junior saw the man with the red cap. He saw the man with the Barlow knife. Chester ran after them, shouting and cursing. Junior wanted to recede deeper into the woods, but feared any movement might give them away.
“They ain’t here!” Chester yelled. “And you’re trespassing, you sons of bitches!” Chester carried a rifle. Junior hoped he’d have the good sense not to fire it at anyone.
The baby woke. Maybe the shouting woke her or maybe she was hungry. She cried, a soft, hiccupping mewl that built to a throaty howl. Fern reached for the baby and pulled her to her breast, but it was too late. The men heard the cries and rushed toward them. Junior tried to hoist his sister and the nursing baby, but he was too slow. The man in the red cap grabbed for the baby. Fern, still groggy from the loss of blood and the medicine Ora gave her, was not strong enough to stop him. Junior threw himself at the man. He knocked him off balance, but the man was swift and determined. He ran, holding the baby underneath one arm. Chester and the group of men ran after him. Ora followed.
“Stay with your sister,” she told Junior.
Fern told him to take her to the baby. “Ama,” she said. “Her name is Ama.”
It seemed right she would name her baby after their mother. Junior carried his sister yet again. His arms ached from lifting her over and
over. His legs felt weak and heavy. In the distance, he heard a gunshot and he knew it had come from Chester’s rifle. Junior struggled to keep up with the men and Ora, but he knew where they were headed.
At the quarry, the man in the cap held the baby above his head. The other men stood watching. They were not as bold as the man in the cap, but they wouldn’t stop him from whatever he was planning. Ora ran at the man holding Fern’s baby. She kicked him in the groin and slapped him. The man spit in her face. “Bastard child! Nigger child!” He kept chanting the terrible words.
Fern told Junior to set her down. She stood, unsteady but upright. “Her name is Ama,” she said, her voice cutting through the man’s ugly chant. “She is my daughter and you’ve got no right to her. She is named for her grandmother. She is descended from royalty. Any harm you do to her will come back to your family a hundred times, a thousand. Your children will be slow-witted and lazy. Your wife will be unfaithful. You will never prosper. Your crops will wither. You’ll see rain on top of floods. You’ll see drought when the ground is cracked. You’ll be thirsty in the middle of an ocean. You will live a long time in ill health. You will die alone and lonely. And every time you suffer, you will think of me and of Ama and of the dark, ugly nature of your soul.”
Fern’s speech seemed to cast a spell. The men at the edge of the woods went quiet. She pointed a talonlike finger. The man continued to hold the baby over his head, but he stopped chanting. Ora and Junior waited to see if Fern would say more. They stood on the lip of the water-filled quarry, frozen in suspense. Fern coughed and crumpled to the ground.
For a moment it seemed as if the whole mess might be over, as if the man in the cap might hand the baby to Ora, as if the rest of the men might just walk away. Calm before storm. But Junior saw the man’s eyes harden. He took a step away from Ora and tossed the baby into the quarry as if he were tossing trash onto a heap. Ora dove in after the child. She didn’t come up. Clementine stood at the edge of the quarry and screamed. “What have you done? She can’t swim!”
The Past Is Never Page 18
