9-2-1965 – 7-3-1986
My stomach rolls when I realize what I’m looking at: the community gravestone for a dead community.
The letters are tiny, crammed together like they were only meant to be seen by someone—or something—with supernatural reading skills. I trace the jumbled etchings with my fingertips as I scan the surface. It takes me a painful amount of time to find Oliver’s name, high in the upper left. I locate Duke and Magnolia’s names, too. And then I hit the jackpot. I hit the jackpot when I find my last name within the Word Scramble of the Living Dead.
“T-O-R-R-E-S,” I read out loud, heart thumping wildly in my chest. “I knew it!” I lean in closer to dissect my dad’s first name from the Word Scramble of the Living Dead, but something warm bumps into my arm. I yelp and jump in the opposite direction. Jasper stands near my shoulder, trembling and swiveling his head in the direction of our unwelcome company. I’m so close to the answer, but I can’t ignore the shrieking of the wind and the heave of the ground beneath me. It goes against Jasper’s nature to step into the path of danger, and I can’t allow his choice not to leave me behind to condemn him.
Without another look, I summon the strength to launch myself into the saddle. With eyes clenched shut, I grip the saddle horn with all my might and dig my heels into his side. Jasper bolts toward town, weaving between the overgrowth with unfathomable speed. The wind stings my eyes until tears blind me; all I can do is hold on as The Conductors chase us from the forest through the center of the town. Jasper could have dumped me a dozen times along the way because my balance sucks, but he swerves to catch me each time I list to one side or the other. This horse, the same who had thrown me not once, but twice, is apologizing to me.
We skid into the front yard where Norman stands, alert. His broad chest heaves in and out and he grasps a shovel in both hands like he’s ready to do battle. Am I the enemy?
“Get inside, now,” Norman bellows to me.
I slide from the saddle and pause only long enough to throw my arms around Jasper’s sweat-soaked neck. “Good boy, Jasper. You really saved my life.” In return, he bends his neck and nudges the small of my back with his muzzle.
Oliver sprints around the side of the house and toward Norman. “Go,” he urges, momentarily tearing his eyes away from the street.
Releasing my grip on Jasper, I dash into the house. I barely shut the door behind me when the smell of fire assaults my nostrils and the windowpanes clatter. And, just like that, it falls quiet again.
Minutes pass before I gather the courage to peek out the window next to the front door. Oliver sits huddled on the front steps, his head buried in his hands. Norman’s on the step next to him, his massive arm around Oliver’s trembling shoulders.
Jasper is nowhere to be found.
Chapter 25
Oliver says he doesn’t blame me for the whole Jasper thing, but I’m not sure I believe him. As dusk falls, I watch him trudge into the orchard, his head hanging low. It’s hard to sleep because, as I stare up at the dancing flicker of shadows on my bedroom ceiling, I am haunted by the idea of him crushed and bleeding without the comfort of his best friend. And for what? My stupid curiosity. I am literally the worst.
When the sun peeks over the horizon again, he still comes for me. He waits in the chair in the corner, and I roll over in bed and smile my hello.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he says—except his positivity doesn’t travel all the way to his red-rimmed eyes. Even boys with endless wells of hope run dry sometimes, I guess.
I prop myself up on my elbow. “Morning,” I reply. I can’t bring myself to say good. There’s nothing good about this, except that we still have each other. “You okay?”
Oliver doesn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering on my bare head. He stands up and retrieves a canary-yellow scarf dangling from one of the knobs on my dresser. He hands it to me before returning to his chair. “It’s better this way, you know?”
My forehead furrows. Is he talking about hiding my hideousness with the scarf, or something else?
“Jasper, that sonofagun—he deserves to be free, if anyone does.” His lips pull into a thin, tight line, and he nods like he’s working to convince himself that he really means what he says.
My expression relaxes as soon as the fabric shields my patchwork scalp. “Of course he deserves to be free. This place is the worst. Every single one of us needs to get out of here.”
Oliver sighs. It sounds so weird coming from him.
Time to change the subject. I pull back the covers and scoot to the edge of the bed. “Hey, you wanna go grab some chocolate-chip pancakes at Sal’s? It’s impossible to be sad while eating chocolate-chip pancakes.”
Tension hardens Oliver’s body when I mention Sal. “Luce, I don’t . . .”
I try not to get irritated about his protective streak, because now I totally get it, but there’s a big problem. I’ve been here for way too long and still haven’t figured out how to get rid of the super-annoying need to fill my super-annoying still-alive stomach. “Running out of options, here. Aunt Perdita never has food here.” In fact, she’d probably love it if I starved to death and left her alone.
Eventually, Oliver agrees to Sal’s. Not because he thinks it’s a good idea, but because he’s tired of listening to me whine about my growling stomach.
Turns out, I’m right about the chocolate-chip pancakes. Duh. Oliver, who had been a chocolate-chip-pancake virgin, grins with every gooey bite.
“This is amazing,” It’s the first thing he’s managed to say since Sal’s new waiter brought our plates.
“All of my ideas are good ideas,” I say. I use my fork to swirl a square of pancake in a pool of syrup on my plate, then pop it into my mouth.
“Oh, really?” Sal booms from behind me. “Because, if you’re askin’ me, the idea of you sittin’ in my diner kinda sucks.”
My chewing slows as I look up at Sal, now towering over us in the booth. I blurt out the first thing that pops in my head. “These pancakes? Amazing!”
Oliver stares at me like I’ve spontaneously sprouted another head. I shoot him a withering look.
Sal’s not won over by my pancake love. “Get. Out.” He points his tree trunk of an arm in the direction of the front door.
As Oliver and I file to the door, I tuck my head like a scolded puppy, keeping my eyes low. This time, Sal follows me until we’re out on the sidewalk. He uses his fingers to point to his eyes, then waves his giant hand toward the alley. He wants to get us away from the other diner patrons. Something tells me he has a knack for secrecy, call it a hunch.
“Listen, girly,” he says once we’re cloaked in shadows. His tone is low, and I’m not even sure he’s speaking to me until he rests his hand on my shoulder. “It ain’t like I’m unappreciative of what you’re doing for them others—”
My eyes widen. His hand is still there on my shoulder, and I wonder if he can feel my pulse waking up.
“What you did for Sadie—that’s a-okay in my book. It just ain’t for me. I know where I’m going, and it sure ain’t up to no pearly gates with harps and white robes and crap.”
I nod in understanding. At least, I think I understand.
“And listen. Me and Angus, we feel real bad about that other day, with Dukey.” He removes his hand from my shoulder. “But you gotta understand—we ain’t never had nobody here like you. When people start disappearing, well, looks like you’re in real good with the enemy, if you know what I mean.”
I take a step backward. “You mean, The Conduc—”
He puts his hairy finger up to his mouth. “Shh, shhh, girly.”
“Those guys scare the crap out of me,” I say. “I’d never—”
“You.” He smiles, his lips pulling up nearly to his slicked-back hair. “You’re a good kid, you. Tell you what, you come back again, I’ll take real good care of you. Just come to the back door, okay. Some of the other fellas ain’t as open-minded as me.”
As Sal spea
ks, I notice Letty and Magnolia sharing a bench on the side of the fountain nearest to us. I still haven’t actually made it all the way to the fountain, since the last time I tried a crazed biker tried to crack my head open. But whatever, I’m not bitter.
“Sounds like a plan, Sal,” I say. “If you’ll excuse me, guys.”
Sal wraps his arms around me and slaps my back in a confusing display of affection since he just tossed me out of his place. I pucker my lips to avoid the forest of dark chest hair overflowing the open collar of his black and tan bowling shirt. Once he lets me go, he pats my cheek and calls me some kind of Italian term of endearment I don’t understand.
I raise an eyebrow. “Meet you at the house later, Oliver?”
Before he can respond, I slip away toward the fountain. Letty’s face lights up when I approach them. She can’t get these kids gone fast enough, especially with nightfall creeping closer. Maggie, on the other hand, won’t even look at me.
“She’s sad,” Letty mouths over Magnolia’s blonde head.
“You’re sad?” I crouch down to the girl’s level. My joints, as good as they have been lately, groan and pop in protest. “Why are you sad?”
Magnolia shakes her head defiantly, her curls dancing. “Don’t wanna talk about it.” She sticks out her lower lip.
I shoot Letty a concerned look, not sure how hard I should press the little girl. Death isn’t particularly considerate of feelings, but I don’t want to say something to make it worse for the kid.
Letty places her hand on Maggie’s round knee. “Oh, honey. But wouldn’t you like it if you got to go someplace where you never had to be sad again?”
“I don’t like it when I’m sad,” Maggie confirms.
“We don’t like it when you’re sad, either,” I say. “Let’s make a deal—I’ll get us all an ice cream cone if you’ll talk to me about why you’re so sad. Would you like that?”
She hesitates at my totally obvious bribe, but after a moment she gives in. “I like chocolate chip.”
“Please,” Letty prompts.
Maggie’s gaze drops. “Please.”
After we finish our ice cream and Letty cleans off the girl’s sticky face, Letty leaves us alone by the water. She claims she needs to pick up some things at the grocery store, but I recognize it as a thin excuse to give me some time alone with Maggie. Maggie doesn’t seem ready to share with her caretaker around.
When Letty is out of earshot, Magnolia says, “I miss Tessa.”
“We all do.”
“Yeah . . . But when the fire gets so bad, she’s not with me anymore. It’s scary being alone.”
My heart breaks into a jillion pieces as I try to place myself in her little pink flip-flops. I can’t do it.
“Can you bring her back?” Maggie’s crystal eyes peer up into mine. I recognize that look. Hope.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t know how to do that. But you could go to where she is, then neither of you would have to be in the fire ever again.”
“Would my mama be there? I miss Mama so, so, so, so, so, so much.” She rolls her eyes and rocks her head up and down to emphasize all of her so’s.
Before I give her any kind of answer, I look up to the sky for some kind of guidance—a voice, smoke signals, anything—but nothing comes. It’s important to get this one right because I don’t want to lie about her mother’s whereabouts—I can’t do that to her. All I get is a niggling in my soul, a quiet insistence that a woman capable of creating the sweet girl next to me surely must be in a better place. I pray it isn’t just wishful thinking. For a few moments, I watch the water cascade from the tallest tier all the way down into the pool. “I really do think your mama’s there, Maggie.” My words feel right. I smile.
“Maybe we can have our party, then.” Her face brightens. “We were going to have a party for my birthday, with cake and balloons and everything, but then she got dead.”
Her last phrase—but then she got dead—rings in my ears. Every heartache heaped on me over the last few days has left me so raw, I’m not sure I can take any more—especially not from the blonde angel fidgeting on the bench next to me.
“I’m sorry. It’s hard to lose your parents.”
“I’m why my mama got dead, Lucy.” She stills.
I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “Maggie, I’m sure you’re not the reason why.”
“I am!” Her eyes lock on mine, and it’s obvious she believes this with every fiber of her being. “My ball went out into where the cars go, and I didn’t look. Mama said I wasn’t s’posed to go where the cars were, ever. And Mama said to look both ways ’fore I crossed, and I didn’t even look one. The car hit her so hard, Lucy, ’cause I didn’t obey.”
Her little body trembles, and I scoop her into my lap to comfort her. She unleashes body-shaking sobs against my shoulder. This little one had lived with unbelievable guilt for so long. If I could take it from her, I would.
“Your mama wouldn’t want you to be so sad. I’m sure she doesn’t think it’s your fault . . .” My words dry up, remembering what my father had tried to tell me as he lay dying in our car.
Magnolia looks up at me with those big blue eyes and rests her soft hand against my cheek. “And your mama doesn’t think it’s your fault she got dead, neither.”
I look down at her for a moment before offering a shaky smile. If only she was right about that.
“Miss Lucy!”
I’ve just returned from the fountain when Norman’s deep voice demands my attention. My hand freezes on the front door’s knob. Now what?
“Miss Lucy, if you please . . .”
With my back to him, I pinch my eyes closed and swallow. I’m exhausted, and all I want to do is crawl back into my bed and try to shut out life and death, angels and demons, and everything in between. But, noooo. Obviously, the poor restless souls are going to make sure I remain restless, myself. I swivel around and force a smile. “Hi, Norman. Something I can do for you?
He shoves his great paws into the pockets of his denim overalls and rocks back and forth on his heels. “I was hopin’ you might find it in your heart to forgive me for scaring you so. I do ’pologize for that.”
I scan my memories for scary things I’d been through since arriving at Mitte. The list is ridiculously long. Oh, right. His had been the first of many scary things, when he’d nearly shaken my head off my shoulders trying to figure out what I’d done with Bud, the cab driver.
“Oh, that?” I flick my hand dismissively. “Forget about it. Besides, you saved me last night. We’re even.”
My feet ache from walking and perspiration dots Norman’s brow, so I offer him a glass of ice water—about the only thing left in the kitchen. We sit together in a shady spot on the front steps. He takes a greedy sip from his glass, and sighs in appreciation.
“Now, what was it you needed?”
Norman won’t meet my eyes, and I suspect he’s been told by someone, somewhere, not to. Instead, he focuses his enormous dark eyes on his feet. I want to tell him not to be afraid, that he can look me in the face without fear of me stealing his soul, but I don’t. From the way his pupils jerk back and forth as he gathers his words, he probably doesn’t need the extra pressure.
“Tell me it got better for us,” he finally utters.
I blink at him. “Better for who?”
“My people, Miss Lucy.” Norman dares to meet my gaze, and I smile in encouragement. “The slaves.”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you about the Civil War or Abraham Lincoln? Martin Luther King, Jr.?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, Miss Lucy. I don’t say much to no one.”
We spend a while on the porch, talking about the struggles and triumphs of African-Americans in the time since his death. I’m relieved that any part of history class has remained in my brain. Norman grins with all this new knowledge.
“My best friend—well, was my best friend—Tanya is black and she has the same rights I do. There are still problem
s, but . . .” I say. “Oh, I almost forgot. We had an African-American president, too.”
His eyes glisten at the very idea of one of his relatives sitting in the White House, and I smile at the hope radiating from his face. And then he’s gone.
I sigh and slip quietly into the house.
Chapter 26
Somehow I convince Aunt Perdita to host Maggie’s birthday party a few days later, since the mansion is way bigger than the orphanage. She’s not used to being around others—and having them in her space—so it takes a lot of begging on my part. As each guest walks through the front door and into the dining room, her eyes dart longingly toward the haven of her bedroom.
“Relax,” I say under my breath as I open the door for Oliver.
She responds with a grunt.
“Hey,” Oliver says as he walks into the foyer. Only one corner of his mouth twitches upward. I would never say this out loud, but it’s freaking adorable. Deep down inside my stomach, the butterflies slam against each other in a raging mosh pit.
“Hey, yourself.” My reply comes out breathy and weird.
When he leans into me for a hug, the usual zing of electricity crescendos into a roaring current. It doesn’t surprise me anymore. And, somehow, I feel better every time it happens, like his touch revives something within me. I can use all the reviving I can get.
He pulls away. “Everything all right?”
“It is now,” I say, then blush. “Mags will be so happy to see you. She’s been really nervous all day.”
Oliver glances at my aunt, who is wringing her hands trying to talk herself into joining the other guests in the dining room. “Looks like she’s not the only one.”
We laugh—well, Oliver and I laugh. Aunt Perdita continues looking scared, constipated, and ready to make a break for it.
With that darn crooked grin, he laces his fingers with mine, sending a fresh jolt of heat radiating up my arm. Together, we join the party.
When you have spent the better part of probably a few decades waiting for your birthday party, every detail must be perfect. Maggie insists on playing hide-and-seek in the orchard, so for a long time we dash among the trees, our laughter rising above the leaves. I wonder if the sounds of our happiness carry all the way to The Conductors, wherever they might be. Would that turn their blackened ears, pique their blackened curiosities? No one in Mitte had ever been remotely happy. Ever.
In the Middle Page 17
