The cop looked at me suspiciously. I didn’t know if it was just a general sort of suspicion, the sort that all policemen seem to develop eventually, or if he really wasn’t buying my story. I just kept my mouth shut, deciding that silence was the better part of valor at the moment--or something like that, anyway.
“Hitchhiking is dangerous,” he finally said. “Not to mention illegal. You could have ended up in a lot of trouble.”
I nodded, tried to force a note of sincerity into my voice. “Yes, sir, it’s not the sort of thing I usually do. But this seemed like sort of an emergency.” I tried to sound contrite.
He nodded, apparently satisfied.
“Well, don’t do it again.”
“No, sir,” I said. “I won’t.”
He wandered off in search of something else official to do.
Maw-Maw let out a snort. “Think he’s going to include that in his report?” she asked.
“Oh. Almost certainly,” I said. And then the three of us started howling with laughter. I don’t think it was so much that we thought the policeman’s impending discomfiture was all that funny, really--though it did have an element of humor to it. I think it was more a release of tension.
We’d made it through the night, and the bad guys were going to jail.
That deserved a huge belly laugh, in my opinion.
We’d finally almost quieted down when Stephen walked up to the ambulance.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
That sent us into peals of laughter all over again.
Finally Ashara caught her breath. “We’ll tell you later, honey.” And then she leaned over and kissed him for a long time, over and over again.
Maw-Maw and I smiled at each other over their heads.
Epilogue
So I didn’t get my angel’s wings for uncovering the secret behind Molly McClatchey’s death and making sure the right men were behind bars. No bells rang, no stars twinkled in the night. It may be a wonderful life, but I’m no Clarence. Like I said, the living don’t know jack about the dead.
But it’s actually turning out to be an okay un-life. Maw-Maw has invited me to “come on over and haunt” her place on a permanent basis. “I guess a white lady ghost is better than no company at all,” she said. “Anyway, it ain’t like you got something more important to do for now.” She’s right, of course. But being dead with Maw-Maw around is a lot less boring than being dead all alone.
I tried to get Maw-Maw and Ashara to go get some counseling. We’d all been through something more than a little traumatic, and it seemed to me that they might feel better about it if they talked to a professional. But they both refused.
“I don’t need to pay some fancy head doctor to tell me I got myself the post-traumatic stress. I know that already. But that’s just what happens when bad times come around. I’ll get to feeling better soon enough. Anyway, that old Howard boy can’t hurt us none now.” And that was the end of the conversation, as far as she was concerned.
When I brought the subject up with Ashara, she just shook her head. “No way,” she said. “I ain’t crazy.”
So much for therapy.
The national news made a huge deal out of the fact that Molly was murdered by a couple of white supremacists. As if enough people aren’t already convinced that most whites in the Deep South are racist. It’s a shame, really, that only the bad stuff gets reported.
Ashara and Stephen are still doing just fine together, and stop by most nights for dinner. Turns out Stephen’s quite the cook. I like to stand over the stove and let the smells wash over me. It’s almost as good as eating.
Stephen tells us that Rick is doing about as well as could be expected. He’s out of jail, but his family has been destroyed: his wife dead, his brother headed to prison for her murder. He sold the house he and Molly lived in together, but he’s planning on staying in Abramsville and running his store, at least for the time being.
On other nights, the nights when Ashara and Stephen don’t come by, Maw-Maw and I sometimes sit around and reminisce about our lives. We don’t talk much about what happened to all of us out at the Howard place barn--I think we’re still coming to terms with it all. I still think counseling is a good idea, but I’ve given up trying to convince Maw-Maw and Ashara and Stephen, for that matter. They’re all just as stubborn as can be.
So, yeah. I’m pretty content with the way things are right now. Maw-Maw says she thinks this is probably some sort of temporary break for me. She thinks I’ve got more to do before I can move on to wherever it is that most people go when they die. The ones who don’t wake up dead in Alabama.
“You mark my words, Callie Taylor,” she’s said on more than one occasion. “You ain’t done here yet. You got more work to do, and when it comes, you’ll know what it is.”
I think she might be right, but I don’t tell her that. Generally I answer with some version of “Nope. I’m stuck to you, so I’m just sitting here waiting for you to die so you can drag my bony white ass up to heaven.”
Maw-Maw cackles at that, and we go back to watching television together.
We like the same crime shows.
The End
Acknowlegements
For all that there’s a myth of the solitary writer—and writing a novel can, indeed, be a solitary act—publishing a book takes the efforts of many people, and I cannot express my gratitude enough for the people who have helped bring this book into the world.
First of all, I’d like to thank KateMarie Collins of Solstice Publishing for her patience as she guided me through this process.
Cyn Ley has been the best editor anyone could dream of; her comments and questions helped bring Callie to life.
To all my social media contacts: thank you for your support!
Thanks also to the Solstice Publishing authors’ group for encouragement and question-answering.
A special thanks to my online colleagues who brighten my day: Kamille, Nadine, and Melanie, the writing goes smoother because I can count on you to make my life more fun.
To Deborah Christie—there are not enough words to cover how lucky I feel to have you in my world.
To all the Taylors, from whom Callie took her surname: you are the family of my heart and my choosing, and I couldn’t imagine my life without all of you in it.
To my family by blood and by marriage: thank you for your care and support; I love y’all!
My unending gratitude and love goes to my parents, Dan and Glenda Collins, for teaching me to cherish books and to follow my dreams—and for helping out with childcare as I finished this project!
And most of all, thanks go to my husband Elson for his steadfast generosity and love, even as I disappear into my writing, and to our darling daughter Isabel: this book is for you. I love you with all my heart.
~Margo Bond Collins
http://www.MargoBondCollins.com
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Waking Up Dead Page 21
