“She said because Amelia was so good.”
“And Alison isn’t?”
“Alison has changed since the wreck. She didn’t always try to be so perfect. She was a lot more like all the other natives at school.”
“Like Shanna, you mean?”
“Sort of. You know, boy crazy, average grades, drinking and smoking sometimes. She even got caught a few times sneaking out her window at night to meet her boyfriend.”
Thinking of the guy in the alley, I ask, “Who is he?”
“Some older guy. She doesn’t see him anymore.”
I decide to refrain from telling Bethyl Ann that’s not exactly true.
“But now she feels like she should try to be like Amelia, I guess.”
“Replace her, you mean. For her parents.”
She nods. “She probably thinks they wish if one kid had to die, it would’ve been her instead of her sister. I don’t think that’s true, though. Her mom’s not like that.”
Alison’s misery over a C–on a test makes sense to me now. “I don’t know what to say. All this time, I thought she was just a phonier version of Shanna.”
“Shanna.” Bethyl Ann makes a face. “I wish Alison would bid her a long farewell. But they’ve been close since first grade, and Shanna only got mean in the last couple of years. Besides, she hardly left Alison’s side for weeks after the accident, so I guess Alison overlooks a lot of Shanna’s bad behavior because of that.” She turns away again, measures another cup of flour. “Don’t feel bad about what you thought. It’s hard to know about a person. Who you can trust and who you can’t.”
She’s right. I think of Hailey and Colin. And also about the fact that, only last night when I caught Tate in the cellar, I thought he couldn’t be trusted, but now I’ve told him all my secrets.
“This is a wonderful idea and a very nice gesture, girls,” Mrs. Pugh says, glancing back at me through the rearview mirror. “I’ve been a neglectful friend to Louise these past months. I really should visit her more often.”
As Bethyl Ann and her mother chatter to each other up front, I tap out an impatient beat against the floor with the toe of my shoe and watch farmland and cattle pass by outside my window. Mrs. Pugh drives her rattling old station wagon ten miles an hour under the speed limit. It’s going to be a long forty miles.
“Bethyl Ann didn’t tell me your grandfather grew up in Cedar Canyon,” Mrs. Pugh says to me after a while. “How did he know Louise?”
“I think they dated once or twice in high school.”
“I’m sure she’ll be pleased as punch to have you update her on everything that’s happened to Mr. Piper since he moved away. Louise loves to talk. Her body is worn out, poor thing, but her mind is still as sharp as a tack.”
Mrs. Pugh wants to visit Louise before we go to the mall, so once we hit the Amarillo city limits, we head straight for the nursing home. The place smells like a hospital, and old people are everywhere—in the lobby, in wheelchairs along the hallway, in the rooms we pass by. A few of them glance up, smile, and greet us. Others remain hunched over, looking down at their laps like they don’t even notice our presence. Some people stare at televisions through glazed eyes. Nobody laughs or talks much.
Watching them, my chest feels tight. I’m glad Papa Dan doesn’t live in a place like this, surrounded by people yet all alone. I’m glad he has Mom and me, and we have him.
Mrs. O’Malley’s door is open. She sits in a chair beside her bed. The television volume is too low to hear the program, but she doesn’t watch it, anyway. She’s gazing out a window overlooking the barren courtyard below. Mrs. Pugh knocks, and the old woman turns startled eyes our way. They brighten with recognition when she sees Bethyl Ann’s mom. Then Mrs. O’Malley smiles, and goose bumps scatter up my arms. I can see the girl from the newspaper photo within the old woman. Isabel’s friend Louise.
“Well, look who’s here!” She pushes herself upright in the chair. “Come in this room! How lovely to see you, Georgia.”
“Don’t get up,” Mrs. Pugh says as we enter. She rounds the foot of the bed and faces Mrs. O’Malley, reaching her hands out for the older woman to grasp. “Louise, you’re a sight for sore eyes. How are you?”
“I can’t complain. It’s so good of you to come.” She turns to peer at Bethyl Ann and me. “And who do we have here?”
“It’s me, Mrs. O’Malley. Bethyl Ann Pugh.” Bethyl Ann lifts the tin she carries. “My friend and I made cookies for you. Chocolate peanut butter drops, just like you used to make for me.”
“Come over here and let me see you, honey. You’re so grown up, I didn’t even recognize you.” When Bethyl Ann goes around to stand beside her mother, the old woman adds, “My land, you look like a model in a magazine.”
“Tansy gave me a makeover.” Bethyl Ann glances across at me, and her mother frowns, her mouth puckering up like a prune.
“What fun!” Mrs. O’Malley exclaims with a wheezy chuckle. “Thank you for the cookies, girls. I know I’ll enjoy them.” Her eyes shift to mine. “You’re Tansy?”
“Yes, ma’am. Tansy Piper.”
She studies me more closely. “I once knew some folks named Piper. Way back when I was a girl.”
“My grandfather grew up in Cedar Canyon. His name is Daniel Piper.”
She claps her frail hands. “Daniel Piper. Yes! He was a good friend. I haven’t heard from him in years.”
“He lives with my mom and me. We just moved to Cedar Canyon recently.”
“Daniel is in Cedar Canyon?” Her voice quiets on the last word and she peers past us, as if she’s looking at something only she can see. “How is he?”
“He’s—” My throat closes and tears fill my eyes. “He doesn’t talk much anymore. I’m not sure what he remembers.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Tansy. Your grandfather and I had some wonderful times together when we were growing up. Going to parties…hiking in the canyon.” She chuckles again. “He could be quite a show-off sometimes. Daniel could identify a bird just by its call. He tried to teach me, but I could never catch on.”
I think of the nightingale and wonder if Henry remembers that about Papa Dan, too. “He used to tell me stories about the two of you growing up here,” I say, feeling guilty over the lie. “He talked about someone named Henry, too.” I pause, then add, “And a girl called Bell.”
Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes soften. “He must have meant Isabel Martin. She and I were close as girls. Really, she was my best friend.” Smiling, she shakes her head. “But I couldn’t compete with Daniel and that Peterson boy. They were thick as thieves, those three. I never understood what she and your grandfather saw in Henry. He was a peculiar young man.”
Placing the cookie tin on Mrs. O’Malley’s nightstand, Bethyl Ann sits at the edge of the bed and asks, “Did he really do a swan dive off the bridge into the canyon and kill himself?”
“Bethyl Ann,” Mrs. Pugh scolds. “There’s no need to be so blunt.”
“Well, everyone says he jumped.” Bethyl Ann crosses her arms and in a pouting voice adds, “It’s not a national secret.”
“Even though the authorities called it a suicide,” Mrs. O’Malley says, “his folks insisted he was pushed. But there was no proof of that.”
“Pushed?” My stomach plummets.
Shifting her attention back to me, Mrs. O’Malley says, “Your grandfather found him. Did you know that?”
“No,” I say quietly, exchanging a glance with Bethyl Ann.
“It was the next morning,” the old woman continues. “A day or two after the Winter Dance, as I recall. Daniel told the authorities he was supposed to meet Henry at sunup to hike into the canyon. They often hiked together. That’s when the Petersons started pointing fingers.”
“At my grandfather?”
“Yes. But I took care of that. I was at Daniel’s house when Henry called and made plans for the hike.” She sounds as if she’s still angry that anyone would suspect my grandfather might be i
nvolved in anything so terrible. “What a sad, sad day that was. Poor Daniel. He was beside himself with grief. And Isabel…” She sighs. “Lord, that Peterson boy was obsessed with her. And her with him. Some of the things she’d tell me…I worried about her. He was manipulative and wild, and he had a terrific temper. He wanted Isabel to run away with him. She confided in me and promised she wouldn’t go, but I had a feeling he’d change her mind. After Henry’s death, I wondered if she had refused him and he couldn’t bear it, but Isabel wouldn’t talk about any of that. Not with anyone, even me.”
“So you agree with the authorities that he jumped?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t speculate, though I’m certain your grandfather had nothing to do with it. That sort of violence wasn’t in Daniel’s nature. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. No one in town was surprised when they called Henry Peterson’s death a suicide.”
“Why?” I ask, though I’m sure I already know the answer.
“Rumors had circulated about his mental instability for years. Henry had threatened to kill himself before. Or hinted that he might.” She shakes her head and tsks. “He did the craziest things. More than once, I saw him walking the railing on the bridge. Isabel worried about him, but she also defended him. For a while, your grandfather did, too. Henry pulled Daniel out of the river when they were small boys. Back then, there was actually water in it. Daniel felt indebted to him.”
Mrs. O’Malley looks down at her folded hands. “After Henry’s death, Isabel was never quite the same. She left town after graduation and never came back. Went south to live with an aunt, I believe.”
The quiet stretches on too long, as if the story had cast a haze of gloom over the room. “Let’s move on to more cheerful topics,” Mrs. Pugh says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I should fill you in on all the Cedar Canyon news, Louise. Let’s see…now where should I start? Did you hear that the Hinkles’ pet pig, Tilly, is nursing a stray kitten that Vivian Hinkle found hiding in a pot of mums?”
I call Mom from Bethyl Ann’s house. “We’re back.”
“I’ll come get you. Then we need to buy groceries.”
“Would you bring my backpack? It’s in my room. I need to give Alison Summers something that’s in it. On the way home, could we stop by her house?”
“Sure. After we finish at the store, we’ll go by.” Mom sounds curious, but she doesn’t question me.
I’ve been thinking over J. B.’s suggestion that I show Alison the photo of her at cheerleading practice. After what Bethyl Ann told me today about the car wreck and Amelia’s death, I think maybe I should give Alison the photo. It may sound as crazy as everything else I’ve been thinking, but I’m no longer so sure she was looking for her boyfriend that day. Maybe it was her sister. Maybe Alison sensed Amelia’s presence. Or maybe she was remembering happier times when Amelia watched her cheering from the sidelines. I guess I could wait until tomorrow and give Alison the photograph at school, but Shanna is always glued to her side, and I don’t really want an audience. I’m sure Alison wouldn’t, either.
On the way to Alison’s house, I consider telling Mom what Mrs. O’Malley said about the rumor involving Papa Dan, but for some reason I can’t make myself bring it up. My grandfather would never do anything so terrible, but still the story disturbs me.
We pull to the curb in front of the pretty brick house on Caprock Street. Clutching my backpack, I step outside and make my way up the walk to the front door. A horse whinnies nearby. I take deep breaths, tell myself I’m doing the right thing, and ring the bell.
The door opens, and there she stands. Alison isn’t wearing makeup, only a big blob of what looks like zit cream right between her brows. “Oh. Hi,” she says, her expression a mix of curiosity and surprise.
“Hi. I, um, brought you something.” I unzip my backpack. “The other day in the school restroom between second and third period? I was in one of the stalls when you and Shanna were talking about Tate Hudson and me and—”
“Oh…” She lifts a hand to cover her mouth, and her eyes widen. Then her face scrunches up as if she’s going to cry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s okay. I know she’s your friend, so I won’t mention what I think of Shanna, but I heard what you said and—” I pull out the photograph. “I want you to have this.” Handing it to her, I add, “Photography is my hobby and—”
I stop talking when she looks at the photo and goes still.
“I hope you don’t mind that I took it,” I say.
Her face reddens, and I’m afraid that I made a mistake, that she’s going to be upset with me. “That other time—when I was in the alley with…” She looks down. “I saw you. You had your camera then, too. Did you—”
“I shouldn’t have taken your picture with him. I’m sorry.”
Panic flashes in Alison’s eyes as she glances over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry.” I lift a hand toward her. “I got rid of them. I tore them up and threw them away. I’m going to destroy the negatives, too.”
Her breath rushes out. “Thanks. My parents…if they knew, they’d kill me. They’re just—”
“I won’t say anything. I promise.” I glance back at the car. “Well, Mom’s waiting. I’d better go.” Swiveling around, I start down the walk.
“Tansy?” When I look back at her, Alison lifts the photo and says, “Thanks for this. It’s really good. We should do something sometime. You know, go to a movie or something.”
I hesitate a second, then say, “Okay.”
“Bethyl Ann can come, too, if she wants.”
“That’d be fun.”
“Did you have anything to do with her makeover?”
I nod. “It was her idea, though.”
Alison smiles. “She looks great.”
“You should tell her. Beth would love the compliment.” I smile back, then turn around and head for the car.
The nightingale kept me up most of the night, so I sleep in on Sunday morning. Tate comes over after lunch, and I know without asking why he’s here. While he talks to Mom and Papa Dan, I run upstairs and tuck the journal and pocket watch into my camera bag. But then the nightingale begins to sing again, and my hand pauses above the bag’s zipper. Bell’s crystal pendant feels as cold as ice below my throat, and I feel Henry’s pull. Trembling, I take out the journal, open it to the place I left marked with a paper clip—his next poem…
A wicked wind’s blowing
Bitter and cold
Telling me that it’s over
That your love has grown old
Whispering lies
I know can’t be right
The wicked wind blowing
Through my mind tonight
It takes every ounce of my willpower to make myself close the journal, to put it back in the case and secure the zipper, to pull the strap of the camera bag over my shoulder and walk into the hallway. But at the staircase, I hear a gust of wind whistle through the eaves of the house and Henry’s words play through my mind…whispering lies I know can’t be right…
I start up toward the turret instead of going downstairs. But then I hear Tate’s laughter in the living room, and just like that, the spell is broken. “Sorry, Henry,” I whisper, glancing toward my bedroom, where the nightingale’s call seems more faint than before. Turning, I hurry to join Mom and Tate.
“You mind if we go out for a while?” I ask Mom. “I promised Tate I’d give him a photography lesson in exchange for him repairing the cellar step.”
“My tools are in the car,” he explains to her.
“Okay,” Mom says, looking from me to Tate and back again, a flicker of suspicion in her eyes.
Tate and I head out the front door to his Blazer. “I tried calling you a couple of times yesterday,” he says.
“I went to Amarillo with Bethyl Ann. I had my phone off part of the time because we were visiting someone.” He takes a hammer, nails, and a flashlight from the front seat while I tell him what I
learned from Mrs. O’Malley about the Petersons’ accusations toward Papa Dan.
“Sounds like Henry’s folks were just looking for someone to blame,” Tate says as we take off across the yard.
“That’s what I believe, too. I mean, what parent wants to think their kid committed suicide? It must’ve been a terrible time for them, even if they weren’t the world’s greatest mother and father.”
I open the padlock and, this time, carry it with me into the cellar. Tate snaps the flashlight on. Taking a deep breath, I remove the crystal necklace and hand it to him. Then I take Henry’s things out of the camera bag and put them into the rosewood box.
When I pass the box to Tate, he searches my face and asks, “You okay?”
I nod, even though I’m really so nervous that I can’t speak.
Smiling, he pushes my hat brim back and gives me a peck on the lips. “You still haven’t shown me any of your photos or your darkroom,” he says, as if to take my mind off what I’m giving up.
“And you still haven’t let me read any of your writing,” I point out, grateful for the distraction.
Tate’s grin widens. Stooping, he places the box under the stair and nails the plank over it, and I’m sad and relieved at the same time, if that makes sense. I’ll miss being with Henry…seeing Daniel; I’ll miss experiencing Bell’s life through her eyes. But the thought of going back there frightens me too much, especially since no matter what rational explanations Tate comes up with, I’m sure after seeing the newspaper photo that I haven’t imagined or dreamed anything that’s happened. Henry’s ghost is real. And I have visited his past life.
21
Mom goes to her office after dinner to finish writing a scene. I make sure Papa Dan is settled and content in front of the television; then I climb the stairs to his bedroom. Guilt prods me for snooping in my grandfather’s personal things, but I don’t know what else to do. I need answers about his past, and he can’t give them to me.
Through Her Eyes Page 26
