“I’m Leslie Nichols. Maggie Gavin was my grandmother.”
“And?”
“And I’ve come to ask if you remember anything about a fire that occurred on Peak Plantation when you were a boy. There was an article in the Gazette—it mentioned your name.”
Porter took a long pull on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly. “Did it?”
Had she imagined it, or had his eyes actually shifted for the tiniest instant?
“There were three names, actually. Your brothers, I assume. I looked for them too, but you were the only one I could locate. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about what happened that night.”
“As I recall it, a shed burned down.”
Leslie dropped into the rocker beside his without being asked. He clearly wasn’t in the mood to make this easy. “Do you know how the fire started?”
“How would I know that?”
“The paper said the police suspected vandalism. It said you and the other two boys were questioned.”
“Questioned ain’t arrested,” he shot back, flicking his cigarette out into the wet yard. A strand of hair flopped over his forehead. He pushed it back. “Why come around now, after all this time?”
“I just moved back this summer. My grandmother died and left Peak to me.” For a moment she could have sworn she saw something like relief pass over his wizened face. “Did you know Maggie?”
“Used to do work for her mama way back when. She’d hang around sometimes.”
The front windows were slightly open, and suddenly the strains of what Leslie was almost sure was the Temptations wafted out through the battered metal screens, followed moments later by the sound of running water and the clatter of pots and pans. She glanced at Porter’s left hand but found no ring.
“You come here to talk about your grandmother?” he asked gruffly, steering Leslie back to the subject at hand. “If so, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Actually, I came to ask about a woman who used to live at Peak at the time of the fire. Adele Laveau was her name.”
Porter’s face altered then, running through a flurry of emotions before hardening into a stoic blank. He closed his Bible and set it aside, then reached into the pocket of his jacket for a soft pack of Camels. His hands shook as he lit one and took a long pull.
“Can’t help you there either.”
Leslie played a hunch. “You can’t, or you won’t?”
He blinked at her from behind a scrim of smoke. “Does it matter? Doesn’t seem much point speaking of a woman who’s been dead more than seventy years.”
Leslie folded her hands in her lap and looked him in the eye. “I never said she was dead. And yet you knew she was.”
Porter began to rock, an agitated seesawing that gave away more than anything he might have said. “Everyone from those days is dead,” he said hoarsely. “Just figured this Adele woman would be too.”
“You know something, don’t you? Something about that fire?”
The rocker went still. “I’m telling you to leave now,” he said, his knobby knuckles white where they gripped the arms of his chair. “And I’m telling you not to come back.”
Leslie was unmoved. “She died that night, didn’t she? She was inside when the shed caught fire. And you were there—you and your brothers?”
Porter unfolded himself and stood, glaring down at Leslie over his glasses. “What happened to that woman has nothing to do with me.”
Leslie stood too, and looked him in the eye. “They say the door was bolted from the outside.”
“Leave me alone!” Porter bellowed hoarsely, before slumping back into his chair in a fit of dry coughing.
From inside the house came the hurried thump of heavy feet. A few seconds later the door opened a crack. “Landis Porter, what on earth—?”
The face that scowled through the narrow opening was female, stern and black as tar. “Who’re you?” she asked, pulling the door back when she spotted Leslie.
“My name is Leslie Nichols.”
But the woman wasn’t listening. Instead, her wide white eyes were fixed on Porter, hunched over on the edge of his chair, still coughing. With a huff of exasperation, she pushed through the door, squeezing past Leslie to jerk the cigarette from his fingers and toss it away.
“Fool man!” she hissed, reaching to untangle the coil of clear tubing wrapped around the base of the oxygen tank. “You know you ain’t supposed to have those things, ’specially here next to this tank. One day you’re going to blow us both to kingdom come, and this lady too.”
Landis pushed her hands away. “Stop your fussing, Annie Mae. I’m fine, and Miss Nichols was just leaving.”
Annie Mae stood with her fists planted on her ample hips, eyes hard on them both, as if trying to make sense of the tension she had just stumbled upon. And yet, somehow Leslie couldn’t help feeling the woman knew exactly what was going on.
“Mr. Porter,” Leslie said, taking another tack. “When I walked up on this porch you had a Bible in your lap. I believe somewhere in there, there’s a passage about the truth setting you free.”
Landis Porter stiffened as if he’d been struck. “I asked you to leave once, Miss Nichols. Don’t make me ask again.”
The look he gave her made it clear he was finished talking—about Adele, or anything else. Leslie turned on her heel, almost colliding with Annie Mae, whose smooth, dark face was now a mix of wariness and dread. Her mouth worked mutely for a moment, before she dropped her head and turned away.
Back in the car, Leslie sat shivering behind the wheel, staring straight ahead and waiting for the heat to thaw her fingers and toes. Eventually, when her circulation had returned, she pulled away from the curb, but as she turned to head back down Old Church Road, she had no doubt that Porter knew exactly what had happened the night the woodshed caught fire, and that whatever had happened was tied to Adele’s death. She also knew nothing would ever make him admit it.
It was full dark and pouring buckets when Leslie finally pulled into the drive, and unfortunately, she hadn’t planned for either, too distracted as she bolted out of the house with Landis Porter’s address to grab an umbrella or turn on the porch light. Pulling her jacket up over her head, she darted for the front door and nearly tripped over the packet lying on the doormat.
Inside, she tossed her keys and purse on the stairs, flicked on a lamp, slipped out of her coat, and dropped into the nearest chair. Letting her head drop back, she closed her eyes, wishing now that she’d never gone to Level Grove. All the way home, and even now, all she could think about was the telling look on Annie Mae’s face as she stood on Landis Porter’s sagging front porch. She had no idea whether Annie Mae was Porter’s wife or his housekeeper, but she was certain the woman knew something. Maybe if she went back to talk to her when Porter wasn’t around, though when that might be she really had no idea. The man was almost ninety; he was hardly likely to schlep off to work every day.
God, she really didn’t want to think about it right now. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she still wanted to know what had really happened to Adele. It was all too dark and too sad. She was all stocked up on sadness these days; she didn’t need any more, especially when it had nothing to do with her. Opening her eyes, she glanced down at the manila envelope resting heavily in her lap. With Christmas around the corner, she had just assumed it was junk mail, a catalog of some sort. Now she noticed the envelope was completely blank, no address of any kind.
Tearing open the back flap, she shook out the contents. Her breath caught as the stack of pages slid into her lap, astonished to find Jay’s manuscript and a brief handwritten note.
Leslie,
You’ve obviously made up your mind so I won’t try to change it. I’ve enclosed Adele’s story, or at least the part I know. It belongs to you. Burn it if you want, but I hope you’ll read it first. Maggie never stopped trying to get me to write again. Part of me wonders if this wasn’t what she had in mind all along.
I can only say, again, how sorry I am about the way things turned out. None of this was what I wanted.—Jay
Leslie’s belly churned as she read the note for the third time. A part of her wanted to believe what he said, that before Maggie died she had somehow set all this in motion, that what Leslie had initially taken as betrayal was all just part of some great cosmic plan. But the other part, the part that couldn’t forget the look on Jay’s face when he saw her holding the manuscript, wasn’t ready to accept that.
And yet, the pages beckoned.
It seemed she wasn’t as done with her fixation on Adele’s death as she’d like to believe, or with Jay either.
Chapter 37
Adele
You never love a thing more than when you must leave it.
I am miles now from the green girl I was, that foolish girl who sat in Susanne Gavin’s parlor with her eyes on the carpet. I have scars now, wounds that worked themselves so deep into these bones that they live with me still, oozing fresh beneath all this rocky soil.
Too late, I learned how tightly we hold to things, to the stuff and the lives we gather around us. When the time comes—when the smoke comes—letting go is impossible. We grasp and claw, unable to relinquish what has been our breath, our heart, perhaps even our ruin.
Henry is due back from Smithfield tonight. He’s been gone three days, talking to some men he knows about a new way to cure tobacco. I have missed him keenly. We made up before he left, or rather, I decided to let the matter of the boys drop. When it comes down to it, Henry’s right. I have no say in how Maggie is raised or who she’s allowed to run with.
The cottage is quiet, the supper dishes put away, a plate warming on the stove. I’ve put up my hair the way he likes, and I’m wearing my best dress, the one he brought back from Raleigh for my birthday. Jemmy is finally asleep, all arms and sun-browned legs sprawled over the settee, pajamas rucked up around his little belly. It startles me sometimes to see how he’s grown, how his limbs have stretched and the baby fat has started to melt away. He’s growing into such a solemn little man, his manner so like his daddy’s that at times it takes my breath away to see it.
I scoop him up in my arms and carry him upstairs. He smells of baby shampoo, milk, and my molasses cookies. His mouth puckers at nothing as I tuck the covers up under his chin, a leftover from the thumb-sucking he seems suddenly to have outgrown. My heart swells as I finger springy bronze curls still damp from bath time, and I wonder if Mama ever felt like this. Like she might burst with all the love that seems to gush up from nowhere. He’s mine—mine and Henry’s—not an heir, but a son. Our son.
Henry.
After all the years—and all the hurt—my heart still turns over at the thought of him. When he is away I can almost believe I hate this place, its lies and charades and heart-tearing sacrifices. And then he comes home, and I know why I have stayed, why I’ll always stay.
Back downstairs, I hunt for something to do. I pick up my sewing, then a book, but my nerves are too thin for sitting still. I decide to lay a fire, but the wood’s run low. I tie an old scarf over my head and button on my coat, then cock an ear at the bottom of the stairs. If I hurry I can fetch the wood and get back before Jemmy wakes. Poor lamb, he’s still so afraid of the dark.
I can see my breath as I make my way to the woodshed behind the cottage. Moonlight bounces off the old tin roof, thin and white. I shiver and pull up my collar, but not from the cold. There’s a kind of prickle between my shoulders. Mama used to call it the third eye. I turn to see Susanne at her window. She has taken no pains for Henry’s homecoming, I see. With the light behind her she looks like a ghost, her face pale as ash, her hair floating out around her head like a storm cloud.
She sees me, I know, in all this moonlight. We cannot make out each other’s eyes, but the effect is the same, an instant of loathing so pure it feels like a live thing crackling across all that dark distance. It’s me who looks away first, me who hurries off to the shed with my basket, pretending I’ve imagined it all.
The woodshed is ancient, windowless and so rickety it sags on its dry-stone foundation. Henry talks about knocking it down and putting up a new one, but there’s always something else to do. For now it keeps the wood dry, but only just.
A plank of oak bars the door. I shove my basket into the crook of my arm and wrestle the thing out of its rusted iron brackets. I’m almost inside when I hear something, a sound that might be wind in the trees or might be voices. I slip around the side. There’s no one there, just an old tin bucket and a pile of filthy rags. I leave them for now, too cold and too mindful of Jemmy to think of putting them away.
But my legs won’t move. I can’t shake the feeling that someone has been there, is still there. I listen to the quiet beneath the wind, an uneasy kind of quiet, the sound of bodies gone still, breaths being held. The hair on my neck bristles. More silliness, I tell myself as I turn back to the shed and step inside.
The moon spilling through the open door is all the light I have as I make my way to the pile of seasoned firewood Henry has put by for the winter. I have just picked up the first log when the wind slams the door and darkness swallows me. Before I can move, I hear the plank drop into its brackets, a telling thud that makes my blood run cold. I grope my way back to the door, already knowing I will find it bolted from the outside. I call out but there’s no answer, just the fading scrape of feet, and then silence.
It’s several minutes before I catch the first whiff of smoke, before my heart leaps into my throat and I realize what’s happening. I grope at the door, but there is no handle, nothing at all to grab hold of. I throw my weight against the wood, screaming in a voice that isn’t mine, a voice made wild by rage and panic. No one comes.
I will myself to go still, to get my bearings. Moonlight leaks through the chinks in the walls, turning the air gray in places. For the first time, I see the fingers of smoke curling between the bone-dry boards and remember the pail and the rags, and I know sickeningly why they were there. I wonder if Susanne is still watching from her window. And I wonder where Maggie is.
It’s a hideous thought, but there’s no time to complete it. There is the sudden, oily stench of kerosene, then a roaring rush of wind as the back wall goes up. The flames spread like liquid, lapping up the tinder-dry walls and a winter’s worth of firewood. The air boils around me, hot and thick as tar. When the coughing starts, it nearly drives me to my knees. I try again to call for help, but I realize, very soon, that I must choose. Breathe or scream. The smoke is too thick now to do both.
Behind me, I hear the pop of wood knots as they catch and explode, spewing sparks into the searing air. There is a peculiar kind of wind in the tiny space, a storm of smoke and ash, and my mind flashes back to fist-thumping sermons about fire and brimstone and the wages of sin.
My eyes are streaming now, my face running with tears and sweat and mucous. There is a hideous rasp in my ears. It takes a moment to realize it’s the sound of my own breath, a wet grinding that fills me with terror. I drag my scarf down over my mouth and nose, but it does no good. I can see a little, but only because the flames are raging on three sides now, splashing my shadow against the door in a grotesque sort of dance. I hurl myself at it, clawing at the wood until I feel splinters drive beneath my nails. The door holds. There is nowhere to go.
When my legs buckle, I go down like a sack of corn. I don’t get up again. There’s no reason to get up. How long, I wonder? How much will I feel—and for how long?
I need to pray. But I can’t pray. I can’t think. There’s something I need to remember, something I need to do. I reach for the thought, but it slips away, lost in the ashy air. I’ve stopped coughing, or if I haven’t, I can no longer hear it. The sounds around me begin to grow faint, the smoke like a blanket, curling tighter and tighter. There isn’t much time now, I know. I think of Henry and Maggie and Mama. Pray, I tell myself. Pray now, before it’s too late. Instead, I wonder who will comfort my poor boy when he wakes up alo
ne in the dark.
Chapter 38
The smoke has already taken me by the time Henry arrives.
I feel no pain, only a queer sense of detachment from my arms and legs, as Henry yanks me out into the cold, clear night. His hands are on me, on my face, in my hair, his lips moving silently, prayerfully, urging me back to him. But I am gone, capable now only of watching his misery, as if I am caught in a dream from which I cannot seem to wake.
Finally, he seems to understand. It is a terrible moment. I long to touch his shoulder, his face, to comfort him, but that is no longer possible. He is as out of reach for me as I am for him. How cruel it seems to me in that instant, that when the body dies, the heart must live on, that in that quick and quiet snuffing of our flesh, love turns to loss, and joy to ache, unfinished things we must carry through our separate eternities.
Henry’s cheeks are soot streaked and shiny with tears as he carries me to the barn and locks me inside. His clothes are scorched, his hands and face already blistered. By the time the police arrive, the fire has begun to burn itself out; only a heap of smoldering wood remains, coughing occasional showers of spark up into the breeze. He’s numb as he answers their questions, his eyes hollow as they continually shift back to the barn, where he has left me cocooned in an old wool blanket.
When they leave he goes to the cottage to check on Jemmy, asleep like an angel in the narrow bed we used to share. He tucks the poor little thing up in a blanket and scoops him onto his shoulder, then carries him downstairs and across the lawn. Everything in me rails when I see what he means to do. I don’t want my boy in that house, or anywhere near that woman, but he cannot hear me, and so up the stairs he goes. Maggie doesn’t stir when he pulls back the covers and slips him in beside her. I wonder what she will think when she wakes to find Jemmy beside her—and what Susanne will think.
He comes back to the barn then and locks himself in with me. He wipes the soot from my face and touches his lips to mine, whispering all the while that he is sorry, so very, very sorry. I almost believe I can smell the smoke clinging to his clothes as he draws up a chair and drops down beside me. I cannot, of course; I am beyond such things, but there is some small measure of comfort in feeling connected, even by this tenuous thread.
The Secrets She Carried Page 27
