The Secrets She Carried

by Davis, Barbara

  Jemmy has no idea what is happening. He giggles gleefully when Maggie throws her arms around his neck, hanging on to him for dear life. When her daddy finally peels them apart, Maggie wails pitifully that it isn’t fair. She doesn’t understand why he must go, why she must lose someone else. She has lost too much already.

  Henry is nearly out the door when Maggie rushes forward to press her beloved Violet into Jemmy’s chubby hands. He gurgles happily, planting a noisy kiss on the doll’s smooth porcelain cheek. Until today, Violet has been off-limits, but now, as I look at the doll’s shiny dark ringlets and wide, unblinking eyes, at her rosy pout of a mouth, I suddenly understand the gesture. For Maggie, the doll is no longer Violet, but a tender keepsake, the only part of her that can go with him.

  At the train station, Mama is already waiting.

  Henry spots her instantly. But then, he would; folks always said I was the spitting image of her. Her eyes lock on Jemmy the minute she spies him, perched high on Henry’s shoulders, his head of copper curls bobbing brightly above the rest. Her dark eyes suddenly swim with tears, but she manages to keep them from spilling. Mama always did know how to hold in a good cry. Lord knows, life’s given her plenty enough practice. She looks tired; not old, but worn down, her once lovely face creased now and weary, a map of all her sorrows. And now I have given her another. I only hope Jemmy will atone.

  He is wriggling like a fish in Henry’s arms, clutching the already bedraggled Violet tight to his chest, suddenly shy in front of this woman who is staring at him so intently, a woman who looks somehow like his mother but is not. Mama reaches out a finger to brush back one of his curls, and he quiets, breaking into a broad, toothy grin. I’m startled to see how much he looks like Mama just then and sad that I have never noticed it until now.

  When Mama’s gaze finally shifts to Henry, there is blood in her eye, as if she believes he killed me with his own two hands. Henry says nothing, just stands there clutching the boy, his head bent low, as if he believes it too. Her eyes drag over him, glittering and slow, wanting to hate, to blame, but I see she cannot. She sees his sadness instead, the black grief he carries in his bones now, like a virus, and in that instant they are kindred spirits, allies in loss. She knows that he loved me. For Mama, that is enough.

  The conductor is standing at the edge of the platform, periodically checking the large silver watch chained at his ample waist. Henry’s spine stiffens at the sight of him. It’s time to hand Jemmy over to Mama, and it’s tearing him to pieces. Jemmy resists, clutching wildly at his father’s suspenders, back arched stiffly in protest, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

  “Go on now, son,” Henry says gruffly, the first words he has uttered since leaving the house. “Go with your gran, and be a big boy.”

  But the words mean nothing to Jemmy. He keeps on with his struggling, then sets up a whine that echoes down the platform, catching the eye of several passersby. Henry tries again. This time Mama’s arms wrap him up tight, cradling him against her brown wool coat, and for a moment I sting with jealousy, though I am not sure if this is because I am afraid my son will forget me, or because I wish it were me wrapped up in Mama’s arms.

  The conductor hollers, “All aboard!” through cupped hands. Henry stiffens, bracing himself against the words and what must come next.

  “You’ll look after the girl?” Mama asks, her voice harsh with pent-up tears.

  Henry only nods, his eyes hidden by the battered brim of his hat.

  “She can come to me, you know,” Mama adds. “If you change your mind.”

  “I can’t,” he tells her, tugging the hat lower. “I have already explained why. Besides, she is all I have left now.”

  Mama bobs her head, her eyes full again. This time the tears spill unchecked, rolling fat and shiny down her cold cheeks. She blots them tenderly against Jemmy’s curls, then sucks in a jagged breath as she reaches for the satchel Henry has packed with Jemmy’s clothes. Her shoulders hunch miserably as she turns and takes a few shuffling steps. Then, at the last instant she turns and hurries back. It’s a fleeting touch, Mama’s lips to Henry’s cheek, and then she is gone, hurrying away down the platform, my little boy perched stoically on her hip as she vanishes into the last car.

  Henry watches, dry-eyed and broken, as the train grinds away from the emptied platform in a cloud of thick fumes, taking his son away forever. My heart wrenches beneath my ribs as I recall another day, another station, and the look on Mama’s face the day she put me on that bus and sent me away, and suddenly I realize how very weary I am of good-byes—the ones I have been forced to say, and the ones I have been cheated of.

  Chapter 45

  Sending Jemmy away has finished Henry.

  When he returns from the station he goes to his study and fills a glass with bourbon, and he just keeps right on filling it, day after day, year after year, until there is little left of the Henry I once knew. For a while I think the grief will kill him, but it doesn’t. Instead, he has become a shadow, a man who wears his sadness like a skin, whose eyes are so vacant it’s as if he moved out of his body the day I moved out of mine.

  The years that follow are not kind.

  With every day that passes he recedes further into his bottle, living in a blurry kind of dream, until it seems all that is left is the dying. He spends his days on the ridge, reading from his book of sonnets and staring at the gravestone he went half a state away to order in secret. Most nights, he takes his supper in the study, then sits nursing his bourbon, mooning over that silly wall of paintings until the last of the light is gone. He doesn’t turn on the lamps then, just lights up one of those pipes of his and sits there smoking in the dark.

  It’s a pity to see him make such a waste of his life, a pity perhaps, though not quite a surprise. I see clearly now what I could not, or would not, back then, that Henry has always shrunk from the uncomfortable bits of life, retreating into his books or his tobacco—or into the arms of a woman who would love him blindly.

  It would be a lie to say I suffer any remorse when Susanne is buried a handful of years later. Henry barely seems to notice. He is dry-eyed and stoic at the funeral, dutiful in his starched collar and good Sunday suit. He bows his head at all the right times, throws a handful of dirt when the preacher tells him to, mumbles thank you when friends file past with condolences. Maggie stands at his side, somber in her black dress and hat.

  From that day forward she takes care of everything, hiring a woman to look after that great big house, and another to handle the cooking when Lottie’s rheumatism finally gets too bad to stay on, all so she can spend every spare minute with her nose in her father’s ledgers. Through all of it, she has been his rock, the glue that holds Peak together.

  Henry can no longer be bothered. He pretends to take an interest, but it’s Maggie running the show these days, Maggie doing the hiring and firing, Maggie holding the purse strings, and Maggie still giving her daddy all the credit. When Henry’s drinking starts to take its toll, when he quits overseeing the fields, shows up late to market, loses half a year’s crop to soft rot, it’s Maggie who picks up the pieces, putting herself where grown men don’t think she belongs, and besting them too, more often than not.

  By the time she’s eighteen she knows the business almost as well as her daddy, though whether that’s to do with her love of Peak or with her sobering realization that without her it would all crumble, I cannot say. I only know it saddens me to see that so much has been heaped upon her strong young shoulders, and to see how quietly she bears it all. But then she has never had much choice.

  Chapter 46

  Leslie

  Leslie stifled a yawn as she watched Jimmy scoop the last forkful of eggs from his plate. It was good to see him eat, good to see a little flesh finally beginning to stick to his bones. She pushed his untouched glass of orange juice toward him.

  “You working out in the barn again today?”

  “Yep.” He paused to drain his coffee cup, then tossed his crump
led napkin onto his plate. “We finished the rest of the patio tables yesterday. Today we start on the benches.”

  “Buck says you’ve been a big help.”

  “Just trying to earn my keep, Baby Girl.”

  Covering her mouth, she swallowed another yawn. She hadn’t been sleeping much these last few days. She had Jay to thank for that. The revelation that Adele had given birth to Maggie and then given her to Susanne to raise would have been enough to keep her awake, but then he’d tossed in his suspicions that her grandmother had purposely set the fire that killed her father’s mistress. Now, every time she closed her eyes, she saw an eight-year-old Maggie carrying a bucket of kerosene.

  “You finished with that plate?” Jimmy was on his feet, pointing to her half-eaten breakfast. “I need to get out there.”

  Leslie handed him her plate, watching as he moved to the sink and began to fill it. In all the years she had lived with Jimmy, she’d never seen him wash a dish. But then, so much about him was different now.

  “Daddy…” She paused to clear her throat, reluctant to broach the subject she’d been putting off for weeks. “You need to remember that you’re supposed to go back to Connecticut right after New Year’s. You said six weeks, remember?”

  Jimmy blinked at her as if he’d been roused from a dream. “I guess that is coming up,” he said, tracing a finger around the rim of a juice glass. “Time flies—that’s what they say, isn’t it?”

  “Daddy…”

  Turning away, he slid the plates, one at a time, into the sink of soapy water. “Looks like we’ll have to forget that new bottle rack. I’ll call up and get the particulars on the appointments. Might need your help with the plane reservation, though. I don’t know who to call. Jay took care of all that last time.”

  Leslie heard the hitch in his voice and suddenly it dawned. He thinks I’m sending him away. She stood and brought the mugs over, then turned off the tap. Her father’s hands went quiet in the dishwater.

  “I’ll make the reservations, Daddy. Two of them.”

  Jimmy raised uncertain eyes to hers.

  “Whatever the doctors find—whatever they tell you—I want to be there with you when you hear it. And then you’re coming back here, and we’ll deal with it together.”

  He broke then, his craggy face fracturing into a million miserable shards. She didn’t know what to say. She had no idea if he was grateful, or relieved, or afraid. Probably he was all those things. At that moment, though, it only mattered that he was her father and he needed her. Wordlessly, she folded him into her arms, feeling the sharp bones beneath his skin, and simply let him cry.

  Leslie had no idea how long they stood there holding on to each other, how many hoarse thank-yous Jimmy murmured against her cheek, or who was crying harder before it was all over. Five weeks ago she couldn’t have imagined sitting in the same room with him, let alone living beneath the same roof. Now, for reasons she was only just beginning to understand, the thought of losing him filled her with a sense of loss that was hard to fathom.

  She had blamed him for so much, some of it warranted, some not, and all the while he’d been blaming himself, torturing himself for his mistakes with even larger mistakes. Then, when it all finally unraveled, he had tracked her down one last time, not for the customary handout, but for a chance at redemption. He’d been willing to subject himself to her loathing, to risk rejection, because he needed to make amends, to make peace. What she had first considered a show of weakness had in fact been an incredible act of bravery.

  After lunch, Leslie fired up the laptop. She had just settled in at the kitchen table, hoping to find a pair of cheap flights, when she heard the front door knocker. In the parlor she peered out the window, frowning when she saw the lime green Cadillac sitting empty in the drive. They never got solicitors out here. Turning the bolt, she eased the door open a crack, startled to find Jay standing on the front porch and to see that he wasn’t alone.

  “I found these two sitting in the driveway.” Jay hiked a thumb toward the Caddy. “They said they’re here to see you.”

  Leslie pulled the door full open, too stunned to manage a smile, let alone a greeting for Landis and Annie Mae. The old man was bundled in his same camouflage coat, a rust-colored scarf wound several times around his stringy throat. Beside him, Annie Mae stood with wide, watchful eyes, the gloved hand she kept on his arm at once protective and possessive.

  “I been thinking about what you said the day you come up on my porch,” Landis wheezed through lips that were chapped and slightly blue.

  Leslie ignored Jay’s frown, keeping her focus on Landis. “About the fire?”

  “About the truth.”

  Annie Mae jerked her chin in mute acknowledgment.

  “Well then,” Leslie said. “I guess you’d better come in. I’ll make some coffee.”

  In the foyer, Jay shot Leslie a dark look. “What’s this about?” he hissed when they were out of earshot.

  Leslie smiled grimly. “You heard the man. It’s about the truth.”

  “Was this arranged for my benefit?”

  “Yes, Jay, it was. Because I knew you’d be the one to find them sitting in the driveway and bring them to my door. But since you are here, why don’t you give me a hand and make us all some coffee.”

  He said nothing more as he followed them to the kitchen. Landis moved slowly, unsteady on his feet. Annie Mae held fast to his arm, matching him step for halting step, as if she were an extension of him.

  “Jay, this is Landis Porter, and Annie Mae—” She broke off briefly. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”

  “Speights,” Porter supplied gruffly. “Her name is Annie Mae Speights.”

  “Mr. Porter, Ms. Speights, this is my…my business partner, Jay Davenport.”

  Jay merely scowled, a scoop of coffee poised over the fresh paper filter.

  Porter cleared a phlegmy throat, and weaving slightly as he made his way to the nearest chair, sagged into it. “Shall we get on with this, then, young lady?”

  Leslie moved her laptop off the table and took the chair beside him. “Mr. Porter, I’d like to know what made you change your mind. The last time we spoke, you chased me off your porch and told me never to come back. Today you’re in a hurry. Why are you willing to help me now?”

  “Not,” he grunted. “But what you said—about the truth setting you free—it stuck with me. And it damn near burned a hole in Annie Mae. She wouldn’t let it out of her teeth. Said it was time to come clean—time for both of us.”

  Annie jerked her chin again but said nothing.

  “So you do know what happened—both of you?”

  Landis and Annie Mae shared a furtive glance. Before either could reply, Jay arrived with a tray. The silence thickened while he poured out four mugs, then set out the cream and sugar. When he was finished he stood behind Leslie’s chair, arms folded, waiting.

  Annie Mae stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into one of the mugs and passed it to Landis, who cupped it unsteadily and sipped. His glasses steamed briefly. When they cleared, his eyes were fixed on Leslie.

  “We was all just boys.”

  “Randall and Samuel were your brothers,” Leslie supplied to bring Jay up to speed. “The other boys the police picked up that night.”

  Landis barely nodded. “We used to do odd jobs for Mrs. Gavin, chopping wood and such. It wasn’t much money, but back then it was more than a lot of folks could get their hands on. Then one day she paid us each a little extra to bother that woman.”

  Leslie abandoned her own mug and sat up straighter. “You mean Adele?”

  “I didn’t know her name then, but yeah, the woman who lived in the cottage. We’d mess up her garden, or yank her clothes off the line and stomp ’em in the mud. She knew it was us, of course. She didn’t like us much. Didn’t like your granny running with us, either. One day she caught us all out behind the barn and gave us what for. Me and Annie Mae lit out, but my brothers, they never got
past it, especially Randy. The way he saw it, a woman like that didn’t have no place telling him what to do. Even if she was grown and taking care of old man Gavin on the quiet.”

  Annie Mae was staring down at her lap, fidgeting with the frayed finger of one of her gloves while her coffee went cold.

  Leslie didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “You knew Adele was Henry’s mistress?”

  Porter nodded, shaking loose an oily lock of hair so that it fell into his eyes. “Everyone knew. Only people liked the old man too much to talk about it. It was all pretty quiet until she had that boy.”

  “Jemmy,” Annie Mae supplied, the first words she had uttered since her arrival. “His name was Jemmy.”

  “That’s when the real talk started,” Landis continued. “Didn’t look nothing like his daddy, but we knew it for sure.”

  Leslie glanced between them. “How?”

  Annie Mae pushed away her mug and folded her hands on the scarred oak tabletop. “Because I was there the day he was born. Mr. Henry was too, proud as any new daddy I ever saw.” She swallowed hard and let her eyes slide to the window. “That’s how they knew for sure—’cause I told.”

  Landis picked up the thread as if Annie Mae hadn’t spoken. “Didn’t take long for word to get back to the old man’s wife. After that I guess she lost her mind. One day she called Randy up to the house and put a proposal to him.”

  It was Jay’s turn to join the conversation. “What kind of proposal?”

  “She offered to pay him fifty dollars.”

  Leslie blinked at Porter, uncomprehending. “Fifty dollars…to do what?”

  Behind the thick glasses the old man’s eyes fluttered closed. He dragged in a deep, wet breath. “To burn her.”