Cold Waters (Normal, Alabama Book 1)

by Debbie Herbert

He muttered something that sounded like sludge, or it could have been gludge, or he could have been telling me to piss off, for all I knew.

  I sighed as he headed for the old shed. “Not this again,” I complained. Quickly, I stepped in front of him, blocking his path. No more asking him questions. Maybe if I was firm, he’d stop this ridiculous, fruitless search for God knew what. “Time to go inside.”

  Dad circled around me, muttering.

  I raised my arms skyward and grunted in frustration. Once more, I scrambled in front of Dad and stood my ground. “Listen. I can guess what you’re looking for, but I’m sure Delaney’s already found all your old hiding places.”

  He paused and looked up, silent, eyes blank. He didn’t remember me again, and I took it as a personal insult.

  “The hooch is gone,” I yelled, hands on hips. “Get it? Now we’re going to march into that house right now before you suffer heatstroke.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he lifted his stick, pointing it at my chest. “Jezebel,” he spat.

  “No, Violet,” I countered dryly. “Your daughter.”

  “Liar.”

  He swung his arm backward, preparing to haul off and hit me. The blue chip in my pocket radiated strength. It would protect me against this danger. I controlled the instinct to jump back. Instead, I clenched my jaw and grabbed his raised arm.

  Alarm flickered in his faded blue eyes, and the stick fell harmlessly to the ground.

  “Don’t you even think about hitting me, old man. I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “I know who you are.” A cagey expression flickered in his eyes.

  “Oh yeah? Who?”

  “Violet. The baby. Hyacinth’s baby girl.” A wistful note crept into his voice, and guilt twisted my gut.

  I gently took his arm and guided him to the porch. Dad couldn’t help the restless, pointless wandering. “Sorry I yelled at you,” I apologized.

  “Where’s Delaney?” he asked, voice querulous. “I want Delaney.”

  Shit. I didn’t want Delaney to come home and think I either had been mean or was incompetent. Maybe both. “She’ll be home tonight.” I thought fast. “How about we go to town, and I’ll get us a milkshake?”

  “Peach?”

  “If they have it.”

  “Okay,” he answered, docile as a scolded child.

  Inside, I grabbed the Lincoln Continental keys from the fireplace mantel, hoping the ancient car still ran. Delaney drove a red Toyota but said she kept the Lincoln as backup for emergencies. As far as I was concerned, keeping Dad mellow was a family crisis of sorts. On the way out the door, I snapped a sprig of ivy from the vines crawling the porch columns. I’d stick it in the car’s unused ashtray as protection against motor malfunctions. It would do until I could attach a bell somewhere inside the car. Hey, if it worked for Harley-Davidson bikers to ward off gremlins, then it would work for me as well.

  Lucky for me, the engine cranked to life, and we were off in minutes. At the outskirts of town, I noted several pickup trucks parked at the Feed and Seed. On a whim, I pulled into the lot. “Stay here,” I told Dad. “I’m running inside a minute.”

  I rolled down the windows, not daring to leave the AC and motor running in case he decided to take a spin on his own. On the porch, a couple of old men sat, dressed in overalls and playing checkers.

  “Hey,” I called, waving a hand as I hurried past them.

  They regarded me quizzically. No doubt they’d expected Delaney to emerge from the car. Their gazes shifted from me to Dad, who was hunched in the passenger side.

  The bearded one spoke up. “Are you—?”

  “Violet.” I smiled, faking a confident air. “The younger daughter.”

  Neither of them smiled back or spoke, and I turned away, face flushed from more than the heat. This had not been a good idea. I shouldn’t have ventured into town alone without Delaney as a buffer. I considered retreating to the Lincoln, but giving them gossip fodder about my cowardice would make things worse next trip.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped inside, instantly familiar with the old smell of fertilizer and insecticide. At the bell jingle, all the customers glanced over and then stared, trying to guess who the stranger might be. With any luck, I could make my purchase and escape before they figured it out. Quickly, I shifted my gaze to the middle of the far-right wall, relieved to find that what I needed was in the same location it had always been. I walked straight over, avoiding eye contact as I lifted the ten-pound bag of shelled peanuts and hauled it over to the wooden counter in the middle of the store.

  Still keeping my eyes downcast, I set my purchase down, dug a twenty out of my purse, and laid it on the counter.

  And waited.

  Large hands with hairy knuckles splayed on the ledge and made no move to collect my money. “How much do I owe you?” I asked, pulling out an additional five-dollar bill.

  “22.95.”

  Of course. Inflation had done its work in the years I’d been away. I pushed the bills toward him, keeping my expression neutral.

  He folded his arms across his chest and gave me the once-over. “Violet Henderson?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  I nodded. From the corner of my eye, I saw a woman with black, silver-tinged hair making a beeline toward me. Her jaw was stern, back stiff, and tension rippled toward me like a tidal wave.

  Fear prickled my spine.

  I wasn’t ready to face Ainsley’s mom.

  “So you’ve returned—” the clerk began.

  “How dare you show your face here,” Mrs. Dalfred’s voice cut in, slicing me to ribbons. “They let you out of the crazy house?”

  I winced but didn’t dare defend myself.

  “Why did you come back? Haven’t you hurt our family enough?”

  Hot tears clouded my vision, but not enough to obscure the blaze in her eyes or the fire in her fisted hands. Ainsley had possessed her mom’s dark hair and delicate features. It felt as if Ainsley herself had risen from the dead to condemn me.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “Sorry?” She snorted. “You’re sorry? My Ainsley is gone, and that’s all you have to say?”

  The air pressed down on me, and my peripheral vision faded and tunneled down to Mrs. Dalfred’s face. It was like looking through a kaleidoscope—she appeared far away and fragmented into pixels of black-silver hair and burning blue eyes.

  She grabbed my shoulders, her thumbs imprinting themselves in the tender pockets of flesh under my collarbones. Her face radiated an intensity that I’d only seen before on the faces of the truly mad. And I’d seen mad aplenty.

  “Where’s Ainsley?” she rasped.

  Well, wasn’t that the quintessential question that plagued my life. The one that had branded me inside and out until it had become the defining identity of Violet Henderson. The unsolvable mystery that had ruined my childhood and threatened to steal my future.

  Panic kidnapped my lungs and heart, held them hostage in its pitiless grip.

  “Where is she?” Mrs. Dalfred yelled. “What did you do to her?”

  An awful silence descended, and I was aware of everyone’s scrutiny.

  She threw up her hands. “As if you would tell the truth. You lied about being with Ainsley the night she disappeared. The truth isn’t in you.”

  I stumbled backward, grabbed the peanuts, and turned, carefully making my way to the door—willing my wobbly legs to support me and not daring to look back.

  “Miss Violet? I have your change,” the clerk called out.

  If it were a hundred dollars, I’d have still kept walking. I exited the Feed and Seed hell and made it to the Lincoln, collapsing inside.

  “About time. It’s hot in here,” Dad complained.

  I started the motor, and cool air freshened my face and body. Quickly, I fished out the prescription bottle from my purse and dry swallowed two pills.

  Deep breaths.

  I forced my lungs to inhale and exhale—low and slow
—as I leaned back in the seat, eyes closed. I willed my mind not to think of Mrs. Dalfred’s attack. For now, I had to get myself together, get Dad his milkshake, and get home.

  Three things.

  If I kept my mind focused on executing those three tasks, I could function until I was safely home and the anxiety pills had had time to cast their calming enchantment. I backed the car out of my space and exited the parking lot. In minutes, I arrived on Main Street and drove past the familiar landmarks—Dixie Drycleaners; the imposing, baroque courthouse that dominated the downtown square; and O’Neil’s department store, where Mom had taken me to buy my first bra.

  I was glad to see that Ruth’s still stood on the outskirts of Normal. Even more glad to note that the establishment had added a drive-through service, which meant I wouldn’t have to leave the car and risk more public scrutiny. The fresh-faced teenager at the window had no clue who I was, and that suited me just fine.

  “Hey, Mr. Henderson.” She smiled, passing two plastic cups to me. “Where’s your daughter?”

  His brows drew together in confusion. “She’s gone. I don’t know where she runs away—”

  “Keep the change,” I interrupted, pressing some bills into her hand. The girl looked mildly alarmed, as if I might have taken the old man hostage or something.

  I smiled, waved at the server in what I hoped was a reassuring fashion, and headed home. Dad had lapsed into silence, and I turned on the radio and sipped the creamy peach shake, allowing the sugar and the music to distract me from my disastrous first trip into town.

  The Lincoln rattled and rumbled on the dirt road home. I gritted my teeth, sure that a muffler or a shaft or some such mechanical accoutrement would give up the ghost and drop off, leaving me stranded in a hostile town with no money and a crazy man on my hands. Before I set foot in here again, I’d find a bell to hang on the front mirror to ward off any motor gremlins intent on destroying belts, sparks, and whatever else kept an engine running smoothly. I breathed a sigh of relief when I pulled into the driveway and bustled Dad inside to the den, where I set him on the sofa and turned the TV to a John Wayne movie, hoping a western would keep him entertained until dinner and bedtime.

  How did Delaney do it day in and day out? And still manage to run a bookkeeping business from home while taking care of him? I felt drained from the responsibility of Dad-sitting. Was this what new mothers felt when they watched over their infants? If only I could be more like Delaney.

  I slunk to the kitchen and dug out leftovers from last night.

  At last, a chemically induced mellow enveloped me like a warm blanket, drowsing my body to a slower heartbeat. My limbs and eyelids wanted to succumb to the gravitational pull to close shop and shut down. I ached for the blank void of sleep, but I had responsibilities—a new and unwelcome burden. Delaney was right—I’d done nothing for years but indulge in my own misery, in my trouble coping with Ainsley’s disappearance.

  Well, to be fair, Delaney hadn’t outright accused me of all that. It was what I’d inferred from her complaint about handling the caretaking alone. But interpreting other people’s emotions placed me on dangerous ground. That was what my counselors had warned, at any rate.

  Calmer now, I allowed my mind to remember Mrs. Dalfred’s fury. No interpretation needed there. She blamed me for what had happened to Ainsley. Always did, always would. It was another thing I had to live with. And I couldn’t imagine the pain she’d endured these past years. Her accusations today hurt, but the meds kept me from panic attack mode.

  The sounds of shooting and war yells erupted from the TV set, and I peeked in on Dad, glad for an excuse to keep busy. He lay on the worn leather sofa, looking vulnerable and harmless in sleep. He’d kicked off his shoes, and his white crew socks were halfway off each foot. I padded back to the kitchen and stuck the leftover chicken and dressing in the oven and made myself a cup of coffee. I hoped the milkshake and short nap before dinner didn’t totally disrupt his nighttime routine.

  Shadows deepened in the early evening, and I felt as wilted as Delaney’s flowers in the garden. I sipped my coffee, willing the caffeine to counteract the sedative’s effect. Grabbing the bag of peanuts I’d purchased, I climbed upstairs to my bedroom and stepped out onto the balcony.

  It seemed hopeless that the crows would return—not that I doubted their memory or intelligence, but after all these years, surely they’d have figured I was never coming back.

  I certainly had never thought I would.

  Ripping open the bag, I laid a dozen shelled peanuts on the wrought iron bird feeder, which featured a long, flat platform that allowed several birds to feed at a time.

  “Here’s to nothing,” I muttered. Maybe a new flock would notice the peanuts and become my friends. I could use a few, whether of the human or avian kind. I sat in the wicker rocker, gingerly placing my weight on the half-rotted slats, and propped my feet on the railing.

  Waiting. Hoping.

  A gray squirrel scampered along the branch of a nearby oak and regarded me soberly, nose twitching. He wanted the peanuts in a bad way, but the move to gather them was too risky with me so close by. I sipped my coffee and watched, allowing us to get the feel of one another. Grandma used to say that unexpectedly seeing lots of squirrels or having a close encounter with one was a reminder that we reaped what we sowed. Mom had always dismissed Grandma’s sayings as nonsense, but not me. I totally bought into Grandma’s view that even though the world was a mysterious and often dangerous place, the universe also spoke to us through signs—if only we were wise enough and patient enough to notice.

  Given my past, I needed to be extra mindful. The squirrel reminded me that at age fourteen I’d screwed up so badly that I now needed to work hard and do right for the rest of my life, or I’d sow more destruction.

  My spine tingled. From the dark shadows, I sensed a movement in black—the tiniest flicker of motion. Like a lifted wing or a beak scraping against oak limbs. A slight breeze rustled the dangling spanish moss, as if old men’s beards were being tickled. Leaves quivered, and the freaked-out squirrel hugged the tree, gracefully exiting. He’d be back for the peanuts the moment I returned inside.

  More whispers of movement floated from the darker tangle of pines past the yards and gardens. A crow—perhaps even a murder of crows—watched me. But if they didn’t want to be seen, they wouldn’t. Most people were clueless that these intelligent birds were everywhere, observing us, studying us. Or they were superstitious that the black birds were an omen of misfortune and death. Not to mention just a plain ole nuisance for gardeners.

  I dug out more peanuts and placed them on the tray. Plenty for squirrels and crows alike. Headlights strobed through the tree line by the dirt lane, and Delaney’s car turned into the drive at the very moment I smelled burnt chicken. Oh hell. I’d been so distracted that I’d forgotten to tie knots on my kitchen apron to protect the food I was preparing, and disaster had struck. I hurried downstairs, dismayed at the thick cloud of smoke emanating from the kitchen.

  Dad.

  The image of him in vulnerable sleep seized my mind. What if the smoke was too much for his old fragile lungs? And selfishly, what if I’d caused harm to yet another person?

  You’re toxic. Toxic, toxic, toxic.

  With each heart-slamming step to the den, the words condemned me. A quick glance in the kitchen, and I was relieved to find there were no red flames blazing but merely smoke billowing from the oven. I ran through the smoke, opened a window, and turned off the oven before resuming my trek to the den.

  Dad sat up on the couch, coughing and staring at the smoke in confusion. For the moment, he was fine. I took his arm, frantic to protect him from inhaling too much smoke. “C’mon, let’s step out on the porch for some fresh air.”

  He pulled back. “I want Delaney.”

  “She’s outside.” I pointed at the window. “There’s her car now. Let’s go meet her on the porch.”

  That did the trick.

  We were
both coughing as I rushed us out the door and helped him into a rocker.

  Delaney’s car skidded to a sudden halt, and a car door slammed. “What the hell happened?” She ran across the yard, pointing to the kitchen window. “Is the house on fire?”

  “We’re fine. Thanks for asking,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  Her mouth tightened, and I remembered her infamous rages from our childhood. This would really set her off.

  “I can see you’re still breathing,” Delaney snapped. She stomped up the porch steps and tossed her purse on the porch glider before marching through the door.

  I sat on a chair next to Dad and placed my head between my knees, dizzy with relief that he was unharmed and that the house hadn’t burned to the ground. Day two was wretched, not the fresh start I’d hoped for.

  The screen door screeched open. “How could you forget dinner was in the oven?” she asked. “I leave you alone for one day. One day! And this”—she waved a hand at the smoke—“is what I come home to?”

  I scuffed the concrete floor with the toe of my sandal. “I’m sorry.”

  “You could have killed Dad.”

  “It was an accident.” As soon as I said it, I recognized it as a lame excuse for my incompetence.

  Delaney threw up her hands. “Oh, well, then,” she said snidely. “An accident. That makes everything okay.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “All you had to do was heat up leftovers. That’s it! Is that too much to ask?” Delaney sank onto the porch swing and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shuddered.

  Her sobs shook me more than the almost kitchen fire. Delaney never cried. Delaney was the strong one who took care of everybody.

  Dad glared at me. “You made her cry.”

  “I’m sorry,” I offered again. “Delaney, everything’s okay. I’ll clean up inside and pick us up some chili dogs and fries at Ruth’s.”

  She looked up at me, tears streaming down her face. “I try to have a day off to spend with Sawyer, and it’s like the gods are punishing me for it.”

  “That’s not true. I screwed up, okay? It won’t happen again.”

  Delaney snorted and swiped at her cheeks. “Damn right it won’t. Because I’ll never leave you in charge again. You can’t be trusted.”