“Ordinarily, they would mean nothing,” she said, “but in light of everything you’ve told me … I’d say they mean something.”
She handed me the folded, yellowed pieces of paper, and I opened them with such trepidation that my hands actually shook. As I was about to begin reading, I saw another car pull up in the distance. It held Tobias, who stepped out and began walking toward us, holding a plant.
I read the pages in my hands. The first one read: My father loves me. My father loves me. My father loves me. Over and over in her loopy penmanship she had written those words. They must have been written a hundred times. The second paper read: I am not a bad girl. I am not a bad girl. Again, over and over, at least a hundred times. The third one said: I love my father. I love my father. Except somewhere in the middle of the page she had written: Actions speak louder than words. Then she’d repeated the I love my father.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I think her father made her write these.”
“What, like sentences? Punishment? Like you do in school?”
Geena nodded with tears in her eyes. I checked the other two pages, and again the phrase Actions speak louder than words was written in the middle of the pages, among the other sentences. As far as I was concerned, this was my definitive proof. It wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, but in my heart, I knew what happened to Glory and her family.
“Damn,” I said, biting back tears.
“Yeah, double damn,” Geena said.
“I want to plant this peony on Glory’s grave,” Tobias said as he approached us.
“Did you bring a shovel?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, completely indignant.
Behind him was Eleanore Murdoch. “Clematis,” she said. “They complement roses really well.”
So we all pitched in and planted the rosebush, the clematis, and the peony, so that Glory could have flowers all summer long, not just in June. I’d still keep my promise to Marty. I would relish the simple act of coming here every June for an hour or two, remembering. I’d do it until I shuffled off this mortal coil or moved out of Missouri, and I don’t expect the latter to ever happen. If I did, I’d recruit somebody else to do it. I’d do it because I’d promised—and because Glory deserved at least that much.
* * *
I sat in my car on Haggeman Road, looking up at the Kendall house. It would be mine in a few weeks. Evan Merchant was busy carrying boxes out to the U-Haul truck. I wasn’t sure what I was going to use his guesthouse for, but it came with the big house.
“Mom,” Mary said.
“What?”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Pickled pig’s feet,” I said.
“Mom, I’m not five anymore. That phrase is for little kids,” she said.
“Right,” I said, looking at her. She had her nose stuck in a comic book, and she hadn’t a clue that I was watching her. Such a pretty girl, with a wide smile and huge eyes—and she wasn’t five anymore. As much as I wanted to hang on to those younger years, I couldn’t. I really did want her to grow up and become an adult and contribute to the world. I just knew that the more I let her and all of my kids go, the more it meant I was getting older and leaving this stage of my life behind. I wasn’t ready not to be needed. I wasn’t ready to be an afterthought in their lives.
I had to take advantage of every possible thing that I could, because they were my contribution to the world. They weren’t my possessions to do with as I wanted. They were their own people, with their own ideas, their own desires and dreams, and their own identities. The Kendall family had taught me that.
“Hey, Mary,” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“You ready to color your hair?”
Her eyes snapped up from the comic she was reading. “You serious? Because you said before that you were thinking about it, but then … it hasn’t happened.”
“Let’s go buy the hair color now,” I said.
“Really?” she said. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Black?” she asked.
I swallowed. “Black.”
“Oh, you are the coolest mom in the world,” she said.
Okay, I can live with that.
ALSO BY RETT MACPHERSON
Dead Man Running
Thicker Than Water
In Sheep’s Clothing
Blood Relations
Killing Cousins
A Misty Mourning
A Comedy of Heirs
A Veiled Antiquity
Family Skeletons
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DIED IN THE WOOL. Copyright © 2007 by Rett MacPherson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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eISBN 9781466888807
First eBook edition: November 2014
Died in the Wool Page 21
