Everyone loves Charlie.
Officially owned and well cared for by the Boyton family, Charlie is also loved by the community of Dillon Creek. In fact, one year, he was the grand marshal in the Christmas tractor parade.
“Shoo, Charlie. The Ladybugs are trying to get some official business done.” Junie comes out, probably from Pearl’s god-awful scream, and picks him up. “Sorry, ladies.”
“It’s no bother, Junie,” Clyda says. “Us crazy, old ladies scare easy these days.”
Pearl is clearly embarrassed. “Sorry, folks. It was just Charlie,” she says, primarily to The Lunch Guys because they’re the only other patrons in the restaurant. She takes a sip of her water and shakes her head. “Now, where were we?”
Delveen looks at the time. “I’ve got to run, ladies. I have a hair appointment with Pixie.”
“You have your to-do list?” Erla asks.
“I do.” Pearl puts on her coat.
“Watch out for furry felines. I hear they’re ferocious these days!” Mabe calls as Pearl leaves.
But Pearl does something that makes the group of old women howl.
She turns around and flips them the bird.
Later in the evening, while Mabe is warming up leftovers, she sits down to read the Dillon Creek Echo.
After Ike passed away, which was a true tragedy in their town, there was no memorial service. Ike hadn’t wanted one and made that clear to Michael, his son, who’s taken over as publisher of the newspaper.
The headline in the Dillon Creek Echo made Mabe’s stomach grow sour, and the blood drain from her face.
ANONYMOUS TIP AFTER EIGHT YEARS OF THE ATWOOD/MORGAN TRAGEDY
Chief McBride has confirmed that an anonymous tipster recently called into the Dillon Creek Police Department with information on the Atwood/Morgan tragedy.
When asked if Chief McBride plans to reopen the closed case, he declined to comment.
When asked what the new details by the tipster were, he declined to comment.
When asked if it was a reliable source, he declined to comment.
“At this point, we’re just looking at the new details that are emerging,” Chief McBride concluded.
Anyone with information is asked to call the nonemergency line of the Dillon Creek Police Department at 707-786-4225.
Ike never would have run this story.
Not in a million years.
He loved this community, and here it is, being ripped to shreds again by a journalist who thinks he knows how to run a paper like his father did.
Michael Isner should have known better, Mabe thinks to herself while trying not to get sick.
Mabe, too, thinks it’s odd that neither Delveen nor Pearl said anything about it at the planning meeting. Maybe it is true that Clyda scared the living daylights out of both of them.
Oh God. What do I do now?
Her phone rings, and it makes her jump out of her own skin.
She walks to the phone on the wall. “Hello?”
“Hello, Mabe. It’s Patty. Listen, we were invited to the Linfields’ for dinner. I’m not sure what to do. Truby Linfield and I used to drink wine together, and I know she’ll expect that. What should I do?”
“Take your own car. That way, you can leave when things start to feel uncomfortable.”
“What will be my excuse if I feel the need to leave?”
“Tell them you’re in Alcoholics Anonymous and you’ve got a drinking problem that you’re trying to get help for and that you feel uncomfortable.”
Mabe’s words are met with dead silence on the other end of the line.
“Tell the truth,” Mabe sighs. “Because lying and hiding aren’t going to keep you sober, dear.”
It is this moment that Mabe feels the heaviness of what she just said.
Mabe Muldoon isn’t going to stay sober if she keeps this big, awful secret in her life. She’s seen these things come to fruition in her short stint in AA, ones she’s not supposed to talk about to protect the anonymity of its members, but she sure as hell doesn’t want to drink again.
“Oh. Be honest?”
“Be honest.”
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. Good-bye, Patty.”
“Good-bye, Mabe.”
Right as she hangs up with Patty, Erla calls.
“Hello?” Mabe says.
“Have you read the headline in the Dillon Creek Echo?”
“Yes.” Her yes is exhausted. Tired. Twisted.
Erla says, “You know, Chief McBride came to my house, asking questions.”
That’s peculiar, Mabe thinks. He didn’t come to my house.
Perhaps he knows more than he’s letting on. Perhaps he knows, and he’s trying to feel around Mabe’s dearest friends. Catch her in a lie!
Now, Mabe Muldoon is many things, but she’s not a liar, and now, she has to become one.
The boys’ cries in the field that night still haunt her. She’s going to be sick.
“The witness said to look for an older woman in her seventies. Whoever this person is ought to come forward. What a horrible, horrible person,” Erla says.
21
Tess
Esther sits in front of me at the table. Her smile is familiar and warm and comforting. Her eyes, the shape of almonds and tilted downward, tell thousands of stories, accounts of real life, of human kindness and forgiveness, solace coming through like a wave that washes over me.
“I made my mom’s favorite pasta recipe and a cobbler. I just can’t thank you enough for the salmon and the casserole.”
“You did not have to do that, Tess. It is very kind of you.” Her hands—soft like pillows, the color of worn leather—rest on her arms. “I am glad you came here.”
I try to settle in my own skin, but I can’t. Feeling twisted up like a rag, unable to find comfort in my soul, I ask myself why I’m here.
“How long have you volunteered here, at the Tlingit Visitor Center?”
“Many years. My job, as an elder in the Tlingit tribe, is to educate others on our people.”
Esther says our like it belongs to both of us.
“I would like to show you around if you’d like, Tess?”
She reaches across the table and touches my arm, as if we were old friends. Her skin is much richer than mine, more beautiful, more radiant. Mine is a dough white while hers is a decadent dark-chocolate mousse.
Esther stands, slow and steady, and I wonder how old she is. I almost want to help her, but I refrain. It’s clear she’s taken several trips around the sun, and she isn’t feeble or weak; she just moves at a pace her body will allow.
We walk to a glass case.
“These are raven rattles. They are used for ceremonial purposes by chiefs and shamans.”
My eyes trace down the bright blue ink or paint—I’m not sure which—and the brown zigzag line down the middle. “Is that a raven?” I ask.
Esther nods. “And bound together with cedar twine.”
“The Tlingit made twine out of trees?” I look closer. “And a shark on the raven’s back?”
“You have good eyes, Tess. Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“Tlingit carvers tell stories through their carvings. Some raven rattles don’t have sharks, and some don’t use the same colors. But this one tells a story, as they all do. In Tlingit culture, the raven is both a trickster and a creator. The rattles signify the relationships among people and animals. Look on the underbelly of the rattle. Do you see faces?”
I look at the underbelly and back to Esther. “Yes,” I say, in awe of the incredible handcrafted work.
“In this particular story, the raven went down deep into the water and visited with the fish people because of a disagreement, teaching the men and women that fish are really like people. Fish, in other words, are just another form of humans. We must all work together. Alas, the raven and the shark, working in harmony in ceremonial dancing.”
Esther�
�s tone is something I want to rest in. It is soft and delicate and light.
She reaches out and touches my hand again. “Come. We have much to see.”
Esther leads me to a totem pole.
“This is made of western red cedar and stands ten feet tall. A smaller totem pole.”
The bright oranges, reds, blues, and yellows are mesmerizing.
“I see a wolf. An eagle.”
“Totem poles are read from the bottom to the top.”
“Is that a woman at the top?”
“Yes. There are two main moieties of Tlingit society—raven and eagle. Each clan has its own history, songs, totems. Can you guess which clan this totem came from?”
“Eagle?”
“Very good, Tess.”
I see when Esther’s eyes break, as if grief or sadness sit in the back of her mind, waiting for the right time to pounce.
“What about the woman at the top?”
“Ah, very good. How do you know it’s a woman and not a man?”
I study the woman. “Her lips—they look more like a woman’s than a man’s.”
Esther nods. “That is Fog Woman. A story for another day.”
“What about the wolf?”
Esther pauses and looks into my eyes, as if waiting for me to understand, but I don’t. “The wolf means powerful healing,” she whispers. “Come.” She changes the topic quickly. “There is so much to show you.”
The rain is unforgiving and makes me wonder how long I’ve been here. “I’m sorry, Esther. I must have lost track of time. I need to get back to the Isner house to help the men.”
“I see. Yes, it is well beyond our closing time at the Visitor Center.” Esther reaches out and touches my hand again. “I want to give you something. Just one moment.” She makes her way into the back and comes out with a blanket. She hands it to me. “This is a Chilkat blanket. It is used for ceremonies and dances. The yellow, blue, and green that you see used here are made from natural dyes. I would like you to keep this.”
Overwhelmed by the moment, I tell Esther I can’t take it. “This … this is much too precious. Surely, you’ll find a more rightful person, someone other than me.”
I see the complexity of emotion that moves through Esther’s face. This time, her eyes fill with tears, and I’m embarrassed I’ve made her feel this way.
“I’m so sorry, Esther.”
She shakes her head. “No, Tess. Don’t be sorry. You have no reason to be sorry. But please, take this blanket. It would mean a lot to me if you did.”
Why? But I don’t dare ask.
Instead, I embrace her. Feel the warmth against her chest. “Thank you,” I say and then quickly pull away, hoping the hug did not make her feel awkward.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” I say as I see the shock register on her face.
She pulls me back for an embrace, and I feel like a little girl again, rested and comfortable and at ease with life against her grandmother’s bosom.
Finally, she lets go.
We stare at each other for a long moment.
“Do you have a bag I can put this in, so it doesn’t get wet?” I think about the walk home.
“Yes, yes.” She walks behind the front counter and gives me a plastic bag.
Part of me doesn’t want to leave Esther, but I know I should.
“I would love for you to come back, Tess. To visit.”
A smile spreads across my face. “I’d like that very much, Esther.”
She takes my hand again. “It has been with great pleasure to spend some time with you, Tess.”
She takes my cheeks in her hands, her eyes exploring my facial features, as if comparing two different time periods.
She lets go, and I retreat toward the door, only to see Casey sitting out front.
I turn back and wave to Esther, who kisses her hands and points them in my direction.
I walk outside. The rain drums down on the awning.
Casey stands. “Hey, you all right?” He looks through the window behind me. “Your voice just didn’t sound right on the phone.”
“No, I’m fine.”
We stand there.
“What’s in the bag?”
“A long story. I’ll tell you on our walk home.”
I start at the beginning as the relenting rain ceases enough for us to begin our journey home.
“I don’t know, Casey. She looked as though she knew me. Like she’d missed me. I know … I know that’s weird to say, but it was something in her eyes, her touch, the way she reached out for me—something familiar and something I’ve longed for. I … I don’t know. The whole thing was just surreal.”
“And the blanket is a Chilkat blanket?” he asks. “What does it mean?”
“I have no idea, but I’m going to look it up when we get home—er, to the house,” I quickly correct myself, not wanting Casey to think anything more of the house than a business transaction.
Regret about last night drips into my mind like slow-fed poison. I let it get too far. I should have said something. Stopped us. And although we didn’t have sex, it feels like we did. I suppose those feelings are just a decay of old memories.
It’s after five in the evening when we arrive back at the Isner house.
Emmitt and his crew are gone, only, a medium-size shipping container to the right of the garage, probably somewhere to put the bigger tools.
The rain starts again just as we walk inside.
“Does it ever stop raining here?” Casey asks, walking to the wall of windows.
“Come on. Home isn’t much different,” I say, carefully placing the blanket on the kitchen counter.
“Yeah, but home, we have slow and steady rain. This is a downpour every five minutes.”
I look up and study Casey’s silhouette in the window.
“Hey, Tess?”
I jump at the mention of my name, caught up in thoughts of him. Of us. “Yeah?” I pretend to busy myself in the kitchen, start dinner, move pots, do dishes.
“Never mind.” He’s still staring out the window.
I stop pretending to do things, stand, and stare at him. “No—” I start, but fear confines me, holds my words, my heart hostage.
Was he going to ask about the night we both left big pieces of our hearts in Oregon?
Was he going to tell me a memory of our brothers?
Was he going to ask about us?
It’s better this way, I try to convince myself to hide underneath the blanket of lived existence and keep the memories to myself so my heart might somehow find temporary peace.
“I’ll make salmon tonight for dinner,” I say, hanging up the conversation we didn’t have.
Trying to act casual and tread lightly against the gray between us, he makes his way to me and touches my hand to stop me. Meets my eyes with his. His stare reaches into parts of my body that scream for him and only him.
“The framed photograph on the wall downstairs, have you … have you seen it?” he asks with trepidation.
Oh. I breathe in a sigh of relief. “Yeah, the one with Ike, Emmitt, Esther and Martin, the young woman and the little girl?”
Casey nods.
“Yeah, sweet picture.”
But something deeper is in Casey’s eyes. A thought. An emotion maybe.
“What of it?”
In this moment, I see him throw up his white flag in surrender as he studies my face, as if he’s given up. I want to push for more, but I don’t.
“Nothing,” he says.
His grip tightens around my hand, and I feel a bolt of electricity course through my veins.
There’s a knock at the door, which makes us both jump.
Casey says, “I’ll get it.”
I hear a conversation at the door.
“Stanley, I presume?” I hear Casey say. “Thank you. No, no, it’s working great.”
I grab the bottle of Pendleton from underneath the counter and follow the voices to t
he front door. I hand it to Stanley. “I can’t thank you enough, Stan.”
His face full of surprise, he graciously accepts the bottle. Tips his hat. “Thank you, Ms. Morgan, but you really didn’t have to.” Stan turns to walk away. “Let me know if anything comes up.”
“Will do, Stan. Thanks,” Casey says, and we watch him disappear into the rain.
Casey shuts the door behind him. “We need to talk.”
22
Casey
I’ve started and stopped so many times.
Just fucking tell her already. What are you so scared of? I ask myself. Maybe of pushing her away. It seems like we’re making headway, and I’d hate to scare her. But we were friends first. Friends before sex came into the picture. Friends before she stole my heart. I’ve tried to put myself in her shoes several times from the time we left the Visitor Center until now—and I keep coming back to, Ask her about the picture.
In the doorway, we stand.
“What?” she asks.
I run my hand through my hair. “That picture downstairs, doesn’t the woman holding the child look just like you?” Holding my breath, I wait for her answer.
Tess’s eyes search mine and then the decaying floor that our feet are planted firmly on. She doesn’t speak, but her eyes meet mine again. “I … I don’t know. Maybe. I guess.” She laughs.
Her laughter fills me with relief. Thank God. I felt like I was carrying this big secret around with me. “It’s crazy, right? That I thought that? Just a coincidence?”
Tess laughs again. “I think you watch way too many investigative shows.” She turns on the ball of her feet and starts dinner.
I watch her as she seasons the salmon with lemon, butter, olive oil, basil, thyme, parsley, and garlic, and then my phone rings. “It’s Garrison. I’m going to take the call.”
Tess nods.
“What’s up, buddy?” I answer.
“Tell you what. There’s no shortage of women in Detroit.” He laughs a salty laugh. “You flyin’ in tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. Late.” From the darkened living room, I look back at Tess and watch her make a salad.
“Eddy and I rented a car, so I’ll swing by and pick you up.”
Saving Tess Page 16
