Books by Mandy Mikulencak
THE LAST SUPPERS
FORGIVENESS ROAD
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
forgiveness road
mandy
mikulencak
JOHN SCOGNAMIGLIO BOOKS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Before
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
FORGIVENESS ROAD
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Forgiveness Road is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
JOHN SCOGNAMIGLIO BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Mandy Mikulencak
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
The JS and John Scognamiglio Books logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1006-2
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2019
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1008-6 (e-book)
eISBN-10: 1-4967-1008-8 (e-book)
For the Southern women
whose voices sing to me—
Katrina, Wendi, Jane, and Annelle
Before
I was born in the spring of 1960 and for several years held the record as the longest baby ever delivered at Biloxi Hospital. When I was young, I didn’t have a clear idea of who or what I’d be; just that I’d be in Mississippi. Probably in Biloxi. Near my mama. Near my baby sisters. Like none of us would ever age, or go to college, or get married and move away.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I learned how far an open road and a grandmother’s love would take me.
Chapter 1
Cissy stood in the exact center of the bedroom, chewing her bottom lip and staring at the dark oak flooring. The morning sun streamed through the east windows, illuminating scratches from her recent failed attempt to move the bed against a different wall. She’d get holy hell for that later, but she couldn’t be bothered with worrying now. Cissy was too busy appreciating how the light made it easier to count the number of six-inch-wide boards that stretched from one side of the room to the other. There were always twenty-three, unless of course she decided to count the half board at one end as a full board or disregard it altogether.
Since it was summer and she knew she’d not be late for the bus, Cissy counted a second time, allowing the numbers to wash over her like a warm rain shower.
Jessie, the youngest of the three Pickering sisters, flung open the door. “Eleven twenty, sixteen eighty!”
Cissy turned and pulled her baby sister into a hug. She smelled of children’s sleep and Ivory soap and all comforting things. “Silly goose, those are made-up numbers. Now I have to start over. And if you don’t hightail it to breakfast, Mama will start ranting about our lollygagging. Or she’ll make an excuse not to drive us to the library.”
The sisters had already consumed an impressive stack of books since school let out, reading long into the sticky June nights, even under threat of punishment. Jessie still preferred picture books, but Lily had progressed to Nancy Drew mysteries. For the past week, Cissy had needled her mama until she finally agreed to take the three of them to the Biloxi library that morning. Her chief argument against getting more books—and a flimsy one at that—was that the girls read too fast and the books they had should have lasted all summer. Cissy chose to ignore her complaining, something her grandmother once remarked took a special talent.
“Get your butts downstairs this instant. Your cornflakes are getting soggy!” Her mama’s voice carried easily from the kitchen, down a long hallway, and up the flight of stairs. Cissy believed scolding to be one of her special talents, as was pouring milk into their cereal before they got to the table to punish them for their tardiness or some other transgression.
Her mama could have avoided much of her aggravation this summer, including multiple trips to the library, if she had just agreed to teach Cissy how to drive. Her excuse had been that Cissy didn’t exhibit the maturity necessary to operate a vehicle, and until she gave up her childish ways, a license was off-limits. Cissy vowed to wear her down, though. It had been providence that she earn her license this year: it was 1976, she was sixteen years old, and it was twenty-six miles to the Department of Motor Vehicles office. You couldn’t ignore that many sixes.
After Jessie scurried off to brush her teeth, Cissy slipped into a plaid cotton sundress and pink plastic sandals that squeaked when she walked and rubbed blisters on her little toes. The sound irritated her mama just enough to make those blisters worthwhile.
As Cissy left her room, she noticed Jessie across the hall, her ear pressed to the closed door of the bedroom she shared with Lily.
“What’s going on?” Cissy asked.
“Daddy’s talking to Lily and they don’t want to be disturbed. But I need my shoes.” The six-year-old squirmed with indecision.
Cissy had made her sisters promise never to be alone with him and to always keep their door open. Her hand hovered over the porcelain doorknob, hopelessness squeezing her heart into a tight mass. Her breath began to escape in short bursts. She put her hands to the sides of her head to stop the rush of thoughts tumbling up and down and sideways. When that didn’t work, her hands curled into tight fists at her sides and she stood as stiff as a board.
Jessie tugged at her sister’s dress, anxious fingers twirling the cloth. “What’s wrong? You having a spell?”
Cissy unclenched her fists and looked at the marks her fingernails had dug into her palms, half-moons that looked like the birds Lily drew in pictures of the sky.
She counted to twenty to steady her breath. “I’m fine,” she finally said. “Head on down to breakfast.”
But she wasn’t fine. She’d made a deal with her daddy, one that protected her sisters if Cissy agreed to keep their secret. She didn’t know why she felt he’d one day go back on his word, but that’s what her churning gut told her. It was rarely wrong, and to ignore it now could jeopardize the two beings in the whole wide world who still made it worthwhile to get up each day.
With Jessie out of sight, Cissy turned the knob and the door swung open easily. She shuddered to realize it made no noise, not even a halfhearted squeak from the metal hinges to alert someone, just like her own door.
“You can’t be in h
ere!” Lily snatched the piece of orange construction paper that lay across their father’s lap and shoved it under a pillow. Bits of gold glitter clung to his slacks. “I was showing Daddy a birthday surprise for Jessie. Now get before Jessie barges in and ruins everything.”
Her father stood. He adjusted his tie with his right hand. His left clenched his favorite gray fedora. It was the one he wore on mornings he had to be in court. He said it brought him luck.
Cissy looked at her feet, then to the flowers on the wallpaper, an atrocious pink not found anywhere in nature. There were too many blooms to count and she doubted anything could calm her stomach in that moment anyway. When he slid past her in the doorway, the lingering scent of shaving soap clung to him.
“You got something on your mind, girl?” His whisper was just a breath, warm and disquieting.
“No, sir.” She turned her head to the side, desperate to escape their proximity. “Mama wants us down at breakfast. I came for Lily.”
“Well, you know better than to keep her waiting.”
He laughed to himself and left them be. Cissy couldn’t help but watch him until she could no longer hear his footfalls on the stairs. The ghost of him remained, though, almost a solid thing rendering her fixed to the spot.
“You’re a hot mess. You better brush that hair before Mama sees it.” Lily’s command seemed to break the spell.
“I’ll be right down,” Cissy said. “Go on without me.”
She waited a few seconds before walking into her parents’ room. Something wholly outside herself compelled her forward. She headed straight to the old bureau where her daddy hid his revolver in the bottom drawer under his socks, neat little bundles grouped according to color. He kept the thing loaded because he said an empty gun wasn’t much use when it came down to needing it. Today, she agreed with him. She wouldn’t have known how to load the bullets, but was hopeful she could pull a trigger.
She heard her mama berating their housekeeper, Bess, for using too much dish soap, but it was Lily’s voice that dominated the kitchen conversation. She asked Jessie what kind of picture books she wanted from the library and told her it was time she tried some big-girl readers. Cissy smiled to think she’d imparted a love of reading to her baby sisters. Books would never fail them. And she wouldn’t either.
While the girls finished up breakfast, Cissy tiptoed down the hall and out the front door, following her daddy to the detached garage. With the gun behind her back, she walked in sync with his steps, although several paces behind. Her eyes were riveted on the heels of his shoes, ink black and shiny. There was a time when the sisters fell over themselves begging to help him shine those shoes, eager for just a crumb of approval, even if it meant extra time in the bath to scrub the polish from beneath their nails. Cissy couldn’t remember the last time she wanted his attention.
When he whipped around, she almost dropped the gun. “What do you want, Cissy? I’m going to be late for work.”
She soaked in every detail of how he looked: his light gray suit, which set off his freckled skin better than his other suits; the maroon and navy striped tie and white dress shirt starched just so; the silver cuff links that cast tiny globes of light against the window panes of the garage door; the red hair they’d both inherited from his own mama.
“Good God, girl, cat got your tongue?”
Her wrist shook from the weight of the gun, still behind her back. She didn’t know what she could possibly say to make things any different.
“I don’t have time for your foolishness, Ciss. Go back inside.”
He pulled up on the handle of the garage door. The steel springs sang out their displeasure, causing goose bumps to travel the length of her body. He walked inside and opened the back door to his new Lincoln. With the sun in her eyes, he became just a shadow in a dark garage. Not even a person really.
She steadied the gun with both hands and pulled the trigger until no bullets were left. Her arms jerked upward with every shot, making it difficult to stay centered. More than one bullet made an ear-splitting ding when hitting the metal of the car. She’d aimed at his back so he wouldn’t realize what was happening to him. It was an odd feeling not to want your daddy to be disappointed in you, even for killing him. It was an even odder feeling to love him despite his lack of good boundaries.
Her aim had been good enough. A pool of blood crept beyond his body and the briefcase he’d dropped. In the shadows, it looked black as oil, and Cissy figured it’d stain the concrete just as bad. She stood there, not knowing what else to do.
It seemed an eternity before her mama and Bess ran past her and into the garage. Screams twisted their faces into horrible masks. Bess scanned the scene for a second before her gaze settled on the gun still in Cissy’s hand. Her screaming stopped abruptly.
“Please, girl, don’t shoot. Please. Think of your sisters.”
Cissy didn’t understand Bess’s pleas. She had been thinking of her sisters. She wasn’t going to hurt anyone else. When Lily and Jessie appeared on the porch, Bess ran for the house, yelling for the girls to hide upstairs.
Her mama’s wailing continued as she knelt over her husband’s body, desperately trying to squelch the flow of blood. For a second, Cissy panicked that her daddy would open his eyes, sit up, and demand to know what all the fuss was about.
She shook the image from her head and dropped the gun. A cool breeze nipped at her neck even though the summer sun was already showing its strength. She slipped off her sandals, letting the cool grass soothe the sting of her blisters, and made her way to the tire swing hanging from the big magnolia.
Chapter 2
Janelle Clayton hung up the phone without saying goodbye and walked down the hall. The stairs loomed before her unwilling legs. She pulled herself up the banister, hand over hand, until the landing mercifully appeared. When she opened her armoire, she blinked in confusion, its contents foreign and disorienting.
“Mrs. Clayton, let me help you. You’re not yourself.” Ruth darted around her, grabbing a pair of slacks, her knee-high hosiery, a blouse and light sweater.
“I’d like a scarf,” Janelle said, moving a hand to her throat. “This sweater demands a scarf.”
“Should I drive you to your daughter’s? You’re talking nonsense and sure don’t look in any state to drive yourself.” Worry was always most apparent in her housekeeper’s eyes, which glazed with emotion when she was upset. Ruth used the edge of her apron to wipe the perspiration from her upper lip and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do. You’re treating me like an infirm old lady.” Janelle sat down next to her. She grabbed Ruth’s hand, a gesture to soften the sharpness of her words.
She wasn’t good at apologies, although if anyone deserved one, it was Ruth. Many times over. They’d been raised side by side, the judge’s and housekeeper’s daughters. One was rarely seen without the other, causing Janelle’s mother to comment on the inappropriateness of her attachment to a house servant. When Janelle married in 1924, it was a given that Ruth would follow and manage her household. On the first day of work, she’d called her Mrs. Clayton. Janelle laughed and said, “That’s my mother-in-law’s name.” Ruth had smiled weakly. Not a real smile, but one suffused with sadness and memory and longing that things could have been different if they’d both been black or both been white.
“I wish Mr. Beau was still with us,” Ruth said.
Janelle had been thinking the same thing. Her husband died of a heart attack five years ago. They’d just celebrated his seventieth birthday with a barbecue on a stifling August evening. Dozens of well-wishers surrounded them. After dark, when the fireworks lit up the Mississippi sky, she remembered thinking they still had twenty good years left in them and plenty of celebrations to come. She and Beau had been on the front porch, waving goodbye to the last of the guests, when he said he didn’t feel quite right. Janelle chalked it up to the heat and too much bourbon. She showed him to his rocker and went inside to get
an antacid. When she’d returned to the porch, Beau’s chin was tucked to his chest as if he’d just nodded off.
“Well, my husband’s dead,” Janelle said. “And now, so is my son-in-law.”
She headed down the stairs and out to her car. Ruth shuffled after her, insisting with each step that she call someone, anyone.
“Who, Ruth? Tell me who I can call?” She’d barked the words, unable to contain her rising panic. “My granddaughter has just . . . Caroline’s husband is dead.”
Ruth’s mournful mouth twisted. “I just want to be of help. You know that I love those girls, too.”
“I do know that. I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” Janelle said, and got into the car. “I just need to get going.”
Within twenty minutes, she drove through the arch over Caroline’s driveway and down the gravel path to the freshly painted Georgian-style mansion. Bess sat on the front stoop, holding Caroline against her breast. She was hysterical, one second clawing to get away and the next holding on for dear life. Cissy sat motionless on the tire swing under the largest magnolia in the front yard.
“What happened here?” Janelle shouted to no one in particular. “Tell me this instant what happened.”
“Like I told you on the phone, Miss Cissy shot her daddy!” Bess wailed. “Lord save us all!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Calm yourself and tell me what happened.”
“She did, Mother! She did!” Caroline directed her voice at Janelle, but pointed violently toward Cissy.
Her granddaughter stared at her with soft, haunted eyes and moved her head up and down slowly. The blood drained from Janelle’s limbs, and the truth she refused to believe earlier now gut-punched her.
“Where are the police? Did you call someone?” she demanded. The nearest neighbor was a half mile away, but gunshots weren’t uncommon out in the country. They’d have no reason to call the sheriff’s office. It seemed clear now that Caroline hadn’t called either.
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