Nana would stick her wrinkled hand inches from her nose for dramatic effect. She’d finish the story about how her shrill scream scared the creature away and she passed out from fright. When she awoke, she found herself high in a tree and surrounded by swirling, muddy water.
Mom and Daddy (and Meemaw, if around) would roll their eyes when Nana started the story, but I never did. I loved to listen to her sweet southern voice paint a vivid picture of her earlier life, even if it was a load of hog swallow like Daddy said.
My love for her was why I was so confused and had snuck outside to be alone. Why hadn’t I cried yet? Not one tear had been shed, even when I watched the rest of my family cry. It didn’t make any sense to me. True, I had only been seven when Grandma Pat died and it had been my first experience with death, but that shouldn’t have mattered. I adored Nana, so why wouldn’t the pain of missing her inside my soul come out?
What is wrong with me?
I pushed my feet against the smooth wood of the porch, and the chair began to rock in slow, flowing movements. I watched the last rays of the orange sun as they disappeared over the western sky. I was glad that Barb had gone home. I wasn’t in the mood for talking, not even to my best friend. I hadn’t said a word to anyone since Papa Joe asked me earlier how I was holding up and I muttered fine. Though he had been a guest in our house before, seeing Papa Joe all dressed up and the heavy sadness behind his eyes made my heart hurt even more. Papa Joe usually had a big smile on his face.
But not today. Instead, the old man’s wrinkled face had been taut with emotion. Though unsure how old he really was, I suspected he was in his eighties. His dark skin, courtesy of his Choctaw heritage, looked thin and ashy from stress. His raven black hair only had a few hints of gray before, but I noticed quite a bit more at the funeral. Nana’s death hit him hard, for the two of them were very close. Meemaw told Mom once, when she didn’t think I was listening, that she found Papa Joe’s weekly trek to Nana’s after church on Sundays to be weird. Papa Joe made sure anything that needed fixing around the house got done. Helped out during the spring and summer months with Nana’s humongous garden. Mom had brushed the comment off, telling Meemaw that Papa Joe was a sweet man who enjoyed helping Nana out. After all, Nana was the oldest citizen of Junction City and Papa Joe was the last remaining full-blooded Choctaw in the area, so it seemed natural the two were drawn together.
I stopped rocking when someone inside the house (Mom probably) started to straighten up the kitchen. The sound made me scrunch down further in the rocker, not wishing to be seen. I worried my thoughts would be written all over my face, followed by probing questions from whomever was knocking around inside. No, I didn’t want to be seen until what I came out here to do was completed. I may have been young, but I understood what burned inside of me. I knew what emotion held the tears inside of me.
Guilt.
Guilt over what I’d done. Though it didn’t make any sense—was beyond the realm of possibilities—Nana’s death wasn’t from some accidental run-in with local wildlife. She had run away from town into the deepest part of the forest, terrified of the thing chasing her. Maybe hoping she might lure it away from the rest of us. Almost like Nana sacrificed herself to save the town.
After Daddy told Mom and Meemaw the truth about what happened in the woods, my knot of guilt started to grow. It doubled in size when Sheriff Gilmore told Daddy earlier that the search party found evidence of something big in the area by Caney Creek. Claw marks on the tree and a few footprints deep in the bottoms of paws too big to be a cat’s. The dogs followed the scent over to the next county, but lost it in the swampy mess. None of the tracks were fresh and no sign of the creature remained.
But the guilt swallowed me whole when I watched Sheriff Gilmore hand Daddy the necklace earlier.
The necklace Nana kept hidden in her jewelry box.
One she promised to give me when I was older and ready to hear the story behind it.
The one made from a soft, thin leather strap with a crude charm carved out of wood in the shape of a cat’s head dangling from the middle.
She called it her personal totem. A symbol of the guardian who kept her safe from harm, created for her by a Choctaw tribal elder years ago.
What she clutched to her chest the night in the woods.
I couldn’t live with it. Couldn’t stand the thought of what happened. I looked up and prayed in silence, hoping Nana heard me. I’m sorry, Nana. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
The sky grew darker. The brilliant silver stars glittered against the ebony backdrop. On my parents’ porch in the dark, I shoved the awful visions of Nana’s death out of my mind. I vowed to never to think about them or tell another soul. My body shook with force as I reached inside my mind. I gripped the edges of the rocker and hung on for dear life, mentally picturing the removal of the thoughts from my head. Like sweeping the dirt Daddy’s boots left on the kitchen floor, I cleaned. I pictured myself burying them right alongside Nana’s ruined corpse inside her casket at Ridgemond Cemetery, covered with six feet of heavy Mississippi clay.
Because they weren’t odd dreams about the night she died.
They were memories.
My memories of the night I ripped into her soft flesh with my bared teeth, claws exposed and growl loud. As surely as I saw Tinker turn into an enormous white panther, I saw what happened to Nana with my own eyes. Because I was there.
Oh, God. What had I become? Why did I kill Nana?
Tinker’s loud meow brought my mind’s focus back to the front porch, out of the tortured halls of my mind. I swallowed hard and finished sweeping the recollections of that night away, then slammed the door shut inside my heart. The minute Tinker’s soft coat rubbed against my bare legs, the memories became nothing more than fuzzy, unrecognizable images. Peace settled over me, like I just woke up from the best night’s sleep I’d ever had.
Outta sight, outta mind.
A smile appeared on my face when Tinker jumped onto my lap. I stroked his smooth fur and let out a quiet laugh when he began to purr. He jutted his head into my chin and rubbed against it several times, then licked my cheek with his rough, pink tongue.
He curled up into a tight ball and gave one last little meow, closing his big green eyes. I was beyond thankful he was back since I hadn’t seen him since the morning he ran from the house. Safe—that’s how he made me feel. My protector was back. Everything would be okay now. Tinker would banish my dreams—and the monsters that resided in them.
To my surprise, I felt a hot tear slide down my face. It dripped off my chin and landed on Tinker’s head. No, not Tinker. Nahu’ala. Oh, why didn’t you save Nana? Why didn’t you stop me from…I muttered under my breath, my voice but a faint squeak in the stillness of the night. The tears came faster, and soon, my shirt and Tinker’s head were soaked. My eyelids seemed heavy, as well as my heart. Unable to keep them open any longer, I felt my body relax when they closed for the last time.
Over the singing of the katydids and the chirps of the night birds, I heard the same voice inside my head from three nights before. It was just as powerful this time, but quieter—softer.
I am here, Little One. Rest now. It was her time to go. I cannot stop you from becoming. It is your destiny. Be still, and sleep. You are not needed…yet. But soon, very soon, you will be. Hide these thoughts deep within you. Do not speak of them again until it is time. I am here to protect you. Sleep, and dream no more.
CHAPTER SIX - THE IN-BETWEEN YEARS
As my younger self predicted, the painful sting of Nana’s death became a dull throb over time. Life went on as each of us learned to live in our new world without her. Mom and Dad worked hard every day to make their diner a success before Nana passed, but business boomed after Meemaw began to help out in the kitchen. Meemaw was an amazing cook, and people flocked to eat her signature fried chicken and cornbread. After losing her mother, Meemaw wanted to be as close as possible to her remaining family, so s
he and Papa Joe shared cooking duties in the kitchen.
She moved in with us permanently after she sold her house and Nana’s. Meemaw was a lot like her mother—funny, loud, full of pep and energy. Her natural warmth helped all of us work through the loss, and the daily connection with us helped her through her own. I loved that she was full of lots of warm hugs and kisses. The only real differences between the two of them were Meemaw was about three inches taller than Nana had been, and she didn’t tell outrageous tales like Nana. And Meemaw’s head wasn’t full of solid white like Nana’s, but a lot more filled her scalp after Nana’s death. Meemaw refused to let old age settle in and made sure she went to see Norma Kendrick every four weeks. “Washin’ the gray away,” she called it. She wasn’t quite ready to let the blonde hair she was accustomed to disappear.
We didn’t talk about Nana’s tragic death much, other than a comment or two about missing her at random moments. Mom and Meemaw remarked on more than one occasion that it helped being inside the walls of the house they both grew up in. Meemaw said once she was thankful Mom and Dad decided to buy the place and renovate it. For me, each night cuddled up with Tinker helped wipe away my crazy thoughts about my involvement in Nana’s death. My worries completely faded three weeks after Nana’s funeral, when Sheriff Gilmore stopped by and told Daddy they found the culprit—a male black bear. Ralph Wemscott reneged on his original statement about never setting foot back in the woods. He caught the scent trail again down by Caney Creek and spent two days tracking the thing before he shot it.
After the news spread through the town about Ralph’s catch, things simmered down. Ralph didn’t say a word to anyone. He just drove his muddy truck down Main Street with the corpse of the ugly black thing in the back, trussed up like a hog ready for slaughter. A collective sigh of relief wiped the fears of the townsfolk away, and Ralph had his fifteen minutes of fame. Mom and Dad fed him any meal he wished for an entire month for free. Mr. Hockington gave Ralph enough shotgun shells and bullets for his rifle to fill the cab of his truck full. News of his catch made it all the way to Greenville, and a taxidermist known for his work offered to prepare the creature as a trophy for Ralph’s wall, free of charge.
People went back to their daily routines. Farmers tended to their flocks and their crops. School resumed, people shopped, hunting season came and went. Most of the town attended Friday night football games, then stopped in at the diner for a victory (or defeat) snack. Soon, thoughts of the morbid death of Junction City’s oldest resident drifted away like the rice chaff from the fields on a hot summer breeze.
I clung to Meemaw like she was my personal life force. I had lots of friends but was only really close to Barb and Dane. I wasn’t a loner, really, but preferred to concentrate on only a few relationships at a time. So I focused all my attention on Meemaw, Barb, and Dane.
Meemaw enjoyed running, like me. After she moved in, we began an after school ritual—jogging. The first day we ran together, she said if I wanted to be on the cheerleading squad, running would help keep me fit and limber, as well as increase my stamina. I knew that since I’d been running for about six months already, but I never said a word. Even though I had been young, I sensed Meemaw wanted to do something that reminded her of her youth. To feel alive and carefree, and maybe work off all the fried foods and desserts she loved to cook and eat.
First, it was just a mile, then two, then three, and finally, five. She never slacked behind me. Meemaw matched my strong legs stride for stride with a smooth, even pace. Soon, we jogged all over town, and people would sit outside on their porches and watch us go by, tipping a glass of beer or tea at us as we passed. A few customers even started asking Meemaw how many miles we’d run each week when they came in to eat one of her stick-to-your-ribs-and-ass meals.
When I started seventh grade, Barb joined us. Initially, Barb told me she was sick of me being too tired at night to gab on the phone with her after I went out running with Meemaw. I told her she didn’t need to worry none about that. Her momma owned one of the town’s biggest mouths—a trap that never stayed shut, and one that surely would pass on down the line, at least the way Barb was heading. It was just a good natured poke we both laughed at, but secretly, I think Barb took my words to heart. When she began running with us, gossip never once left her lips.
Another thing Meemaw enjoyed was passing her skills on to me. After all, she’d say, that’s what one generation is supposed to do for the next one—bestow knowledge to the younger family members. Train them in the ways of the world. She taught me how to cook, sew, make hand-churned butter, every available use for baking soda (who knew it was so versatile?) and how to clean and fry catfish. Told me I needed to know these things to prepare for when I was on my own, taking care of myself and my future family. I loved spending time with her. I was grateful for what she taught me, so I kept my sarcastic retorts about my thoughts on the out-of-date duties of a woman to myself.
I made the cheerleading squad after years of practice with Mom’s friend and local gymnastics instructor, Kathy Boddett. Mom and Kathy cheered together for the Junction City Panthers in high school. Mom married Daddy and stayed in town, but Kathy went on to cheer at MSU for two years. Kathy came back home, degreeless, when she blew her knee out. With Kathy’s ability to tumble and flip gone, but not the desire, she decided to teach the next generation. She opened up a small gym three miles away from the Kilgore place, and soon, young mothers arrived in droves, daughters in tow.
Like me.
Apparently, I was a natural tumbler, at least according to Kathy. Took to it like a duck on a June bug she said to my mom one day after practice. I thought it funny since ducks didn’t seem very athletic. “That girl’s got some major skills, Jolene. She has strength and muscle coordination like a seasoned pro! Reflexes I ain’t never seen in someone so young. And she ain’t but just a child. Keep her comin’ here and I guarantee you, she’ll be on top of the pyramid in no time. She’ll be the next town legend, surpassing even the two of us.”
Mom had smiled and brushed the compliment off, but pride beamed behind her blue eyes. After we left the gym that day, we made a quick stop by the diner. Mom loaded me up with the biggest banana split I’d ever seen. While I attempted to make a dent in the sticky mess, Mom blabbed to anyone within earshot about her star daughter. After I made the squad my freshman year, Newcomb’s Diner donated the most sponsor money. The day Mom and I went to Greenville to pick up my first uniform, the proud smile and shimmering tears of joy on her face were unmistakable.
Tinker became Tinker again. I never made the mistake of calling him Nahu’ala, not even when snuggled up alone under the covers together. He grew from a bedraggled, four pound stray to a large, healthy cat. He was an enigma, though: he only showed up at night. I never found where he hid out during the day, even when I enlisted the help of Barb. We scoured the neighborhood and not only could we not find him, but no one ever recalled seeing him wander through their yard. After months of searching, I gave up, content with the fact that my furry friend appeared at the back door each night.
After the summer of Nana’s death, my dreams and visions vanished. As the years passed and I entered puberty, my childhood nightmares and fears were replaced by other things. When I got my first period and the hormones began to rage inside of me, my thoughts turned to boys. By the time I turned fourteen, Meemaw stopped her daily runs with me and Barb. She said it was because her knees hurt, but I knew better. Meemaw had grown tired of listening to us gab incessantly about guys. When I started making noises about how gorgeous Dane was and how I meant to marry him someday, Meemaw couldn’t take anymore.
My calm, idyllic life changed during the summer I turned eighteen. Two weeks before I started my senior year, a violent storm slammed into the town. The EF-3 tornado damaged numerous homes and farmland when it blew through. The Kilgore farm and the town’s biggest employer, Cohestra Industries, took the brunt of the storm. A few folks in town lost part of their roofs and debris littered the
streets for a week.
Barb and I had been out running that morning, the sky a beautiful blue and not a cloud in it or a breeze to ruffle our hair. When we hit our second mile, right as we passed the entrance to the Cohestra plant, I sensed a shift in the air. Barb thought I’d lost my marbles when I told her we needed to head home because I sensed a storm coming.
“Storm? Sheryl, are you crazy? There ain’t a cloud in the sky! Just another humid day full of sunshine and sweat! What’s really goin’ on? Oh, please don’t tell me your knee is givin’ you fits again? Cheerleadin’ practice starts tonight!”
Barb whined but stopped running when she realized I wasn’t following her. She had started to say more until she saw the look of fear on my face. “I’m not kiddin’. Look!” I yelled, pointing to our right. In the distance, a thick band of wall clouds rolled with anger. Even though they were far away, I sensed the shift in the electrical current around me. How, I had no idea, but some strange instinct screamed in my head we were in danger. “We need to get. Now.”
“What the…” Barb sputtered. “Where did they come from? Those weren’t there a split second ago! Do you really think it’s headin’ this way? The wind ain’t blowin’…” Barb never finished her thought. Before she uttered another sound, a heavy gust of air slammed into us. It moved the ominous black clouds in our direction. Fast. The low rumble of thunder sealed any doubts either of us had. Barb and I exchanged glances and took off. We ran back toward my house. While running, I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and called Dad at the diner. Told him to keep everyone inside and that wicked weather was on its way. As soon as I hung up from warning him, the tornado sirens wailed. The piercing noise lit a fire underneath our feet, and Barb and I pounded the hot pavement even harder. Within ten minutes of crashing through the front door of my house and cowering in the basement, the storm was on top of us. Barb and I huddled together, holding hands and praying for the Lord above to keep us and the town safe from harm. We heard the sound of the funnel cloud as it approached. The freight-train-like noise was deafening.
Growl Page 5
