Three Rivers

by Tiffany Quay Tyson

  Mama spoke with one of the women while Melody stood underneath a tree, picking at a scab on her right knee. It was a habit Mama deplored, but it took her mind off the fact that she needed to pee. They had left so quickly she hadn’t gone before getting into the car, and now, in this strange place, she didn’t want to ask. The woman her mother spoke with approached Melody. Melody stopped picking at her scab and stood up straight. “You are having some trouble with your friends?”

  Melody looked at her mother, who nodded. “They aren’t my friends. They’re mean.” Melody pulled at the hem of her T-shirt, bit her lower lip, shifted from foot to foot. “Well, one of them was my friend. I don’t think she is now.”

  “Friends come and go,” the woman said. “But you are stuck with yourself.”

  Melody hiccuped, but refused to cry, even though it seemed an awful and cruel thing to say.

  “Your mother is going to take you to meet someone. She will help you, but only if you want help, only if you trust her, only if you really believe.”

  Melody had no idea what the woman was talking about, but she nodded.

  “Good girl,” the woman said.

  The woman took her inside the house and instructed her to change into a dress that was laid across an old ladder-back wooden chair. Melody slipped the cotton sheath over her head and rubbed her hands across the fabric, feeling the soft, vibrant warmth of the dress. It smelled of sage and cinnamon. The room where she changed was small, and the only door led back out to the hallway and the woman. She knew there must a bathroom somewhere in the house, but she didn’t get a chance to ask. Mama emerged wearing a similar dress and led her back outside.

  “We’ll forgo the ceremony,” the woman said. “She is still too young.”

  Her mother seemed disappointed, but didn’t argue. They followed the woman across the open field, and Melody’s opportunity to ask for a restroom vanished. They walked for hours. The sun shifted positions in the sky above them, tracing an arc of brightness that seared her skin and left her dizzy. Prickly grass and hard-packed dirt scraped against the soles of her bare feet. A swarm of chiggers attacked as she trod through a patch of overgrown weeds, leaving behind itchy red welts. Melody scratched her ankles until they bled, but neither Mama nor the strange woman seemed to care. By the time they reached the little house with the wraparound porch, Melody was desperate. Her face and shoulders were singed a bright pink and her tongue felt thick and useless inside her mouth. Her bladder felt ready to explode.

  “Here we are.” The woman’s voice was bright and songlike, as if she’d just awakened from a refreshing nap. Melody shivered despite the heat. She followed the woman up the front steps, carefully placing her feet in the very center of each wooden board. Her legs felt limp and unreliable. The world shifted like a reflection in pond water. Her brain felt swollen inside her skull.

  Another woman appeared beside the first woman, or maybe she was just seeing double. No, this new woman was shorter, with dark hair that she wore in a long braid down her back. Her face was like the bark of a tree worn smooth by harsh weather. Her hands were surprisingly soft and gentle as she stroked Melody’s hair.

  When the woman touched her, Melody floated toward the woman’s soft, generous bosom. She fell gently forward as a warm pool of liquid spread between her legs and the world went dark.

  Even in the darkness, she was aware of things happening. The women rushed around her. One of them held a bundle of fresh-smelling leaves under her nose. Another fanned her face. Melody smelled something ripe and gamey. The scent grew stronger and something moist swiped across her face. A tongue? She opened her eyes and saw a gray coyote slinking out the back door. By the time she was fully awake, only the women remained. Mama was angry and demanded she apologize. The women said everything was fine. Melody had ruined something important, though she hadn’t understood what. Later, when Melody was back in her own clothes and seated beside Mama for the drive home, she tried to ask about the coyote.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mama said.

  “I saw him,” Melody insisted.

  “I’m humiliated enough. Don’t start making up stories.”

  Melody didn’t mention the coyote again, but the next year when the girls teased her or ignored her or made hateful comments, she summoned the memory of the coyote and she felt stronger. She’d not thought of the coyote in many years, but the memory of his scent came back to her now in this box of her mother’s things. She missed him.

  She pulled a manila envelope from under the box with the herbs. Unlike most of the junk in her mother’s room, the envelope was new and not covered in dust. Inside was a handful of newspaper and magazine clippings, clippings that weren’t yellow with age. There was a picture of Melody with the band in an advertisement for a concert in Fort Lauderdale. There was a calendar listing from Nashville, a short article about a festival in Chattanooga. There were a few photocopies of flyers and promotional materials. Her mother had gone to some trouble to gather these clips, Melody knew. “Well, fuck you,” she said aloud. She knew she should be happy to find evidence that her mother cared about her life, but the pile of clippings just fueled her anger. It was typical of her mother to stuff all evidence that she cared into an envelope stashed in the back of a closet. Melody crumpled the papers and photos into a wad and tossed them across the room. She wasn’t going to find anything. If she wanted to confront her mother, she’d have to wait for her mother to return. As always, her mother was in charge.

  Rain clattered against the roof, sporadic and then more steadily. There was no real sunrise, just a bare lifting of darkness. Melody blew her nose, left the dirty tissue on her mother’s bed, and went downstairs to check on her father. His sheets needed changing, as did his pajamas. He blinked at her, helpless and ashamed. She slid a fresh pillow beneath his head and began the process of stripping and cleaning him. It was amazing how quickly she’d become used to seeing her father in a state of naked humiliation.

  “Daddy, where is Mama?”

  “Wherever she wants to be.” He laughed and his body spasmed. She tossed aside his pajamas, soaked through with sweat.

  “You’re her husband. I wouldn’t let my husband just disappear.”

  “You don’t know what you’ll do, little girl. I’m not so easy to live with. She needs some space.”

  Melody shook her head. “She’s a terrible wife. It isn’t right.” She ran a wet cloth over his body.

  “Everything is not right and wrong, little girl. You’re old enough to know that now.”

  “She shouldn’t leave you here when you need her. She shouldn’t leave you when you’re, when you’re…” She trailed off.

  “Dying. It’s okay, little girl. You can say it. I’m dying.” He grimaced. “One thing I know about your mother, you sure as hell don’t want to force her to be somewhere or to do something she doesn’t want to do. Bad things happen when Genie is unhappy.”

  Bad things happen no matter what, Melody thought. “Let me massage your legs, Daddy. Then I’ll get you some breakfast.”

  “I don’t want those awful drinks anymore. Bring me a shot of whiskey. Bring me a goddamned bottle of whiskey.” His laugh turned to a cough.

  “Your whiskey days are behind you, old man.”

  “Don’t worry about your mother, little girl. She’ll be home. This is her land. She’s never let me forget that.” He closed his eyes. “It’ll be your land when she’s gone.”

  “Dear God, I don’t want it.” Melody piled the soiled clothing in a plastic bin. “What on earth would I do with it? Anyway, Mama’s too mean to die.”

  “Don’t talk that way about your mother.”

  “I don’t know why you defend her.” She pulled one of the humiliating adult diapers onto her father.

  “Neither do I, little girl. Neither do I.” He grinned at her. “Where do we stand on that whiskey? Would you deny a dying man a little pleasure?”

  “Yes. Yes, I would.” She massaged his legs, careful not to bruise the
fragile skin. She rubbed cream around his knees and ankles the way Maurice showed her. The phone rang.

  “Bobby!” she called out. “Will you get that, please?” Bobby didn’t respond. She didn’t know if he was still sleeping or already out roaming the land. “Well, they’ll just have to wait.” If it was her mother, Melody thought, it would do her good to wonder where they were.

  By the time she finished dressing her father, she was sweating. The rainy morning made even the interior of the house more humid than usual. She brought Daddy one of the new shakes from the refrigerator, along with a straw. “Strawberry, this morning. These are supposed to taste better.” She propped another pillow underneath his head, helped him sit up. He took a sip, made a face, and pushed the can away. She pushed it back. “No. You have to drink it, Daddy.”

  He glared at her and turned the entire can upside down. The thick, sticky, pink liquid splashed on the blanket and spread over his clean pajamas.

  “Damn it, Daddy!” She grabbed the can. Her head ached, and the smell of the drink made her nauseated. “I’m not dealing with this right now. You can sit there with your breakfast in your lap.”

  He whimpered pitifully, but Melody ignored him. She gathered the bin of soiled clothes and sheets. “I’ll have to do twice the laundry now. Is that what you want?”

  “I want,” her father said. “I want.”

  “I want, too,” she snapped. “I want plenty.”

  * * *

  Melody found Bobby on the back porch. She stepped out into a puddle and noticed that the porch roof was leaking in several spots. “Didn’t you hear the phone ringing? Why didn’t you answer it?”

  “Checking on the boy,” Bobby said.

  Melody had forgotten about the man and the little boy Bobby mentioned the night before.

  “The man came to look at us,” Bobby said.

  “What do you mean?” Melody peered out into the rainy morning.

  “He was looking at us,” Bobby said. “Just the man, not the little boy.”

  “He came here?” Was the man planning to rob them? Or something worse? “That’s it. I’m calling the sheriff. We can’t have strange men prowling around while we sleep. And no one should have a kid outside in this weather.”

  “Maurice said he’d talk to them. He said we should wait.”

  “Maurice is not a part of this family.” She regretted how harsh she sounded, but she couldn’t seem to summon any patience. “If this man robs us blind, Maurice won’t care. If he breaks in and murders us while we sleep, Maurice won’t give a damn.”

  “He will, too!” Bobby yelled.

  Melody stepped back, surprised by his anger.

  “He would,” Bobby said. “Know don’t you, know don’t you. You don’t know him.”

  “I’m calling the sheriff.” She ducked into the kitchen and let the screen door slam. A labored rattling sound came from the living room and she knew her father had pulled out his oxygen tube again. “Don’t you dare do that to me right now!” she yelled. “I won’t put up with it.” She listened until his breathing leveled out, then picked up the phone.

  A man answered on the third ring. “Sheriff’s office.”

  “Hello. Is Sheriff Randall available?”

  “Nope. He’s not in. Can I help you?”

  Melody chewed her ragged thumbnail. She had hoped to speak to Sheriff Randall. “Can I leave a message for him?”

  “Yep,” the voice said. “You sure can, but he won’t get it until next week. If this is urgent, you’ll want to deal with me. If it’s an emergency, you should call 911.”

  Melody considered her options, but the man on the line kept talking. “Look, I’m here all alone and I’m taking a statement right now, so if I can help with something, let me know. Is there a crime in progress?” He sounded impatient.

  “It isn’t an emergency,” Melody said. “I can call back later.”

  “Much obliged,” the man said.

  Melody heard the front door open and went out to greet Maurice. He slipped off his wet shoes. She pulled the blanket from the bed. “I was just about to strip this bed. Daddy spilled his shake this morning.”

  “It’s really coming down out there.” Maurice draped a rain jacket over a chair near the door. “I’ll take care of the bed. It isn’t the first time,” Maurice said. “There’s a guy outside. Says he’s a friend of yours.”

  Melody left the bedclothes and went to the door. She stuck her head out and saw Chris, grinning and holding up a white paper bag. “I brought cinnamon rolls. There’s this bakery just off the highway that makes the best cinnamon rolls you ever tasted. A woman at the motel told me about it. People around here are so nice.”

  Melody knew the bakery he was talking about. She’d gone to school with the owner’s son. The boy was not nice at all. He was a bully and a thief, but even he knew how to say “please” and “thank you” and “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir.” People often made the mistake of confusing good manners with kindness. “I figured you’d be home by now.”

  Chris waggled the greasy paper sack. “I’m getting soaked out here.”

  A rumble of thunder traveled across the sky. “You’re going to want to get on the road before the storm hits.”

  “I think it’s a bit late for that.”

  “This is nothing,” she said. “You wait and see. The roads will flood and you’ll be stuck.”

  Chris cocked his head and lifted up the white paper bag like an offering.

  She sighed. “Fine. I was just about to make coffee. She strode past Maurice and Daddy without a word. In the kitchen, she measured out coffee and ran water into the pot. “It’s gonna come a flood. You don’t want to be here when the water rises, I promise you that.”

  “I talked to the general manager at the radio station this morning,” Chris told her. He set the bag of cinnamon rolls on the table.

  “Are you getting your job back?”

  “I don’t need that job. God has a different plan for us.”

  “There is no ‘us,’ Chris. Get that straight.”

  Chris opened the bag, and the scent of cinnamon mingled with the brewing coffee. Melody pulled out a clean plate and set it on the table.

  “The FCC is investigating your profanity. Well, the station’s airing of your profanity. They may fine the station. They may fine the band.” Chris placed the cinnamon rolls on the plate. “Of course, it might not amount to anything. Hard to tell.”

  The coffeemaker hissed. Melody pulled a mug from the cabinet and poured a half cup before the pot was done brewing. She sipped the warm bitterness, sat down at the kitchen table, and looked at Chris. “How much?”

  “Could be a few thousand, could be ten thousand. I don’t think it would be more than that.”

  Once again, Melody regretted squandering three years of her life traipsing around with a terrible band. She had no marketable skills and meager savings. It would not take much to leave her flat broke. She refilled her mug and filled one for Chris. “Why are you telling me this? I can’t do a thing about it.” She pulled a pint of cream from the fridge and set it on the table.

  Chris started in again with his speech from the night before, his plea about Melody’s potential solo career, her voice, her talent, her story. She held up her hand to cut him off, but he kept right on talking. He told her his friend in Memphis could record a demo next week. “We’re ready,” he said.

  “Well I’m not ready,” Melody said. “I’ve got my hands full here.”

  Chris wouldn’t listen. He kept talking, spouting more nonsense about redemption and forgiveness. Melody was stunned that anyone could be so dense. When she couldn’t stand another second of his babble, she slammed her hands down on the table between them. “Chris!” She shouted to be heard. “You’re not listening to me. I can’t drop everything and go to Memphis. Even if I could, I don’t have enough songs to record an album.”

  He sat back and smiled as if she’d agreed with him about something. “We’ll record w
hat you have, and you’ll write some more.”

  “Writing a song isn’t like scribbling down a shopping list.”

  “So we’ll hire some writers, option songs from other musicians.”

  “I can’t think about this right now,” Melody said. “Daddy is so sick. He’s dying.”

  “But you have to think about it now,” Chris said. “Soon it will be too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  Chris leaned forward. “I’m working on a series for a new cable channel. A Christian channel. We’ll profile people who were down and out until they turned away from sin and found redemption. I call it Salvation Hour. What do you think?”

  She thought it sounded dreadful. Melody wasn’t so desperate that she would look for evidence of miracles on cable television, and she doubted anyone else would, either. “I don’t need salvation.”

  “Everyone needs to be saved.”

  “I don’t.” She bit into a cinnamon roll, and the gooey, sweet dough filled her mouth. She swallowed, but a film of grease and sugar remained on her tongue. “I hate television, all that noise and nonsense. I hate those TV preachers most of all.”

  “If Noah were alive today, he would spread the word of the flood by using the airwaves. Moses would broadcast the Ten Commandments to the masses. It’s our duty as Christians to share the gospel.”

  “That’s not my duty.” She pushed the cinnamon roll away.

  “Melody, I need you. Some of these people we want to feature don’t look so great. Bad teeth, bad skin, bad hair. It would be fine for radio, but this is television. I need a few people who are camera-ready. The audience will love you.”

  Melody, sitting there in the same faded T-shirt and shorts she’d worn yesterday, now splattered with her father’s nutrition shake and dusted with cinnamon sugar, did not feel camera-ready. “You’re not listening to me, Chris. I haven’t been redeemed. This isn’t some story you get to write for me. I have no faith. If God exists, and I’m not saying he does, I don’t like him very much. He seems like an asshole.”