Gone South

by Meg Moseley

  “Nick,” he corrected. “Love you too. Mom’s coming. Bye.” He hung up.

  Now that the code was stuck in her head, she wasn’t sure she wanted to use it. If she never did, nobody would ever find out what she’d wanted to try, and Nicky wouldn’t be her partner in crime.

  But she only wanted her best jeans. Her favorite shirts. Was that too much to ask?

  A metallic clanging came from the direction of the garage, reminding her that Calv would want his phone.

  Walking slowly toward the garage, she decided to scrap her crazy plan. She just had to find a job and buy some new clothes. They’d have to be cheap, but at least they’d be new. Maybe they’d help Darren look at her the way he’d looked at her before she’d messed up her life.

  Standing in Mel’s doorway on Monday morning, Tish wondered how much to say about appropriate attire for job hunting. The girl didn’t own anything but jeans.

  “Want to borrow some clothes, Mel? They’d be a little big on you, though.”

  Mel smiled. “They’d be a lot big. No, I think this is fine. If I get all dressed up, I’ll be even more nervous. It’s better just to be myself.”

  “There’s something to that. But if you don’t land a job today, maybe we should try to find some clothes that are a little dressier but still comfortable.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I remember the counselors in high school were always harping about that.”

  “Did they give you any career guidance? Aptitude tests or anything?”

  Mel nodded. “My top picks were like forest ranger and pet groomer. I forget the other ones. I don’t want to go to college for anything anyway. I barely made it through high school.”

  “What made it so hard? Did you not apply yourself?”

  “I sort of gave up when I figured out I couldn’t compete with my brother. And I was never good at school anyway.”

  “How was there any competition? He’s so much older, he’s almost like a different generation.”

  “Yeah, but some of my teachers had been there forever and they remembered him. I’d walk into class on the first day of school and the teacher would say, ‘Oh, you’re Stuart’s little sister so I’ll expect big things from you.’ A week later, she’s saying, ‘Are you sure you’re Stu’s sister? Did somebody swap babies at the hospital?’ because I had so much trouble with the work. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t measure up.”

  “Sounds like those teachers needed some sensitivity training.” Tish offered a smile that she hoped would soften things for Mel.

  Mel let out a hard-edged laugh. “So did some of the kids. They were a bunch of bullies.”

  Tish was beginning to understand the chip Mel had on her shoulder. “It’s no fun to be bullied. I remember. I was always the new kid in town.”

  “That might be better than being the same old kid. Never having a chance to start over.”

  “If you can find a job, though, there’s your new chance. Do you have your driver’s license handy in case somebody offers you a job? They might ask for your ID.”

  “I don’t have one.” Mel glanced at the bedroll in the corner. “I lost my wallet in Florida. It was in my duffel bag.”

  “Did you report it to the DMV?”

  Mel shook her head. “Not yet. I’ve got more important stuff to think about right now.” She smoothed a hand down the thigh of her jeans. “I’ll start at the Shell station. My friend Hayley works there. Maybe she’ll give me a reference. Recommendation. Whatever you call it.”

  “You might want to ask her before you go in.”

  “Yeah. But I have to go in anyway. To take her hoodie back. She let me borrow it when—when I didn’t have a jacket anymore.”

  Tish smiled again. “That was kind of her.”

  “Yeah. She’s a good friend. I’d better go. Do I look okay?”

  “You look very nice.”

  “Anything stuck between my teeth?” Mel bared her teeth.

  Tish shook her head. “Nothing. No bad breath either. No smell of cigarettes. You’re all set.”

  Mel took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Then I’d better go.”

  Tish wanted to offer a ride, but that would set a precedent. And the gas station wasn’t far. In Noble, nothing was far.

  “Good luck,” she said. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Thanks,” Mel said with a tight smile. “Sometimes God answers prayers. I think.”

  “He does.”

  Mel blinked rapidly, stared down at her feet, and looked up again. “Um, I’m really sorry about … you know. Smoking and yelling and stuff. Forgive me?”

  “Sure, Mel. I kind of lost my temper too. Forgive me?”

  “Yeah. We’re good.” Mel walked out of the room and out of the house, shutting the door gently.

  Tish followed to the porch and watched Mel plod down the sidewalk. Now her shoulders sagged. Her head drooped. She seemed to have lost two inches of her already small stature, as if she’d shrunken down to her twelve-year-old self. Who on earth would hire her?

  Tish whispered the promised prayer for Mel’s success and then for her own plans. She intended to visit Muldro National Bank with a copy of the McComb letters for Marian Clark-Whoever.

  On her way to change into nice clothes, Tish stopped at the piano and banged out “When the Saints Go Marching In,” a song that always made her think of football games and victories.

  Somewhat hesitantly, Tish approached Marian’s cubicle. It wouldn’t be professional to interrupt her work, but dropping off the copies wouldn’t take more than a minute of her time.

  Marian sat at her desk, her fingers flying across a keyboard. “May I help you?” she murmured without quite looking up.

  “Good morning,” Tish said.

  Marian lifted her head. “Oh, hello.” Tiny lines of irritation made tight little parentheses around her lips, but her eye hadn’t started twitching yet.

  “I brought you something.” Tish held out the envelope, nearly a twin to the one that held the originals in her desk drawer. “These are copies of letters, most of them written by Letitia McComb. I hope you’ll read them and start to see her and Nathan … well, in a kinder light.”

  “I see.” Marian took the envelope and set it on the corner of her desk. “Thank you, but please don’t expect to change my opinion. I have proof that Nathan McComb was a thief and a liar.”

  Tish kept her tone calm. No need to make a scene. “Proof? Really?”

  “Proof. From the county historical society. Copies of old deeds and so on. It’s very clear that he never owned the Carlyle house. Everything was chaotic after the War, and he used it to his advantage. He stripped the house of a number of beautiful items that he wanted for himself while Mary Ellen Carlyle lay dying over in the next town—”

  “Of consumption. Yes, unfortunately I’ve memorized those lines, but are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, yes.”

  “I … I’m sorry to hear it.” Tish hesitated, wanting a truce but not wanting to back down completely. “Before I read the book by Miss Eliza Clark, I had no idea there were any hard feelings between Clarks and McCombs.”

  “Now you know.”

  “I’m very sorry if my ancestors allegedly wronged your ancestors. I apologize on their behalf.”

  Marian gave her a prim smile. “I accept your apology, although I don’t believe the words ‘if’ and ‘allegedly’ have a place in any apology.”

  Like a stab given with a honey-coated knife, it still hurt. Mel’s apology was far more sincere.

  Tish managed to refrain from speaking her mind. “Please read the letters, though, if only to understand some of the tragedies of Letitia’s life.”

  Marian’s attention seemed to stray toward her keyboard. “I hope you’ll visit the historical society’s museum sometime, so you’ll understand some of the tragedies of the War and its aftermath.”

  As if Tish didn’t understand! She was tempted to offer a condescending jab of her own, or a po
inted remark about the tragedies created by people like the Carlyles, who’d treated “darkies” as if they weren’t quite human. She needed a job, though, and women who threw fits in banks weren’t likely to land jobs there.

  She managed a tight smile. “You have a great day.” She turned and hurried toward the exit, afraid she might kick the next living creature that crossed her path. But white-haired Mr. Farris began to stride across the lobby. Right toward her.

  “Miss McComb,” he said with an amiable grin.

  She forced a smile, her heart still pounding with rage. “Hello, Mr. Farris. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “It’s nice to see you too.” As nattily dressed as before, he motioned her toward his office. “Let’s chat.”

  “Okay.” In the back of her mind, she entertained the crazy notion that he was about to offer her a job—working with Marian? Well, a job was a job.

  Seated in a cushy chair before his desk, she met his eyes. As angry as she was, she could still enjoy his resemblance to Ted Turner.

  He cupped his chin in his hands and regarded her in silence for a long moment, then spoke abruptly. “I’m sorry, Miss McComb. I really did want to hire you, but things have changed.”

  “Did Marian tell you she has evidence that Nathan McComb was a thief?”

  “Yes, but I don’t care what your great-greats did. I care about what you do. In the here and now.” He smiled faintly. “For that matter, just because you have something to prove, you may be more honest than the average bear. I have no problem believing that you’re an upright individual.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. What’s the problem, then?”

  He leaned forward. “If I were, say, a farmer, I wouldn’t be so concerned about this issue, but I run a bank. Integrity is my business. People put their money in my hands. Their life savings, their dreams. I can’t betray their trust by hiring someone whose character may be called into question because of the company she keeps. In your case, it’s Melanie Hamilton.”

  “Excuse me?” she faltered.

  “She’s staying with you, correct?”

  Tish nodded numbly. “Yes.”

  “She’s a hometown girl who went bad, then rubbed her parents’ noses in it. To some folks, that makes her worse than outsiders. Worse than Yankees who don’t know any better.” His eyes twinkled. “I hope you know I don’t believe that myself. Some of my best friends are Yankees.”

  Tish couldn’t quite smile at that. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working. But let’s go back to what you said about the company I keep. Didn’t Jesus sit down with sinners?”

  “Absolutely—but my customers aren’t Jesus.”

  “And Melanie Hamilton isn’t the world’s worst sinner.”

  “Not even close, but I know the people she stole from at local businesses. They’re my friends and neighbors—and they bank here.”

  Tish let out a long breath. “So, I can either kick Mel out, or I can be her friend and keep looking for a job.” She stood. “I’d better get busy.”

  He rose too, and offered his hand. “Your loyalty is commendable. I only wish you’d picked someone more worthy of your loyalty.”

  “I hope I’ll be able to prove you wrong.” She shook his hand. “Good-bye, and thanks for your time.”

  Refusing to look in Marian’s direction, Tish walked out of his office and across the lobby. Imagining every eye in the place watching her, she held her head high and kept herself to a ladylike pace, although she wanted to run. At the exit, an elderly gentleman waited to hold the door open for her although he hardly looked strong enough.

  Glad for an excuse to hurry, she ran the last few steps. “Thanks,” she told him, wondering if he would have let the door slam shut on her if he’d realized who she was.

  Halfway across the parking lot, she realized she shouldn’t try to please the locals. They’d already made up their minds. She’d taken Mel in, so her reputation was tarnished already. Next time she ran into Marian or Farris, she might as well speak her mind.

  She backed her car out of the parking space and pointed it toward the street. Light traffic streamed by, two lanes in each direction. She wanted desperately to peel out of the parking lot, just to make a statement.

  Seeing a break in traffic, she punched the gas. The Volvo’s tires produced a screech that wasn’t so much a statement as a whimper.

  She straightened the steering, picked up speed, and rolled down her window, her hair blowing in the wind. “Who cares?” she shouted.

  Nobody could have heard her over the noise of traffic, but she felt better anyway.

  George stood at the counter, taping up a box full of carefully packed Victorian Christmas ornaments for an online customer and brooding over the unfixable wrongs of the world. An internship in college had shown him the ugly truth about big business that relied on sweatshop merchandise, but it had been years before he’d realized that the antiques trade had its dirty little secrets too. Victorians had had their sweatshops. Precious metals and jewels had started untold wars over the centuries. All over the globe, every form of commerce was tainted by someone’s misfortune for someone else’s profit.

  The bell tinkled. He looked up, and Mel’s forlorn face nearly broke his heart.

  It wasn’t right for parents to shut their only daughter out of their home. Never in a million years could it be right.

  “Good to see you, Mel,” he said. “You want to borrow the dog again? Please?”

  “Is she here?”

  “Sleeping in the back room.”

  She came closer, slowly. “Let her sleep.” She stopped beside the 1941 Coke machine and inspected it. “This is a gloomy store. All these things used to belong to dead people.”

  George smiled. “When the merchandise belonged to them, they were still very much alive. You’re right, though. I go to a lot of estate sales and buy merchandise that belonged to people who’ve died.”

  “See what I mean? It’s creepy.”

  He shook his head. “It’s only a business. Like any other business.”

  She kept her eyes downcast. “Any chance you could give me a job?”

  He hesitated, wanting to spare her feelings. “I probably don’t need anybody right now.”

  “Nobody does. Well, that’s what they say, anyway. I applied at the Shell station and a few other places, but everybody turned me down. They’d already made up their minds before I walked in.” She looked up. “Maybe they really don’t need help, but I think they don’t trust me.”

  And you don’t either, her eyes said.

  “Tell me about your recent employment history,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where have you been for the last couple of years? Where have you worked? Actually, start before that. Start with the jobs you had before you left town.”

  “Well, I worked for the Engelbrights at their produce stand, and then I worked at the Howards’ gift shop. And … then I hit the road.”

  “For Vegas?”

  “Vegas? I’ve never been to Vegas. I went to Florida. I figured if I couldn’t find work, I’d at least stay warm. And I’d heard there’d be oranges growing alongside the road so I wouldn’t starve.” She paused. “That’s not exactly true.”

  “No,” George agreed. “Where did you work in Florida?”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “I can’t stand the smell of fish, so where’d I end up working? At a seafood joint. Blech.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Orlando. A girl I knew from high school was working there, and she helped me get in. I got fired, though. They said I stole some cash, but I promise I didn’t. I was framed.”

  “Sounds like your two jobs in Noble too. That’s a little coincidental, Mel.”

  “I was framed,” she said, enunciating the words with precision.

  She sounded utterly sincere, of course. Utterly truthful. But she was quite the actress. Or maybe she’d talked herself into believing she’d b
een framed. Three times.

  “Look, Mel,” he said as gently as he could. “I don’t need an employee right now. If I have to go somewhere, I can lock up and leave. Or sometimes Calv helps me out.”

  “I know,” she said in a quiet, tired voice.

  “And if I hired you …” He took a breath and let it out, wishing he didn’t have to say it aloud. “Frankly, I’d be afraid to leave you here by yourself.”

  “I know,” she said again. “I just thought I’d ask.” She turned away, her shoulders sagging.

  He couldn’t hire her. If he did, he’d have to watch her all the time. But Tish was giving her a chance. And she was Mel, like a kid sister. Maybe, given a second chance—or was it her seventeenth chance or so?—she’d straighten up simply because somebody finally believed in her.

  “Mel, wait,” he said.

  She shook her head and started walking.

  “We could do a trial run. Maybe.”

  She stopped but wouldn’t face him. “What do you mean?”

  “I might be able to hire you. Part time, on a trial basis. But you’ll have to fill out an application and be very clear about what my conditions are.” He waited, studying the back of her head.

  She straightened, seeming to grow an inch. “For real?”

  “For real, but only two or three days a week. Minimum wage. And you’ll have to abide by my rules.”

  She spun around and came back to the counter, her face alight. “Well, it’d be something anyway.”

  “But if you steal so much as a paper clip, you’re fired. If you’re one minute late, you’re fired. If you’re rude to a customer, you’re fired.”

  “Fired? For being rude?”

  “Yes ma’am. You’ll have to be courteous to the customers. Every single one, even the ones you don’t like. Think of it as a game. Fool them into thinking you like them.”

  “I know people who try to do that to me. People who pretend to like me and trust me when they don’t. But they don’t fool me.”

  George leaned against the counter, bringing himself down to her eye level. “I won’t pretend to trust you. I want to, but I’m not there yet. I’m willing to give you a try, though. Don’t let me down.”