Liar's Bench

by Kim Michele Richardson

  Bobby put his arm around my shoulder as we hurried to my car.

  “Wow! Righteous ride. Yours?”

  “Yeah, I got her last Thursday. For my birthday.”

  “Cool! Have you named her yet?”

  “Peggy’s her name.”

  “Nice. She’s real pretty.” Bobby sang the chorus of “Peggy Sue,” running his hands across the hood.

  I opened the driver’s door. “Let’s go.” I wanted to get out of here before Jingles or my daddy came looking for me. I hit the dash several times with my palm to get a radio station. Sammy Davis, Jr.’s “The Candy Man” dropped into a whir before the radio cut itself off.

  “Hey, Mudas, looky-here, I bought you a birthday present.” Bobby shoved the brown package into my hand.

  The distraction was welcome; with Bobby in the dark about Mama, I could almost pretend that everything was okay. “Oh. Me? Hey, you didn’t have to do that.” I tore open the wrapping, ever so briefly forgetting my troubles when I saw the two books.

  “I got them at the Brattle Book Shop in Boston,” he said, sitting straight up. “I remembered you talking about him.” He tapped William Faulkner’s Light in August. “And this one looked pretty cool. My mom picked it out.” He reddened. “Uh, well, I hope you like them,” he added.

  I picked up Mary Rodgers’s Freaky Friday. For a minute, I was tongue-tied at the thought of him even mentioning me to his mama. Finally, I found my voice. “Yes, thanks. They’re awesome, Bobby. Really, super!” I said. ’Course, what I really wanted to tell him was that he was super.

  “I’ve missed you, Mudas.” Bobby lifted a loose curl off my shoulder and held it between his fingers.

  I turned away to hide the sudden candy-cane blush I felt heating into a smile I couldn’t help. I loved that he called me by my real name instead of the dirt name. Ages ago, he’d asked me which one I preferred, and never forgot my answer. He always said it all pretty-like, too. It felt good to hear it now. I turned back and gave him an appreciative smile.

  Bobby leaned in closer. He placed his hand on my thigh way above the knee, tingling skin, dizzying my mind. Suddenly hungry for life, I leaned into the moment and reached for him, parting my mouth to fill it with something more than the bitterness of the last week. Something like Bobby.

  My dangling wristlet cut through the hunger like a sword. I looked at Mama’s ribbon and was overcome by emotions. I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I can’t. Let’s go somewhere we can talk, okay?” I said, moving away.

  For a minute he looked wounded. But just as quickly, he recovered and the hurt in his eyes turned to confusion and concern. He released his hold and nodded. “So, where are we off to and what’s going on?” he asked, pulling up a weak smile and settling into the passenger seat.

  10

  The Scent of a Lie

  We cruised past Liar’s Bench. Two elders were sitting there jawing. I circled Town Square twice, then squeezed into a parking spot in front of Peck’s Pool Hall.

  “I’ll grab us a Coke. Be right back,” Bobby said. He walked into the pool hall while I waited outside, like all females did—respectable ones, that is.

  Crossing over to the bench with my hand in his, we nodded to the two old men, who looked to be deep in reminiscence. Dutifully, we shuffled past and waited. We hung out in silence, sharing the drink, and studying Parton & Porter’s window display of leather goods. Bobby looked full to bursting with questions, but he could tell that I wasn’t ready to talk. He pointed out the newest leather belts in the window, the ones with turquoise stone buckles.

  After about five minutes, the elders stood and adjusted their identical suspenders, then tipped their straw fedoras and bid each other fond farewells. Bobby and I sat down on Liar’s Bench, his hand clutching mine, my pink gills slowly speckling green.

  “All right, what is it, Mudas? What’s wrong? You don’t look so good.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to find the words.

  “Please, Mudas, just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

  I took a deep breath. “It’s my mama.”

  He nodded. “Okay. What happened?”

  “She’s gone, Bobby.”

  “Back to Nashville?”

  I shook my head. “No, gone,” I said meaningfully, my voice cracking.

  Bobby’s eyes widened. “You mean . . . ?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, gone forever,” I burst out, no longer able to contain the hurricane churning inside me. My mouth seemed to grow a set of runner’s legs and soon I was running with the unspeakable words that had been pent up for too long.

  “I can’t stop seeing it. It was so horrible, Bobby. Tommy was on one of his drug highs that night, as usual—staggered home just as the morning paper hit the stoop and passed out on the bedroom floor. Probably paid no mind to baby Genevieve lying under her music mobile. When he woke up they say he stumbled into the living room and gawped beetle-eyed upward to see my mama . . . her eyes black and her body bruised . . . dangling from one of the exposed rafters.”

  Bobby knotted up his forehead.

  I pinched back the tears and took a breath so I could get the words out. This was hard, but it was a relief to let it out, here, now, with Bobby’s hand in mine.

  “His neighbor, Higgy Flynn, says he saw it all, watched him come home and everything he did after. When he woke up, Tommy started bellowing, and that’s when Higgy made a beeline to plaster his nose to the windows. I got hold of the report that Sheriff put together after taking down Higgy’s story.”

  Bobby shook his head. “What else did it say?”

  “Well, Higgy said Tommy kept cussing and hollering about ‘the mess Mommy’s done gone and left us.’ Higgy could see him cranking Genevieve’s mobile and gibbering to her. Then Tommy stumbled into the kitchen, yelling for some sort of ‘salvation.’ As usual, the bastard found his grace in a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon and some other stuff.”

  “I bet he was lit like the Fourth,” Bobby whistled low.

  “He was loaded, and headin’ into New Year’s Eve.” I thought about what Higgy said. How he watched Tommy place the rim of the bottle on the edge of the stove and smack the cap off with the palm of his hand, like all the ol’ boys do. And I thought how some kids were terrified of noises like police sirens, hornet buzz, or the crack of lightning. But for me, it was the cap popping off the beer bottle sound. The one that would explode in my ears and drop deep into the pit of my stomach. Its alarm meant Tommy-trouble. More than once I’d wet my pants before his fist could meet mine or Mama’s flesh, or his belt buckle could cut into our skin. Which only made it worse when Tommy yanked my pants down and made fun of me because I’d wet them.

  “Mudas?” Bobby shook my arm. “You okay? You’re shivering. Mudas . . .”

  Instinctively, I jerked away, feeling light-headed. “I . . . I’m fine.” I worried my knuckles over my wrist that Tommy had broken long ago, kneading the same as Daddy did with his ol’ knee injury. “Higgy said he saw Tommy pull out an aspirin tin and a baggie full of a rainbow of pills. Said Tommy dropped paper onto his tongue and chased it down with beer and whiskey.”

  “Acid?” Bobby asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” I said, “Sheriff said so. Said they found all kinds of other bad stuff. Higgy said that, after Tommy took it, he seemed to sink deeper into a haze, because he lifted the lid on Mama’s casserole dish, took one sniff, and shoved it off the counter, roaring something about her cleaning up her own ‘slop.’ Maybe . . . probably ’cause he knew she’d made me the dish for my birthday.”

  “Damn, Mudas, that son of—”

  “But”—I shook my head, determined to let out the monster—“if that wasn’t bad enough, Tommy reached for the whiskey bottle again. Him, always reaching—pounding back the burn that stoked the devil coals inside him. Bastard.”

  Teary-eyed, I looked up at Bobby to make sure he didn’t think I was the high one, the one pounding down the whiskey. His eyes were full in disbelief. He squeezed my han
d and whispered, “Pantywaist coward. I bet he was fully jacked by then.”

  “Higgy told ’em that the phone rang twelve times before Tommy found it. It was Hettie, the fill-in desk clerk. Said she was calling to ask about Mama’s missed dispatcher’s shift. Hettie said Tommy told her ‘she wouldn’t be in, though she might be able to pull the graveyard shift.’ ”

  “Shit-fire,” Bobby burst.

  Bobby had my hand in a near death grip.

  I looked down at our hands, mine holding back just as tight, and finished with a scratchy whisper, “Genevieve . . . this . . .” I shook my head. “When Sheriff kicked in the door fifteen minutes later, he said he found Tommy with his foot in the air, winding up her body, right in front of baby Genevieve.”

  Bobby inhaled a sharp breath.

  “Jingles wrote out in his report how Tommy had taken two of Mama’s pink hair ribbons from her braids, tied one around each ankle, and fashioned a human mommy-mobile above the playpen. He kept cracking to Genevieve how, ‘Mommy always wanted to go to the big city and be a ballerina and look how she’s dancing now.’ ”

  I wiped away the tears. Bobby buried his head in his hands and rubbed hard like he was trying to erase dirt.

  “Sheriff said Tommy leaned into the ladder-back chair, took his big toe, and prodded Mama’s body. Then the very worst. He told baby Genevieve to watch. “Told her, ‘Look-a-here, baby . . . Watch Mommy spin!’ Sheriff said he saw Genevieve reach her arms up and heard her gurgle out sputters of laughter while Tommy said over and over, Sp-sp . . .” Bobby grasped my hand tighter. “ ‘Spin,’ he said! ‘Spin, Mommy, spin a pretty ballerina turn for baby. Spin!’ he kept saying! ‘Sp—’ ” I strangled on a sob.

  “Bastard,” Bobby wheezed.

  “Sheriff said he ain’t never seen nothing like it and he just stood, shocked, in the doorway for a minute before he snatched Tommy up and busted his jaw.”

  “Oh my God, Mudas,” Bobby hissed out in one wild burst, his face draining. “Crazy bastard! I’m so sorry! Jesus Christ!” He stood, clenched his fists and circled around the bench, and then paced in front of me, before sitting back down.

  “Come here, Mudas,” he soothed, pulling me closer to him. I felt myself unwind as he rubbed my back and cradled my head in the crook of his shoulder. “I can’t believe this. How can this be?” Bobby said. “When—”

  “I can’t either. It all happened nearly a week ago,” I said, my words thickening. “Friday, on my birthday.”

  “Damn, Mudas. Damn, I’m sorry, I—I really don’t know what to say. What’s everyone saying?”

  “Suicide . . . That’s what they’re trying to call it, Bobby.” I pointed over to the newsstand. “But, my mama would never!”

  “I know she wouldn’t. No way, no how.” Bobby scowled.

  My body grew limp. It felt good to have someone squarely on my side. Not having to explain myself, not needing to defend what I knew to be the Gospel truth. Bobby held me with a gentle silence.

  “Tommy’s dead, too. They found him hanging in the jail cell this morning,” I said numbly.

  “Jesus.” Bobby digested the information. “Wait a minute. Did he finally own up to it? And they’re still gonna call it suicide?”

  “I don’t know. I . . . I think Tommy did it. My daddy does, too. I mean, Tommy always used to beat on Mama. So . . .” I wiped my face with the hem of my shirt. Bobby seized my hand, an unspoken pledge of his support. Still, he was staring over at the Osage tree and stroking his jaw with what Grammy Essie used to call the “disappearing look,” the one that appears in a man’s eyes when he can’t fix it—or fix you.

  I blew out a breath. “I need to go into Top Hat and get a napkin.”

  “Let me go get it for you,” Bobby said, patting my knee. “I’ll be right back.”

  I couldn’t help worrying if he would.

  I saw the Cooper twins slip out of Milton’s Hardware, both wearing predictable smiles and carrying a bag of hardware to fix whatever was broke—build whatever it was that needed raising. It seemed most men carried a grin coming out of Milton’s, no matter how complex the chore. I couldn’t help but think of Papaw’s words: “T’aint nothing that’s man-made that I can’t fix,” he’d always declared, his eyes smiling in anticipation.

  But if something was just a tad off kilter with a woman, Grammy Essie had said, something intangible, sort of like a Monday morning—a washday-blues sadness that couldn’t be explained or fixed by a man’s righty-tighty, lefty-loosey wrench—most men would just wring their hands, then amble off. That kind of “brokenness” in a woman had even been known to drive a man or two to drink, Grammy’d said.

  Bobby returned with what looked like a whole dispenser of napkins and shoved the clump into my hand. I was so relieved to see that he hadn’t scuttled away, I quickly wiped my face and tossed the napkins into the nearby trash can, resolving to get control of my brokenness before I scared him off for good.

  “You all right, Mudas?”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ll be okay.” I attempted a smile. “Still wound up about everything.”

  “Mudas, I’m real sorry about your mama. I’ve had my share of hard times, nothing quite like this, but some pretty bad ugly in my life, so if there’s anything I can do, well, I’m here for you, okay?”

  “Thanks, Bobby.”

  “You’re gonna be just fine, you know that? Just fine. We’ll get you through this.”

  I found calm in his words, but knew they were just that: words. We both knew there wasn’t any fixing this—me.

  “You hungry? I can grab us a burger,” Bobby offered.

  I shook my head.

  “Sun’s starting to heat. Maybe a milkshake?”

  “No, really, I’m good.” I smiled at his insistence. My gramps was the same way. He thought the best way to cure a woman’s tears was by feeding the belly—starting with his own.

  “You sure, Mudas? My gramps always says having a milkshake is like having a liquid smile.”

  Mr. Gooch walked slowly up to the bench with Mrs. Gooch in tow. He stuck out his chin and peered over his spectacles at us. Then he tapped his cane, waiting.

  I slowly stood up to let the elders sit a spell. “Your gramps and mine would’ve gotten along fine.” I managed to squeeze out a short, tight laugh, but it felt all wrong. “You know what, Bobby, I could use a little something.” I needed to settle my stomach. Maybe a bite would help the nausea. I couldn’t risk a repeat of emptying it like I had in Mama’s yard.

  We walked into the diner. Bobby ordered a grilled cheese and milkshake. I nibbled on a pack of saltine crackers that were stuffed into the basket on our table. After a few of those, my head cleared and my stomach felt somewhat settled. The waitress kept glancing over at me, so I ordered a coke and picked up half of Bobby’s grilled cheese. Halfway through our food, I caught the waitress looking again as she whispered something to the cook. The cook gave her a to-go bag. She brought it over to our table and placed it near Bobby’s plate.

  I started to protest. They didn’t want the two of us in here together. But Bobby stood, shook his head, and reached for a tip. “C’mon Mudas, let’s warm up, it’s getting frosty in here.”

  I tossed my napkin onto the to-go bag, unsure of what to say. We settled back onto an empty Liar’s Bench. After a few minutes, Bobby asked, “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Sorry about that in the diner . . . She’s—”

  He waved my apology away. “I’m glad you’re safe, Mudas. I never knew your stepdad. But the thought of him being alive and out here around you, would’ve . . . At least that’s one less thing to worry about.”

  “I know. Still, nothing seems to fit. Losing her is bad enough, but on top of that, none of it makes a lick of sense. I don’t know what to think anymore. Don’t even think I can trust my daddy. He’s been lying to me, keeping secrets. I don’t know what, but I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  Bobby looked at me quizzically.

  I sighed. “You know
when they found Mama, she had those ribbons. Pink hair ribbons. They weren’t even in her hair.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Bobby heated up again. “I just . . . That crazy son of a bitch!”

  “I know. The thing is, Mama doesn’t—didn’t—wear hair ribbons. Tommy made her use plain rubber bands to tie back her hair. Didn’t like her to have pretty things.”

  “I don’t understand, Mudas. What’s this got to do with your dad?”

  “Everything. This morning, I found the same exact kind of ribbon in his room.” I lifted my wrist and shook the ribbon. “This.”

  Bobby took my hand. “Mudas, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

  “No, everyone knows Nettie sells most things in threes, especially all her hair stuff. The ribbons are from her store—I even found the package in his room. I confronted him about it, but he’s not talking. We had this huge fight, Bobby, it was awful. I think he’s never really accepted that Mama picked Tommy over him.” I grew quiet for a moment. “His excuses are full of holes. Yeah, he’s hiding something from me. Something big.”

  Bobby squeezed my hand. “It doesn’t make sense, Mudas. Your dad’s one of the good guys. There’s got to be an explanation for all this.”

  I nodded, wanting more than anything to believe him. Toying with the threads of the ribbon wrapped around my wrist, I smelled a faint hint of lemon—Mama’s scent—now a sad and heart-rending reminder.

  “You know, I saw her the day before she died. Last Thursday. I dropped by her house to show her my new ride and, well, I know you’ve only been in Peckinpaw a short spell, but do you know who Roy McGee is?”

  “I’ve heard the talk. All bad. Why?”

  “He was there, right in her house, trying to get information about some book. Called it the ‘Rooster Run ledger.’ He was really mad, Bobby. I could hear them in the next room: He was smacking her around and accusing her of lying and stealing Rooster Run’s money—‘his money,’ he said. Told her to get to work on his books and get his Rooster Run ledger back to him. When I asked her about it, she said she was helping Tommy keep McGee’s books. His accounts and all. But it didn’t set right, and I think this ledger has something to do with all this. If I could just find it, maybe I could get a clue. Find out who did this to her. Find the truth.”