Liar's Bench

by Kim Michele Richardson

  I bent down for an Osage ball and massaged the tough fruit against my forehead to hide the shame of my ancestors. I thought about Grammy Essie, how she’d finally set Frannie’s story to pen for history’s sake, since nobody else would. And telling me how after it happened (the it always squeezed out in a tight whisper), nothing would grow in front of the courthouse: every shrub, flower, and tree they’d planted would just shrivel up and die. That is, until the Osage tree took root. It was planted next to the courthouse nearly seventy-five years after Frannie’s kin built the bench here, with the seat positioned to face the courthouse commons, as if they knew the tree would be coming and wanted to get a good view. Now those funny little fruits always seemed to make their way across the street from the courthouse, to rest beneath the shade of Liar’s Bench.

  Bobby took my hands and lowered me down on Liar’s Bench, looking at me all serious-like. “Most of my relatives had color, Mudas. They were passed around in wills and deeds, same as the silverware and the mules. Just a piece of property, something to be owned.”

  I grimaced. “Bobby, you’re the same as me. Look.” I pulled up a lock of my mix of brown hair and put it next to my gray eyes. Pointed to the splay of light and dark freckles across my nose. I smiled, clicked my white teeth, and stuck out my pink tongue. “See. I’m just full of rainbows.”

  “So, you don’t care that I have color in me? That Frannie Crow was my relative, my blood-kin?”

  “No,” I said quietly.

  “Then say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That you don’t care that I’m colored—a nigger Injun.”

  “I told you, I don’t care. And I don’t care what ignorant rednecks think.”

  “Say it, Mudas. Say you don’t care that I’m a nig—”

  “Stop, Bobby.”

  “Just say it.”

  “I said stop it! I’m not gonna insult you with those words.”

  “C’mon, Mudas—”

  I looked at him carefully, not sure why he wanted me to blaspheme him like this. His eyes were determined. “Okay, Bobby, okay, you’re colored! A half-breed. A nigger! And I don’t give a spit! Happy now?” He looked anything but. I sighed. “Bobby, it doesn’t matter to me. But, we’ve got to worry about the Klan and their kin scattered about these parts, always lurking—as you know—waiting to target anyone a split-hair different than their scumbag selves.”

  “I’m not afraid of cowardly jerkwads,” Bobby sneered.

  “I’m not either,” I whispered, waving the lie off Liar’s Bench.

  Bobby softened and pulled back. “I’m sorry for upsetting you,” he said, shaking his head. “I know you’ve got bigger worries than a century-old hanging and my family.” Stretching his long legs outward, he slouched down on Liar’s Bench, linked his hands behind his head. “It’s just this bench . . . it punches up all these feelings in my bones I can’t control. It’s like whenever I sit here, I can picture my gramma sitting right next to me. Hell, sometimes it feels like she’s trying to tell me something. Hah, how’s that for crazy?”

  I gave an involuntary shudder. “I can feel something, too. It makes me feel closer to my grammy. And, you know what? I think it’s kind of cool that one of your grammies was Frannie Crow.”

  “We’re cool, then?” He flicked my dangling ribbon.

  “Cool,” I replied, slipping into a smile. It felt good to share worries.

  “Hmm, that’s strange.” Bobby lifted my wrist in the air, twisted, then sniffed the ribbon. He aimed the fabric toward the sun and squinted.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll be damned.” He whistled. “Looks to me like this ribbon has writing on it. Real faint. Maybe you’ve got yourself some sort of message here, darlin’.”

  “Pfft, you’re joshing?”

  “Nope.” He grinned. “See right here, on the back of the ribbon? The pink side?” He turned it over. “Not the flowered side. The pink here has turned a bit blue-brown. It’s got a scrawl of chicken scratch.”

  “Huh.” I inspected the ribbon.

  “Maybe it’s a secret message,” he said, growing excited. “My gramps Jessum served in the war and he told me all about how army intelligence used invisible ink to send their secrets back and forth. Way cool. He even showed me how to make my own invisible ink out of vinegar or lemon. Even milk. Here, take it off and let me see.”

  “Ah, lemon. That’s it! Mama told me, too, that her daddy was a soldier and he taught her how to make the ink. We were just talking about it, Bobby. She dug up my old chemistry set last week.” I picked out the knots and handed the ribbon to Bobby. “That was the last time I saw her.”

  He held the ribbon up to the sun and examined it closely, twisting his head to get a better look. “I’m guessing an R and an O, or P, it looks like an S . . . maybe, hmm, maybe two Os and a T? That mean anything to you?”

  “Really?” I leaned into him. “Roo? Rop? Root, Roos. Aha!” I jumped up from Liar’s Bench. “Rooster! ROOSTER RUN! Wow, Bobby! It’s got to be Rooster Run, right? Maybe the ribbon is connected to McGee’s Rooster Run ledger that Mama was working on. It’s got to be.”

  I peered at the ribbon, and sure enough saw the faded words. Excitement, fear, and dread ran through me.

  Bobby stood up and clasped my hand. “Let’s go out to McGee’s and look around. Maybe we’ll find the answers you need.”

  “What?” I pulled away. “No way, Bobby. I want to, but what if we get caught? McGee is dangerous. Everybody knows it. He hangs with a bunch of politicians—has them all in his pocket so he can do whatever he likes. He’s untouchable.” I felt my still-sore forehead, picturing the evil that had spilled out of McGee’s eyes and hung thick to his body, before taking a chokehold on me.

  “It’s important we get you some answers, Mudas. Find out who killed your mama.” Bobby drew me close and nuzzled my hair. “Don’t worry; I’ll be right there with you.”

  I took the ribbon from him, wrapped it back around my wrist, and tied it tight. “I want to find out the truth, Bobby, I do. But if Daddy ever found out, there’d be hell to pay. I just, I can’t. . . .” My words jumped, then parachuted into a whispered cowardice.

  He frowned. “Nothing’s stopping you. I’ll help. And,” he reasoned, “I know it’s scary, but it’s not half as scary as knowing there’s somebody out there who did that to your mama.”

  “I’m too afraid,” I said, embarrassed—embarrassed because I admitted it and embarrassed because I didn’t want to admit it to another. “Mewls like a sick kitten,” Mama’d said when she dropped me back off in Peckinpaw all those years ago. I knew it was just another way of her saying “coward.” The words had settled like gravel in my belly. “Too afraid,” I repeated.

  Bobby shook his head slowly and extended his hand. “I’d be afraid not to.”

  If only I’d stayed with her at Tommy’s, she would be here today. Mewls like a sick kitten. Could it be all along I was the one who’d been doing the actual leaving. I stood, rubbed the ribbon across my lips. Back and forth, back and forth, the memories scratched: Jingles saying Mama was tired of living. Daddy saying it was Tommy who drove her to the brink. The words slipped in between twirling ribbons.

  I looked over my shoulder to the half stack of Wednesday’s papers left over in the newsstand, the Smitt County Herald, with Mama’s name inserted under the word Suicide in big bold print. If I didn’t stop them, they were going to let the truth stay buried with her. Smear her name worse than it already was.

  In one thunderclap of thought, I cast off the whole scene—what the officials said, what my daddy thought, and what that stinking birdcage liner of a newspaper wrote. “She didn’t kill herself, Bobby.” I glared at the metal box. “She wouldn’t do that.”

  Bobby gripped my shoulder.

  “You’re right,” I said, “I have to find Mama’s killer, find the truth. This ribbon is a compass pointing us straight to McGee and that Rooster Run ledger. We’ve got to go to Hark Hill,” I sai
d, full of purpose and promise. “C’mon, Bobby, I’m ready, let’s go.”

  13

  Rooster Run

  Bobby placed his hand in mine, his fingers wrapping securely, like armor against fear, and for a moment I felt empowered—strong and protected. We crossed over to my car and headed out to the old Hark Hill Plantation, Roy McGee’s horse farm. Five miles outside of Town Square, we passed over two wooden bridges and then drove several more miles down tree-canopied lanes. The farther away from town we got, the fewer cars we passed. The country roads were empty, except for John Webb’s creaky water delivery truck making its normal Wednesday rounds.

  Bobby said to take the second fork to Kat Walk Road, a dragon tail of a path, and then follow another mile alongside the Persimmon Branch Creek, where we could park and slip in unnoticed through the back of McGee’s property. “No one will ever see it tucked there,” Bobby promised.

  I could only hope. Any kid who’d accepted a dare had, at one time or another, snooped around the 500-acre plantation that McGee called Rooster Run. Others, more foolish, would drive out to nestle their cars in the dense woods, thinking them a perfect lovers’ hideaway. But really, the risk of getting caught was half the fun. We’d all heard the horror stories about McGee sneaking up on unsuspecting teens necking in their cars. Catching the kids heated an’ hitting third base, he’d angrily thump the hood and force the startled, buck-naked lovers outside with a double-barrel twelve gauge. Then he’d gather up their carelessly strewn clothes from inside the car, forcing the sobbing, begging lovers to drive home in their birthday suits.

  I wondered how many times Bobby had been to McGee’s and, more so, what or who had brought him out there.

  I’d never tried anything so bold as all that. But I had been up to Rooster Run once before, when I was maybe ten or eleven, and Daddy’d had legal business with McGee. He’d let me ride along up to the plantation, but left me sitting in McGee’s garden for what seemed like forever. Surrounded by life-size statues, with ivy and roses trailing, and twisting macabre around their marble bodies, I’d been scared half to death. I’ll never forget how relieved I was when Daddy and McGee finally walked out from behind the barn—him bragging about how much money he’d spent restoring the 150-year-old fieldstone Spring House behind it, turning it into his office. I ran up, interrupting, begging a tummy ache and pleading with Daddy to take me home.

  Now, I pulled my Mustang behind some bushes, snugged it up to a mulberry alongside the creek, and parked, not fussing that the birds would release purple bombs onto its shiny new wax job. Didn’t matter, so long as we weren’t found. Bobby and I edged out and quietly shut the doors. I shoved my car key into the back pocket of my jeans.

  A steady breeze accompanied the day, making the August heat just a little more tolerable.

  Bobby held out a hand and I took it.

  He stooped over to pick up a branch. Using it to help clear a path before us, we made our way slowly through the wood’s whistling pines and moss-sheltered oaks. We stopped more than once when our rustling of the leaves and broken twigs had caused a rabbit to flee across our path, or brought out a squirrel to chatter and scold.

  I kept my eyes peeled for copperheads, carefully sniffing the air for cucumber—their signature musk—and pausing every now and then to cock my ear and listen for the warning whir of a rattlesnake’s tail. Balsam pines, wild berry plants, honeysuckle, and damp leaves perfumed the air, in equal measure.

  As Bobby pushed away branches, the long twigs sprung back to shape after we’d passed, throwing shivers of half shadows across the earth. The summery breeze lifted, and cooled, abandoning leaves to quiver in its wake. I stopped to pause before I passed a Kentucky warbler perched on top of a rotting stump, calling loudly to its mate. The ugliness of death and sorrow seemed to slip, and a hopeful glow of life and renewal rushed over me.

  Shortly before we reached the clearing, Bobby dug inside his jean pocket and pulled out a Buck knife, then crouched down on an apron of leaves. He peeled off his T-shirt. His muscular body was suddenly awash in gold sunspots that snuck through the trees, accentuating each curved cut of flesh. I felt my face warm.

  “What are you doing, Bobby?”

  “Making us some trail markers, so we don’t get lost.” Gripping the shirt in one hand and the knife in another, he secured the T-shirt under his knee, then jerked upward and sliced the bottom hem off quick, leaving the edge jagged.

  For a brief second, maybe longer, I thought hard about grabbing the cotton rag and burying my face in it, soaking up Bobby’s scent, just like Grammy Essie’d taught me.

  My obsession with eau de boy had started the year I turned twelve, when Clyde Cole stole a kiss from me on Liar’s Bench, my very first. The next day, he’d snuck another behind the school bleachers: a genuine spit-swapper, that is, not a passing peck. And, truth be told, they weren’t really stolen, because I had surrendered to those kisses easily. But still, it was unexpected and confusing. I’d marched right on over to Grammy Essie’s (after I’d sat on Liar’s Bench and bragged to a few, just a few girls from school), where I’d hem-hawed and turned beet-faced before I finally got my nerve up to ask: “Grammy, how do you know when it’s true love?” I’d climbed up onto the old metal-red stepstool next to her stove and perched, waiting for her answer.

  Grammy Essie’d been frying up jowl bacon and peppered chops for dinner. She wiped her palm on her apron, and said, “Since you’re a big twelve now, I reckon’ you’re old enough to know a few things.”

  I’d sat up straight, pulling up all the bigginess that my twelve-year-old body could muster.

  Then she’d picked up her spatula, tapped the iron skillet, and said, “It’s the scent, chil’. The scent.”

  Perplexed, I’d looked up at her and waited. Grammy Essie peeled back the aluminum foil from the plate of cooked meats and handed me a small piece of bacon. “It’s a scent like that piece of jowl that’s making your mouth water. Go ahead,” she’d nudged. “Smell it and take a bite.”

  I’d taken a whiff, then a bite, before a grin spread across my face.

  Grammy Essie had grabbed a piece for herself. “Mm-mm.” She smacked her lips after each bite. “It leaves you drooling for more, eh? A slow feed that fuels the belly and heart.” Grammy Essie handed me a whole slice of bacon. “But”—she’d raised her spatula—“sometimes the nose will mislead you and you get the bellyache. The bellyaching scent is the one you’ll want to be cautious of. Fickle, that one is.”

  “Bellyache?”

  “S’okay, chil’, you’ll know the difference between the two when it’s time. But before you go getting the mind-set to take up with just any Kentucky boy”—she’d playfully tweaked my nose—“be mindful of your scents.” She’d lightly rapped my head with her knuckles. “An’ the common sense God gave you,” she’d added softly.

  I had blushed and quickly taken another bite of bacon to hide behind.

  “Muddy, smell that pot of turnips cooking on the back burner?” Leaning over the stove, she’d lifted the lid and dipped her utensil inside the pan, giving a whirl to the boiling water.

  I’d wrinkled my nose and fanned away the pungent steam.

  Grammy Essie had picked up a dishtowel and opened the oven. “Sometimes you’ll have to wade through the scent of bitter to get to the sweet,” she’d winked, pulling out a bubbling brown peach pie. The smell of buttery pastry and cinnamon wafted, drawing me close. “Mmm. True love.” She’d sat the pie on the windowsill to cool and, satisfied, stepped back to gather me in a hug. “The nose’ll show you, and your heart will follow, chil’. Now, why don’t you scoot down to the cellar and fetch me two small potatoes so you can help me make up a few loaves of Potato Candy for the church social.”

  I had paid extra special attention after that, carefully sniffing—sneaking around to lean in close, give a friendly hug or whisper when I found myself around a boy. I became fascinated by the scent of boy. Consumed with curiosity and a strange bellyache of want—t
he hunger had driven me to pay an unexpected overnight visit to ThommaLyn’s house.

  ThommaLyn had four older brothers, each one different and cuter than the next. And, if there was any sure way to understand and explore Grammy Essie’s mystery scent, the how-you’ll-know-it’s-love scent, I’d figured, surely I’d find my answers there. The next morning, I’d awoke before ThommaLyn, snuck into her brothers’ bedrooms, found their worn T-shirts, and stuffed one from each into my overnight bag.

  Mortified about getting caught and labeled a freak (and a shirt thief to boot), I’d excused myself from the breakfast table early and made a hasty retreat across the meadows toward home. When I reached one of our fields, I’d plopped down under a blossoming apple tree, the one closest to the running brook, and pulled out the brothers’ T-shirts from my bag. I buried my face in each one, inhaling deeply. Boys. All similar, musky and a little sweaty, but the most curious and alluring shirt, by far, was that of the second-oldest brother, Bernie. I couldn’t put a finger on why I liked it the best. I just did.

  I’d stretched out under the tree, picked up Bernie’s thread-worn shirt, and inhaled as I trailed the scent of boy across my face. It wasn’t enough. Stripping off my blouse, I’d pulled on his T-shirt, buried my nose in the collar, and took several deep breaths. Drowsy, tingly, and feeling blissfully happy, I’d drifted off to sleep. I don’t recall coming to terms with any one understanding of scent, but I did find a sweetness somewhere amidst the salty musk of male, the apple-blossom breezes, the late-morning birdcalls, and the whir of honeybees that left me surrendering to a heated blush that crept ever so slowly over my entire being.

  I’d slept with Bernie’s T-shirt for a good month, and puppy-dogged him around for another, until ThommaLyn threatened to end our friendship if I didn’t stop acting all fool-zappy.

  But I didn’t truly understand the first thing about the scent until I met Tripp Seacat, my first serious “steady.” His was a wild and confusing chemical-like mix that had eventually turned to turnips, trailing like wet dog on a rainy day. But Bobby, he was nothing like that. Bobby was the scent of warm berry cobbler, the calming allure of fresh-turned earth and coming home—a soul-feed that sated and, not uncomfortably, left me yearning for more.