by Lori Roy
Some will come by car, others by foot. They’ll sip iced lavender tea, eat warm slices of Grandma’s lavender bread, punched down twice and left to rise on the sill, and buy freshly cut bundles. Some will choose blossoms narrowly in bloom and hang them upside down to dry in a spare bedroom like the farmers hang tobacco from the rafters of their barns. Others will choose bundles in full bloom and display them on their dining room tables.
Grandma will wear her best blue cotton skirt on that day, its pleats painstakingly ironed for just the occasion. She’ll waltz among the ladies and instruct them on how best to sprinkle lavender oil on their pillows for a good night’s sleep or how many drops to add to a warm bath to soothe a crabby child or even a crabby husband. There will be music and food, and the men will sip corn whiskey and smoke cigars. The ladies who come on that Sunday will wear their churchgoing dresses and hats and will pin up their hair. They’ll listen, though they won’t stand too close, as Grandma rattles off instructions for tending a skinned knee with a cotton ball and a few drops of oil. The ladies will nod, smile, sip their tea, but they’ll be ever so slightly wary of Grandma because she has the know-how, and didn’t Aunt Juna have it too? And what about that Annie? She has those eyes, you know, those black eyes.
Every year, this is how it happens, and this year will also include Abraham Pace and Abigail Watson saying their “I dos.” It was Grandma’s idea. The whole town will join in. The ladies will come and their husbands. There will be food and drink. There will be smoking, chewing, spitting, singing, the gathering of beautiful bouquets, but it all will begin, as it does every year, with the explosion of the lavender. It will be a powerful moment, and Annie has, these past many days, been feeling its approach much like a person might feel an oncoming train through the rattle in her feet that carries first through the rails and then through the ground and finally through the air. The coming of such a lot of splendor will fill a person up, near to the rim. This is what Grandma said when Annie complained of the spark, the sizzle, the something that clawed at her. But Grandma had been wrong. That spark wasn’t the lavender and it wasn’t a yearning of any kind. It was Aunt Juna coming home again.
• • •
WHILE GRANDMA SCRAMBLES eggs, Mama begins running the bread through the toaster. It’ll burn if left to its own, so she stands with one finger on the toaster’s lever, ready to flip it up at the first scent of charred crust. Caroline busies herself by rinsing the grounds from the coffeepot and pouring the orange juice, and Annie sits at the table with Daddy and Abraham Pace because it’s her special day and Mama says no chores on a young lady’s day of ascension. She also says that’s why they’ll be skipping church this morning. That and it’s setting day, though Annie thinks it’s mostly because the last Baine is dead and that will have folks talking.
Abraham will eat in a hurry today. Normally, every other year on this day, Daddy would too. The dry weather early last month meant easy work for the plows, and the rains earlier in the week softened the soil. It’s all made for a perfect day. Annie can smell it this year. The rich soil. She can smell it like she never before has. It’ll be black, cool to the touch, silken if rubbed between two fingers. The men will walk in straight rows that have been cut through Abraham Pace’s land. They’ll drop the tender plants, being careful of their green leaves and feathery roots. Some will feed the machine that drops the seedlings. Others will tend the dirt, pat it down just so. Others still will drop water. Abraham inherited all his daddy’s land, so says Grandma, and every year, he buys up more and more as other fellows find the going too tough. It’s Abraham’s best day, Daddy’s worst.
As Grandma whisks her eggs, she occasionally glances over a shoulder to see if Annie is still in her seat and hasn’t yet been taken by whatever put that empty rocking chair in motion. When Annie catches her staring, Grandma makes like she’s looking out the window beyond Annie’s shoulder or checking the clock over the door. Grandma, with hair that isn’t pinned quite as neatly this morning and apron strings that are twisted, is worried because when an empty rocking chair rocks, someone dies. She is fearing that the someone to die is going to be Annie. But someone already did die: Mrs. Baine. All that’s left is for someone to come home.
“You’ll be staying close to the house today, won’t you, Annie?” Grandma asks the third time Annie catches her staring. “Could use your help with the cake and such. You’re better with the icing than me. You whip it so nice and smooth. She should stay close to home, don’t you think, Sarah?”
Mama nods but never turns away from her toaster. “Wouldn’t hurt,” she says. “Yes, close to home.”
Mama would normally scold Grandma for encouraging the know-how in that way, but Mrs. Baine dying has weighed heavy on Mama and she can’t think about much more than that toast and keeping it from burning.
And while Mama is intent on keeping that toaster from burning her toast, Daddy is intent on watching Mama. As Mama stands, one hand resting on the toaster’s lever, the other wrapped around her waist, Daddy leans back in his chair, eyes heavy from being tired or from too much whiskey, and sighs every so often as if he’s feeling sad.
“Buell’ll be coming out this morning,” Daddy says, studying the back of Mama’s head. When Mama doesn’t turn or answer him, he stands, walks up behind her, and rests a hand on her shoulder. “Probably want to talk to you.”
Mama shifts a half step to the right, away from Daddy. “I’m sorry,” she says, reaching for the hand that had been on her shoulder, but before she can get ahold of him, Daddy slips back into his chair.
“I’m sorry, John,” Mama says again. “I’m not myself this morning.”
“It’s no wonder,” Grandma says, wrapping one of her crocheted hot pads around the skillet’s handle and taking up her eggs. “You let her be, John.”
“What makes you think he’ll want to talk with me?” Mama says, turning back to her toast.
“Trying to figure what happened to Cora, I suppose,” Daddy says.
Grandma dumps eggs first on Abraham’s plate, scraping them from the bottom of the cast-iron skillet with a fork, and dumps the rest on Daddy’s.
“I can sure enough tell Buell Fulkerson what happened,” she says, sliding the salt to Abraham.
He holds up a hand and pats his stomach. “Abigail says too much salt is causing me difficulty.”
Grandma picks up the glass shaker, gives two shakes directly over Abraham’s plate, and starts another batch of eggs.
“She’s not your wife yet, so you listen to me. Men who sweat for a living need their salt. That girl is little more than a child. Don’t you let her tell you a thing. And you,” she says, turning to Daddy and pointing at him with her fork, “you tell that Buell Fulkerson we got nothing to say on the subject of Cora Baine or any other Baine. We have worries enough of our own without worrying about those Baines.”
As if saying it out loud has reminded Grandma, she pushes aside the curtain and looks out on the front drive. She leans to get a view to the left and then to the right. She’s looking for any sign of Aunt Juna.
“Don’t you suppose she just died, Daddy?” Caroline says, offering cream to Abraham the same way Grandma offered salt. “Died from being so old?”
While everyone else in the house, most especially Annie, is ruffled and unkempt after a long night, Caroline is shining like she always does, maybe more. Her hair is glossy and tied off with a white ribbon that likely saw an iron before being wrapped around her ponytail. Her pale-green dress is equally pressed, and her eyes are bright and wide open, her lids not hanging heavy like they are on the rest of the family. From this day forth, Caroline will be ever prepared for the moment she finally meets her husband-to-be. People will be expecting the same of Annie, for her to be readying herself for her intended. On this particular morning, Annie is not yet ready.
Again, Abraham shakes his head at Caroline’s offer and pats his stomach. Pulling back from the kitchen window, Grandma gives another grunt, slips a finger through the
handle on the small white pitcher, and pours a hearty dose of cream in Abraham’s coffee.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Grandma says. “It’s Juna Crowley. She’s the one killed Cora Baine.”
“Mother, please,” Mama says, turning from her toast. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Mrs. Baine was awful old,” Caroline says, starting to tap one toe the way she does on the mornings she has a history test. “Don’t you suppose that’s all it was?”
“Buell ain’t much for supposing,” Daddy says, crossing his arms.
“Ain’t nothing to suppose,” Grandma says.
Because Daddy’s still watching Mama watching that toaster, he must not be angry about Sheriff Fulkerson or the salt and cream forbidden by Abraham’s fiancée. He must be angry with Mama.
“He’ll need to be sure,” Daddy says. “Got to ask questions to be sure.”
“Couldn’t even remember the last time I saw Cora,” Mama says. “You tell Buell that. It ought to be enough.”
“The toast, Sarah,” Grandma says, resting a hand on Mama’s shoulder same as Daddy did.
This time Mama doesn’t pull away, but it’s too late. Even though she was standing right there, her finger at the ready, the toast burned. Daddy stands and stares at the two charred pieces of bread peeking out of the silver toaster.
“Person might wonder what’s filling your thoughts this morning, Sarah,” Daddy says, and without taking a single bite of eggs or sip of his coffee, he pushes open the screen door and stomps across the porch, leaving the door to slam closed, which rankles Grandma almost as much as footprints on her kitchen floor.
Mama watches Daddy go, apologizes for ruining breakfast, and then excuses herself because she has a terrible headache. Caroline follows her with a damp cloth and two aspirins, and Grandma butters the charred toast.
The kitchen falls silent except for the sips Grandma takes from her coffee cup. Abraham Pace eats Daddy’s eggs and then nudges Annie and asks if he can have hers too, seeing as how she’s letting them go cold. Annie pushes her plate across the table, tells Grandma a spiced cake for dessert at tonight’s supper would be just fine, though Annie doesn’t much like spiced cake even when Grandma makes it at Christmas. But there is no cocoa in the pantry and Grandma would just as soon not ask anyone to go to town. Like Annie, Grandma must figure folks will be talking.
“Did you see him?” Grandma asks, reaching up and cupping Annie’s face with her tiny hands after Abraham has left the kitchen. Those hands are cool and will probably leave behind a smear of flour. As she often does, Grandma smells of lavender, salty butter, and freshly brewed coffee.
“He was brown-haired with blue eyes,” Annie says, stealing back the vision Caroline stole. “I seen him clear as day. But I didn’t know him, don’t know who he is.”
“But you will,” Grandma says. “You’ve a lifetime to find him, and when you do, you’ll know him.” Then Grandma winks. “He’ll know you too. A lifetime, you understand?”
Annie nods. Grandma is still worried about Annie being the one to die, and she thinks Annie is worried too.
“It’s all foolishness,” Grandma says, lowering her hands. “All that rocker nonsense, it’s mountain-grown foolishness.”
“So you don’t think Aunt Juna’s coming home?”
Grandma wipes her hands on her apron, pushes open the screen door, and shoos Annie through.
“Oh, no, child. Juna will come home now. I’m certain of that.”
“I don’t think I want her here,” Annie says, wondering if Grandma will scold her for speaking such a thought. “I don’t think she should come.”
“You’re wise for thinking such a thing,” Grandma says, smiling instead of scolding. “Juna Crowley is a person best forgotten.”
• • •
GRANDMA COMES FROM deep in the hills, and that’s why she has the know-how. Ever since Daddy, Mama, Caroline, and Annie came to live with Grandma, she has been single-minded about passing on the gift as she has no daughter of her own. She tried passing it on to Caroline, but she was only interested in hair brushing and fine manners. Mama refused any part of the know-how, and Grandma never bothered trying to teach Daddy. Men don’t have a knack. In the end, Grandma said Annie was the only one with any real facility for the gift, and so she would be the one to carry it on. You best know how the world works, Grandma has been telling Annie since she was nine years old, if you’re going to make your way in it.
Mostly, it’s difficult to remember it all. In the beginning, before she started feeling sparks in the air and before the yearning and the coming of the lavender, it wasn’t a matter of believing or not. Annie never gave that much thought, just like she never gave much thought to why the Lone Fork River only runs one direction and the weather always turns in late September. Having the know-how made her special. Only she knew not to brush her hair after dark and what it meant if her left foot itched and how to drink up the moon. Caroline would always be the pretty one and the smart one and the kind and considerate one. But Annie would have the know-how, and in that one thing, she would be special too.
For the better part of the morning, Annie has been sitting here on this step and wondering when and how Aunt Juna will come home. The longer she’s sat here, the more she’s found her eyes scanning the road and the fence line and Daddy’s shed and the far corner of the house, and she’s started to wonder if Aunt Juna is already here, out there, somewhere.
She knew Ryce would come back today, though she hadn’t expected him so early. When she hears that squealing again and knows Ryce Fulkerson will pop over the hill any moment, she knows why he’s come and she can only hope Lizzy Morris isn’t with him. For an entire week after Lizzy looked down into the well, the boys of Hayden County bunched around her in a pitiful fashion. She made herself up extra nice that whole week, brushing her hair over lunch and at the afternoon break. Twice, she wore dresses she would usually only wear to church and did not open a single door for herself the entire week. Pitiful. Annie kept track, even wrote herself a list of names, and swore she’d never have any part of any of those boys who might as well have pleaded on hand and knee.
Ryce was the only one who didn’t sniff around Lizzy all day every day, waiting to hear who she saw down in that well. And when finally Lizzy Morris pronounced that Ryce was the boy she saw, he had said he figured he had to marry someone and she might as well be Lizzy. He swears, even now, they haven’t had a first kiss or any other kiss. He swears it like it should matter to Annie.
“So?” Ryce says, that front wheel of his bike drawing another crooked line down the drive.
Rolling to a stop, he props himself up with one leg, holds on to the handlebars with both hands, and stares at Annie. He’s come straight from church, because he’s wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt and smells of his daddy’s cologne and his mama’s green hair gel. Annie knows it’s green because Mama uses the same when she sets her curlers. Ryce’s mama has combed it through his hair, making it shiny and slick so it would look decent for at least the length of the sermon.
“So, what?” Annie says, not bothering to stand from the porch step where she sits. She draws all her hair over her shoulder like Caroline is all the time doing and pulls it through her two hands, smoothing it because it’s likely the sort of a thing a girl should do once she’s had her day.
The smell of lavender hasn’t yet been stirred up, and instead a spicy scent fills the air. Grandma likes to whisk the cloves, ginger, and cinnamon into melted butter, says it keeps the spices from floating on top and ruining the cake.
“So, who’d you see?”
“You’re making a habit of this, Ryce Fulkerson. You smell home cooking? That what brought you?”
“Told you, ain’t looking for food.”
“Shouldn’t you be working?” Annie thinks to cross her ankles because it’s the thing a girl, a young woman, should do.
“Going soon enough. Just wondering who you seen, is all.”
&nb
sp; “How do you know I went?”
“Everyone knows you went. Everyone knows about Mrs. Baine too.”
“And just what does everyone think they know?”
“Know she’s dead,” Ryce says. “Think maybe a Holleran killed her.”
“That’s a damn fool thing to say.”
As hard as Annie is trying to do as a girl should do when she has ascended, the nastiness works its way through.
“Wasn’t me who said it,” Ryce says. “Just heard talk, is all.”
“Barely washed the breakfast dishes and you’re telling me folks are already talking?”
“You know I hear things. Can’t help it sometimes.”
More than once, Ryce has come to school and not been able to sit because of getting whipped for spreading his daddy’s business. That’s what happens when the sheriff is your daddy. About the time Ryce reached the sixth grade, he figured how to keep his mouth shut and mostly tries not to hear what his daddy tells his mama at the supper table.
“You telling me your daddy said a Holleran killed Mrs. Baine?”
“Hush, Annie.” Ryce rolls his bike forward and leans close. He’s still young enough to do what his mama tells him to do, so he smells like soap and a line-dried shirt. “That ain’t what I’m saying. It ain’t what my daddy’s saying. Not necessarily. Makes folks nervous, is all. A Baine dying on your day. Makes them remember Juna. You’re the same age she was.”
“You telling me your daddy thinks I killed Mrs. Baine?”
From behind Ryce, Daddy walks out of the shed where he disappeared a few minutes earlier, Grandma’s old rocking chair hoisted over his head. He had carried it around the house and into the shed after having told Annie he figured the old rocker needed some work, seeing as how it was making so much noise. He asked if Annie thought a few days would be enough time to fix it up. Annie said she thought a few weeks would be better, and Daddy nodded and said he’d see to it, even though they both knew nothing was wrong with that rocker. Daddy didn’t believe in the know-how, never had, and it didn’t scare him the way it scared Mama.
