by Lori Roy
But as lovely as Caroline looks, her skirt twirling like Mama’s had twirled that morning in the living room, folks aren’t looking at Caroline. They’re looking at Annie. A few stare at her over coffee cups poised at their lips. A few others tear off a piece of roll and stare down on it as if it were suddenly cursed by Annie’s appearance. The buzz of people talking falters, stops altogether. At the counter, Caroline sits, and once Annie has done the same, the conversation starts up again. Forks grind against plates. Napkins are given a good shake, laid across laps. When Annie was younger, too young to realize Aunt Juna was her real mama, she would tell Daddy and Mama she thought folks were scared of her because her eyes were black. No one else had eyes black as Annie’s. Mama said it was Annie’s imagination and that sometimes we all have a way of making trouble for ourselves when really there is no trouble to be had.
“I think Jacob will be the one Sheriff Fulkerson sends to fill in the hole,” Caroline whispers as Mrs. May sets two rolls and two glasses of milk in front of them. “He’ll be so surprised to see me.”
On those nights Caroline is allowed to visit with Jacob Riddle, either in the living room or on a walk that can last no longer than fifteen minutes, she crawls into bed and whispers to Annie about the things she won’t dare tell even Mama.
Caroline will marry Jacob Riddle one day, she’s certain of it. And not because of what she saw down in some well. That was silliness, wasn’t it? She’ll marry him because she can listen to him talk about nothing at all and still she wants to hear more. She loves the smell of him, even when it’s not such a pleasant smell, because she imagines one day she’ll wash and dry his clothes and then he’ll smell better. He does the wash himself now, and what does a man know about doing laundry?
And he likes to listen to her too, even when she talks about wanting a yellow kitchen one day, not because Mama’s kitchen is yellow but because it’s a bright, happy color and what better way to spend most of your day than with a bright and happy color. Then there was a kiss. Not just one. She won’t tell how many, but there were at least three. The first was sweet, their lips barely touching, like he wasn’t quite sure he should do it. The next time, Jacob’s lips opened ever so slightly, and his tongue— Well, she couldn’t say any more about that. There were at least three kisses because the third time it went on and on and his hands moved down her back, and she liked the way it felt when she pushed herself up against him, but he pulled away. Suddenly, almost pushed her away. He said it couldn’t go no further, though Caroline wished it would have. She didn’t know what more might come next, but she didn’t care. She wanted it. She wanted it all. And she wanted to marry Jacob Riddle the second Daddy said she was old enough.
Keeping her head down, but letting her eyes slip from side to side, Annie doesn’t answer when Caroline asks if Annie thinks it too—that Jacob will do the filling in. The something in the air, the spark, the crackle, has followed Annie all the way to this café, and she knows a thing is coming before it has come, or maybe she hears a familiar voice, and that is what warns her. Either way, it’s coming.
“Annie?”
It’s Lizzy Morris. Lizzy Morris with a shiny yellow ponytail tied off at the top of her head. Lizzy Morris wearing a pink dress because she isn’t a head taller than every other girl but the exact height a girl should be, so pink looks perfectly lovely on her and not ridiculous as it would on a girl Annie’s height. Not ridiculous as it would on Annie. And Lizzy has small hands and little feet and is wearing rose-colored lipstick because she had her day of ascension almost a year ago, though Annie knows she is still waiting for that first kiss from Ryce Fulkerson.
“Why, Annie, it is you.”
Like Caroline so often does, Lizzy smells sweet, as if every inch of her body has been massaged with lavender-scented lotions and oils, and smelling that smell on Lizzy Morris makes Annie want to grab a handful of that glistening yellow ponytail and yank it from her head. That lavender, no matter if it’s oil or lotion or a witch hazel spray, came from the Hollerans’ lavender farm.
Caroline smiles at Lizzy, but instead of visiting the way she might usually do, she rolls her chair around, putting her back to Lizzy and her friends so she can watch the hole a half a block away. Though Annie didn’t say it, Caroline is right. Sheriff Fulkerson probably will send Jacob Riddle to do the filling. During the school year, Ryce does it, but he’ll be in the field today and every other day this summer.
“We heard, Annie,” Lizzy Morris says. “Ryce told us.”
With those few words, the memory of Annie’s embarrassment, of Ryce’s eyes looking where they ought not have looked, is once again as potent as the living of it. Maybe more so. Time hasn’t healed a thing. Lizzy Morris knows and all her friends too. Annie listens hard but hears nothing of Ryce Fulkerson among the voices rattling around her. Even if she doesn’t see Ryce again until school starts, it’ll be too soon.
“We heard about the well,” Lizzy says. “About who you saw.”
Annie holds her breath so she won’t exhale and nods at Lizzy and the two other girls. Ryce didn’t tell. He didn’t tell about Annie and her rain-soaked shirt. It’s the well. Lizzy is talking about the well. Annie lets herself exhale and draws in another breath. The one thing she cannot do, will not do, is cry, not even tears of relief. Instead she forces a smile.
“It’s foolishness, Lizzy,” she says, lifting the glass of milk and pressing it to her lips but not taking a sip. The milk is cool and fresh, but if she were to take a mouthful, she might spit it all over Lizzy Morris.
Sitting here on this stool, Caroline on one side of her and Lizzy Morris on the other, Annie realizes how alike they are. They both have freshly brushed hair no matter how windy or rainy the day. Both have clear skin. No freckles, no peeling nose from too much sun. Their skirts don’t sag at the waist, and their shirts don’t hang over flat chests. The trouble with realizing such a thing is that if they’re altogether alike in those ways, they’re likely the same in other ways too. Either Lizzy is good like Caroline, or Caroline is nasty like Lizzy.
“It’s not foolishness.” Lizzy looks at the girls standing behind her. They must be Lizzy’s cousins visiting for summer break because Annie doesn’t recognize them from school. “Not foolishness at all. I think Jacob Riddle is perfect. And here he is, back in town. Ryce told us. Told us Jacob is back for good.”
Waiting for an answer or a comment of some kind, Lizzy tips her head this way and that as she stares into Annie’s black eyes. She looks from one eye to the other and back again.
“You saw Jacob, right?” Lizzy says. “Jacob Riddle?”
Annie waits for Caroline to do something, waits for her to correct Lizzy or shout at Annie or stand up and claim Jacob Riddle for herself. But she does nothing. She doesn’t roll her stool around, doesn’t move her head or lift her fork. Annie too could be the one to make it right. She could tell Lizzy she was mistaken and that Caroline is the one who saw Jacob Riddle. Annie could admit to having seen no one, or even make up another sort of fellow, but she doesn’t because she’s too selfish. Or maybe she’s too prideful. Or maybe, most likely, her will is too weak.
One of the girls with Lizzy leans up and whispers in her ear. Lizzy nods. The two girls at Lizzy’s side lower their eyes to the floor, look left of Annie, right of Annie. They don’t look her in the eyes again. But Lizzy continues to stare. She’s looking for something magical in Annie’s black eyes, something like whatever Aunt Juna must have had. Something that frightens most folks and has certainly frightened the other two girls. Or maybe it’s not Annie’s eyes Lizzy is looking at. Maybe she’s looking at Annie’s blouse and trying to see what Ryce Fulkerson saw. Maybe he did tell what happened out there in that tobacco field. He told and they all laughed. After a long moment, Lizzy straightens and shakes her head.
“Jacob Riddle is so much older,” Lizzy says when the other girls turn to go. “You’ll probably be married long before the rest of us. And then won’t you have stories to tell.”
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Caroline doesn’t move, not even after the café door opens and closes behind Lizzy Morris and her friends. As she waits for Caroline to do something, anything, Annie picks at her roll, the powdered sugar icing sticking to her fingers. She unwinds the roll until it no longer looks like a cinnamon roll should look but more like a shriveled strip of bark lying across her plate. When Mrs. May asks if something is wrong with the rolls, Annie says no ma’am and tries not to look Mrs. May in the eyes because it makes folks nervous.
Daddy is all the time saying folks most regret the things they don’t do. Mama is quick to disagree because once a thing is done, it can’t be undone, and she warns against forgetting that simple truth. Maybe both are right, but in this moment, staring down on the remnants of her cinnamon roll, Annie is regretting the thing she did not do. Most likely, Caroline loves Jacob Riddle. Not in a childish sort of way, but in the sort of way that will lead them to spend the rest of their lives having children together, making a home, one burying the other when the time comes. Annie ought not have used Jacob in the way she did.
Twenty minutes later, after the milk has warmed to room temperature and both rolls have turned cold and hard, Mama’s car rolls up outside, and she gives a short honk. Caroline stands first and walks from the café without once looking back at Annie.
Normally, Caroline would ride in the backseat since she got to ride next to Mama during the drive into town, but instead she walks to the front of the car. And normally, Annie would argue and insist she get her turn, but not today. Without giving Caroline a nasty look or making a fuss of any kind, Annie walks across the front of the car to sit behind Mama, and as she passes, she waves at Mama through the windshield, being more pleasant than she’d normally be because she’s trying to cover up Caroline’s sulking so Mama won’t ask what happened. But Mama doesn’t smile back, and she barely returns the wave. Annie steps up to the back door, grabs hold of the handle, and from this side of the car, she sees him. She sees the reason Mama didn’t smile and barely gave a wave.
“You really are as evil as everyone says you are,” Caroline whispers across the top of the car. “I’m glad you’re not my real sister.” Then she opens the door and climbs inside.
Annie stares at the empty space where Caroline had been standing. She’s playing it over in her mind, wondering if she heard Caroline correctly and yet knowing she did. As evil as everyone says you are.
A half block away, he’s still there, working a shovel into a mound of dirt at the side of the road. Ellis Baine. He’s the reason Mama didn’t return Annie’s wave and the reason she didn’t hear what Caroline said. Because of all the rain, the dirt he is working in has turned to mud. Even big as he is, he’s still slow with each shovelful he dumps as he refills the hole that’s been dug over his brother’s grave. Annie walks around the end of the car and starts down the street toward Ellis Baine.
• • •
TWICE IN THE past few weeks, as Daddy’s been sleeping on the sofa and not kissing Mama in the mornings or rubbing his stubble on the underside of her chin, Annie has seen Ellis Baine working up at his place. One of those days, she stood in the barn door, watching as he yanked out the wooden stakes meant to prop up his mama’s tomatoes and tossed them in a wheelbarrow. The thing Ellis Baine didn’t know as he yanked out those stakes was that Daddy hammered most of them into the ground. Even though Mrs. Baine showed up all too often, yelling for Mama to come out, which led Grandma to insist on fetching the sheriff, Daddy’s been the one seeing to Mrs. Baine all these years. When Ellis took a break that day after uprooting all those old plants, he stood and pulled the hat from his head. Annie waved, and he waved back.
Annie’s halfway to that hole and to Ellis Baine before the car door opens and Mama calls out to her.
“Annie,” Mama says. “Where you going? We have to get home.”
There’s the whine the handle makes on the passenger window, Caroline rolling down her window to see what Annie’s up to.
“You need help?” Annie says, stopping a dozen steps away.
Ellis Baine straightens and jams his shovel in the pile of mud. “The Holleran girl, yes?”
Annie nods, takes another few steps.
When Annie was younger—and truth be told, she does it still—she would lie awake listening to the distant thunder that started up after sunset. She’d imagined that thunder rolling in over the hills, dipping and rising as it hugged the ground, creeping ever closer. And then the rain would start and she would flex her toes and pull her blankets up around her shoulders and imagine those boys crawling out their windows and dragging their shovels to town. One day there would be enough of those boys. The ground would be soft enough, and they would dig deep enough, and Joseph Carl would claw his way out.
“Annie, honey.” It’s Mama again. “We need to get going.”
She’s climbed out of the car and is standing on the far side, both hands resting on the roof. She’ll be getting the front of her blouse and skirt dirty. Daddy will wonder what happened, and what will she tell him?
“You got a shovel?” Ellis says.
“No, sir.”
“Sir?” he says, yanking off his hat, pulling a kerchief from his back pocket, and wiping it over his head. His dark hair, streaked with gray at his temples, is slicked back and smooth. His jaw is nearly black for having not seen a razor in a few days, and his shirt hangs open, showing a yellow undershirt beneath. “Long damn time since anyone called me sir.”
Annie imagines him ducking as he emerges from one of the mines farther back in the hills. His throat must be gravel on the inside, and with his shirt hanging open, she can see the dark patches along his neck and up his forearms where he never can scrub himself clean.
“Thought I should help,” Annie says, another step closer. Everyone and everything is pushing her this way, toward giving in to and accepting what’s behind supper on the table. It’s something not so pleasing but true just the same. Maybe she’s not as evil as Aunt Juna, not yet, but she’s something altogether different from girls like Caroline and Lizzy Morris.
“And why is it that you think you should be helping?” Ellis Baine’s eyes look past Annie to Mama still standing at the car.
“I know he’s my daddy,” she says, nodding off toward the hole in the ground. “My real daddy.”
Ellis grabs hold of the shovel’s handle, pumps it back and forth to loosen it from the mud. “Sure are your mother’s daughter,” he says.
“I am not,” Annie says. “I ain’t nothing like Juna Crowley.”
Ellis jams the shovel in the mud, lifts it, and dumps another load in the hole.
“Ain’t talking about Juna,” he says. “Talking about your mama.” And he looks off down the road where Mama is standing, watching. “Kindness. You get it from your mama.”
“Can I help then?”
He continues to work his shovel into the mud and fill the hole. Annie glances behind to see Mama has moved to the back of the car.
“Can I?” she says again.
Ellis stops, leans on the shovel. “This man ain’t your father.”
“He is.”
“No, darling, he ain’t. Sorry to say I don’t know who is. Thought it might have even been me, but there’s no Baine in you. Too pretty to be a Baine. Sorry, but that ain’t your daddy down there.”
“Annie,” Mama calls out. “Your father will be wondering.”
Annie backs away as Ellis Baine starts digging and tossing again. He said it so easily: He’s not her daddy, and neither is Joseph Carl. Ever since seeing Ellis Baine there on her porch, and him looking into her black eyes with such ease, she’d almost been hoping it would be him. Ellis Baine isn’t better than many, but he’s better than Joseph Carl. He’s a good enough fellow to say Annie isn’t the daughter of the man lying under that hole. She’d have thought there would be some peace in knowing the truth, but it only makes her sorry for asking, like she’s being ungrateful for the daddy she has.
“You kill my Aunt
Juna?”
The words come spilling out before she can think about rudeness and presumption and all the other rules of fine manners Mama has tried to impart.
This makes Ellis Baine laugh out loud. “Done a few things with your Aunt Juna, but killing her ain’t one of them.”
“Some other Baine do it?”
He shakes his head.
“You were up there that night,” Annie says. “It was you.”
“Was me.”
“Looking for Aunt Juna?”
He twists up his mouth in that way a person does when they don’t know the answer to something. “I suppose if you’re asking me did I kill her,” he says, kicking the mud off his shovel, “that means you ain’t seen her lately.”
“Never seen her.”
His eyes widen, and he nods. “That so?”
“That’s so,” Annie says.
“But you think she’s back?” He jams the clean shovel in the ground and leans on it. He’s heard the rumors like everyone else. “Why is that?”
“Don’t matter,” Annie says, too embarrassed to tell him about the know-how and the rocker and the sizzle in the air. She also doesn’t want to tell him she found Juna’s cigarettes the same time she found his dead mama.
“Good enough,” he says, lifting a hand to Mama and giving her a friendly nod. “Guess you’d better get on. But tell me something first.” He reaches in his front pocket and pulls out a deck of cards tied off with a red rubber band. He tosses them to Annie. “These belong to you?”
Using both hands, Annie snatches them from the air. It’s the faded red deck with sailboats drawn on the back of each card. “No, sir, but you took them from our kitchen.”
“Yep,” he says. “You know where they come from?”
Annie stares down on them. “The store?”
He shakes his head. “You find out where those come from, will you? Maybe tell me next time we run into each other.”
“When’ll that be?”
“Not sure,” he says, giving Annie another wave to get on. “But I’m supposing it’ll be soon enough.”
