The ones who stopped their jumping to whisper had grandmas and grandpas who had lived here all their lives. Those older folks are the ones who lived here when Joseph Carl Baine was hanged. They’re the ones who knew he was hanged not only for what he did to Dale Crowley but also for being the one to put the seed in Aunt Juna. Not even these girls who knew the truth would mention Joseph Carl Baine when Annie passed them by. They might have warned one another that the evil lives in Annie’s black eyes and pleaded with Annie not to curse their daddies’ crops or beg her to bring them a favorable winter, all the while laughing because Annie’s mama wasn’t her real mama, but they never dared mention Joseph Carl being her daddy.
But as Grandma hurries around the table, her wide hips bouncing off the counter and then the kitchen table, and wraps her arms around Annie, and as Daddy stands so quick his chair tumbles backward and bounces off the linoleum floor, it’s clear Joseph Carl Baine being Annie’s daddy is the thing that brought Ellis Baine into the Hollerans’ kitchen.
“You want to say that again?” Daddy says.
Ellis Baine leans forward, rests his elbows on the table, and nods at Annie. “Here to see that one,” he says.
Daddy lunges across the table, but before he gets a hand on Ellis Baine, the sheriff grabs him by the back of his shirt and gives a good yank.
“Good Lord, John,” the sheriff says, both he and Daddy stumbling over the fallen chair.
Ellis Baine stands too, though not as quick, and his chair stays on its feet. He holds his hands out to the side and backs away until he’s beyond Daddy’s reach.
Grandma tries to hide Annie’s eyes by wrapping her up in a hug, but Annie is a good half a foot taller than Grandma. Try as Grandma might, she can’t hug Annie tight enough to cut off her view.
As quickly as Daddy leapt across the table, he settles back. His chest is pumping again, and he’s staring in the direction of Ellis Baine, but it’s not the visitor who has drawn Daddy’s attention. Annie unwraps herself from Grandma’s arms to see what Daddy is staring at. It’s Mama. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, one hand covering her mouth, the other clinging to the banister.
“John?” she says.
Jacob Riddle is inside again, though Annie never heard him open the door, and he must have righted Daddy’s chair because it’s there for him when he collapses into it.
Mama’s hair is always pretty. She brushes it every morning and washes it at least three times a week, which is plenty given how thick and long it still is. She has a few gray hairs, but mostly Mama’s hair always looks nice. On Sundays though, Mama fixes it extra fine for church. She teases up the top and pins back the front, picking out a few stray, wispy pieces with the pointed end of her comb. She says it frames her face and that Annie’s hair would do the same if she’d ever take a set of bristles to it. The rest of Mama’s hair she leaves to fall down her back in long, dark waves, and if the weather is dry and accommodating, she’ll use that green gel and sleep in rollers so she’ll have long, smooth curls by morning.
Mama has done all these things today except for sleeping in the rollers. She’s also painted her lips with her best crimson-rose lipstick, and her lashes are long enough to throw feathery shadows on her cheeks. Annie watches Daddy watching Mama, and Annie knows, and Daddy knows, Mama did these things for Ellis Baine.
“Good to see you, Sarah,” Ellis says to Mama, bowing his head. His voice is rough like those of so many of the men who spent too many years in the mines. Wherever he’s been and whatever he’s been doing since he left Hayden County, he has spent a good bit of that time underground.
Mama slides one foot toward Ellis. It’s barely a movement, just enough to make the skirt of her dress sway from one side to the other, and then she stops. She crosses her arms loosely over her waist and says, “You look well, Ellis. My condolences.”
From his seat at the table, Daddy leans forward in his chair, rests his elbows on his knees, and with one finger waves Mama toward him. He studies Mama as she walks across the kitchen. She wears her bright-blue dress, the one with pale-yellow trim at the neckline. A white scarf is tied around her waist. Whenever she wears this dress, usually for a night of dancing in the church basement, Daddy wraps his hands around her waist to prove it’s not one inch bigger than the day they wed. His fingers never quite reach, though he always swears they do. On Mama’s feet, she wears her best white heels, the ones she won’t dare wear in the rain and that she stores in two cloth bags. Daddy drops his eyes to the floor as Mama slips behind him. He can smell it too . . . Mama’s best perfume.
Ellis sits back down, and his eyes settle on Annie again.
“That her?” he asks. “That your oldest?”
“Get out, Annie,” Daddy says.
Mama rests a hand on Daddy’s shoulder, but he swats it away.
“Now,” he says. “Outside.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” the sheriff says. “Go on outside, Annie. You’ll get some good light out on the porch. Make threading a needle a whole lot easier. You go on while we do some catching up.”
Grandma wraps an arm around Annie’s waist and turns her toward the door.
“He’s back because his mama’s dead,” she whispers in Annie’s ear. “She’s the one kept him away all these years. Don’t you stray, you hear?”