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GRANDMA SAYS THERE is something deep underground that feeds the soil. It’s the first thing she taught Annie about the know-how. Year after year, century after century, she says, this something rises to the surface, leaches into roots and streams and lakes, and this something makes things grow stronger and bigger here in Kentucky than in any other place on this earth. The horses, the grass, the trees—all of them feeding off the thing that lives deep underground.
And this thing, it bleeds through our shoes and through the soles of our feet and it feeds us too. It’s our histories, Grandma says. Our histories root themselves right where we stand, and they lie in wait until they can soak up into the next generation and the next. It’s what feeds us.
Watching everyone in the kitchen, most especially the men, Annie figures that’s why they’re all so big. All of them except the sheriff, although even he is extra big around the middle, are feeding on this thing deep in the ground. Year after year, century after century of histories living underfoot have made these men bigger and stronger than all the rest.
The sheriff was right; the light here on the porch would be perfect for stitching a button, but the needle and thread are in the top drawer to the right of the sink. Annie drapes the shirt, which is a little damp and most unpleasant to hold, over the railing, walks across the porch on her toes so she’ll make no noise, and stands near the kitchen window. From here, she can see them and hear them too.
“Yes,” Mama is saying, “Annie is our oldest.”
More words are exchanged, though they aren’t clear, but it’s definitely the sheriff doing the talking. He’s saying things about bygones being bygones and doesn’t Ellis have plenty to worry about without worrying about the past.
“Where have you been all these years?” Mama asks.
Ellis Baine leans across the table and picks up one of the decks of cards. Annie knows the deck well enough, has even used it herself a few times. The back of each card is bordered in a red that was likely a brighter shade at one time but is now faded from age. In the center of each is an ink drawing of a sailboat, and in the center of each sail is written “Old Cutter Whiskey.” A red rubber band is wrapped around the deck, only twice so as to not dent the cards. Ellis slips off the band, fans the cards, and taps them on the table. Holding them in one hand, he uses the thumb of his other hand, bends back the deck, and lets each red card pop up one at a time. He holds the deck near his eyes as if making sure each card of each suit is accounted for. If he answers Mama, Annie can’t hear what he says.
Mama asks a few more questions about Ellis Baine’s brothers and his plans for the farm. He looks as if to answer mostly with one or two words and a nod or a grunt. When Mama asks about a wife, Daddy pushes away from the table, those chair legs squealing again and interrupting any answer Ellis Baine was going to give.
“How about funeral plans?” the sheriff says. The change in subject calms Daddy, and he leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and goes back to staring across the table.
After giving the cards one last shuffle, Ellis slips the band around them, lays them on the table, and stands. “Think you might tell me what happened to Mother?”
Besides Ellis Baine, Annie can see Jacob Riddle best. He’s standing behind Daddy like he’s ready to grab Daddy if he makes another lunge for Ellis Baine. The way Jacob’s hat sits low on his forehead reminds Annie of the baseball hat he used to wear. There was always something pleasing about watching Jacob up on the pitcher’s mound. He couldn’t play basketball for tripping over the lines painted on the floor, but on a baseball mound, those arms and legs suited him. He belonged up there, was at ease. That’s what Annie had found so pleasing. The ease. Watching Jacob now, a deputy’s hat sitting on his head instead of a baseball hat, his arms and legs almost fit him again. Annie keeps on watching until Jacob turns in her direction and gives her a wink. Yes, that was definitely a wink. Annie pulls away from the window so Jacob won’t see the smile she can’t keep from taking over her face.
Ellis standing must have been a signal to the other men, and inside the kitchen, chairs scoot across the linoleum and boots hit the floor.
“Can’t say for sure,” the sheriff says. “How about I come with you up to your place? We’ll have a look at things. She’d gotten old, Ellis. You ain’t been around to see, but your mama’d gotten old. Most likely nothing more than old age.”