As the sheriff asked his questions, Annie fanned the front of her shirt and shook her head and said over and over that she hadn’t seen much, not much at all. She was having trouble sorting through the sheriff’s questions because she couldn’t stop thinking about all that Ryce had seen and not seen and wondering what he’d think of her now and how many more people would know what had happened by the time the sun came up tomorrow. Fortunately, the questions were mostly the same, except for those about the gun and the volunteer tomatoes.
One more thing, one more important thing, was also different. This time, Annie wasn’t the only one who found the sheriff’s questions disagreeable. When the sheriff asked if anyone had ever told Annie she sure did favor her Aunt Juna, Daddy pointed a finger at the kitchen door, ordered Annie to get herself inside, and told the sheriff that would be enough of that.
“Did she point that gun of hers at you?”
The sheriff had waited until Annie reached the porch and slipped one finger through the door’s handle before shouting that question at her.
“Odd, don’t you think?” he said, holding out a hand to silence Daddy. “Her toting that gun all the way out there. Odd unless she intended on using it. I’m thinking maybe she knew it was your day. Thinking maybe she was there waiting for you.”
The sheriff paused as if wanting Annie to tell him he was right, but she didn’t know if Mrs. Baine had been waiting there for her to come at midnight. Maybe she was. Maybe she was waiting there, knowing Annie would come and that Mrs. Baine would finally get to have a word. Mama and Daddy never allowed Mrs. Baine to see Annie when she came to the house after too much partaking. Sometimes Daddy would have to shout at Mrs. Baine to put that damn fool thing away, which meant she’d brought a gun. Maybe she had been there waiting for Annie, and a thought like that will take a good long time to sink its way in.
“Was she waiting there for you?” the sheriff said. “She point that gun at you?”
“I didn’t hardly see a thing,” Annie had said.
Out on the porch, Jacob Riddle stands. His head and shoulders fill the window. He pulls his hat low on his forehead, turns sideways, and draws his hands together like he’s getting ready to throw a pitch. There’s another giggle from Caroline.
“Why does Aunt Juna only send cards at Christmas?” Annie asks, sliding the last jar onto the table and tapping it until it falls into line with all the others.
Grandma runs her brush under the cool water and rinses it clean. “Don’t guess I know,” she says, taps the white bristles against the sink, and tosses a handful of fresh water to rinse away the suds. “Suppose that’s a question for your mama.”
“Strike three,” Caroline calls out.
“Will your snakes make her go?” Annie asks. “If I find more, will they make Aunt Juna go?”
“Full moon’s coming soon,” Grandma says, ignoring Annie’s question. She pulls open the drawer to her left and lifts out a serving spoon. “You drink it up, the moon when it’s full, it’ll show your intended good and clear as any well.”
Annie takes the spoon by its slender handle, runs her fingers over the large, rounded head. “Already seen him.”
More laughing from the porch. This time Caroline calls out that Jacob threw ball three.
“Maybe with the next full moon, you’ll see another fellow. A better fellow.”
“Yes, ma’am. Maybe so.”
Annie won’t be kissing Jacob Riddle by summer’s end, though Caroline likely will.
15
1936—SARAH AND JUNA
ONE DAY AFTER I kissed John Holleran, Dale wakes, opens his one good eye, and smiles at Juna and me. As I did with Juna, I feed him cornbread dipped in cane syrup. I crumble the bread and press the small, sticky chunks to his swollen lips, make him drink water too and milk. He might never turn pink again, not like he was before, but the gray lifts.
Soon he complains of the hot room, and together, Juna and I lift the shutter and prop it open. His clothes, his skin, his hair, smell of Daddy’s cigars. We hold Dale’s slender arms and wash them clean with soap and water. He cries out when we work too quickly. We open the front door, try to get a cross breeze going to clear away the stale, smoky smell.
Dale’s skin, so cold before, is warm now. Maybe too warm. Before, he would have been happy to have us two do his washing for him, but once he wakes, he is somehow older and eager to be so. That’s likely why he waits to speak his first words until Daddy walks into the room.
“I know better,” Dale says. “Sure am sorry.”
We tell him to hush, both Juna and I. Save your strength. Nothing to be sorry about. The words catch in my throat as I speak them, can’t stop myself from thinking about the fellows who pass through this way and bring news. Don’t talk to those fellows, Daddy has always said. Dale is sorry for talking to a fellow like that. He’s sorry for talking to Joseph Carl.