“Oh, hush,” Grandma says, swatting at Daddy again and pushing herself to her feet.
“Is Abraham all right?” Mama says, chaining Tilly and telling her to hush and be still. “What’s he doing here?” And then she hurries back to Grandma with a tissue in hand and starts blotting at Grandma’s cuts. “Go help your father, Annie,” Mama says without looking Annie in the eyes. “Go on. I’ll see to your grandmother.”
Annie walks and then jogs toward Abraham’s truck. Behind her, Grandma is telling Mama to stop it and leave her be and go see to Annie.
“What is it?” Annie asks, glancing back to see Mama still fussing over Grandma and Grandma still swatting Mama away. “Is he hurt?”
Abraham is bent over the steering wheel, his head resting on his crossed arms. Even standing outside the truck, Annie can smell the whiskey.
“Sleeping,” Daddy says. “He’s sleeping it off.” And then louder, so Grandma and Mama can hear, he says the same.
“I wasn’t up to nothing, Daddy,” Annie says as Daddy walks around the truck to open the driver’s side door. “I wanted to see—”
“Not another word,” Daddy says. “You know how your grandmother worries. You have to be more mindful.”
They only call Grandma “Grandmother” when times are serious. At a funeral, a wedding, while visiting a sick friend in the hospital.
“Yes, sir,” Annie says. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m just real sorry.”
Annie wants to ask Daddy what Abraham is doing here, parked outside the house, but she really doesn’t have to. Besides knowing it’ll make Daddy all the more angry, she already knows the answer. She knows exactly why Abraham is here. He believes Annie, is maybe the only one other than Grandma who does. He believes Aunt Juna was here last night. He believes what Annie said about the cigarettes and the spark and that she knows something is coming, and he believes Aunt Juna has come home, even thought she might come again tonight.
17
1936—SARAH AND JUNA
THE ROAD NARROWS as it nears the Baines’ place, or maybe it only feels that way because the poplars close in on a person, growing right up to the road’s edge. Before starting up the long drive that leads to the house, I stand still, pull my coat tight around my shoulders, and listen for someone coming up behind me. I’d hear the footsteps on the dirt road, rocks getting kicked about, and heavy breathing if John Holleran were running after me, trying to catch me before I ruined myself. But the night is quiet except for my own breath rushing in and out of my nose.
As I had passed by John Holleran’s house, I drifted to the far side of the road so he or his mama or daddy wouldn’t chance upon seeing me. They’ll be keeping an eye out, not for me but for the men who have come from all the newspapers. They are men with freshly sharpened pencils sticking out of their front shirt pockets and notepads clenched under their arms. They’ve come by car and train and a few by bus. Besides hearing about a woman sheriff and Juna with her black eyes—stories that made them scribble in their notepads and dip their heads to hide their smiles or douse the laughter they couldn’t contain—the men have heard stories of the Baine brothers, and so they must know better than to come here after dark.
The walk from the road to the Baines’ house is uphill, so I can’t see the place until I’m close enough to call out that I’m coming. But I don’t call out; I just keep walking. The house is dark. Still I know one of those brothers is waiting. Not waiting for me in particular. Just waiting. Waiting for some trouble, probably from Daddy or Abraham Pace or the men from the newspapers.
I’m a dozen paces away when a chair creaks. Whichever brother is sitting up there, he hears me coming and tips forward to ready himself. He is there on the porch, just ahead, thinking those are footsteps he hears but not yet able to see me. Behind him, the house is dark, the shutters drawn. Another creak and then the sound of a shotgun being pumped. I keep walking, rocks and gravel crunching under my boots.
My insides ache from the cold, damp air I suck in with each breath. Somewhere nearby, a fire burns. This time, it’s a rifle I hear. The second gun is behind me. A bolt flips up, slides forward. I stop. I can picture Daddy when he wrapped Dale’s hands around a rifle, forced his finger into the right spot, showed him how to brace it against his chest because he was too small to hold it to his shoulder.
“I want Ellis,” I say, wishing straightaway I’d said it differently. But that’s why I’ve come. “Just want Ellis.”