“His parents won’t let him live with them anymore.”
“I heard that, too. I understand they’re ashamed of what he did, but I hope to God they can learn to forgive him.”
“Forgive him?”
“Yes.” Her eyes met mine. “That accident that killed your father was just a stupid mistake made by an intoxicated sixteen-year-old boy. He served seventeen months in the state penitentiary. That’s a lot for a person that young.”
“But—”
“You’ve got to learn to forgive Joe, too, Hanalee. Otherwise, that hatred will eat you up.”
I dug my teeth into my lower lip. “Does Uncle Clyde know he’s out?”
“I don’t know.” She tightened her apron strings behind her back. “He’s been at the Everses’ house since church, checking on the children’s measles. Mrs. Evers planned to serve him a little lunch to thank him.”
“Hmm.” I tapped the basket against the side of my right leg where the holster had so recently hung. Joe’s tale snaked around inside my brain, unsettling regions of my mind already perturbed, churning up a hundred different questions. I pressed a hand to my stomach to curb a queasy feeling.
“What’s the matter?” Mama cocked her head. “Are you worried about seeing Joe?”
“No.” I hooked the handle of the basket in the crook of my arm. “He’s the one who should be terrified of seeing me.”
Mama tensed. “Go pick those raspberries for me.” She nodded toward the bushes. “Go on. I need to prepare dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I sauntered away.
“And watch that harsh tone of yours,” she added. “It’s not like you.”
I sighed and wandered to the rows of ripe red berries on the eastern side of the twenty acres of farmland Mama had inherited from her father. Over my shoulder, I saw Mama heading to the back door of our yellow farmhouse with her hands on her hips—her tired walk, her Don’t bother me anymore, Hanalee walk. My ears still rang from shooting the bullet next to Joe Adder’s skull, and I wondered if I’d been talking louder than usual over the commotion in my head. I wondered if Mama suspected that the gunshot had something to do with me.
IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, MY MOTHER AND STEPFATHER took their seats at opposite ends of our dining room table, across Uncle Clyde’s late mother’s tablecloth, which was embroidered in cobalt-blue tulips. I sat down between the two of them without a word or a smile. The spices in my stepfather’s shaving soap clogged up my sinuses so badly, I had to squeeze the bridge of my nose to keep my head from erupting. Joe’s tale of murder was also boring a hole through my brain. The sickening combination made the food look and smell unpalatable.
Uncle Clyde, a six-foot-tall white man with trim brown hair and Dutch-blue eyes, spread his napkin across his lap and licked his pale pink lips. He wasn’t an actual blood uncle, just an old family friend I’d called “uncle” all my life.
“The ham smells delicious, Greta,” he said.
“Thank you, darling.” Mama smiled and waited for him to take his first bite before lifting a forkful of potatoes to her mouth.
I just sat there without touching my silverware, facing the dining room window and the stretch of woods that hid Joe deep within. The curtains billowed on a hot July breeze that dried out the skin on the backs of my fingers and elbows. The dreamlike dance of the lace—the shimmying of fabric possessed by an unseen force—turned my thoughts toward all those disquieting rumors of my father’s spirit wandering the main highway late at night.
“Did you hear the news, Uncle Clyde?” I asked, still massaging the bridge of my nose.
My stepfather regarded me through the wide lenses of his spectacles, those large blue eyes of his betraying nothing but curiosity. “What news might that be?”
My mother shook her head. “No, Hanalee. Let’s not discuss that subject at the dinner table.”
“The state pen let Joe Adder out early on good behavior,” I said.
Uncle Clyde switched his attention to his plate and used his fork to poke at a fatty piece of ham—a morsel shaped like the state of California, with brown sugar encrusted on the ends.
I sat up straight and dropped my hands to my lap. “Did you hear what I—?”
“I heard the rumors this morning,” he said in his calm, physician’s voice that used to assure me he could mend anybody’s woes and take care of everyone’s troubles, including mine.
“What do you think of his release?” I asked.
“Hanalee,” said Mama. “What does it matter? Joe’s out, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”