“Oh, God.” My brain spun. “Which is it?”
Down below the floor of my bedroom, the front door closed, and voices trailed outside the house. I sprang over to my window and watched the Adders and Sheriff Rink mosey over to their respective automobiles, and my eyes smarted from the glare of the sun hitting the black metal of the vehicles. Uncle Clyde wandered behind them with his hands on his hips. He imparted a few last thoughts to the sheriff and Joe’s parents, but my window remained closed, and I couldn’t discern the words. The cars sparked to life with swift cranks of the handles below the grilles. The sheriff and the reverend climbed into their vehicles and steered them out of our driveway.
Mama’s footsteps sounded on the staircase beyond my closed door; still, I watched my stepfather shade his eyes from the sun and turn from the road toward the barrier of Douglas firs marking the entrance to the woods. My throat went dry.
“Don’t go looking for him,” I whispered against the glass pane. “Please . . . leave him alone.”
Another automobile pulled into our driveway from the highway—a second patrol car, helmed by Deputy Fortaine. The deputy turned off his motor and stepped out of the car while removing his cap. The short waves of his raven-black hair rippled in the wind.
Uncle Clyde headed over to him, and they both spoke with their arms folded across their chests. I wondered if the deputy’s last name truly was Fishstein. At the moment, he didn’t strike me as being Jewish or Catholic, for a person like that—someone caught outside the circle of normalcy in Elston—would certainly possess more sympathy for a boy in Joe’s predicament. He wouldn’t want to hunt him down the way he seemed to be doing, unless he was trying with all his might to overcompensate for his own differences.
From the wall behind the head of my bed emerged the sound of crying. I left my window and grabbed the box of toys and bullets from underneath the bed and crammed the Klan pamphlet down the right side.
The weeping continued.
I left my room with caution, unsure if my mother cried out of sorrow or anger, fearful of the fine line between sobbing and smacking. The floorboards of that old house of ours whined and sagged with my every step across the hallway, no matter how much I tried to make my feet move as though they were composed of feathers and air. I sidled over to the open doorway of the bedroom that my mother now shared with Uncle Clyde—a room larger than mine, wallpapered in a royal shade of blue, with a mahogany four-poster bed hogging most of the space. On the edge of the bed sat Mama, crying into a handkerchief. I eyed the wrinkled sheets and forbade myself envisioning her sleeping there with Uncle Clyde.
She lifted her face, revealing bloodshot eyes and a red-rimmed nose, all of which leaked. Her loose hair hung down to her waist like sheaves of dried wheat.
“I don’t want to ever again hear you telling a ghost tale about your father,” she said in a tone that socked me in the chest.
I clenched my teeth.
“And I want honesty, Hanalee. What did Joe tell you about Uncle Clyde and your father’s death?” Fear glinted in her eyes. The wall of love and support for her new husband must have weakened—I could hear the barrier thinning in the timbre of her voice.
“He said”—I shut the bedroom door behind me and willed my stepfather to stay outside with the deputy—“that aside from a busted leg and a sore arm, Daddy seemed just fine after he hit him with the car.” I tiptoed closer to her, still fearful of getting smacked. “When Uncle Clyde arrived, he made Joe stay out in the front room, and the next time Joe saw my father, Daddy was . . . gone . . . as if . . .” My lips shook, and the word I wanted to utter slipped back down my throat.
“As if what?” asked Mama.
I covered my mouth with my hand and spoke from behind my fingers. “Poisoned.”
My mother’s face whitened. Complex highways of green-blue veins manifested beneath her skin.
“Everyone shut Joe up at his trial,” I continued, “which led Joe to believe that people got paid to stop him from testifying. He believes that Uncle Clyde might be part of the KKK.”
A crooked little line cleaved the skin between Mama’s eyebrows. “Joe doesn’t know what the devil he’s talking about,” she said. “Uncle Clyde has promised me over and over that he’d do anything he could—even risk his own life—to keep you safe.”
“Yes, well”—I glanced again at their bed—“I’ve heard a man will promise just about anything in order to bed the woman he wants.”
Without warning, Mama jumped to her feet and slapped me across the face with a force that stung with a shock of heat. I reeled back and cradled my cheek in my hand.
“For the last time, did Joe Adder take away your virtue?” she asked. “Is that why you’re talking so filthy?”
“No.”