“Is everything all right in there?” called Uncle Clyde.
Mama shoved the cap into the box and covered the lid. “We’re just talking, Clyde. Go downstairs.”
We both held our breath. Beyond the door, Uncle Clyde’s feet descended the staircase, the steps groaning.
“Does anything strike you as dangerous about the Dry Dock?” I asked in the quietest voice I could muster.
Mama straightened her neck. “The Dock?”
I shrank back. “Why’d you call it that?”
“That was the restaurant’s original name, before the state went dry and the Franklins stopped selling liquor there.” Mama climbed back up on the stool and shoved the hatbox into place. Dust filtered down from the top of the wardrobe, tickling my nose.
I sneezed twice in a row and had to take a breath. “They’re hosting a pancake breakfast”—I rubbed the tip of my nose—“for a group called the Junior Order of Klansmen.”
“I told you”—she climbed off the stool—“you don’t need to worry about the Klan around here. If I sensed danger, I’d be the first to warn you.”
“Are you positive Uncle Clyde’s not a part of them?”
“I swear, he’s not.” She clasped my hands and pulled me toward her. “Stop doubting him, Hanalee. He loves you, and I love you.”
I curled my lips inside my mouth and squished them hard together, fighting down the urge for tears.
“Go get washed up.” She squeezed my fingers. “Change into fresh clothes. I’ll take you to that picnic, if only to try to bring some regularity back into our lives.”
“All right.” I sniffed.
“And wear something bright. Nothing dark and mournful.” She brushed a curl out of my eyes. “It is time to move onward, as the reverend and Uncle Clyde said.” She kissed my cheek, and her breath caught near my ear. “I know it’s hard, Hanalee. I know you miss your father more than anything. I understand why you might have thought you saw his ghost. But we have to let him go.”
“All right,” I said again.
She lowered her hand from my head, and I left the room, the smell of the pines and the earth—and Joe and escape—still lingering in my hair.
METHODIST YOUTH PICNIC, WASHINGTON COUNTY, OREGON, CIRCA 1920s
CHAPTER 15
WHO IS’T THAT CAN INFORM ME?
DRESSED IN A YELLOW SKIRT AND WHITE blouse that spoke of sunshine and innocence, I rode behind my mother and Uncle Clyde in the back of my stepfather’s four-door Buick sedan. My straw hat sat beside me on the plush seat, and my emerald ring sparkled in the rays of light shining through the open windows. I looked nothing at all like a girl who had slept on a blanket in the forest with a young man no one wanted around.
Mama kept turning in her seat and checking on me, as though she feared she’d find me gone again.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said over and over, and I steeled myself against potholes in the road and the sight of Uncle Clyde’s head bobbing about on his neck in front of me.
On the way into town, we passed Elston’s two restaurants—the Dry Dock and Ginger’s—which were separated by an oak tree with a sturdy trunk and crooked branches covered in leaves. The establishments flashed by as blurs of wood-paneled walls and redbrick chimneys, and a stab of dread, as quick as lightning, tore through my stomach.
We reached the strip of brick buildings that made up downtown, the tallest structure being the Lincoln Hotel at the far end, which stood three stories high and boasted a marble statue of “Honest Abe” out front, amid the rhododendrons. The owners claimed to be related to our sixteenth president, but I always wondered if they possessed any verifiable proof of that story. Tall tales and exaggerations seemed to be a staple in Elston.