I MADE MY EXIT WHILE MAMA SCOOTED BOXES AND trunks around in the basement. The racket of crates screeching across the basement floor, the hullabaloo of Mama swearing and tossing about our belongings down in the musty hollow beneath the house, allowed me to click open the front door and close it behind me without interrupting her task. I brought my key along so I could lock her in and keep her safe. To keep her from fretting too badly, I even left a note on my bed: Mama,
I’ll be back within the hour. I’m not far, and I’m safe, but I fear Joe isn’t.
All my love,
Hanalee
My search for Joe commenced in the stable. I found a peach pit lying in the stall where I’d sat with him the night before, but all other traces of him had vanished. A lump filled my throat. I gathered up my courage and ventured into the forest, but not without first stopping by the log that concealed the derringer inside the oilcloth. I emptied the gun of the used cartridge case, loaded the pistol with the second bullet, and strapped the holster to my right thigh. Once my legs firmed up and a wave of dizziness passed, I carried the weapon into the shadows of the forest, my eyes and ears alert for all movements. My back refused to straighten to a fully upright position; I prowled across the deer trail, hunched and wide-eyed. I held the gun with both hands, the barrel cradled in my left fingers, my right hand clutching the grip, and my feet sounding too loud to my ears.
The shed at the edge of the Paulissens’ property lay empty as well.
A jay screeched above my head and soared over the shed with outstretched wings darker than sapphires. Something moved in the water beyond the little white building—a slight ripple of sound, scarcely a murmur. I kept the pistol out in the open, gripped with all my might in my sweating hands, and in near imitation of the manner in which I had stalked toward the pond the first time I hunted down Joe, just four long days earlier, I tiptoed through the rushes and made my way around the shed.
“Joe,” I said in the quietest voice I could muster without actually whispering.
Another ripple.
“Joe?”
“Hanalee?” he asked from somewhere unseen.
I approached the pond’s bank. “Where are you?”
“Back over here, around the bend.”
“Bathing?”
“Yes.”
Whether he wanted me to see him or not, I hustled down the slope to the pond and maneuvered myself around the trunk of a wide fir. Around the bend, I reached a small inlet, sheltered and shadowed by trees cloaked in moss an electric shade of green.
Joe’s head and neck stuck out of the water from among a cluster of lily pads.
I lifted my skirt past my right knee and shoved the pistol into the holster. “Get out of there!” I yelled in a whispered shout. “Laurence is at his house right now, carrying one of his guns, surrounded by the Wittens, the Kleins, and Harry and Al.”
Joe stiffened. “You saw them?”
“Yes! Uncle Clyde drove Mama and me over there, and—”
“Why were you going there?”
“I’m not going to explain anything right now.” I stepped into the pond, shoes and all, and squished my feet through muck I couldn’t see down below the murky surface. “Get out of there. Now!”
“Don’t panic. I’m coming.”
“Hurry!” I waded two feet farther, soaking the hem of my dress.
Joe swam backward, away from me, but he got hung up in the lily pads.
I grabbed my head in frustration. “Get out of the damn lily pads!”
“Stop panicking.”
“Where are your clothes?”
“Over here.” He rolled onto his stomach and swam to an area where his feet must have touched the ground, for he stopped treading water and started walking.
“Jesus, Joe! You’re as slow as a turtle.”
“Stop snapping at me. It doesn’t help.” He climbed out of the water and onto the bank without a stitch of clothing on his body.
I cupped a hand over my eyes, but my absence of sight made me feel as though I stood in an open field in the middle of a lightning storm. I dropped my hand from my face and hustled around the edge of the pond, my pulse drumming in my ears. Joe moved about in the rushes, facing away from me. I saw him turning the legs of his cotton drawers right-side out.
“Hurry—please!” I said, shading my eyes with one hand to avoid looking at him. “Put your drawers on backward if you need to. Just move faster.”
“Haven’t you heard of privacy?” He shoved a foot through one pant leg. “Jesus Christ, Hanalee.”
“They hanged my father, Joe.” The hand cupping my eyes wavered. I lowered my fingers to my jaw. “They hanged him from the oak tree at the Dry Dock that Christmas Eve.”