“Well”—I cocked an eyebrow—“I must be atrocious if I made you halt in your tracks and gasp.”
“No, it’s just . . .” He rubbed his hands against the sides of his pants. “I think I was hoping, since I heard you so miraculously survived, that you’d look unscathed.”
“She’s recovering remarkably well,” said Uncle Clyde, bracing a hand on the rocking chair. “She’ll need to spend several more weeks in that cast, and the bruising and muscle strain will take time to heal. Yet considering all she endured, we’re feeling quite lucky and grateful at the moment.”
Joe tucked his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t ever mean for you to get hurt, Hanalee. You shouldn’t be sitting there in a cast and bandages.”
“I’d much rather be sitting here like this,” I said, “than to say that the KKK strung us up from a tree.”
The world skidded to a stop after I spoke those words. Joe’s eyes met mine, and for a moment we both shot back to the woods in the blackness of midnight. Klansmen and torches. Ropes and dirt and the taste of cotton pulled across my mouth. The explosion of gunpowder vibrating against my hand.
Mama appeared behind the sofa without my even realizing she had walked across the room.
“How are your parents, Joe?” she asked, which seemed a forced and meaningless question, akin to asking his thoughts about the weather.
“They’re fine, I guess.” He took his hands out of his pockets and rubbed his sides again. “I actually came here because I have a gift for Hanalee. But it’s something that will require her traveling in a car to see.” He inched toward me, the heels of his shoes making a squishing sound against the living room rug. “Are you . . . are you able to take a short ride?”
“I don’t know.” I peeked at my stepfather. “Am I?”
“That’s entirely up to you, Hanalee,” said Uncle Clyde. “Do you feel well enough to be jostled about on Elston roads?”
“I think I might.” I slid my good foot to the floor. “Especially if it involves a surprise.”
Mama placed a hand upon my shoulder. “Were you planning to drive her, Joe?”
“Yes, ma’am. My father let me borrow his car this afternoon, specifically so I could take Hanalee to the surprise.” He shifted his weight between his legs. “I know it’s a car . . . I know”—he cleared his throat and shoved his hands back inside his pockets—“it holds a dark memory, but I’m leaving town for good this evening. If I could just give Hanalee this gift before I go, I think it would help set things right.”
Mama and Uncle Clyde eyed each other. I did my best to shift my gaze between the two of them, to gauge their reactions, without aggravating the stiffness in my neck.
“Well, I want to go,” I said. “If Joe’s leaving tonight . . .”
“All right.” Uncle Clyde nodded. “I’ll help carry you to the car.”
BOTH JOE AND MY STEPFATHER LUGGED ME OUT TO the black Model T that had struck my father that December night. Uncle Clyde carried the bulk of me, and Joe helped with my legs, including that massive plaster cast that felt like a small child clinging to my calf. Somehow they managed to cram both me and the cast into the front seat of the automobile.
Mama paced behind the two of them, her arms crossed, her forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure about this, Clyde?”
Uncle Clyde stepped back while Joe maneuvered around him to crank the engine to a start down below the car’s hood.
“It’ll just be a short drive, right, Joe?” asked my stepfather over the roar of the awakening engine. “Just into town?”
Joe popped up his head from the front of the car. “Do you know what the gift is?”
“I remember you mentioning something you wanted to do when you were here the day after the accident.” Uncle Clyde straightened his glasses on his nose and squeezed his lips together to suppress what I believed to be a smile. “If it’s what I think it might be, just be careful. Don’t linger too long in front of it.”
“I won’t, sir.” Joe climbed into the car beside me and shut his door. “Are you ready?” he asked me.
I scooted myself two inches closer to him, to better fit my cast into the small space in front of me. “Yes.”
“We’ll be back soon.” Joe nodded at Uncle Clyde, then at Mama. “Don’t you worry.”
“Be careful,” said Mama.
“We will.” Joe pushed the clutch lever forward and drove the Model T down our front drive, toward the highway. I inhaled whiffs of gasoline that reminded me of the sheriff’s patrol car, but I clamped my hands around my upper legs and told myself this ride would be different.
Joe turned his face toward me. “How are you, really?”
“I don’t know for sure.” I swallowed. “How are you?”
“Well, just to be clear”—he steered us onto the highway—“you weren’t trying to actually shoot me in the head that night, were you?”
“You know why I fired that gun.” I pinched a wrinkle in my skirt. “You know I’ve had practice with a feat like that.”