When Patsy turned thirteen, Honey Bee began sneaking in more difficult driving lessons for her, taking her on narrower back roads and over into the Palisades.
Honey Bee had her ride off the edge of the road, between the asphalt and the tall, grassy gullies, kissing the ditch with the tires, then taught her to ride that a bit, steering slowly back onto the road—rather than jerking the wheel and sending the automobile flipping, toppling down embankments, steep cliffs, or swerving into oncoming traffic headed their way.
Frightened, Patsy’d cried, and more than once stopped dead in the road, frozen until Honey Bee would pull out a fresh handkerchief from his pocket and dab her tears. Then he’d change sides to take her driver’s seat and show her how to do it safely.
A few minutes later, they’d switch back. Honey Bee made Patsy do this over and over until his daughter felt certain she could recover from whatever obstacle she might happen upon while driving. “Drive better than any man three-counties-wide, and get yourself out of a tight spot lickety-split,” he’d said.
Patsy had busted up the sides of Honey Bee’s old Ford pretty good, dented and scraped the paint off the fenders and doors.
Honey Bee had been sick with his sugar illness then, but he never fussed during the lessons, just bided his time, praising her until they were both smiling and had claimed miles of twisty Kentucky roads. Him always saying when they were through, “Let’s not fret Mama with our lessons. Not a word, Queenie.”
Mama never said much when Honey Bee returned home with the automobile more busted than when he’d left, only, “Hmm. Don’t you know, dear husband, I do believe you need to go see Doctor Silverman in the city about spectacles. That, or someone needs more driving lessons,” she’d lightly hint, circling the Ford, flicking her dish towel at a fresh scrape or ding.
Mama. Patsy squirmed behind the Mercury’s steering column. The hospital would call her and Danny’s parents, of course, and Patsy flinched at the thought of seeing the sheriff, even more, Mama’s worried eyes.
Stretching up to the rearview mirror, Patsy glimpsed her face, touched her bottom lip swelling from Hollis’s slap, lighting a quick hand on her bare neck and then back to the wheel again. Concern settled in her brow at what explanation she’d give Mama about the injury, and worse, losing her grandmother’s pearls, the whole prom disaster.
“So hot,” Danny gasped from the backseat.
Patsy glanced back at Danny. She could see his chin tilted upward, his face glowing with a dampness.
“Hot. So damn hot, Patsy. Gotta get this noose off.” Tugging at his bow tie, he clawed and cursed until he ripped it off his neck and tossed it up front.
She snapped her eyes back to the road. He looked feverish now, when just minutes ago he’d complained of being too cold. “Almost there,” she said quickly.
“Did y-you an’ him? Are you really preg—?” Danny asked low.
“No.” She kept her sight locked ahead.
“You swear it, Patsy? You swear on your dear kin’s graves?”
“I love you, Danny. You. I can’t wait for us to get away. I swear it!”
“People’s been talking.”
“People talked about you and Violet.” She tossed back the blame, trying to keep her eyes on the road.
“Where, Patsy? Where’d he take you that day?”
“What did the nodding Violet say to you? Promise to give you? Her stuck to you like a drunk tick, whispering in your ear like that?”
“Where, Patsy?”
“You know Hollis took me straight home! I told you all that when you came over that night, and the next night after, and every night since then. Promised, same as you did when I asked you about Violet—”
“Dammit, Patsy, y-you’re lying to me. I called at five thirty, and you still weren’t home. Again at six.”
“And I told you I was in the barn looking for a box of stuff I promised to find for Mama,” she lied. “Now please hush with all that nonsense, Danny! I gotta pay attention here.”
That much was true. Patsy and Hollis had argued a little more on Ebenezer until she had run home, sneaking inside. She’d found supper warming in the oven and a note from Mama saying she’d gone out. Flannery wasn’t home either; she’d stopped by Chubby Ray’s with a few of the girls from baton club.
Not wanting to risk being seen in her state, Patsy disappeared into the barn, but only to hide out long enough till she was sure the liquor was good and gone from her. Long enough till she’d drained herself of the disgrace of what Hollis had done to her. She’d heard the whispers from a few girls about a home remedy that’d get rid of any baby that might’ve seeded. Frantic, Patsy searched and found the cure—an old jar full of her daddy’s turpentine—and swigged it some, until she retched again and again.
“Patsy?” Danny said.
Patsy dropped a hand to her belly, pressed on her girdle beneath the layers of fabric, knowing. It hadn’t worked for her. She and Danny needed to get married quickly. She couldn’t risk waiting any longer. The baby was born early, was what she’d tell others. She’d heard the tales of how to spot the so-called early babies. “Look at its nails,” old women gossiped. “Won’t find nary a long nail on a true early.” But she’d hide its hands in tiny mitts so they couldn’t tell the baby had fingernails, had come to full-term, couldn’t gossip that the corn had been planted before the fence planks were put up.
“Damn that sonofa—” A pain struck Danny, and he yelped.
“Damn him trying to squeeze in on my girl—”
“Danny! Please. I’ll have you there in a few minutes.”
“I—I’ll never be no use to anybody with a gimp shoulder. My nose. Oh, shit, my nose, too.”
“They’ll dig that bullet out of you, straighten your nose, and you’ll be just fine, you’ll see.”
She snugged the automobile tight into dangerous Hospital Curve, fighting the play in the big steering wheel.
CHAPTER 17
Flannery
1972
River breezes dipped into another sunny day; the tang of fish and muddy water filled the dank air. The warm weather brought out folks who’d heard about the old vehicle the fisherman had discovered.
Hollis broke away from the banks of the Kentucky and plodded toward Flannery.
He hadn’t changed much since ’52, just a little wider in the belt and a little fatter in the jaws, and even more naked, thicker in the stretch of neck he lacked.
“Is Jean here?” he asked, slightly bending over to look in the car windows.
“Mama’s taken a spell. I’ve come for news on the car down there. Heard it was a Mercury,” Flannery said straight out, trying to glimpse over his shoulder.
Hollis tucked his hands into his pockets, glanced down at the ground, answering her question.
She grimaced. “I prayed it wasn’t.”
After a minute, he said, “It’s our old Mercury. Sure never dreamed I’d see it again. Never like this, anyway.”
Flannery sucked in a breath.
“The fisherman who found it said he’s been going to this same hole for damn near two decades. Said he could’ve reached over his canoe, dipped his arm into the water, and touched it all along in the low water these past months. He went to put his boat in this morning, and there it was, the red trunk poking up from the shallow Kentucky. This drought finally told us the truth.”
Hollis stepped forward, touched her shoulder. “Could be it’s empty, Flannery. Hell, could be anything. We won’t know till they get it out and comb the inside. State police wrecker’s winching it up now.”
Flannery raised her head to the cliffs. It was highly unlikely the car had just driven itself off, floated downstream without leaving a trace of paperwork, and a whole lot more likely someone inside had lost control. She knew that Hollis’s words were empty of hope.
“Danny,” she whispered. “He must’ve wrecked it.”
Hollis’s face paled a little. He looked like he was turning his brother’s name over, maybe even thinking about the last time he’d seen him, the last time he’d run into Flannery on Ebenezer. “You can wait at home—”