A NICE SET OF WHEELS, by Kathy Waller

When the stranger stepped through the door, everyone in the store looked up. Old men playing dominoes at the Formica-topped table beside the front window. Farmers sitting in metal lawn chairs, their boot soles propped against the cold pot-belly stove, cussing Khrushchev and the Russians. Teen-aged girls wearing shorts and white blouses, pink hairnets protecting their pin curls, looking at the makeup shelf.

They checked out the worn jeans, the frayed collar on the plaid shirt, the scuffed boots. The beat-up old black suitcase he carried. The black hair close-clipped but with a lock falling across his forehead. The scar on his cheekbone. The eyes like pale blue ice.

In those few seconds he stood in the doorway, with the sun shining through the screen door behind him, they sized him up.

He didn’t look to left or right, just walked straight to the counter. I should have asked how I could help him, but I didn’t. I was holding my breath.

“Are the Coca-Colas cold?”

I nodded at the cooler half hidden by a rack of chips. He opened the lid and pulled out a king-sized bottle, shook it a bit to get some of the water off, and brought it to the counter. I took it from him and dried it with a clean terry cloth towel I kept behind the counter, then gave him the towel to dry his hands. When Uncle Harry sold Cokes, he let the bottles drip. He said if customers wanted them ice cold, they’d have to put up with a little water. But I like to make things nice.

I handed him the Coke and pointed to the bottle opener nailed to the end of the counter.

“That’ll be a dime,” Uncle Harry shouted from behind the meat counter at the back of the store. “Seven cents if you drink it here and leave the bottle.”

The man pulled a dime from his pocket and dropped it into my hand. “I’ll bring the bottle back tomorrow.”

Uncle Harry left the meat counter and walked up to the front, still holding a butcher knife. His apron was stained with blood. “Where’d you come from?” he said.

That was none of his business, but the stranger didn’t take offense. “Shreveport, last stop. Working my way west. Been hitching rides, decided to stop here and look for work. You know anybody needs odd jobs done, or farm work?”

The girls hiding behind the makeup shelf giggled and shushed each other, except for Wanda Patterson, who looked directly at the man and smiled. Uncle Harry’s eyes narrowed. His frown told me he was about to say “No,” like he always does when men from outside talk about hanging around, but before he could say anything, Old Brother Fisher, who always tried to help people, slapped down a domino and called out, “Try the Conrad place. Frank Conrad owns several hundred acres the other side of the river. Heard him say the other day he needs some fences repaired, and three of his hands got caught in the draft and left for the Army. Bet he’d take you on. Might keep you to haul hay, maybe pick cotton.”

The stranger raised the Coke bottle and nodded at the old man. “Much obliged, sir.”

“Go up the road about a half mile to where there’s a gap in the fence on the left. Go on through—it’s private property, but nobody’ll care—and follow the old wagon ruts down to the river. Cross the footbridge. Other side belongs to Conrad. Big white house at the top of the hill.”

The stranger picked up his suitcase and started toward the door. Every eye followed him.

“Wait,” I said. The eyes all looked my way. “What’s your name?”

He turned around and smiled right at me. Just at me. “Campbell. Campbell Reed. What’s yours?”

“I’m Rosemary.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Rosemary.” Still smiling, he pushed through the screen door and was gone.

Uncle Harry grabbed my arm and jerked me around to face him. “What have I told you about talking to strange men? That one’s trouble. Leave him alone.”

I pulled away and ran through the storeroom and out the back door, past Uncle Harry’s house and the outbuildings, up the footpath and onto the gravel bar that lay along a stretch of the river bank. Wading in to where the water was clear, I bent down and splashed some on my cheeks, then straightened up and let the slight breeze cool my face. I was fifteen years old, and I’d had enough of Uncle Harry treating me like a baby. I would stay down here till time for supper. If Uncle Harry wanted me back at the store, he could come find me.

I recognized the looks the men had given Campbell. Except for Old Brother Fisher, they thought the same as Uncle Harry: he was trouble. I knew what Wanda Patterson and her friends thought, too: not trouble, but a good-looking man to take them out on Saturday nights, to park with in the cemetery after dark, to beg their mamas to invite for dinner, and, if they were lucky, to marry and have babies with.

But when I looked at him, I didn’t see trouble or fun or babies or anything like that.

In the time it took Campbell Reed to tell me his name, I looked at him and saw a savior.

* * * *

That night at dinner, Uncle Harry started in on me. “I’ve told you to ignore trash like that. Next time he comes in, keep your mouth shut.”

“I was trying to make a customer feel welcome, that’s all. When you’re polite to a customer, he’ll buy more. That’s what Aunt Violet said. Anyway, you don’t know he’s trash.”

“I know enough.” He finished slicing off a bite of steak and then pointed the knife at me. “He’s got the same look in his eye your daddy did when he come slinking around here bothering your mother. He left town the minute she told him he’d got her in trouble.”

“Harry, stop,” said Aunt Violet. “She doesn’t need to hear this again.”

“It’s time she paid attention.”

“Not while you’re angry.” Aunt Violet put an extra-big piece of buttermilk pie and a clean fork on a plate and handed it to him. “Take your dessert out on the porch.”

He got all swelled up, like he did when he was in a pout, but he did what Aunt Violet told him.

After we heard the screen door open and close, she set a slice of pie before me and began taking dishes off the table and stacking them in the sink. I thought she would say something, but she didn’t, so I had to ask.

“What do I need to pay attention to?”

She ran water until it was hot and poured soap into the dishpan. “Nothing, really. You have to remember that Harry loved your mother. He wanted to marry her and make you his daughter. When she—went away—he was disappointed. Hurt. You remind him of her. He doesn’t want you to make the same mistake.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a mistake,” I said. “Maybe she’s having a fine time in New York City or Hollywood or somewhere. Maybe she married some rich man and has everything she ever dreamed of. Maybe leaving me here was the best thing she ever did. Maybe any day now she’ll come back and get me.”

Aunt Violet ran hot water over a plate and set it upright in the drainer. “That’s a nice dream, honey, but I wouldn’t depend on it. I’m sure she’d like to come for you, but lots of things can get in the way of doing what we want.”

She sounded so sad, like she was thinking of herself instead of me.

“Did something ever get in the way of one of your dreams?”

She stood very still with her back to me, staring out the window into the dusk. I watched her reflection in the glass. She was my mother’s younger sister, tall but fragile-looking, with fine blond hair she pulled up into a bun, and pretty, like a woman named Violet ought to be. She was a lot younger than Harry.

She was quiet so long I thought she’d forgotten I was there. But then she came back from wherever she’d been. “Get in the way? Maybe. A long time ago. It doesn’t matter now.”

She was welcome to think that way if it made her feel better. But my dream mattered. I mattered. And nothing would get in my way.

* * * *

For weeks after that, Uncle Harry made me stay home all day so I wouldn’t have a chance to see Campbell. Violet nearly went crazy trying to find jobs for me around the house. There’s only so much sweeping and dusting a person can do. She finally sat me down at the sewing machine and put me to making feed sack aprons and kitchen towels for the church bring-and-buy. But after a while, she began to be short with me. I didn’t blame her. I guessed she valued her time alone. Anyway, we were running out of feed sacks.

Uncle Harry finally admitted he needed help and let me come back to work, after giving me a lecture about leaving strange men alone. But it appeared Frank Conrad was keeping Campbell too busy on the farm to spend time in town. Aunt Violet said she saw Campbell sometimes when he came in late, when she was at the store counting money and doing the bookkeeping.

But even with Uncle Harry watching me, I managed to talk to Campbell once on the sly. After supper one evening, Aunt Violet had me deliver a casserole to a neighbor whose wife was in the hospital with a new baby. Coming home I took a shortcut across the Conrad place. I’d just crossed the footbridge and started down the path when I nearly stumbled over Campbell Reed, sitting with his back against a cypress tree.

My heart pounded. For a few seconds, I stopped breathing. But I made myself calm down and say hello. He looked up and smiled. “Miss Rosemary. What are you doing here at this time of the evening?” He was using a pocket knife to cut a small block of wood.

“You whittling?”

“Carving.” He held up a small figure. It was a girl’s head.

I sat down beside him. “Is that somebody you know?”

“Light’s getting too dim.” He closed the knife and set it on the ground between us. It was bigger than the one Uncle Harry carried. I reached for it.

“Don’t touch that.” He grabbed my wrist with one hand, hard, and with the other snatched up the knife.

I pulled back, frightened, and started to jump up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

His voice softened. “Don’t go. I’m not mad. I was afraid you’d hurt yourself. Look.” He took the knife by its tortoiseshell handle and held it away from his body, where I could see. Suddenly, like magic, the blade flew out. It glinted in the last rays of the sun. I gasped.

“Switchblade,” he said. He showed me a little button on the side of the handle, then closed the blade, held the knife where I could see how it worked, and pushed the button. Again the blade flew out. “You see?” He closed it again and held it out to me.

I shook my head.

“It’s okay. Take it. Okay, now hold it steady.”

I pressed the button. Smiling, I folded the blade back in until it clicked and handed the knife back. He put it into his pocket and leaned back against the tree. For a while nobody said anything. Finally, I asked.

“You planning to stay here long?”

“Nope. Just long enough to make a little money. I want to buy a set of wheels.”

“A what?”

“Set of wheels. A car.”

“Where you going when you get ’em?”

“Got my sights set on California.”

“Hollywood?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Hollywood. Can I go with you?”

He grinned. “You’re sure full of questions, aren’t you?”

“Is that bad?”

He stood. “Nope. It’s the only way you’ll ever learn anything, asking questions.” He offered me his hand. I took it. He helped me up.

“Well, Miss Rosemary, it’s going to be a long day tomorrow. I’ve got to get some shut-eye.” He put two fingers under my chin and tipped it up. I wondered how those ice-cold eyes could make me feel so warm.

Then he tapped his pocket. “This knife—it’ll be our secret.”

I nodded.

He walked up the path, crossed the footbridge, and headed across the flat and up the hill. The half-carved figure of the girl’s head lay on the ground where he’d left it. I picked it up and traced its surface with my finger. It looked a little bit like me.

The knife was our secret. There was another secret, too, that only I knew. But one day soon it would belong to both of us.

* * * *

Not long after, something happened to set the whole town talking. Campbell Reed showed up at church. He wore a suit and a white shirt and tie, and he sat beside Francie Conrad. Her mama and daddy sat one pew behind, and acted like they thought Campbell was one of the family.

Mr. and Mrs. Conrad didn’t socialize in town, but they knew people’s names and were friendly enough in the churchyard after services. But Francie Conrad had nothing in common with people on the town side of the river, and she didn’t pretend otherwise. Town girls wore homemade dresses and went to the local school. Francie bought a new wardrobe in Dallas every year and went to school in the East. Town girls joined 4-H and Future Homemakers; Francie belonged to a sorority. She was perfect—her skin, her hair, her clothes—but she was set apart. She had no one to whisper secrets to, no one to share her dreams. In that way, she and I were alike.

But we were different, too, because what Francie wanted, she got. If Frank Conrad let her sit in church with one of his hired hands, she must have wanted that hired hand awfully bad.

At Sunday dinner that day, Uncle Harry started in carping about Campbell Reed, calling him “trash” and “no-account,” the same words he’d been spouting all summer. He said Campbell was playing up to Conrad and this proved he was just out for whatever he could get.

Aunt Violet shook her head, but gently. “No-accounts don’t show up at church on Sunday. The minister said Campbell wants to be baptized.”

“Preachers’ll believe anybody that says they want to be baptized. The devil would get baptized if he thought it would get him into Francie Conrad’s pants.”

Aunt Violet’s head came up, and she looked across the table with her eyes blazing. “Mind your tongue. I won’t have that kind of language in front of Rosemary.”

“There’s some facts of life she’d better get straight, the sooner the better, and that’s one of them. Men’ll tell you whatever you want to hear to get what they want. And most women are silly enough to let them have it.”

“Harry, you don’t know one thing about women.”

“And I guess you know all about men?”

Aunt Violet’s cheeks turned a blotchy pink.

“I’m doing what fathers are supposed to do,” said Uncle Harry, “watching over their daughters. Taking care they don’t fall prey to men with dishonorable intentions. Teaching them what men are like, that you can’t depend on none of them.”

“Including you?” I said.

“Rosemary, we’ll have no backtalk. Apologize to your uncle.” Aunt Violet’s voice was quiet, but after I mumbled, “I’m sorry,” she turned back to Uncle Harry like I’d never said a word.

“Well, then. I guess by your standards, Frank Conrad’s taking care of his daughter just fine, having her and Campbell in church right there right under his nose. Conrad must think well of the young man, letting him sit in the family pew where everybody can see him, keeping him on the payroll, selling him a car. If things go all right, Campbell might even settle down here.”

“Hmmph. Conrad sold that boy a car hoping he’ll jump in and take off when nobody’s looking. He better take care Francie don’t jump in and take off with him. Or that he don’t run off and leave her with a little present she can’t get rid of.”

Harry’d started out talking about Francie and Campbell Reed, but now he was talking about me. I’d been a little present. But my mama managed to get rid of me. When I was a baby, she ran off, leaving me with Aunt Violet.

“That’s enough, Harry,” said Aunt Violet. “I’m tired of listening to you. Either change the subject or take your plate and get out of here.”

Uncle Harry took a couple more bites of pot roast and mashed potatoes. Then he got up and stormed off toward the living room.

Aunt Violet threw her napkin on the table and stood. “Rosemary, leave the dishes. I’ll clean up the kitchen later.” She pushed through the screen door and let it slam behind her.

I cleared the table and started water running in the sink. I didn’t mind. Washing and drying dishes gave me time to think. And I had plenty to think about.

Aunt Violet was right: Uncle Harry didn’t know a thing about women, least of all me. Last year, when he found me sneaking in the back door at midnight, he thought I was going out to meet boys, and he took to locking me in my bedroom every night. But it was easy as pie to go out the window and climb down the oak tree. I could get out whenever I wanted. Not to meet boys, though. There wasn’t a boy in town who interested me, and I wasn’t going to settle.

If you asked me, Frank Conrad wasn’t taking as good care of Francie as Aunt Violet thought. Because on the nights her high-class girlfriends came visiting, or weekends when she was in Dallas with her mother, shopping, I was sitting in the crotch of a tree down on the river, watching Campbell Reed escort Wanda Patterson along the footpath and up to the abandoned cabin on the old Timmerman place.

It seemed like, without even looking their way, Campbell had known those girls were watching him in the store that day, just praying for him to make a move. And that none of them was going to tell him, “No.”

So all those weeks, when Uncle Harry thought I was in bed asleep, I sat in the tree and watched and waited.

Then one Saturday morning, just as we were getting ready to open the store, Old Brother Fisher came running in, all out of breath, hollering for Uncle Harry to call the sheriff. He’d gone to the river to run his trotlines and found a body floating face down in the water, caught between his boat and the roots of a cypress tree. It was Wanda Patterson. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear.

* * * *

After they found Wanda, Uncle Harry really came down hard on me. He watched me all day and wouldn’t let me out in the evenings, not even to feed the barn cats. He took care of my outside chores. And he told me in no uncertain terms not to go down to the river.

The day before, being barred from the river would have been like being in prison. I’d have been so angry, I’d have run down there as soon as his back was turned. But after they found Wanda, I didn’t argue.

So at night, I lay on my bed, thinking about Campbell, wondering what he was doing, whether he was taking anyone else to the old house. I wondered whether any girl would go with him. I wondered whether Francie would want him now.

It wasn’t long before I heard about Francie. The town grapevine made sure of that. Almost before Wanda’s body was pulled out of the river, Frank Conrad put his wife and daughter on an airplane to New York City. From there, Francie would go on to Switzerland for a year in finishing school. No one said whether she cried and carried on, pleading with her daddy to let her stay with Campbell, or whether she was so afraid of getting her throat cut, she wanted to leave, maybe even begged to get on that plane.

No matter how Francie felt, people on the town side of the river were scared. The sheriff questioned Campbell, just like he questioned all the boys Wanda had run around with, but he let them go. He refused to name a suspect, said whoever did it was smart enough not to leave much evidence. I overheard a deputy tell Uncle Harry they didn’t have any evidence at all. People got nervous. They wanted somebody locked up so they could forget about Wanda and get on with their lives.

Uncle Harry helped them out by choosing his own suspect. He hung about on the sidewalk in front of the store and collared everybody who walked by. Their tongues itched to gossip. Conversations that started with “Maybe” ended with “That’s a fact,” and in that way every word they said became evidence in the court of public opinion. Those inclined to be fair shook their heads at what the world was coming to and disengaged themselves from Uncle Harry as soon as possible. But all of them remembered what he’d said.

It didn’t take long for words to turn into deeds. People who used to stop and pass the time of day with Campbell now nodded and kept walking. People who used to nod now crossed the street when they saw him coming. He moved from the Conrads’ church pew to a seat in the very back. After the benediction, he was the first one out the door. He didn’t stay to visit, just sort of disappeared.

And no matter what the town thought of Campbell Reed, one fact wouldn’t go away: Wanda Patterson was dead. And whoever killed her was still out there carrying a knife.

Old Brother Fisher said that one evening when he was setting out trotlines, he saw Campbell sitting on the river bank. He said he told Campbell it’d be best to stay away from there, all things considered, because even an innocent man could look like he was guilty. “Might be best,” he said, “if he just packed up and left before folks here get any more ideas.”

When Uncle Harry heard that, he snorted. “Don’t need more ideas to know what’s what. The guilty always return to the scene of the crime. He is waiting for another innocent young girl to come by.”

Uncle Harry didn’t know I’d made up my mind to be that girl.

* * * *

When I got to the river that evening, Campbell was sitting in the same place he’d been before, carving a new block of wood.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He stabbed the knife blade into the ground. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“No.”

He laughed. “Then you’re the only one.”

“You didn’t kill her.” I sat down beside him. “You wouldn’t kill anyone. The sheriff didn’t say you killed her.”

He looked away. “Yeah. But it doesn’t make any difference. People have me tried and convicted. Only thing left is the execution, and I wouldn’t put it past them to get up a lynch mob. There are some good hanging trees down here.”

I gasped. “Then you better leave. Just pack up and go. Tonight. Don’t give them a chance to catch you.” Don’t let Uncle Harry catch you, is what I was thinking.

“I’m going, all right. The car’s about ready. Got to replace the windshield wipers and give it a good wash and wax. It’s a nice set of wheels. Won’t be long and I’ll be on my way.” When he said this, he was watching the river flowing by, reflecting the reds and golds of sunset. But now he turned his head and looked directly into my eyes. “You’re a sweet girl, Rosemary, to care about what happens to me.”

Finally it was time for me to speak. “Take me with you. I can be ready tonight. I’ll sneak out. They’ll never know where we’ve gone.”

Campbell sat forward and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but I didn’t let him.

“I have money saved up from working in the store. Not much, but it’ll help buy gasoline and food. And when we get where we’re going, I’ll get a job, a real one, and help pay rent and things. And if you don’t want to go to Hollywood, that’s okay, I’ll go anywhere with you, if you’ll just let me.”

I held my breath, waiting.

One corner of his mouth curved up, but his forehead wrinkled, like he was trying to figure something out. “Like I said, you’re a sweet girl to care, and that’s a generous offer, but I can’t take you with me. It’s not—”

“But I do care about you. I love you. And I’ll do anything you want, anything.” I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him.

He pushed me away. “Stop it.” He tried to grab my wrists, but I kissed him again, and all of a sudden his arms were around me and he was kissing me back, real kisses, and then we were lying together on the grass, just him and me under the trees and the sky and the sun going down into the water. I unbuttoned his shirt and began unbuttoning my blouse, but then something changed, and he got his hands on my shoulders and pushed me off him. He got up and walked away and then stopped and looked back at me, sitting on the ground. I scrambled to my feet but he shouted at me.

“Don’t move, Rosie. Stay right there.” He was breathing fast. He buttoned his shirt. Then he walked back to where he’d left his knife and pulled it out of the ground.

“What did I do?” I said. “Why are you mad at me?”

He sighed. “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at me. Look. We can’t ever do that again, you hear? And I can’t take you to California or anywhere else.”

“Why? You could if you wanted to.”

He stood there for a moment, flicking bits of grass and dirt off the blade. When he spoke, his voice was as cold as his eyes. “Well, I don’t want to. You’re just a kid.”

I clenched my fists. “I’m not a kid.”

“You’re a baby.” He walked away. “So go home. It’s past your bedtime.”

I ran at him, pounded his back with my fists. He turned and, with one hand, pushed me away so hard I fell backwards. I began to cry.

“See? You’re boo-hooing like a baby. Now get out of here before I do something I’ll regret.”

I looked up. He stood over me holding the knife. Then, making a sound deep in his throat, he folded the blade and threw it toward the river. It made a chinking sound when it hit the gravel bar.

I picked myself up and ran to the house. The television was on in the living room. Tiptoeing past the door, I saw Uncle Harry dozing in his chair. I sneaked up the stairs to my room, flung myself face down on the bed, and sobbed.

After a while I calmed down. I got up and took a bath, put on pajamas, and got into bed. I wasn’t going to let anyone hear me crying into my pillow over Campbell Reed.

But later, the front door opening woke me. Aunt Violet was coming in from choir practice. She rattled around in the kitchen for a few minutes, then started up the stairs. Those few minutes were enough time for me to remember what Campbell had said. The wound was raw, and the pain surged back like new. Again I began to sob.

Then Aunt Violet was standing beside my bed. “Rosemary? What’s the matter?”

I couldn’t tell her. “You’re late.”

“I stayed behind for a few minutes. Somebody needed to talk to me. Now what happened to make you cry, baby? Tell me.”

Baby, she called me. But nice. Not like he’d had said it.

“Campbell.” The pillow muffled my words. “I want to go away with him, but he won’t take me.”

Aunt Violet slipped off her shoes and lay down beside me. “Put your head on my shoulder.” She wrapped her arms around me and stroked my hair and let me cry myself out.

“I think I understand,” she said. “It’s hard when your dream doesn’t come true.”

That started me crying again, but not for long. I didn’t have any tears left.

“One day you will leave, but not with a man who’s just passing through. I’ve saved a little money, and I’ll save more, so you can go to business school, maybe even college, and then find a good job.”

“But how? Uncle Harry says there’s never any extra money. How much do you have?”

“I’ve put away some of my sewing money, and egg money, and other bits I picked up. Just a dollar or two, here and there. But I’ve been saving since you were a baby. By the time you’re out of school, there’ll be enough. You won’t live here forever, and you’ll be able to take care of yourself, and never have to depend on anyone else, ever, except the people you choose.”

I thought about the day Campbell arrived, when I asked a question Aunt Violet didn’t answer. I asked it again. “Has anything ever gotten in the way of your dream coming true?”

She was quiet so long, I thought she wouldn’t answer this time either. “When I was just about your age, a boy came to town. He was older, closer to your mama’s age. She already had you and she loved you, but when he left, she went with him.”

“And so you married Harry?”

“Harry had always loved your mama, but she didn’t love him back. When she left I think he went a little crazy. Then your grandma died, and Harry knew I needed help, and you were your mama’s little girl, so he loved you. And he proposed, and I married him.”

“Uncle Harry loved me?”

“Still does. Just doesn’t know how to show it. He thinks keeping you cooped up is right. I’ve told him it doesn’t work that way, but he’s bringing you up the best way he knows how. Try to remember that when he fusses at you.”

I was getting sleepy, lying here with Aunt Violet talking softly, explaining things I’d never understood. I had a million questions, but I was so sleepy, I almost drifted off. Then I remembered.

“What about your dream?”

“Oh, that. Well, it was a long time ago. But… the boy I mentioned? I thought he was my beau. He’d said that when he got ready to leave town, he would take me with him. But he took your mama instead.”

I couldn’t believe it. All these years, telling me things about my mama, and she’d never said a word about this.

“Didn’t you hate Mama for going off like that? And leaving me for you to raise?”

“No, never. Your mama had always been—different. Fragile. She couldn’t breathe in this town. If she’d stayed here and married Harry, she would have died. Or someone else would have.”

“What about the boy? Going like that without saying good-bye. Did you hate him?”

She sighed. “Hate’s a strong word. I learned not to think about him.”

After that, there was nothing left to say. I felt so bad for her, I wanted to say something to make her feel better. But I was too tired from crying to think. I was almost asleep when Aunt Violet said one more thing.

“What you have to remember about dreams, baby, is that they take time. You don’t give up. For dreams to come true, you have to wait.”

* * * *

When I woke the next morning, the sun was making a crisscross pattern on my window shades. I’d never slept this late. I jumped up and threw on my clothes. Aunt Violet would be helping Uncle Harry, and she needed to be home working on her sewing. I ran downstairs and all the way to the store.

I knew Uncle Harry would be mad, so I slowed down and slipped through the door, trying to escape attention. But he didn’t even look up. He was sitting at the domino table. Old Brother Fisher stood beside him, patting him on the shoulder. Other people stood around, looking serious, talking in whispers. Some of the women were crying.

I walked over to the table.

He looked up. “She’s gone. Run off with that Campbell Reed.” He handed me the letter she’d left for him. “What are we going to do, Rosemary? What will we do without Violet?”

I set the letter back on the table and walked out. Back in my bedroom, I sat on the bed. The woman’s head that Campbell had been carving on the riverbank that first night we talked looked at me from the nightstand. I picked it up and traced its features with my finger.

It had long, curling hair and lips that curved into a gentle smile, and eyes that gazed into the distance. It didn’t look a thing like me.

It looked like Aunt Violet.

* * * *

I was sitting in the front porch swing, reading, when a dark blue convertible rolled up the dusty drive and parked beside the house. A man got out. Campbell Reed.

He closed the door and stood beside the car. “It’s been a long time.”

Three years. Time enough for me to finish school. Time enough to learn that the money Aunt Violet had saved came from taking a little at a time from the store receipts when she did the books. Time enough for Uncle Harry to have a stroke and die.

Three years for Campbell Reed to return to scene of the crime.

I closed the book and walked to the top of the steps. “You must be doing well for yourself. That’s a nice set of wheels.”

He laughed. “Better than that heap I left here in. I guess Violet wrote and told you I was coming. She’s got the money to start you in school out there. So pack your bags. We’re heading west.”

“They’re already packed.”

Aunt Violet had written every week since she got to California. She wrote about her new job, her apartment, her neighbors. But one thing she didn’t write about, and I needed to know.

“Are you and Aunt Violet married?”

He shook his head. “Violet never cared for me that way. She wanted out of here. I was just transportation.” He walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. “You told anybody you’re leaving?”

“Two or three.” I’d put the property in the hands of a realtor, like Aunt Violet instructed. The neighbor who’d been running the store while I was in school was interested in buying it. I’d told the preacher I was taking the bus to see Aunt Violet. It seemed the less said about Campbell, the better.

“If you’re ready, I’d as soon get on the road right now. There are people in this town I’d rather not run into.”

He followed me inside and picked up my bags. I’d gotten rid of most of my things. Aunt Violet had said my old clothes wouldn’t do, and I could buy new ones when I got there.

“You want to go down to the river before we leave?”

Campbell arranged the bags in the trunk and slammed it closed. “Sure. I’m willing to risk it if you are. Get in. We’ll drive down the road and park on the Timmerman place. Don’t want anyone spotting the car here in front of the house and decide to get nosy.”

“I’d rather walk. I’ll meet you there.”

“Suit yourself.” The tires made a second set of tracks in the dust. In the west, a bank of thunderclouds was building up, promising a late summer electrical storm. One good downpour would wash the tracks away. No one would even suspect Campbell had been here.

I ran into the house and changed into my bathing suit, stuffed the clothes I’d taken off into a train case, put a rolled-up towel under my arm, and headed for the river.

Campbell was waiting when I got there, standing with his back to me. I picked up a rock and threw it. The plunk when it hit the water startled him. He swung around.

“Bathing suit?”

“I’ll take one last dip. Once I leave here, I won’t be coming back.” I held up the train case. “Don’t worry. I’ve got clothes. I won’t get your upholstery all wet.”

I ran to the water’s edge and set the case down at the base of a willow tree growing out of the bank. Then I dove in, swam to the other side and back, ducked under, and came up shaking water out of my hair. Just last week I’d had it cut almost as short as a boy’s. It would dry in no time.

I swam once more across and back, then got out and, picking up the towel, walked onto the bank to where Campbell sat against the same tree where we’d talked that night three years before.

Setting the towel on the grass, I wondered whether he’d ever regretted taking Violet instead of me.

He looked up. His eyes were the same icy blue. “I like your hair.”

“I had it cut last week. There was a picture of a movie actress in the newspaper with hair like this.”

“Makes you look like a movie actress. Older.”

“Just turned eighteen. I’m not a baby anymore.”

“No, you’re not.” He took my hand and pulled me down beside him. “I’ve thought about you, you know. I’m sorry about how it turned out. But I couldn’t take you with me.”

“I know.” I shouldn’t have been surprised. Uncle Harry was right. Men are like that. You can’t depend on them.

He reached over and ran his thumb across my lower lip. “Did you mean what you said that time about loving me? Because I swear, Rosie, it would be real easy to fall in love with you.” He leaned toward me. I took his face in my hands and kissed him.

This time he didn’t hesitate, but put his arms around me and kissed me back. I freed myself and unbuttoned his shirt. He took it off and then pulled off his T-shirt. I pushed him back onto the grass and stretched out on top of him and kissed him again.

He reached for the straps of my swimsuit. “I’ve dreamed about this, Rosie.”

I pushed his hands away. “Wait. For dreams to come true, you have to wait.” I sat up, straddling him, and reached for the towel. “Let me dry off first. I’m getting you all wet.”

He put his hands under his head and lay still, watching me. “You trust me, don’t you, Rosie? After Wanda was killed, you and Violet were the only ones. Everybody else, even Francie, believed I killed that girl. But you trusted me. You came to meet me down here, right where they’d found her body.”

“Of course I trusted you.” I unrolled the towel. “I knew you didn’t kill her.”

“Aw, Rosie, you didn’t know me from Adam. How could you be sure I didn’t do it?”

“Because I was here.”

His black brows drew together, but he kept smiling, like he believed me but wanted me to say it was a joke. “You were where?”

“Here. So I know who did it.”

Campbell’s smile faded. He still lay with his hands under his head, but now he seemed paralyzed.

From inside the towel, I pulled out the switchblade he’d thrown away the last time we were together.

“I know you didn’t kill Wanda Patterson.” I turned the knife in my hand and held it just as he’d taught me. “You were mine, not hers. But you would never have killed her. So I killed her myself.”

I pressed the button. The blade flashed out.

Campbell’s eyes widened. He drew his hands from behind his head, opened his mouth, but before he could touch me, the knife slid smoothly across his throat, cutting off all sound.

* * * *

It was over in no time. Using the towel to soak up the blood, I rolled his body to the edge of the bank and pushed it into deepest pool. Then I ran upstream, dived in, stripped off my suit, and washed myself clean. Hiding among the willow branches, I dressed in the clothes I’d brought in the train case and replaced them with my damp suit.

The knife I slipped into my pocket.

From the top of the hill, I took a last look at the spot where Campbell’s body had sunk. There wasn’t a trace, not even a ripple. Not one piece of evidence.

I made my way to the abandoned house where Campbell had hidden the car. For a full minute I sat in the driver’s seat inhaling the clean, new smell. I’d never driven a new car. I turned the key in the ignition, drove to the highway, and headed west.

The car was smooth, sensitive to my touch. It floated above the asphalt and hugged the curves. Driving it was a dream come true.

Campbell had done all right. It was a nice set of wheels.