CHAPTER NINE

Lily

 

The morning is crisp and the dew makes the path down the hill slippery in places. When I reach the bottom, Mama’s truck is gone, and I wonder why she felt the need to leave the house so early. At the road I hesitate, wondering what I’ll miss at school today, and then turn toward the old Monroe place. I have never skipped school before. Not once. But today I have a higher quest. I need to find out the truth.

With every step my guilt rises with the oatmeal in my stomach. I stop at the crossroads where one road leads to the elementary school and the other leads to the mill, and rethink my decision. Even though I’ve missed the bus, I could still go to the mill and make up a story. I could tell Mama I wasn’t feeling well at first, but that now I would like to go to school. Then either she or Uncle Daniel could drive me into Rocky Bluff.

Going to the high school is the only break I get from the smallness of Katy’s Ridge. While the population here hovers around fifty, Rocky Bluff has almost 1500 residents, and is a metropolis in comparison. Still, it’s not like me to break the rules.

A truck drives around the bend, and I’m relieved it’s not Mama. The driver slows when he sees me. It’s my Uncle Cecil. Not my favorite person. The truck idles as he rolls down his window. From the passenger side, Janie looks at me with her flat expression. Uncle Cecil’s birthmark reminds me of my geography teacher saying the Soviet leader, Khrushchev, was a scary man.

“You miss the bus?” Uncle Cecil says.

I pause long enough for a fresh wave of guilt to crest. “I’m helping out at the elementary school today,” I say.

Janie turns her beige face toward me like my ‘helping out’ is news to her.

“Hop in. That’s where we’re going.” He leans over Janie and opens the door so I can get inside.

“Actually, I’m enjoying the walk this morning. Mama says walking is good for me.” I give him a smile, surprised by how easy it is to lie.

Uncle Cecil shrugs and closes the door before giving me a short wave and driving away. He is new to the family, but is nice enough, and I can’t believe I’ve just lied to him. It’s not like I can get away with it, either. If Janie doesn’t tell, it will come out when he tells Aunt Meg that he saw me on the road this morning. There is no way I won’t get in trouble for this, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

For the longest time I stand at the crossroads kicking rocks from one side to the other. A feeling comes over me that I’ve had more than once. A feeling that someone is watching me, even though nobody is around. A gust of wind brings down a flurry of leaves that scoot along the road and gather in a dusty whirlwind before dancing away. I pull my sweater close and remember the stranger from the day before with her mud-caked shoes. The thought of her gathers me up in her whirlwind, and I turn in the direction of the Monroe property. Since I’m probably already in trouble, I might as well do what I set out to do.

Around the bend in the road, I hide my lunch pail behind a boulder, planning to pick it up again on my way home. A few steps later I take off my heavy sweater and tie it around my waist. The sun, having risen above the ridge, is now warming up the day. When I get to the dirt road off the main road, Mama’s truck is pulled off on the side.

What’s Mama doing here? Her empty coffee cup sits on the seat of her truck. Is this why she tossed and turned all night? Was she dreaming up a plan to visit the stranger? I take off down a narrow dirt road that is pocked with mud puddles.

One summer, Bolt and Nat and I went in search of the empty Monroe cabin. We’d heard for years that it was haunted and wanted to check it out. Back then we were in the midst of a dry spell so it wasn’t this muddy.

In no time, mud cakes around my good shoes Mama bought me for my birthday last July. My feet get heavy, and I wonder how the stranger managed to keep her shoes as clean as they were. At this rate, I’ll be scrubbing mine for hours, removing the evidence of where I’ve been. To avoid the deepest mud holes, I perch on mounds of grass when possible, leaping to the next clump of grass. Several leaps later, I come upon the small cabin. When I see Mama standing in the doorway talking to the stranger, I duck behind a large sycamore tree. I am too far away to make out any of their words.

A circle of oak trees guards the house, and I remember the story of the girl who hung herself. The place would feel creepy even without knowing the story. The dark forest makes this place look like a Hansel and Gretel fairy tale. I half expect to see breadcrumbs in the mud, leading the way out of the forest. If I were smart, I would probably follow them.

The wind pushes the cabin’s bitter smell in my direction. This old house has been in the process of falling down for years. Patches of light green moss grow on the roof and vines as thick as three fingers hold the house hostage. I wonder if I can get close enough to hear what Mama and the lady are talking about. I hide behind trees and underbrush, inching my way closer to the cabin. I crouch at the right side of the porch behind an old rusty washing machine. I listen to Mama’s lower voice and the stranger’s higher one. A duet in a minor key. Although I can’t make out any words, I can tell from the way Mama’s holding her body that she’s not happy.

When Mama walks out the front door, I drop to my knees to stay hidden. She takes the path back to her truck, and the look on her face is one I’ve never seen before. Regret? Sadness? Cold mud soaks into my bottom of my dress. Now I’ve ruined my dress, as well as my shoes. Trouble piles on top of trouble.

Seconds later the stranger steps out on the porch without shoes, wearing the same dress from yesterday. She mumbles something under her breath about teaching Mama a lesson, and then goes back into the house. I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or angry or just acting normal.

I keep an eye on Mama, just in case she comes back, prepared to dive into the dark recesses under the porch. I don’t move until her truck starts up and the gravel spews as she drives away. Then I stand and look down at the red Tennessee clay pressed into my knees, as well as the mud damage to my shoes.

I sit on an old log next to the house and lean against the rotting wood to decide what to do next. Not only have I skipped school, but I’ve ruined my things. The woman inside the cabin begins to sweep. I contemplate whether I should just walk away or knock on the door.

Warmth comes to my face. I decide to make the best of all the stuff I’ve ruined, and stand and brush myself off. Then I make a wide circle back through the woods so I can approach the house as though I’m just now showing up.

When I get to the porch steps I call out ‘hello.’

The stranger comes to the door, broom in hand.

“Does she know you’re here?” She looks out into the forest, the way Mama left.

“No,” I say.

“So you were hiding out here the whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” I say.

She gives a slight grin like I remind her of somebody.

“I wondered if you’d have the guts to show up,” she says.

When her grin grows into a smile she looks younger and not nearly as scary. She is pale, like her life has seen very little sunlight. “Come inside,” she says. “Leave your shoes at the door.”

“You have something to tell me?” I ask, not moving. I don’t even want to think about what Mama would do if she knew I was here.

“You willing to listen?” she says back.

“Depends on what you have to say,” I answer.

“Come inside,” she says. She goes into the house leaving the door open.

I can’t move. It’s like my feet are anchored to the earth with mud, and I’ve been made a prisoner.

“Come on,” the stranger says, from inside the house.

I think of Hansel and Gretel again. Is there a big stove in there that she’ll throw me into?

You read too many fairy tales, I tell myself.

I wish I had Mama’s secret sense. It would tell me what to do. But the secret sense is a language I’ve never learned to speak. At least not yet.

The rickety steps lead to an unstable porch. It helps that I just saw Mama leave here alive and well. I approach the door not knowing what I might find inside. The stranger sits at a small table in the corner. A chair is pulled out where I imagine Mama sat. I take a seat and glance around the small, dark room.

“Could you tell me your name again?” I ask, feeling bold. “I don’t remember from yesterday.”

“Melody,” she says, in a sing-song voice, like she recognizes the irony of someone so sad having such a beautiful name.

Her feet are dirty but the floor is clean from the sweeping.

“Where are you from?” I ask. This is not a question I ever get to ask in Katy’s Ridge since few people visit here.

“I was born here in this cabin,” she says. “But when I was a girl, I was sent to live with my aunt in Louisville, Kentucky.”

In my mind, I put Louisville on my list of places to visit someday. I would travel there now if the opportunity presented itself.

“Why’d you come back?” I ask.

“You ask a lot of questions,” she says. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

“Just about everybody tells me that,” I say, looking away from her grin.

“It’s okay. I’m not mad at you or anything,” she says. “You skipping school?” she asks, like it’s her turn to find out things.

I nod, and lower my head. Skipping school is nothing to be proud of.

“We can keep it a secret if you want,” she says. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

I wonder if this is true.

Two empty teacups sit on the table. I hope she doesn’t offer me anything to drink.

“When you came to the house yesterday, you said to come see you if I wanted to talk.”

She nods.

“Why would I talk to you? What do you want to tell me?” I ask, looking up at her again.

“There’s two more,” she says, as if catching me at something.

“Two more?”

“Questions,” she says.

“Listen, I can go if you want,” I say, standing.

“No, no,” she says. “I want to get to know you.” She motions for me to sit again.

“Why?” I say, before I can catch myself. But we both smile this time.

“You can call me Melody if you want,” she says.

I nod, but I’m not ready to call her anything.

“You may be related to someone I used to know,” she says.

“I take it you don’t mean Mama,” I say.

“No,” she answers. “I think I knew your daddy.”

My breathing goes shallow. All these years I’ve wanted this question answered and now that it’s as close as the cracked teacup sitting in front of me, I’m not so sure I want to know. If I listen to what she has to say, it feels like it might change everything. And maybe not in a good way.

Dozens of questions rush forward wanting answers, but I don’t speak.

“Would you like to know more?” she asks, like she sees my predicament.

I say I do, but I’m not so sure. All of a sudden, my heart beats like it has a race to run.

She walks over to the door like she’s making sure Mama isn’t coming back. Then she turns to face me again. She isn’t wearing a slip, and her dress—backlit by the sun—reveals her scrawny legs.

“I think your daddy was my brother, Johnny Monroe.” She grins like she takes pleasure from saying it. “He was a couple of years older than your mama and they went to the same school. At least before Johnny dropped out in sixth grade.”

Over the years, I’d imagined that my daddy was smart like Granddaddy. Maybe he even had a college education, which would be a first in my family. It never occurred to me that he might be a sixth grade dropout.

“That was the year our mama died,” she says, as if feeling the need to give a reason. “She died of TB when I was six.”

Melody glances at the bed like that’s the last place she saw her mother alive.

Tuberculosis is feared here in the mountains. Several people have died from it. I wonder if the tuberculosis germs are still living in that bed. Or maybe they are circulating in the air. I hold my breath for a few seconds until I realize I’ve probably already breathed them in anyway.

A part of me wants to run out of the cabin and keep on running until I make it back to Granny’s kitchen. Another part of me feels bolted to the floor. The two parts battle it out in silence.

What if she’s just making this up? Great Aunt Sadie says you can tell from someone’s eyes whether they’re telling the truth or not. If they’re lying, their eyes dart like hummingbirds drinking from flower to flower.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks me. Her voice sounds caring, but her expression reveals something else. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s getting pleasure from somebody else suffering for a change.

“What was he like?” My voice sounds shaky at first, but I smooth it out.

“The truth?” she asks.

I nod to avoid the words shaking again.

“Your daddy was mean as a snake,” she says, her eyes holding steady.

After a short gasp, I have the beginnings of a coughing fit. Melody brings me a glass of water that is slightly brown. The father I imagined was kind, never mean. She reaches over and pats my hand as though life disappoints all of us, so I might as well get used to it. I challenge myself not to pull my hand away, even though her touch is as cold and clammy as a fish out of the Tennessee River.

“How do you know for sure he’s my daddy?”

“I don’t know for sure,” she says. “On account of he’s not here to ask. He died right before you were born.”

“What killed him?” I ask, as another of my fantasies dies. This one being that my daddy isn’t dead at all, but is living somewhere around here and will show up any day to apologize for not being better in touch.

“He fell down a mountain,” she says. “At least that’s what your mama told me.”

“Mama told you that?”

“She sure did. Right before you got here.”

I want to know why Mama kept this from me for all these years and then tells Melody the first day she sees her.

“But how do you know he’s even my daddy?” I ask again, my voice getting stronger.

She pauses. “You know Doc Lester?”

I nod. My family hates Doc Lester, especially Mama. She won’t let him get near me with his doctoring. If Aunt Sadie can’t find a remedy for whatever ails me, Mama says she’ll take me to see the doctor in Rocky Bluff, even though he charges two dollars for an office visit.

“Doc wrote a letter to my aunt in Louisville saying that Johnny had a daughter. He said her name was Lily. That’s your name, right?”

I start to stand, and the chair I’m sitting in crashes to the floor with me in it. I’m lucky the old floor is half rotten or I might have knocked myself out.

“You all right?” Melody leans over me on one knee.

Flat on my back, I take in this person, with bad breath to accompany her bad teeth, who is quite possibly my aunt. The thought occurs to me that I’ve got plenty of aunts already, what do I need with one more?

“You’re wrong,” I say. “Doc Lester lied to you.” I scramble from the floor, my head throbbing. Once upright, the dizziness sets in followed by the tears that threaten to come.

Within seconds, I bolt out of the cabin, hearing Melody call out my name. The mud slows me down as I run through the woods and toward the road. Even though I heard her drive away ages ago, I want Mama’s truck to still be there. By the time I reach the crossroads, it feels like my lungs might burst from my chest. I stop running and lean over to slow my breathing. Once I can stand up straight again, I try to decide what to do next. I take off walking in the direction of the mill where Mama works. She has some major explaining to do.