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Nonny munched on a wilted carrot from the cardboard box on the passenger seat. As the grumbling in her stomach now reminded her, she had skipped lunch to visit the newspaper office. She had barely made a dent in the microfiche archives before the record room closed the previous night, necessitating another visit today. What she found produced more questions than answers.
In the time it took to drive from the Piggly Wiggly to the Shelter on Choctaw Street, she had consumed two more carrots and a parsnip. Age had not softened the bitterness of the raw parsnip, and she still felt its bite on her tongue as she pushed open the back door to the Shelter.
Chester turned toward the noise her entrance made, his smile fading as she slammed the box on the rickety table in the center of the room.
“I never took you for a gossip,” she snapped.
“Gossip? Oh . . .” Chester let the word hang in the air. “Gossips tend to exaggerate the truth, spread malicious lies. Are you saying what I told that friend of yours wasn’t true?”
“Don’t pull that cute stuff on me, Chester. What’s this crap about me being in a blue funk?”
“Blue funk? Oh . . .” Chester let the word hang again. “I would never have described your recent depression in those terms, but I like it. Mack’s description works better than any I could’ve come up with.” He paused, grinning. “Would you prefer dejection? No? How about something more scientific, like melancholia—”
“Shut up, Chester.” Nonny unloaded the box of vegetables into the kitchen sink, heaving those beyond salvage into a waste can with less-than-average accuracy.
Chester watched as vegetables piled up on the floor, then faced her. “So he talked to you about it. That’s good.” He set a pot on the stove and poured a large can of chicken broth into it. “Sounds like a man that doesn’t beat around the bush.”
She scowled. “He hovered like a mother hen, and you know how I hate that.”
He chuckled. “Whatever works, that’s my motto. I’ll have to file that one away for future reference. Forget subtlety, go for hovering—”
“Shut up, Chester!” Nonny gouged bruises out of potatoes, then diced them into a beat-up colander. “He always did hover, even when we were kids.” She shook her head as if to dislodge something stuck there, then began working on carrots.
“Is that when you started practicing avoidance? Let’s see, so that would be twenty, thirty years now?”
“What?” Nonny brushed the hair from her eyes.
“Old habits are the hardest to change.” He rolled his sleeves and began rinsing the pared vegetables. “Is that when Mack started running away, too?”
The statement brought Nonny to a standstill. “He didn’t run away. He joined the Marines.”
“Marines, huh.” Chester looked thoughtful. “That could explain the tattoos.”
“What tattoos?” She frowned. “I haven’t seen any tattoos.”
“I’m not talking about those done in tattoo parlors,” he said, talking as he worked. “I’m talking about internal ones. Pricks that accumulate under the skin, not unlike cuts from paring knives, or scrapes from wading through brambles. Interlacing and overlapping until an indelible pattern emerges, permanently separating the person from others. It shows in the eyes.”
Nonny took a minute to wade through Chester’s academic parlance, then said, “Eyes? What’d you see in Mack’s eyes?”
“Caution, like that of a hunter . . . or maybe, the hunted. And he never moved back here after you two split up?” He paused to look at her. “Interesting.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault Mack never moved back here?” She gave her head a vigorous shake. “I won’t take the blame for that. He left before I did.” She waved a hand through the air, indicating the space around them. “There just wasn’t anything to move back to. He’s in the construction business and, in case you haven’t noticed, this is about the deadest place on the planet.” She took a long breath, then turned her attention to parsnips.
Several minutes passed before Chester spoke again. “Weather’s turning cold up north.”
“What?” She looked at him, her brow puckered.
“Homeless have started their migration south. Half dozen young people came through here just last night. Even a couple of young women. I’d say about twenty years old or so.”
Nonny cleared her throat. “So how’d we get from blue funks to the weather?”
“Weather? I thought we were talking about people running away from themselves, from what they can’t stand to face up to.”
“I’m not running—”
“Good. About time. Then you won’t mind serving this soup to those youngsters when they come back tonight. They’d be just about the age of your students—had you stayed at the university. You know, the young women you took to hovering over like a mother hen at the end there?”
Nonny dropped her paring knife in the sink and walked to the back door. Slamming it behind her, she stomped to her cold vehicle. Chester’s smugness still stinging, she drove a meandering path, wondering where to go and what to do. She’d planned to spend the afternoon at the shelter, but Chester had ruined that plan.
Her carefully orchestrated day had gone to hell from beginning to end. Earlier in the day, she’d stopped at the Barlow’s, planning to leave the information she had found at the library with Mack, but she had found no one home. Given Ruby’s state of mind, she’d decided against leaving it in their mailbox, and so carried it back to town. Now, glancing at the folder on the passenger seat, she pulled over at a payphone to call Mack. Surely he was home by then.
A chilling wind hit her full face as she stepped to the ground. Temperatures had dropped quickly and moisture hazed the air. Headlights were rimmed with fluorescent haloes and barren trees looked like knobby-limbed skeletons. She fumbled coins from her purse and dropped them into the slot.
Listening to the rings on the other end of the line, she thought again of her anger with Chester. She hadn’t planned to get into it with him, but she had, and so here she was standing at an open phone booth freezing her ass off. She found herself wishing she could turn back the clock, take a different path than the one that had brought her into the Barlow’s problems in the first place. But that grace period had passed. She exhaled a breath that smelled of parsnip, filled her lungs with air smelling of the Gulf coast front that had moved in, and tried to focus. Now that Grace had been found, maybe things would go back to normal.
Normal. That thought produced a bitter laugh. Getting no response at the Barlow place, she headed for the nursing home. The day’s still young, she thought, and old people love to shoot the breeze.
*****
Finding Mack’s Bronco in the parking lot, Nonny sensed something amiss. She hurried down the hallway and opened the door to Pa’s room. She saw the IV bottle hanging above the bed, then Mack sitting beside the bed. The circles under his eyes indicated he’d been there all night.
“Come on in,” he said. “He can’t hear you.”
“What is it?”
“Coma.”
“What happened? He was doing fine.”
“Mama’s blaming herself—or me. Well, maybe it is my fault.” He rubbed his eyes. “You remember that day I had her pretend to be Grace, talk to Pa about the war?”
“But I thought that went well.”
“So did I. But after he got things off his chest, seems he decided it was time to lay down and die.”
“Good God, what next.” Nonny looked around the empty room. “Where’s Ruby? Sister?”
“Lunchroom. The nurse’s aide fixed then a bowl of soup, insisting they eat something.”
“Mr. Carter?”
“They moved him to another room because . . .” He nodded at his grandfather.
“What about you? You could probably use some food, too.”
“Not hungry.” He glanced at the folder in her hand. “That what you found at the newspaper office?”
“Oh . . . yes.” Handing him the folder, she stood at the end of the bed, looking down on the old man who had shriveled to a rack of bones and wondering at the ultimate act of freedom his forgiveness had wrought. “I didn’t find a police or missing person report, just that little article with a Tulsa byline.”
“What do you make of it?” he asked, skimming the article quickly.
“I don’t know.” She pulled up the empty chair next to him. “Grace died in an accident. Wouldn’t have figured that one. You?”
“Hell, no. And here I was thinking Pa had a hand in it. Kind of anticlimactic, isn’t it?”
Nonny turned to stare at Mack, wondering how he could think his grandfather had a hand in Grace’s disappearance . . . her death.
“Article says she was trying to flag down a Greyhound bus, got sideswiped,” she said. “No luggage, just a hundred-dollar bill in her pocket. Now that’s strange.”
Mack skimmed the article again. “Plenty of witnesses on the bus. They all said the same thing. The woman just appeared out of nowhere, not the driver’s fault.”
“What do you figure happened?”
Staring into space, he said, “I figure she was running away. Pa probably had one of his spells, scared her so bad she ran. That’s what I think.”
“Pa was suffering from post-traumatic stress even back then?”
He shrugged. “I think that’s why he wanted Grace to forgive him. He, uh, he also hit Mama. That’s when we put him in here.”
Nonny drew in a breath. “What about the tombstone?”
He frowned. “I’m not following you.”
“There’s more to it than that. Why would Pa want forgiveness for himself and her? And why did she leave the children behind?” She swallowed. “That’s not . . . normal.”
Mack reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the two slugs he had dug from the double tree. “Someone shot those mules.”
Nonny made a grunting sound. “Now that’s a stretch, Mack. How in the world did you come to that conclusion?”
“Because I know killing.” Mack turned away, his eyes set on some distant place. “Someone was shooting wild, out of control.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I figure Grace shot them, that’s why they died at the same time.”
Nonny absorbed this. “I thought Grace was a little bit of a woman.”
“She was, and from what I understand, none too brave. But the gun these slugs came from would’ve equalized size and given someone a lot of courage.” He shook the slugs in his hand, producing the hollow clink of metal rattling against metal.
“I don’t know, Mack,” she said, sounding skeptical. “Who in their right mind would kill two mules?”
“Someone who wasn’t in her right mind. She was running away, that’s for sure, and I think it was from something more than Pa’s nightmares.” He looked again at the remains of the two bullets. “She shot those mules.”
“What on earth would drive her to do that?” Nonny massaged a throb in her temples.
“I’ve been sitting here for hours trying to figure that one out.” Mack looked at the newspaper clipping again. “I better go show this to Mama.”
“Shouldn’t you wait a bit? She has to be exhausted.”
“Don’t want her thinking I’m keeping something else from her. She’s running on a short fuse these days.”
“I’ll do it.” Nonny took the clipping from Mack’s hand. “You sit with Pa, in case he comes to.”
“You think he will?”
Deciding against uttering false promises, she responded with a shrug.
*****
Hurrying to the recreation room, Nonny spotted Ruby and Sister sitting at a corner table. They were wearing the same clothes she had seen them in the day before and their faces were wrung with fatigue. She felt glad when they seemed pleased to see her. Accepting the offer of coffee from the nurse’s aide, she laid the clipping in the middle of the table.
Ruby eyed the paper suspiciously. “What now?
“Nothing pleasant,” Nonny said.
“Just tell us what it is,” Sister said. “My eyes are so gritty, I couldn’t read anything, my life depended on it.”
Nonny read the clipping and watched the fatigue in their faces deepen.
“Well, I’ll swan,” Sister murmured finally.
Ruby let out a bitter-sounding laugh. “I swear, sounds like something in one of those daytime soap operas.”
“You worried we’ll be the laughing stock of the county if this gets out?” Sister tapped the article on the table. “That why you’re laughing?”
“No, Sister,” Ruby said. “I’m laughing because I’m too tired to think.”
“Well, at least we know where Pa brought Grace back from,” Nonny said. “And why.”
“Pa’s in a coma,” Ruby said.
“I know. I stopped by the room first. Mack told me you were here.”
“You figured anything out?” Sister looked at Nonny. “You think of any way to get him buried there in Beulah Land? Any legal way?”
“I haven’t given it any more thought, Sister. But if Grace was buried there, it sounds as though the deed to that piece of land wouldn’t prohibit Pa being buried there.”
“You saying the deed to the piece of land would say that?” Ruby said. “It would say a person could or couldn’t be buried there?”
“Not exactly.” Nonny raised her hands, sighing. “It would spell out prohibitions, like easements and water rights and any other restrictions. Billy Joe talked about it at the church that Sunday. Remember?”
“That’s right, he did.”
“Besides, with Grace there, a precedent’s been set. So, a case could be made for burying Pa there. Of course, that route could take time, and I’m not sure how much time he has left.”
“I asked the doctor about that,” Sister said.
“You did?” Ruby said, looking at her sister. “What’d he say?”
“Said it depended on the person. Could go tomorrow, could last a month or more. Said it was up to the family to take him off life support should he not come out of it on his own.”
Ruby sat up straight. “We’ll do no such thing!”
Nonny reached for her hand. “We’re not there yet, Ruby.”
Ruby’s eyes grew liquid. “I got so much I need to say to him, things I should’ve said.” She looked at Nonny. “I’m so sorry I called you a lesbian. I’m just not thinking straight these days.”
“Not a problem, Ruby. It was a reasonable assumption.”
“I told her you wasn’t,” Sister said. “I let myself get spoilt, too. That’s why I never married.”
“Spoiled?” Nonny gave Sister a look. “You don’t mean . . .?”
“I told Sister that women these days didn’t worry about such things,” Ruby interjected. “Shoot, on the TV, girls are losing their virginity by the time they’re twelve years old. These days, men don’t think anything about it if a woman’s not a virgin when they marry.”
Nonny rubbed her face, thinking she was being told things that she had no need to know. Then she began to worry that people would learn more about her than they needed to know—than she wanted them to know. She recalled Mack’s admonition about her needing to detach herself from the Barlow situation and considered they were finally in agreement on something.
“Can we have this newspaper clipping?” Sister said. “When I get my glasses cleaned, I’d like to read it.”
“Sure thing.” Nonny rose from her chair, glad for the opportunity to disengage from the Barlows.
“Where you going?” Ruby asked.
“I need to run the trays back to the post office. What say I check in with you later?”
Nonny was already moving in the direction of the door when both the sisters said their farewells. Wondering how her own life had become so public and when it had taken on the flavor of a TV soap opera, she wished for a way to backtrack. A chance to take a different path than the one she had chosen. Pushing through the front door of the nursing home, she decided it was time to move on down the road. She halted suddenly, realizing there was no place for her to go.
When Uncle George came to mind, she thought about how much she would miss the old man. How he was alone and the last of his line. How he made moonshine just to fill the time. The next thing Nonny knew, she was thinking about a still in the piney woods back of his barn.
“Just one,” she mumbled as she made her way across the icy parking lot. “I could stop with just one.” Nonny climbed into the cold Jeep but did not turn the key in the ignition. She sat there, staring through a windshield edging with frost. “That’s what you said that day you took the first one” she mumbled. “The day you decided to look for her.”
As though repetition would turn a cliché into a truism, Nonny reached for the ignition and reiterated her previous thought. “I could stop with one, just one to take the edge off . I know I could . . .”
