Chapter Seventy

NEWS OF GRANNY’S PASSING hit Garden’s Gate hard.

“I can hardly believe she’s gone,” Celia’s mama declared over supper. “Seemed like she’d be with us forever.”

Miss Lill nodded. Celia’s heart lay heavy, and Chester looked like he couldn’t take one more piece of bad news.

“She lived a good long life. I reckon it was her time. The good Lord knows what He’s doin’,” her daddy tried to comfort them. Celia shrugged him off. What did he know of Granny Chree and all she’d done to help at Garden’s Gate, for Miss Lill and Ruby Lynne and for Celia and the McHones, for the whole of No Creek, what she’d meant to them? He hadn’t even been around for two years.

Celia had done her best to avoid being alone with her daddy since his return from prison. She didn’t know what to say to him, and she’d grown beyond the games of hide-and-seek they’d played before he went away. Chester kept a wary eye, but she could tell her brother was glad, with a feeble hope, to have a man in the house, his daddy to look up to. Secretly Celia dared him to break her brother’s heart and swore what she’d do if he did.

She was thankful for her job at the store, especially with school letting out till the New Year. If she took her time and dawdled on her way home, stopped by the church shed with a thing or two for the McHones, she could get home just as the family sat down to supper and excuse herself to read in her room right after the dishes were done. Nobody stopped her. Nobody questioned. Everybody was trying to find their own space in the newness of it all.

Celia had just dumped the contents of her dustpan into the store’s rubbish bin and stashed her broom when she glimpsed her daddy out the window. She hadn’t known him to venture outside Garden’s Gate since he’d returned, though that morning he’d talked on replacing the singed shingles on the house roof. Maybe he was really going to do it. Maybe he’d come to the store to buy them. If he was trying to help, be part of the family, then she could meet him partway—she wanted to meet him partway. Maybe she’d walk home with him after all.

Celia took her time pulling on her coat, finding the buttons, expecting her daddy to walk through the door any moment. Three or four minutes passed and he didn’t come. Finally she peered out the window again. Dusk was settling in, but she saw him down by the street talking to a man. They seemed to be friendly, but Celia couldn’t tell who it was, couldn’t see their faces clearly, just their backs and coat collars pulled high to caps. She saw her daddy knead the back of his neck—a thing he did when considering something. After a time, her daddy turned toward the man and shook hands. The tall one handed over a brown paper sack, which her daddy tucked beneath his coat.

Knots formed in Celia’s stomach. She’d heard her mama talk to her daddy about getting a job, even if he had to go away to do it. They needed the money if they were ever going to make it on their own again. But this didn’t look like talk about a job her mama would approve.

Celia turned away from the window. She could march out there and take her daddy’s hand. She could tell him to stay clear of men handing out brown paper sacks that fit inside a man’s coat. But did she want to? If he was running hooch again, he’d surely be caught, maybe go away for an even longer time. Then Celia and Chester and their mama could stay at Garden’s Gate, stay with Miss Lill in her house of books and music and peace, for good. Maybe she should just let things play out.

While Celia was considering, the bell jingled over the opening door. Rhoan Wishon walked in. She no longer needed to guess who her daddy’d been talking to or what he wanted.

Celia lit out for home, forgetting about the packet of bologna and crackers she’d planned to take to the McHones. Every step of the way her heart beat flickers of anger and spite, disappointment mingled with determination for revenge.

By the time she reached Garden’s Gate’s back door, it was dark. She could see her mama and Miss Lill through the kitchen window putting supper together, her daddy standing in the hall doorway, smiling and chatting with a confidence he’d not shown since coming back. Celia hated him for the deceit of it, and she hated that her heart brimmed over with anger and frustration.

She turned away, wished she could run away. She found a spot on the woodpile, a place around the corner of the porch sheltered from the wind whipping down the mountain but with a full view of the night sky. Stars in their trillions danced with clarity. Too many to wish upon, and Celia knew that wishing did no good.

God, I know You’re out there. I know You see. What do I do, Lord? How can I stop him? He’s gonna break Mama’s heart all over again. He’s gonna shame Chester and me in school—again. He’s gonna take to drinking and runnin’ ’shine and get caught. It’ll go on forever. I don’t want him to go down, God. I want my daddy to be a daddy . . . even if it means we leave Garden’s Gate. I just want a home, with real parents who love me and Chester, and no hooch. No Wishons. No Klan. Please, God, show me what to do. I know You see me sittin’ here. I know You saw what went on down at the store. And please, God, help Clay and Charlene. They’ve got a baby on the way and I can’t take care of them much longer, but You can. Amen.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Celia heard her parents whispering on the other side of the wall—intense and angry, her mama pleading and getting louder by the minute, then low swearing by her daddy and quiet threats by her mama. Celia had no doubt what their argument was over. She rolled over to face the wall and pulled her pillow over her ears. Please, God, she prayed, time’s runnin’ low. Please.

•••

Celia spent Saturday morning early dusting the library shelves in the children’s room. She’d just made it to the Ws on the fiction shelf when her daddy walked in.

“Celia.” He said it like somebody’d say, “Good morning.”

“Daddy.” It was hard for Celia to call him that with the hardness in her heart.

He seemed to be waiting for her to say more, but she didn’t fill the space, had no desire to and didn’t know what to say to a man she’d held secret hopes for, a man who’d made her mother cry after she’d held everything together for them all for two long years.

“Your mama told me what you did, identifyin’ Troy Wishon and helpin’ Ruby Lynne.”

Celia kept dusting.

“I’m proud of you, Celia. That was a brave thing to do, a good thing.”

“It needed to be done.” Celia warmed but felt the swelling of her own heart at his praise was a betrayal.

“Yes, it did. Not many girls your age would do all you did. I heard you’re directing the Christmas pageant, too. I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ it.”

She wanted to tell him that she didn’t care what he thought about the Christmas play, that he should have been there to protect them from the fire and the Klan and the likes of Troy Wishon, but she didn’t. She just kept dusting places she’d already dusted.

“Well, that’s all. I just wanted to say.”

Celia glanced up at him but quickly looked away. She heard him hesitate, then walk down the hallway toward the kitchen. Celia closed her eyes, willing away tears of frustration. She clamped her lips and steeled her will.