“What are they saying?” Etta Mae whispered.

  “Don’t know. Can’t make it out.” A knot tightened and swelled in my stomach. “But something’s wrong.” I opened the door, just a little crack.

  “Is he drunk?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Is it a mean kind of drunk?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t hear.” Something fluttered against my cheek. I pulled at it until it came loose. A dangling rose petal. “You stay here.”

  “Don’t leave me by myself. What if your Daddy comes?” she said, grabbing hold of me.

  I pried her arms loose. “Go hide under the bed.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek and opened the door just wide enough to squeeze through. I reached for the wall, feeling my way the short distance to the kitchen, the voices growing clearer with each step. A bead of sweat let go of my neck traveling down beneath the collar of my gown.

  “You shut the hell up old woman.” Daddy said, his words slurring. Something shattered, tiny fragments of the broken object skidding across the kitchen floor.

  I held onto the doorframe peeking into the room. A long pulse of lightning exposed the kitchen. Daddy stood at the table. Miss Wessie several feet in front of him. The room fell dark, remnants of light still swirling in my eyes. One, two, three.

  “Where is she, goddammit?”

  “I told you where she at, Mister Claxton. She at work.”

  Thunder muffled Daddy’s response. The power flickered. The back porch light burned steady once more, washing the kitchen in sepia tones. Daddy held Mama’s flowers. Miss Wessie had not thrown them away. Did she forget? Had Daddy come home early? Why was he so angry?

  Daddy lifted the vase up over his head.

  He was ruining everything. I dug my fingernails into the doorframe, biting down on my tongue, anything to keep from screaming out, from being found.

  The weight of the vase kept it upright until it met the wall. The force of water pushed bits of broken glass across the planks, ruined stems and petals mangled in a watery heap.

  “Mister Claxton, you needs to settle down. You hear me? Children be sleeping in this here house.”

  “Children?” Daddy said, laughing. “That’s funny.”

  “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

  “You must think I’m fucking stupid.”

  “No sir, but I thinks you is stupid, stinking drunk.”

  “And why do you think that is exactly? Why it is I’m stinking, lousy, drunk?” Daddy took a few steps toward Miss Wessie.

  “I have my suspicions,” Miss Wessie said, extending her right hand, presenting a black iron skillet.

  Daddy raked his hands through his hair then pointed at Miss Wessie. “You think you can come in my house and threaten me? You think you can come in here and taunt me day in and day out? You think you can get away with hitting a white man?”

  “What I’m getting ready to hit ain’t a man,” she said, bringing the skillet up to her lips to kiss. “And this here ole’ black skillet sure don’t cares if you white.”

  “You bitch.” Daddy stepped forward.

  Run, Miss Wessie. I clutched at the front of my nightgown trying to breathe. Daddy had not changed. How could I have ever thought such a thing?

  Miss Wessie pulled the skillet up and over her head. “Mister Claxton, don’t you make me do it. You keep to that side of the room. You hear?”

  Daddy laughed again, bending forward placing his hands on his knees. Thunder struck—a series of heavy concussions. He lunged forward. The power blinked off, throwing the room into darkness. Lightning mimicked the thunder’s rhythm. Daddy charged Miss Wessie, tackling her to the floor, twisting the skillet from her hands.

  I could barely make it out, their struggle in flashes of storm. Clenched fists. Tangled limbs.

  Daddy struck Miss Wessie across the face, her head whacking hard against the floor. She lay still.

  Daddy pulled himself up onto his knees, bending forward to assess his violence. “Look what you went and made me do.”

  I thought of Etta Mae hiding under my bed. First, her burned up Mama and now Miss Wessie. All of them dead. Then and there, with Miss Wessie lying dead on the floor, I knew I loved her, perhaps as I much as I could love a grandmother of my own, if any of them were still living. My knees buckled.

  Just as a scream scratched and dug its way up my throat, Miss Wessie’s fist connected with Daddy’s jaw knocking him backwards against the table legs.

  “Now look what you done gone and made me do,” she said.

  Daddy rolled over, pushing himself onto all fours, grabbing the table, pulling himself up from the floor. He limped over, picked up a broken flower, sniffed it, and threw it at Miss Wessie. “You give that to Analeise. Tell her it’s from her daddy. I’m afraid she’s gonna grow up to be a bitch just like her mama.”

  Did he know I was there hiding at the door? Is that why he said that horrible thing? Was it not enough he hurt Miss Wessie? Did he have to hurt me, too?

  Daddy turned and walked to the door.

  Miss Wessie yelled after him as she pushed herself up from the floor. “Where is you going off to in that pitiful state?”

  “Where do you think?” he said without turning back, pausing long enough to shatter the porch light with his fist. Miss Wessie followed behind, yelling after him, his tires spinning into mud and grass.

  Anger rose up inside me, a powerful kind of rage. I pulled at the front of my gown. I thought it was Mama that ruined everything, but I was wrong. It was Daddy who done it, who broke everything beyond repair. I backed away from the kitchen door and ran for my room.

  “Etta Mae?” I hurried to the bed searching for her with my hands.

  “I’m under here,” she said. I knelt down on the floor, reaching around for her in the dark until I found her. I grabbed hold, pulling her out.

  I jumped onto the bed, hoisting her up with me. I thought more than anything I wanted Daddy to love us again. For things to be as they once were. But that had been foolish. I was foolish. Stupid bitch.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Shhh.” I dug my knees into the mattress and clasped my hands beneath my chin. “Dear Lord, I hate my daddy.”

  Etta Mae pulled at my arms. “What are you doing?”

  “Shut up.” I pushed Etta Mae away. I balanced myself and looked to the ceiling. “Dear Lord, please punish my daddy.”

  Etta Mae gasped. “Analeise.”

  “Be quiet.” I squeezed and flexed my fingers until my knuckles popped. “Lord—make sure he’s sorry for all the awful things he’s done.”

  I found Etta Mae’s face in a single flash of light, her eyes wide with fear. I pulled the flower from behind her ear and then mine.

  One, two, three. And I slung them both off into the darkness.

  Chapter 7

  Halbert, the gatekeeper’s dream whisper woke me. They got secret’s they keep. His stale breath blew hot, his melted ear scraping against my cheek leaving behind candle wax droplets of skin.

  I lay, staring into the wood plank ceiling, my eyes tracing Florida and listening to the morning hum of insects, the rise and fall of their vibrations setting the day to an uncanny song.

  The whole room sagged with heat. My cotton nightgown surrendered to the humidity, expanding, and drooping at the neck, giving the appearance I had shrunk.

  The clink of dishes and smell of burned toast wafted from the kitchen. Miss Wessie never burned anything. Right then, I remembered Daddy and Miss Wessie wrestling on the kitchen floor.

  Etta Mae. I studied the shallow indentation in her pillow, lingering over the spot, taking in the scent of Miss Wessie’s homemade hair potion. “Etta Mae?” I whispered, wondering if she might be sleeping under the bed.

  I rolled onto my stomach, scooted to the mattress’s edge, hanging over to peek beneath. “Are you down there?” No Etta Mae, only dusty tumbleweeds and my keeping place, the small space beneath loose boards. The place where I hid away three nickels, a single sparkly ear clip that had the good sense to drop off Miss Minnie Jean’s droopy ear lobe, and the copy of Jane Eyre I stole from the library.

  I lingered there in the topsy-turvy, my hair spilling about my face tangled and damp, allowing the rush of blood in my head to throb, drowning out the cicada chorus.

  “Miss Lady,” Miss Wessie said.

  I jerked up, slinging back my hair, pushing the rest of it free from my face. “You nearly scared me to death.”

  “Lucky for you that nearly and being ain’t the same,” she said, managing a partial smile, her upper lip swollen and split.

  Daddy. What on earth must he have looked like after meeting up with the wrong side of Miss Wessie’s angry fist? In the spill of daylight, my hate, like everything else in the room melted, leaving behind a puddle of disdain. All I wanted was a better kind of Daddy.

  “When did you take to sleeping upside down like a big ole’ brown Georgia bat?”

  “I was looking for Etta Mae.” I could not help but stare at her lip. “What happened?” I said softly, rubbing at my mouth, hoping she might feel some relief and sympathy in my touch.

  She followed suit, touching her own lip. “Miss Wessie here tripped in the dark. Gave the door frame a big ole’ juicy kiss.”

  It was a slippery lie, all greased up and coming out quick and smooth. I admired her ease in telling it. “Does it hurt?”

  “It’ll pass.”

  Was that another lie? I nodded. “You burned the toast.”

  “I reckon I did. But you ain’t got to eat it.” She took a step forward, her bare foot resting on the discarded rose. She stopped, crossing her right foot over and to the side, peeling the flower from her meaty heel.

  “You left Etta Mae in here to sleep last night.”

  Miss Wessie patted the flattened bloom in her hand back and forth like biscuit dough. “I fell off to sleep. Didn’t mean to. Just like I didn’t mean to burn the toast.”

  And what of Mama’s flowers? Had she fallen asleep before she could toss them out before Daddy came home? Did she also want to keep them? “I reckon you threw out Mama’s flowers.”

  Miss Wessie tapped at her lip, letting a few breaths pass before she spoke. “I did what your Mama wanted. Like I always do.” She looked down at the floor to the left of her foot where Etta Mae’s bird blossom lay. She bent down pinching it between her fingers just as I once watched her kill a roach. Her lip curled up, nostrils flaring. Like the whole business had a stink to it.

  “Where’s Etta Mae?”

  “Outside.” Miss Wessie stepped closer, tossing the tattered blooms onto the bed beside me. “Miss Lady?”

  There was a crinkle in the narrow space between her eyebrows. The spot where she squeezed her worry. “What’s wrong?”

  “Not really sure,” Miss Wessie said. “Might be nothing.”

  Was that another oily lie? “But what?”

  Miss Wessie fluttered her fingers over her swollen lip. “Your Mama’s arm be tingling.”

  That place that tingled, the spot where the rattlesnake bit her all those years ago, flared up on occasion. It was these times Mama’s sight into the future was clearest, the stitches and embroidery by her own hand, easiest to read. My eyes drifted over to the flowers. I tamped down the urge to touch them, tugging up the collar of my nightgown. “Is it something good?” I already knew the answer. When Mama’s arm went to buzzing, I had come to learn that today was almost always better than tomorrow.

  Miss Wessie reached out touching the tip of my nose, then gently pulled a handful of my hair through her fingers. “She say it’s your daddy.”

  My heart went to thumping. “What about Daddy?” I pulled away from Miss Wessie, a web of tangled hair catching in her fingers, the shock of it, soothing in an odd sort of way.

  “She say something’s wrong.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did he come home?” I said, leaning back, propping myself up on my elbows.

  “No.”

  My heart caught again, stealing a breath. “At all?”

  Again, she fluttered her fingers at her lip, squeezing at her worry. “No.”

  Another lie. I was less impressed. More angry than anything, wishing I was snarled once again in Miss Wessie’s fingers, feeling something other than the raw beginnings of fear. “Where’s Mama?”

  “She on the porch fretting over the hem of her dress.”

  “What does it say?” I said, pushing myself up and off the bed, passing Miss Wessie, hurrying to the door. Had the Lord, with my nudging—had she done something to Daddy?

  “Don’t you go bothering your mama, leave her be.”

  I ran by the kitchen, stopping long enough to look in, no sign of the shattered vase and flowers. Outside on the porch, the swing swayed empty, Mama nowhere to be seen.

  Before I could call out, I saw her walking in the distance, the muddied, red clay path sucking at her feet, the hem of her dress caught in her hands, I stood, holding tight to the porch column listening to the drone of cicadas. And what was it they knew? Had they seen the terrible things I had done. Is that what cicadas did? Gobble up all the secrets in the world until they ripped at the seams, popping clear out of their skin.

  I heard Etta Mae before I saw her, her soprano trill sweet tasting as a peach. She sauntered around the corner of the house, her fingers picking daintily at the ruffles of Mama’s fancy apron, my play pretend party dress. Her hair was adorned with cicada husks—a crown of secrets. Which ones of mine did she wear?

  I might have run down the steps of the porch to shake her hard and mean had I not cared she might spill her beans. Tell all she knew, my whiskey drinking and prayer to hurt Daddy. And there were other things—the list sure to grow longer if only I had time to think. “Mama’s arm is a tingling,” I said.

  Etta Mae stopped to listen, dropping the apron to dangle dangerously close to her mud splattered shins. “Is it something good?”

  Stupid girl. “Miss Wessie said something’s happened to Daddy.” I dug my nails into the post.

  I could see it snap in her eyes, lifting the apron to hurry up to the porch. “Oh no. You don’t think . . .” She stopped to stand one-step below me.

  “Hush up. Your granny’s inside. Do you think the Lord heard me?” I whispered

  “She hears everything.”

  It would have been easy to push her down those porch steps. It might hurt just a little. “What if something really bad happened?”

  Etta Mae took the next step up to stand at my side. “Maybe it’s not too late.” She grabbed hold of my arm. “Maybe you can take it back.”

  “Can you? Take back a prayer.” I leaned into Etta Mae, feeling the weight of the thing.

  “I can’t say for sure. Never needed to.” She took hold of my hand, lacing her fingers through mine, raising our hands together to kiss the top of mine.

  The crunch of gravel caught our attention, the two of us standing fused together, looking to the road.

  The screen door whined. “Y’all get on back in this house,” Miss Wessie said.

  “Who is it, Granny?”

  I loosened my fingers taking back hold of the porch column.

  “Did you hear me?” Miss Wessie said.

  “Is it your Daddy?” Etta Mae said. It was not until then I could make it out, the big blue lights on top of the Sheriff’s car. I took two steps down, the beats of my heart too quick to count.

  “Miss Lady, you come back up on this here porch,” Miss Wessie said. “You hear me?”

  The Sheriff’s car slowed, turning down the drive stopping where Mama stood. I took off running, red clay oozing through my toes. “Mama?” I yelled as I ran to her. A broken strand of a spider’s web drifted across my face catching in my lashes. I kept my pace, pulling at the invisible thing grabbing hold of me.

  Miss Wessie hollered from the porch. “Get back here.”

  I turned back only once, Etta Mae standing wide-eyed beneath her granny’s arm, cicadas strewn across the top of her head.

  By the time I reached Mama, the Sheriff stood next to his car, his hand resting on Mama’s shoulder. “Mama, what’s happened to Daddy?”

  “Miss Analeise, you best get back on up to the house,” the Sheriff said.

  Mama held her skirt all the way up to her thighs running her fingers beneath the hem, sliding them across the thread, not turning my way, as though she did not see me there. “He’s dead isn’t he?”

  We stood still, Mama and me, staring at the Sheriff, waiting for him to speak.

  Finally, he nodded, glancing at me then turning back to face Mama.

  My knees buckled. “I didn’t mean it,” I said, tears already streaming hot down my face.

  The Sheriff shot me a strange look before Mama’s hysteria unraveled.

  Mama yanked at her dress pulling it up so high her garters showed. “He drowned in the river. I saw it,” she said, over and over.

  “Take hold of yourself, Grace,” The Sheriff caught Mama’s frantic hands, her skirt falling back below her knees.

  I killed Daddy. I stepped backwards in the muck, then turned to run. Miss Wessie and Etta Mae stood on the porch, bouncing in my vision, the sodden ground working hard to hold me in place.

  My right foot stopped me. The shock of stepping onto something sharp toppled me forward onto my knees. The pain, a wincing sort of throb followed by a penetrating burn. I rolled onto by backside, lifting my foot up to look.

  The broken neck of an Old Crow bottle dug deep into my arch, the look of it like a syrup tap hammered into a tree. I jiggled it and gave it a tug. Blood poured—a warm, unstoppable gush. It was the sight of the blood that did it, that sent my head spinning.

  “Analeise,” someone called off in the distance.

  The ground reached up to catch me. I lay there blinking into the dazzle of blue. All the storm clouds nearly cleared away, only a single puff of gray pushing through. I kept blinking until the light went dim.

  Chapter 8

  I killed Daddy. Drowned him in the Chattahoochee. Left him to bob with the catfish during that summer of storms, the summer I learned that a prayer could be a dangerous thing.

 

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