Liar's Bench (16 page)

“Mudas?” Bobby stood at the iron gate, waiting.

“Coming. Just straightening Frannie's stone.” I stood, feeling peace wash over me, cool and refreshing, for the first time in days. “Bobby,” I said, walking up to him, “we'll get a'hold of Ginny Meade as soon as we get back.”

“Mud—” Bobby launched. I sealed my mouth over his before he could say another word. I was tired of talking, tired of trying. A well of emotions drained into the balm of a long kiss. Surprised, Bobby stepped back before wrapping me in a perfect hug. “My family would love that. Thank you.”

I raised my chin and rested it on top of his shoulder, my mind racing and my heart
thump-thumping.
Like my mama, Frannie Crow was buried in the northern corner—the sunflower sentinel of this cemetery, a true guardian.

The cigar tree swayed ghoulishly, the sunlight filtering through its leaves cast bands of greenish yellow on the tall grasses and weeds. A warbler clung to a gnarled twig, trilling sweetly, soft and slow, while a solitary dove perched on the slave fence and mourned the day's sadness.

I snuggled into Bobby's embrace. The world seemed to shift and suddenly everything was beautiful. Wondrous.

And, for a minute, I could feel Frannie smiling down on us, saying it was true.

B
obby and I trekked back to his rag marker, through the big woods, and beyond to the side of Persimmon Branch Creek.

We found Peggy sitting under the mulberry right where I'd parked her and, thankfully, exactly as I had left her.

Bobby let out a joyful whoop and leaned against the car in relief.

Exhausted, I cradled the journal and tucked the Mason jar into the crook of my arm. “I just wish we'd had more time in McGee's office. I know that Rooster Run ledger is in there somewhere. Has to be.”

“C'mon, Mudas. Let's head on to Town Square and find Jingles. He'll sort this all out.”

Sapped, I tossed the key to Bobby and slipped into the passenger seat, placing the jar on the floorboard. With the journal cradled on my lap, I let my head fall back against the seat and crooked my neck sideways to watch Bobby.

In a series of small movements, he slid the key into the ignition, pressed in the clutch, and put the gear in first—lickety-split and smooth. Bobby turned to me, smiling. “Tighter than my pickup.” He leaned over and kissed me fully. I pressed into a sun's midday kiss, hot and heating, then backed away.

Again, Bobby and I stared at each other for a second. Hesitant, I turned to the window, before that second could claim the hour.

He gave a slow, low whistle, before easing us out onto the road. After a few minutes driving down Kat Walk, Bobby turned left onto Harper Road. We traveled about two miles before spotting old man Harper's huge round Texaco sign, its red star faded and rusted, the Kelly green signature
T
blistered and peeling from years in the Kentucky sun.

“I'm dying of thirst. Can we stop to use their water fountain?” I asked, pointing to the station. I was so desperate for a long, cool drink that I was even willing to put up with old man Harper's gross advances for a minute.

Bobby worked his jaw back and forth, studying, then quietly said, “Suppose it wouldn't hurt.”

He pulled into the gravel lot and parked by a gas pump sporting a metal sign of a Fire Chief's hat. Before I could reach for the door handle, Bobby had hopped out of the car, and said, “Be right back.” He winked at me and headed inside.

I started to protest, wanting to go inside and hog the water fountain—slurp up cool water till my eyes swam, my tongue waterlogged with satisfaction. I slumped back in my seat, waiting.

Gasoline fumes hazed the air, seeping in through the open window. I stared down at the journal clasped in my hands. Rubbing my fingers across the blue leather, I traced the gold scripted initials,
E.A.A.
I marveled at its age and, even more, its condition, the delicate fine cotton paper brown and yellowed, the ink smudged in parts, but still legible. I wished Grammy Essie was still alive to record this; it would've made her so happy. I brought the journal up to my nose, closed my eyes, and inhaled its earthy, aged scent, lost in thoughts about Frannie. Frannie and Mama. It would have been so much easier if Mama had left a journal behind instead of a strange ribbon with an even stranger encrypted message. And what if Mama hadn't left the message after all? Maybe Daddy had put it there, I despaired, or maybe Bobby and I'd been looking for something that wasn't even there—seeing what we wanted to see. Maybe this was all for naught, nothing but a snipe hunt. I thought of the receipt I'd buried alongside Frannie's grave, sick with the knowledge that Mama'd been reduced to whoring.

Bobby jerked open the door, startling me. The journal fell to my lap and sprung off onto the floorboard before I could snatch it up.

“Bobby, you sca—” I stopped, looked at his hands, and squealed, bouncing up and down on the bucket seat and clapping my hands. I felt my eyes balloon into moon pies as I momentarily tossed my worries over my shoulder.

Bobby flashed a grin, ducked his head inside the car, and handed me an ice-cold Coke and a tall, narrow bag of peanuts. He slid in behind the steering wheel and silenced my girlish peals of laughter with a friendly smooch.

I knocked back a huge swallow of Coke and felt its burn slide down, soothing my bone-dry throat. “I was
so
thirsty!” With shaky hands, I ripped open one of the bags of nuts and shoveled a handful into my mouth. “Thank you . . . mmm,” I said, mumbling with a mouthful, leaning forward to snatch up a nut that had slipped off my tongue and landed on my chest.

Bobby laughed and took a long swig of his Coke, then opened his peanuts. He popped them into his mouth and crunched away.

I funneled some of my own peanuts into my Coke. “Mmm,” I moaned, taking a sip, slurping and crunching, savoring each jaw-f as if it was a fried chicken Sunday dinner. “Mmm, mmm!” I stuffed more peanuts into my mouth, famished. My tongue quivered from the salt. I washed it down with a swill of icy Coke flavored with softened nuts. Savoring the fizz, I tossed Bobby a chipmunk grin.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw old man Harper approaching our car, red-faced, wearing a tight grin with even tighter eyes. He gave a sharp whack to the hood and whisked around to the driver's side. Resting his meaty hand on the roof, he leaned down to Bobby.

“Ain't you ol' man Jessum's kin?”

“Yessir,” Bobby said slowly.

“Nigga Jessum's grandson?”

“Sir?” Bobby replied, gripping the steering wheel and tucking his head down low. His eyes were fixed to the wheel.

Mr. Harper turned his head, opened his mouth, and squirted out a trail of spit. “I've seen ya wid him a couple of times when he comes in to git tires to take to the recap center. Ain't that right?”

“Uh—”

He pounded the roof. “Answer me, boy.”

I pulled Bobby slightly back and craned forward, peering over his shoulder to give Mr. Harper a puzzled look.

“Why, Miz Muddy, is that you?” Mr. Harper acted surprised, his mouth contorted—twisted all sourball candy-like—his red lips jutted, settling into a sneering pout. He plucked off his dirty ball cap and poked his sweaty face inside the car. “Me an' Missus Harper was jus' talking 'bout yore loss an' the fine service Pastor gave yore Mama yesterday. An' 'bout the good riddance of that no-good white-trash Whitlock today. Tut, tut.” He picked at his oily nose, ratlike.

“Yessir,” I answered, growing alarmed. The stench of his grease, dirt, and sweat wafted close and settled into the car, causing me to take short, tiny breaths.

“This boy running errands for ya today?” He glanced at Bobby.

“Huh? I—”

Bobby grabbed my knee and gave a soft, loaded squeeze, before returning his hands to the steering wheel.

“Ya know, iffin' you wanting some gasoline, Miz Muddy, I can't serve ya wid him sitting 'hind the wheel. Only you.”

“Mr. Harper, Bobby goes to my school. And, he's—”

“Educated nigga or not, I ain't serving him. 'Course he can always git out an' pump for ya.” Mr. Harper's face was pinched, his eyes hardened to slits as he stood there studying Bobby.

Stunned, I looked over to Bobby, whose head was slightly down, his jaw clenched, and his knuckles turning stark white on the steering wheel.

“Mr. Harper, sir,” I replied, “we were just stopping by for a drink from the fountain. And we, um, bought Cokes and peanuts.” I lifted my empty Coke bottle, feeling the syrupy liquid begin to crawl up the back of my throat, like the sticky sap of a hedge ball.

“That so?” he said, his eyes darting over us. He dug into the pocket of his sweat-stained blue union suit and pulled out a palm full of change. Picking over the coins, he lifted up a nickel. “Looks like I owe my customer a bottle refund.” Mr. Harper brought his arm up to his mouth, wiping his spittle on his already dirty sleeve, and dangled the nickel toward me, waiting.

Shaking, I extended my arm past Bobby to hand Mr. Harper my Coke bottle for the standard refund. He plunked the coin into my open palm and smirked at Bobby. Mr. Harper just stood there—staring, waiting—his neck all stretched out like a turkey's wattle, with veins threaded and pulsing below warty skin.

I lowered my eyes and murmured a polite thank you.

Satisfied, he nodded twice, jowls flapping with each bob.

Bobby sat quietly, but I could feel his contained anger threatening to spill over, a hotness oozing out.

I tugged at Bobby's Coke bottle, but he wouldn't let go.

Mr. Harper gloated. “That's right. He knows the rules, Miz Muddy. We don't refund to coloreds.” He snarled at Bobby. “They take their bottles down to Skeeter's for their refunds. Ain't that right, boy?”

Bobby fixed his eyes on the steering wheel.

“Answer me, boy!” Mr. Harper cursed.

Bobby gradually turned toward him.

Taking a step back, Mr. Harper stuck out his lips and spit. Thick goo landed on Bobby's cheek, a few wayward droplets hitting my face. I gasped and hurriedly swiped my hand over my face, repulsed.

Bobby turned away, shutting his eyes.

Harper whacked the roof and edged farther away from the car to swagger around the front. Giving a fisted thump to the hood, he called over his shoulder and waggled a stubby finger in the air: “Ya tell ol' Jessum we won't be needing him for tire pickups anymore. Maybe he can find work over in Mallardsburg. Ya hear me, boy?”

Bobby fumbled for the door handle.

I squeezed out a sharp “No!” and quickly opened the glove box to find a handful of tissue paper. “Bobby . . . Hey, Bobby, look at me. Please.” I gently guided his face away from Harper and toward me.

Slowly, he relented, but his eyes bore into mine, heated, pained. He held the Coke bottle vicelike, the green glass threatening to burst.

“S'okay. It's okay, c'mon,” I whispered, carefully wiping the sputter off with a tissue. “Let him go. Let
it
go, Bobby. My grammy always said you gotta choose your battles carefully. 'Cause the enemies, and the offspring of your enemies”—I tapped his temple—“are gonna be setting up shop in there. So you best make sure they're worthy, 'cause I know you've got better things to think about. Need to leave space for all the good stuff, okay?” I wrapped my hand over his and gently stroked. His muscles relaxed and the grip on the bottle loosened.

I let out a tiny sigh of relief.

Bobby rested his forehead against mine.

“C'mon, Bobby, let's get outta here.”

He shrugged and tossed the tissue out the window. “Prick,” he muttered, his voice rattling back up from the hurt. Setting the pop bottle between his legs, Bobby started the car and eased out onto Harper's Road. “We'd best take Harper's straight down to Town Square, in case McGee and his men are lurking on the back roads,” he speculated. “I reckon it'd be safer to stay on the busier road.”

It was. No more than five minutes later, we passed Jewel Johnson on Harper's Road, her station wagon bulging with six children squeezed inside. She waved and I smiled, remembering how, just a few weeks ago, I'd babysat for her and Mr. Johnson. I especially remembered how their house had been loud and full of love, peppered with plenty of cussing an' kissing. She'd told me she was plumb worn-out from popping out babies. “Thankfully,” she'd said, “as soon as we lugged our first TV set home, Mr. Johnson's attentions turned.” I'd blushed at her frankness.

We sped into town, driving past the Cooper twins carrying bales of hay in the back of their pickup truck and past Joel Irving in his mail truck, slowing only to swerve around a deer and brake for a pokey box turtle.

With my belly full, and feeling drowsy and spent, I leaned my head against the passenger window, watching as the car whizzed past the tall weeds and pines. It wasn't long until the scene became a comfortable blur, and the hum of wheels on asphalt lulled me into nothingness. I felt Bobby reach for my hand, a gentle caress, before my eyelids grew heavy.

I awoke to the sun setting behind the Peckinpaw Jail, the late-afternoon shadows casting a freakish blue haze over the pea-green building. Peeling my forehead from the car window, I groaned. “Here already?”

“I cut over Knobmole Hill. You hit a brick wall 'bout fifteen minutes back.”

“Feels more like fifteen seconds,” I yawned, blinking twice to stretch my eyes.

Bobby leaned over the seat and lifted the Mason jar.

I grabbed the journal and met him on the sidewalk. We stared up at the old brick building. “What do you think Jingles will do?” I asked.

“Dunno. Would you rather go find your dad first? We could head to your house?”

I looked over my shoulder, worrying and wondering about McGee. “No.” I shook my head firmly. “I can't go back there,” I announced. “I don't trust him. I'll be sleeping in Peggy until I can figure out where home's gonna be.”

“I'll be damned if I'll let that happen,” Bobby replied, his jaw set firm. “No way.”

I shrugged.

“Listen, my gramps has a breezeway off the back of his house and if you don't mind sharing it with Cassie, I'm sure Gramps wouldn't mind a bit.”

“Cassie? Your grammy?”

“No, she passed.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Years ago. But thanks.”

“So . . . Cassie is?”

“Dog breath, and lazy.”

“Hmm.”

“You don't mind bunking with a hound dog?”

“Hah.” I tousled his hair. “I'll study on it,” I said gratefully.

“All right, you ready to go see Jingles?” I nodded. We climbed the concrete steps of Peckinpaw Jail. I moaned when I spotted the faded blue
WILL RETURN IN AN HOUR
sign, knowing that, in Peckinpaw time, that could mean a second, a minute, or a day.