Let Me Die in His Footsteps

12

NO ONE EVER talks about Aunt Juna being Annie’s real mama, at least not in a place or in a way Annie could hear. When Annie was younger and would happen by a group of girls skipping rope and singing about Juna and how many Baines would die this day, sometimes those girls would stop and huddle, one whispering to another. They were the ones who knew Aunt Juna was Annie’s mama even before Annie knew. Other times, the girls, different girls, would keep right on jumping and singing and not knowing Annie was Juna’s relation.

The ones who stopped their jumping to whisper had grandmas and grandpas who had lived here all their lives. Those older folks are the ones who lived here when Joseph Carl Baine was hanged. They’re the ones who knew he was hanged not only for what he did to Dale Crowley but also for being the one to put the seed in Aunt Juna. Not even these girls who knew the truth would mention Joseph Carl Baine when Annie passed them by. They might have warned one another that the evil lives in Annie’s black eyes and pleaded with Annie not to curse their daddies’ crops or beg her to bring them a favorable winter, all the while laughing because Annie’s mama wasn’t her real mama, but they never dared mention Joseph Carl being her daddy.

But as Grandma hurries around the table, her wide hips bouncing off the counter and then the kitchen table, and wraps her arms around Annie, and as Daddy stands so quick his chair tumbles backward and bounces off the linoleum floor, it’s clear Joseph Carl Baine being Annie’s daddy is the thing that brought Ellis Baine into the Hollerans’ kitchen.

“You want to say that again?” Daddy says.

Ellis Baine leans forward, rests his elbows on the table, and nods at Annie. “Here to see that one,” he says.

Daddy lunges across the table, but before he gets a hand on Ellis Baine, the sheriff grabs him by the back of his shirt and gives a good yank.

“Good Lord, John,” the sheriff says, both he and Daddy stumbling over the fallen chair.

Ellis Baine stands too, though not as quick, and his chair stays on its feet. He holds his hands out to the side and backs away until he’s beyond Daddy’s reach.

Grandma tries to hide Annie’s eyes by wrapping her up in a hug, but Annie is a good half a foot taller than Grandma. Try as Grandma might, she can’t hug Annie tight enough to cut off her view.

As quickly as Daddy leapt across the table, he settles back. His chest is pumping again, and he’s staring in the direction of Ellis Baine, but it’s not the visitor who has drawn Daddy’s attention. Annie unwraps herself from Grandma’s arms to see what Daddy is staring at. It’s Mama. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, one hand covering her mouth, the other clinging to the banister.

“John?” she says.

Jacob Riddle is inside again, though Annie never heard him open the door, and he must have righted Daddy’s chair because it’s there for him when he collapses into it.

Mama’s hair is always pretty. She brushes it every morning and washes it at least three times a week, which is plenty given how thick and long it still is. She has a few gray hairs, but mostly Mama’s hair always looks nice. On Sundays though, Mama fixes it extra fine for church. She teases up the top and pins back the front, picking out a few stray, wispy pieces with the pointed end of her comb. She says it frames her face and that Annie’s hair would do the same if she’d ever take a set of bristles to it. The rest of Mama’s hair she leaves to fall down her back in long, dark waves, and if the weather is dry and accommodating, she’ll use that green gel and sleep in rollers so she’ll have long, smooth curls by morning.

Mama has done all these things today except for sleeping in the rollers. She’s also painted her lips with her best crimson-rose lipstick, and her lashes are long enough to throw feathery shadows on her cheeks. Annie watches Daddy watching Mama, and Annie knows, and Daddy knows, Mama did these things for Ellis Baine.

“Good to see you, Sarah,” Ellis says to Mama, bowing his head. His voice is rough like those of so many of the men who spent too many years in the mines. Wherever he’s been and whatever he’s been doing since he left Hayden County, he has spent a good bit of that time underground.

Mama slides one foot toward Ellis. It’s barely a movement, just enough to make the skirt of her dress sway from one side to the other, and then she stops. She crosses her arms loosely over her waist and says, “You look well, Ellis. My condolences.”

From his seat at the table, Daddy leans forward in his chair, rests his elbows on his knees, and with one finger waves Mama toward him. He studies Mama as she walks across the kitchen. She wears her bright-blue dress, the one with pale-yellow trim at the neckline. A white scarf is tied around her waist. Whenever she wears this dress, usually for a night of dancing in the church basement, Daddy wraps his hands around her waist to prove it’s not one inch bigger than the day they wed. His fingers never quite reach, though he always swears they do. On Mama’s feet, she wears her best white heels, the ones she won’t dare wear in the rain and that she stores in two cloth bags. Daddy drops his eyes to the floor as Mama slips behind him. He can smell it too… Mama’s best perfume.

Ellis sits back down, and his eyes settle on Annie again.

“That her?” he asks. “That your oldest?”

“Get out, Annie,” Daddy says.

Mama rests a hand on Daddy’s shoulder, but he swats it away.

“Now,” he says. “Outside.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” the sheriff says. “Go on outside, Annie. You’ll get some good light out on the porch. Make threading a needle a whole lot easier. You go on while we do some catching up.”

Grandma wraps an arm around Annie’s waist and turns her toward the door.

“He’s back because his mama’s dead,” she whispers in Annie’s ear. “She’s the one kept him away all these years. Don’t you stray, you hear?”

GRANDMA SAYS THERE is something deep underground that feeds the soil. It’s the first thing she taught Annie about the know-how. Year after year, century after century, she says, this something rises to the surface, leaches into roots and streams and lakes, and this something makes things grow stronger and bigger here in Kentucky than in any other place on this earth. The horses, the grass, the trees-all of them feeding off the thing that lives deep underground.

And this thing, it bleeds through our shoes and through the soles of our feet and it feeds us too. It’s our histories, Grandma says. Our histories root themselves right where we stand, and they lie in wait until they can soak up into the next generation and the next. It’s what feeds us.

Watching everyone in the kitchen, most especially the men, Annie figures that’s why they’re all so big. All of them except the sheriff, although even he is extra big around the middle, are feeding on this thing deep in the ground. Year after year, century after century of histories living underfoot have made these men bigger and stronger than all the rest.

The sheriff was right; the light here on the porch would be perfect for stitching a button, but the needle and thread are in the top drawer to the right of the sink. Annie drapes the shirt, which is a little damp and most unpleasant to hold, over the railing, walks across the porch on her toes so she’ll make no noise, and stands near the kitchen window. From here, she can see them and hear them too.

“Yes,” Mama is saying, “Annie is our oldest.”

More words are exchanged, though they aren’t clear, but it’s definitely the sheriff doing the talking. He’s saying things about bygones being bygones and doesn’t Ellis have plenty to worry about without worrying about the past.

“Where have you been all these years?” Mama asks.

Ellis Baine leans across the table and picks up one of the decks of cards. Annie knows the deck well enough, has even used it herself a few times. The back of each card is bordered in a red that was likely a brighter shade at one time but is now faded from age. In the center of each is an ink drawing of a sailboat, and in the center of each sail is written “Old Cutter Whiskey.” A red rubber band is wrapped around the deck, only twice so as to not dent the cards. Ellis slips off the band, fans the cards, and taps them on the table. Holding them in one hand, he uses the thumb of his other hand, bends back the deck, and lets each red card pop up one at a time. He holds the deck near his eyes as if making sure each card of each suit is accounted for. If he answers Mama, Annie can’t hear what he says.

Mama asks a few more questions about Ellis Baine’s brothers and his plans for the farm. He looks as if to answer mostly with one or two words and a nod or a grunt. When Mama asks about a wife, Daddy pushes away from the table, those chair legs squealing again and interrupting any answer Ellis Baine was going to give.

“How about funeral plans?” the sheriff says. The change in subject calms Daddy, and he leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and goes back to staring across the table.

After giving the cards one last shuffle, Ellis slips the band around them, lays them on the table, and stands. “Think you might tell me what happened to Mother?”

Besides Ellis Baine, Annie can see Jacob Riddle best. He’s standing behind Daddy like he’s ready to grab Daddy if he makes another lunge for Ellis Baine. The way Jacob’s hat sits low on his forehead reminds Annie of the baseball hat he used to wear. There was always something pleasing about watching Jacob up on the pitcher’s mound. He couldn’t play basketball for tripping over the lines painted on the floor, but on a baseball mound, those arms and legs suited him. He belonged up there, was at ease. That’s what Annie had found so pleasing. The ease. Watching Jacob now, a deputy’s hat sitting on his head instead of a baseball hat, his arms and legs almost fit him again. Annie keeps on watching until Jacob turns in her direction and gives her a wink. Yes, that was definitely a wink. Annie pulls away from the window so Jacob won’t see the smile she can’t keep from taking over her face.

Ellis standing must have been a signal to the other men, and inside the kitchen, chairs scoot across the linoleum and boots hit the floor.

“Can’t say for sure,” the sheriff says. “How about I come with you up to your place? We’ll have a look at things. She’d gotten old, Ellis. You ain’t been around to see, but your mama’d gotten old. Most likely nothing more than old age.”

Annie drops down on the bench when someone opens the screen door. She pulls the sheriff’s shirt into her lap and holds the button between two fingers.

The sheriff walks outside first, followed by Ellis Baine. Annie stands at the sight of him, the sheriff’s shirt falling to her feet. He’s been nothing but a name all these years, Ellis Baine. Someone to hate because that’s what Hollerans did with Baines. Even people as far away as New York City knew Hollerans were meant to hate Baines. But here he is, Ellis Baine, wearing clothes no different than the other fellows. Wearing a hat no different. He’s not so large as she thought a legend would be. She didn’t have to get this close to know he’s more handsome than most any man in town. She knew that the moment she saw him sitting at her kitchen table. Maybe he’s even more handsome than Daddy, but his face isn’t so kind as Daddy’s. He reaches out a hand to Annie and she takes it, and she wonders if Ellis Baine might be her daddy. It would be easier to think about this man being her real daddy than a man buried upside down at the crossroad into town.

“Ellis Baine,” he says, his voice deep and scratchy like he needs to clear his throat.

His hand is rough and more like a leather glove than a hand. It wraps around Annie’s and squeezes and holds on a moment longer than need be.

“Annie Holleran,” she says, and maybe it’s because she’s older now and Mama says folks learn to think not so much about themselves and more about others as they get older, or maybe it’s because she’s just now seeing that Ellis Baine is a plain, ordinary man, but Annie Holleran realizes she’s the aftermath of something terrible that happened in this man’s life and is some kind of a reminder to him. Maybe a good one, maybe not. It’s their histories leaching up from the ground and they’re all tangled together.

“You favor Juna,” he says, again looking at the parts that make her up.

“Yes, sir.”

He looks her in the eyes. Not many folks do that. Some try. They take a quick glance, but then they’re afraid of what might happen. They blink, look off to the side of her or over her head. Ellis Baine, he looks her square in the eye, even tips forward to get closer. Like the sheriff, Ellis might be wondering if Annie did something to his mama, if she’s evil like Juna. But because he lays his head off a bit to the right and then the left, he’s looking for something he’s straining to see, not something he’s afraid to see. He’s looking for some sign of Joseph Carl. Or maybe some sign of himself.

The sheriff giving Ellis a pat on the back is the thing that stops him from staring at Annie. He pulls on his hat, dips it in the direction of the kitchen window, where Mama stands so she can watch from inside. At this, Daddy grabs hold of Annie’s arm and drags her to his side. He squeezes her arm so tight she wants to cry out but knows it’s not the time for thinking of herself. Ellis shakes the sheriff’s hand, and as he walks down the stairs, Mama steps away from the window and Annie realizes something else. It must be proof positive she’s growing up and finding more room to consider others and not just herself no matter how it might make her hurt inside. Mama once loved Ellis Baine, maybe still does.

THE CLOUDS MUST have blown in while Annie was busy listening to everyone in the kitchen, and by the time she reaches the field, where she knows she’ll find Ryce, her hair is clinging to the sides of her face and her clothes are soaked through. It’s a light rain, barely enough to pool in the ditches or the low spots in the dirt road, but the drops are large. They fall that way, fat and heavy, because someone has died. Because Mrs. Baine has died. Ever since Daddy stood in the living room and said Cora Baine was gone, Annie has known the rain would eventually come and next will come, hopefully will come, the thunder. It’ll mean Mrs. Baine has passed on to a peaceful place, and then maybe Annie will find peace too. The spark in the air and the yearnings and the coming of the lavender will fade, and Annie will find peace.

Dropping her bike at the field’s edge and not bothering to lean it against a tree, Annie walks toward the group of men gathered under the oaks. It’s lunchtime, and so they’re pulling sandwiches from their lunch buckets, sipping coffee from the lids of their silver thermoses. The younger ones who have come with their daddies to help in the digging, setting, patting, and watering are jackassing around. That’s what Grandma would call it. Jackassing around. And jackassing around on a Sunday doesn’t much happen.

Annie knows enough to be careful where she walks in a newly plowed field, and had she not found herself getting more and more angry as she pedaled over here-angry about the way Sheriff Fulkerson kept raising his brows as he asked Annie all those questions, angry at Daddy for thinking she lied about the cigarettes, angry at Mama for loving Ellis Baine-she might have taken care not to step in the soft overturned dirt. A few of the older men holler at her for doing just that, which causes all the rest to turn her way. Ryce, who sits off to the side with a few of the other younger fellows, turns too.

At first, Ryce gives her a wave, not bothering to stand from his seat on the ground. He leans against the trunk of one of the elms shielding all the men, his knees bent up, both boots planted flat. He looks at the two fellows sitting next to him and gives a shrug big enough for everyone to see. He’ll be thinking about Lizzy Morris and not wanting any of these fellows to tell her Annie Holleran was visiting him at work.

Ryce has been to Lizzy’s house twice for Sunday supper. Both times he said he went because his folks were invited and so he had to go along. Said it wasn’t so bad because Mrs. Morris glazes a real fine ham but that must be all she can cook because they’ve eaten the same both Sundays. Annie said he’d better brace himself for a lifetime of glazed ham because like mother, like daughter.

Or maybe, as Annie marches in his direction, ignoring the older men who continue to holler at her, Ryce will be thinking she’s come to see Miss Watson, who stands nearby, a basket covered over with a blue-and-yellow kerchief slung from her arm. Ryce glances at Annie again and yet again as she gets closer. When she’s close enough to call his name without shouting, he jumps up like something bit him in the hind end, grabs her by the arms, and pushes her away from the other men.

“What the hell are you doing, Annie?”

Annie jerks away and shoves him in the chest. “What are you doing?”

“Good Lord, Annie.” He slides a step to his left as if trying to hide her. “Look at yourself.”

“Don’t want those fellows telling Lizzy Morris I come to see you, do you?”

“Don’t care about Lizzy, but I do care what these fellows are seeing.”

“My Aunt Juna is back, and I want you to make your daddy do something about it,” Annie says. “He’s the sheriff and he should see to it.”

“I can’t tell my daddy nothing like that,” Ryce says, still shifting about.

Over at the truck where the older men sit, legs stretched out, feet crossed, some with hats yanked down over their eyes, Miss Watson has pulled back the kerchief on her basket and is handing out that cornbread Abraham is all the time complaining about. In between pulling out slices and handing them off to the fellows, she gives Annie a wave.

“You doing all right there, darling?” Miss Watson shouts.

Miss Watson came back to town a few years ago after she finished her schooling and has been the fifth grade teacher ever since. Two months ago, a few weeks after her grandmother died, she got engaged to Abraham Pace. Soon she’ll be Mrs. Pace. She wears a belted, blue cotton dress, the same one she wears most days when she’s teaching arithmetic, and slip-on heels that make her waddle as she walks among the men.

Miss Watson was raised by her grandparents, and her granddaddy died a good many years ago. Folks figured when Miss Watson’s grandmother finally passed, Abraham Pace would have no choice but to propose. Grandma said, upon hearing news of the engagement, that she wasn’t altogether surprised but that didn’t make the news any more agreeable.

Miss Watson is young, too young for Abraham Pace. Grandma says youth generally has a way of making even the most ordinary woman striking, if only for a few years. Youth has not been so kind to Miss Watson. Even at her age-almost twenty years younger than the man she’ll marry in a few weeks-she is ordinary. She doesn’t have the shine, that’s what Grandma says. A person couldn’t say Miss Watson has beautiful hair because it’s thin and wispy and dried out on the ends, and a person couldn’t say she has pretty eyes because they’re small and her lids never quite open all the way, and she’s a worrier, always fussing that the gutters might plug, that the milk might spoil, or that Abraham’s heart might suffer lasting damage from too much salt. That kind of worrying will wear a person down.

“Doing fine, ma’am,” Annie calls back and gives Miss Watson a wave.

Ryce waves too and says no thank you to a piece of cornbread. Then he steps close to Annie, too close. Somewhere along the way, Ryce has done his share of sprouting, and he’s as tall as Annie now, maybe taller. Him standing so close makes her want to close her eyes, though she isn’t sure why. Instead, she gives him another shove, but he’s set on his spot and doesn’t back away.

“Then you tell me what you heard your daddy say,” Annie says.

“What are you talking about?” Ryce looks again at the fellows he was sitting with. “You got to cover yourself over.”

“Tell me. Tell me what you heard.”

Ryce’s eyes drop down again, but this time they linger. He’s standing close enough Annie can feel the heat of his body and smell the dirt he didn’t bother washing from his hands before eating and the toothpaste he dribbled on his shirt this morning.

“Nothing, Annie. I didn’t hear nothing. You got to go.” Ryce reaches for her shoulder as if to send her on home, but as quick as he touches her, he yanks his hand away, making Annie wonder, though she knows better, if Ryce is feeling the same spark in the air she’s been feeling all these many days.

“Everything all right over there?” It’s Miss Watson again. She has hooked one arm through Abraham’s, and both are studying Annie and Ryce. “Ryce, you doing all right there?”

Annie starts to holler out again that she is doing fine but then realizes Miss Watson didn’t ask after Annie. She asked after Ryce. Miss Watson asked after Ryce as if he were in harm’s way.

“Just talking is all,” Ryce shouts. “You go on back to your lunch.”

“Your daddy is asking me all kinds of questions,” Annie says, watching Miss Watson watching her. “And he’s looking at me like I’m a liar when I answer them.”

Ryce leans in again. “You go on home,” he says. “I’ll come over tonight. We’ll talk then.”

“No, tell me now.”

“Ryce Fulkerson.” It’s Abraham this time. “Am I going to have to tell that girl’s daddy to be on the lookout for you?”

Abraham gives a shove to the fellow next to him. They laugh the way older fellows do when younger fellows are trying to get their legs.

“There’s always been a quarrel between the families,” Ryce says, probably already trying to fashion how he’ll explain all of this to Lizzy Morris. “That’s all. And it’s not what my daddy thinks. Just gossip. Folks talking.”

“What else is there, Ryce Fulkerson? You tell me.”

“Ryce, honey,” Miss Watson shouts again. “You get enough to eat? You want to come on over here and have some of Abe’s chicken?”

There she goes again, acting as if Ryce is the one with something to fear.

“Ain’t going to be the one to break your heart,” Ryce says, ignoring Miss Watson.

“You tell me right now. You tell me right now why your daddy would think such a damn fool thing as I would kill Mrs. Baine or I’ll kiss you full on the mouth right here in front of everyone, and what’ll Lizzy Morris think about that?”

Ryce’s face must be burning because it turns bright red. Those eyes of his start jumping around, looking up and down, left and right, like he doesn’t know where to let them settle.

“Your mama ain’t your mama.”

“So?”

“You already know that?”

Annie nods. Can’t say it out loud. Has never said it out loud. Maybe Annie is feeling the anger she’s feeling because Miss Watson is behaving as if Annie is a danger to Ryce, or maybe Annie really is a danger. Either way, she closes her hands into fists and braces herself for a fight.

“You’re halfway to sixteen now,” Ryce says, facing Annie. “Seems strange to some folks.”

“What’s so strange about that?”

The younger fellows have stood up and walked a few steps closer. Ryce turns, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t make a motion of any kind, but something in the way he looks at them is enough to make them drop down on the ground again and go back to eating their sandwiches and cherry tomatoes.

“Some folks think it’s evil when a girl like you turns of age. They believe you favor her… Juna Crowley… and that’s how old she was when folks most remember the trouble. Some are thinking you got Juna’s ways, and maybe you done something to Mrs. Baine. Think you’re taking revenge now that you’re of age.”

“Revenge for what?”

“Revenge for a Baine killing her.”

“A Baine killing who?”

“Juna. Your Aunt Juna… your mama.”

Jamming her balled-up fists into her waist so her elbows jut out to the side, Annie takes a giant forward step that nearly knocks Ryce from his feet.

“My Aunt Juna ain’t dead.”

“God damn it, Annie,” Ryce says, grabbing her by the arm. This time he doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls her close so he can whisper in her ear. His cotton undershirt is damp and still smells the slightest bit like bleach. “I can see your everything. You ought be wearing your underclothes. God damn, Annie. Everyone can see. I can see.”

Annie tries to pull away, but Ryce squeezes tight, doesn’t let go. He holds on so long and so tight her fingers start to tingle. His chest is warm and touches hers every time he inhales. Without looking down, she tugs at her blouse. The thin cotton peels off her skin.

“You shouldn’t be looking there,” she says, barely loud enough to hear the words herself.

“I can’t hardly help it. These other fellows ain’t going to be able to help it either. You need to get yourself out of here. Your daddy will have your hide. Mine too. You get on.”

Ryce’s hand loosens, but the touch of his fingers lingers. Annie crosses her arms over her chest. She can’t hear the rest of them anymore-not Abraham and those fellows laughing, not Miss Watson passing out her cornbread, not Ryce telling her to get on home.

“My Aunt Juna ain’t dead,” she says in little more than a whisper. “We get cards from her. Every Christmas, we get cards, and letters too.”

Ryce draws a hand down over his face and, in one motion, pulls his shirt up and over his head and hands it to Annie.

“Put this on,” he says into her ear. His breath is warm, but the skin on his chest is cool when he brushes up against Annie’s arm.

“Do they really think it?” Annie says, hugging the shirt to her own chest and staring down at her feet. “Who says that? Why do they think Juna’s dead?”

It’s a wicked thought, likely sinful, but Annie would be relieved if Aunt Juna were dead. She’d never again hear a car rolling up the drive and feel the fear that settles in her stomach, always her stomach, when she thinks Aunt Juna has finally come back. Annie has always imagined that living here with Mama and Daddy and Caroline and Grandma has kept her from being all so much like Aunt Juna. But if she were to come for Annie, maybe steal her away in the middle of the night, or maybe Mama would greet Aunt Juna at the front door and pass off Annie and her packed suitcase because she isn’t quite as sweet and kind and generous and abiding as Caroline, Annie would surely slip into being evil just like Aunt Juna.

Over the years, Annie has learned the sound of every truck and car that has reason to park outside their house. She knows Daddy’s and Abraham’s trucks and the cars Grandma’s lady-friends drive. She even knows Miss Watson’s car. She learned them all so she doesn’t have to live through that fear every time a car or truck rolls up the drive. She barely lets herself hope before the hope is gone. The cards have come every Christmas. Aunt Juna can’t be dead.

Standing bare-chested, Ryce lets his arms hang at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“I don’t know nothing else, Annie. I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Stop looking,” Annie says.

Ryce shakes his head. “I ain’t. I ain’t looking. Jesus, Annie, I can’t help myself. I don’t know nothing else about Juna. Just go on. Just go on home.”

“I saw Jacob Riddle down in the well,” Annie says. “He’s the man I’ll marry one day.”

She’s telling Ryce even though he didn’t ask. Something about him looking at her the way he’s looking and the way his chest is pumping up and down and the way she can feel how warm his body is even though it’s cool to the touch makes her want to hurt him because she knows one day he’ll kiss Lizzy Morris and marry her and eat her glazed ham.

“And you tell your daddy that my Aunt Juna ain’t dead and that she’s back. He’s the sheriff and he should do something about it. You tell him that. My Aunt Juna ain’t dead, and she’s come back home.”