Let Me Die in His Footsteps

16

AS ANNIE HAS sat here on her bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, the cicadas have gone silent for the night, and the buzzing and clicking of the cricket frogs have filled in behind. The breeze blowing through her window has turned cool with the setting sun, and as the light outside has slipped from white to orange to a dusty gray, the sizzle Annie has been feeling all these many days has swelled up inside her again.

Ryce Fulkerson came pedaling up to the house after supper. While sitting with the rest of the family on the porch, all of them full from the meal celebrating Annie’s day, she had heard him, the whining of his bike’s front tire, long before he appeared, and she excused herself. Too much supper, she had said, or perhaps she was coming down with whatever had sent Mama to bed for most of the afternoon.

For two hours, Ryce has sat on the porch with Daddy and Abraham Pace, each of them taking a turn cranking the ice-cream maker. Every so often, Daddy gives it a whack and bangs it on the ground to loosen the ice when it freezes up on him. Since Ryce arrived, Daddy and Abraham have been drinking whiskey, and the more they drink, the louder Abraham’s voice grows. They’re mostly talking about Ellis Baine. Daddy thinks he made a damn fool of himself when the man stopped by. Abraham says Daddy is only a fool if he doesn’t keep a gun close at hand, because that’s what Abraham damn sure plans to do. And when Abraham goes so far as to shout out Goddamn right I’ll keep myself a gun near at hand, the hinges on the screen door squeal and Miss Watson asks that Abraham please keep his voice down. The third time Abraham lets out such a laugh, he riles that dog of his. She lunges against her chain, lets out a yelp, and starts barking. Abraham and Daddy both shout at her to quiet herself down, but it’s Ryce who finally tends the animal.

Peeking out the window, Annie watches him jump off the porch, not bothering with the three steps, squat with the dog and scratch at Tilly’s ears until she walks in a small circle and drops down on the ground. When Ryce stands and it seems he might look up at Annie’s window, she drops down too and sits there, leaning against the wall, until the top step creaks, which it always does when someone sits on it.

Once it’s quiet again, Miss Watson closes the door, letting it slap the way Mama does when she catches Daddy smoking, and Daddy tells Abraham a man is only as happy as the wife he raises. Mama wouldn’t like it if she heard Daddy saying that, and Daddy would never say it when Mama was near enough to hear.

“Ain’t my wife, yet,” Abraham hollers.

Miss Watson doesn’t do any more shouting from the kitchen.

TWICE MAMA CALLS upstairs for Annie to come on down. The third time, Daddy does the hollering. She has company, and it won’t do to be so rude. Annie walks to the top of the stairs and, with a hand resting on her stomach, says she sure doesn’t feel well. Please give Ryce my apologies. It might be the start of school, a long three months away, before Annie is able to bear looking Ryce Fulkerson in the eyes again.

As the three of them sit down there, the sun falling below the horizon, Daddy and Abraham Pace do most of the talking. Every so often, there is a slap, one of them swatting a mosquito, or a creak as someone stands to stretch his legs. In the kitchen, silverware rattles as Grandma drops it in a sink of soapy water and cupboards open and close as Mama puts away the supper dishes. Someone, probably Miss Watson, fans a deck of cards and taps it three times on the kitchen table. The smell of coffee bubbling up in the percolator drifts upstairs. Mama is brewing it to be served with the spice cake and ice cream.

There was no talk of Mrs. Baine over supper or how she died, and no talk of Aunt Juna coming home, but Jacob Riddle has been sitting out back all evening on a folding chair Mama brought out from the spare bedroom. He’s there just in case. Just in case it was Aunt Juna up there smoking cigarettes. Just in case it wasn’t old age that got the better of Mrs. Baine. Just in case Ellis Baine comes again.

Most of the night, Caroline has been out there with Jacob Riddle. Before supper, she changed into her favorite yellow dress, the one folks say looks so lovely against her dark hair, and snuck into Mama’s lipstick.

“He’s the one,” Caroline whispered to Annie as they were eating hamburgers and creamed corn. “He’s the one I saw in the well.”

It’s nearly nine thirty when Ryce’s bike wobbles back down the drive. The screen door whines as it opens and slaps closed, chairs scoot across the linoleum, someone shuffles and taps a deck of playing cards on the table again. Daddy hollers out for Caroline to get herself inside and sends Jacob Riddle on home, and a few moments later, Annie’s bedroom door opens. With her back toward the light that spills into the room, Annie closes her eyes and doesn’t answer when Caroline whispers her name.

“You awake?” Caroline says.

Annie draws in deep, full breaths and lets them out long and slow so Caroline will think she’s asleep. It also helps to calm the sparks racing around her stomach. She wasn’t scared last night about going to the well, not really, not the way she’s scared tonight. The first night she went, she had been certain Daddy was with her, somewhere, watching over her. Even though she’d never crossed over onto Baine property, she’d not been afraid. Not really. But tonight will be different.

She’s lied plenty to Caroline about having crossed over the rock fence, but in truth, she never had until she went to the well. When Annie was younger and already tired of folks telling her she was a lucky young lady to be growing up with a girl as fine and lovely as Caroline, she had lied and told Caroline she’d crossed over onto the Baines’ a half dozen times and not a thing bad had happened. She dared Caroline to do the same. Leaning against the rock fence, Annie had told Caroline she was a sissy for being scared, all in hopes Caroline would finally hoist her skirt and crawl over. Eventually, Caroline would start to cry, and Annie would stop teasing because she didn’t truly wish for something bad to happen to Caroline. Annie never truly wished for that.

The bedroom smells differently with Caroline in it. Even at the end of the day, after sitting out on that back stoop with Jacob Riddle and listening to him talk about all those old games, Caroline takes over the room with her sweetness and pushes Annie aside.

“I know you’re awake,” Caroline says.

There’s the long, slow hum of a zipper being unzipped and then the rattling of wire hangers. There are a few pats and a hand brushing lint from the lengths of a skirt as Caroline grooms her dress before closing the closet door.

“I know you’re awake, and I know you’re mad.”

“Ain’t mad.”

“Then why’d you hide up here all night?”

“Don’t feel well, is all.”

“I’ve been thinking about the fellow you saw in the well,” Caroline says. “I been watching out for him. And been thinking we could trim your hair, if you want. And if you lather it up with some mayonnaise and then wash it good, it’ll lay smoother for you.”

“Don’t think I’ll put mayonnaise in my hair,” Annie says.

“You think Jacob Riddle is the boy you saw in that well, Annie?”

“What if I said yes?”

Caroline nudges Annie with one knee, pushing her over, and lies next to her on the bed. She’s warm up against Annie, and as sweet as she smells, that’s how soft her skin is.

“I’d believe you,” Caroline says. “But I’d sure be sad about it.”

“He ain’t got blue eyes,” Annie says. “You thought about that? You said the boy had dark hair and blue eyes.”

Caroline lifts her head long enough to pull all her hair over one shoulder and smooths it by drawing it through her two hands.

“I did think of that.” Her hair smells like rose petals, which is altogether unexpected on a lavender farm. “They were blue when he was born. That’s what he said. Blue until he got older, and then they turned brown.”

“Did they ask you about last night?” Annie rolls on her back and lays her head off to the side so she can see Caroline. The moonlight coming through the window throws a tiny glare in her blue eyes. “Daddy and Sheriff Fulkerson, did they ask you questions?”

Caroline lays her head off to the side too so their noses nearly touch.

“Yes,” she whispers, her breath sharp and salty with the smell of the baking powder she uses to brush her teeth.

“What did you tell them?”

“Truth.”

“Which is?”

“That I followed you up there when you told me not to.”

“Why’d you tell them that?”

Annie hadn’t wanted Caroline to follow because she always gets the better of things. She doesn’t mean any harm, doesn’t have the gumption to be harmful, but she has a way. Sheriff Fulkerson and other folks wouldn’t understand about sisters who have a way and always get the better of things. They’d think Annie asked her not to come because Annie’s evil like Aunt Juna and had evil things in mind.

“Because it was true,” Caroline says. “Told them I followed you anyway. Even told them I stole from you, took your flashlight.”

There she goes again, even trying to get the better of Annie’s guilt.

“They don’t care about no stolen flashlight,” Annie says. “You tell about the cigarettes?”

“I did, but Daddy said they didn’t find any. Said maybe we saw something else. Asked was I sure.”

Annie shifts around until she’s looking at the dark ceiling. “And?”

“Said I was sure. Said maybe I was sure.”

“I’m going again,” Annie says.

Caroline rolls on her side, lifts up on one elbow, and looks down at Annie. “Going where?”

“I think it was Aunt Juna up there,” Annie says. “Thinking she’s the one who left those cigarettes.”

The smile Jacob Riddle had put on Caroline’s face fades. “You shouldn’t be wishing for something like that, for Aunt Juna to come home.”

Mama and Daddy didn’t have to sit Caroline down the way they sat Annie down. The next year, when Caroline reached the third grade, Mrs. Johansson called her off the playground, walked with her to a shady spot near the swing sets no one used because the bolts were nearly rusted through, and after that, Caroline didn’t jump rope anymore.

“Ain’t wishing for it,” Annie says.

“Then why would you go? Why do you care? Tell Mama and Daddy. They’ll see to it.”

“Mama would tell her to stay,” Annie says. “I’m going to tell her to leave.”

“You can’t go,” Caroline says, sitting up. “I won’t let you. I’ll wake Mama right now. I’ll wake Daddy too.”

Only one time did Mama say those nasty cigars of Daddy’s reminded her of her own daddy. She waved a hand as if to rid the house of the sweet, smoky smell, and when that didn’t work, she walked out the door, letting it slam behind. Daddy had snubbed out the cigar and hollered after her that he was sorry. That smell in Mama’s own kitchen brought something to mind, brought it too near. Whatever memories Mama had of her childhood, she could manage them until they were resurrected by the smell of that cigar. That’s how it is with Aunt Juna. Annie can manage the thought of her when she is at a distance, is strong enough to keep her own evil nature from taking root, but if Aunt Juna were to get too close, she’d be like the sweet, smoky cigar. She’d bring to life things Annie would rather leave dead and buried.

“Do you promise?” Caroline asks. “Do you promise you won’t go?”

“Sure, Caroline,” Annie says, knowing Caroline never suspects folks of lying. “I promise.”

Caroline keeps staring at the side of Annie’s face, waiting for her to say something more. Or maybe she knows Aunt Juna is Annie’s real mama too. Annie never thought about that. Caroline doesn’t like hearing about the pigs Abraham slaughters every year or the chicken on the table being so fresh it practically walked itself into the oven. Instead she likes the smell of lavender and cleaning the bristles of her best hairbrush. But because of the way she’s staring at the parts of Annie just like Ellis Baine did when he was sitting at the kitchen table, because her eyes travel from the top of Annie’s head down to her chin and back up to her yellow hair, if Caroline hadn’t considered it before, she’s considering it now. She’s thinking about Ellis Baine’s visit to the house and understanding now why he came to see Annie. Caroline is being forced to see what’s behind the supper being served. Annie and Caroline aren’t real sisters.

“It wasn’t Jacob Riddle I seen in that well,” Annie says, tired of trying her best to be angry at Caroline. As much as Annie can’t help being taller than most any other girl, Caroline can’t help that life is so much easier for her. “But I expect he’s the boy you seen.”

MAMA AND DADDY and the others were supposed to play cards, but not thirty minutes after Caroline falls asleep, Abraham Pace and Miss Watson say their good-byes from the porch and climb into Abraham’s truck. The engine sputters and rattles and fades as it drives toward the road. Grandma is all the time saying how fragile Miss Watson is, so most likely, she was still angry with Abraham for shouting out and that’s probably why they didn’t stay for cards.

Another thirty minutes and the last lamp is switched off and the springs in Mama and Daddy’s bed creak as they crawl in. Their muffled voices travel down the hall and through the small crack where Annie and Caroline’s door isn’t quite shut. Then they fall silent, and lastly, Grandma’s quiet snores float up the stairwell from her downstairs bedroom.

Abraham’s dog is gone, same as the last time Annie made this trip, and even though there’s no moon, she’ll know the way. She passes through the kitchen, the light over the stove helping her to walk around the table without bumping the chairs. She pushes the door open only enough to slip through and holds on until it settles in its frame.

She ran up the hill last time and had a candle and matches that she knew would light her way once she reached the top. She has neither this time, and she walks instead of runs through the rows of lavender.

She’s feeling bad for lying to Caroline. She always feels bad when she lies, but most especially when she lies to her sister. Caroline never lies, probably doesn’t even understand the inclination. She has no need for lying. She never does anything wrong, so no need to lie to cover up. She always does well in school, so no need to lie about grades to Mama and Daddy. She doesn’t understand about people who have to lie just to make their way.

Where the rows of lavender end, Annie stops, closes her eyes, listens, and draws a deep breath in through her nose. She wouldn’t have known before that Aunt Juna is a smoker, but after finding all those cigarettes, she knows. She inhales again and yet again. No stain of cigarette smoke in the air. Opening her eyes, she looks toward the dark barn. No orange tip glowing in the doorway.

She’s come at midnight, same as last time. Her heart is beating hard and fast in her chest. If she finds someone, it’ll likely be her mother, her real mother, and Annie is ready to tell her to go. She’ll tell Aunt Juna every Baine isn’t gone like she thought. Ellis Baine is back, and so she has to go. And if Aunt Juna already knows that and if that’s the reason she’s sneaking around instead of walking right up to the door and knocking and saying hello, then she should go because no one wants her here.

The envelopes Annie took from Mama’s bedside table are hidden under Annie’s pillow. She had planned to read the letters, every one of them from the first to the last, while everyone else was busy eating ice cream and spice cake. Pulling each letter from inside its card and pressing it flat, Annie had studied it for a date. Most had at least a year scribbled in the top margin. A few were dated only by the numbers Mama wrote on the back of the card. Annie sorted the letters into a single pile, the most recent on the bottom, and the one dated December 1937 on the top. And that’s where she had begun.

She drew her fingers over the slanted writing as she read the first letter. Some of the ink words were more faded than others. She held the thin yellow paper lightly and read only as far as the second line. Annie would have barely turned one when that letter arrived. Caroline would have just been born. Mama likes to say, whenever Annie or Caroline has a birthday, that she and Daddy loved Annie so much, they couldn’t wait to get started on Caroline.

In those first few lines, Aunt Juna wrote her congratulations to Mama and Daddy for having another perfectly lovely daughter. How blessed you are, Aunt Juna wrote. And then Annie stopped reading the letter, folded it over, the one letter and the rest of the pile, and slid them and the stack of cards under her pillow.

Annie had been a baby, probably not yet able to walk or talk, and Aunt Juna had done nothing more than write a letter. She hadn’t bothered with a visit or a gift. Or maybe that wasn’t what made Annie put the letters away. Maybe those few lines, written by Aunt Juna’s own hand, had changed her from a legend to an ordinary person for maybe the first time in Annie’s life. Tomorrow, Annie will return the cards and letters to their envelopes and slip them back in Mama’s bedside table before she has a chance to miss them.

It’s not such a long walk from the end of the lavender field to the barn, but the ground isn’t plowed and smooth and the walking is harder. Several times, an ankle nearly gives way, and Annie stumbles twice before reaching the barn’s open door. Her breathing is heavier now, and she can’t hear as well as she’d like. She draws in one deep breath, holds it, and leans into the barn. Still no hint of a cigarette. Not a sound. She swallows and exhales.

“That Annie in there?”

Annie swings around but doesn’t step from the barn’s doorway. It’s a man’s voice. She remembers it well enough. Rough, like it’s rolling over gravel.

“Yes.”

She waits for something more. Her blood is racing, and her breath and her heartbeat too, and she can’t still any of it.

“Yes,” she says again.

She takes one step outside the barn, and she hears it. Down below, down near the house, a dog is barking. Maybe it just started, or maybe she just now heard it. She takes another step, looks across the rock fence, and sees nothing. It was Ellis Baine she heard calling out to her. It had to be, but he’s gone now.

That’s definitely a barking dog. Backing away from the rock fence, Annie lifts the hem of her nightgown up to her knees, turns, and starts to run. Halfway down the hill, the smell of lavender lifting up around her, the barking gets louder. It sounds like Abraham’s dog, but Abraham had unhooked her leash when he and Miss Watson left, lowered the gate on the back of his truck, and whistled for Tilly to hop on.

Annie runs faster, gets closer still. That’s Abraham’s truck parked on the far side of the drive. He’s come back. She would have heard him if he’d only now arrived, so he must have been parked there when she snuck out of the house. The porch light switches on. The drive brightens, and that’s Tilly in the front seat, jumping and barking. By the time Annie reaches the bottom of the hill, Daddy appears in the drive. He’s running from the house toward Abraham’s truck, a shotgun in one hand.

The barking dog woke Daddy. He’ll have heard it first, before Mama, and will have jumped out of bed, run down the hall, and thrown open Annie’s door. “You both here?” Daddy will have said, bracing himself with one hand on the door frame and leaning into the room. “Annie, you here?” Caroline will have sat up, looked at Annie’s empty bed, and known Annie lied. “She went to look for Aunt Juna,” Caroline will have said.

Daddy keeps a gun on the top shelf of the linen closet where no one but he and Annie are tall enough to see it. He’ll have grabbed the gun. Mama will have run after, calling out, “Please, John. It’s nothing. No guns, please.”

“Annie,” Daddy shouts as he runs toward Abraham’s truck.

Grandma appears next, running as best she can around the side of the house. “Annie,” she cries. The sound of her voice frightens Annie most. It’s a fear she’s not heard before. “Good Lord, Annie, where are you?”

“I’m here,” Annie says, running from the dark of the lavender field into the lit drive. “What is it? I’m here, Grandma.”

Daddy sees Annie first. He stops at the side of Abraham’s truck, looks Annie over long enough to know she’s well, and then pulls open the passenger door. Tilly leaps from the car and runs toward Annie.

“Grandma, I’m here,” Annie calls out again because Grandma has not stopped. Her long white hair hangs over her shoulders and in her face, and her robe flaps open, the thin belt hanging loose and trailing behind. “Stop, Grandma. I’m fine.”

Maybe it’s Tilly jumping up on Grandma, or maybe it’s that grandmas don’t run so well, but before Grandma can stop herself, she stumbles and falls, both hands flying out. She lands near Annie’s feet and cries out again, but it’s a different sort of cry.

Daddy pushes off Abraham’s truck, leaving the passenger door open, and runs toward Grandma. Mama comes running too.

“God damn, Annie,” Daddy says. “What in all hell are you doing out here?” He reaches down with both hands to lift Grandma. He gets her to her knees, squats, and looks up into her face. “You hurt?”

Mama runs up, seeming to float in her white nightgown, grabs for Tilly’s collar, and hollers at her to be still. When she has a good hold of the collar, Mama drops down next to Daddy.

Grandma looks from Daddy to Mama and then settles her eyes on Annie. She smiles and swats at Daddy’s hands so he’ll let loose of her. “Oh, good Lord,” she says, “I’m fine. But get that creature away from me.”

Mama stands and drags Tilly toward the tree where Abraham chains her.

“You’re cut here, Mother,” Daddy says, touching Grandma’s cheek. “And your hands.” He takes both and rolls them over. “You see here, Annie? See here what you done?”

“Oh, hush,” Grandma says, swatting at Daddy again and pushing herself to her feet.

“Is Abraham all right?” Mama says, chaining Tilly and telling her to hush and be still. “What’s he doing here?” And then she hurries back to Grandma with a tissue in hand and starts blotting at Grandma’s cuts. “Go help your father, Annie,” Mama says without looking Annie in the eyes. “Go on. I’ll see to your grandmother.”

Annie walks and then jogs toward Abraham’s truck. Behind her, Grandma is telling Mama to stop it and leave her be and go see to Annie.

“What is it?” Annie asks, glancing back to see Mama still fussing over Grandma and Grandma still swatting Mama away. “Is he hurt?”

Abraham is bent over the steering wheel, his head resting on his crossed arms. Even standing outside the truck, Annie can smell the whiskey.

“Sleeping,” Daddy says. “He’s sleeping it off.” And then louder, so Grandma and Mama can hear, he says the same.

“I wasn’t up to nothing, Daddy,” Annie says as Daddy walks around the truck to open the driver’s side door. “I wanted to see-”

“Not another word,” Daddy says. “You know how your grandmother worries. You have to be more mindful.”

They only call Grandma “Grandmother” when times are serious. At a funeral, a wedding, while visiting a sick friend in the hospital.

“Yes, sir,” Annie says. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m just real sorry.”

Annie wants to ask Daddy what Abraham is doing here, parked outside the house, but she really doesn’t have to. Besides knowing it’ll make Daddy all the more angry, she already knows the answer. She knows exactly why Abraham is here. He believes Annie, is maybe the only one other than Grandma who does. He believes Aunt Juna was here last night. He believes what Annie said about the cigarettes and the spark and that she knows something is coming, and he believes Aunt Juna has come home, even thought she might come again tonight.