The Singing River (5 page)

Chapter 7

Haven

I spent all day Saturday with Mr. Nelson, mowing his grass before helping him work in his garden, my heart full of excitement. I’d switched a few shifts with Poppy and Beth at work so I could be off through Wednesday, and the sudden feeling of freedom was exhilarating.

Mr. Nelson couldn’t help but notice. “You look like you got ants crawlin’ all over yer skin,” he chuckled.

I grinned. “It’s going to be a great week, Mr. Nelson. I can feel it.”

The old man stooped to tug a couple of ripe tomatoes from the vine. “There sure is somethin’ in the air,” he mumbled.

I swiped sweat from my forehead, my bare toes digging into the soil. I’d grown up barely wearing shoes. Mom said I was half wood sprite, that I never looked happier than when I was outside, my feet in the grass, my face toward the sky. She was wrong, of course. I felt the same way when I had a book in my hands or a notebook splayed out in front of me. There was something about the smell of books. I often visited the library when things were slow and there wasn’t any work to be done, and I’d sit, knees to chest, in between the back shelves, and sniff. Smell can tell as many stories as speech.

“I’ve heard of that old river legend,” Mr. Nelson said. “Such a sad tale.”

“Tragedy breeds legends,” I replied.

Mr. Nelson handed me a bucket, and I started filling it with purple hull peas. My fingers would be a mess by the end of summer, raw from sitting on Mr. Nelson’s porch helping him shell and put up vegetables for the fall. Luckily, he always sent a portion home with me, which helped with the grocery bill.

“When does your mama start work?” Mr. Nelson asked.

I dropped peas into the bucket. “On Monday. She’s excited. Seems to be a right good job.” Sitting back on my heels, I stared at the old man. “But I worry about her.”

He wiped his hands down the side of his coveralls. “Your mama?”

I nodded. “She’s been through a lot. I think if this job falls through, she won’t be able to handle it.”

Mr. Nelson’s brown gaze met mine. “She’s gonna be fine, Haven. There ain’t been no time for you to be young, and it’s time you be that. Your mom is gonna be all taken care of.”

He looked up at the sky, his eyes watching the sun. “Come on, girl. It’s hot, and we’ll need to be eating something. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

I finished filling the bucket and stood, following Mr. Nelson into the back door of his house. The screened-off porch we stepped onto leaned some, the screen peeling down in places, but it was charming. Mrs. Nelson had loved potted plants and there were at least ten lining the sides, all full and green. After she died, Mr. Nelson kept them alive for her, talking to them, murmuring things I think only Mrs. Nelson would ever understand.

“It’s crazy how green you keep everything,” I told Thomas when we entered his kitchen. It was a small room with a scarred wooden table, a green-tiled kitchen island, and a gas stove. A fern hung in the window above the sink.

Mr. Nelson took down two glasses from a cabinet and filled them with milk. I grabbed his bread, laying out two napkins before placing slices on it.

“They only look green ‘cause your mama ain’t got a green thumb in her body,” Mr. Nelson pointed out.

I laughed. He was right; Mom couldn’t grow anything. Oh, she tried, but with absolutely no success. She’d even gotten the wild idea to buy a bonsai tree once because she thought they were cute.

“There’s no way to kill a bonsai,” Mom had said.

Four bonsai trees later, she’d changed her mind. She’d named the first bonsai Ono as in “oh no!”. We were on Ono number five, and it was already turning brown.

When the first one died, Mom had shaken her head and asked, “How the hell do you kill a bonsai tree?”

I’d tried to hide a chuckle and failed. “
You
touch it,” I’d answered.

Mom hadn’t been amused. Of course, she’d bought another tree after that because Mom was nothing if not persistent.

“Bless her heart,” I told Mr. Nelson while holding up my hands. “Black thumbs. Both of them. A plant sees her, and it withers and dies.”

Thomas Nelson chuckled. “Good thing she was better at raisin’ a kid. You turned out right as rain, Haven Ambrose.”

I grinned. “Don’t tell her that. It’ll blow her head up.”

The old man grunted, his hands trembling as he slapped together a sandwich and ambled over to his kitchen table.

“You been a great comfort to an old man,” he said. “You be careful down at the river. Your mom, God love her, trusts too easy.”

I sat opposite him, picking at the bread on my napkin. “I will.”

We ate together in companionable silence until there was nothing but crumbs left of his sandwich and two bites left of mine. I never took the last bite of a meal. Ever. It was an old habit that was hard to break, a small concession to an illness I still fought on a daily basis. Mr. Nelson picked up the rest of my bread and stood.

“We can feed it to Mangy Beast,” he said.

I never felt awkward when I was with Mr. Nelson. He expounded on everything good about me, leaving out my shortcomings.

Following him back out of the house, I asked, “Do you believe in magic?”

Mr. Nelson stopped on the back porch, his eyes on his wife’s plants. “Magic, huh?”

“You know,” I said, shrugging, “like the river legend?”

Mr. Nelson pushed open his screen door. “I’d tell you no, child, but then I look at these plants or watch when a new bud rises from the garden, and it’s magic. All of it.”

It only took minutes for the suffocating heat outside to rob us of breath and soak our clothes. I picked up another bucket, my feet once more in the soil, swatting occasionally at the gnats as they bumped against my sweat-sodden skin. Above us, the blue sky was filled with white fluffy clouds, the smell of dirt mingling with the scent of sunshine and fertilizer. Mr. Nelson was right. It was all magic.

Chapter 8

River

Old Marley was an interesting man. He was in his late fifties with salt and pepper black hair and a loud voice. He was mostly fit for an older man, although his clothes accented a small paunch around his middle. His always squinted eyes were covered in large spectacles that should have been retired years ago and replaced by the more fashionable smaller frames, but Uncle Marley was like that… eccentric and set in his forever odd ways.

“This is good food, Marissa. Very good,” Marley said.

He was sitting at the head of our table, his squinted eyes on his plate, his attention focused on everything but the meal.

Marissa glanced at me, her eyes shining. It was Saturday night, and Marissa had done as she’d always done on the weekend when Bonnie didn’t stay late to cook. She ordered in.

“Thank you. Wasn’t much to it at all,” she mumbled.

Roman grunted from the other side of the table; his head down, his hair mussed, and his nose covered in a butterfly bandage. He’d refused to go to the doctor after I’d broken it, and we hadn’t forced him.

I glanced at Roman, my voice rising as my gaze moved to Marley. “Marissa says you’re planning a trip to the river this week,” I said.

Uncle Marley nodded.

I tapped the table. “Roman and I would like to go with you.”

Roman’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t—” Roman began.

Marley clapped his hands, cutting him off. “What a marvelous idea! I could use a couple of extra hands.”

Roman rose. “Really, I don’t think—”

But Uncle Marley was off on one of his tirades, his excitement louder than his words.

“I’ve already got a young woman coming. A sweet girl, her mama says, and interested in old stories. She’s the daughter of Gary Houston’s new secretary.”

Roman sat. “A girl?” The fight didn’t drain out of him, but it lessened.

Marley nodded. “That’s right. About your age I think. Knows a lot about the legend, I hear.”

Roman glared at me, his eyes locked with mine as he asked, “She pretty?”

His brows rose, and I glared back. This trip was about him and his issues, not more trouble he could cause.

Uncle Marley didn’t notice the tension; he never did. He’d arrived, as he always had when I was growing up, uninvited and unexpected. If it wasn’t for his habit of visiting old friends, and us living in a small town, we wouldn’t have known he was coming until he showed up at the door.

“This is great!” Uncle Marley insisted. He pushed his plate away, only half of it eaten. “I’m writing a book, you know? Nothing special. Just a collection of Southern folklore. I need some pictures, and it wouldn’t hurt to get audio of the death chant.”

Roman slumped in his chair. “The death chant?”

Marley wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it down next to his plate. “That’s right. Death chant. Legend says you can hear it in the summer.”

“The late summer,” I corrected.

Uncle Marley looked at me. “You know the story?”

Shrugging, I mumbled, “Bits and pieces.”

Truth be told, I’d run across the legend doing a paper a few years back in high school. It had fascinated me. Not because it was a love story, but because it had been a story that was as much about sacrifice and death as it had been about life.

Roman looked at me. “Following legends now, brother?”

I stuffed chow mein noodles into my mouth to keep from answering. Marissa had a thing for Asian food, and when I’d lived at home, it had been a Saturday night tradition. It obviously still was.

Roman’s gaze moved down the table. “
Why
is there a death chant?”

Uncle Marley pushed his glasses up. “Supposedly, many years ago, the entire Pascagoula Indian tribe all marched to their death at the bottom of the Pascagoula River while singing a death chant. To this day, the song can still be heard.”

Marissa laid her fork down on the table, her face pale. “I’m glad I’m not part of this trip.”

“Actually,” Uncle Marley said, his lips twitching, “they say it’s quite beautiful.”

“It all sounds interesting,” Roman broke in. “But I don’t think I’ll—”

“
Oh
, you’re going,” I interrupted.

My brother’s gaze met mine again. We were both standing, though I didn’t remember getting up, our hands planted on the table.

For the first time, Marley noticed the tension. “Oh dear,” he said, pushing up his glasses.

Roman’s fist met the mahogany surface. Dishes rattled. “I’m
not
going.”

The smile I gave him never reached my eyes. “Yes, you are.”

I left no room for argument.

Roman growled, “You’re not my father!”

Marissa touched the table tentatively. “No, he’s not, but I’m your guardian,” her eyes slid to Roman’s face, “and I happen to think this will be good for you.”

Roman’s eyes moved from my face to Marissa’s and back again. “So that’s how it is?” he asked.

I avoided Marissa’s gaze, keeping my eyes locked on Roman’s. This wasn’t between our stepmother and him, it was between us.

“You’re going,” I repeated.

Roman’s fist met the mahogany again, his glass goblet falling to the area rug beneath the table. His face was strained, full of thoughts he wanted to say but knew wouldn’t make a difference.

“I can’t,” he finally uttered. He pushed his chair back forcefully. “I just can’t.”

He backed up, knocking the seat over as he went, his face wild. I started to follow him, but Marissa’s hand went to my wrist, stopping me.

“Just get him there.” She whispered it, her eyes on Roman as he flew to the stairs.

Uncle Marley cleared his throat. “Maybe he shouldn’t ...”

Marissa and I both glared at him.

“This is a family matter, Marley,” Marissa said, her voice tight. “And you are a part of this family. Your help would be greatly appreciated.”

Marley exhaled, his face flushed and flustered. Marissa might be young to be a step-in mom, but she had the gumption for it. She’d never been able to have kids of her own, and she took her role as our stepmother seriously. For the first time since supper began, I grinned.

“Watch it, Uncle Marley, she throws glass.”

He huffed, “Well, I never!”

He began mumbling, but his chatter was lost in my thoughts, my eyes going to the stairs. The Braydens were relentless. My father was a prime example of this, and I’d inherited the gene. I’d get my brother to the river.