Three Rivers (11 page)

The sound of rushing water and the smell of a dying campfire became Liam's lullaby, the juicy smash of wild berries and freshly shot game were breakfast, lunch, and supper. They played games, collected bugs, and bathed in the fresh spring waters of a dozen lakes. Obi never touched the boy in anger, never raised his voice or allowed even the smallest hint of frustration to creep into his interactions with Liam. His whole life was devoted to raising the boy to be a man, a man of dignity and honor and instinct.

Now Obi feared he'd jeopardized everything. If it was “standard procedure” to look into a boy who'd had his arm broken, what was the penalty for knifing a man in front of him? If they caught him, he would go to jail and they would take Liam away. Obi resolved to stay free at any cost.

The road beneath him was rutted and bumpy. In the truck, Obi would not worry about it, but the car rattled as if it would fall apart, and so he drove slowly, easing the car past the farms and the wide-open spaces of the Delta.

Pisa had assured Obi there was plenty of land where they were headed, but what he hoped for was water, some creek or stream he could cast a line for fish and a place to wash up. Living off the land was no hardship so long as there was fresh water.

“When will we get there, Daddy?”

Obi looked at the map, traced one finger along a line that represented the road they were on, and glanced at the speedometer. “In about an hour and a half, I think.”

“What's it like?”

“What's what like?”

“The safe place.”

That's what Pisa called it, but Obi doubted there were any safe places left for him. He knew his mother would persuade the woman to let them camp on the land. His mother could sell anything to anyone at any time. She'd made a living selling gullible women words and herbs. Still, it would be a safe place only if they could somehow live undetected. The woman would have to keep her mouth shut and, in Obi's experience, most women weren't great at keeping secrets.

“I don't know what it's like,” Obi said. “I think it'll be like most of the other places we've stayed. There will be trees and grass and probably squirrel and rabbit.”

“And a house?”

“Yes,” Obi said. “But we won't be living in the house. We'll live just like we always have. You and me and no one else.”

Obi reached into the backseat and found one of the cookie tins Pisa had packed for them. He set the tin between them and pried off the lid. The scent of ginger and cloves filled the car. Liam dipped his hand in and brought one of the cookies to his mouth.

Obi pushed the gas pedal. He hoped the car was as sturdy as his mother had promised. The sooner they got to this new place, the sooner it would stop being a mystery. He grabbed one of the cookies for himself and took a big bite of the chewy, spicy sweetness. Then he lied to his son again.

“Nothing's changed,” he said. “You'll see.”

*   *   *

Obi found the place easily enough, though when he'd first turned on the dirt road, he thought his mother's directions were wrong. He drove slowly on the rutted, gravel-strewn road, through a long, dark stretch of pine forest without seeing any sign of habitation. Finally he came around a curve and saw the house. It had once been a fine house; he could see that. It rose up from the land, two stories of cedar plank beams and a huge porch that wrapped all the way around. There were oak trees and a line of fragrant magnolias out front. The lawn was grown wild, full of thorny weeds and grass as tall as Liam. He bypassed the gravel driveway and stayed on the long dirt road that wove around behind the house. He passed an old blue pickup truck that looked as if it hadn't been driven in years, an aluminum johnboat, and a three-wheeler that was missing a wheel. The dirt road ran out at an old tin shed behind the house. He drove on across the open field, toward a line of pine trees. The field was littered with sharp objects, and Obi swerved to avoid them. He wanted to settle far enough away from the house to avoid being spotted from those large windows, but close enough to keep an eye on things.

He hoped there would be a vegetable garden on the land, but nothing useful grew here. He could tell just by the rich, fecund smell and by the patches of wild blackberries and raspberries he spotted as he drove that the dirt beneath them was fertile. There was plenty of room for summer squash and tomatoes, pole beans and peas, corn and a peanut patch. What was land for if not to provide sustenance?

“Who lives here?” Liam rubbed his eyes. He'd napped for the last twenty minutes, and his hair stuck to his forehead in a damp mass.

“Crazy people,” Obi told him. “People who don't know what they have.”

“Bad crazy or good crazy?”

“We'll see.” Obi tried to teach Liam the difference between people who were harmless but chose to live outside the norms of society as they did, and people who might bring danger to them regardless of how normal they seemed to the rest of the world. “Everyone's crazy in some way,” he said. “Until we know for sure, though, I think we'll just keep to ourselves.”

“I wish we could have stayed with Grandma.”

“Really?” Obi studied his son. It was unlike him to express a connection to another person, to express any desire for a home. “Why?”

Liam pulled something from his pocket and worked his hand around it.

“Whatcha got there?”

Liam opened his hand and Obi saw the fish eye, a milky gelatinous orb flecked with lint from Liam's pocket.

“Where did you get that?”

“Mr. Sam.”

That dinner with the deer and the bucket of fresh fish seemed like something that had happened in another lifetime, but of course, it was just last night.

“Do you think we'll ever live inside?” Liam asked.

“Do you want to?”

Liam shrugged. “I don't know. I don't remember.”

“But you like our life now, right? Because I remember when we lived inside and we weren't as happy as we are now.”

“How do we know we're happy?”

Obi reached the line of pine trees and saw that it would be easy to pitch the tent in the shade, that the trees would provide good cover for them. They wouldn't be invisible, but so long as no one ventured too close, Obi thought they'd be well camouflaged. He looked back toward the house, figured they were about half a mile from the back porch, though it was difficult to gauge distances on this flat land. If it weren't for trees or buildings, he could see forever. “Well, I guess if we aren't sad, then we're happy, right?” He stepped out of the car. A creek burbled nearby. It was a good sign. “And water. Clean water makes me happy. Just listen to that.”

With the deer jerky he'd smoked and cured, the bread and cookies and peanut butter and preserves from his mother, and his own supply of cornmeal, flour, sugar, maple syrup, and powdered milk, they would live just fine. Liam tumbled out of the car and ran into the trees, following the sound of the creek. Obi followed. Liam knelt down to scoop water to his mouth. There would be squirrel in these woods and probably deer. There might be wild turkey. He could hunt for meat just as he had along the river.

He pulled the old canvas tent from the trunk and assembled the poles, stretching the fabric across the metal rods and pounding the stakes into the ground under a shady circle of trees. Clouds were rolling in, dark clouds that would bring rain. The air smelled like smoldering steel, a big storm brewing.

“I don't think I'm sad,” Liam said. “But I don't think I'm happy either.”

“Let's explore a little.” Obi said. “Before it starts raining. Can you smell the rain?”

Liam sniffed and nodded. He placed his fish eye on the dashboard of the car and climbed onto Obi's back, peered over his shoulder. Obi strode out toward the house, but not in a direct line. He stopped by a pair of sage bushes near the shed and dropped Liam to the ground. Liam plucked wild berries from the vines grown up alongside the shed and popped them in his mouth one by one. In moments, his hands and lips stained dark purple. Obi rubbed his son's red curls. He noticed a cloud of dust rising up in the distance, a vehicle on the road to the house. Obi waited until the dust settled and walked on, forging a crooked path to stay behind the rusted tractor and old vehicles and out of the line of sight of anyone who might be watching from the house.

He crouched behind the old truck parked out back, signaled that Liam should be quiet. He wanted to get a sense of the place, but there was not much to see and he wasn't comfortable exploring any further in the light of day. The curtains on the windows did not move and he saw no shadow in their winking panes. It was not just the land that was neglected here. The porch sagged and there were dangerous gaps where boards had rotted away. The roof needed new shingles.

*   *   *

Back at the campsite, the flap to the tent was untethered and the grass around the car was trampled. Someone had rifled through their things. He set Liam down, opened the car door, and pulled his rifle from under the seat. He nudged the barrel of the gun through the slack opening of the canvas tent and poked his head in after. Obi let out a long slow sigh of relief. The tent was empty.

When Obi was satisfied no one was hiding in the trees, he took inventory of their supplies. Everything seemed to be in place, though the tin of cookies on the front seat of the car seemed a bit emptier.

“Daddy.” Liam ran his hands across the dashboard. “My fish eye is gone.”

“Are you sure you didn't drop it?”

Liam's lip quivered and his eyes welled up. “I put it right here.” He slapped his hand on the dashboard. “I put it right here for later.”

What kind of person would dig through all their stuff—food, tools, supplies for making fire, blankets and clothing, his rifle; who would dig through all of that and decide the one thing worth taking was the dirty eyeball from a dead fish?

“Don't worry about it, son.” He scooped Liam into his arms. “There are plenty of fish in the world and they all have eyes. We'll get you another one soon.”

“But I liked that one.”

Obi tried not to laugh. He knew Liam was serious, but he also knew that the boy wouldn't remember the eyeball tomorrow.

“I tell you what,” Obi said. “How about we wash up in that creek and I'll make us some dinner. How does that sound?”

Liam sniffled and rested his head on Obi's shoulder. “Now I'm sad.”

Obi patted his back. “I know, but this is a small sadness. Trust me.” He pulled a piece of the deer jerky from a sack in the backseat of the car and handed it to Liam. The boy stuck the hard meat in his mouth and sucked and chewed on it while Obi pulled out the ingredients to make a pan of biscuits. A good supper and a good night's sleep were what they needed. Tomorrow, he could explore.

 

Chapter Twelve

Geneva drove down Highway 49, past small towns that offered up nothing but a steady dose of coffee, booze, and religion to the farmers and musicians who paced up and down the Delta in their old cars and rust-spotted trucks. The kernel of fear planted by Pisa's warning took root and sprouted into a full flop sweat. She rolled down the window and cranked the air conditioner to high. A bank of dark clouds swelled heavy in the sky. Just like Pisa's eyes, she realized. She ought to whip the car around and drive home, but she was not one for doing what she ought to. At Shellmound, she pulled into the One Stop to fill the tank.

The gasoline stung her nose. She leaned against the car and studied the field of cotton across the road. When she got home, she would sell some land. Crazy to hang on to it. Nothing had been farmed there since Melody was a tot. Few years back, a man came looking to buy up most of it; for what, she didn't even ask. She just slammed the door in his face and refused to answer the phone. That land was what her father had left her. She never thought she'd give it up. Now she couldn't believe she'd kept it for so long. What good was a bunch of land that produced nothing? Bruce's medical bills were strangling her. Keeping up the house was hard enough, and she wasn't about to let go of her house. It was the only thing in the wide world that was truly hers. No bank owned any part of it. She'd been born there, right on the bed that she and Bruce had shared for the past twenty-six years. She had every intention of dying there.

She drove on, slurping the dregs of a gas station iced tea through a plastic straw. Fields of soybeans and cotton stretched out as far as she could see. The beans were low and planted in even rows, thick green leaves beginning to carpet the land. The cotton stood taller, brown and scrubby at this time of year. The air smelled sharp, a mixture of fertilizer, diesel fuel, and impending thunderstorms. The radio faded in and out, but from what Geneva could gather, there was a storm moving in from the Gulf. Rain, high winds, possible tornadoes, flash floods. Well, they were always warning of something. If they weren't bitching about a drought, they were hollering about the rain. “You can't please anyone,” Geneva said to no one at all. She pressed her foot down on the gas pedal and sped up to keep ahead of the storm.

Fat drops splatted on the window as she pulled into the parking lot of the Jolly Inn. Shaped like a cross laid flat, the motel was small and squat. An office and lobby ran east to west in the center, and a dozen rooms stretched out north to south on either side. She entered the lobby through the back entrance—the pool entrance, though the pitiful swimming pool hadn't held water in all the years she'd visited. The air-conditioning sent goose bumps up her arms. Geneva touched the silver bell on the counter.

Atul emerged looking haggard. His face sagged so heavily that his skin threatened to slide right off the bone, like skin off a chicken. His hair, normally combed back and gleaming with exotic oil, hung across his forehead, dull and uncombed. His hands trembled as he slid a key off the board behind the desk. “I tried to call you.”