Three Rivers (14 page)

First George Walter and now Chris. Prophets everywhere. “I have to go.” She turned to open the door. “Sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

Chris grabbed hold of her shoulder. “God brought us together for a reason.”

“That's bullshit, and you know it.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she barreled on, holding up her hand to keep him from interrupting. “You can't possibly be shocked by my language at this point. Anyway, God didn't bring us together. Our jobs brought us together. That's not divine intervention, that's just life.”

“I'm not asking you to lie. I can call some spiritual leaders. We'll work to build you back up as a strong voice for God.”

Melody pictured a dozen scary white-haired men in flowing robes looming above her, chanting for her lost soul.

“We'll build up a set list that emphasizes forgiveness and humility. I can help you craft the message. We'll set up radio interviews, and television.”

Melody had very little experience with television. Her mother forbade them to turn the set on, said she couldn't bear the “infernal racket.” Melody wasn't even sure the old set in the house still worked. Chris didn't know her. He imagined she could repent, but she wasn't sorry. He imagined God would save her, but she didn't believe there was a God.

“What you did is nothing in the big scheme of things. When people understand about your father, your family problems, they'll be dying to forgive you and to listen to you.” His voice rose and he talked faster. “There's money to be made. That would help your family, wouldn't it?”

“I thought money was the root of evil,” Melody said. “I thought it was easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.”

“If you obey and believe, the Lord will grant you abundant prosperity. It's right there in the Bible. Abundant prosperity.”

Melody snorted. “I don't buy that.”

“You don't buy the word of God?”

“Look around. Look at all these people who obey and believe and struggle all their lives just to put food on the table. Where's their prosperity? This area is full of those people. Why is God punishing them?”

Chris stared down at his hands. “Maybe they don't truly believe.”

“Maybe I don't either.” Melody opened the door a crack, careful to keep her voice low in case Daddy was sleeping.

“But you love music,” Chris said. “You're so talented.”

“I have to go.”

“Will you think about it? Pray on it?”

“You are wasting your time.”

“God has a plan for you, Melody. I'm not giving up on you. God won't give up on you, either.”

She slipped inside and shut the door on him. It was rude. She should have invited him in and offered him a pork chop, but she couldn't stand the thought of exposing him to the spectacle of Daddy dying in the living room, of Bobby's unpredictable behavior. She didn't want to share awful truths of her life.

“Who was that?” Daddy asked.

“No one,” Melody said. “Don't worry about it.”

In the kitchen, Bobby and Maurice were cleaning their plates. “Sorry,” Maurice said. “We waited for a while.”

“Who was at the door?” Bobby sounded as if he were accusing her of something.

“Just someone I used to know. No one important.”

“I heard a man's voice.”

“Who wants cobbler? We've got ice cream.”

Maurice stood and took his plate to the sink. “You eat. We'll take care of dessert. We'll get some of these plates cleared away.”

The beans were cold but good. Melody ate a few bites and broke off a hunk of cornbread. She sliced into the pork, but the smell of it turned her stomach, and the gray flesh made her think of death. She scraped the food into the trash, her appetite gone. She looked out the kitchen window. It was nearly dark. Everything as far as she could see was colorless and flat.

“This cobbler is perfect.” Maurice dipped a spoon into the bubbling dish. The batter rose up around the berries, which generated a thick, sweet syrup. It was dark and crunchy on top, golden and tender in the middle. How reassuring to know she could dump a bunch of ordinary ingredients into a dish and, in just an hour, transform it into something wonderful.

“I want lots of ice cream.” Bobby pulled the carton from the freezer. “I wonder what that man and little boy are going to eat tonight.”

Melody pulled the ice cream scoop from a drawer. “What man? What little boy?”

“The ones camped out by the creek.”

“Our creek?” She took the carton from Bobby, pried off the top. It wasn't the first time vagrants had squatted on their land. Daddy always handled it, approaching the men with his shotgun at his side. Most of them were running from something, wives or girlfriends or someone they owed money or the sheriff. They moved on without argument, not wanting more trouble. Daddy was in no shape to handle it now, of course. “A little boy? How little?”

“Really little,” Bobby said. “Tiny.” He drew the word out until it had four syllables rather than two.

“About how old?”

Bobby held his hand about three feet high. “This old.”

“Are you sure, Bobby?” Maurice touched Bobby's arm. Bobby smiled and nodded. “I watched them today. They put up a tent. I hope they don't get wet.”

The land was a funhouse of rusty equipment, expired chemicals, sharp bits of metal, and half-empty jugs of poison. If some man decided to trespass and got hurt, that was one thing, Melody thought, but a little boy was another matter. She peered out the kitchen window toward the far edges of the land. The nightfall masked any movement or shadow.

“Well, they can't stay here,” she said. “This is no place for a child. Never has been.” She knew from her own childhood that danger lurked around every bush, behind every tree. It was a miracle that she and Bobby had survived. There were plenty of close calls: the nest of cottonmouths Bobby almost stepped on after a bad flood, a rusty nail that punctured Melody's foot, a fishhook that dug deep into Bobby's palm, numerous bouts of poison oak. They came of age in a flurry of tetanus shots, ACE bandages, and Mama's odd-smelling salves. They knew what was out there. A strange child would not know of the dangers hiding beneath the overgrown weeds.

“I don't see anything.” Maurice said. “How much of this land is yours?”

“We have about five hundred acres,” Melody said.

Maurice let out a low whistle. “That's a lot of land.”

“More trouble than it's worth.” Melody quoted Old Granddaddy. “Land is only useful if you plant it or build on it.”

Maurice stirred melting ice cream into his cobbler. “I'll go out there and look around tomorrow when the light is better.”

“Don't worry about it,” Melody said. “It's not your job.”

“I don't mind.”

Bobby sat at the table and shoveled gobs of cobbler and ice cream into his mouth. Blackberry juice stained his chin. His hands were sticky with ice cream. He seemed to have lost interest in the squatters. “How did the boy look?” Melody asked. “Did he seem scared?”

Bobby spoke with his mouth full. “He looked normal, like a normal boy.”

“Maybe I should call the sheriff,” she said. “What if the boy was snatched?”

Bobby helped himself to more cobbler. “Father. He seemed like a father.”

“I think we should check it out before we call anyone,” Maurice said. “They might just be camping. No need to cause trouble for them.”

“I guess it can wait until tomorrow.” She ate a few bites of the cobbler, was pleased to find that it tasted just as good as it looked.

“You did all the cooking,” Maurice said. “Why don't you let Bobby and me clean up?”

“That's okay.” Melody turned on the hot water to fill the sink. “Just check on Daddy before you leave.”

Maurice insisted on cleaning. He told Melody to relax, that he'd take care of her father and the kitchen. After protesting halfheartedly, she left him and Bobby with the dirty dishes. She was so tired. It was hard to believe she'd left Memphis just that morning. In the living room, she sat beside her father's bed. “Daddy?” she whispered. His eyes fluttered open and he blinked at her. “How are you feeling? Can I bring you anything?”

“That boy at the door,” he said.

“Chris?”

“He likes you.”

“No.” She picked a bit of lint from the blanket across his chest, an old, thin bit of cotton. “Are you warm enough?”

“Does he have money?”

“Who?”

“The boy.”

“Chris?”

“That's who we're talking about, isn't it?”

“I don't have any idea if he has money, Daddy.” Melody's voice rose. “What difference does it make?”

Her father grinned, a wicked grin that exposed his soft, gray teeth. “Because it's just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one. It's a hell of a lot smarter to marry the rich one.” He laughed. It was something he'd said to her many times, as if Melody had a steady stream of men knocking at her door.

“I'm not falling in love with anyone, Daddy. I'm not getting married.”

“You're not getting any younger.”

Melody chewed on the cuticle of her thumb until it was loose enough to rip off. Blood pooled around the nail, and she sucked it clean. “None of us is getting any younger, Daddy. None of us.”

“You're right about that, little girl. Just remember, when I'm gone, you'll be on your own. Someone is going to have to care for your brother. He sure can't take care of himself.”

She pressed her bloody thumb inside her palm. She didn't know what she'd be doing in the future, but she damn sure wouldn't be doing it here. “Mama will take care of Bobby.”

“Little girl, she ain't here.”

“She'll be back. She always comes back.” Whether we want her to or not, Melody thought.

“I took care of you, didn't I? Didn't I do my best for you, little girl?”

He reached for her hand. She held him with a loose grip, afraid the slightest pressure would crush his fragile bones.

“I taught you everything I knew, didn't I?”

*   *   *

That was true. Melody's father taught her lots of useful things and plenty of useless ones, too. She knew how to work a rod and reel, and could shoot as good as anyone. She knew if you were going to hunt with a flask of whiskey, you should wrap it in electrical tape to keep the shine from spooking the deer. He took her hunting when she was just nine years old, told her to sit still on the wooden stand and wait. She sat in the cold morning air while her father sipped from his tape-wrapped flask. She couldn't stand it anymore; she pulled a Nancy Drew mystery from the front pocket of her overalls, cracked it open so carefully she couldn't have made a sound. Even so, he snatched the book and flung it through the woods. “Let's go.” He climbed down the ladder and started packing up the truck. He was angry, but so was Melody. “I hate you,” she said. Nancy Drew's father never blamed her when things went wrong. He bought her clothes and a blue convertible, and Nancy didn't even have to deal with having a mother. The injustice was too much for young Melody. She dumped her orange vest on the ground and ran through the woods. She zigged and zagged through the trees, hopped over dense underbrush. She ran until her legs turned to pudding and then slumped against a tree. Her head simmered beneath her forest green hunting cap. She pulled it off, wiped her runny nose on her sleeve. Then there was a loud crack. Bark and dirt rained down. She screamed. Her father broke through the trees. It was like being in a dream. Her father's eyes were crazed, his face flushed. He lifted her off the ground with one arm and ran a rough hand across her head and chest. His lips moved, but Melody couldn't understand him over the rushing fear in her ears. Another man appeared, dropped down from the trees. The man was pale and shaking, and couldn't stand. He kept falling to his knees. Her father set her down, turned, and punched the man hard in the face. His nose spurted blood. They left the man there, bleeding and alone. She rode out of the woods in her father's arms, drinking in his smoky, sour scent. For years, she would tell the story of how a man mistook her for a deer in the woods and how Daddy came to her rescue. “Thank God that man was no kind of shot,” her father would say. “You'd have been terrible eating.”

Now she held his hand, cupped as if it were still cradling her head all those years ago. “You taught me plenty, Daddy,” she said, though he was sleeping. “You taught me plenty.”

 

Chapter Fourteen

MONDAY

Obi was antsy, and couldn't sleep. He knew, just knew, someone was going to come along and threaten them soon. Even the air smelled ominous, hot and metallic. Fat drops of rain fell on and off through the night. A big storm was coming, but Obi did not fear the weather. He feared the person who snuck around and went through their things. He feared the people in the house who didn't have the good sense to grow food on all this land. More than anything, he feared the consequences of his own actions. The law would come for him, and then Social Services would take Liam. He could lose his son because of what happened with that boy by the river. If he lost Liam, he lost everything.

Liam slept beside him now, hands folded beneath his cheek. Obi laid one hand on Liam's head and the other on his rifle, which he'd kept close as a lover all night long. The boy didn't stir. Dawn would break soon. Obi crawled outside the tent, pulled on his boots, and stared up at the sky. Clouds muted the moonlight and blocked the stars. He stood still in the quiet morning air until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The rifle rested in his left hand, barrel down. His memory called up a wooden cane he'd carried around as a child. The cane was his grandfather's, carved from one long piece of knotty pine, twisted but balanced. It was stained and polished a pale green-gold, the color of grass in the fall. He wondered what became of that cane. He'd like to give it to Liam as a talisman.