I look into his familiar eyes. “Only when it comes to Papa,” I say, hoping that doesn’t hurt his feelings. Because after all, when you look at how everything unfolded, I might’ve got the ball rolling when it came to finding Mama, but Sam was the one who rescued her. With able assistance from Curry Weaver and Sheriff Nash.
Sam asks, “How about you, Woody?”
My sister has started talking more, thanks to some help from another doctor who is a friend of Dr. Wilson’s who is particularly good with willful children. His name is Dr. Ben Abernathy. He told Mama and me that Woody quit speaking in the first place because of the horrible thing she saw—someone she loved, her own grandmother, trying to murder someone else she loved, her mother. Not because, like I thought, she was grieving Mama’s disappearance. The doctor told me that was a part of it, too, though. My sister’s delicate artistic brain was not able to make sense of all the despicable goings-on, so to protect her, it made her stop talking. (That sounds weak to me, but this man has a lot of diplomas on his wall.)
Woody lifts her head up from her drawing. “What?”
Sam asks, “Do you miss your father?”
She looks down at her scarred, root-cellar knees and doesn’t miss a beat. “No.”
And it’s not only her. Nobody seems to miss His Honor as much as I do and that can make me feel like the odd man out. After Woody falls asleep some nights, Mama and I have a cup of tea out on the back porch steps. I identify the constellations for her and we talk about him. On one of those evenings, she cried into her hands and couldn’t stop for the longest time after she told me, “Yes, honey. It would be all right if you went to Slidell’s and bought a bottle of English Leather to remember him by.” I keep it under our mattress because the smell of it makes my sister sick to her stomach.
The back door opens and Mama, who is wearing the prettiest red polka-dot dress, calls, “Sam? Could you get the serving plate off the top shelf, please?” Then to us she says, “The rest of the guests are arriving. Please finish up what you’re doing and come wash up,” and goes back in.
Sam stands, brushes his hands down his pants, and says, “It’s fine for each of you to feel the way you do. The heart does not answer to the brain. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life it’s that feelings are complicated.”
When Sam heads towards the house, I go sit next to Woody and Ivory on the glider. She is drawing a picture of E. J. A hundred tiny hearts are buzzing around his face like flies attracted to a plate of leftovers. He was by her side ’til just a little while ago. He probably went into the kitchen to get closer to the food.
“So you still love him, huh,” I say, impressed as all get out that she has not taken the liberty that every artist can to make their subject look better than they really do. “When you were . . . I mean . . .” We don’t talk much about when she didn’t talk. “Did you miss those berry lips of Ed James, yum-yum?”
Woody says, “Shut up, Shenbone,” just the way she would’ve once upon a time, but it’s not as funny anymore. I can’t barely admit it to myself, but I have been told by Dr. Wilson that no matter how tragic it is, facing the truth is better than pretending even though it sure doesn’t feel like it. “You can’t mend a wound if you won’t admit that you’ve got one” is what the doctor told me the last time I saw him. So the fact . . . the truth is . . . Woody and I are not the same as we were. We aren’t as connected. I miss that feeling of oneness with her more than anything and can only pray our apartness is temporary. “Don’t you dare tease me about E. J.” Her voice is sort of slow and wobbly like your leg is when you get a cast off it. “I saw you lockin’ lips at the cemetery yesterday, don’t think I didn’t.”
Ivory and I went over there to say a final farewell to Clive Minnow. I pushed that Confederate button that I took from What Goes Around Comes Around deep into the soil of his grave. I was going to apologize on behalf of my grandmother for poisoning him, but I got distracted by bare-chested Bootie Young, who let me stick my finger in his cleft chin. All the way to the knuckle.
“C’mon,” I tell Woody. “The skeeters are comin’ out.”
Wedding veil clouds are drifting past the moon. It’s supposed to storm tonight, but not until late. When I was young, I used to think that the stars disappeared when there were showers. Like the rain extinguished them. When I told Papa that, he smiled and said, “They’re always there twinkling, honey. You just can’t see them for the clouds.”
I think of him often during the day when I try to write him a letter that never seems to go any further than
Dear Papa . . . I miss you.
But he is most on my mind when the constellations pop up early and are kissing close. Like tonight. I know it’s not a popular way to feel around here because of all the bad things that he’s done, but between you and me, this half of his little Gemini wishes with my whole heart and soul that my father was by my side on this historical evening the way we planned.
It’s July 20, 1969. The astronauts made it to the moon.
They fared much, much better than I thought they would.
Now all they got to do is get back home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
L
ESLEY
K
AGEN is an actress, voice-over talent, and restaurateur, as well as the author of two previous novels. Her national bestselling
Whistling in the Dark
has been translated into five languages and was a Midwest Choice Award winner. The mother of two grown children, she lives with her husband near Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Visit her at
www.lesleykagen.com
.