Читать книгу The In-Between Hour - Barbara White Claypole - Страница 13

Five

Poppy smacked her cell phone on the steering wheel. Stupid cheap piece of shit. Best she could afford, but still... Aha! A ring tone.

“Han, it’s me. Where are you?”

“About to leave Saxapahaw. I had to put a Siamese cat to sleep.”

The line crackled.

“And how was that?”

“Peaceful. You’re not driving and talking on the phone, are you?”

Poppy laughed. Her friend had her pegged years ago, even before she’d liberated Miss Prissy and accused Asshole of felony animal abuse. He’d tried to bully her out of the lawsuit, since he hadn’t wanted his rich friends to know about the banging of the hired help, but it was Hannah who’d persuaded her to walk away. And offered up her pasture for Miss Pris. That was Han, the world’s biggest fan of lost causes and underdogs. Underdogs, ha! Besides, if she hadn’t done the dirty with Asshole, she might never have been fired from the interior design company for sleeping with a client, might never have branched out on her own, might never have met Will Shepard.

Will was definitely no asshole. Plus he was the cutest guy she’d met since dumping the last putz. But dating was like baking. Pie crust didn’t always turn out right the first time, either.

“Poppy, honey? You called for a reason?”

“Sorry, girl. Miles away.” Poppy swerved around a black snake. Dang. Car nearly off the road. “Guess what? I just met this total hottie. Looks kinda young, but didn’t Demi Moore prove age is irrelevant? Isn’t whatshisname fifteen years her junior?”

“What are you talking about?” Hannah said.

“Wait, forget that. They’re divorced. Still. Age doesn’t matter these days, does it? This guy looks like a young Daniel Craig. With more hair.” Poppy fanned her T-shirt against her boobs. “Lots of hair you want to run your fingers through. Bone structure says Johnny Depp, but his abs are definitely Brad Pitt in Troy. You know what? Picture the love child of Johnny Depp and Daniel Craig. He’s mighty purty.” She slathered on the sassy Southern accent that had cost her parents a small fortune to erase.

“Daniel who?” Hannah’s voice echoed.

“Girl, I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.”

Poppy pulled down her visor, grabbed the Green Day CD she’d burned with a continuous loop of “Horseshoes and Handgrenades” and shoved it into the slot.

“When d’you last go to the movies?” Silly question since all Han did was work and sleep. Sleep was so not Poppy’s thing. Lucky if she could crash for five hours a night. “You still there?”

The line had gone dead.

Piece of shit phone—oh. Out of juice. Must’ve forgotten to charge it again. Imagine that.

Poppy hummed along to Green Day and tossed the cell phone onto the passenger seat where it bounced off the boxed-up set of mugs destined for some Duke professor. She really had meant to deliver the order before 2:00 p.m. Package was C.O.D. and that grocery money could be mighty useful. Nah. She’d make up some excuse and take it over bright and early Monday. Painting Thoroughbreds on mugs for her parents’ country club friends sucked, but she loved the stock pieces. Always rearing up, her prancing mares reminded her to keep spinning just as she’d done since she was a little girl skipping in circles, earning her nickname of Poppy Bean. “Goodness gracious, child,” her grandmama always said, “you’re full of beans.”

But once in a while, when she looked at her painted mares, Poppy saw fear in their eyes, self-defense in their raised hooves. Not one for overanalyzing, she’d never followed that thought—until today. And it led to Hannah.

She was creepy calm. Did she not realize that her son was in a heap of trouble? Depression had been grabbing at him for years, and yet he’d always managed to stumble free. ’Course, Poppy didn’t know too much about these things, but Galen had confided plenty when he was a teen trying not to worry his mom. Should she have told Han how far back this crap went? Nah, Hannah would only have worried twice as much. And Galen? He would’ve been spooked worse than Miss Pris during a tornado warning. One thing about her godson, he was more locked down than Fort Knox.

Even as a kid, Galen had tried to protect his baby brother and his mom. But now he needed protecting, and Poppy could do that just fine without betraying any secrets. Steer things in a better direction. Interfere a bit.

Yes, Han told her frequently she should stop sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Blah, blah, blah. But this idea about putting Galen in the cottage was beyond catastrophic. Give him too much personal space and who knew what could happen.

Han had always been the one to look out for Poppy. Now it was role reversal time. And her cunning plan had nothing to do with that stud-muffin, Will Shepard. Although, technically, he was more of a twelve-pack of Krispy Kreme original glazed donuts.

Poppy licked her lips and went back to singing.

* * *

The forest were his real home: his daddy and his mama, his ancestors and his past, his present and his future. ’Course, he didn’t have much future. His flame were goin’ out. But to finish his days in the forest? Now that might give him some peace of mind. There were trees all around. Not forest he recognized but didn’t much matter. If Willie stopped the car, he’d take hisself off for a walk so he could hear leaves rustlin’ under his boots.

Maybe Darren would be there, when they got home. Him and Darren were real tight as kids. Big fight, though, over the record deal. Darren wanted to go on the road, but how could he do that and leave Willie alone with his mama?

Be good to hear the clackety-clack and the whistlin’ of the trains again. Couldn’t hear no trains from Hawk’s Ridge. Missed home-style Southern cookin’, too. Institutional food weren’t no better than cardboard. Freddie, though, he were eatin’ real fancy food.

“C.R.S., son.”

“C.R.S.?” Will said.

“Can’t remember stuff. What’s the name of that ice cream Freddie’s bin eatin’?”

“Gelato.”

“Gel-aaaa-to.” His grandbaby were eatin’ things he couldn’t pronounce! “Think we can get some, for when Freddie comes home? Heck, son. You need me to drive? You plum near went off the road.”

He didn’t look so hot these days, his Will. Must be workin’ too hard. Needed a haircut and a good woman. A man his age should have a wife. Heck, he were married at Willie’s age. How old was he now? Couldn’t keep track of time. Lost August and September altogether. Now it were October. He could tell from the dogwoods.

“Dad?” Will said. “We’re taking a detour.”

“You’re not drivin’ to the cemetery, are you?” Jacob glanced down at the cardboard pipe in his lap. Looked like a giant bullet casin’. Freddie’s map were tucked up inside. Well protected. Good, good; good, good. “I won’t go.”

“No, Dad. I don’t want to go to the cemetery any more than you do.”

How many years since she’d crossed over? Three? Four? Didn’t want to know. Some memories was best left to rot. Never wanted Angeline buried. Wanted her ashes spread in the wind, but Will, he needed a grave. Needed to go visit her, make amends. Things been real bad between them when his Angeline crossed over. The boy wouldn’t even come to the funeral. It should have been him under that pile of dirt, not his angel. Ten years older. Should’ve been him.

Woo-wee, she were somethin’, his Angeline. Flitted around like a butterfly. Filled him with awe. Put him through hell during her black spells, but did he regret a single day? No siree, not one. Tough on Willie, though, real tough. She could be a real handful. The temper on her! Been hard on young Willie, that temper. Sometimes he’d had to lock Willie in his room. The boy resented it, of course, but how else could he keep his son safe?

Will swung the car around and put out an arm. Sort of thing he used to do when Willie were little, to keep him from shootin’ forward into the dashboard. Willie better not start treatin’ his old man like a kid. Where was they goin’? To the cemetery? He hoped not. He never visited. Couldn’t. Couldn’t think of his dear sweet Angeline under that red clay.

“I thought we was goin’ home, Willie. This ain’t home. Goddamn it. Take me home!”

“We can’t, Dad. We sold the old place two years ago. You had that fall, ended up at the rehabilitation center and we sold the shack. I tried to get you to come to New York, but you wouldn’t consider it.”

“I ain’t movin’ to New York. I been followin’ the trail of my people all my life. I ain’t livin’ anywhere but in the footprints of my ancestors.”

“I know, Dad. You made that pretty clear after your fall.”

Fall? What fall? But he remembered Will leavin’ him in that shithole, all right. Some things he remembered clear as day.

The car bounced around a curve. And that bubble of anger, it vanished. Pop! Gone.

Jacob sat up straight. Real straight. Ahead were a big pasture with snake-rail fencin’ and a horse skitterin’ around. And behind? A mighty fine view. So fine it could’ve been Occoneechee Mountain. His blood were all over that mountain. Heck, his skin, too. One time he banged up his right knee real bad sleddin’ down on the back of an old rockin’ chair. Woo-wee. Flew like the wind and ended up in the Eno. Still had the scar to prove it. Willie, he got scarred on Occoneechee Mountain, too. His mama, she felt real bad about that, but the boy never would let her apologize.

Them dogwoods, they were crimson, but the rest of the forest were still shades of green. Best color in the world. Color that made his heart sing. Didn’t he write a song about that once?

Well, he never. And an owl at the edge of the forest! Lots of Lumbee Elders, they said the owl were a bad omen, that if he hooted four times in a row, death were comin’. But he respected the all-seein’ night owl. Could set a man to thinkin’. No matter how great you thought you was, that ol’ rascal could look down and say, “Whoo, whoo, who are you?”