Читать книгу Mr. And Mrs. Wrong - Fay Robinson - Страница 11

ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Lucky guided her small fishing boat into an isolated slough, turned off the motor and let it drift. Dusk was when she was most likely to see the panthers she’d been watching the past several weeks, but she hoped at least one would appear earlier.

She took a drink from her water bottle and wiped off the sweat that had formed under the brim of her Kiss A Bug cap. Jack and Cal were probably at the cabin by now, moving Jack’s clothes. The rest of her family would arrive soon.

Looking back, she couldn’t remember ever telling Jack he could move back in, but discussing it with him wasn’t worth the stress that would undoubtedly create. Peace and calm were what she and the baby needed right now, and the river provided it. She always felt better after a few hours with her old friend.

Most people only saw the main body of the Black Warrior and its headwaters, the Locust, Mulberry and Sipsey rivers, but its heart lay in places like this, the hidden ones, where the water seemed bottomless and the adjoining land appeared virtually untouched since prehistoric times.

The area wasn’t completely virgin, but she liked to think it was. Settlers, her ancestors among them, had planted cotton and corn in the low areas, harvested trees from the forests and dug coal from the banks and shoals. Before them, the Creek and Choctaw Indians inhabited these lands, and the river, or Apotaka Hache as the Choctaw called it, had been a border between the nations.

Before the modern Indians, the land was home to mound-building people in whose culture women, fertility and the river all played major roles. Lucky sometimes dug up their flint points or pottery shards when she planted her small garden.

She’d explored extensively the river and its forks, but it would take several lifetimes to see everything. The state, federal government and the University of Alabama all owned thousands of acres of trees and swampland she’d never walked. Probably few had in modern times. A surveyor or two, perhaps, or an occasional logger or pulpwood harvester.

This was her home, but more than that, it was a vital part of who she was. Take her outside the county and nothing about her was special. But here, on the river, she could name each insect, fish and bird. Here, she felt connected to her past and the generations of Mathisons who had come before her.

Her tie to the river was strong and unbreakable, something Jack could never understand. Giving it up wasn’t an option. She’d wither if she had to live in town again. And to leave Potock altogether, as he’d suggested more than once during their arguments, would surely kill her.

Maneuvering the boat closer to the bank into the shade of the trees, she stretched out on her stomach so she could watch the insects zigzagging across the surface of the water and observe the acrobatic dragonflies. Birds rustled in the underbrush. The water lapped gently against the side of the metal boat, almost lulling her to sleep.

Far off but coming closer, the heavy crunch of leaves intruded on the stillness. Something large was moving through the woods.

As quietly as she could, she sat up and brought the camera to her eye. She’d probably get only two or three shots of the panther before the sound of the autowinder scared him off. Each shot had to count. Except…this couldn’t be an animal; it was making too much noise. Only a human thrashed around like that.

The land sloped to the water down a hill tangled with plant growth. On her way out of the cabin, Lucky had grabbed her old Canon with its zoom lens, and she used it to focus on the faintly discernible path made by the tread of deer.

A man emerged with his head down, unaware of her presence, and went straight to the water. He crouched as if to take a drink, but instead, sank his bare arms in the water to the elbows. He brought them up, then slapped the surface several times, letting out a squeal each time.

Lucky continued to watch, feeling a bit anxious at the peculiarity of it. He seemed to be almost…playing.

Suddenly he sensed her and jerked up his head. Her viewfinder framed a face that represented every nightmare she’d had since the age of nine.

Terrell Wade.

She sucked in a breath. Fear kept her frozen, unable to move. She’d known the autistic man was back in Potock. Leigh had written a story at the time of his relocation.

He wasn’t supposed to be out unsupervised. The idea of him wandering around by the river and only a couple of miles from her cabin sent a chill running along Lucy’s backbone.

No more than fifteen feet separated them. If he took a few steps to his right, he’d be close enough to the bow of her boat to get in.

She lowered her camera bit by bit so as not to startle him, until it hung heavily by the strap around her neck. If he made a move, she wanted to be able to grab something to defend herself. She might have time to get the motor cranked if he came at her, but maybe not.

For what seemed an eternity, he did nothing but stare back from his catlike position. That in itself was enough to unnerve her. She’d never seen his eyes before. She couldn’t recall him ever holding his head high enough that anyone could see his eyes. He’d always kept his face down when you came near, as if ashamed or afraid.

Did he remember what she’d done to him?

Did he even recognize her as the child who had condemned him?

He cocked his head, then sprang upright. Lucky jumped just as quickly and lunged forward, but her sudden movement upset the boat and set it rocking. For a heartbeat she held on to the paddle and her balance, but then she lost both. The paddle flew out of her hand into the water and the lens of her camera bounced up and smacked her above the left eye, nearly knocking her out.

What people said about seeing stars was true. They sparkled for a second in front of her, then gave way to pain. Blood clouded her vision.

The boat drifted. She scrambled for the motor, pushed the primer button and pulled the cord, but it didn’t crank. Desperately she hit the button again. A second and third pull of the cord produced no results.

Terrell moved, coming along the bank as she feared.

Ten feet away.

He had something in his hand.

Five feet away.

He stepped into the boat and reached out toward her.

Once, when Lucky was small, she’d picked up a pretty black-and-red-striped ant that had promptly stung her hand. She’d screamed so loud that her granddaddy had said she’d blistered his eardrums.

The scream she let out this time was louder.

WITH CAL’S HELP, Jack hauled over what personal items he needed for the next few days and set about replacing the old fan in the living room with something that actually stirred the air. He’d bought a second unit to install in the bedroom.

When he was growing up, he’d promised himself he’d never live in another dump, that when he had a house of his own, it would be a nice house, nothing too fancy, but sturdily built and roomy enough to raise kids the way they should be raised.

He never again wanted to wonder if the water was hot or the refrigerator had food. He’d had his fill of peeling paint, cast-off furniture and paper-thin walls.

He looked around and shook his head. Well, this dump, at least, was clean. No rats trying to take a bite out of him in the middle of the night. No bugs except the ones Lucky caught to photograph.

Snakes…now, that was something he’d have to talk to her about. Snakes inside were unacceptable from now on, along with any kind of animal, dead or alive, except for her dog.

With some work, he could make the cabin more livable. New plasterboard for the walls and fresh paint would help. New tin for the roof and exterior would go a long way toward making it look better.

He sincerely hoped they’d be gone before the cold weather came. He could tolerate cold, and winters here were mild compared to what he’d experienced in Pittsburgh, but he’d found out the hard way that the dampness penetrated everything on the river. The few months he’d spent with Lucky in the cabin last winter had been miserable for him.

The rent at his apartment was paid through the end of next month, so he’d decided to keep most of his clothes there and move the rest only when he had no other choice.

The cabin had an attached storage room with a rack for hangers, but Lucky had fishing poles, life jackets and God knows what else crammed in there. She’d have to clean out her junk again to make space for him to put his good shirts and suits.

“This clunker’s been here a lot of years,” Cal said from the stepladder. He loosened the last screw on the fan and together they brought it down and set it on the floor. “I was only a kid when Dad and my granddaddy put it up.”

“Did your dad grow up here?”

“Sure did. Him and my uncle Steve. My grandmother hated the place, but Granddaddy’s people had lived here for generations, so he wouldn’t budge.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah,” Cal said with a nod, “pretty much the same story as you and Lucky.”

Jack stepped back and the dog let out a yelp. He knelt and petted her. “Sorry, Beanie, but you’ve got to stay out from under my feet.” She looked up at him with big eyes that said he was forgiven, thumping her tail against the floor.

Her breed was indecipherable. She had the face of a hound, but her body seemed an amalgamation of hound and terrier. Black, shaggy hair covered all of her except her muzzle, which had turned gray with age.

Usually her hair drooped and covered her eyes, making him wonder how she could possibly see. Since today was a special occasion, he’d pinned it back with a pink bow-shaped barrette, an old one of Lucky’s from when her hair was long.

The dog wasn’t pretty, but she was the first pet he’d ever owned, and he liked the experience. Well, technically she belonged to Lucky, but Beanie didn’t understand that.

“The more time that dog spends with you, the more worthless she becomes,” Cal said. “Could she get any fatter?”

Beanie thumped her tail again, knowing they were talking about her. She seemed to smile.

“She doesn’t like dog food,” Jack explained.

“And why should she when you feed her junk all the time? Has Lucky seen her lately?”

“Not in a few weeks.”

“Oh, man, you’re going to be in big trouble.”

Jack made the dog lie down in front of the couch out of the way, then unpacked the new fan. He rechecked to make sure the power was off, then Cal helped him position the new unit and secure it.

“Did your grandfather ever consider moving away from here?” he asked, continuing their earlier conversation.

“Papa Sam?” Cal snorted. “Imagine a male version of Lucky, and that’s a pretty good description of my granddaddy. He thought the river was heaven. You couldn’t pry him out of here with a crowbar, even after he started having heart problems. He dropped dead right out there by the water.”

“I don’t understand what’s supposed to be so great about this place.”

“Me, neither, to tell you the truth. Leigh, Shannon and I used to hate coming out to visit because there wasn’t anything to do, but Lucky spent most of her time here. She would’ve lived with Papa Sam if our mom had let her. When he died, no one was surprised that he left the land and cabin to Lucky. She’s the only one who ever really appreciated them. And Mema was thrilled to move in with Mom and Dad.”

“I’ve tried to adjust, but there’s no damned space, and she has all these weird things she’s picked up and won’t throw away.”