The Secret Sense of Wildflower (10 page)

“Let’s get you comfortable,” he says, pulling me over on a bed of leaves. It’s as if his motions have nothing to do with me. I could be anybody, or anything—an animal he wrestled to the ground. He pulls a jack knife from his pocket and unfolds it. Then he waves it in front of me, inches from my face. The metal glitters in the patchy sun, as if recently sharpened.

Something moves in the distance and I look past him into the trees. I gasp. Ruby Monroe is hanging by the neck swinging in the breeze. Her eyes, wide open, stare down at me. I watch her until the image fades away.

“What are you looking at?” Johnny says. He throws down his knife, takes my jaw in his hands and holds my head so that I have to look at him.

“Nothing,” I say, as if I might get Ruby in trouble.

He rips off my dress; the new one Amy made me for my birthday that I put on this morning in honor of the anniversary of Daddy’s death. The seams are tight and not easily torn, but he manages with the help of his knife. The air is cool on my skin. He stares at the yellowing camisole that all my sisters wore before me. Then he takes his knife and cuts it off. His eyes take in my fledgling breasts and he cups a rough hand over each. I dig my heels in the dirt and push away. He pulls me back.

“Well, look at this,” he says. He holds Grandma McAllister’s medallion in his hand. “Looks like real gold.”

“Leave that alone,” I say through clenched teeth. He rips the necklace from my neck. The chain stings my skin and I remember what Jesus said in the Bible about not throwing your pearls before swine. But Jesus didn’t say what to do if the swine turned out to be bigger than you and stole your pearls without asking.

Johnny gazes at the necklace. For a moment, his eyes soften. But then he sees me watching him and his expression changes as fast as a lightning strike. He touches his nose. A fresh trickle of blood comes from inside. With new determination, he wraps his fingers around my neck until I can’t breathe. I squirm to get away and search his face for a sign of mercy. There is none. It occurs to me that Johnny Monroe’s hateful face will be the last thing I see before I die.

He loosens his grip to whisper in my ear, and I suck much-needed air into my lungs. “If you tell anybody about this, I’ll kill you,” he says. “Y’hear that? You can’t hide from me. I’ll find you and kill you dead!”

I nod, thinking it’s over, that Johnny’s had a change of heart. He’s going to let me go, as long as I promise not to ever tell anyone. But instead he tightens his grip again and unhooks the belt on his pants. There is no fight left in me. My heartbeat echoes in my ears. I pray to God to be rescued and ask him to send Daddy. I offer wordless prayers to the trees, the river, and the land and then apologize to Mama for getting myself hurt and to Aunt Sadie for not paying attention to what she taught me about the secret sense.

I close my eyes and surrender. Seconds later Daddy comes toward me. He stands, surrounded by light, and holds out his hand for me to take. I float toward the treetops to meet him and he takes me into his arms. When I look back, I see my body still lying on the ground, Johnny on top of me. I wonder briefly how I can be two places at once. But it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that Daddy is here. A year ago he left, but now he’s back. He’s come to take me with him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

One Year Earlier

Daniel McBride comes to the schoolhouse during recess. I’ve seen him around because he works at the Blackstone sawmill with Daddy. Jo has had a secret crush on him ever since he came to our house last Christmas. Daddy always invites anybody that doesn’t have family nearby to come to our house on holidays because he says we have enough family and food to share. Daniel used to live up North and he is the only Yankee I’ve ever seen up close. Since jobs were scarce, he moved to Rocky Bluff to take a position with the railroad. When that didn’t work out he took a job at the sawmill, where Daddy is his supervisor. Most people have forgiven him for being a Yankee on account of how nice he is.

Breathless, Daniel’s sweat soaks into his shirt. He leans over and whispers something to Mr. Webster, my teacher since first grade, who is sitting in the shade grading papers. Mr. Webster turns and looks over at me on the swing, his face solemn. Mr. Webster is strict, but fair, and always wears a suit coat like being a school teacher is as important as the President of the United States.

“Louisa May, you need to go home right away,” Mr. Webster says.

“Why?” I ask. I’ve never in six years of schooling been told to go home.

He looks at Daniel and then back at me. “You’re needed at home,” he repeats, as if this is all the reason I should need.

“But why?” I ask. “What’s happened?”

Mr. Webster hardens his face and I remember the last time I had to write
I will not talk back to Mr. Webster
a hundred times on the blackboard.

“Come on, Louisa May,” Daniel says. He stands and motions toward the truck.

“What’s going on?” Mary Jane asks, walking over from the swing.

“Nobody will say,” I tell Mary Jane, “but it can’t be good.”

“Good luck,” Mr. Webster says as I leave.

It feels weird for Mr. Webster to wish me anything, especially good luck. Not to mention how strange it is to go home so early in the day. Sometimes on the last day of school we get to go home early, but never at the first of the year and never before lunch. Even if a big snowstorm hits, we are expected to make it in and stay the full day.

Daniel holds the door open to the sawmill truck while I step inside. He gets in on the drivers side and starts the truck. Flecks of sawdust stick to the sweat on his forehead.

“What’s happened?” I ask, still trying to get answers.

He hesitates, as if weighing the consequences of his words, and then says, “There’s been an accident. They’re taking your daddy home.”

“If he’s had an accident, why aren’t they taking him to the hospital in Rocky Bluff?” I ask.

Daniel pauses again, his arms resting on the steering wheel. When he finally speaks his voice is softer than I expect. “We’ll find out when we get you home.”

My chest tightens, making it harder to breathe. Something is up, and I am convinced that
something
isn’t good. “Does Mama know?” I ask.

“Yes. She’s waiting at the house,” he says.

We ride in silence the whole way and it is the longest ride home I’ve ever had. I am afraid to ask any more questions, afraid to know the truth, or maybe I don’t want to make Daniel more uncomfortable than he already is. Though he seems nice enough, I hardly know him at all.

Daniel takes it slow over the bluff like everyone does, respecting the sheer drop that accompanies any false turn. After the road levels off, he parks below our house, securing the parking brake despite the level ground. I jump out of the truck and run ahead, realizing halfway up the hill that I forgot to thank him for the ride.

When I get to the house Meg is sitting on the porch sniffing back a steady stream of tears. Her face is red and puffy like it always gets whenever she cries. She stayed home from school to help Mama with some canning. Otherwise she’d be at the high school.

“What happened, Meg?” I ask. Her sobbing commences and I know I won’t be getting any answers from her.

Crying is the last thing I feel like doing. I want to know what happened. It doesn’t make sense for Daddy to get into an accident at work. It isn’t like him to be careless. Once when I went over there he showed me all the machinery and blades not to get close to. If he did get hurt I am certain it can be fixed.

I find Mama in the house sitting at the kitchen table, her face as pale as the bag of White Lily flour on the counter. Daniel comes in behind me and she thanks him for getting me.

“Where’s Daddy?” I ask her.

“They’re bringing him from the mill,” she tells me. Then she looks at Daniel, “Why can’t I just go there?” she asks.

“It’s best you don’t,” he says. “They’ll bring him by truck until they reach the bottom of the hill.”

Daniel puts a hand on Mama’s shoulder and I wait for her to slap it away, but she just lets it sit there. In all my twelve years of life, I’ve never once seen Mama follow orders or sit still. I know at that moment that something is horribly wrong.

“Shouldn’t he be here by now?” she asks Daniel.

“Any minute,” he answers.

She wrings her hands like they are one of her old mops. Then she gets up and walks through the house to the front porch. We follow. Her eyes are trained down the hill toward the road, watching for Daddy to come home. Sometimes in the evenings she’ll watch for him, too, but with a different look on her face, like a schoolgirl waiting for a glimpse of her beau.

We wait, all of us looking down the hill, and I sit on the bottom porch step and kick at dirt clods with my shoe. A fly lights on my knee and walks around, tickling my leg. I catch it in my open fist and let it buzz against the inside of my palm before I set it free. At that moment I feel like that fly. Trapped, and waiting for something bigger to set me free.

We hear them before we see them. A scraping sound first, and then voices growing in volume as they approach. Men are talking to Daddy, encouraging him to hold on.

As they turn the corner we see an old mule pulling a wooden stretcher up the hill. It isn’t really a stretcher but something that farmers use to pull firewood or move harvested crops from one end of a field to another. I’ve never seen it used to pull a person and wonder who came up with the idea. Daddy is wrapped up in blankets like it’s the dead of winter, even though it is a warm day in October. Indian Summer, it’s called. I don’t know why. Next time I see Horatio Sector I’ll have to ask. If anybody knows, he will. The Indians have lived in these mountains longer than anybody.

Nailed to where I stand, I wait for Daddy to lift his head and catch my eye and smile at me to let me know everything is okay. But the bundle that is supposed to be my father doesn’t move.

The mule labors up the path, with the stretcher scraping the ground behind it. I’ve never heard that sound before—wood scraping against rock and dirt—and it strikes me that the men should be carrying him instead of dragging. The hill never seemed that steep to me before. I’ve run up and down it from the time I was knee high. But the mule struggles with Daddy’s weight and one of the men slaps its backside to keep it moving. The men and the stretcher look like they are coming up the hill in slow motion.

Meg cries harder the closer they get and the redness of her face has turned to splotches. Daniel holds onto her while Mama runs down the hill to meet the men. I’ve never seen Mama run like that. She has a quickness about her like someone younger. She calls Daddy’s name and the men part to let her join them. Daddy lies in the center like a king coming to a palace, except it is our house he is being taken to and there aren’t any servants except these men from the mill.

I break from my trance and run down the path to meet him, too, but one of the men grabs me before I get too close.

“Easy there,” he says. “Your daddy’s hurt real bad.”

I jerk my shoulder away. When I look down I see a piece of burlap wrapping Daddy soaked dark red. Blood. It is odd to see him lying there not moving. I don’t understand how a man that towers over most people can look so small on a stretcher. As far as I’m concerned, Jesus learned how to walk on water from him so it makes no sense that he might be drowning in his own blood. I’m not sure the stain on the cloth is his blood anyway. Somebody could have just put it there. It occurs to me that maybe this is a joke Daddy is playing on us and any minute he’ll hop up and laugh his hearty laugh that he’s pulled a prank and we fell for it.

“Daddy, open your eyes. Look at me,” I say. “It’s Wildflower.”

I wish so hard that he open his eyes that he actually does. But he opens them like they weigh a ton.

“Daddy, what’s wrong?” I say.

He turns to look at me, and I see in his eyes more than I want to. He is hurt bad. In an instant his look tells me how sorry he is that he won’t get to see me grow up. This truth makes my knees buckle underneath me and one of the men catches me right as I am falling and holds onto me until I can stand upright again. This is the closest I’ve ever come to fainting and it takes me several steps to get the ground solid underneath me again.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” I say, walking alongside him up the hill. His eyes open and close every few seconds like he is the sleepiest he has ever been. I want to be strong so he won’t feel so bad, and it looks like Mama is doing the same. She holds onto his hand as they make the rest of the way up the hill.

“I love you, Joseph,” she keeps saying, strong and solid. “Now, don’t you go leaving me. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

I feel like I am hearing things I shouldn’t be hearing—things that Mama and Daddy don’t say in front of anybody else. I am embarrassed that all of Daddy’s men heard it, too. To hide my embarrassment, I watch the mule’s tail swish back and forth as it hauls the stretcher up the hill. I recognize the mule to be Simon Hatcher’s, a man who owns a farm over near the mill.