Let Me Die in His Footsteps (8 page)

“What happened to the boy, it ain’t no kind of payment for our sin,” Abraham says. He takes one long step into the room and kneels at Juna’s bedside. He takes one of her hands in his. “Don’t go thinking it is.”

Someone brought bacon, and whoever it was, most likely John Holleran’s mama, is frying it up in the kitchen. The salty, rich smell fills the house like it hasn’t been filled in years. If I could leave the room, dared to leave the room, I’d bake fresh cornbread and pour those bacon drippings in the pan before I put it in the oven. It’s how Mama made it, but folks don’t have the drippings like they once did.

“We have to praise God Juna was spared,” Abraham says. He must be talking to Abigail because he reaches for her. She slides up next to him and rests her head on his shoulder. “Whatever happened to Dale, we have to praise God.”

1952—ANNIE

IN A FEW
weeks’ time, maybe a month, the wild grapes on the sunniest slopes will begin to ripen and the vines will fail under the weight of the swollen fruit. The willows near the road will droop, and the soil will turn velvety with the rains and will fatten up the elms and great walnuts. The ragweed will turn dusty, and folks will begin to sneeze, and the spring sky, clear and high-reaching, its sun glittering, will give way to a sky with a softer glow. And finally, the lavender will bloom, and folks from across Hayden County will come to Grandma’s farm.

They’ll come because five years ago, Grandma decided she would see things change for the Holleran family. All these years, folks have kept themselves at a distance, not because of hatred or meanness but because of fear, particularly the older folks who best remember. They remember that before Juna, Joseph Carl had been a decent man, the best of all the Baine brothers, but then he looked into those eyes of Juna Crowley, those black eyes the exact same color as Annie’s, and they made him do things that led to his hanging.

That Aunt Juna could do such things to a man as kind and simple as Joseph Carl Baine made folks fear for themselves, most certainly not so kind or simple as Joseph Carl. The older Annie grew and the more she favored Juna, the more folks shied away. But folks like a gathering—that’s what Grandma said the first year of the harvest. The lavender would tempt them. It was in the nature of these Kentucky folks, the coming together, so they wouldn’t be able to resist.

Some will come by car, others by foot. They’ll sip iced lavender tea, eat warm slices of Grandma’s lavender bread, punched down twice and left to rise on the sill, and buy freshly cut bundles. Some will choose blossoms narrowly in bloom and hang them upside down to dry in a spare bedroom like the farmers hang tobacco from the rafters of their barns. Others will choose bundles in full bloom and display them on their dining room tables.

Grandma will wear her best blue cotton skirt on that day, its pleats painstakingly ironed for just the occasion. She’ll waltz among the ladies and instruct them on how best to sprinkle lavender oil on their pillows for a good night’s sleep or how many drops to add to a warm bath to soothe a crabby child or even a crabby husband. There will be music and food, and the men will sip corn whiskey and smoke cigars. The ladies who come on that Sunday will wear their churchgoing dresses and hats and will pin up their hair. They’ll listen, though they won’t stand too close, as Grandma rattles off instructions for tending a skinned knee with a cotton ball and a few drops of oil. The ladies will nod, smile, sip their tea, but they’ll be ever so slightly wary of Grandma because she has the know-how, and didn’t Aunt Juna have it too? And what about that Annie? She has those eyes, you know, those black eyes.

Every year, this is how it happens, and this year will also include Abraham Pace and Abigail Watson saying their “I dos.” It was Grandma’s idea. The whole town will join in. The ladies will come and their husbands. There will be food and drink. There will be smoking, chewing, spitting, singing, the gathering of beautiful bouquets, but it all will begin, as it does every year, with the explosion of the lavender. It will be a powerful moment, and Annie has, these past many days, been feeling its approach much like a person might feel an oncoming train through the rattle in her feet that carries first through the rails and then through the ground and finally through the air. The coming of such a lot of splendor will fill a person up, near to the rim. This is what Grandma said when Annie complained of the spark, the sizzle, the something that clawed at her. But Grandma had been wrong. That spark wasn’t the lavender and it wasn’t a yearning of any kind. It was Aunt Juna coming home again.

•   •   •

WHILE GRANDMA SCRAMBLES
eggs, Mama begins running the bread through the toaster. It’ll burn if left to its own, so she stands with one finger on the toaster’s lever, ready to flip it up at the first scent of charred crust. Caroline busies herself by rinsing the grounds from the coffeepot and pouring the orange juice, and Annie sits at the table with Daddy and Abraham Pace because it’s her special day and Mama says no chores on a young lady’s day of ascension. She also says that’s why they’ll be skipping church this morning. That and it’s setting day, though Annie thinks it’s mostly because the last Baine is dead and that will have folks talking.

Abraham will eat in a hurry today. Normally, every other year on this day, Daddy would too. The dry weather early last month meant easy work for the plows, and the rains earlier in the week softened the soil. It’s all made for a perfect day. Annie can smell it this year. The rich soil. She can smell it like she never before has. It’ll be black, cool to the touch, silken if rubbed between two fingers. The men will walk in straight rows that have been cut through Abraham Pace’s land. They’ll drop the tender plants, being careful of their green leaves and feathery roots. Some will feed the machine that drops the seedlings. Others will tend the dirt, pat it down just so. Others still will drop water. Abraham inherited all his daddy’s land, so says Grandma, and every year, he buys up more and more as other fellows find the going too tough. It’s Abraham’s best day, Daddy’s worst.

As Grandma whisks her eggs, she occasionally glances over a shoulder to see if Annie is still in her seat and hasn’t yet been taken by whatever put that empty rocking chair in motion. When Annie catches her staring, Grandma makes like she’s looking out the window beyond Annie’s shoulder or checking the clock over the door. Grandma, with hair that isn’t pinned quite as neatly this morning and apron strings that are twisted, is worried because when an empty rocking chair rocks, someone dies. She is fearing that the someone to die is going to be Annie. But someone already did die: Mrs. Baine. All that’s left is for someone to come home.

“You’ll be staying close to the house today, won’t you, Annie?” Grandma asks the third time Annie catches her staring. “Could use your help with the cake and such. You’re better with the icing than me. You whip it so nice and smooth. She should stay close to home, don’t you think, Sarah?”

Mama nods but never turns away from her toaster. “Wouldn’t hurt,” she says. “Yes, close to home.”

Mama would normally scold Grandma for encouraging the know-how in that way, but Mrs. Baine dying has weighed heavy on Mama and she can’t think about much more than that toast and keeping it from burning.

And while Mama is intent on keeping that toaster from burning her toast, Daddy is intent on watching Mama. As Mama stands, one hand resting on the toaster’s lever, the other wrapped around her waist, Daddy leans back in his chair, eyes heavy from being tired or from too much whiskey, and sighs every so often as if he’s feeling sad.

“Buell’ll be coming out this morning,” Daddy says, studying the back of Mama’s head. When Mama doesn’t turn or answer him, he stands, walks up behind her, and rests a hand on her shoulder. “Probably want to talk to you.”

Mama shifts a half step to the right, away from Daddy. “I’m sorry,” she says, reaching for the hand that had been on her shoulder, but before she can get ahold of him, Daddy slips back into his chair.

“I’m sorry, John,” Mama says again. “I’m not myself this morning.”

“It’s no wonder,” Grandma says, wrapping one of her crocheted hot pads around the skillet’s handle and taking up her eggs. “You let her be, John.”

“What makes you think he’ll want to talk with me?” Mama says, turning back to her toast.

“Trying to figure what happened to Cora, I suppose,” Daddy says.

Grandma dumps eggs first on Abraham’s plate, scraping them from the bottom of the cast-iron skillet with a fork, and dumps the rest on Daddy’s.

“I can sure enough tell Buell Fulkerson what happened,” she says, sliding the salt to Abraham.

He holds up a hand and pats his stomach. “Abigail says too much salt is causing me difficulty.”

Grandma picks up the glass shaker, gives two shakes directly over Abraham’s plate, and starts another batch of eggs.

“She’s not your wife yet, so you listen to me. Men who sweat for a living need their salt. That girl is little more than a child. Don’t you let her tell you a thing. And you,” she says, turning to Daddy and pointing at him with her fork, “you tell that Buell Fulkerson we got nothing to say on the subject of Cora Baine or any other Baine. We have worries enough of our own without worrying about those Baines.”

As if saying it out loud has reminded Grandma, she pushes aside the curtain and looks out on the front drive. She leans to get a view to the left and then to the right. She’s looking for any sign of Aunt Juna.

“Don’t you suppose she just died, Daddy?” Caroline says, offering cream to Abraham the same way Grandma offered salt. “Died from being so old?”

While everyone else in the house, most especially Annie, is ruffled and unkempt after a long night, Caroline is shining like she always does, maybe more. Her hair is glossy and tied off with a white ribbon that likely saw an iron before being wrapped around her ponytail. Her pale-green dress is equally pressed, and her eyes are bright and wide open, her lids not hanging heavy like they are on the rest of the family. From this day forth, Caroline will be ever prepared for the moment she finally meets her husband-to-be. People will be expecting the same of Annie, for her to be readying herself for her intended. On this particular morning, Annie is not yet ready.

Again, Abraham shakes his head at Caroline’s offer and pats his stomach. Pulling back from the kitchen window, Grandma gives another grunt, slips a finger through the handle on the small white pitcher, and pours a hearty dose of cream in Abraham’s coffee.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Grandma says. “It’s Juna Crowley. She’s the one killed Cora Baine.”

“Mother, please,” Mama says, turning from her toast. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Mrs. Baine was awful old,” Caroline says, starting to tap one toe the way she does on the mornings she has a history test. “Don’t you suppose that’s all it was?”

“Buell ain’t much for supposing,” Daddy says, crossing his arms.

“Ain’t nothing to suppose,” Grandma says.

Because Daddy’s still watching Mama watching that toaster, he must not be angry about Sheriff Fulkerson or the salt and cream forbidden by Abraham’s fiancée. He must be angry with Mama.

“He’ll need to be sure,” Daddy says. “Got to ask questions to be sure.”

“Couldn’t even remember the last time I saw Cora,” Mama says. “You tell Buell that. It ought to be enough.”

“The toast, Sarah,” Grandma says, resting a hand on Mama’s shoulder same as Daddy did.

This time Mama doesn’t pull away, but it’s too late. Even though she was standing right there, her finger at the ready, the toast burned. Daddy stands and stares at the two charred pieces of bread peeking out of the silver toaster.

“Person might wonder what’s filling your thoughts this morning, Sarah,” Daddy says, and without taking a single bite of eggs or sip of his coffee, he pushes open the screen door and stomps across the porch, leaving the door to slam closed, which rankles Grandma almost as much as footprints on her kitchen floor.

Mama watches Daddy go, apologizes for ruining breakfast, and then excuses herself because she has a terrible headache. Caroline follows her with a damp cloth and two aspirins, and Grandma butters the charred toast.

The kitchen falls silent except for the sips Grandma takes from her coffee cup. Abraham Pace eats Daddy’s eggs and then nudges Annie and asks if he can have hers too, seeing as how she’s letting them go cold. Annie pushes her plate across the table, tells Grandma a spiced cake for dessert at tonight’s supper would be just fine, though Annie doesn’t much like spiced cake even when Grandma makes it at Christmas. But there is no cocoa in the pantry and Grandma would just as soon not ask anyone to go to town. Like Annie, Grandma must figure folks will be talking.

“Did you see him?” Grandma asks, reaching up and cupping Annie’s face with her tiny hands after Abraham has left the kitchen. Those hands are cool and will probably leave behind a smear of flour. As she often does, Grandma smells of lavender, salty butter, and freshly brewed coffee.

“He was brown-haired with blue eyes,” Annie says, stealing back the vision Caroline stole. “I seen him clear as day. But I didn’t know him, don’t know who he is.”

“But you will,” Grandma says. “You’ve a lifetime to find him, and when you do, you’ll know him.” Then Grandma winks. “He’ll know you too. A lifetime, you understand?”

Annie nods. Grandma is still worried about Annie being the one to die, and she thinks Annie is worried too.

“It’s all foolishness,” Grandma says, lowering her hands. “All that rocker nonsense, it’s mountain-grown foolishness.”

“So you don’t think Aunt Juna’s coming home?”

Grandma wipes her hands on her apron, pushes open the screen door, and shoos Annie through.

“Oh, no, child. Juna will come home now. I’m certain of that.”

“I don’t think I want her here,” Annie says, wondering if Grandma will scold her for speaking such a thought. “I don’t think she should come.”

“You’re wise for thinking such a thing,” Grandma says, smiling instead of scolding. “Juna Crowley is a person best forgotten.”

•   •   •

GRANDMA COMES FROM
deep in the hills, and that’s why she has the know-how. Ever since Daddy, Mama, Caroline, and Annie came to live with Grandma, she has been single-minded about passing on the gift as she has no daughter of her own. She tried passing it on to Caroline, but she was only interested in hair brushing and fine manners. Mama refused any part of the know-how, and Grandma never bothered trying to teach Daddy. Men don’t have a knack. In the end, Grandma said Annie was the only one with any real facility for the gift, and so she would be the one to carry it on. You best know how the world works, Grandma has been telling Annie since she was nine years old, if you’re going to make your way in it.

Mostly, it’s difficult to remember it all. In the beginning, before she started feeling sparks in the air and before the yearning and the coming of the lavender, it wasn’t a matter of believing or not. Annie never gave that much thought, just like she never gave much thought to why the Lone Fork River only runs one direction and the weather always turns in late September. Having the know-how made her special. Only she knew not to brush her hair after dark and what it meant if her left foot itched and how to drink up the moon. Caroline would always be the pretty one and the smart one and the kind and considerate one. But Annie would have the know-how, and in that one thing, she would be special too.