Nobody's Child (5 page)

“She might.”

“Not likely. She's convinced that the beatings are her fault.” Laura Ann picked up an errant cob, turning it over in her hands through a long silence. “And Preacher confirms that every time they talk.”

Granny Apple stopped a moment, staring beyond the cows, then started shoveling more corn. “And what about you?”

“I was raised in that church — “

“And you can leave it. Come worship with me. Or visit Pastor Culpeper's church in Pursley.” She paused her shoveling, then added, “Now that your father's passed, no one's holding you back.”

Laura Ann looked down, her eyes studying the worn concrete below her feet. It seemed a long time before she noticed that the scraping of Granny Apple's tin shovel had silenced.

“Your dad's holding you back, isn't he?”

Laura Ann tried to quell the quivering chin that gave her away. At last, she nodded.

“Five generations of McGehees are buried in that cemetery, child. I know how hard it is. When my Max died, it took everything I had to leave Alma and find a new place to worship. But I'm glad I did. Preacher's got his own gospel, and it's not good.” She stooped to pick up a portion of a cob and tossed it to Laura Ann, motioning toward a hungry black mouth.

“What about Auntie Rose?” Laura Ann asked, anxious to change the subject. “What did Daddy say?” Uncle Jack was never allowed to touch her, not even to get close. It all made sense now.

“Your dad hated Jack for what he did to his sister, for ripping her away from the family and the farm,” Granny Apple replied, shoveling harder than ever. Anger swelled in her voice. “Your aunt loved this place. Always has. When your grandparents died, Jack pulled a fast one and got her to sign over her half of the property to him. He sold it to the state, probably to the same fella who's trying to buy it now.” She stopped shoveling, breathing hard in the cold. “Jack used that money to buy his way to influence around here.” She wiped her face, knocking back cobwebs that drifted down from the dusty joists above.

“Jack took your Aunt Rose to bed—just to get back at your dad for marrying Hope. Then, when your mother died young, his anger flared. He blamed your dad for Hope's death. And that's when he started beating your aunt. Hope's gone, he's stuck with a bad decision, and your aunt's miserable. It's a sorry affair.”

Granny plucked at a broken cob, ripping off individual kernels one at a time. “Part of me feels sorry for him.”

“For Uncle Jack? Why?”

Granny Apple's lips formed a half-smile, half-frown. “Jack wanted kids. Rose lost her baby and couldn't conceive again. No idea why. I'll never condone what your uncle has done to your
aunt, but there's this little part of him that I still remember when he was a boy, a cute young man with big eyes and bigger dreams, talking about growing up and having a large family. Maybe …,” she began, her voice breaking, “maybe if that family had happened, he'd a' settled down and wouldn't be what he is today. Frustrated dreams do that to people.”

Granny Apple leaned on her grain shovel again, exhaling a deep breath, pain blown out with her next words. “And then there's you, child—the spitting image of your mother. The older you got, the more Jack saw her in your face. You rub salt in his wounds every time he looks at you.” She paused, looking Laura Ann up and down, and smiled. “Especially now. You're tall just like Hope, with the same pretty figure. Even the eyes, one green and one blue.” Her brief smile faded.

Granny Apple set her shovel aside and took a seat on a milking stool. “Need me one of these at home, something sturdy I can stand on.” She adjusted herself on the wood seat and then let out a long sigh. Laura Ann waited, practicing the patience she learned every day from this remarkable woman.

“Rose lost her baby in the summer after they finished high school. A miscarriage. Barely seventeen at the time. Now you're all the family she's got.” She looked at Laura Ann, tears flowing down deep creases.

“Don't trust your uncle,” Granny Apple said at last, wiping at wet eyes. She picked up an ear of corn, bending it slowly with both hands until it snapped in the middle, then stared at the fresh break in the reddish-tan cob, surrounded by rows of yellow.

“Never be caught alone with him, Laura Ann,” she added, her voice a raspy half-whisper.

She paused, then tossed the two halves to a drooling black mouth.

D
ECEMBER 27

Laura Ann pared away oak in gentle curls, advancing her tool along the lathe rest as spinning wood contacted her sharp blade in a mesmerizing flow of shavings. She imagined Daddy with her here in the shop, a blank of poplar wood in his lathe, peeling away curls of greenish-grey to reveal yet another stair baluster for the custom woodwork company he supplied back east. Today, he stood nearby in her memory, guiding the razor-sharp gouge along a short section of red oak, shaping a stool leg for Granny Apple.

The delicious tang of oak filled the air, its aroma sharp like a wood version of cheddar cheese. Three stool legs stood ready to assemble, waiting on their last brother to become Granny's combination of a seat and step-up. Shifting to a new tool, Laura Ann slid a skew chisel against the left end of the round cylinder, her gentle pressure relieving a tiny “V” in the wood, shaping the first evidence of a decorative bead. With deeper and deeper cuts, she pared away three more grooves, rounded over by the flat of the skew blade into gentle semicircles. Ten minutes after she started the job, she sanded her work, fast but accurate on the old lathe that once defined her daddy's life each evening.

Oak dust settled on her like beige pollen, raining down as
she bored holes, then glued legs and stretcher dowels to form the frame of a stool. She'd watched Daddy assemble these a hundred times, frames he shipped to the Mennonites in Tennessee where someone wove an oak-splint seat and sold the product as “country made.” She blew dust off the finished frame, adjusting her glue job to ensure it sat square on the top of Daddy's table saw. Laura Ann wrapped her arms about herself, imagining Daddy there behind her, hugging her while he admired her work. Years ago, as a middle schooler, she'd built her first stool. He never shipped it, but hung that oak stool from the rafters of the shop as a testament to his favorite helper. Layered in dust, it dangled from the ceiling above her.

The compressor sang its pressure song for a minute as she cleaned her shavings from the floor, sweeping up dust and curled oak into an ancient pan. At pressure, the motor shut off and the shop went silent. Stooping to scoop the sweepings, Laura Ann settled onto the smooth wood of the floor, worn shiny by years of Daddy's boots. She drew her knees into her chest, arms wrapped about them, and waited.

Christmas, now two days past, tugged at her as a bad memory. Auntie Rose had gone home that morning. Laura Ann's only companion, Lucky, nuzzled at her leg, his black fur tinged with dabs of sawdust. His purr sang tenor to the soprano whistle of cold wind against leaky windows. Her own heart measured the beat with a deep bass as she hung on, smelling Daddy in the oak. Eyes closed, she held on to him, dreaming of mornings long ago at his knee, and more recent nights at his side.

Daddy, her best friend.

“It's beautiful, child. How on earth did you do it?” Granny Apple asked, cradling the stool in her lap later that afternoon. Seated
close together in the kitchen of her friend's tiny mountain home, Laura Ann watched with pride as she caressed the smooth oak, rubbed soft with a layer of finish that deepened the color of the veins and grain of red oak. She ran a finger along the warp and woof of a blue woven seat, where faded blue-scarred denim rose and fell in a patchwork of inch-wide squares. “Is this made from blue jeans?” Granny Apple asked, thumping the tight weave like a ripe watermelon.

Laura Ann put an arm around her friend and squeezed tight. “It's got part of Daddy in it.” She traced the seat's tight weaving with a finger. “His overalls.” Her voice cracked.

Granny Apple drew a deep breath. “It's such a beautiful gift, Laura Ann. But this has too much of your dad in it for me to accept. Do you understand?”

Laura Ann faced her, eyes wet. “No. Please. I want you to have this.”

Granny Apple ran her hand across the top of the blue seat, her hand gentle on the fabric. “Angus McGehee lives in these threads, child.” She smiled. “I'm honored. But you don't use any more of his clothes to make stools, you hear? Next one you weave, get some old jeans down at the thrift store. They bale the ones they can't use and send them to Cumberland to process into insulation. Mary Ellen Harper will give you some. You tell her I sent you.”

Laura Ann set the stool on the floor. The aroma of fresh bread filled the room. Yellowed linoleum curled at the edges where it lay under white cabinet overhangs and blue gingham curtains shaded a sunlit window above the sink. With just enough room for a small table and two chairs, an old gas stove, and three feet of counter space, Granny's cooking area was adequate for one.

A blue and white crockery bowl sat on the far end of the counter, dusty with flour. Here her friend worked the dough as
she baked her way into the hearts of families from Middlebourne to Frew on the Middle Island Creek. Times past, before Laura Ann took over farm chores, she would walk down the long Jug Road to the crossing, skip across the concrete, and climb the path to Granny Apple's house, tucked away in a hairpin curve on State Route 18. Together they baked and wrapped dozens of loaves. The years drew them apart, Laura Ann's responsibilities tugging her away from frequent visits.

Laura Ann walked to the counter and ran a finger about the rim of the crockery, the same bowl she'd mixed with a decade ago. She learned to cook here, mentored in kitchen ways by a woman who had no children, yet knew dozens who called her “Granny.” She wiped her hand across a worn marble slab that sat on the counter, still slick with flour from the last loaf kneaded on its surface. Instinctively, Laura Ann opened the drawer below it, pulling out an apron. Like old times.

Granny Apple patted her on the shoulder and then moved to the oven. She handed off a pair of hot pads, then took two more herself and lifted the first of three blackened metal bins filled with browned loaves. Warm air filled the miniscule kitchen, drenched in the aroma of sourdough. She held one of the hot pans toward Laura Ann as though they had been cooking together all along. Six years had passed since she handed off the last loaf, but both women fell into old habits like no time had passed. In the silence born of close association, Laura Ann knocked the bread free and set each loaf on a cooling rack while Granny Apple tore off sheets of brown paper to wrap each one for gifts. A small sticker adorned the ends, holding the tucked wrapper in place for the next hungry recipient.

“Take these home.” Granny Apple handed two loaves to Laura Ann. “But come back soon. We need each other. Now more than ever.”

D
ECEMBER 28

“Got room?” a voice asked from behind Laura Ann. The quiet but familiar timbre stood out against a loud background of chatting lunch patrons at Auggie's Old Fashioned Pizza.

Friend.

She turned, drink in hand, to face Ian. Two slices of pizza pie, dripping with warm grease, flopped over the edge of a flimsy paper plate. A sausage and mushroom delicacy, hot from the oven.

“One of these is for you.” Ian peeled a second plate from under the pile of warm crust. Balancing two plates like an expert, he shoved a huge wedge of Auggie's Old Fashioned Thick Crust in front of her and sat down. “You look hungry.”

Laura Ann blushed. “Does it show?” She lifted her Coke and sipped from the straw, her eyes never leaving Ian — guardian of the outdoors, defender of the helpless, her game warden and best friend. His colors were the palate of the woods: green gabardine slacks and a starched beige shirt. A gold star topped his left pocket, the terminus of a crisp military crease. Ian paid attention to details, including clothing, poachers, regulations, and even her food needs. Since their kindergarten days, he'd always been close by, ever her protector.

Looking beyond him, she watched other patrons eye her new table partner, the only armed person in Auggie's. Just the sight of the pistol on Ian's hip sent diners pushing back in their chairs, as if each had some personal poaching story they were afraid he might read in their eyes. Ian confided in her once that most everyone in Middlebourne had been a poacher at some point in their lives, immersed in a country culture that condoned the taking of meat when people needed it. “I'm not here to take the dinner out of their pots,” he'd told her. “I've got enough work just busting the ones who slaughter for fun.”

Ian watched her eyes rove the audience. “See any bad guys?” he asked, chuckling. Laura Ann shook her head. More blood rushed to her cheeks.

“Don't worry about all the stares,” he said in a low voice. “They're looking at the gun.” He motioned with a nod of his head toward the weapon. “Happens all the time.”

Laura Ann smiled, prodding at her pizza with a fork. “Thanks, Ian. This was kind of you.”

“Least I can do. I remember a freshman girl who met me here a few years ago, sipping on a Coke and breathing in the pizza. Pretending she could eat it but too cheap to buy. A really pretty girl.” He cleared his throat. “She looked just like you.”

Pretty?
Her heart leapt.

Laura Ann gripped her drink with both hands, lowering it to the table. Ian, comfortable as an old shoe, had never used that word with her as long as she'd known him.

Pretty.
A term only Daddy used to describe her. Until now.

She stared at her pizza, unable to look up, fearful she'd reveal her joy.

A hand moved into her field of vision, pushing the pizza closer to her. “Hey,” he said, reaching over to tap her on the forearm. “I'm sorry. Was that too bold?” He chuckled and she looked up. His wedge of cheese and dough, folded down the middle,
was headed for a hungry mouth. “But it's the truth, McGehee,” he said with a wink. “You're beautiful.”

Ian smiled as he ate, his stare pulling a hot flush into her cheeks. For a long moment, watching him eat, she was years younger, a freshman girl drowning in a sea of teenage strangers. Tyler Consolidated High School threatened to overwhelm her, swimming in an ocean of students from all over the county. Fifteen years old and struggling with her self-image, she yearned for the privacy of pint-sized Boreman Elementary, only a mile from her home. Tyler Consolidated was too much to handle. She'd disappeared into Auggie's to find a safe place after the first day of her freshman year, to find those few friends she knew in tiny Middlebourne, a short three-mile walk from home. Like that day six years ago, she was back at Auggie's, drinking in the perfume of hot delicacies. And just like six years ago, here came Ian, walking into her life to bring her joy. But different this time — not just as a friend. Something more.

“Thank you,” she said. Ian devoured half his slice during her daydream. He raised an eyebrow, his trademark “you're welcome,” and kept munching.

“I mean, thanks for the compliment.” She looked down and cut into her slice with the plastic fork and knife he'd deposited on her plate, trying to work the big wedge into a manageable size. Her stomach joined her heart's cries for attention, growling to be fed. “And thanks for the pizza,” she added.

Ian knew her well. He'd never eaten a mushroom of any kind before that first day they spent together in Auggie's, his redemption of their first day of their freshman year. If the truth were told, he'd probably confess he still didn't like the topping. But he bought this selection to please her. Laura Ann's heart pounded louder as the first bites of warm pork sausage, mushrooms, and melted cheese met her tongue. A love gift.

“So,” Ian said at last, wiping the last of tomato-tinged
grease from thin lips. “What brings you into town today?” He motioned toward the big plate window, salt-encrusted pickups pulled to the curb amidst mounds of dirty snow. “Did you walk? I didn't see your truck.”

She tilted her head in the direction of a plastic sack on the floor. “I walked. Went to the thrift store,” she said with a full mouth, raising one hand over her lips when she spoke. He smiled when she muttered the words behind the shade of her palm. Ian said once that she was the only girl he knew who was embarrassed to talk with her mouth full. He liked that.

“Jeans?” he asked. “Man, those things would fit Hoggy Pitts.”

“Probably did, before he lost all that weight. I'm using these to make some new stool seats. Mrs. Harper at the thrift shop said she'd help me sell some in New Martinsville. Granny Apple's idea.”

“I could use one. The stool, I mean.” His wide smile faded and he leaned halfway over the table in her direction. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice low. “Want a ride home?”

“Now?” she mumbled.

“Finish your meal. We can talk when we drive.” He paused, looking around the room. “I've heard some things. Wanted to tell you what's up.”

This time Laura Ann raised an eyebrow, her cue that she understood. As children at Boreman Elementary, they had facial codes for sharing thoughts across Mrs. Hawkins's third grade class. “Uncle Jack?” she asked in a whisper.

He nodded, looking around the room. Small towns have big ears. “That coyote's sniffing around, and he's got your scent.”

She reached out and touched the top of Ian's hand. His hand tensed and his grey-blue eyes riveted on hers.

“Thank you,” she said, her food ignored for the first time since he set it down. “For watching out for me.”

Ian sat transfixed, his eyes on her fingers where they rested on the top of his left hand, poised above an empty ring finger.

His palm turned up in slow motion, the thin hair on the top of his hand sliding under her farm-calloused fingertips. She felt the roughness on the side of his palm as it rotated under her shaking fingers. She dared not withdraw.

He folded his hand about hers, lifting it barely off the table, then looked up.

“I have one fear, Laura Ann …” He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gathered his breath. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, matching the wet film that sprang from her palm.

She tried to speak, but words didn't come. He raised his other hand in a gentle “no” to silence her attempt, shaking his head.

“I need to say this. Please. It's on my mind all the time.”

She smiled, taking his grip and holding tight. She placed her other hand under his, took a deep breath, and prayed for his next words, her heart pounding in a brutal fury.

“I worry that I won't be there, Laura Ann. Be there when you really need me.”

His Adam's apple bobbed again and he held her hand in a strong grip. “I want to change that.”

Bright yellow-gold reflected off sheets of hard snow in the bottomland of Middle Island Creek. The glaze shimmered, a mirror reflecting the glare of winter sun. Ian drove slowly on Route 18, but it didn't matter. Laura Ann was in no rush, anxious to spend every moment listening to his voice. Any crisis seemed manageable when she spent time with him.

“He's cunning,” Ian said as he drove, his eyes focused on the
road. “Your uncle reminds me of a poker champ—but he plays people, not cards.”

Snow obscured soft shoulders and truck-busting drops into deep ditches on each side of the winding country lane. “I pulled the public records before I left my office this morning. Jack made a big campaign contribution to the state commissioner of agriculture — three years before his reelection. Then,
poof,
my boss the commissioner shows up taking pictures of your farm on Christmas Day.”

“That was the state commissioner?”

“The same. He dropped in at the office for a surprise visit yesterday. I didn't connect him with your uncle until I met him.” Ian waved at a passing pickup, then continued. “Jack's out to get you, Laura Ann. Or to get the farm. Whatever.”

“They're one and the same, Ian,” she said, her gaze focused somewhere far away. “But I'll get by.”

“I admire your pluck, McGehee,” Ian said as he slowed the truck, then looked over at her. Sun sparkled off the gold on his chest. “But you'll need more than optimism.”

“I know that, Ian. Question is, how long do I have?” Despite the warm cab, she crossed her arms, shivering against an unknown chill. “I just lost Daddy. And now this.”

Ian stared straight ahead as he passed The Jug Store, slowing to descend to the sixty-year-old low water crossing. “How long? No idea. Your uncle's moving a bunch of chess pieces we can't see. All you can do is wait for the attack.” He shrugged. “Maybe he thinks that you'll run out of money and give up.”

“My uncle doesn't know me very well.”

“No,” Ian replied with a smile and a quick glance. “You've got a point there.”

“So — let's be brutally honest. You and me.” Laura Ann waited, hesitating to say more. Her words had two meanings.

Ian slowed the truck and stopped in the middle of the
concrete crossing. He parked the vehicle and turned the heat up a notch, then turned to face her.

“Okay. Hit me, McGehee.”

“Don't be silly.”

“I'm serious,” Ian snapped. “Lay it on me.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. She could feel her cheeks flush red and turned, facing out the passenger window. She released the seat belt and pulled her feet up under her, then pivoted back to face him, rocking on folded legs.

“Okay. About the farm.”

He deflated a little, something important left unsaid, then folded his arms, and turned toward her.

“I have enough money to get by. For a while. But I don't know how long that will last.”

“Be specific.”

“The bank was tough on us, Ian. They'd only lend a thousand dollars an acre.”

“It's worth a bunch more than that.”

“I know,” Laura Ann replied, shaking her head. “But they were stern. Said times were tough and they had to limit their risk.”

“In other words, they offered to lend you less money.”

She nodded. “At a high interest rate, and not for very long.”

“What do you owe?”

Laura Ann took a deep breath, voicing a debt bigger than she ever thought she'd deal with. “We borrowed one hundred seventeen thousand.”

Ian whistled. She knew his pay, about thirteen dollars an hour for a new game warden just off a two years' associate's degree, and fresh in the job. Even for him, with a steady income bigger than she could make farming, those numbers were daunting.

“I have enough cash to hang on until spring.”

“Excuse me for prying, but how?” Ian asked.

“Remember the burley we cut in August? We usually harvest ten thousand pounds. Probably a little more this year.” She looked at her hands, memories of sticky tobacco sap and their August harvest still vivid, Daddy's last crop. “He was in lots of pain, but Daddy wanted to make sure I had the money.”

“Burley prices are way down, Laura Ann. Less than a buck thirty a pound. Most farmers aren't making any profit this year.”

“We've already paid our fertilizer and seed bills. I can keep all the cash.”

“Thirteen thousand then, if the market holds,” he said, drumming his left fingers on the wheel and staring out at the creek. He did math in his head faster than anyone she knew. “About six months on the mortgage, not counting any other needs.”

“I figured five months. I'll need a little for staples and the power bill.”

He stared out the window for several seconds. “You need twenty-eight thousand a year. Maybe thirty.” He exhaled in a low whistle. “I make twenty-six. Before taxes.”

“I can do it, Ian. But I need you to believe in me.” She reached across the bench seat and put a hand on his shoulder. He tensed.

“I hate to be so bold, Laura Ann, but how? How will you do what other farmers around here can't?”

“I have a nest egg,” she said, looking down, her voice subdued. For a moment, her gaze went to the top of her jeans, then she looked out the passenger window, removing her hand from his warmth.

No one spoke for a long time, Ian's heater blowing on high to keep them warm. Eventually, Ian broke the silence and put the truck in drive.

“If you say you can do it, McGehee, then I'm the last person
on earth to doubt you.” He drove off the low water crossing, up the hill, and into the forest, winding down Jug Road toward her farm. The naked grey of oaks and poplars passed in cold review as they followed the road along a ridgeback. The dirt road ran the length of lands once in the McGehee family, but sold as family died off, and converted piece by piece into a state hunting preserve. Ironically, once the home to McGehees, now Ian's work domain.