The Singing River (9 page)

The thought of River and Roman suddenly made me miss my mother.

Chapter 12

River

I knew when we walked back into the cabin there was going to be a problem. Roman was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed, his chin pointed at the floor. Trouble was written all over him, his hands fisted and trembling.

“I need to go home,” Roman insisted.

I used my black T-shirt to wipe the sweat off my brow before throwing it aside.

“I’m not taking you, Roman.”

He held his hand out. “Then give me the keys to the truck. I’ll take myself.”

Haven had moved up next to me, Uncle Marley just behind us. Neither one of them spoke, intruders now on a private brother to brother moment.

I shook my head.

Roman exploded. “I
have
to go home!”

Roman’s hair was wild, his eyes wide. I started to step toward him, but Haven placed a hand on my shoulder. She had small hands, chipped fingernail polish covering nails bitten to the quick.

“It hurts less if you lay down.” Her voice was low and soothing, her eyes on Roman’s face.

Roman didn’t listen. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” His blazing eyes took in her face. “I just need to go home.”

My gaze moved between them. “Roman, maybe she’s right.”

Uncle Marley cleared his throat. “Does he need to see a doctor?” he asked.

Roman scowled. “Where are the keys?”

I didn’t answer him, but Marley looked at the door. It was the only provocation Roman needed. He made a run for it.

“Damn it!” I grumbled, leaping to tackle him.

We landed against the hardwood, my back slamming against the wall, my arm around his chest. He fought me, but I didn’t release him.

Haven rushed past us, her feet pounding the stairs, the sound of the truck door opening as she jerked the keys from the ignition.

“You’re not going anywhere, Roman,” I said.

Haven edged back into the room, her hand clenching the keys, her back against the opposite wall. I could see fear in her eyes, but there was trust there, too; trust that I’d keep my brother pinned and under control. He fought me, and my muscles strained against the hold.

“Talk to me,” I begged him. “Talk to me damn it!”

Roman’s shoulders shook, but I knew he wasn’t crying. Braydens didn’t cry.

“I can’t do this,” he said. “I can’t handle it.”

My arms hurt, yet I still pinned him against me. “Can’t handle what? The drugs? What
are
you taking?”

Roman quit moving, but I didn’t relax my hold. “I can’t deal with it
without
them. I just can’t.”

It suddenly dawned on me what Roman meant, and my gaze slid to Uncle Marley’s. His glasses were on the tip of his nose, his shirt on but damp with sweat, his eyes big behind the frames of his crooked spectacles. His face held the same knowing expression mine did.

“Taking something to forget it is only temporary.” I whispered the words, my eyes on the top of Roman’s head.

He fought me again, and I almost lost my grip as he slammed his head backward. I felt the pain as my skin split open, and blood welled up on the inside of my bottom lip. My arms tightened, the pressure so hard against Roman’s chest, he tried to gasp and couldn’t.

“Damn it, Roman! You’re not the only one dealing with it. Quit being selfish!”

Roman tried slamming his head back again, but I was prepared for it this time, and he missed.

“Selfish! Me? Are you kidding me! I’m not the one who left!” he yelled.

I looked away, my eyes going to the door.

“I went to school,” I murmured.

Roman laughed, the sound harsh and desperate. “No, you left. You could have put school off a semester, maybe come home for Christmas ...
something
! But you didn’t!”

My back was beginning to burn where it lay against the wall, my bare skin raw where it hit the rough wood. I focused on the pain.

“He wouldn’t have liked seeing either one of you the way you are now,” Uncle Marley intervened, his calm voice breaking through the tension.

My brother and I froze. Our uncle wasn’t a prolific man. He was mostly eccentric, always chasing some scheme or story. As the second son in a wealthy family, he’d never had much need to fulfill any obligations. And yet, for the first time, Marley’s eyes were clear, sad, and knowing.

The older man moved toward us, hesitant but more confident than I’d ever seen him.

He stopped in front of Roman. “We learn a lot from life, but sometimes we forget there is just as much to learn from death.”

Roman stiffened. “You’re a crazy old man.”

Marley smiled sadly. “I’ve never been crazy, just full of dreams.”

“You didn’t see him,” Roman whispered. “You didn’t see the way he looked in the end.”

My eyes closed; images I needed to forget but couldn’t replacing the back of my eyelids. I shuddered.

“I need to go home,” Roman repeated.

I was exhausted, the heat and strain from holding Roman sapping me of strength.

“You can’t,” I told him. “It doesn’t matter what you take, the images will always come back.
I
know.”

Roman’s shoulders shook, his fists planted on the floor.

“Let me go,” he whispered.

“And if I do?” I asked.

He looked up at me, pleading. “Please.”

My arms loosened. “Running is pointless, Roman. You’re right. I left, but it didn’t matter how far away I went. The images and the pain went with me. Running is pointless.”

I let go of him.

Roman stood, his wild eyes finding Haven against the wall, her fingers clutching the keys. She shook her head as if to say, ‘I’m not giving them to you.’

She’d long since pulled the ponytail out of her hair, the wavy strands falling to the middle of her back, damp tendrils clinging to her cheeks and forehead, her green eyes wide.

“Pain killers,” Roman finally said, his eyes on hers. “I take pain pills.”

Her eyes widened further. I felt jealously then, not because Roman had finally admitted what he was taking, but because he’d admitted it to a girl neither one of us really knew, his eyes watching her as if no one else was in the room.

She put her hand behind her back, the truck keys with it.

Uncle Marley straightened. “Well, then,” his gaze encompassed our group, “maybe we should focus on eating something and settling in for the night. We need to get an early start on the river.”

No one moved. The sun outside was lower, the shadows longer, the sound of insects and frogs loud in the silence. Marley switched a lamp on near the sofa, the faint light illuminating the living area.

“I need to go home,” Roman said again.

He sounded less convinced now, his fingers running restlessly through his hair. He looked pale, his skin clammy.

Haven edged along the wall. “My mother would have said something incredibly witty right now.”

My eyes followed her. “And you don’t plan to?” I asked.

She glanced between Roman and me. “I’ve got nothing,” she admitted.

Roman snorted, his trembling hand going to his stomach, his eyes closing.

Haven moved behind the kitchen counter, laying the truck keys on the marble before pulling down the bread we’d unpacked earlier. She tugged the fridge door open.

“Don’t boys hit each other or punch a bag or something when they’re stressed?” she asked.

Roman’s fingers were digging into his T-shirt, his brows creased, his teeth clenched. “River does.”

I could definitely use a few rounds in a ring, but I wasn’t going to admit it. Every muscle in my body was tense, my eyes on Roman as I moved to the kitchen island. Haven was placing bread on paper plates.

“No mayonnaise for me.” Even as simple as my words were, I couldn’t quite hide the hurt in my tone, the words short and clipped.

Her gaze slid to my face. “No mayonnaise,” she repeated.

Our eyes locked. ‘It’s not you,’ she mouthed.

She glanced at Roman. He’d moved to the sofa next to Marley, his body sinking to the cushions, his fist clenching the fabric of his shirt as he leaned over his knees.

Haven’s hand dropped behind the counter, awkwardly finding mine, her fingers surprisingly soft against my skin. The contact surprised me, but I didn’t pull away.

“He looks up to you,” she whispered. “You can tell it just by looking at him. Once I realized I was addicted to diet pills, the last person I wanted to admit it to was the person I loved the most.”

She released my hand, busying herself with the sandwiches, her cheeks flushed from the sun. My palm felt weirdly empty, and I fisted it, her words ringing through my head.
“The last person I wanted to admit it to was the person I loved the most.”

I looked at my brother. He’d admitted his addiction out loud, his eyes on Haven.
“The last person I wanted to admit it to was the person I loved the most.”

Haven leaned toward me. “He’s in pain.”

I heard the encouragement behind her words, even if she didn’t say what she intended to. The Braydens weren’t an affectionate family. We had always depended on firm handshakes or a proud clap on the shoulder. Even Marissa hugged only after long absences and special occasions. There was no doubt she loved us, but she had been raised the same way we had.

My eyes found my Uncle’s. Marley had been watching Roman, his expression troubled and sad before his gaze found mine. Now, he pushed his glasses up, the wrinkles around his mouth prominent, his hand hovering just above his nephew’s shoulder. In the end, he didn’t touch him.

I clenched and unclenched my jaw. Then I grabbed the truck keys, the jingling sound loud as I moved across the room and grabbed my brother by the shoulder.

“C’mon, we’re going for a ride.”

I missed the way Haven’s lips turned up at the corners as the door slammed behind us.

Chapter 13

Haven

“Seems wrong you got dragged into this family mess,” Marley said.

Wrapping River and Roman’s sandwiches in tin foil, I placed them carefully in the fridge before holding out another sandwich toward Marley.

The older man looked at me, his gaze absent.

“Every family has messes,” I replied. “Tell me what you’re looking for here at the river.”

This brought a smile to the old man’s face, and he sat, his elbows resting on his knees as he ate.

“I mainly want a recording of the death chant. Realistically, there’s probably little truth to the legend. While the story says an entire Indian tribe perished in the river, the Pascagoula Indians have been traced long after the incident into Texas and so forth.”

I took a bite of my ham and cheese sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, my eyes on Marley as I swallowed.

“Nonetheless, legends always start somewhere,” I finally murmured. “There is often a grain of truth in them. Otherwise, why would they have been told?”

Marley pushed his glasses up, polishing off the rest of his food so quickly I was sure he didn’t taste it.

“There’s another tale about the river,” I continued. “Supposedly a beautiful mermaid lived beneath the muddy waters. The Pascagoula worshipped her, but then black robed Christians moved into the area, converting the Indians to their faith and leaving the mermaid forgotten. Mourning the loss of her beloved people, the mermaid sang a bewitching song that enticed the tribe to walk into the river. Afterwards, she regretted what she did, and every year, she still sings her mournful song.”

Marley stood, brushing his hands down his grey trousers.

“Your mother was right to suggest you to me,” he said. His gaze moved to the door. “In more ways than one.”

I dropped my half eaten sandwich to my plate. “What do you mean?” I asked.

Marley smiled, his lips twisting wryly. “Ignore me. I’m an eccentric man. More than a little odd. It’s why I haven’t been forced into business.”

I grinned back at him. “Must be a nice life.”

He shook his head. “Not everything that glitters is gold.” He brushed past the kitchen counter, pausing only long enough to pat my shoulder before moving to one of the bedrooms. “Shower for this old man, and then I am finding my bed.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Brayden.”

He chuckled. “Mercy, child. Call me Marley. My brother was Mr. Brayden.”

The bedroom door closed behind him. I took a final bite of my sandwich before throwing the rest away. Moving to the lamp by the couch, I picked up my Walmart bag and stepped toward the only bedroom I hadn’t seen used. More than likely, it was River’s, but I had no intention of sleeping in it.

Beyond the door lay a large, slate-colored room. A navy comforter covered a king sized mattress on an antique iron bed while a mahogany armoire stood against the opposite wall, its stubby legs sinking into carpet an inch thick. I left my flip flops outside the door and sunk my toes into the fibers. Never before had I felt anything like it.

A simple oil painting of the river hung above the bed, an electric lamp resembling an oil lantern resting on the surface of a wooden end table to the side of the mattress. I walked to it and flicked it on, watching the way it threw a glow across the painting and the wall.

“Decadent is what it is,” I murmured.

Slinging the plastic bag over my shoulder, I moved through another door into a slate-tiled bathroom with navy blue fixtures. There was a large claw foot tub with a wraparound curtain and showerhead. The sight was more than welcome, it was heavenly, and I shut the door, locking it before dropping the bag and stripping down to nothing. Kicking my sweaty clothes to the side of the room, I twisted the knobs on the tub. Steam rose as water sluiced into the porcelain.

My mother’s face entered my mind, her poofy blonde hair and half-amused expression grinning at me as a cigarette dangled from her fingers.

“Sinful,” Mom would joke if she was here.

Smiling at the thought, I sank into the water, scrubbing my hair before running soap through my fingers and toes.

I had turned the water off and was standing to dry myself when I heard the truck. Grabbing a terry cloth towel hanging just to the side of the tub, I wrapped it around myself before moving to a small, screened window next to the sink. Beyond the panes lay an open field spotted with trees, the side of it sloping down into the river. The land looked as if it had once been cleared, tractors taken to the area. There was the remnant of an old volleyball net, the setting sun glinting off the rusted metal that held it up. Knee high grass grew wild and untamed. The headlights of a pick-up truck bounced through it, throwing up dust.

My lips curved, old memories of my dad’s rusty red Ford replacing the scene. The Ford had been old and riddled with holes, empty, crumpled packs of Winston cigarettes strewn on the floorboard. The rearview mirror hung crooked despite duct tape wrapped around it.

“Hold on!” my father used to say.

I’d grip the cracked leather, listening to the empty beer cans sliding around in the back. A half empty bottle of Sprite sloshed next to the crumpled cigarette packs as Dad roared through mud and dirt. I’d laugh, my head thrown back, the wind in my hair from the open windows.

The Dodge below me suddenly revved, bringing me out of my reverie, and I backed into the shadows as it circled just below the window. Quickly pulling on a pair of black cotton shorts and an oversized Mississippi State T-shirt, I ran a brush through my hair, pulling it on top of my head before exiting the bathroom.

Stopping only long enough to grab an extra blanket I found in the bottom of the armoire, I moved to the sofa in the livingroom. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach as I sat. Homesickness. Had Mom eaten like she was supposed to? Was she nervous about her new job? Had Mr. Nelson attempted to work more than he should in his garden? Had Beth showed up for her shift at the dairy bar? The worry, the responsibility ate at me, but I brushed it aside, letting my body sink into the soft couch cushions, turning so that my back faced the room, my hand under my cheek.

I fell asleep to the sound of a pick-up truck tearing up an overgrown field behind the cabin.