The Steep and Thorny Way(3)

I squeezed the trigger with an explosion of gunpowder and fired a bullet straight past Joe’s ear—not close enough to hit him, but enough to make his face go as white as those hooded robes he talked about. I staggered backward from the kick, and my ears rang with a horrendous screeching that sounded like a crowd of keening mourners wailing inside my head.

Beyond the cloud of dissipating smoke, Joe thrashed his arms about in the water and struggled to stay upright, but I didn’t wait to see if he’d recover from the shock. Instead, I tucked that gun back into my holster and hightailed it out of the woods.





CHAPTER 2





LESS THAN KIND


“HANALEE?” CALLED MAMA FROM our backyard, beyond the Douglas firs that shot up to the clear July sky on the edge of our property.

I stopped in my tracks. My black-and-white Keds sloshed and squeaked with pond water.

“Hanalee?”

I shoved the derringer—still tucked inside the holster, still holding one remaining bullet—into the depths of a hollow log ten feet from the opening in the woods. I wrapped the leather in an oilcloth that I kept hidden in that spot specifically for times when I couldn’t sneak the pistol back into the house, and I scattered leaves over the lump. Dirt clogged my fingernails; mold from the leaves tickled my nose. I sneezed so hard, my ribs hurt.

“Hanalee?” called Mama again, her voice high and panicky.

“I’m coming,” I called back, and I kicked off my wet shoes and moseyed out of the woods with my best attempt at a casual strut. Mama hated guns. She didn’t know that my former friend Laurence—once my staunchest protector—had given me a pistol when I was just fourteen.

My mother relaxed her shoulders when she saw me coming her way, but her face looked paler than usual.

“I heard a gunshot,” she said.

I shrugged. “It was probably just Laurence, shooting squirrels again.”

“Where were you? I thought you said you were going to pick raspberries for our Sunday dinner.”

“I remembered something I forgot to tell Fleur at church this morning.” I picked up the wicker basket I was supposed to be using for berrying. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

She put her hands on her hips and scowled at the woods. Loose strands of honey-blond hair fluttered around her eyes, which she narrowed into slits. “I don’t want you going over there if Laurence is shooting his father’s guns again,” she said. “I don’t know why his mother allows him to do that.”

“It’s his way of grieving for his father.”

“That war killed Mr. Paulissen five years ago.”

“Sometimes it takes a while to recover from a father’s death, Mama.”

She swallowed and averted her gaze, her lips squeezed together. People told me that she and I had the same mouth, especially when we looked as vexed as she did at that moment. “A white girl’s lips,” the older ladies in church would say when sizing me up like a county-fair squash, debating the degree of my whiteness. I’d also inherited my mother’s hazel eyes and long, slender neck, but my nose, my brown curls, and the shape of my eyes “derived from that Negro father,” the ladies often added in their bored-old-biddy evaluations. My skin—a medium shade of golden brown—was a few shades lighter than my father’s had been, but it caused all my troubles.

“Did you hear that the prison let Joe Adder out early?” I asked Mama.

“Yes.” She fussed with a lock of hair that had fallen out of its pin and coiled down the nape of her neck. “I overheard all the whispered rumors at church.”

“His parents won’t let him live with them anymore.”

“I heard that, too. I understand they’re ashamed of what he did, but I hope to God they can learn to forgive him.”

“Forgive him?”

“Yes.” Her eyes met mine. “That accident that killed your father was just a stupid mistake made by an intoxicated sixteen-year-old boy. He served seventeen months in the state penitentiary. That’s a lot for a person that young.”

“But—”

“You’ve got to learn to forgive Joe, too, Hanalee. Otherwise, that hatred will eat you up.”

I dug my teeth into my lower lip. “Does Uncle Clyde know he’s out?”

“I don’t know.” She tightened her apron strings behind her back. “He’s been at the Everses’ house since church, checking on the children’s measles. Mrs. Evers planned to serve him a little lunch to thank him.”

“Hmm.” I tapped the basket against the side of my right leg where the holster had so recently hung. Joe’s tale snaked around inside my brain, unsettling regions of my mind already perturbed, churning up a hundred different questions. I pressed a hand to my stomach to curb a queasy feeling.

“What’s the matter?” Mama cocked her head. “Are you worried about seeing Joe?”

“No.” I hooked the handle of the basket in the crook of my arm. “He’s the one who should be terrified of seeing me.”

Mama tensed. “Go pick those raspberries for me.” She nodded toward the bushes. “Go on. I need to prepare dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I sauntered away.

“And watch that harsh tone of yours,” she added. “It’s not like you.”