The Steep and Thorny Way(4)
I sighed and wandered to the rows of ripe red berries on the eastern side of the twenty acres of farmland Mama had inherited from her father. Over my shoulder, I saw Mama heading to the back door of our yellow farmhouse with her hands on her hips—her tired walk, her Don’t bother me anymore, Hanalee walk. My ears still rang from shooting the bullet next to Joe Adder’s skull, and I wondered if I’d been talking louder than usual over the commotion in my head. I wondered if Mama suspected that the gunshot had something to do with me.
IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, MY MOTHER AND STEPFATHER took their seats at opposite ends of our dining room table, across Uncle Clyde’s late mother’s tablecloth, which was embroidered in cobalt-blue tulips. I sat down between the two of them without a word or a smile. The spices in my stepfather’s shaving soap clogged up my sinuses so badly, I had to squeeze the bridge of my nose to keep my head from erupting. Joe’s tale of murder was also boring a hole through my brain. The sickening combination made the food look and smell unpalatable.
Uncle Clyde, a six-foot-tall white man with trim brown hair and Dutch-blue eyes, spread his napkin across his lap and licked his pale pink lips. He wasn’t an actual blood uncle, just an old family friend I’d called “uncle” all my life.
“The ham smells delicious, Greta,” he said.
“Thank you, darling.” Mama smiled and waited for him to take his first bite before lifting a forkful of potatoes to her mouth.
I just sat there without touching my silverware, facing the dining room window and the stretch of woods that hid Joe deep within. The curtains billowed on a hot July breeze that dried out the skin on the backs of my fingers and elbows. The dreamlike dance of the lace—the shimmying of fabric possessed by an unseen force—turned my thoughts toward all those disquieting rumors of my father’s spirit wandering the main highway late at night.
“Did you hear the news, Uncle Clyde?” I asked, still massaging the bridge of my nose.
My stepfather regarded me through the wide lenses of his spectacles, those large blue eyes of his betraying nothing but curiosity. “What news might that be?”
My mother shook her head. “No, Hanalee. Let’s not discuss that subject at the dinner table.”
“The state pen let Joe Adder out early on good behavior,” I said.
Uncle Clyde switched his attention to his plate and used his fork to poke at a fatty piece of ham—a morsel shaped like the state of California, with brown sugar encrusted on the ends.
I sat up straight and dropped my hands to my lap. “Did you hear what I—?”
“I heard the rumors this morning,” he said in his calm, physician’s voice that used to assure me he could mend anybody’s woes and take care of everyone’s troubles, including mine.
“What do you think of his release?” I asked.
“Hanalee,” said Mama. “What does it matter? Joe’s out, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“I worry a little bit about—” Uncle Clyde stopped himself from speaking by slipping the fatty sliver into his mouth. He chewed like a gentleman—lips closed, jaw moving up and down with delicate little movements, not a tooth or a crumb exposed—and his clean-shaven tidiness and upper-middle-class politeness irked me no end that afternoon. I wanted to shake him by the lapels of his gray coat and scream at him to tell me whether Joe had lied to me.
“What do you worry about?” I asked, my stomach tightening.
He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I don’t mean to offend either of you by saying this, but I have to wonder how Joe is doing—physically. I’d like to be able to examine him. Prison isn’t known for its hygiene or freedom from diseases.” He spread the ivory cloth back across his lap. “Do you know where he’s staying, Hanalee?”
My heart stopped. “Why would I know that?”
“I just wondered, since you brought him up.”
Mama took a sip of water without a sound.
“He might be armed,” I said, just to see how Uncle Clyde would react.
He gave a start, and I’d swear, his pupils swelled.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“He’s a jailbird. A wayward youth prone to drinking and recklessness in this noble age of Prohibition.” I kept an eye on his every blink and facial twitch. “It just seems like he might be armed. And angry.”
Uncle Clyde shifted in his seat and made something pop in his back. “Well . . . let’s”—he downed a gulp of water, then dabbed at his face again—“let’s end the subject of Joe Adder for the rest of the meal, if you don’t mind. I’d like to enjoy this delicious ham.”
I did mind, but I kept my mouth shut.
AROUND SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT SAME EVENING, WITH Mama and Uncle Clyde’s somewhat hesitant permission, I packed the old brown canvas valise Mama had purchased when she worked as a telephone operator in downtown Portland and Daddy served food at the swanky Portland Hotel. My father had lived near the hotel with other Negroes, and my mother resided in a Salmon Street boardinghouse for young, unmarried white women. They met while crossing paths to their respective places of employment, even though everyone around them told them that the paths of a black man and a white woman should never, ever cross.
With the valise swinging by my side and my feet squelching inside my damp Keds, which I’d fetched from the edge of the woods after dinner, I walked up the highway to Fleur’s house. I puckered my lips and whistled “Toot, Toot, Tootsie, Goo’Bye” in a desperate attempt to forget Uncle Clyde’s squirmy dinnertime behavior. The sun wouldn’t set until close to ten o’clock, but I opted not to travel by forest trail.