The Steep and Thorny Way(43)
I shrank back. “Why’d you call it that?”
“That was the restaurant’s original name, before the state went dry and the Franklins stopped selling liquor there.” Mama climbed back up on the stool and shoved the hatbox into place. Dust filtered down from the top of the wardrobe, tickling my nose.
I sneezed twice in a row and had to take a breath. “They’re hosting a pancake breakfast”—I rubbed the tip of my nose—“for a group called the Junior Order of Klansmen.”
“I told you”—she climbed off the stool—“you don’t need to worry about the Klan around here. If I sensed danger, I’d be the first to warn you.”
“Are you positive Uncle Clyde’s not a part of them?”
“I swear, he’s not.” She clasped my hands and pulled me toward her. “Stop doubting him, Hanalee. He loves you, and I love you.”
I curled my lips inside my mouth and squished them hard together, fighting down the urge for tears.
“Go get washed up.” She squeezed my fingers. “Change into fresh clothes. I’ll take you to that picnic, if only to try to bring some regularity back into our lives.”
“All right.” I sniffed.
“And wear something bright. Nothing dark and mournful.” She brushed a curl out of my eyes. “It is time to move onward, as the reverend and Uncle Clyde said.” She kissed my cheek, and her breath caught near my ear. “I know it’s hard, Hanalee. I know you miss your father more than anything. I understand why you might have thought you saw his ghost. But we have to let him go.”
“All right,” I said again.
She lowered her hand from my head, and I left the room, the smell of the pines and the earth—and Joe and escape—still lingering in my hair.
METHODIST YOUTH PICNIC, WASHINGTON COUNTY, OREGON, CIRCA 1920s
CHAPTER 15
WHO IS’T THAT CAN INFORM ME?
DRESSED IN A YELLOW SKIRT AND WHITE blouse that spoke of sunshine and innocence, I rode behind my mother and Uncle Clyde in the back of my stepfather’s four-door Buick sedan. My straw hat sat beside me on the plush seat, and my emerald ring sparkled in the rays of light shining through the open windows. I looked nothing at all like a girl who had slept on a blanket in the forest with a young man no one wanted around.
Mama kept turning in her seat and checking on me, as though she feared she’d find me gone again.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said over and over, and I steeled myself against potholes in the road and the sight of Uncle Clyde’s head bobbing about on his neck in front of me.
On the way into town, we passed Elston’s two restaurants—the Dry Dock and Ginger’s—which were separated by an oak tree with a sturdy trunk and crooked branches covered in leaves. The establishments flashed by as blurs of wood-paneled walls and redbrick chimneys, and a stab of dread, as quick as lightning, tore through my stomach.
We reached the strip of brick buildings that made up downtown, the tallest structure being the Lincoln Hotel at the far end, which stood three stories high and boasted a marble statue of “Honest Abe” out front, amid the rhododendrons. The owners claimed to be related to our sixteenth president, but I always wondered if they possessed any verifiable proof of that story. Tall tales and exaggerations seemed to be a staple in Elston.
Just past the heart of the town, we heard the horns of the local brass band blaring “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” I braced myself for the upcoming barrage of socializing that made my head swim on even normal Julys. Every year Elston held the Independence Day picnic on the lawn in front of our forty-year-old church—the type of church one would find on a Christmas card, complete with a steeple and paint as white as heaven itself, minus a few scuffs from stray baseballs and leaky droppings from the birds that nested in the eaves. Even the townsfolk who attended the church over in Bentley, plus the folks who dared to declare themselves Catholics or atheists, migrated to our Fourth of July festivities. If any actual Jewish folks resided in Elston or Bentley, aside from the aforementioned deputy, they’d probably come puttering over in their automobiles, too.
Uncle Clyde pulled the Buick next to a line of parked cars that gleamed in the sunlight in a patch of dirt. From my backseat window I spied the fair citizens of Elston, clad in red, white, and blue, crowded together on blankets in the lush green grass, hopping about in potato-sack races, and stuffing their mouths full of food. The brass band—all men in white linen suits—trumpeted away on the steps of the church, their cheeks puffed wide, their faces flushed and shiny. They looked as though they might already smell a bit sour.
Uncle Clyde popped his car door open and hurried around to Mama’s side to help her with her door. Mama handed my stepfather a basketful of roasted ham, fresh fruit, and sugar cookies and stepped out of the vehicle.
“Thank you, Clyde.” She brushed her left hand across the sleeve of his coat, and they leaned in close to each other, as if about to kiss, but Uncle Clyde stopped and turned his sights to me.
“Aren’t you getting out?” he asked. He stepped toward me and opened my door.
I folded the rim of my hat with a satisfying crunch of the straw, and I remembered how the sheriff had asked Uncle Clyde and Mama to take me to the picnic to serve as bait for Joe.