The Steep and Thorny Way(57)

I lowered my head. “He risked his life, just to make sure we celebrated a nice Christmas?”

“That’s how your father was. I never met a man with a bigger heart. That’s why I loved him so dearly.”

“Who called him?” I asked.

“He wouldn’t say.” Mama’s shoulders fell. “He wouldn’t tell me where he was going. He simply said he’d earn us a nice bit of money and be home by the time we returned from church.”

“Have you ever wondered”—I scooted closer to her across the mattress—“if something happened to him during that delivery that would have made him stumble into the road in front of Joe’s car?”

“No, not at all.” She pulled her wrist out of my fingers. “Fate simply didn’t work in the favor of Joe and your father that night. No matter what Joe might have told you, Daddy’s death was nothing more than a matter of terrible timing and the mistakes people make when it comes to liquor.”

“Then why does Uncle Clyde feel guilty about Joe’s imprisonment?”

Mama’s face hardened. “Your stepfather does not feel guilty, Hanalee. Stop saying such things.”

“Uncle Clyde told me he wants to send Joe to work with a colleague up in Seattle who would be kind to Joe—to appease his own guilt over what happened that night. He called Joe a ‘sacrifice.’ A sacrifice he made to protect me.”

My mother leaned away from me, and her mouth twisted into that difficult-to-watch grimace people make before they’re about to either scream or cry—but she did neither. She simply stared at me with that about-to-explode expression, her lips trembling, her eyes crinkled and bloodshot. “When did he tell you that?”

“Yesterday, when he spoke with me in private on the front porch.” I glanced toward my open doorway. “Where is Uncle Clyde?”

“He went to work early. Joe’s potential drowning troubled him, so he didn’t sleep much last night, and he wanted to—”

“You see what I mean?” I leaned forward. “Joe makes him feel guilty.”

Mama stood up from my bed and pressed a hand to her stomach. “No. I will not let you lead me down this road of suspicion again.”

“Do you think Daddy went to the Dry Dock on Christmas Eve?”

She blinked as if startled. “The Dock?”

I nodded. “Do you think the owners were the ones who made the request for moonshine?”

“I already told you, the Franklins haven’t sold alcohol since Oregon first banned the sale of liquor, back when you were just a child.”

“Fleur says they have a sign on the door that reads ‘We reserve the right to serve whom we please.’ Do you know anything about that?”

“I’m aware of that sign.” She brushed hair out of her eyes. “That’s why I avoid the restaurant.”

“In case they order me to leave?”

She rubbed her right arm, the same way Mildred scratched at her elbow when avoiding prickly subjects. “Hanalee, it’s true, some people around here have a problem with your skin color. I’m not going to deny that fact. It wouldn’t be fair to you if I pretended otherwise.”

“Like the ladies from church who urge you to bleach my skin.”

“Those older ladies are harmless and don’t know any better. Just ignore them. For the most part”—she stopped rubbing—“people embrace you. It’s only an obnoxious few spreading words of hate and bigotry.”

I crossed my legs in front of me and pulled at the edges of my quilt again. “Doesn’t it seem awfully strange, though, that a mysterious someone telephoned Daddy, and just a short while later he stumbled in front of Joe’s car in the dark . . . and then suddenly died from a busted leg and a sore arm? After the crate had been delivered?”

Mama clamped her arms around herself and gave a shudder. “I don’t even want to imagine people in this town deliberately hurting your father.”

“I don’t, either, but I would like to go to that restaurant and see what the Franklins have to say.”

“No, absolutely not. You are not going to the Dry Dock when they have that sign hanging on their door.”

“Do you know them?”

“The Franklins are a couple from the church in Bentley. I’ve never actually met them.”

I raked my hands through my short hair, digging at my scalp, knowing what difficult question would need to be asked next. “Do you believe in ghosts, Mama?”

She frowned and stiffened. “Don’t you dare mention that again.”

“Not only have I seen Daddy during the past few nights, but I’ve spoken to him.”

She stepped back.

“He looked me in the eye,” I said, “and he told me—”

“You did not see your father.”

“He said, ‘I put full blame on the Dock’—meaning the Dry Dock. And then he told me, ‘If I’d just stayed away from that place that night, if I’d been a stronger man, I’d still be alive today.’”

“No,” said Mama. “Your father did not speak to you.”

“Yes, he did, Mama.” I rose to my feet. “I’m going to that restaurant this morning. I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly, but I’ve got to head there, or I won’t rest.”