The Steep and Thorny Way(69)

“No!”

“You need medical help, Joe.”

“I’ll rest here for a while.” He scooted back down to the ground and propped himself up on his right elbow. “Gather my strength. Eat the last traces of food in that basket. And then I’ll sneak out after dark.”

“And go where?”

“I’ll jump a train.”

“Uncle Clyde offered to help you find a job. Let us help you.”

He shook his head. “If he knows I’m hiding out in here—”

“I think we can trust him.”

“Go back to the house—please. Keep yourself safe. I’ll get myself feeling better, and then I’ll leave.”

I raised the hem of my skirt and opened the flap of the holster. “Let me at least leave you my pistol.”

“No, don’t do that.”

I paused with my hand on the derringer. “Why not?”

Joe wouldn’t look me in the eye. “If it’s here . . . I might be tempted to use it, especially if the pain gets bad. Or if I start thinking too much about Laurie.”

“You’d . . . you’d really do that to yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

The wooden grip beneath my fingers no longer brought a single shred of comfort.

“I’m not leaving you alone if you’re feeling suicidal,” I said.

“It’s just the pain talking.” He stretched out on his back with the shirt cupped around the bottom half of his face.

“Joe . . .”

“What?”

I almost asked him if he truly did love Laurence—if they’d been together for a while—but I bit down on my lip and said instead, “I’m going to check on you tonight, after dark. If you need anything before then—food, medical supplies, company—”

“Your parents would telephone my parents if they knew I was out here. And I can’t go home.” His eyes drooped closed, and his dark lashes disappeared against the swollen mounds of his skin. “I’ll be fine, Hanalee. Just go. Keep yourself safe.” He drew a long breath. “That’s what your father wanted most of all.”

I nodded, my lips pressed tightly together. “All right, then. You know where to find me.”

I gave his wrist a squeeze, and my heart crumbled again into a grainy pile of sand, just as when I’d left Fleur behind.


ON MY JOURNEY BACK HOME I STAYED LOW TO THE ground, sticking to concealed pathways through berry bushes and trees. My pistol continued to ride against my leg, its two sturdy bullets packed inside the barrels, and it remained with me when I snuck through the front door and tiptoed up to my bedroom.

I unbuckled the holster and crammed it down inside the box of toys.

After a few steadying breaths, a few prayers, a few swears, I reopened my door and padded back downstairs.

The door that led to the basement from the kitchen stood ajar, and the smells of must and mothballs blasted through the opening. I grabbed hold of the brass knob and called down to my mother, “Are you doing all right down there?”

A bare bulb shone across the trunks and old furniture that had found themselves banished belowground. Some of the items had lived down there ever since my grandparents first built the house in the 1870s. Mama’s tan shoes with rubber heels clomped into view from behind a small table, but I couldn’t see any part of her above her ankles.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just keep the door locked, and stay away from the windows. Are you going through your belongings?”

“I got distracted, but I’m just about to start.”

“Keep your curtains drawn while you do so. Uncle Clyde should be home soon.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I returned to my room and embarked upon the task of packing up my life in Elston, Oregon.


UNCLE CLYDE RETURNED HOME SHORTLY AFTER noon, and we ate lunch. We planned. We fretted. I longed to tell both him and Mama about Joe in our stable, his face swelling and aching, but I didn’t want to be wrong about placing trust in my stepfather.

During most of the afternoon, I packed and sorted some more, and when the task grew too difficult to bear, I slid my sketch pad out from its hiding spot between my mattress and the box spring. My drawing of Joe in the pond caught my eye first, and above it I found the crossed-out sketch of Fleur, seated in her window seat, telling me of Daddy’s ghost.

I parked myself at my red desk and flipped to a fresh new page. While Mama and Uncle Clyde bustled about down below, I leaned over the paper with my elbows pressed against my strawberry-colored worktop, and using my supply of charcoal pencils, I drew the story of the past few days. I sketched Fleur and me, kneeling over a magazine with our heads tipped close together. Joe and me, running through the woods, lantern and blanket and carpetbag in hand, my skin shaded quite a bit darker than his, even though I rarely ever drew myself with much color. Uncle Clyde, standing on our front porch with his thumbs tucked in his pockets, his mouth open, speaking of making amends with Joe. Mama and me, together, hand in hand, beneath the pine tree near the Dry Dock. Laurence, bending over at the waist, his bruised fist balled against his stomach. A fish wearing a crown, diving back into a river after bursting free from his captor’s stomach. The Dry Dock’s oak tree, standing tall and fierce, with its weight-bearing branches reaching out toward the beholder of the drawing, the ends of its boughs curled like fingers.