The Steep and Thorny Way(79)

Mama appeared behind the sofa without my even realizing she had walked across the room.

“How are your parents, Joe?” she asked, which seemed a forced and meaningless question, akin to asking his thoughts about the weather.

“They’re fine, I guess.” He took his hands out of his pockets and rubbed his sides again. “I actually came here because I have a gift for Hanalee. But it’s something that will require her traveling in a car to see.” He inched toward me, the heels of his shoes making a squishing sound against the living room rug. “Are you . . . are you able to take a short ride?”

“I don’t know.” I peeked at my stepfather. “Am I?”

“That’s entirely up to you, Hanalee,” said Uncle Clyde. “Do you feel well enough to be jostled about on Elston roads?”

“I think I might.” I slid my good foot to the floor. “Especially if it involves a surprise.”

Mama placed a hand upon my shoulder. “Were you planning to drive her, Joe?”

“Yes, ma’am. My father let me borrow his car this afternoon, specifically so I could take Hanalee to the surprise.” He shifted his weight between his legs. “I know it’s a car . . . I know”—he cleared his throat and shoved his hands back inside his pockets—“it holds a dark memory, but I’m leaving town for good this evening. If I could just give Hanalee this gift before I go, I think it would help set things right.”

Mama and Uncle Clyde eyed each other. I did my best to shift my gaze between the two of them, to gauge their reactions, without aggravating the stiffness in my neck.

“Well, I want to go,” I said. “If Joe’s leaving tonight . . .”

“All right.” Uncle Clyde nodded. “I’ll help carry you to the car.”


BOTH JOE AND MY STEPFATHER LUGGED ME OUT TO the black Model T that had struck my father that December night. Uncle Clyde carried the bulk of me, and Joe helped with my legs, including that massive plaster cast that felt like a small child clinging to my calf. Somehow they managed to cram both me and the cast into the front seat of the automobile.

Mama paced behind the two of them, her arms crossed, her forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure about this, Clyde?”

Uncle Clyde stepped back while Joe maneuvered around him to crank the engine to a start down below the car’s hood.

“It’ll just be a short drive, right, Joe?” asked my stepfather over the roar of the awakening engine. “Just into town?”

Joe popped up his head from the front of the car. “Do you know what the gift is?”

“I remember you mentioning something you wanted to do when you were here the day after the accident.” Uncle Clyde straightened his glasses on his nose and squeezed his lips together to suppress what I believed to be a smile. “If it’s what I think it might be, just be careful. Don’t linger too long in front of it.”

“I won’t, sir.” Joe climbed into the car beside me and shut his door. “Are you ready?” he asked me.

I scooted myself two inches closer to him, to better fit my cast into the small space in front of me. “Yes.”

“We’ll be back soon.” Joe nodded at Uncle Clyde, then at Mama. “Don’t you worry.”

“Be careful,” said Mama.

“We will.” Joe pushed the clutch lever forward and drove the Model T down our front drive, toward the highway. I inhaled whiffs of gasoline that reminded me of the sheriff’s patrol car, but I clamped my hands around my upper legs and told myself this ride would be different.

Joe turned his face toward me. “How are you, really?”

“I don’t know for sure.” I swallowed. “How are you?”

“Well, just to be clear”—he steered us onto the highway—“you weren’t trying to actually shoot me in the head that night, were you?”

“You know why I fired that gun.” I pinched a wrinkle in my skirt. “You know I’ve had practice with a feat like that.”

“What did they do afterward?”

“What I wanted them to do: they turned all their attention to me and left you alone.”

He nodded and drove us past Mildred’s family’s house. “Well, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We approached the patch of trees where the patrol car had sailed off the highway.

“I have a story to tell you, Hanalee,” said Joe, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

“Oh, yeah?”

“It involves a religious experience.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Oh?”

“My father asked me this morning what it would take to get me to believe in God again.” He held his breath and drove us through the section of the road where he had encountered my living father in the dark. The shadows of trees cooled my face and filtered sunshine across the highway in a stained-glass pattern of light and darkness. A crow cawed overhead, and I saw the green sheen of its black feathers in a branch that ran as straight as the yardarm of a sailing ship.

“Now”—Joe blew a puff of air through his lips—“I never said that I don’t believe in God, but Pop seems to think that doing what I do—loving whom I love—has made me godless. So I said, ‘I’ll believe in God if he strikes down that oak tree at the Dry Dock.’”