Light to the Hills: A Novel (76)
Steaming cups of tea in hand, Beady led the way to the front porch, where the fresh air and sunlight were plentiful and the sack of peas waited for eager hands. It was as natural as the sunrise for them to dig into the sack and start shelling as they talked, the musical plink of peas hitting the tin-bottomed bucket keeping a steady rhythm.
Once Beady had asked after Miles and Amanda told her how smart and kind and strong he was, how he’d learned to read early and his favorite thing right now was finding animal tracks, Rai began. She reminded Beady of when they’d visited the church and asked for prayers for Finn, and yes, he was doing much better, thank you. Then, she unraveled the rest: the man called Spider and how Finn had gotten mixed up with him, her daughter Sass and what had happened, what they knew about his role in the cave-in.
“Amanda?” she said when she was through. Rai threw a handful of peas in the bucket and put a hand on top of Amanda’s where they rested in her lap atop her peas. “Amanda can tell the rest.”
Amanda looked her mama in the face and told her all the things she’d been too ashamed or tired or sad to say years ago when she’d been a young widow holding her new baby. The words she’d kept in for so long tumbled out like water, filling in dry cracks and soaking into the thirsty ground, seeping into dark places where seeds waited to receive them—seeds of forgiveness and healing. They stirred down deep in Amanda, and she felt the tender sprouts break out of their casings and reach out a tentative, searching tendril of green. She held her memory of Sass in her mama’s lap before her, the girl’s brave example a banner she waved for courage to continue. She spoke the words aloud so that they no longer held power over her with their demand to hold it close, keep it secret. The name Gripp Jessup was like any name. It rolled off her tongue and into the light of day, where it lay exposed and blinking, forced out of the shadows like a swamp rat.
Beady had left off from the peas in her lap long ago, growing still and pale as her daughter’s words rained on her like a storm. More than once, her eyes filled with tears. How the path between Amanda and her had grown over all that first year of her marriage to Frank. Beady could tell herself it had been to give the newlyweds room, but truth be told, there had been a spark of gladness and relief that Frank (and with him, Gripp) had gone down the mountain, even if he’d had their daughter on his arm. He’d seemed taken with her, willing to provide. Not everyone could share the bond she did with Jack, and as husband and wife, Frank and Amanda had to work out their own terms with each other.
Beady had never imagined—Lord, Amanda had never said—things had changed so mightily. The day the waters had dropped enough for her and Jack to make it down the mountain, the day they’d arrived to greet their grandson and newly widowed daughter, Beady had been full up. Such a mix of joy and sadness, like oil and water, stirred inside her. She hadn’t known what to think at first when Jack had burst into the cabin, full of stories and blame, the look on his face more pained and dark than she’d ever seen before. She remembered pressing her hand to her mouth to keep the pieces of her heart from flying right out. She’d thought she might drown in the grief that welled up in her like a sea, greater than the cresting rivers that had taken animals and people. Beady had held on tight to the seat of the wagon like an anchor all the miles home, afraid she might be swept away by the flood of it.
Jack had parsed it out to her over the next days, repeating things he’d been told, the words that had stung him to his core, and she’d begged him to consider other sides—she was their daughter. But Beady was Jack’s wife, and that put an end to the matter; the two had become one long ago, and that was not to be forsaken, especially if it cost him his life’s work in the bargain. Should they wager that, too? How would it seem if they overlooked such behavior? Sin was sin, no matter who did the doing. So Beady had stopped protesting, quit asking to go for a visit, and ceased talking about it, although her heart was sorely bruised. She never stopped praying for Amanda and her small son, never stopped picturing her grandson’s tiny features and the feel of the ovals of his soft, wrinkly heels in her hands.
Now, Beady, who’d been empty so long, her union with Jack a stagnant stalemate, was full up again. Hearing her daughter’s tale, picturing her on the hard ground, giving birth alone to that sweet boy, filled her up with nine shades of angry. She was madder than a nest full of hornets at the wasted time, wrongheaded stubbornness, and most of all, the evil doings of that feller Gripp Jessup who, in her humble opinion, had just opted for a heavy dose of hellfire and brimstone. In the back of her mind, Jack’s melodious voice whispered, “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” But Beady also remembered reading something about being the hands and feet of Jesus, and that was a task she felt called to do.
“I’m sorry as I can be, baby girl,” Beady said, wiping her tears. “I can’t say as I believed all the things your daddy heard that day, but I can’t say as I didn’t believe ’em neither, and that right there I’m shamed to tell.”
“I know what Daddy can be like, and I know you’re bound to him.”
“Ain’t I bound to you, too? Even if you left to make your own way.” She shook her head. “I thought when he wasn’t at the funeral that y’all had rid yourselves of that other devil. I knew from the get-go that he was a no-count.”
“I wish we had. Things might’ve ended differently, but Frank was no angel either.” Amanda shrugged. “All that’s past, Mama. Right now, Rai here is bound and determined to knit us Wicks back together.” Amanda smiled. “I’m glad of it.”