Distilling Lies, page 4
I moved away from my mess, sat on a piece of strewn plywood, and tried to ignore the splinters poking my butt. I had made a complete fool of myself.
I never asked his name. Never checked in with Mama. I couldn’t stand, and my gut wasn’t done with me. I remained there, alone with my stupidity.
“Emma June, thank God!”
I squinted and looked up, relieved to hear the familiar voice. “Charlene?”
“Wade told me you came this direction. It’s bad, Emmy. Really bad.”
“You too?” I said, clenching my stomach.
“What? No. I mean things between Betty and your mother. I saw Betty sobbing. And your mother is heated up like a firecracker. Emma June? Did you hear what I said?”
Our grandfather clock chimed ten. Ten. I never slept that late.
Choppers’s face-licking turned my head toward the window. A fierce sunray hit between my eyes like a dagger to my brain. Sweat had soaked through my cami bloomers and onto my bedsheet.
I didn’t remember coming home. The last thing I remembered was Charlene screaming at me.
“Emma June?” Helen Munson had walked the avenue, our term for the ribbon of trodden wild grasses that connected our houses. Fifty yards, yet a thousand miles of visits from both directions.
“I’m coming in,” her voice boomed through my open window. Mama was right. Miss Helen learned to whisper in a sawmill.
Calling for me instead of Mama meant she needed help with Scooter. I waited for Mama to cover for me, head her off, protect me from Miss Helen’s endless chatter and requests.
The screen door squeaked open but thankfully, didn’t slam shut. As usual, Miss Helen had used her round rump as a buffer to keep it from bouncing off the doorframe. “I’m coming in,” she repeated and stomped into my bedroom carrying a small plate. If it held Bayer Aspirin, I’d forgive the intrusion.
The orange of her ugly smock-top plaid pajamas came close to matching her hair color. Regardless of what she said, her hair was not red. But no one dared correct a woman who drove a brand-new silver 1928 roadster all the way to Mineral Wells for a dye job. Or a woman who had built her own distillery and had half the town licking her heels, and their lips, for a jar of her moonshine.
Miss Helen puffed air from her cheeks like a leaky tire and sat on my bed. “Your mama told me you’d be needing it this morning.” She set the plate beside me.
My stomach heaved at the smell and sight of burnt toast. I would have thrown it to Choppers had my body not begged for stillness. “Where is she?”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
I hated the hand she set on my knee and the worry lines around her eyes.
“Only one way to tell you and that’s straight out. Your mama didn’t come home last night.”
And I hated her awful truth.
CHAPTER 6
FRANK
The sun barely up, Irene fell through the door and slid down the wall to the floor, her dress covered in dirt. Skin, pale as a bone.
Kohl eye shadow smudged down her face.
“It was awful,” she whispered.
Frank got the feeling his fortune hadn’t changed. “Ma?”
“Can you get me some water?”
In the small kitchen, he waited for the faucet to drip drip drip long enough to fill a glass halfway.
She guzzled the water and closed her eyes. “My things are in the jalopy. Bring them in for me, will you?”
After retrieving two bags, Frank found her in the bedroom, head in her hands. She looked up. “They’re looking for me, Frank. Earl spotted Bernice and me talking. Well, I was talking. She was yelling. Earl knows I let the cat out of the bag.”
“Good. It’s over. Now I can go back home.” Freedom at last.
“No, no, no. You don’t understand,” she said, taking in a sharp breath. “Now Earl knows he has no leverage to keep me quiet. I’ve become a liability.”
“Hold on a minute. Keep quiet about what? And who’s ‘they’?”
Irene let out a shaky sigh and paused. “Earl and some thug. I overheard them planning something. But that’s all I’m willing to tell you. It’s too dangerous and I don’t want you involved. They can’t know I’m here. No one can.”
“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word. “You pulled me here, Ma. I never wanted to be involved in the first place.”
Before he could walk away, Irene kept talking. “After I became friends with Bernice, Earl remembered me from years before. Not at first. He had come to The Diner a couple of times and never recognized me. I didn’t recognize him either. Almost bald, missing teeth, fatter. Then I learned his name and put two and two together. Still, I avoided him best I could. Then one day, he heard me carry on a conversation with a customer. I guess something I said triggered his memory because he confronted me, pulled me aside. That’s when the blackmail started. He knows who I really am.”
Even a rat knew his mother better than Frank did.
But if Earl knew Irene’s true character, then Bernice probably didn’t like hearing that her Betty was a lying, self-absorbed floozy who probably broke the law in her younger days. No wonder she changed her name.
“I just wanted a friend,” she said, a single tear sliding down her cheek. “And Bernice is the best I’ve ever had.”
“So Bernice didn’t like hearing about the real you.”
“No, she didn’t.” She blotted her wet face with a palm. “I was also going to admit my real name but I saw Earl coming toward me with that evil look. I ran. The point is, Earl saw the fight between me and Bernice. He knows I told her the truth and he’s pissed I no longer have to pay him. I’m afraid of what he’ll do next.”
Irene told him how she’d stayed hidden at the carnival until late, then finally found a ride into Holly Gap. From there, she skirted her way back toward The Diner, flinging herself to the ground each time she saw headlights or heard the rumble of a motorcar. By that time, it was early morning. She collected her belongings from The Diner and drove back to the shack. As far as she could tell, no one followed her.
She swiped her fingertips across her wet cheeks. “I need to talk to Bernice. But how can I with Earl trying to hunt me down?”
How could he answer that? She’d put herself in this situation. He had no interest in hearing anything else she had to say. Her shady past wasn’t his problem. He just wanted his dough so he could go back to New Orleans.
“Emma June works in town at Rosie’s Café,” she said. “Drop by, get a cup of coffee. No need to introduce yourself. Just see if you can find out if Bernice is okay.”
Her idea had its advantages. “So I have permission to leave the premises?”
Irene ignored the sarcasm and nodded. “Looks like I’m the one in hiding now. But the rules still apply. You don’t know me.”
She was right about that.
Frank changed into his white shirt and jacket and tugged on his flat cap.
“And Frank? We need food. Stop by the grocer’s and pick up what you can for this.” She reached across the mattress and pulled a clam from her purse. “It needs to last a while.”
“How much money do you have, Ma?”
“Not nearly enough.” She lay back on the mattress. “And buy some aspirin. It won’t cure anything, but it’ll help.”
A thought occurred to him. “Ma, does anyone in town know about me?”
“What do you mean?” She looked away.
Of course she didn’t tell anyone she had a son. As far as Irene was concerned, he didn’t exist. That is, until she needed his help.
“I’m not ashamed of you, Frank. I’m proud of the man you’ve become. I know I had nothing to do with that. Patsy deserves the credit you give her.”
No argument there.
Irene turned on her side and looked at Frank, her eyes sorrowful. “You know, something really bad happened to me when I was thirteen. Patsy was there for me.”
“What—”
“Patsy was the only one I could trust. The only person I could talk to. She held me, comforted me when I told her about the rape.”
Frank bit the inside of his cheek, hoping the offensive image would disappear. “Aunt Patsy never told me.”
“She kept her word. Now, besides the bastard who did it, you are the only living person who knows.”
“You didn’t even tell Bernice?”
Irene shook her head. “Not even my best friend. Too much shame in it, I guess.” She turned on her side, away from Frank. “Like leaving you.”
He took a step back and squinted. His mother had regrets? Was this just more lip service or did Irene really feel remorse for abandoning him?
“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I think God wants to keep me alive just so I can feel every morsel of the guilt.”
Raped at thirteen, Frank’s father lammed off, leaving her with a young child. Then she had gone from living the high life in New York City to living in a dump in the middle of nowhere. Although some things weren’t her fault, she had plenty of sins to make up for.
Still, when he walked out into the morning air, he shook his head, puzzled at the foreign emotion—a tug of compassion for the woman lying on a bruise-colored mattress.
CHAPTER 7
EMMA JUNE
My feet hit the floor. “What do you mean she didn’t come home? Where is she?”
Miss Helen shrugged a shoulder. “No idea. She woke me last night madder than a hornet. Told me she had to leave and to bring you toast this morning. Said you’d be needing it.”
Even if Mama were mad at me for getting so drunk, she never would have told Miss Helen to bring me a charred piece of toast. “Had to leave? And why was she mad?”
“Honey, I know this makes no sense whatsoever,” she said, talking to my back as I slipped on an old housedress. “Bernice Crawford might be ten years younger than me, but I know her like she was my own daughter. She’s just out cooling her heels somewhere.”
Miss Helen didn’t know Mama at all. Running off was not how Mama cooled her heels. And the only time Mama spent the night somewhere without me was when she attended her aunt’s funeral in Lubbock.
I ran to the bathroom and made it in time to heave over the toilet.
“You okay, sugar?” Miss Helen asked from behind the closed door. “What kind of hooch did you drink, for Christ’s sake?”
I stayed on the floor and leaned my back against the toilet.
“Wade Foley’s.”
Miss Helen let herself in. She shook her head and grimaced. “Jesus Christ, girl. No telling where he got that crap from. He didn’t get it from my stash, because I won’t sell to his father. That man’s crooked as the Brazos.”
I forced myself up, splashed water on my face with hands too shaky to be my own. The face in the mirror didn’t belong to me either. Red eyes. Puffy bags. I looked like Betty had the night before. “What exactly did Mama tell you?”
“Not much. Took off like a cat on fire.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“I assume at work. As usual, I heard Ol’ Bess rumble off before sunlight.”
“No. I bet he went to meet up with her. Wherever she is.”
“Thing is, I doubt he knows she’s gone. After she had a fight with your daddy, Bernice told him she was coming to my house. Theo probably thought she spent the night.”
I knew Mama had some sort of falling out with Betty. But Daddy? I’d only seen Mama and Daddy squabble a couple of times. Each time, Daddy was quick to calm Mama’s tail feathers. “What fight? About what?”
Miss Helen shrugged. “Wouldn’t give me details.”
Leaving your family was what fathers did if they had to go to war. Or what Mrs. Butler did after her husband busted her up for the last time. But Mama blousing off?
Miss Helen looked down and shook her head.
“What?”
“Bless her heart. She looked a mess. Face smudged with dirt and tears.”
That was another thing. I had never seen Mama so upset that she wouldn’t fix her face before going anywhere.
“Come on, Emma June. Come eat your toast.”
Miss Helen took a seat on the sitting room’s sofa, then patted the space beside her hard enough to free the dust mites. “Sit here. I’ll hold the furniture steady.”
She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. I stared down at the rug, its green and yellow threads dissolving into a bottomless pit.
“Did Mama pack a bag?”
“Pack a bag? Can’t say one way or the other. But if she did, it’s an awful light one. I’m sure she’ll be home before the day’s out.”
“What did Mama say? Ex-act-ly. Did the fight have something to do with Betty?”
Her eyes widened. “Why would you say that?”
“Stop dawdling and spill it for Christ’s sake.”
Miss Helen smoothed her pajama pants, then looked away. “Your mama was in such a tizzy she didn’t make a lot of sense. Said she even threw her pie on the ground at the carnival last night.”
Mama threw that pie. Not Betty. Mama never threw anything in anger. Except maybe a dishrag in the sink. “Go on.”
“Said she didn’t know who she trusted less, Betty or your daddy. Said something like, ‘I need to finish this conversation.’ Then she stormed out.”
The sound of tires crunched up the distance between the road and my house. “Mama. Thank God.”
Miss Helen started to stand but sat back down. “Thank God is right. Now I don’t have to worry about your father falling in a gopher hole of despair. Let’s stay put. Give her time to come in and settle herself.”
Agreed. Jumping up meant throwing up.
My belly settled for the first time. I thought things would get back to normal, and we could start the day with music again. But with the volume low.
The rumbling stopped. A door slammed shut. Then, another. “Mama’s not alone?”
Miss Helen headed to the door.
Leaning forward was the best I could do. “Who’s with her?”
“It’s not your mama,” she said, her face drooping. She pushed open the screen door and thrust a hand to her hip. “Doc? What in tarnation are you doing here? Everything okay?”
Doc Ferguson. Handsome in a middle-aged kind of way, he had kind eyes and a forehead permanently creased from concern and fatigue. He nodded a smile toward me.
“Morning Helen. This is my nephew, Samuel.” The door opened wider.
That’s when I saw him. Not only did Oxford Two-Tone have a name, but he was inside my house. I felt the blush in my cheeks, remembering how he’d been there when I made a fool of myself. I glanced at him long enough to be polite.
Doc removed his Gambler hat. “Emma June, I understand you’ve met Samuel. He said you were feeling poorly last night.”
Samuel took off his tweed cap and offered his hand in greeting. I stayed glued to the sofa.
“Good to see you again, Emma June.”
I remembered that grip. Firm, kind. “How did you …” I couldn’t finish. Through my drunken eyes the night before, Oxford Two-Tone was handsome. But Samuel was stunning. His hair was a sun-kissed blond, not light brown like I had thought. Unlike Wade’s hair parted in the center and flattened with cheap Vaseline, Samuel’s was combed back and pomaded to a healthy shine.
“Samuel’s studying medicine at Baylor University,” Doc said. “Hope it’s okay but he’s here doing rounds with me while on spring break.” Doc glanced around the house. “Where’s Miss Bernice?”
“Out,” Miss Helen huffed. “Since you made the trip, go ahead and give Emma June a look-over.”
Samuel leaned a shoulder against our grandfather clock and stared in another direction. Gentlemanly of him considering Doc was poking around on my belly while I lay on the sofa.
“Some fools don’t know how to keep out the impurities,” Miss Helen said. “Methanol poisoning’s my guess.”
Doc nodded. “Probably. But not enough to cause blindness. She’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t drink any more of that rotgut.”
Miss Helen’s back shifted to ramrod straight. “And this is why I’m the best in town.”
I caught the grin on Samuel’s face.
“Those jackass shiners,” she continued. “All two crackers shy of the box. They cut corners any way they can. Kinda like Jasper at the feed store. He stiffs me an ounce of chicken feed every time. I don’t snooker my customers. No sirree Bob. My customers get their honest money’s worth.” She took a breath and grinned at Doc Ferguson. “Speaking of money’s worth, Doc. You want your payment in shine?” Miss Helen’s illegal tender may have appeased many of our townsfolk vendors, but not the teetotaling doctor.
“Now, Miss Helen,” he tsk-tsked. “Besides, no charge. Just doing Samuel here a favor.”
“Then walk me over to the house so I can at least get you a breakfast roll.”
“Now, that I’ll take you up on.”
“Plus,” she added, “I’ve got something to tell you.”
About Mama, no doubt.
Doc followed Miss Helen out the door, then turned back. “Emma June, might help to eat small portions of eggs or oatmeal. Feel better, now.”
Doc and Miss Helen gone, Samuel lingered by the door, tweed cap in his hand.
“Take care of yourself, Emma June,” he said. “And only drink the good stuff.”
His wink stopped my breath. “Right,” was the only word I could spit out. He headed down the porch steps.
The sweat that formed under my armpits had nothing to do with the hangover. I was gobsmacked.
Standing up took forever, but I made it to the front porch before he reached the end of the house. “Hey, Samuel? Wait up a sec.”
He pivoted and strode toward me.
“I have a few questions,” I said, trying to gather my composure.
“Okay. And just so you know, I don’t blame you if you don’t remember last night.”
I was mortified. The things I could have done and forgotten were endless.
“I’ve heard about the Foleys’ moonshine,” he said, shaking his head. “No wonder you feel so sick.”
