Old Palmetto Drive, page 13
“Well, aren’t you going to say something?” I turn and look at her. “Anything?”
“Did you know this was your Mom’s car? It’s a 1992 Limited Edition Ford Mustang. She only had it for a year before she ran off to New York, chasing Samantha. It sat in the barn under a cover until your Aunt Kris let me have it when I was fourteen. I put in all the work to restore it.” She pauses and wipes some imaginary crumb from her lip and glances at me. “Yeah, okay, my brother Jackie helped, some.”
My brain races in circles trying to cope with what I just heard. So, not only are people saying Justine murdered Uncle Chuck, but she knows about Samantha? And she openly talks about her as if her existence wasn’t this huge secret my Mom kept from me for sixteen years.
“Goddamnit Justine!” I slam my hands on the dash as I shriek.
“Calm down.” Her knuckles turn white as she grips the steering wheel.
“Why should I calm down? I mean. What the hell? Did you kill Uncle Chuck? And what really happened to Aunt Kris?” I’m losing my mind over here and start sucking in short, fast breaths.
“That monster had it coming. But, it wasn’t me. Why don’t you ask Sam and Travis what really happened.” Then she reaches her hand out, and for a split second I think she’s going to put it on my leg, to try and reassure me everything will be okay. All she does is turn up the music as loud as it can go. I don’t argue with her anymore. She’s letting me know she’s done talking. She might not have killed Uncle Chuck, but she knows what really happened, and it involves Sam and Travis. My heart beats so fucking hard, I really might get sick. I close my eyes and pray we get back to Cullier Manor House as soon as possible.
Whatever romantic feelings I thought we had, I’m not sure they can survive the tension in this old car.
Justine pulls up and parks on the side of the Big House and gets out. Of course my door doesn’t open, just like she said. So, I have to climb over the middle console and get out on her side. She doesn’t help me, but runs off in the direction of her house because she wants to get away from me as fast as she can. Spiteful me leaves her door wide open with hopes it fills up with no-see-ums and mosquitoes. I don’t take the bag of crap I bought at that disgusting outlet store and leave it sitting in the back seat. Darcy can buy her own fucking shoes and I will never wear anything Justine picked out for me.
I walk toward the front porch, ready to go inside and lock myself in my room, and never look at another person here again. But, of course, Sam and Travis come barreling outside before I even put my foot up on the step.
“RIAN! Perfect timing. We’ve got big plans–Travis saw a ten-foot gator out in the swamp last night. We’re gonna go hunting.” Sam is wearing his big rubber overalls and has a spear in one hand.
“Gators that big are trouble for the ecosystem. We’ve got to kill him,” Travis says seriously.
Is that what really happened the night Uncle Chuck died?
Sam and Travis decided he was big trouble for the ecosystem of Cullier Manor House and they killed him? Then my poor Aunt Kris killed herself because she found out her sons were murderers? I hold my hand over my mouth.
“You okay, cous? You look like you're gonna be sick,” Sam grimaces.
“Maybe you shouldn’t come gator hunting with us. I have a strict no vomit on the boat policy.” Travis inches away from me.
His rubber boots squeak like nails on a chalkboard. I shake my head and run into the house before either of them can say another word to me. I don’t want to imagine my cousins as killers. I don’t want to picture the tragedy that happened in this house.
“Hey, Rian!” It's Darcy in those heinous Birkenstocks coming out of the library and into the foyer. What cruelness is this?
“Piss off.” I run up the stairs two at a time.
“So, that’s the mood today?” she laughs, like it’s some game.
Okay, so maybe back home in New York I used to be in a bad mood for no particular reason. But, today, I have a one-hundred percent legitimate reason for my foul mood. This is the real deal. This is an I hate you kind of mood. So, get out of my way or get ready for my wrath.
As soon as I get into my room I break down.
I kick off my stupid wedge shoes and crawl into my bed. The sheets and duvet are mine, but they aren’t mine from back home, which makes me feel even worse. I roll over and pull them over me anyway and sob into my pillow. Like, uncontrollably sob.
My body shakes.
I can’t stop thinking that my cousins are murderers. And my Mom had a mother who abandoned her and Aunt Kris. Or about my long-lost life in New York. And my Dad. Who by the way hasn’t answered his fucking phone in so long I wonder if he’s still alive?
I look at my phone, it's dead. I reach for my charger but then remember I left it in the bathroom. UGH! I don’t want to get up. I lean down and pull my Louis from under the bed, I know I have a spare charger in it somewhere.
“Lanie,” I say when I move the American Girl doll out of the way to find the extra charger. Something about her plastic face and dumb toothy grin makes me feel comforted in a weird, childish way. So, I pull her into the bed with me and the extra charger. I plug my phone in, determined to call Dad and Heather until one of them answers.
While my phone charges, I curl into a ball and hold Lanie and continue to cry. I made a fool of myself today. First, I practically threw myself at Justine in that dressing room asking her for a kiss and ten minutes later I accused her of murder! I just want to know what the hell is going on around here because there are way too many secrets. If Mom and Sam and Travis and Justine would all be honest with me, none of this would have happened. Is it because they are worried how I’ll react? Or do they think I’m not worthy of knowing things? Am I that much of a spoiled brat? Am I really so terrible?
I scream.
Even if they hear me screaming downstairs, no one comes to check on me. I’ve built walls with expensive clothes and a princess attitude. But, what if I don’t want to be that Rian anymore?
What if something was really wrong–would anyone come and rescue me?
22
Who Killed Uncle Chuck?
I fall asleep waiting for my phone to charge.
I dream about Justine. Her sun-kissed hair floating behind her as she runs through a swamp forest. She’s a ghost, sort of fuzzy around the edges. I’m chasing after her, trying to keep up–but I can’t reach her. She looks back at me with a smile and says, Come on, Rian. Follow me. I try, but the vines creep up from the swamp and wrap around my ankles. She’s so fast, running between the palm trees and jumping over fallen rotted logs. Wait for me, I yell after her, but she disappears. The ground is muddy under my feet and little, black gator eyes pop out of the water on the edge of the forest, waiting for me to sink, waiting for me to fall.
JUSTINE! I cry out to her.
I wake up to the sound of voices outside my door. It’s dark in my room, I must have slept all day and half the night. I wasn’t even that tired, just emotionally drained. I find my phone on the edge of my bed and check the time.
2 a.m.
There’s a knock.
It better not be Sam and Travis. I am not in the mood for their adventures right now.
“I’m coming, calm down.” The glow of my phone is the only light as I tip-toe toward the door. I’m disoriented, my dream about Justine in the swamp felt so real. I open it a crack and peek out. It’s Travis and he’s wearing his cowboy hat. He only wears that stupid thing when he’s up to no good. I can smell the beer on him.
“What’s going on? Who were you talking to?” I swing the door open all the way and rub the sleep from my eyes. I look down at myself, still in my white dress from earlier.
“Ain’t nobody but me out here. Sorry, did I wake you, cous?” he asks.
His words are slurred and he’s unsteady on his feet. Where has he been tonight? I can’t believe no one came to wake me for dinner. My stomach is growling and angry.
“I’m awake. What do you want?” I ask.
“You wanna take a drive?” He fumbles around in his pocket. He pulls out the keys to his truck and jingles them.
“No, and you’re definitely not driving anywhere in your condition. Give me the keys, cowboy.” I hold my hand out. I’m not going to let him kill himself in a drunk driving accident. He frowns, but drops them in my hand. Then he scoops me into a really awkward hug and picks me up off the ground. We wobble around until he sets me back down.
“God, Travis. How much did you drink tonight?”
“I dunno…”
“Come on, doofus. Let’s put you to bed before my Mom finds you drunk and makes you take a cold shower.” I push him out of my door frame and down the hall toward his bedroom.
“No, let’s go to the kitchen. I’m starved.”
I think about it for a minute. Food would be good for him, to help soak up the alcohol. And I am starving. So, I grab his hand and pull him along the hallway, then I put my arm around his waist so he doesn’t tumble down the stairs and wake everyone up.
“You been hiding all day, missed the gator hunt. Big fella got away,” he slurs and flops himself on a chair when we reach the kitchen.
I open the fridge and take out some containers of random leftovers, broccoli salad, fried chicken, and some kind of shrimp. I go to the pantry and pull out a bag of potato chips and some chocolate chip cookies.
“Mmmm… you’re a good cook,” Travis says with a mouthful of chicken leg and a handful of chips.
“Oh, you can’t be that drunk.” I laugh for the first time in what feels like forever. “I didn’t make any of this.” But, he doesn’t seem to care or notice as he shovels a handful of broccoli salad into his mouth, without a fork or anything. Yuck. Boys are so gross!
I go over to the cabinet on the other side of the kitchen and mix myself a vodka and cranberry juice. Mom’s gonna freak out if she finds us down here eating in the middle of the night and Travis in his drunken state, so I might as well sneak a drink. As I sip on my drink and eat three of the big, chocolate chip cookies as I stare at Travis. I feel terribly guilty for thinking he could have been involved in his parents' deaths.
Look at him. Just a dumb, sappy, country boy.
I bet this is what he does on Friday nights; sits in his shop listening to music and drinking beers. Or maybe he was feeling sad and drank to drown his sorrows.
“Is everything okay, Travis?” I decide to ask.
“You made Justine cry.” Travis puts down his food and looks me in the eye. I’m taken aback and nearly choke on my drink. “That ain’t cool, cous. She’s like family to me. You ain’t allowed to make her cry.”
“Wait, what? Why was she crying?” I’m confused and set down my drink. “I’m the one who threw myself at her, asking for a kiss, and she rejected me. And then when I confronted her about what the clerk at the store said, she got mad and ignored me the entire drive home. I’m the one who was crying.” I fold my arms over my chest waiting for Travis to apologize. I can’t believe Justine came home and cried to my cousin about me.
“Did you say y’all almost kissed? You and Justine?” Now Travis is the one who is confused.
“Yes we almost kissed,” I snap. “I don’t know what she told you, but obviously it was only half of what really happened.” I’m super annoyed now. I just want to go back to bed.
“Why are you mad at me?” he slurs.
I let out a long sigh. He’s too drunk to understand me and Justine. I’m not sure I understand me and Justine. “You should go to bed now, Come on, I’ll help you up the stairs.” I put my arm under him and lift him from the seat in the kitchen and drag him back upstairs to his room. I’ve never been in his room. Or Sam’s either. I guess, I figure their space is private. Travis is like a wobbly toddler as we navigate through the doorway and walk toward his bed.
Even though I’m sort of annoyed because he’s a handful right now, I am glad he came to my room tonight. He might have done something really stupid if I hadn’t stopped him from driving. I don’t think Mom or Sam would survive if something bad happened to Travis.
“Thanks, Rian,” his voice is soft and sleepy. It reminds me of the time Ava got so smashed at her Grandma’s house in the Hamptons I had to hold her hair back all night while she puked, then I carried her to bed around 4 a.m. and stayed wrapped around her to make sure she kept breathing.
“You aren’t going to be sick or anything right? Like, you don’t need me to stay or something…” I take the cowboy hat off his head and put it on top of the lamp next to his bed and look around. His room is clean and it smells like him. There are posters of hotrods up on the walls and trophies from kid’s sports teams. He has a desk with a computer and some video games. There is a big world map with places circled and x’d out. Maybe places he wants to go?
“Travis?” I turn and look at him because he never answered me. He’s curled up on his bed crying into a pillow. “Travis, cous, hey are you okay?” I gently shake his shoulder.
“No, I’m not fucking okay, Rian. I’m a wreck.”
I don’t know what I should do. Should I stay? Should I leave? Some people are really private about their grief.
“Do you want me to go?” I ask tenderly.
“Please, don’t go.” He sits up and reaches his hand out to me and grabs my wrist. I'm surprised by the grip of his hand, and sit down on the edge of his bed.
“You miss them?” I ask.
“I miss her.” He sobs like a little boy for his Mama.
I want to say more, you know, something profound to make him feel better and make sense of what happened in this house. But ever since I arrived, we’ve all avoided the conversation of what really happened.
Tears stream down my face, hot and salty on my skin.
“What really happened to your parents?” I finally work up the nerve to ask Travis between my sniffles. The light from the side lamp makes shadows on the walls. I stare at them, and after what feels like forever, he squeezes my hand.
“You really wanna know?”
“No,” I reply. My heart pounds. I’m scared to turn and look at him. “But, I think you’ll feel better if you talk about it.” The ghosts who wander these halls… They are listening. Anxious to know if this is the story that might set their soul free, to pass to the other side. I feel their presence; a thickness and weight in the air.
Do I really want to know all the gruesome details about what happened here? I feel like I’m going to be sick. Travis takes a deep breath, as if he’s preparing to get all of this off of his chest, once and for all.
“Daddy wasn’t a good man. He hurt us, all of us.” Travis looks around the room. I wonder if he too senses the ghosts. “Lotta beatings when we was little, you know. But then he started using the belt, and then his fists. Mama took as much as she could to keep him from coming after me and Sam all the time.”
“Oh, Travis, I’m so sorry.” I can’t imagine being a child and enduring that kind of abuse, but something about what he said, with the belt, it’s familiar. It jogs a memory loose, one I had buried deep. “That’s why my Dad hated him.”
It was after our one and only family vacation, I sketched two boys crouched in a corner of a hotel room with a man and a belt in his hand. Dad screamed and snatched the picture away from me. He scared me, just like Uncle Chuck. I remember Mom and Dad arguing and Dad saying we would never see that redneck child beater again. That’s why Mom sobbed and cried after our trip and why Dad hated it here. It was because of Uncle Chuck.
“Daddy wasn’t a good man,” Travis says again and curls back up on the bed.
“Men who beat their kids and wives are pieces of shit.” My tears are replaced with anger. Travis moans. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Travis,” I say and pull him toward me. “You didn’t deserve it. You hear me. You didn’t deserve it.” I try to comfort him.
“I did something bad,” he says and pulls away from me.
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” But my heart starts pounding because I’m beginning to get the feeling there really is more to the story.
“Everyone in town knew he was a monster. It wasn’t just the beatings. He gambled and drank and cheated on Mama. I’m so ashamed to be his son. She was finally going to leave him. She had the papers and everything. Had her suitcases packed.” I can tell he’s proud of his Mom for having that kind of strength, but his pride quickly turns back into tears. “That’s why he choked the life out of her. He said she could never leave. Justine walked in, bringing Mama another bag, and caught him. She tried to stop it, so he tried to kill her too.” He leaps from the bed, the moonlight slicing through the window, casting wicked shadows along the wall as he paces around the room like there is a monster over his shoulder. He rubs his face a few times and pushes his hair back, then looks at me. I shake with fear.
“Uncle Chuck tried to kill Justine?” I barely get the words out of my mouth.
“I don’t know how she managed to get away, but she did. Justine is strong, she don’t take shit from anyone. Including Daddy. He ran after her, through the house, screaming, and firing a gun.”
“It was self-defense.” I don’t even have to hear the rest of the story. They were being terrorized by Uncle Chuck. All of them. Every person in this house was afraid for their life.
“I just came in from fishing and heard the gun going off. Justine was screaming at Daddy, calling him a piece of shit, sayin he killed Mama. He had her backed into a corner with the gun in her face. I tackled him to the floor, but he wouldn’t stop. He still had the gun.”
I rock back and forth on the bed. My hands over my mouth
“Oh, Travis.” I mumble. “Oh god.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. I’m in shock. At least, I think that’s what this feeling must be. Because my hands go cold and my throat dry.
