Later, when I mulled it over, I realized I’d already known. I just hadn’t known I’d known.
I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. Patrick liking boys was part of who he was, but it was hardly the whole picture.
I WASN’T SURE HOW LONG I SAT IN THE WINDOW nook. When I came back to my body, I found myself gazing at the windowpane, but not actually seeing anything. I blinked to wake up—and then bam, I was awake all right. My brother, Christian, hadn’t attended this morning’s service, which was no big surprise. But there in the dirt parking lot was his Yamaha, and parked alongside it were Beef’s Suzuki and Tommy’s bright yellow BMW.
Where were the owners? If their motorcycles were here, then they were, too. A panicked scan told me they weren’t in the fellowship hall, so where were they?
I located Christian leaning against the church’s brick exterior, over near the kids’ playground with its rusty bobbing duck and a red plastic slide. He was alone. I pressed my lips together, strode to the side door, and pushed into the midday heat.
I checked to make sure Christian was by himself and marched over.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. My talking skills may have been rusty with the general population, but not with Christian. “You can’t just come for the doughnuts, you know. You only get doughnuts if you sit through the actual service.”
“I’m not here for doughnuts,” Christian said. “Jesus, Cat.”
I put my hands on my hips. “That’s right: Jesus. Jesus is why you’re supposed to be here. Good for you for learning your Bible lesson.”
He gazed at me. He had circles under his eyes, and his hair, dark like mine, was mashed down from his helmet. He needed a shower. He didn’t always look this thrashed, but what happened to Patrick had taken its toll on him, too. That as well as something else, I suspected—and it was the something else I had my sights on.
“What in the name of creamed corn are you blabbering about?” he said.
What in the name of creamed corn, indeed? When I was younger, I would have laughed at that expression, because it was funny. Christian, if I was being objective, was often funny. But I’d fallen out of the habit of laughing at his jokes.
Anyway, my blabbering wasn’t the issue. He was the one leaning against the church wall in jeans and a dirty T-shirt. He was the one full of intrigue and secretive, shadowed looks.
“Where’re your buddies?” I asked. I called his gang of friends the redneck posse. Their leader was Tommy Lawson, whom I hated. The other main players were Beef and Dupree, and my brother, of course. The girls attached to the group were Bailee-Ann, who was Beef’s girlfriend, and occasionally Beef’s little sister, Gwennie.
They liked to hang out at the abandoned Frostee Top, drinking beer and smoking pot. Sometimes they raced their motorcycles up to Suicide Rock. They were all about being loud and having a good time, no matter how out of control it got. After Patrick and I stopped being friends, those guys took him in and made a mascot out of him, sort of. That’s how it looked. Like, they were always teasing him, and the teasing wasn’t always nice, especially with Tommy large and in charge. But they pretended it was all in fun, even Patrick.
“Tommy’s helping his grandmother with something,” Christian said.
“His grandmother,” I said scornfully. Other kids had grannies or meemaws; Tommy had a grandmother. Ooh la la.
Christian ran his hand through his hair. “Yes, Cat. His grandmother. She needs his help, and he told her he’d meet her here.”
“Then where is he?”
“In the front parking lot with Beef, loading stuff into her car.”
“Why aren’t you helping?”
“There were only two bags. God. And since I know you’re gonna ask, here’s the answer: What’s in the bags are supplies for the new mailbox she wants, the kind that locks.”
“A mailbox that locks. How exciting.” I did a sweep of the parking lot to make sure Tommy truly wasn’t nearby. “So y’all were tearing up the hardware store while I was inside praying for Patrick. That just takes the cake, doesn’t it?”
Christian narrowed his eyes. “Lay off, will you? Or else tell me what’s gotten you so riled up. One or the other.”
I stepped closer. “You were with Patrick the night he got attacked. You ever going to tell me what happened? What really happened?”
“Patrick was attacked on Sunday morning. He was with us that night, yeah, but everyone was home by, like, one.”
“Not Patrick,” I said.
“I don’t know what you think happened, Cat,” Christian said. “It was just the bunch of us hanging out.”
“Then why do you and Beef and Tommy keep skulking around? Every time I see the three of y’all together, you’re deep in conversation. And every time I come over to say hi, you shut up quick. So what’s that about?”
“Cat?”
“What?”
“When’s the last time you came over to say hi to me or my friends? Two years ago? Three?”
I scowled.
“I suggest you work on your details before tossing out your conspiracy theories,” he said. “You think I’m not broken up by this? You think I’m not mad as hell? Patrick’s just about my best friend, even though he is—“
“Gay?” I threw out. The word felt sharp in my mouth, but I’d had it with you knows and veiled references.
“I was going to say straight-edge,” he said, meaning that Patrick wasn’t as wild a partier as him and the others. His tone made me blush because somehow he’d gone and made it seem as if I were the one being judgmental.
Yet it was an odd twist of language. Based on the way people usually used the words, Christian was straight and Patrick was gay. But Christian, when he got wasted, was gay if you used the old-fashioned, oh-so-merry definition of the word, while Patrick was straight-edge because he didn’t drink to the point of passing out.
“You’ve got a major chip on your shoulder, sis,” Christian said.
“Don’t call me ‘sis,’” I said.
Christian pushed himself off the wall and said, “Hey, there’s Tommy and Beef.” He raised his voice. “Dudes! Over here!”
My stomach dropped, and I hightailed it back inside the building, where I made a beeline for the refreshment table. That was where the crowd was. That was the best place to hide.
I reached for a cookie I had no intention of eating. As I did, my arm knocked against an elderly woman’s frail frame. She turned sharply, and my heart clutched up. It was old Mrs. Lawson, Tommy’s grandmother.
The entire Lawson clan was as rich as sin, and I figured they stayed in Black Creek just so they could lord it over the rest of us.
They hadn’t always been well-off. Tommy’s great-great-great-grandfather was one of the first people to homestead Black Creek, way back when it was a decent trading post. Then a railroad was laid between two bigger settlements, and suddenly there was a lot less traffic through Black Creek. The final blow came when the TVA dam was built on Brigham River. The dam cut off Black Creek from the other towns, because who in his right mind would drive an extra twenty miles around the new man-made lake to reach what was nearly a ghost town already?
Tommy’s grandfather Merrit Lawson had enough money to get by, but no more. He opened the Come ‘n’ Go for those who stayed put, and when the feed store went belly-up—due in part to Merrit’s ties with the banker, who refused to change the terms of the feed store’s loan—he bought it for a dime and turned it into the local Buy-Low, where Aunt Tildy worked as a cashier.
Now there were Buy-Lows all over the state. The Lawsons had built themselves a small empire, and they were too powerful for their own good. That was why I stepped back nervously when old Mrs. Lawson turned from the refreshment table.
“And who are you, young lady?” she said.
“Cat Robinson?” I said, hating the way my inflection went up as if I weren’t sure of my own name. But good heavens. Maybe I did maintain a low profile, but Mrs. Lawson knew who I was. There were like f
ive hundred people in Black Creek, period. Everyone knew everyone.
“Tildy’s girl?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. Tildy’s my aunt. She works at the Buy-Low.”
She clucked. “I know who she is. She needs to teach you some manners.”
Oh, nuh-uh. I hadn’t been rude. I had accidentally and lightly hit her arm with mine. And no one had the right to disrespect Aunt Tildy, not even the queen herself.
Not that I said any of this out loud, because I wasn’t brought up to talk ugly. But for the record, the prissy outfit Mrs. Lawson was wearing was ugly, a powder pink skirt with a matching powder pink jacket. She looked like an eraser.
“I need some creamer for my coffee,” she announced in her snooty way of talking. She arched her pencil thin brows, and I realized she meant for me to go get her some.
“Oh. I’ll see if they have any in the kitchen,” I said, scurrying off.
I returned with a single-serving plastic container, which she regarded with displeasure. “Never mind,” she said, her pink lips folding in on themselves. “I’ll go without.”
She enjoyed making people feel inadequate, and she was good at it. Today, I had a fire in my belly, however. Plus, if I was going to find out what happened to Patrick, I was going to have to talk to a lot of people I’d just as soon not. I might as well start with prune-faced Mrs. Lawson.
“So, um, you know Patrick, right?” I said. “Tommy’s friend? Who got beat up a week ago?”
She didn’t respond.
“He’s still in the hospital, and . . . I was wondering if maybe we could send flowers.”
Mrs. Larson’s expression remained impassive. I fought not to fidget.
“Or a balloon bouquet?” I tried again. The Buy-Low sold shiny silver message balloons that said things like THINKING OF YOU and GET WELL SOON! “Maybe we could pass around a card for everyone to sign?”
“I suppose you want me to pay for them,” Mrs. Larson said.
“We could take up a collection,” I said. She was trying to make me feel small, and she was succeeding. But I wasn’t going to let her make me retreat back into my shell.
She sipped her coffee and grimaced.
“It’s just so horrible, what happened to him,” I pressed on. “Is there any new information, do you know?”
“Well, it obviously had to do with his . . . lifestyle,” she said.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“I don’t want the boy to die,” she went on, as if she were speaking of a mutt that uglied up the neighborhood. “But he might just up and do it anyway.”
“What have you heard? Has Sheriff Doyle learned anything? Has he discovered any, you know, clues?”
“Grandmother, there you are,” Tommy said from behind us. My chest tightened because I’d recognize his voice anywhere. “I put everything we need into your car. I’ll set it up this afternoon.”
My instincts said bolt, but I was rooted to the floor.
Mrs. Lawson’s face brightened. “Tommy,” she said. “Now why in the world aren’t you wearing that new dress shirt I bought you?”
She smiled at me for the first time. “You know my grandson, don’t you? My precious Tommy?”
TOMMY WAS A SNAKE—IN EVERY SENSE OF THE word. A snake and a jerk and a gay-bashing redneck, meaning he made jokes about how Patrick better not hit on him, how Patrick ran like a fag, how a man’s a-hole was for “exit only.” Tommy wasn’t alone in making jokes like that, of course. Black Creek was no haven for a boy who was “light in his loafers,” as Aunt Tildy put it.
And yet, Tommy was Patrick’s friend. That needed saying, too. Patrick was part of Tommy’s posse, though I wondered how much of a part. I suspected Tommy kept him around for sport. Tommy preyed on the weak, as I knew.
Seeing him in the fellowship hall made me want to curl up like a roly-poly. He was none too happy to see me, either. I read it in his face. First there was puzzlement, like why was I making nice with his highfalutin grandmother? Then a flicker of what almost resembled shame, though no doubt I interpreted it wrong. He had every reason to be ashamed, and then some, but more likely he was just embarrassed to be seen as his grandmother’s little helper.
“Cat,” he said.
I didn’t reply. I stared at his cut-down army boots and hugged my ribs.
“Cat thinks we should send flowers to the hospital,” old Mrs. Lawson said. “To your friend. Patrick.”
Her lips pursed, and I figured there must be a bit of a struggle going on inside her. Jesus said love the sinner, hate the sin, and while I knew old Mrs. Lawson was incapable of loving Patrick, surely she didn’t hate him, did she? A bangedup boy nearly the same age as her precious Tommy, lying in a coma with no one to stand up for him?
Tommy said nothing. I lifted my gaze, because I had to see what battle of conscience—if any—was playing out on his features.
“Who do you think hurt him?” I heard myself say. My words were made of stone, as cold and unforgiving as the outcroppings of granite that rose above the banks of the creek our town was named for.
A flush crept up his neck. “How the fuck would I know? And if I did, wouldn’t I say?”
“Tommy,” old Mrs. Lawson scolded.
I watched him. He was good looking, the snake, even in oil-stained jeans and a stupid shirt that said 4 stroke, whatever that meant.
But Tommy didn’t look good right now, not with his face twisted up.
“Sorry, Grandmother,” he said gruffly.
“You’re going against your raising,” Mrs. Lawson said. As if to excuse her grandson’s behavior, she faced me and explained, “Tommy was with him earlier that evening. That makes it especially painful, of course.”
Of course.
“I’ve got to go,” I said, turning on my heel.
“What an odd child,” I heard Mrs. Lawson murmur.
Then, from Tommy, “She ain’t a child, Grandmother.”
“Isn’t a child,” Mrs. Lawson corrected, and I was out the door.
AT HOME, I CHANGED INTO MY EVERYDAY CLOTHES, and then Aunt Tildy and I cooked up our big Sunday meal: fried chicken, crowder peas, cornbread, and a mess of green beans. Oh, and tomatoes. Had to have tomatoes in the summertime, picked fresh and lightly salted.
I fixed a plate for Daddy and delivered it to him in his trailer out back. He moved out there when my mama died and had stayed ever since. He took the plate, settled it on the built-in TV tray of his belly, and pulled out the jug of Aunt Jemima syrup he kept under the La-Z-Boy. “You ain’t gonna tell on me to your aunt Tildy, are you, kitten?” he said.
That’s what he called me, like I was an itty-bitty puffball with a yawning mouth and harmless claws.
He poured the syrup over his food, and I said, “That is just nasty, Daddy.”
He laughed, and I could smell the corn liquor on his breath. Also, the sour odor of him needing a bath. Sadness overwhelmed me: for Patrick, for Daddy, for the whole hard lot of everything.
Daddy must have picked up on it, because concern clouded his eyes. “What’s wrong, sweet pea?” That was his other nickname for me. I was either a kitten or a sweet pea, each incapable of making a dent in the world’s injustice.
Of course, my big smelly daddy was pretty helpless himself. I loved Daddy, but in the way I might love a loyal old dog who could no longer follow me around, just thump his tail whenever I came near.
“Ah, nothing, Daddy.” I tried for a smile. “I’m fine.”
“You know what you need?” he said as he forked a mouthful of syrup-drenched chicken into his mouth. “Some good clean sunshine. Yessir, that’s exactly what you need.” This, from a man who spent his days holed up in his trailer, with just his liquor bottles and his TV for company.
“Okay, Daddy,” I said.
He wasn’t done. “Young girl like you? You should be out stirring up trouble with your friends, not bothering with all them books you read. You know it’s them books what make you talk funny.”
“Ha-
ha,” I said, as this was an old joke between us. He poked fun at my school learnin’, as he called it. Daddy liked to tease me, but I knew he was secretly proud that I hadn’t dropped out of school like so many other kids, including my brother. Patrick and Bailee-Ann and I were the only kids from Black Creek to complete our junior year at Toomsboro High last month, and the three of us were the only ones planning to return in the fall as seniors. We were going to make it all the way to graduation. But with Patrick in a coma, who knew what would happen?
No. I pulled myself back, because Daddy and me had a script that needed following. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have a thing to say to each other.
“I don’t talk ‘funny,’ Daddy,” I said. “I talk proper. You just talk country.”
“Well, you might have a point there,” he said, chuckling. “But don’t let that fool you.” He tapped his temple. “Your old daddy didn’t fall off the last turnip truck, you know.”
“Yeah, Daddy. I know.” I kissed his stubbled cheek and headed back to the house, where Christian, Aunt Tildy, and I sat down at the table and tucked into our dinners. None of us talked. While I ate, I thought about Daddy’s advice and decided I’d take it after all. Tomorrow I would go out and stir up some trouble, just not in the way he expected.
I’D GOTTEN INTO THE HABIT OF TAKING UP AS little space in this world as I could, which was to say I’d been hiding behind a book or my falling-down hair for basically the last three years. I wished I could go back and change things. If I’d been a better friend to Patrick, I’d have known what he’d been up to recently. Maybe I’d have been with him that Saturday night. Maybe he wouldn’t have been attacked.
Maybe, maybe, maybe, and if wishes were horses, I’d gallop straight to Sheriff Doyle and hand over Patrick’s attacker. Poof, I’d be Patrick’s friend again, and poof, Patrick would wake up.
Last night as I lay in bed, I thought about Patrick lying alone in the hospital, his body broken and maybe his brain, too. I tossed and turned all night, in and out of sleep, and woke up before first light. I slipped out onto the porch, my quilt wrapped around me, and watched the sun rise from behind the mountains. It was beautiful. That’s why Daddy picked this lot, way back when.