Part 2: Friday

It's summer in Beausville, Georgia and Zoe Bingham is struggling to keep her life, and her family, in one piece.

Eight Years Ago...

Chapter Two

Cool water laps against the soles of my feet, giving me the odd sensation that I'm standing on water. The slow moving river was still cool because summer wasn't quite here, though the occasional scalding afternoon made me doubt the date. My legs are hanging from the end of the dock but the rest of me is lying on the hot, smooth wood of the dock.

My father had sanded down this very dock after I'd scraped my elbows on the rough wood, red and raw from playing on it all day. It had been smoothed down further by children running, crawling, lying and pushing each other all over it. And so now the dock would become slippery and slick the instant it was wet. It became a game, trying to keep our balance on it. We'd giggle and laugh wildly at each other, flopping onto our bellies, holding on for dear life.

My arms, crossed over my head to cover my eyes from the blinding sun overhead, are brown already from the warm spring we've had this year. It was nearly June and already the mornings were making my skin sticky and hot. The wood underneath me is currently making things worse and my floral cotton dress clings to my stomach as I sit upright, hoping to catch some of the breeze coming off the river. I peel the fabric away from my skin and look down at my feet which are moving lazily with the flow of the river beneath them. Ripples moved outwards from my toes and crash into the reeds that crop up beneath the little dock in the backyard that was so often my playground for the past nineteen years.

The faint sound of a voice singing makes me look towards one of the windows of the house. I only catch a few notes when the wind floats them in my direction, but I recognize the old tune as one that my mother liked to play over and over again on her record player when she was feeling melancholy.

No one else is the world was allowed to touch that record player. Ryan had once sneaked it downstairs, despite the ban, and forced the creaky old machine to crank out a rock and roll song. Mama had frozen solid for a few moments before dropping her nearly empty cocktail glass onto the wooden porch, the glass shattering into a hundred dramatic pieces. Realizing it was her record player spouting 'that filthy music', she whisked it upstairs in a frenzy where she spent the next two hours cleansing the contraption thoroughly from contamination. My brothers and I had spontaneously burst into fits of giggles for the rest of the afternoon. Thorpe hadn't quite understood, being only ten years old at the time, but he would copy us when we started to laugh, like younger siblings tend to do.

We had liked to tease Mama this way. She had always felt we had teamed up against her, and she was right. Motherhood wasn't a job fit for a retired beauty queen like herself. And with my father almost always tied up at the newspaper office, discipline was relatively absent from our childhood. For the most part, we were left to run wild through the town and fields of Beausville.

So, with three little wild hellions and a husband that didn't care much to intervene, Mama had been left with her nerves rattled most days when we were young. Now that we were grown the state of anxiety had been welded into permanency by grief and loss.

I can hear two voices singing now, one is more wobbly than the other. I wonder for a moment whether I should stay home rather than going into the newspaper office this afternoon. But I should see if my father needs help. And then I wonder, once again, where Thorpe is. He's been missing for three days, although I'm not sure missing is exactly the right word. It would be more accurate to say that he just doesn't want to be home. I can't blame him.

Out of the corner of my eye I see something streak across the sky. It's high up, is it an airplane? No, it's a bird. Several more birds appear and the flock flies one way and then the other in unison. One bird strays away occasionally, as if gathering the courage to fly away. But something, maybe instinct, drags it back to the group. It reminds me of the familiar urge I have most days to drag my family back together and fuse the broken pieces into place.

The sound of a bell chiming breaks through my thoughts; it's our ancient doorbell ringing. I get up from the dock and shield my eyes with my hand like the brim of a hat, peering through the side of the house where I might be able to catch a glimpse of who it might be. The neighbors all ring the doorbell out of politeness but rarely does anyone wait for an answer. There was always a member of our family at the back of the house.

Sure enough, Patty Tarrantine meanders through the overgrown path at the side of the house, her arms loaded up with packages and tins. I skip up the little hill to the back of the house where the canopies of the massive oak trees thankfully block out most the sun, shading much of the yard.

Patty spots me approaching, "Is your mama home, chicken?"

I nod in the direction of the window. She smiles pityingly back at me when she hears the music. There's a whacking sound coming from somewhere behind her and I see Frank, her youngest son, with a stick in his hands. He's hurling it against the tires of the old truck that's been engulfed by the ivy at the side of the house.

Patty follows my gaze, "Frank! Quit that."

Frank looks up and drops the stick purposefully. He jogs towards his mother, head lolling from side to side lazily like a bobblehead.

"Hey kid, excited about the baseball game?" His face lights up when I say 'baseball' and nods furiously in response.

"T-Tommy said he'd pitch to m-m-me so I hit it right away the first time." Once he gets his flow, the words tumble out of his mouth like a waterfall. "You gonna watch?"

"'Course I am," I say, "Once you hit the big leagues it'll cost an arm and a leg to go see you hit homers."

"Brought you all a few bits and pieces." says Patty, "Thought you could maybe use the help...today and tomorrow." She lifts up the casserole dish she's holding in one arm and the basket of baked goods in the other. I take the dish from her and we walk towards the kitchen at the back of the house.

"Good lord, when did your legs get so long, Zoe. Those are driving the boys wild, I bet." She winks up at me. She's much closer to the ground than I am so her line of sight somewhere near my ribcage; it gives her a better view of said legs. She's waving a fan in her face as she says it and the layers of chiffon that cover her pump frame float around at the gusts of wind.

"Patty!"

"Well don't say I didn't warn you. Better cover up or your mama will eat you for breakfast."

I motion for her to sit down and pour her something cold to drink.

"Thanks, chicken. Leave the fridge open, will you? It's getting warm early this year."

"Looking forward to the wedding, then?" She beams at any mention of the party that's planned for the holiday Monday. Even though it's not even a wedding since my close friends, Ellie and Tommy, already eloped weeks ago causing a scandal in town.

"You'll be next, you know. With that heart shaped face of yours, I'm surprised it hasn't happened yet. But just you wait, soon you'll get stuck on someone."

Her laugh is high and gleeful as she reaches up and pulls me into an embrace. It's a good feeling, being enveloped by Patty. When she pulls away she suddenly looks somber.

"How are you all doing anyways? I know it's nearly a year since...." She trails off. People are still careful around us. They treat us like delicate china that might shatter at any moment.

"We're managing," I say vaguely, forcing a smile on my face.

"Are you planning on visiting..." she trails off again, hoping I'll finish the sentence. Now she's fishing for gossip. My smile is still tight, but I don't say anything.

"I should warn you that Sully is back in town for the long weekend."

Great. This just keeps getting better.

"He's busy working, though, so I don't think you'll cross paths much."

It's a town with one main street and only one grocery store. I find that hard to believe.

Patty seems to notice my discomfort and changes the subject, "And your Papa, where is he today? Not at the newspaper!" she looks scandalized. "It must be difficult working right now. And working so late on a long weekend!"

"It's only three in the afternoon, Patty."

"Is it really? It seems so much later. Even still...."

"I think it's more difficult not working right now," I say, hoping that's enough juicy gossip to satisfy her. She nods knowingly, her eyes eagerly filled with sorrow.

"Besides, I'm about to get him and send him home," I add.

"Well, it'll be your turn soon to work late nights and chase those leads," she looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to express my excitement at taking over the family business.

Thankfully I'm saved by the beauty queen. Slow, delicate footsteps echo through the hallway from the stairs and, sure enough, Mama turns the corner at the bottom landing with a pirouette. She makes her way regally down the hallway towards Patty and me, making her grand entrance last as long as possible. Her face is a porcelain doll's, powdered and mask-like. Patty turns to greet her and the shrill chattering forces me outside to the back porch where I've strategically left my car keys for a quick escape through the side path.

I scramble into my car and bumble down the gravel road that leads from home to Main Street. At the crossroads, it's difficult to avoid seeing the two little white crosses on the opposite side of the road. But I manage to ignore them, focused my mission to collect the remaining members of my family and bring them both back home to the flock.

--

If I had the nerve to turn right at our little fork in the road at the crosses, I would make it to Savannah in less than an hour. But I was born in the second story of my father's family house, just like my father was born there and my brothers were born there. Everyone I knew had been born in Beausville. The main street in town is propped up exactly perpendicular to a meandering river that eventually leads out to the Atlantic, a dead end. If you want to leave Beausville those are your only options; either end up in the river or escape to the rest of the world. Everyone else is stuck in between.

Tomorrow everyone will be watching me closely, but today people should be busy and distracted enough to leave me alone. I pull in front of the Beausville Tribune office which has been owned and run by my father since the beginning of time. At one time his father, my grandfather, had also owned the paper. And so it goes in my family.

I get out of the car and walk to the entrance, pushing open the swing door which opens directly onto the open news floor. There are rows of desks with telephones and stacks of paper up to eye level on them. One of the reporters is still in the office, Sandra. She looks up and nods as I enter before looking back down to whatever project she's working on.

We'd all been to high school together, Sandra, her twin sister Susie, and me. Her phone rings as I pass by and she leans back in her chair, taking off her glasses to rub her eyes dramatically as she picks up the receiver.

"You're kidding," she blurts out after a moment, clasping a hand over her mouth. The surprise in her voice makes my blood run cold. I stop in my tracks to eavesdrop. I want to hear whether it's tragedy or excitement that has her so animated.

"He's here already? Oh my lord, can you believe it?" Sandra says, her demeanor turning to giddiness. I breathe a sigh of relief. If there's one thing that I hate about the newspaper office it's that any scandal, any tragedy, any crime comes through here. The phones are always ringing with bad news. I'll have to get used to that.

"Well then tell Sully he owes you one..."

So much for avoiding Sully. He'd left town a year ago and vowed to never come back. Liar. I have to make sure not to cross his path, or else there'd be trouble. Luckily he won't want to see me either which will make things easier.

I worry more about Thorpe now, knowing Sully is around. I'm not sure what would happen if Thorpe, unstable and unsteady as he is, came face to face with Sully. Surely I can convince Thorpe to come home and stay there, at least for a few days. I just have to find him before Sully does.

Feeling satisfied that I can ignore Sandra, I head to the back and knock on the doorframe of the small editor's office. My father is on the telephone, pacing casually between the brown boxes, file folders, and papers that are lining the walls of various heights. Some of the stacks nearly reach the ceiling. The windows and my father's cherrywood desk seem to be the only relatively clear surfaces. I lean on the doorframe and wait.

My father is tall and narrow with a chin that juts out from his face, a grey and white beard covering it. A warm smile spreads across his tired looking face when he sees me; it makes his chin jut out further. He finishes his conversation, something about water purification ordinances, and hangs up the handset carefully.

"Sweetpea." he clasps both my shoulders and kisses my cheek, "Have you come to count the money?"

"You ask me that every time I come in here."

"And every time, you say...."

"Every last cent, Pops."

"What can I say, this palace will be yours soon," He makes a grand gesture at the mountainous stacks of paper and then towards an ancient coat rack where a few ancient looking garments hang, possibly from a century ago.

"I think I actually see a family of spiders building a city back there." I strain to look behind one particularly old and yellowing stack of newsprint.

"It's all part of the charm," he says wistfully, "Plus it has it's hidden secrets," he winks at me, hinting at the secret sanctuary that's hidden behind these walls. He looks around the room, maybe thinking about the firstborn son he had intended to give this all to.

I lean against the desk and for a moment feel nostalgic, too. I love everything about this office, even the disorganization. There are articles in those stacks of paper published by my father and my grandfather. There might even some published by my great-grandfather; the man who etched our family name into one of the red brick stones outside when he acquired it. It's a legacy built from generations of Bingham's and the dust that settles inside is my own.

"Well, I'll leave you to continue with the grand shuffling," There's an awkward pause when my father rises from his ornate oak desk chair and offers it to me but I hesitate, so it's left empty as he puts his hat on his head before heading for the door. He stops in the doorway and knocks on the doorframe twice, "I'll see you when I see you?"

"See you then, Pops," I respond. As usual, my father hated saying goodbye. I can't remember ever hearing him actually say the words.

"Pops?" I call out to him before he's fully out the front door, "Do we know where Thorpe is?"

My father is already absorbed in an article he's picked up from a desk on the way out. He shakes his head without looking away from it. I won't get much help finding my baby brother from him.

I sit down in the chair and think about what will happen in September when my father will hand the business over to me. Then I think about the months and years that will follow. I think about writing facts and figures all day long. I think about quoting mayors and judges, and paring down the story of someone's life to 250 words and a snappy headline. Suddenly the weight of it all forces me deeper into my chair. It must be the dust that's settling around me or the stacks of ancient papers because I'm finding it hard to breathe.

Mama thinks it's too soon to start me in the business. But if it's going to happen I'd rather get started sooner rather than later. When there's a path laid out it doesn't make much sense to delay taking it.

Of course, this path was meant for Ryan and not me. He knew he'd end up here. Even after he'd left for his scholarship, it was always with the intention that he would be back to take over the Tribune one day. He and Pops were going to run their little empire side by side.

But now, my father was running out of children to pass his legacy to and we all knew he couldn't give the newspaper to Thorpe. That kid would burn it to the ground. There was no one else, and selling the newspaper would mean throwing away many generations of work and sacrifice.

But I didn't belong here. I could preserve the legacy for Pops, but we both knew that the chair and the desk weren't meant for me. That wasn't the dream he wanted. So, I couldn't blame him for not being around much anymore. We all lost a future that day, and now we're just trying to fill the empty spaces.

I sit down in his chair and try not to look around too much or I might start to feel disappointed. The old articles I've dropped into my lap aren't of much interest. I shuffle them into the year they were published and drop them into the file cabinet. Then I grab another few hundred sheets, continuing down the stack.

--

After some time the repetition of sorting puts me in a trance. I notice at some point that Sandra has abandoned her desk and the place looks vaguely like a tomb, frozen in time. There are fat grey clouds rolling through the sky, alternating between covering and revealing the sun every few minutes. For the brief moments when the sunlight beams through the windows, the dust particles are lit up. They float about the room in slow motion, trapped in a vacuum.

I stand up, feeling the sudden need to disturb the peaceful dust that's circling around me, but in my hurry immediately trip over the bottom drawer of my father's desk which has been left ajar, causing me to scatter all the papers in my lap all over the floor.

"S**t." I try to close the drawer with my foot but it seems to be stuck. I try to open it instead, hoping to loosen it. I put more force into it and it suddenly opens with a crack, nearly sending me flying back into the chair behind me. The first thing I see is golden liquid sloshing around inside a bourbon bottle. The seal of the bottle is broken, but it's full. My father rarely drinks, so it's no surprise it's been left untouched.

I pick it up and pull open the cork to take a sip, but I'm distracted by an old yellowed newspaper that was underneath it, hidden away under a few accountancy invoices. I pull out the newspaper and see the all-too-recognisable headline, from almost exactly one year ago. I don't need to read it, I know what happened that night. It seems fitting that the bottle of bourbon sits atop it, and I wonder how many times my father has opened this drawer and stared at the contents, only to close it again. I put the newspaper back where it was and carefully place the bourbon bottle on top before I reach for another stack of papers.

Chapter Three

I'm not sure how long I stay in the office sorting papers but at some point my eyes start to ache so I give up. The door clangs behind me as I lock the door and then pause on the street, fishing the keys out of my bag. I can tell it's getting late because the sun has dropped close to the horizon and the light is turning coppery pink.

Sandra is standing on the sidewalk smoking. Has she been here this whole time? Her sister, Susie, is sitting across from her in her fire engine red convertible. The two of them are talking excitedly to each other, hand gestures waving wildly in the air.

Mrs. Ferris walks by the two of them, likely on her way home from a late beauty salon appointment, and sneers purposefully in their direction; whether it's because of the noise emanating from the girls or their well-known reputations, I'm not sure.

A few drops of rain land on my forehead and I look up, waiting for more but nothing comes. False alarm for now, it seems. But the odd cloud up there looks moody.

I smile at Mrs. Ferris as she passes and she smiles back tensely. I'm not her favorite either. The town rumor is that my great grandfather and Mrs. Ferris' grandfather started the Beausville Tribune as a partnership. At some point, the Bingham's bought out the Ferris', but there seemed to be quite a lot of haziness about how it really happened.

I asked my father about it at one point, when little Edward Ferris had called us a family of thieves, but my father wouldn't elaborate. "It's gossip. Don't give it air, Zoe." Which is what he always said about that kind of talk.

I'd always had a feeling there was more to the story but hadn't pushed the subject. Nonetheless, all members of the Ferris family had always treated us with an element of scorn.

A familiar image behind Mrs. Ferris catches my attention. It's a photograph of a young man in the shop window. I remember when it was taken because I was there. The man's face is contorted into one of his fake smiles; it's not the crinkly-eyed smile when he laughed, but the kind he reserved for football parades and pep rallies. Most people in town remember him by this picture because it was the one used at the memorial.

"Hey!" Sandra yells at me, excitedly.

"Don't tell her," Susie hisses at her sister, slapping her in the arm. She knows I can hear her perfectly, but she doesn't seem to care. She's leaning with her elbows against the car door and snapping bubbles of her chewing gum. I imagine she thinks makes her look glamorous.

"Don't tell me what?" I ask.

"Never mind, just a bit of gossip is all," Sandra says, a slightly embarrassed look on her face. I wonder if maybe one of them has become engaged.

I'm about to ask again but then I remember what my father had said and think again. Better not give air to whatever nonsense they're consumed with.

--

I start up the car and pull into the road when I notice Kit's bar across the street seems to be full to the brim with people. Even on a long weekend like this, there's never enough people in town to fill the place up. I'm about to accelerate away but then curiosity gets the better of me. I hadn't seen Thorpe in days and I'm starting to get a bit desperate. But he's only 16, surely they wouldn't let him in there. But then it wouldn't be the first time.

I press on the brakes and guide the car against the curb again. The old junker has been playing up for weeks, so I have to slam on the brakes with all the effort my leg can exert for the car to eventually slow to a stop. Luckily there are no other cars parked along the side of the road or I would have crunched right into them. But Dusty the mechanic had sworn that there was nothing wrong. He'd even replaced the brake line just in case. Looks like it's time for a follow-up appointment.

My car is now half on the street and half on the curb, looking like it's been parked by a drunk maniac. I consider moving it, but then just shrug and jog across the street, skipping between the passing cars before I slip inside the bar.

Kit's is a dingy, wood-paneled rectangular room with a wooden bartop to the left and tall tables with stools scattered throughout the rest. I look around, trying to figure out why everyone is here, but can see nothing interesting at first glance. A sudden roar from a crowd at the back of the bar breaks the monotony of terrible music so I push through the dense group of people near me to investigate. The ancient jukebox at the end wall of the bar is the source of the music, making it difficult to hearing anything other than a dull hum of voices.

As I get closer I identify two tall men facing each other. One is wearing a baseball cap backward, the familiar North Carolina symbol visible from where I am. There's clearly a conflict brewing, with several other men surrounding them in a circle. Not again Thorpe.

I'm trying to push past a few round-bellied men when one of them grabs my arm firmly but not quite painfully. "Zoe Bingham, what do we have here? How's your mother?"

It's Eddie Ferris. He's having to yell over the music so drops of his spit are spraying my face when he clips the end of his words.

"Really Officer Ferris, how's my mother?" If you want to commit a crime in Beausville, make sure to do it after 5pm and you'll be able to dump the body before ol' Ferris even manages to drag himself off the bar stool.

I try to pry my arm loose but he digs his fingers in further.

"Let go!" I yell, a bit uselessly. I'm anxious to get to the back of the bar where the group is. I think about yelling out to Thorpe but I can barely hear my own voice, let alone get it to travel across the bar.

The song on the jukebox is coming to an end so I might be able to get someone to hear me then. Ferris seems to sense that he's causing a scene so he lets go of my arm and cracks a joke to his circle of friends behind my back as I walk away.

I'm only a few steps away from the crowd when I see the man across from my brother pull back his arm and shoot it forward, lightening quick. The music suddenly stops and the room is silent for a split second before it fills with a crack of flesh on flesh. It's a disgusting, wet sound that sounds both soft and crunching at the same time.

Someone falls onto his back, his head landing inches in front of my feet on the ground. He touches his face with his hands and pulls them away to look for blood. It's Thorpe, alright. What's he got himself into now?

--

I drop to my knees and pull Thorpe's his hands away from his face to take a look at his injuries.

"Thorpe, you okay? Say something." Please be okay. Please. please. He lets out a long, slow groan. I look up at the man attached to the swinging arm. On his face is a look of either pure shock or surprise. He moves forward hesitantly as if he's coming over to check if his victim is still alive. When he notices me kneeling next to Thorpe the look on his face transforms into something else, guilt perhaps. He runs a hand through his hair and grimaces.

I stand up and head straight for him, satisfied that my brother alive enough to lick his own wounds.

"What. The. Hell." I shove him in the chest with two hands at the last word and he falls backward against the jukebox.

"Zoe, easy." I hear Thorpe behind me, apparently on his feet again. The bar is still quiet since the jukebox hasn't restarted, possibly damaged by my attack on the man in front of me.

A pair of icy grey eyes is gazing down at me. Striking. It's the word that comes to mind instantly. It throws me off my mission for a moment as I take in his appearance. He's wearing a black leather jacket that looks worn in several places, possibly from the scuffle. He shoves his hand through his wavy hair, pulling it out of his eyes.

"Makes you feel good to punch a kid, does it?"

His eyebrows raise.

"Yeah, sixteen. He's a child." He leans his head back against the wall behind him and closes his eyes.

"Beer! More beer!" A man with slew of freckles across his face appears out of nowhere and steps in between me and the man. I recognize Sully instantly, even though he's added an extra 30lbs to his short stature.

"Oh look, it's another untouchable Bingham. Just a bit of fun, Zo. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

I cringe at the reference to the familiar phrase that Ryan often said. Just a bit of fun.

"Should we go ask Ferris if he wants to join in on the fun?" The threat has the desired effect. I back away from the two of them.

"Yeah. That's what I thought." Sully turns to walk away.

I spot a full bottle of beer on the bar to my left. The stranger stands stock still and watches me with amusement as I pick it up and pour it over his head. He looks down at his expensive looking jacket, bubbly beer rolling down it in miniature rivers, and laughs wryly.

Sully steps forward again. He's enraged now, the freckles flaming brightly. "Do you know who this is?"

I try to shrug as casually as I can and cross my arms. The stranger is grinning at me, as he blinks drops of beer from his eyelashes.

"I don't really care," I say, turning to make a beeline for the exit and grabbing my brother by the arm along the way. It wasn't true. I recognized him the instant I looked at his face more closely. It was a famous face. He had that expensive look about him like so many famous people do. Everyone here looked like wilted paper compared to him.

"Zo I was just -" Thorpe starts to explain once we reach the door. "Out. Now."

Chapter Four

Once we're out of the muggy, clammy bar the cool night air feels sobering and reassuring. We walk across the street to the car in silence, neither of us having much to say even though we haven't seen each other in days. It's never been easy with Thorpe. He'd been singled out among the three of us.

"What was that about?" I ask once we're moving.

Thorpe doesn't respond.

"Where have you been staying?"

He rubs his face furiously with his hands, my questions seeming to frustrate him.

"Tommy's. I've been at Tommy's, okay?"

"Okay." I'm just glad I'm finally getting an answer. "Thorpe -"

"Oh please, Zoe. I don't think you have the right to lecture me. You've done worse."

There's a long pause. Thorpe is avoiding the subject. But then again, he's not wrong about me either.

"Sure hope he didn't get his fancy jacket dirty," I say under my breath.

Thorpe smiles. "I did manage to rough it up a little," he says.

"You did that?"

He nods, grinning and I start laughing, even though I shouldn't. He gets into enough trouble these days. Damaging property of some pretty boy movie star isn't likely to be good for him.

"Ugh. Ferris will be after me I bet," he says with a groan.

"Just stay away from him. If he can't catch you - "

"He can't arrest you. Yeah, yeah we're not all track stars."

"Ha. Ha." I say, rolling my eyes and punching him in the arm. "Please, all it takes is a brisk walk."

We laugh freely for a few moments, more relaxed now. But soon the silence descends again, reminding us both how forced our relationship is these days. Maybe it's always been this way. The rest of the drive home is silent. Once we enter the house Thorpe makes for the stairs.

"Wait, are you gonna tell me what it was about?" I ask as he trudges up the steps. He just shrugs and keeps going. I guess I'll never know.

--

Instead of following Thorpe upstairs I head to the back of the house, which is dotted with wisteria which climb the side of the house and lean over the wrap porch that encircles the main floor. From far away the house looks grand, but up close you can see that the paint is faded, the wood is cracking and the floorboards creak under your weight.

The one thing I've always loved most about the house is the roof. It has a tin roof that raindrops ping off of, echoing in every room but especially the attic. It's a symphony in the house when it rains, like diamonds been dropped onto metal accompanied by splashes and drips of water down the drainpipes.

I head straight down the hall, which led past a couple sitting rooms and through the kitchen, and out onto the wooden porch. I could see Pop sitting on his favorite bench with the best view of the river. It no doubt had an indent of his body carved into it after all these years of sitting and smoking his pipe from the same spot.

"Hey, Pops."

He takes a puff from the pipe in his mouth and speaking through the smoke, "Sweetpea. You're back."

"I found Thorpe."

"Mm." He nods. I wonder if he noticed he was missing. I wonder whether I should trouble him with what happened tonight, but then my father doesn't have much interest in the day to day. And there's no point in alarming him further, especially since Thorpe is safe home now.

"Where's mama? Upstairs?" I ask. 

"Yup."

I put a hand on his shoulder, from where I'm still standing behind him. He grabs my fingers and gave them a bit of a squeeze before grasping the pipe again to take another puff out a couple smoke rings. As I walk past the doorframe in the kitchen I see notches carved into the wood of three sets of heights for three different children.

Once I'm on the upper floor I can hear music playing again, more clearly now than earlier today. The floorboards creak as I walk near the bedroom door and I hear the record player scratch to a halt in response, but there's no further sound.

I knock lightly on the door.

"That you, Josephine?"

"Yes, mama."

The record player starts up again and I hear Benny Goodman's voice croon fuzzily from behind the door. Hearing nothing further, I push the door open to find her lying on her bed with a facecloth over her eyes. She's dressed elegantly in a white satin dressing down with her hair perched atop her head like a terrified white rabbit.

"Mama."

"My love, my love." She doesn't remove the cloth from her eyes but reaches out an arm and waits for me to take her hand. I do and then sit on the bed next to her. She fusses with her gown blindly to make sure I'm not causing any creases by sitting on it.

"And where's Thorpe? He's not into any trouble, is he? He's a good little boy. But shh, don't you tell me any different" She reaches a hand to her eyes, pushing the cloth down forcefully. "I know what you think about him. You and Ryan team up against him."

"Mama, it wasn't like that."

"It is like that. Tell Ryan to be more like his mother, not his father."

"Oh, Mama." I cringe, not equipped to handle another one of her episodes tonight.

"All three of you are my babies and no mother could ever believe a bad thing about their child."

"Thorpe's fine mama, he's home."

"I knew he would be. He's the best out of you three, I've always told you that, you both should be more like Thorpe. Less...ambitious."

I clench my teeth, willing myself to stay quiet. "How are you feeling Mama? Need another cold cloth?"

"No, no. Don't fuss over me. Such a headache and the heat isn't anywhere near bad yet," she sighs, a little whine escaping.

"I don't know what I'll do. I'm just so exhausted, I can barely see a thing." She shakes her head slowly back and forth as if about to faint. When I don't respond she takes the cloth off her eyes to look at me.

"What have you done to your hair, Josephine?" She refuses to call me anything but Josephine. Zoe was a nickname Ryan had given me. It had somehow been easier for him as a toddler, and since then most people don't even know it's not my full name.

"You should get some sleep mama."

"It's so wild," she continues about my hair. "Please do something with it, those curls are out of control. What they must think of me in town when they see you like this. Don't you care about me?"

"Mama..." I put my face in my hands, bracing myself.

"And always with these simple dresses and little sneakers. You're not helping yourself one bit. You wouldn't need much, either, with those big eyes."

I've heard it many times that it's easy to tune it all out.

"Too bad they're so deep set, it makes you look tired all the time. Are you getting enough sleep? Those eyes didn't come from me, it must have been your father's side..."

She reaches out suddenly and in a rare moment of tenderness pulls me closer to her. She puts a hand on either side of my face, her palms touching at the point of my chin. "Like a heart."

I realize that now may be my chance for a serious and coherent conversation, "Mama, what will we do tomorrow? I think we need to do something to remember him, especially for Thorpe-"

She suddenly seems annoyed at my presence and drops her hands. "I'll manage on my own," she nods her head resolutely, not really listening to me. "Don't you worry about me now. I'm sure you have important things to do with your father."

She's covered her eyes again but her thin eyebrows drawn in half circles on her forehead shoot up and down with each word.

"But Mama -"

"Don't you 'but Mama' me. We have plenty of time to figure that out. And you'll always be here to help. You can't ever leave here Josephine, what will become of us here if you do. It's time you stayed in the real world, not up in that attic with your silly stories."

The statement hangs in the air between us.

"Of course, mama," I say with a sigh. "I'll always be here."

As I close the door to her room the record player restarts from the beginning. I can hear my mother humming a soft lullaby as I shut my bedroom door, singing to sleep a child that won't get any older.

--

"How is your mother?"

I'd not been able to sleep and sought out my father again on the back porch. Pops is still puffing away at his pipe when I crawl into the swing bench in the corner of the porch and curl my legs under me, grabbing the blanket that is permanently in this corner.

The pipe smoke drifts past my nose and it smells more like a neighboring bonfire than my father's tobacco. A few fireflies light up the purple wisteria branches and I can hear the crickets closer to the water.

"She seems to have some of her energy back."
"Mmhm," he murmurs, puffing out more smoke. He might be smiling out of the corner of his mouth, but I'm not sure because there's very little light left. I smile back at him anyway.

I'm trying to not think about tomorrow, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. My father won't even acknowledge Ryan existed, Thorpe wants to fight his way through it, and my mother wants to retreat into a haze of denial.

It also crosses my mind that I should seek out the movie star and attempt to smooth things over. The last thing we need is some sort of trouble. But then, he didn't look particularly angry so maybe he's not the vindictive type. Maybe Thrope will get off easy this time.

I had promised myself that I wouldn't get into any more trouble. But tonight I'd broken that promise. I'll do better tomorrow. I have to make sure we all don't fall apart. That's my responsibility. That's on me. The thoughts churn over and over in my mind as we look out at the still water in the distance and watch the rest of the day disappear.

--

I wake when it's still dark outside, which confuses me. In my dreams, I was following a moth that was trapped in a room. It was bouncing against a glass windowpane, trying to get out.

I could sense someone was swatting at it, just barely missing its wings which annoyed me because I was trying to help it escape. It was hard to tell if the hand was trying to kill it or set it free. I was trying to shoo it out the crack at the top of the window, but it wouldn't go in the right direction.

Then I looked down and realized the hand swatting at it was my own. My fingers had then transformed into the twisted branch of a tree, sinister and warped with green and brown moss dripping from it. The branches grew from my fingertips and wedged between the floorboards. It grew like ivy, snaking its way into the cracks and splitting the wood apart. It kept growing downwards, desperate to reach the soft earth underneath the foundations of the house.

The weight of the branches made my arms ache excruciatingly; I couldn't move them anymore. I felt the roots finally touch the earth, just before I woke with a start.

Stumbling out of bed I open my bedroom window, feeling the air rush into the room and cool my damp forehead. My eyes naturally follow the gravel road at the front of the house to the crossroads where two oak trees, barely visible in the dark night, black out the landscape atop their hill.

I stay there until I start to shiver. Then I crawl back into bed and dream about muddy tree roots curling around my limbs, pulling me somewhere dark and silent that I can't crawl back from.

Reviews

[Mal Shelton]

Very intriguing and well written! I myself am trying to still learn the art of first-person (I'm always more inclined to 3rd for some reason or another). I look forward to seeing more.

[LC Murray]

I know exactly how you feel. I will slip back into 3rd person mid-paragraph at times!