Into the Free Page 7

  Thin ribbons of rain are still trickling over us, and I walk two steps behind River all the way back to his camp. I like to watch how he moves through the world with slow, easy steps. He has absolutely no care at all about control, but he somehow manages to control everything and everyone around him. With no effort at all, he makes life fun and easy.

  “Tell me about the old woman,” I say. “The one who gave me the scarf.”

  “Babushka,” he says. “That’s what we all call her. Now, she’s one who can do a reading. A feisty one, for sure, but she’s got the gift like no other.”

  I can hardly wait to have her read my palm. “Race you,” I shout, and River keeps pace beside me, the soft wet ground giving way under our feet as we run.

  When we reach the camp, River introduces me to several friends and leads me to Babushka’s green tent. I’m nervous as she invites us in. I duck through the entrance. River kisses her cheeks. “I think you’ve already met Millie.”

  Babushka smiles and says, “Zheltaya. Yes.”

  River sits on the ground and motions for me to take a seat. The old lady is resting on a pallet but pulls herself up to sit. “Tea?” she asks, holding a chipped china cup out to me with shaky hands.

  “Yes, thank you.” I am chilled from the rain and eager to thaw my bones, but I wait for River and Babushka to be served, and then we all take long slow sips, happy to find the tea still warm and served with sugar.

  “Millie wants you to do a reading,” River says.

  “I can pay you,” I assure her. I pull a change purse from my pocket and open the clasp.

  Babushka reaches over me and closes it. “No need,” she says. “No reading today.”

  I look at River, eager for an explanation.

  “Not up to it?” he asks, working his charm. “I understand. We’ll try again later.”

  “No,” Babushka says. She blinks and rubs her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “We shouldn’t have disturbed you. We’ll let you rest.”

  “No,” she says again, louder this time. She grabs my hand and pulls me close to her. She smells of onions and goat cheese, and her voice is wet, but there is something about her that makes me feel welcome. “This belong to you,” she says. She pulls a small green pouch from the pocket of her skirt. It is made of felt, and she drops it into my hand. I have never seen it before, and I don’t know what to say.

  I pull the sides apart and turn it upside down. A small silver key drops into my palm, and Babushka says, “To know future, must know past.”

  I don’t have to ask what the key is for. I now know for sure that it was River who watched when Mama buried her box and threw her key into the water.

  I thank Babushka and River. I promise to return. Right now, I have somewhere I need to go, alone.

  CHAPTER 11

  I climb up the hill to the sycamore tree and press the felt pouch into my pocket. On my hands and knees, I stab the earth with my pocketknife. I scrape back layers of ivy, dirt, rock, and leaves, and there, under it all, is Mama’s wooden box.

  I pull it out of the ground and give it a good dusting. Then I slip the key from the little green pouch and poke it into the keyhole. Perfect fit. The lock clicks open, the lid snaps up, and Mama’s secrets are all revealed.

  I sit and look at the open box for a long time, not quite believing it really exists. Sliding into a daydream, I remember the day I spied on Mama, how she stood in the kitchen and told me she’d been cooking. The first time I realized she was capable of telling lies.

  A crow caws, jerking me from my daze, so I pull the first item from the box and examine it. It is a wrinkled business card, a bit torn on one corner with a thick crease from being folded in half. Printed on the front of the card are two bold lines that read Hank’s Tank Shoeshine Stand Serving Downtown New Orleans. On the back of the card, someone has written in thick black ink: Glory of God Revival Temple, The Reverend Hank Bordelon, Sundays 9:00 a.m., 74 Depot Street. The words mean nothing to me, and I can’t imagine why Mama would have bothered burying such a thing.

  I look back into the box for more clues. I am drawn to a smoke-stained family portrait. It shows a petite dark-skinned woman; a pale, freckled man; and two tanned teen boys with shiny smiles. I don’t recognize any of them, and I wonder if I’ve got relatives out there. Someone other than my mother’s parents, who want nothing to do with me. I can’t help myself. I feel a pulse of hope. A tiny shimmer of belief that someone out there might be looking for Mama and me.

  Next I find a Bible. Two silver cross bookmarks rest at the beginning and end of Luke. The pages of that book are tattered and worn more than the rest. There are no names at the front, no recordings of births or deaths, nothing to indicate who read this Bible so diligently. I flip through the pages. I find many verses underlined and pages folded lengthwise to mark special passages. One stands out in particular, with three dark stars sketched in the margins.

  But wilt thou know, O vain man, that faith without works is dead? (James 2:20)

  I return the Bible to the box and pull out a small boll of cotton. At first I think that’s all it is, a soft white ball of fluff with a hard seed left inside, but as I spin it inside my palm, I realize it’s not a seed at all. I unweave the fibers and find a shiny diamond ring, crafted for a woman and just a little too big for my left ring finger. I can’t imagine why Mama would have buried anything so valuable. I think of the rent due each month and can’t help but wonder how much a piece of jewelry like this might be worth.

  Finally, I find a light-blue baby blanket. Three dark letters are stitched into the right corner: JDR. Again, this means nothing to me. Could this belong to Jack? Jack Reynolds?

  “What do you think it all means?” I ask Sloth’s ghost. He is sitting on the bank with his feet in the river. He shrugs his shoulders and disappears.

  I put everything back in the box, lock it tight, and carry it back home to Mama. It’s time for me to ask for truth.

  By the time I get home, Mama is already asleep in her bed. The house is quiet. I draw a warm bath and put the box under my bed for safekeeping. I look through the items again before I go to sleep. I dream of River and of secrets unlocked.

  In the morning, I wake to find Mama in the kitchen cooking buttermilk biscuits. “Welcome back,” I say, happy to see Mama in my world again. She pours a thick drop of honey in the middle of her biscuit and bites into it with extreme satisfaction, as if she’s never once felt the blessing of honey on her tongue.

  I wonder if this is a good time to mention the key and the box. The gypsies have told me their stories, and now I want a story of my own. Maybe Babushka is right. Maybe I have to know my past in order to know my future.

  I am walking to my room to get the box when someone knocks on our door. I assume it’s a customer, bringing linens for Mama to iron, but just as I poke my arm under my bed to retrieve the box, Mama yells, “Millie. Someone’s at the door for you,” and I can barely stop myself from running to see River again.

  Mama stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Mama, this is River,” I say, unable to look her in the eye when I say his name.

  He saves me and says, “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. Beautiful place you’ve got up here.”

  Mama knows our house is not beautiful, with its leaking tin roof and wide cracks in the floor. It isn’t even ours.

  “I mean it,” River says. I realize he’s never had a home at all. Only a wagon and a tent. And I believe he’s really telling the truth, even when he adds poetic flavor in an attempt to impress Mama. “I’ve always wanted a place like this. The way the smoke swims right up the chimney like a school of fish, how the sheets blow across the clothesline like sails on a ship. Nothing short of magic, you ask me. You’ve even got chickens and a coop. What more could anyone wish for?”

  Mama smiles. She is warming to him.

  “The chickens were Sloth’s,” I say, not wanting to take credit. “I just feed them.”

  “Millie, it’s okay to call th
em yours. You’ve been taking care of those chickens your whole life,” Mama says.

  “Not really the same ones,” I say, remembering Sloth’s unique ability to tame his rooster. As a child, I thought nothing of it. Now, I realize what a gift he had. How even the rooster loved him. “Only King’s still around, barely.”

  “Impressive,” River teases. Then he notices the tall tower of books on the table. “What have you been reading now?” He runs his finger along the spines, examining the titles.

  “Those are Mama’s,” I say, volleying the attention back to my mother. She fixes a plate of biscuits and sets it on the table.

  “Help yourself,” she says to River. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Black,” he says. I look around for Sloth, knowing he would approve of River’s coffee choice. One of a “real man.” I’m sad to see he’s nowhere to be found.

  “Guess how River got his name,” I challenge Mama.

  “You were born in the water?” Mama asks.

  “Almost,” River answers. Then he tells her his story about surviving the rapids.

  “Millie’s a survivor too,” Mama says. I want to get River out of here before Mama tells River more than I want him to know.

  “That right?” River prods.

  “Sure is,” she quips. “She was just a little baby. Only three weeks old. I put her in the crib, and for some reason, I got the feeling I had to come right back inside and check on her. A signal, I guess. From God. Like your mom with you. When I came into the room, thousands of termites were swarming through the wall. They were pouring out from the wood and spilling over Millie’s crib. I brushed layers of them from her chest. The crib was completely covered. If I hadn’t come back to check on her, she could have died. Those termites would have swarmed in through her ears and nose and mouth.”

  “Wow,” River says. “That’s unbelievable.”

  “Exactly,” I say. I’ve heard this story a million times. “Thanks for the biscuits, Mama. We’re going to town.”

  Before River or Mama can protest, I pull River out the door.

  We don’t get off the porch before he says, “What’s the rush?”

  “I just figure you have better things to do than sit around listening to Mama talk about me,” I say.

  “Wrong,” he smiles. “Got nothing to do today but be with you. Besides, I want to know everything about you.”

  I feel weak. If there’s anything I don’t want to show him, it’s the truth of my life. “You are much more interesting, I assure you.”

  He doesn’t fall for it. “You’ve already seen everything about me. Not much else to know. But you, Millie. You’re still a mystery.”

  I pull him out into the yard and try to get him away from my worn-out house and my worn-down mother. “Really nothing to say. My father’s crazy. My mother, too. Anyone can tell you that.”

  “So where does that leave you?” he asks.

  I laugh. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out all my life.” But then tears pool in my eyes and I want to change the subject. I don’t want to talk about my own questionable madness and the fact that I see ghosts.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re the most sane person I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s scary!” I say, looking up at him. “Because since you met me I’ve been completely out of my mind.”

  “I’ve been watching you for years, Millie. You’re on the good side.”

  I laugh and wave him away, trying to hold tight to the fact that he’s noticed me all these years too. Then, I lead him over to Sloth’s place. A cat crawls through a broken window, trying to escape her kittens who are crying inside. We step up to the door, causing a roundheaded garden snake to slither across the porch. The cat slouches, eager to pounce. “Sloth didn’t care much if there were rat snakes in his yard or mice in his bins,” I say. “He’d usually just toss some crumbs to whatever creature had come to visit and let him be on his way.”

  River smiles and leans into Sloth’s front door. It opens, and we move inside. The salty smell of Sloth covers me.

  I find a broom in the corner and start to sweep. It crosses my mind that River and I could live here. We could fix up Sloth’s cabin and start a family of our own.

  River moves to Sloth’s rocking chair, sits, and plays his harmonica, and I love that he is with me here. “I know it’s strange, but I’ve always liked to sweep,” I tell River, sweeping piles of yellow pollen into the dustpan, losing most of it right back to the wind.

  “Millie,” he says my name as if there is magic in it. “Start from the beginning. Tell me who you are.” He’s looking at me with wanting. A wanting for my lips, my hands, my stories. I’ll start with my stories. I’m not sure why I am willing to trust this boy, but suddenly I want to show him every dark corner of my soul. I want to let his light shine in.

  I swing the broom back and forth across Sloth’s dusty floor and I spill my secrets, one by one. River leans against Sloth’s chair and I bring him back in time with me, through the dog-eared pages of my tattered life.

  CHAPTER 12

  It’s been four days since River let me sit beside him at the fire. Four days since he led me into the high grasses and gave me a kiss that changed my whole world. In those four days, we’ve hardly been apart. I haven’t even been to school, knowing River’s time in Iti Taloa is limited and not wanting to waste a single second that I could be with him. This morning, I wake to find him on the porch again. Talking to Mama.

  “Just a little poetry,” Mama says, holding up a book to show River what she’s reading.

  “Mama grew up in a library.” I lean against the front door and greet them, remember Mama’s stories about her childhood as a preacher’s daughter. I think of Mama’s box tucked under my bed, and I wonder if her father has anything to do with the name of the church written on the back of the business card.

  “Oh, not really,” Mama says, blushing as if she’s a girl again. There’s something hopeful and alive in her. “I did grow up working in the library, but it was just a small one. Nothing more than a closet, really. In my father’s church. Books were my salvation.”

  River nods in understanding. “Favorite book?”

  “Psalms,” Mama says, and I hope she doesn’t start quoting Scripture.

  “Good one.” River tosses her a quote. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

  “Thirty, verse five,” Mama says, drawing her face into a genuine smile for the first time in months.

  I’m amazed by River’s ability to memorize passages. No doubt, he has a gift. “How do you do that?” I ask.

  “Just a little trick I learned a long time ago. Makes for easy tips in most towns.”

  Mama laughs, and I love the sound of it. I can’t help but hope that River stays. That Jack leaves. And that Mama never goes back to the valley again.

  Just as I start planning to stick around the house today, open the box, and have a long talk with Mama, a housekeeper shows up with a basket of laundry. I wait to make sure Mama can handle the work. She assures me she can, so I take River into the woods, along a familiar trail, to one of my favorite childhood hideouts.

  “One spring,” I tell him, “the fire chief’s nephew went missing for three weeks straight. Boaters found him camped out on the river in his jon boat, living off of bream and bass. He insisted he was Jesus on the Sea of Galilee and that the fishermen had been sent by God to serve as his disciples. Supposedly, his parents responded by sending him to live with his aunt out in Texas, but everybody knew he was sent to the East Mississippi Insane Asylum.”

  I point to the big brick building across the river. “We call it ‘East.’”

  When I was a child, I heard they locked people up in there, put them in straitjackets, and performed experiments on them—like lab rats or medical monkeys. For years after he got sent there, I had the same nightmare over and over again. I’d wake up with my sheets soaking wet and my throat lodged shut, too fright
ened to scream or cry or breathe.

  In my dream, the doctors from East roared into town with their quack exams and classified everyone as insane. In the dark of night, they hauled us all away in cars with no glass in the windows. Cold wind snapping my cheeks as long ribbons of sedans slithered their way along the dark, dusty trails, like newborn black racer snakes leaving the nest.

  Some things about the dream would change from night to night, but one thing was always the same. I was always trapped in a car with a nameless, faceless driver. I would sit in the wide backseat, propped against the door, peering out into the nothingness of night and whispering to the barren trees that blurred past me like ghosts. “Come and save me,” I would whisper in the hush-hush screams that exist only in dreams. Every time the trees would sing, “In the spring. In the spring. We will save you in the spring.”

  I believed them because I’d heard that God talks to us in our dreams.

  “I figure I’ll end up there by the time I’m eighteen,” I say, tossing a rock into the air, half hoping to hit the towering asylum. “How old are you now?” River asks.

  “Sixteen,” I confess. Ashamed I’m not yet seventeen, like he is.

  “You’ve got two good years left.”

  We both laugh, and then he adds, “Were you born the year of the flood?”

  “March 21, 1926. One year before the flood.”

  “There’s my proof!” he teases. “Interesting things do happen in the spring!” He leans me back against a shagbark hickory and fills me with his touch.

  I surrender and say, “Technically, it wasn’t spring. If you want to know the truth, my birth occurred during the in-between space, the vernal equinox.” I shift my voice and try to sound intelligent, hoping to teach him something he doesn’t already know. “That means I broke out of the womb and swam headfirst into this world when the sun was sitting directly above the equator in perfect balance. Just before the Northern Hemisphere began its gradual tilt toward the sun and winter turned to spring.”