The Secret Sense of Wildflower Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  P.S.

  About the Author

  Interview with Susan Gabriel

  Reading Group Guide

  Other Books by Susan Gabriel

  The Secret Sense of Wildflower

  a novel by

  Susan Gabriel

  Wild Lily Arts

  The Secret Sense of Wildflower

  Copyright © 2012 by Susan Gabriel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012936549

  ISBN: 978-0-9835882-4-5

  Wild Lily Arts

  Praise for The Secret Sense of Wildflower

  “Louisa May immerses us in her world with astute observations and wonderfully turned phrases, with nary a cliché to be found. She could be an adolescent Scout Finch, had Scout’s father died unexpectedly and her life taken a bad turn...By necessity, Louisa May grows up quickly, but by her secret sense, she also understands forgiveness. A quietly powerful story, at times harrowing but ultimately a joy to read.” - Kirkus Reviews

  "In this the story about a young girl who must grow up faster than her time and make peace with several factors there is also mystery and drama along with the palpable female protagonist and soulful narrative to keep the reader emotionally charged and invested. The Secret Sense of Wildflower is eloquent and moving tale chock-filled with themes of inner strength, family and love." - Maya Fleischmann, indiereader.com

  Also by Susan Gabriel

  Fiction

  Temple Secrets

  Grace, Grits and Ghosts:

  Southern Short Stories

  Seeking Sara Summers

  Circle of the Ancestors

  Quentin & the Cave Boy

  Nonfiction

  Fearless Writing for Women:

  Extreme Encouragement & Writing Inspiration

  Available in print, ebook and audio formats.

  For my daughters

  Krista and Stacey

  Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow:

  they neither toil nor spin;

  and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory

  was not arrayed like one of these.

  Matthew 6:28-29

  CHAPTER ONE

  There are two things I am afraid of. One is dying young. The other is Johnny Monroe. Whenever I see him I get a creepy feeling that crawls up the length of my spine. Daddy used to say that fear is a friend that teaches us life isn’t to be played with. Friends like this I can live without.

  On my way to the graveyard I run into Johnny standing by the road. His smile shows shreds of chewing tobacco caked around the edges of his teeth. But the scariest thing is the look in his eyes when he sees me or my sisters. He is like a wildcat stalking his next meal. People living in the mountains know that anytime you come across a wildcat you don’t look it in the eye or make sudden moves. Every time I see Johnny Monroe I slow down and stare at the tops of my shoes.

  “Hey, Louisa May.” Johnny drawls out my name. At sixteen, he is nearly four years older than me, and is a good six inches taller, even slouched. He dropped out of school in the sixth grade and spends a lot of time just standing around.

  I wish I’d turned back when it first occurred to me. Aunt Sadie, Daddy’s sister, calls this my secret sense. The secret sense is a nudge from somewhere deep inside that keeps you out of harm’s way if you listen to it. Aunt Sadie is full of ideas that most people don’t cater to. Not to mention that she never married, a fact that makes some people nervous, and sometimes wears a fedora. Sadie collects herbs and roots to make mountain remedies. People come from all over to have her doctor them with red clover blossoms and honey to cure their whooping cough or to get catnip mint to soothe their colicky babies. She also makes the best blackberry wine in three counties.

  “What’s the matter, girl, you deaf?” Johnny says.

  “I’m not talking to you,” I hiss behind clinched teeth.

  “But you’re talking to me right now,” he says. He grins.

  “Go away,” I say. I focus on the worn spot at the end of my shoe and roll my shoulders forward so Johnny will stop staring at my chest, even though there’s nothing much to stare at.

  “Where’s that sister of yours?” Johnny asks.

  I know he means Meg. Johnny asks after her every chance he gets.

  “I wouldn’t mind getting her out behind those bushes. She’s not scrawny like you are, Louisa May.” Johnny laughs.

  An empty tin can sits on the ground next to him and he spits a mouthful of tobacco juice toward the can. It pings against the side. Only Johnny would make a sport of spitting into a can with “cling peaches” written on the side. He could just as well spit on the road, but he appears to take pride in the “ping,” like a dart thrower hitting the bright red bull’s-eye in the center of the board.

  “Maybe I should just settle for scrawny,” he says. But it seems he’s talking more to himself than to me.

  To keep the words from spewing out, I bite my bottom lip hard. I want to call Johnny a low-life and a good-for-nothing, which is exactly what he is. Instead, I shuffle forward and don’t look up again until I reach the bend in the road. When I glance back Johnny is still watching me and licks his lips.

  Before Johnny, I can’t say I ever hated anyone. I’ve come close a couple of times, with Doc Lester and Preacher Evans, who have the obnoxious habit of acting like they are better than everybody else. They remind me of gnats and I just want to take a newspaper and shoo them away. But Johnny is more like a black widow spider. He stands on that corner every day hoping some unsuspecting girl will fall into his web.

  In my weaker moments, I feel sorry for Johnny. Life must be desperate and lonely standing on that road, kicking rocks all day. Not to mention that he doesn’t have a mother. Word is she died from tuberculosis when he was nine. Mama said once that his old man hates kids and would just as soon sell them if he could get a decent price.

  “Hey, girl,” Johnny calls after me. “Come back here and talk.” But I know better than to look back.

  Johnny has a sister my age named Ruby and another sister named Melody who is probably around ten by now. Ruby doesn’t come to school anymore, just stays home to cook and clean for Johnny and the old man. Her younger sister Melody never even started school. I’ve tried to talk to Ruby a few times, but she won’t have any part of people around here. Every time I see her she looks like she’s made best friends with misery. She is as slight as a thirteen-year-old girl can be, but she drags herself around like she carries a fifty pound sack of potatoes on her back.

  Meanwhile, Johnny stands out on that road like he’s waiting for his
mother to come back and make his life different than it is. That doesn’t make the things he says to me right, or make Meg want to give him the time of day, but in a way I think I understand why Johnny is stuck on that road. He’s waiting for a better life to show up since he’s been dealt such a crummy one.

  If Daddy was here he’d knock Johnny Monroe’s rotten teeth right out of his head for looking at me the way Johnny does. But Daddy is one of those markers in the graveyard where if you subtract the years, you know he was thirty-eight when he died almost a year ago. Every few days I walk up the hill and sit with him and tell him about things in my life so we don’t lose touch. That’s where I’m headed right now. I won’t tell him about Johnny, though, because I wouldn’t want him to worry.

  Sometimes when I’m at the graveyard I’ll hear Daddy talking back to me. Mama would say that’s just my imagination working overtime, but Sadie would say it’s the secret sense. I’m grateful for it, whatever it is. If we run out of things to catch up on, I’ll ask Daddy to talk to God for me. Mainly I have questions, like does a praying mantis really pray? And why does God send lightning to hit old dead trees? And why did Johnny Monroe have to end up here in Katy’s Ridge? I’ve found a favorite sitting spot by Daddy’s grave so I can wait for him and God to answer. They haven’t so far, but I have time to wait. Time is about the only thing I have plenty of in Katy’s Ridge. That, and chigger bites.

  With Johnny out of sight, I quit looking at my shoes, pull back my shoulders and approach the shortcut I found to Daddy’s final resting place. The old trail meanders up the mountain and to the far corner of the graveyard where they pile all the dead flowers. The path is so overgrown in spots I have to guess which way it points. And it has a footbridge built across the highest point of the stream that has only one sturdy board left. The rest I wouldn’t trust to hold a cricket.

  A dogwood tree on the shady side of the hill marks the beginning of the trail. That old dogwood is twisted and tangled from fighting its way toward sunlight. But all that struggling has made it beautiful. Thick underbrush hides the trail behind it like a locked gate. As far as I know, nobody else is aware of this old path. With three older sisters, who have already done everything before me, having a secret way through the woods is like finally having something of my own.

  I look all around to make sure no one is watching before I enter the path. Gossip travels the grapevine in Katy’s Ridge like Western Union telegrams. If anybody sees me, Mama will know in a matter of minutes. Minding your own business isn’t the way of mountain people in Tennessee in 1941, though sometimes I wish it was.

  The coast clear, I duck behind the tree and take the secret path. The trail travels a steep hill before it levels out and dips down into the valley again. The footbridge is about halfway between home and the graveyard.

  At the bridge, I do my good luck ritual that I’ve used since I was a little girl. It has three parts. Daddy used to say that threes always happen in fairy tales: three wishes, three ogres, three sisters. Whenever a “three” shows up you can expect some kind of magic to take place. No matter how old I get, I’ll use magic, luck, or my own prayer meeting, if it means I get safely across that bridge.

  My sister, Meg, gave me a rabbit’s foot key chain from Woolworth’s last Christmas. I retrieve it from my pocket and squeeze out a dose of good luck. Then I ask Daddy to watch out for me, calling on God and his angels if need be. After that I kiss the dime-sized gold medallion that I have worn around my neck ever since Daddy died. The medallion used to belong to my Grandma McAllister. Engraved on it is a picture of the baby Jesus sitting on his mother’s lap. I like looking at the sweet smile on her face on account of my mother hardly ever smiles anymore.

  All us girls got something after Grandma McAllister died. Jo got fancy doilies and things, Amy got some of her books and Meg got a set of her dishes. I would have liked to have the books, since I’ve been a tomboy most of my life and was never much of a jewelry person. But Daddy said, since I got the medallion, that I was the luckiest one because Jesus’ mother watches out for people. Standing at the bridge, this seems as good a time as any for her to watch out for me.

  Before they moved to the United States, the McAllister’s were all Catholic. Sometimes I would see Daddy cross himself the way the Catholics do. It was usually when nobody else was around. Mama’s folks were Lutheran. But after Mama and Daddy moved to Katy’s Ridge they joined the Baptists just to keep the peace. At least that’s how Daddy put it.

  Little Women is Mama’s favorite book. A worn copy of it sits on her dresser right next to the King James Bible. I was named after the lady who wrote it, Louisa May Alcott. Destiny must have rewarded Mama for her devotion to the book because she gave Daddy four daughters, just like the March family in the book. My older sisters, Amy, Jo, and Meg, were each named after somebody in the book. Another sister, Beth, died two days after she was born. This explains how I ended up with the name Louisa May, because all the good names were already taken.

  I am the youngest McAllister. Jo and Amy, my two older sisters, each got married last spring and live in Katy’s Ridge, right down the road from our house. Meg, my closest sister in age, graduated from Rocky Bluff High School last year but still lives at home and works at the Woolworth’s store in the town of Rocky Bluff. I like having Meg around because she smoothes things out between Mama and me. Even on our best days, we are like vinegar and soda, always reacting. When Meg isn’t there, Mama and I do our level best to avoid each other.

  The board of the old footbridge creaks and sways when I step onto it and I have to hold out my arms to steady myself. I shot up like a weed last year, from 4 feet, seven inches to 5 feet 3 and I am still not used to this willowy version of myself.

  As far as I can tell, the secret to not falling is to keep your arms out and your feet moving in a straight line, which is probably the one good thing that has come from looking at my shoes so much around Johnny Monroe. While I summon my courage, I am reminded of the pictures I saw once of trapeze artists crossing a wire at a circus. My knees start to shake and I tell them to stop. If I’m not careful I could shake myself right into an early grave. I bite my lip, which for some odd reason also helps me keep my balance.

  Even though I am nearly thirteen years of age, if Mama knew I was crossing this old bridge she’d give me a good talking to, using all three of my given names while she did.

  Louisa May McAllister, what were you thinking? Don’t you know you could fall in and bust your head against the rocks? You’d be dead in an instant. Then what would I do?

  Mama has a way of asking a question that makes my head hurt.

  Safe on the other side of the footbridge, I sit cross-legged on the ground and take a few deep breaths. The mountain feels solid underneath me and I thank it for holding me up. I also take time to thank Daddy, my rabbit’s foot, and the mother of our good Lord, by way of Grandma McAllister, for helping me get across and not fall into the chasm.

  After I begin my trek again, I follow the path that winds up the hill like a snake. At the top of the hill I push open the rusty gate at the back of the graveyard and enter. In the distance stands the willow tree draping its branches above Daddy’s final resting place.

  The summer before he died, we made fishing poles out of its branches and he told me stories about our people buried here, especially my baby sister Beth. He never failed to mention how old she’d be if she hadn’t died, which is always one year older than me at any given moment.

  It is still strange to think of Daddy being under the ground in a wooden box, even if his spirit has gone off to live in heaven. It seems like his bones would get to go, too. But Preacher says you throw off your body at the end, just like you throw off an old coat you are tired of wearing. Maybe your bones weigh you down when you get to heaven if you take them with you. I don’t know.

  I am one month away from my thirteenth birthday and the only girl I know who hangs out in graveyards. But if you don’t mind being around dead people, it has a b
eautiful view overlooking the Tennessee River. Thick, old maples and oaks grace the hillside and the nearby stream empties into the river at the bottom of the hill. In the distance stands the small Baptist church practically everybody in Katy’s Ridge attends. A large weeping willow grows in the center of the graveyard. A willow whose leaves sweep the ground when the wind blows, just like Mama sweeps our porch in the evenings. Last fall it wept down gold, almond-shaped leaves on top of Daddy’s grave, and I knew he must be smiling because he always said he’d struck gold when I was born.

  “Hi Daddy,” I say to his tombstone.

  I sit under the willow tree and cross my long legs up under me. With my finger, I trace the dates, 1902-1940, feeling the coldness of the stone. Daddy is the one who nicknamed me “Wildflower” when I was ten-years-old. He said the name fit me perfect since I’d sprung up here in the mountains like a wild trillium. Trillium will take your breath away if you see a patch of them. Daddy had a way with words, like a poet, and not just with me. He could make Mama smile faster than anything. Sometimes he’d get her laughing so hard she’d hold her sides till tears came to her eyes. All us kids stood around with our jaws dropped. To see Mama laugh was as rare as snow in August.

  “We miss you, Daddy,” I say. “All of us do, especially Mama. But we’re doing all right, I guess.”

  He would want to know that we’re doing all right and sometimes I tell him this even when we aren’t.

  Daddy always put his arms around Mama in the kitchen or laid an extra blanket on the bed because he knew she got cold in the middle of the night when the fire died down. No matter if he was sweating he kept Mama warm. But there aren’t enough blankets in the world to make up for Daddy being gone. Sometimes I wonder if she ever gets mad at him for going away. I know I do. After the sadness gnawed me numb, I got pissed as a rattlesnake that he hadn’t been more careful while working at the sawmill, and that he’d left us all alone.