Lily's Song Read online

  Nobody in Katy’s Ridge will talk about who my daddy was. I’ve been told that he died before I was born. But when I ask for his name and what he was like, people tell me to ask Mama. Then when I ask her, she says some things are better left unsaid.

  My best friend Pearl thinks my daddy must have been someone Mama met in Rocky Bluff. Maybe a soldier passing through or a traveling salesman. But Mama isn’t the type to take up with someone for just a day or two. She’s slow to warm to strangers, although I’ve heard from her sisters this wasn’t always the case. Maybe Granny isn’t the only one who changed after Granddaddy McAllister died.

  The breeze rattles the leaves on the weeping willow behind us. The branches sway over our heads. The sound reminds me of the electric fan on Mama’s dresser that lulls me to sleep on hot nights. I recall the dream again from the night before and wonder if the man in the shadows is my daddy. If I were living in a fairy tale and was granted three wishes, my first wish would be to know who my daddy was. The second wish would be to understand why Mama refuses to tell me. And my third wish would be to live anywhere but Katy’s Ridge.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wildflower McAllister

  Aunt Sadie says Lily’s singing talent is repayment for the way she entered this world. She possesses a voice that can make people drop to their knees. I tend to agree that God’s hand might be in on it, though God and I have barely spoken for decades now. I also wonder if Daddy might be in on it, too. It would be just like him to make sure things go well for us.

  Lily lowers her head into my lap, something she doesn’t do that often anymore now that she’s fourteen, the age I was when I had her. Her hair is darker than mine, the color of chestnuts. Brown eyes, too, while mine are blue. At times, her features remind me of the one person I most want to forget. Not only in her height—she’s taller than me—but also in the way she stands. Like she’s waiting at a crossroads for something to happen.

  After Daddy died, I sometimes fell asleep on his grave. My sister Jo would come looking for me. Now it is my daughter who sleeps here. Maybe we all sleep on the bones of our ancestors in one way or another. Each one of us a descendant who eventually becomes the one who came before.

  I rest an arm on Lily’s shoulder. I’ve spent fourteen years working to keep her safe. Trying not to hold on so tight that she can feel my grasp. Determined she will never go through what I went through. Determined to keep the secret of how she came into this world. Knowing, too, that the biggest secret I carry has nothing to do with her.

  Seconds later, Lily startles awake and looks up at me. Her face flushes, as though caught doing something childlike. More and more I feel her distance, her letting go of me so she can grow up and grab hold of herself. Do daughters ever get fully free from our mamas? It doesn’t help that I still live in my mama’s house, but I could never afford to live and raise Lily on my own.

  Lily sits up, pulls back her long hair and then lets it fall like the tail flick of a chestnut mare. I miss the warmth of her head against my thighs—the closeness that has become rare in the last year.

  “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done the same thing,” I say, to soften her embarrassment. “That first year after Daddy died, Mama was sending your Aunt Jo up here to get me all the time.” I stare out at the river. A scene that’s changed very little since those days.

  Over the years, I’ve grown impatient with cemeteries. More and more I feel the need to have community with the living. I’m twenty-eight-years-old. Daddy was only thirty-eight when he died. Ten years older than I am now. A lump of emotion catches in my throat, the grief revisiting like an unwelcomed guest.

  “We’d best head back to help your granny,” I say. “Everybody’s coming to supper in a couple of hours.”

  Lily stands first and then offers me a hand. We brush the dirt and leaves off our pants and walk back toward the back gate. At first, we walk hand-in-hand like we used to when Lily was a girl. Perhaps since this is the anniversary and nobody’s looking, she is allowing me this pleasure from her childhood.

  “Mama, how old were you when you had your first kiss?” she asks.

  Like me as a girl, Lily asks lots of questions. Her curiosity is like her appetite; she’s always hungry. I pause, wondering how to answer. For most females, the answer is clear, but does a forced kiss count?

  “My first real kiss was with Victor Sweeney,” I say, deciding it doesn’t. “He was the brother of my best friend, Mary Jane.”

  “What happened to him?” Lily asks.

  “Victor moved away a long time ago,” I say.

  “Why?”

  This was Lily’s primary question since the age of three, nearly driving me crazy with its repetition. Mama always thought it humorous.

  What goes around, comes around, she’d say, often with a smile.

  “A lot of people move away from Katy’s Ridge to get better work,” I answer.

  In truth, this wasn’t why Victor left. After Mary Jane moved to Little Rock to go to college and live with her grandmother, Victor took over running his family’s store in Katy’s Ridge. We had several dates back then—going into Rocky Bluff to see a movie and summer picnics at Sutter’s Lake. Lily was only one year old. As much as I tried to convince myself that Victor would make a good father for Lily, he felt more like a brother than a potential husband.

  It didn’t help that people here in Katy’s Ridge were slow to let me forget how Lily came into this world. Not that they said a word. It was their looks that spoke their condemnation, as if I was to blame. Victor began to lose business just by dating me. In the end, it was no surprise he closed the store and moved away. Last I heard, he’s married now with three small children, and sells insurance in Memphis. How would life be different if I was the wife of an insurance salesman?

  Mary Jane and I stopped being friends that summer after Lily was born. Sometimes I still miss her. Aunt Sadie says my life simply took a different road than Mary Jane’s did, leaving us nothing left to do except wish each other a safe journey.

  “What are you thinking about?” Lily asks, as we continue to walk.

  “Victor,” I say.

  “You’ve told me about him,” she says. “He’s the one you swear isn’t my daddy.”

  “Still true,” I say, wishing Lily would drop it. I don’t want to deal with all her questions today.

  We take the path down the mountain that has grown over in places and lift our clasped hands to avoid the briars and vines that take over the trail and grab at our ankles.

  “Have you ever thought of leaving Katy’s Ridge?” she asks, letting go of my hand.

  We stop on the path. A flicker of fear passes through me. I wonder briefly if her question about kissing was simply a warmup to this one. “I did think of leaving right after you were born,” I say, surprising myself with my candor.

  “Why didn’t you?” she asks.

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  “I like long stories,” she says.

  Lily can be relentless when searching out the truth of things.

  “The McAllisters have been here since the 1840s,” I say, as if this is reason enough to stay. “Besides, I run the saw mill that your granddaddy used to run. If I left, it would probably shut down.”

  A woman in backwoods Tennessee running a sawmill is unusual, but I needed to make money doing something. Not to mention, Mr. Blackstone—the owner of the mill—had sufficient guilt over what happened to Daddy to agree to take me on.

  Lily eyes me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve, and it reminds me of how I used to look at Mama.

  “In case you’re wondering, I haven’t kissed any boys yet,” she tells me.

  I hide my relief.

  “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” she asks. “That I haven’t been kissed?”

  I put a hand on her shoulder, pretending I have the wisdom of Aunt Sadie.

  “Lily, coming to love someone is a long, slow process. It’ll happen, but you
’re still young.”

  “I’m not that young,” she says, as if I’ve insulted her.

  “Makes no sense to push the river,” I say.

  My own love life is more complicated than anyone can imagine, not that Lily knows a thing about it.

  “Have you ever been in love?” she asks.

  Her question gets me walking again, and she has to run a bit to catch up.

  “My love life is none of your business, Lily McAllister.”

  “So you did have one at some point?” she asks, hiding a grin.

  I stop long enough to point a finger at her. “Where did you learn to be so sneaky?” I say with a smile. “You’re like a fox stealing eggs from Mama’s hen house.”

  “I know you don’t have anybody now,” she says with conviction.

  You’d be surprised, I want to say, but tighten my lips instead. Loose lips sink ships, Daniel likes to say, ever since he came back from World War II.

  We approach the section of the path where my life changed forever. Somber now, I slow my gait. It is the anniversary of another death that feels just as real. In a way, it is the death of my childhood, or at the very least my innocence.

  “It’s so beautiful here,” Lily says, not knowing the history of this place. She doesn’t ask why we always linger here. Beauty gives us reason enough.

  Over a decade ago, I planted thousands of seeds of wildflowers in this spot. Today the last of the autumn flowers are in bloom. Several river rocks tower among them like monuments built to honor past wars. Fourteen years ago, I could have easily died here. In the early spring the tiger lilies I planted remind me of the gold Mary, the vision that visited me that day.

  Nobody knows what really happened here. I told parts of it to Daniel and Mama and the sheriff from Rocky Bluff who came to the house that day. I told them just enough to quiet them. My heartbeat quickens, and I take a deep breath to calm the nerves that want to come. I’ve done what I can to make peace with this place, and most days I’m fine. But something about today has awakened my secret sense. However, what I am to be watchful about is still unclear.

  Aunt Sadie says the secret sense is the wisest part of us. It knows when something’s not right and steers us clear of what’s bad for us. It also guides us toward what is right, and sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which. That day, fourteen years ago, I didn’t listen when it told me not to go to the cemetery. But, over the years, I’ve become better at listening. At least I hope I have.

  Opening Daddy’s pocket watch, I check the time. It is nearly 3 o’clock and the sun sits atop the tallest ridge. Supper is at 4:30.

  “We’d best get home,” I say.

  We continue walking, kicking leaves as we go. I didn’t anticipate staying at the cemetery this long, or the length of Lily’s nap. I didn’t anticipate what happened fourteen years ago, either. A lot of what happens to us is unexpected.

  “Tell me a story you’ve never told me before,” Lily says. “Like if you could only tell me one more story in my entire life, what would it be?”

  “It would be about the gold Mary,” I say, before I have time to talk myself out of it.

  “The gold Mary?” she repeats.

  I pause, wondering what compelled me to talk about this now. But it is a good story. At least it is if I leave all the bad parts out.

  “I saw her right about here,” I begin. “The sun had already dropped low behind the mountain and it was getting dark.”

  A shiver comes, and I shake it away like a chill. I leave out why she came to me. Details I hope Lily never knows.

  “She was like a vision except she seemed real as anything,” I continue. “Just like you and me. But I could see through her to the trees behind.”

  Lily is as quiet as I’ve ever known her. The fallen leaves are so dry under our feet they sound like short bouts of applause.

  “Do you think the gold Mary has anything to do with the whispers?” Lily asks.

  “The whispers?”

  “You know, the whispers that happen at the footbridge.”

  I stop and look at her. “I don’t hear whispers when I cross the footbridge.”

  “You don’t?”

  Lily looks surprised. I am about to ask her more questions when she insists that I continue the story. She promises to tell me about the whispers another time.

  “When did you see the gold Mary? Was it on the anniversary?” She looks around as if hopeful we might see her again.

  “Yes it was,” I say, “and Daddy was with her. He had died the year before. He seemed real, too. I remember thinking at the time that he had brought the gold Mary to me.”

  Her eyes widen. “How come you’ve never told me about this?” she asks, all serious.

  I wonder why she hasn’t told me about the whispers.

  “I haven’t told anyone about her,” I say. “Only you.”

  Despite her seriousness, she looks pleased.

  “But why did the gold Mary come to you? What happened?”

  I tell her I don’t know, all the while hoping a lightning bolt doesn’t get tossed at me for the lie I just told. I’m not sure why I am telling Lily about the gold Mary at all, except that whenever we pass this place I think of her.

  Lily stares at the gold medallion around her neck that I gave her for her last birthday, as if all of a sudden realizing its meaning.

  “I only saw her that once, but what’s strange is I have moments when I miss her terribly,” I begin again. “Plenty of times I’ve wondered if I just imagined her.”

  Lily’s gaze shifts from the necklace to me. I didn’t plan to tell Lily this much, and wonder if I’ve overdone it.

  “I wish you’d just tell me who my daddy is,” Lily says, as if taking advantage of a small opening. “I don’t understand why it has to be such a big secret.”

  My attention darts down the path like an animal looking for a place to hide. I do not deny my daughter anything, except this.

  “Just tell me, Mama. I don’t understand why you won’t.”

  I know she deserves to know, but as many times as I’ve thought of different ways to tell her, I never have the courage to say the words. What if she blames me for what happened?

  “Lily, I can’t do this right now.” I feel more sad than angry. The anniversary always weakens me.

  The McAllister women are known for being strong. Sometimes, too strong. Strong enough to scare away tears that are better off shed. My face warms with a familiar shame. Does Lily not see the way the old women at the church look at me? Or how they look at her when they think nobody else is watching? In those moments, my sisters literally surround Lily, to protect her from the judgment. Christians can be some of the worst people there are for judgment.

  Why can’t I just tell her? I ask myself.

  Aunt Sadie and I have talked numerous times about this. But the truth always lodges in my throat, making me mute. If I tell Lily, she will never see herself the same way again. I can’t risk that.

  We continue walking, this time faster. Anger sweeps down the mountain with the shame. Lily offers an apology, as if she knows she’s caused me to flee.

  “Why can’t you leave well enough alone?” I ask, although I know if our positions were reversed I’d be asking the same questions.

  The only sound is the thundering water in the deepest part of the ravine.

  “I have no one to visit in the cemetery, Mama,” Lily begins, her words soft. “You’ve told me he’s dead, but I don’t know where he’s buried. I don’t even know how he died. Can you at least tell me that much?”

  “Not now, Lily,” I say. “Not now.”

  Chased by the past, I approach the footbridge. Fourteen years ago today, I was too injured to cross this bridge. Today, I barely slow down and walk straight across without doing any of the rituals I’ve practiced since I was a girl.

  Without meaning to, I have fallen into the depths of my history. The history that lies at the bottom of the ravine. I think of Lily hearing whispe
rs here and wonder if she’s inherited an aspect of the secret sense after all.

  A nagging from somewhere deep inside informs me that this story isn’t over yet, and that what’s coming may be just as dangerous as what came before.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lily

  The rest of the way home, Mama is quiet, as though carrying something weighty up the hill to our house. I wonder if Mama’s secrets are heavy like a ten-pound bag of flour or sugar that make your arms ache. I’m glad she told me about the gold Mary, though. It makes me not feel so strange about the whispers that seemed louder than ever as we crossed the footbridge.

  Mama and I go into the kitchen where Granny is basting a chicken in the oven. She’s made cornbread stuffing, too, like she does at Thanksgiving. Green beans cook on the top of the stove, and I give them a stir anticipating what will be asked of me. A piece of lard the size of a hen’s egg bubbles on the top with the beans. Baked sweet potatoes, their skins puckered and dark, rest in between the stove eyes to keep them warm. The smells make my mouth water.

  Mama tells me to go ahead and set the table, and Granny hands me her grandmother’s tablecloth from the top shelf of the cabinet. Brought over from the old country by Granny, this tablecloth marks every special occasion that involves a meal, and she has promised to pass it on to me after she dies. Will this change when I move away?

  “How is he?” Granny asks Mama, and I know she’s talking about Granddaddy.

  “He sends his regards,” Mama says.

  Granny scoffs at Mama’s silliness, but her eyes get misty.

  “Be sure and use the good dishes,” Granny tells me, and grins from behind the mist. There are no ‘good’ dishes, only the dishes we use every day. The extra leaf is already in the table and the smaller card table is set up in the living room just like on other holidays that have a big meal that go with them. While the younger cousins are doomed to sit in the living room, the grownups gather around the big kitchen table.