The Truce Read online

  “Hold your horses, Robinson Matthews,” Mamaw told the mine superintendent. She turned, though, to the sheriff. “You didn’t answer Bone’s question. Why would Tiny kill—”

  “What was his motive?” Bone clarified. Motive was the word they always used in detective novels.

  The sheriff glanced at Mr. Matthews, who nodded. “Seems someone has been stealing coal. The night shift has come up short at the end of the week.”

  “Not all of the coal quite makes it onto the last train,” Mr. Matthews said with a wry smile.

  “What! You never told me,” Uncle Junior rounded on Mr. Matthews. “Or Tom Albert.” Uncle Junior was the day shift supervisor, and Mr. Albert was the night shift super.

  “You never know who’s involved.” Mr. Matthews’s voice cracked a tiny bit, but he crossed his arms and stared at Uncle Junior.

  “So you think Tiny and Ash were skimming off the last load?” Junior was gobsmacked.

  “That’s ludicrous! Neither Tiny nor Ash would do such a thing!” Mamaw backed Mr. Matthews into the settee. Uncle Junior wasn’t far behind.

  The sheriff didn’t interfere. Bone watched him watching them.

  “The thefts didn’t start until Tiny was promoted. He’s the one who runs the tipple and fills the orders,” Mr. Matthews shot back. “And everyone knows Ash disappears this time of year. Probably off selling coal over the state line.”

  That was too much for Bone. “He goes to the beach!” she blurted out. To read poetry, she didn’t say. From a book sent to him by a stranger. Bone pulled the book from her back pocket and clutched it to her. She saw a flash of a man pulling the book fresh from a shelf filled with other shiny leather covers. Through the store window, even shinier buildings loomed tall.

  Mr. Matthews laughed and turned to her uncle. “I know you’re not involved, Junior Reed. You and your daddy have served Superior Anthracite faithfully for many decades—and I’d hate for this to reflect badly on you in any way.” Mr. Matthews was as slick as cat piss on linoleum.

  He took a step toward Uncle Junior, ignoring Mamaw.

  Junior trembled in anger, fixing to explode. Mamaw put a hand on his chest and said one word. “Don’t.”

  “The sheriff is willing to keep Ash’s name out of this affair. It was all Tiny, and Ash was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  The sheriff sighed and nodded.

  “Or it might come out that he wasn’t the only Reed involved.” Mr. Matthews said it with such satisfaction that Bone wanted to kick him. “And maybe it wasn’t only the Reeds.” He smiled at her as he took another step forward.

  This time Uncle Junior backed off.

  She got it now. The mine superintendent was threatening Uncle Junior’s job—and maybe even Daddy’s, too.

  “I think y’all better leave. Now.” Uncle Junior clipped out the words.

  The two men headed toward the door.

  Mamaw stood still, one hand on Junior’s chest, holding back a dam that was about to burst. “Alfred, I’d like my boy’s things.”

  Uncle Junior whispered something to her, and she added, “Including the dog tag.”

  Bone felt his eyes on her. He looked away.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the sheriff said quietly. “I’ll have them back to you well before the funeral Sunday.”

  “Sunday?” Mamaw whipped around.

  The bell jangled and the front door slammed shut.

  “I haven’t made arrangements yet—,” she told Junior. “Mattie!” Mamaw stormed off.

  The dog tag. He’d asked for the dog tag.

  It was just her and Uncle Junior left in the parlor.

  “I need to know it’s him, for sure,” he told Bone, still barely containing a rage she’d never seen. She knew it wasn’t directed at her.

  The thought of touching the dog tag cut through her like razor wire.

  “And maybe you can tell…” he trailed off.

  Who killed him.

  “Bone, come finish your oatmeal,” Mrs. Price called from the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Junior softened. “But I need to know.”

  She did, too. She still didn’t think it was Uncle Ash, but what if it were? The thought of seeing anyone, let alone her favorite person in the whole wide world, dying horribly felt like it was going to suffocate her.

  She had to get out. Into the wide-openest, free-est space she could find.

  The bell jangled over the front door as Bone bolted toward Flat Woods.

  BONE RACED DOWN THE GRAVEL ROAD and into the woods that ran from the river up to the mine. She’d seen death in other objects. A deer struck by an arrow. A young boy drowning. Will’s father buried in the mine. Mama.

  It’s not him, she reminded herself.

  Bone stumbled over a root, sending her and the poetry book sprawling into an ancient foxhole. She lay there, watching her breath hang in the crisp air, staring up past the bare treetops at the cold blue sky. Back during another war, the men of Big Vein had dug these holes to hide from Confederate press-gangs. Before dawn, the men would cover themselves with leaves and branches and wait out the day. At night, they’d return home to plow their fields and visit with their families. Come daylight, they were back out here, lying in the ground like they were in their graves already. The cold of the earth began to seep into her bones. She grabbed Uncle Ash’s book, and she felt his rising panic seeping through the leather cover. Big guns shook the ground, dirt cascaded on top of him, and an explosion nearby sealed off the light. Bone sprang to her feet. Shaking off the vision, she slid the book into her back pocket.

  Bone crawled out and brushed the dried leaves from her britches and sweater. She picked her way across the minefield of holes and downed branches toward the river—and Picnic Rock. There she climbed up on the flat boulder and sat cross-legged, watching the river ripple by below. The sound washed away some of the images in her head.

  She carefully pulled out Uncle Ash’s book and read his favorite poem aloud. She saw him reading on the beach, feeling peaceful yet sad. When did he get this? A younger Ash, maybe nineteen or twenty, held a brown paper parcel addressed to him in neat handwritten letters. He snipped the string with his pocketknife and unwrapped the book. Its leather cover shone. He checked the paper again. No return address. The postmark said CHICAGO. Uncle Ash smiled.

  He knew who sent the book! But Bone couldn’t pick it out of his thoughts.

  Uncle Ash had asked her to find out who sent this. Another man cracked open the spine of the little volume, feeling the same peaceful sadness. He gently closed the book and laid it on a store counter. Bone couldn’t see what this man looked like.

  Twigs snapped behind her.

  Will came walking down through the woods from the direction of the mine.

  Below them, dogs barked as they chased something through the woods. Mr. Childress must be running his dogs.

  “What are you doing out here?” Bone asked. Not that she minded Will’s company.

  He hopped up on the rock beside her. “Tipple.”

  Ever since he’d started talking again, which was only since Halloween, Will had been frugal with his words. Bone still knew what he meant. He’d been snooping around where that mess of coal was left Saturday night. “Find anything?”

  He shook his head. “The boys done too good a job cleaning up.”

  Bone had an awful thought. “The sheriff said that person was killed somewhere else and dragged down into the mine. Do you think…” She couldn’t finish it.

  Will nodded this time. “The tipple.”

  A pile of coal was left there after the last train on Saturday night. The boys said it had been happening for a month or so now. It had to be connected to the body. Maybe that person had seen who was stealing coal.

  “We should stake out the tipple after the 8:15,” Bone said.
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  “Saturday?” Will considered—and then nodded. “Jake and Clay, too.”

  Bone agreed. They’d know exactly where under the tipple to watch.

  She felt better now that they were doing something, anything.

  Will tapped the book cover.

  “It’s Uncle Ash’s.” She opened it and read his favorite poem aloud again.

  The words and the burble of the river below washed away Bone’s doubts, for now.

  THE NEXT MORNING, MAMAW WAS WAITING for Bone in the kitchen with a plate of scrambled eggs and two cups of mint tea sweetened with honey.

  “I’m going stir-crazy down here,” Mamaw announced, setting down her cup. “And I got work to do. And you need something to do, too.”

  Bone shook her head. “I can’t go to school yet.” She couldn’t bear the thought of carrying on like nothing had ever happened. The mine was up and running again. Uncle Junior was back at work. Mattie and Ruby were packing boxes. It just didn’t seem right, even if it wasn’t Uncle Ash. A man had died. Mr. Sherman was in jail. And, besides, all those folks going about their business really did think Uncle Ash was dead. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t him. But it still wasn’t right.

  “No, you’re coming with me,” Mamaw said, dangling a set of car keys in front of Bone. “After you finish them eggs.”

  * * *

  Outside, Aunt Mattie’s black Ford was parked by the curb.

  “Do you even know how to drive, Mamaw?” Bone asked. Uncle Ash always drove her everywhere. Or she walked.

  Mamaw practically hooted. “Who do you think taught Ash and Mattie? Or your mama or Junior? Your Papaw didn’t have time, between working in the mine and hauling shine back in the day.” She opened the door. “And sometimes I helped with that, too.” She winked.

  “What?” Bone had heard Mamaw and Ash talk about Papaw’s still, but she hadn’t thought he made it for anything more than medicinal purposes. “Shine? You mean he actually sold it? And you drove it?”

  She didn’t answer. Mamaw slid into the driver’s seat and pushed the starter button. The ’39 Ford roared to life. Bone hopped in the car and shut the door, afraid Mamaw would leave her behind. The inside of the plain sedan gleamed, the mahogany dash looking brand new.

  Mamaw chuckled. “Your aunt doesn’t realize she’s driving a hot rod. Perfect for running shine.” She gunned the engine before throwing the car in gear. “Drives like she’s afraid of what’s under the hood.” Mamaw tore down the road toward the river. “It’s a V-8.”

  Bone gripped the door handle. Mamaw slowed down to a reasonable pace as they neared the river. She parked at the ferry landing. Mr. Goodwin started the ferry up moving from the other side of the river.

  “Papaw’s old Model T is still in the barn under a bunch of tarps. I might have to get Mattie to see if she could get it running again before she starts her new job.” Mamaw fell quiet.

  Was Mamaw giving up? She’d need a car or truck to get by if Uncle Ash was truly gone. Aunt Mattie was moving away, and Uncle Junior didn’t have a car. Neither did Daddy. Where was Uncle Ash’s truck? And the dogs?

  As the ferry docked on their side, Mr. Goodwin waved to them. “I didn’t think that was the preacher’s wife tearing down the road.”

  Bone hopped out and caught the bowline as he threw it. Mamaw drove the Ford onto the rickety ferry like an old hand. The wooden deck bobbed in the current with the added weight. Mr. Goodwin reached a hand to pull Bone on board. They were across the river and up the road without much conversation.

  The Ford climbed Reed Mountain, the Virginia pines almost a blur along the twisty road. Bone relaxed her grip on the door handle and hung her head out the window. The cold sand blasted her skin and the world smelled evergreen.

  The Ford slowed as it passed over the little bridge. They were now on Reed land. The fields on one side of the drive had been mowed and the hay put up. On the other side, the gardens had been neatly turfed, with only a patch or two of winter vegetables—dark leafy kale, mostly—left around Mamaw’s little cabin. Bone knew the root cellars were probably full, too. The chickens scratched and pecked under the main house, a giant treehouse really, built between four massive oaks.

  Mamaw parked by her cabin; she called it her office. Bone thought of it as more of a laboratory. Three calico cats rushed to greet Mamaw. Sassafras and her kittens, Savory and Sage. “I know, my darlings,” she clucked as she let them in the cabin. At the door, people had left flowers and food as well as notes and even a bottle of whiskey. Mamaw scooped up the notes—and the whiskey. Bone brought in the rest.

  Inside, the shelves lining the walls were fully stocked. Little sacks of dried leaves and herbs. Jars of tinctures and syrups. Tins of salves.

  “We’ve got some orders—and the offer of a truck,” Mamaw said matter-of-factly.

  Bone put the food in the icebox and the flowers in the sink.

  “Lucy Riddle has a bad cough. Mrs. Teague has woman problems. And Malcolm Hicks wrenched his shoulder,” Mamaw read from the notes, sorting them into piles. “Bone, get me a small bottle of elderberry syrup and weigh out a quarter pound of red clover. I’ll get the fixings for a salve ready.”

  She seemed happy, or at least content, to be back at work. The smells of the cabin were comforting and familiar. Sprigs of lavender and rosemary hung from the rafters—as did cloves of garlic and strings of fiery peppers. Hints of mint and earth from the gardens haunted the air.

  Bone crossed the room to the syrup section. In winter, Mamaw devoted several shelves to elderberry syrups and tinctures. Bone had helped her press and bottle at least half of them. She unscrewed the cap on a small bottle. It smelled like blueberry pie, albeit a garlicky one. The syrup would cut any cough.

  Next, Bone located the red clover. She weighed out the dry leaves on the scale next to the workbench. As she poured it in a paper sack, she watched Mamaw. Humming, she laid out beeswax, a bottle of greenish oil, and some little glass jars on the workbench. Mamaw could happily lose herself in this work, whether it was making a tincture or growing herbs or studying a plant with her Gift.

  Bone couldn’t see herself lost and happy in her own Gift, not like Mamaw and Uncle Ash were in theirs. Neither of them might have to watch someone they love die as part of their Gift. Even as she thought this, Bone half expected Uncle Ash to come bursting through the door with Corolla.

  “Let me show you how to make a salve,” Mamaw said as she eyed one of the glass jars. “Shame I can’t get the tins no more. Folks turned them all in to the scrap drive.”

  On the little woodstove, she already had the double boiler going. “Melt some of that beeswax,” Mamaw told Bone.

  Bone plopped two hunks of the wax into the top pan, stirring it occasionally as it melted.

  “Now slowly pour a cup of this infused oil into the beeswax.” Mamaw handed her a measuring cup half full of the green liquid.

  She swirled it into the wax, stirring it with the wooden spoon until it was smooth. The hot concoction smelled like cut grass. “What’s in this?”

  “Boneset. It’s good for pain. Some say it helps bones set.” Mamaw held the jar in her hand. “It helps things knit together. Kind of like you, honey.” She peered over Bone’s shoulder.

  Bone liked the idea of being nicknamed after something other than the worthless rock coal miners threw out. And doing something useful that helped people. Who was going to take over once Mamaw was gone?

  “Okay, now you open up the jars while I pour.”

  Bone obliged, and Mamaw poured in the greenish wax. It quickly started to cloud up and harden.

  “Mamaw?” Bone inhaled the grassy aroma of the salve. She wasn’t quite sure how to ask this.

  “Hmm?” Mamaw was busy scraping the pan clean.

  “Have you been teaching me things so I can take over from you?”

  The pan clattered in the sin
k, and Mamaw turned to study Bone. “No, not as such.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “If you really wanted to know, of course, I’d teach you everything.” She motioned for Bone to sit at the big table. She used the hot water still burbling on the stove to make cups of tea. Then she scrounged sugar cookies from a tin someone had left on the doorstep.

  “Bone, honey, even before my Gift came on, I loved plants. Growing them. Picking wild ones. Knowing all about them and how to use them. I always thought the idea that you could put a teensy little seed in the ground and grow beauty and medicine and food was all magical.” Mamaw practically glowed as she talked. “Then my Gift was just…gravy on top of a perfect biscuit.”

  Bone laughed at the comparison. White sausage gravy on a fluffy biscuit tasted darn good—but not magical.

  “Or snow on Christmas Day.” Mamaw bit into one of the cookies. “I want that for you, Bone.”

  “But…” She searched for the words. “But my Gift is hardly gravy or even a fluffy biscuit.”

  Mamaw chuckled. “That’s true. You’ve got a hard Gift, Forever Girl. Hard as the dirt under our feet.”

  Bone nodded, grateful that Mamaw understood. Her Gift wasn’t as easy as looking into a plant to see what it could do or into an animal to know what’s wrong with it. She saw people at their worst moments. She saw them at their best, too. But she also saw them die.

  “What did you love most in the world before your Gift came on?”

  “Stories.” Bone didn’t hesitate. “Still do.”

  “What do the objects tell you?”

  “Stories,” Bone admitted. “But what do I do with them?”

  Mamaw raised an eyebrow at Bone while she sipped her tea.

  “I know.” She’d known the answer as soon as the question had left her mouth. The objects tell her how to help people, too. She’d figured out what happened to Mama. She’d helped Will get his voice back. Now she needed to help Uncle Ash. Or whoever that was.