The Steep and Thorny Way Read Free Page A

inside my brain, unsettling regions of my mind already perturbed, churning up a hundred different questions. I pressed a hand to my stomach to curb a queasy feeling.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Mama cocked her head. “Are you worried about seeing Joe?”
    â€œNo.” I hooked the handle of the basket in the crook of my arm. “He’s the one who should be terrified of seeing me.”
    Mama tensed. “Go pick those raspberries for me.” She nodded toward the bushes. “Go on. I need to prepare dinner.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” I sauntered away.
    â€œAnd watch that harsh tone of yours,” she added. “It’s not like you.”
    I sighed and wandered to the rows of ripe red berries on the eastern side of the twenty acres of farmland Mama had inherited from her father. Over my shoulder, I saw Mama heading to the back door of our yellow farmhouse with her hands on her hips—her tired walk, her
Don’t bother me anymore, Hanalee
walk. My ears still rang from shooting the bullet next to Joe Adder’s skull, and I wondered if I’d been talking louder than usual over the commotion in my head. I wondered if Mama suspected that the gunshot had something to do with me.

    IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, MY MOTHER AND STEPFATHER took their seats at opposite ends of our dining room table, across Uncle Clyde’s late mother’s tablecloth, which was embroidered in cobalt-blue tulips. I sat down between the two of them without a word or a smile. The spices in my stepfather’s shaving soap clogged up my sinuses so badly, I had to squeeze the bridge of my nose to keep my head from erupting. Joe’s tale of murder was also boring a hole through my brain. The sickening combination made the food look and smell unpalatable.
    Uncle Clyde, a six-foot-tall white man with trim brown hair and Dutch-blue eyes, spread his napkin across his lap and licked his pale pink lips. He wasn’t an actual blood uncle, just an old family friend I’d called “uncle” all my life.
    â€œThe ham smells delicious, Greta,” he said.
    â€œThank you, darling.” Mama smiled and waited for him to take his first bite before lifting a forkful of potatoes to her mouth.
    I just sat there without touching my silverware, facing the dining room window and the stretch of woods that hid Joe deep within. The curtains billowed on a hot July breeze that dried out the skin on the backs of my fingers and elbows. The dreamlike dance of the lace—the shimmying of fabric possessed by an unseen force—turned my thoughts toward all those disquieting rumors of my father’s spirit wandering the main highway late at night.
    â€œDid you hear the news, Uncle Clyde?” I asked, still massaging the bridge of my nose.
    My stepfather regarded me through the wide lenses of his spectacles, those large blue eyes of his betraying nothing but curiosity. “What news might that be?”
    My mother shook her head. “No, Hanalee. Let’s not discuss that subject at the dinner table.”
    â€œThe state pen let Joe Adder out early on good behavior,” I said.
    Uncle Clyde switched his attention to his plate and used his fork to poke at a fatty piece of ham—a morsel shaped like the state of California, with brown sugar encrusted on the ends.
    I sat up straight and dropped my hands to my lap. “Did you hear what I—?”
    â€œI heard the rumors this morning,” he said in his calm, physician’s voice that used to assure me he could mend anybody’s woes and take care of everyone’s troubles, including mine.
    â€œWhat do you think of his release?” I asked.
    â€œHanalee,”
said Mama. “What does it matter? Joe’s out, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
    â€œI worry a little bit about—” Uncle Clyde stopped himself from speaking by slipping the fatty sliver into his mouth. He chewed like a