Things Too Huge to Fix by Saying Sorry (19 page)

Wait. Didn't that start in the 1960s?

I didn't have the book with me, but I was sure that's when the screaming-in-tunnels tale first got told. Had people heard my grandmother screaming and turned it into a story?

No way. No way!

The thought made me a little sick, and I wondered about the family of the guy who died in the car wreck, the ghost that was supposed to be haunting Saint Anthony Hall. They probably got ill every time they saw anything about
that
story.

All of a sudden, I didn't want to read any more about ghosts that might have been real people. Witches and werewolves and vampires, those were probably still fun enough in the right book, but ghosts—no. I was done with ghosts. Real-life death and pain just didn't seem that entertaining.

But there was one thing I was beginning to realize I did need to read, and more than just the excerpts I'd seen on websites about the feud.
Night on Fire
. Wonderful. I could almost feel the boredom and misery clawing at my brain, and I didn't even have a copy yet.

“I'm going to get more coffee,” Dad announced, and he got up without waiting for an answer. Talking about this was bothering him, I could tell. Ms. Manchester went with him, and Mac got up and scooted down the stairs, I assumed to make sure Avadelle Richardson wasn't in a fistfight with the William Faulkner statue, or some innocent tourist.

That left Indri and me alone at the table with Dr. Harper.
When I glanced at him, he was staring straight at me, and my heart did a tap dance in my chest. Indri got a bad case of lemur eyes, and both of us were just about to shove back from our spots and go over to the counter with Dad and Ms. Manchester when Dr. Harper held up both hands, palms out.

“Girls,” he whispered. “Please wait. I owe you an apology.”

We didn't get up, but neither of us relaxed. Indri's gaze darted from Dr. Harper to Ms. Manchester and Dad, like she was judging the number of steps to the coffee pot and safety. I found myself meeting Dr. Harper's eyes, sort of mad, sort of scared, but also curious. When I nodded, he spoke, low and quiet.

“Just after your grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, she brought me a lockbox and asked me to keep it safe for her, until she passed away.” He pulled off his glasses and gave them an inspection like he was checking for smudges, but I figured he just didn't want to see our faces as he dropped that little bit of dynamite into our brains. Indri twitched in her chair, and I leaned forward in mine.

A lockbox. A lockbox! That key—yes
. It would be perfect for something like that. My thoughts rushed ahead so quickly that I barely heard what Dr. Harper said next.

“She told me that once she was gone, I should give it to you, Dani. That you'd have a key to open it, and I could help you decide what to do with what she had left inside.”

“So, the key I have goes to that lockbox?” I asked, so excited I wanted to get straight up and run back to his office.

“I suspect so, yes. Needless to say, I wanted very much to see what she had hidden in that box.” He got one of his huge, sad frowns. “I'll admit the thoughts of income from publishing papers and books solving the feud mystery weighed on my mind. I felt very greedy.”

“Well, let's go over there and open the box!” Indri whispered, so loud it was almost like talking.

“I'd love to,” Dr. Harper said, putting his glasses back on, “but she took back the box.”

“What?” Indri and I asked at the same time.

“About a year ago,” Dr. Harper said, “just before your family started keeping her mostly at home, she showed up late one evening, when I was working. She demanded that I return the box. Went on about people stealing from her and conspiracies and disrespect. She said she was going to give her story to history and let the ghosts keep it for Dani. When I tried to talk her out of it, she slapped me.”

Give her story to history. Let the ghosts keep it
. . . . I'd heard that before, from my grandmother's own lips. My mouth sagged open, and heat rushed to my face. “She—what? She hit you? Oh, I'm sorry. I—wow.”

He waved me off. “I knew it was the disease, not her. In the end, it was her box, so I returned it to her.”

“But,” Indri said, sounding shocked and lost, “where did she take it?”

Dr. Harper lifted his shoulders and let them drop, looking totally beaten. “I have no idea. I locked my door when she left,
because I didn't want to be yelled at or slapped again. She stayed in the building for some time, then I saw her walking off into the dark, in the direction of the Lyceum. She had something in her hands, probably the box. When I saw her all alone like that, I got worried that she would get lost or struck by a car, so I ran after her. I caught up with her on the steps of the grand old building—but alas, no box. She couldn't even speak coherently about it when I asked her.”

The noise in my head was unbelievable. My thoughts pinged from glass soldiers to the thousand spots between Ventress Hall and the Lyceum where my grandmother could have hidden the box. “Have you looked for it, Dr. Harper?”

“Indeed I have. I've done a fair search of Ventress, and walked the route she took—all to no avail.” He shrugged again, and looked even sadder.

Indri seemed like she was deep in concentration. “Why did Avadelle visit you yesterday?”

Dr. Harper fidgeted in his seat, and for a second, I worried that he might go back to being that other guy, the greedy one who scared us both. After a few more fidgets, he seemed to decide that he was definitely and fully on our side in this little fight, and he said, “Avadelle wanted to know if Ruth had talked to me about the night of the riot, or about anything. She asked me if Ruth had left me any of her writing, and more specifically, if she and I had discussed
Night on Fire
.”

I managed not to imitate his fidgeting, but it was hard. I kept trying to take whole, relaxed breaths, but that was hard too.
“What did you tell her?” I finally asked him, when I thought I could trust myself not to be too loud.

“The truth as it stands now,” he said, his eyes wide and his expression earnest. “That I have nothing of Ruth's.”

“Did you tell her about what we showed you?” Indri asked. She glanced over at my father and Ms. Manchester, making sure they were still away from the table and not paying attention to us. “Did you tell her about the key?”

“Absolutely not. We have an agreement.” He shook his head. “I'm certain Avadelle has gotten concerned about something being discovered about that night—I just don't know what.”

“Dani, we need to—”

And that was when we heard the first
thump
.

I slowly registered the sound, like a rubbery bump against wood, and my heart stuttered.

Thump!

It was the rubber tip of a cane hitting wooden steps.

“Maaan,” Mac muttered as he appeared at the top step, moving backward and fast, like he was fleeing something carnivorous. “She's got fifteen minutes left on her morning communion. Why'd she have to come in here?”

Thump.

Thump!

I grabbed the stack of papers from the coffee table and worked them into my backpack, pronto. The zipper kept jumping away from my fingertips.

“Oh dear,” Dr. Harper said, loud enough to get Dad and Ms. Manchester's attention.

I finally got my pack closed as Avadelle crested the stairs. Dad came to stand behind me, still squinting from his headache, while Ms. Manchester and Mac stopped behind Indri. For some reason I couldn't explain, we all looked guilty, like we'd been caught at something.

Avadelle took a few steps toward us, cane bumping hard on the floor, and then stopped.

I felt like the principal had just walked into my class and found me texting instead of doing my work. My attention snapped to her face, or her cheeks and mouth, which was all I could see under her Faulkner fedora. Her wrinkled skin wasn't red, like I expected. It was pasty white and covered in sweat. Her mouth was twisted, and her expression was all thunder and rage, but under that, something else—

Fear.

No.

Terror.

Had she heard us talking before she started up the stairs?

I found it hard to breathe. But we weren't doing anything wrong, and she couldn't stop me from hunting for clues about what happened to my grandmother the night of the Meredith riot. She wasn't
my
grandmother, no, and she wasn't even nice to me—but I hated thinking about anybody old getting embarrassed or upset, for any reason.

Whether or not she had been eavesdropping, Avadelle
seemed to realize we had been talking about something related to her, because she focused on her daughter and said, “What's going on here, Naomi?”

“The girls had questions about the Meredith riot,” Ms. Manchester said. “They're learning about the town's history.”

“Town's history, my eye!” Avadelle screeched, holding her position between us and the stairs. She pointed at me. “That one's digging up bones about the feud. She'll have the paparazzi down on us again, and the clamour won't ever end.”

I realized she had us blocked in, unless we wanted to bail over the second-floor railing. Mac leaned in that direction, like he was considering the option.

“Please calm down,” Ms. Manchester said as she got up. “We're just trying to help Ruth—”

Avadelle cut her off, still pointing at me. “Leave the past be, you wretched heathen!”

Heathen? I didn't know whether to yell back or laugh. My cheeks got hot. I stood, and Indri scrambled out of her chair. Carefully, hoping Avadelle didn't focus on it too much, I picked up my pack and slid it onto my shoulder. My thoughts sped up, dashing from point to point on Grandma's time line, and bouncing between all the questions I had.

“Did it ever occur to you that Ruth's not in her right mind anymore?” Avadelle reached out to a display table on her right and shoved all the books on the floor. “All of you, stay out of her business, and stay out of mine!”

“That's enough,” Dad said. “It's nearly time for the store to open. Dani, Indri, come on. Let's go on outside.”

“You made a mess, Mother.” Ms. Manchester sighed. “Mac, give me a hand with the books.”

Avadelle's lips trembled, but she didn't yell anything else. Mac followed his aunt closer to his grandmother to pick up the books, but I could tell he didn't want to go. Indri moved behind me and seemed to get smaller, like she was trying to be invisible.

“Answer one question and I'll stop looking into what happened the night of the Meredith riot.” The words left me in a rush, and I almost clamped my fingers over my own mouth, I surprised myself so much.

Dad and Indri didn't make a peep, and Mac and Ms. Manchester paused in mid-display repair, obviously surprised too. Avadelle tilted her head back to study me under the brim of her hat. A second ticked by, and then another.

Avadelle snorted. “No. I don't believe you. I'm not telling you a thing.”

“Whatever. I'm going to the library and I'll read your book, and everything Ms. Manchester gave us, and anything I can find that my grandmother wrote about that night. I'll talk to her any time she's able to talk, and I'll visit any place that might give me a clue, and I'm going to figure out what happened. So if you want me to stop, why don't you just tell me yourself? What happened the night of the Meredith riot that you don't want anybody to know about?”

I balled up my fists at my sides, waiting for the next explosion, but Avadelle just stood there staring at me. She went even paler. All the anger and meanness seemed to drain right out of her, and I realized her hands were shaking.

She pulled her cane toward her body and pressed the eagle head into her chest. “Read my book,” she said, then choked off. “Ruth's articles . . .” She sputtered again. “They don't—it's not . . . well, do it. Go to the library, then. Read whatever you want. Just go!”

Then she burst into tears.

Before anybody could start talking, she wheeled around, barely balanced, and lurched toward the stairs. If Mac hadn't dropped the display books he was holding, lunged forward, and grabbed her arm to steady her, Avadelle Richardson, Oxford, Mississippi's, most famous living author, would have fallen headfirst down the Square Books stairs and broken her neck.

Excerpt from
Night on Fire
(1969), by Avadelle Richardson, page 386

On September 13, 1962, my class crowded around a little black-and-white TV set in my classroom. Ed Simmons had brought it, and we all agreed to meet at the school and watch together. Leslie had her hand on the foil and rabbit ears to keep the connection. Her eyes looked about as wide as the moon.

The grainy face of Governor Ross Barnett stared back at us, solemn as a funeral director. This man, who was a member of the white supremacist Citizen's Council. This man, who said Black people lived in Mississippi in such number because we loved segregation, and claimed that God was the original segregationist, never intending for the races to mix. Just the sight of him made me clench my fists.

His glasses shined in the studio lights. Reception blinked in and out as he rambled on, saying, “We must either submit to the unlawful dictates of the federal government or stand up like men and tell them no. . . . There is no case in history where the Caucasian race has survived social integration. We will not drink from the cup of genocide.”

“He's calling for a riot rather than let James Meredith be admitted,” Leslie said.

Aunt Jessie stood. “People are gonna get dead over this, maybe a lot of them.”