Authors: Tiffany Quay Tyson
Three Rivers (30 page)
Melody took the trinket from Pisa, turned it over in her hands. It was about the size of a silver dollar, ovoid with jagged edges and the imprint of something organic pressed into its surface, an insect or the veins of a plant. The thread left red streaks across her palm where she touched it.
“I can't take this.”
“It's yours,” Pisa said. “I've been saving it for you.”
Melody tried to press the trinket back on Pisa, but the woman refused to take hold of it. “I don't believe in this stuff. I'm not my mother.”
“You certainly are not,” Pisa said. “You certainly are not your mother. Your mother was not her mother. Your mother is not you.”
Melody wondered what Pisa would make of George Walter and what George Walter would think of Pisa. They seemed so sure of themselves, but they couldn't both be correct.
“You are not your mother, but you are not so different from her as you believe,” Pisa said. “When you have your own daughter, you'll understand how much you share with your mother.”
“I'm not even sure I'll have children.” Melody pressed the object toward Pisa.
“Keep it,” Pisa insisted. “You don't have to believe in something for it to be true.”
Melody closed her hand around the object. She liked the way it felt in her palm, cool and substantial and sturdy.
“It's a piece of bone from the sternum of a white dog. The imprint is from the feather of a hawk. It will guide you and bring clarity.”
Melody slipped the bone into her pocket.
“Your mother is a strong woman. She makes her own way. She doesn't always listen as closely as she should. Not to me and not to herself.”
And certainly not to me, Melody thought. “I should get back to her,” she told Pisa. “And to Bobby.”
“Your grandmother was weak. Not like you. Not like your mother.”
Melody rubbed her thumb across the cool bone in her pocket. The sun dipped toward the horizon. She should get back on the road before nightfall, but she didn't move. “I never knew my grandmother. Mama never talked about her much. I know she died young.”
“Your mother was afraid to turn out like her mother. She took matters into her own hands. It was reckless, but it wasn't wrong.”
“What are you saying?”
“Ask your mother. I think she'll tell you now. The point is, she didn't become her mother. Neither will you.”
The conversation raised more questions than it answered, and Melody wanted to probe deeper, but Liam ran onto the porch and threw himself against Melody's legs. She stumbled as the force of his body wrapped around her knees. “Come back,” Liam said. “When Daddy gets here, you come back.”
“I will,” she promised. She stroked his silky red hair. “I will come right back here and see you. We'll sing some more songs together.”
“I know we will,” Liam said. “That's why I'm not sad.”
“I really should go,” she said to Pisa.
Pisa gripped Melody's shoulders and peered into her eyes. “You don't have to believe in me,” she said. “But you should believe in something.”
“I'll try,” Melody said. “But the stuff most people believe in seems like a bunch of voodoo to me. No offense.”
Pisa smiled like a woman who'd never been offended. “Take care of your mother. Be kind to her. You are stronger than she is. You will do better than she did. Your daughter will do better than you. That is the way the world works.” Pisa gave Melody's shoulders one last, hard squeeze before letting go. “Come back to see me. Bring your mother.”
Melody made no promises. She climbed back into the dirt-crusted car and drove. The journey was lonely and quiet without Liam. She focused on the world outside the car, took in the wreckage of the storm. A group of men in an old Chevy turned off the road ahead of her and parked in front of a small house. Melody slowed to watch. The house seemed not worth saving, a shack even in better times, but the men unloaded lumber and tools and a case of beer. The roof had been lifted right off the house, and the front porch was mostly gone. The frame listed to the east. The men consulted, retrieved tools, and set to work. One of them glanced up at Melody. She'd stopped the car in the middle of the road. She waved and drove on. All across the Delta, people were beginning the hard work of rebuilding. What else could they do?
She pulled Pisa's gift from her pocket and looped the string around her neck. The bone fell heavy and grew warm against her chest. It seemed to pulse with life. Light faded from the sky. Something streaked across the road in front of her, something wild and large and gray. A coyote. The beast turned its head and locked eyes with Melody as it bounded and disappeared into a grove of pine trees. She recognized Obi's gaze. He would be home soon, and she would return, just as she'd promised Liam.
The sun dipped; the sky turned gray and pink. The ravaged fields on either side of the road began to twinkle and blink with light. She put her hand on the bone at her chest, took comfort in its warmth and weight. The fireflies led her north toward Mama and Bobby and her future, whatever that might be. Pisa had said she was stronger than her mother. Melody felt strong. She felt strong and calm and fearless. There was no telling what would happen next. She had so many choices to make.
She sang as she drove into the night. Her voice filled the car, floated out into the darkness, and joined the chorus of crickets, bullfrogs, old dogs, and the howl of a wild coyote.
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Tiffany Quay Tyson
grew up in Jackson, Mississippi, and attended Delta State University. Her short fiction has been published in
The Tulane Review
and
Peaks & Valleys: A Southern Journal.
She lives in Denver, where she has served on the board of directors for Lighthouse Writers Workshop, and occasionally leads workshops for the Lighthouse Young Writers Program. You can sign up for email updates
here
.
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Contents
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin's Press.
THREE RIVERS
. Copyright © 2015 by Tiffany Quay Tyson. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover designed by Kerri Resnick
Cover photograph © David DuChemin / Design Pies / Getty Images
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-06326-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-6836-6 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466868366
First Edition: July 2015