Brief Synopsis: After years of running from the haunting shadows of her childhood, Klaye Cantle returns to her Ozark home to begin digging through the heartache connected with the suicide of her young mother--and the total lack of family history. Unaided, but abetted by her aged grandmother and a new-found friend, Klaye finds the strength to unravel the bigoted logic of those who came before her.  

                                           CHAPTER ONE--NANA

Klaye parked the small red car in the shade of a stately Black Walnut Tree within the confines of Nana's yard. The tree looked out of place--should have been planted along a well-defined avenue to grace a brick mansion in town. Here, the limestone talc from the nearby gravel road muted the hunter green of the leaves, making it look more like an aged Russian Olive.

Stepping from the used compact, her mouth tightened and eyes squinted emphasizing lines in the firm skin of her thirty-nine-year-old face. Tall Fescue and matted clover choked out the Hardy Hibiscus plant she had given Nana for her eightieth birthday. Virginia Creeper filled the trellis where grapevines used to flourish. The flowerbeds of her memory were non-existent--taken over by neglect, making it impossible to tell where wild belonged and lawn used to be.

To the east of the mobile home, encumbered by Hollyhocks and Poke Salad rising as tall as the eaves, sat the tar-papered chicken coop, the high windows clouded with dust and the remains of yesteryear's chicken scratching. For most of her childhood, Nana had ordered a hundred chickens every spring, and every fall they butchered and froze the carcasses. For income, they sold half, keeping the other half to eat through the winter. The tasks had been a lot of work, but Nana had a way of creating fun from every chore.

To the west, she barely looked at the shop building peeking at her midway between drooping tree branches and the seeded heads of grass. Even as a child she had avoided that one-room building. Something about it caused her to cower in fear.

Briefly, her eyes swept the landscape of her Ozark youth; soaring hills tumbling into grassy hollows, then sweeping up again into the sky.

A drop of perspiration formed at the nape of her neck. She pulled at the tailored ends of her dark wavy hair, moving it from the back of her head to lay over her shoulder, cooling the spot where frustation expressed itself.

The wrought iron steps, fragile with rust, complained noisily--even with her trim carriage--as she climbed up to the open door of the mobile home. Age had turned the purple trim to chalky lavender. Klaye closed her eyes, large round eyes, remembering what an effort it took five summers ago to scrape and repaint the dated metal building.

Inside the structure, Klaye waited for her eyes to adjust to the dakened rooms. Nana blamed her cataracts, saying it did not matter if sunlight shined through or not. She obviously did not care if any air moved throught the rooms either, since the windows were covered with blankets instead of curtains.

As the pinpoints of her pupils opened to the size of pencil erasers, she glimpsed Nana's slumped form in the tattered rocker. Fear tingled in her fingertips. The ailing woman was all she had in the world.

Kneeling by the chair, she eyed the tarnished double-picture frame clasped in Nana's grip as she slid her fingers around the thin wrist to feel for the old woman's pulse--between bone and skin, no space remained to house any blood vessels.

Lizzie Cantle rose out of her perpetual slump. Eyelids quivered open with skin as thin as petals from a Clematis flower.The whites of her eyes had darkened to the color of aged cauliflower, the irises paled by cataracts and the bleaching power of the sun. From deep down in the cadaverous chest a sound began climbing the long flight of stairs from her thoughts to her voice box. A rattle eased up the scrawny throat. Then a brief cough. Then a course arid chuckle. "I ain't kicked the bucket yet, young'n."

Klaye's eyes widened, the whites exaggerating the dark brown that her grandmother and mother had so generously handed down to her. "Oh, Nana," she said, inhaling sharply, "I was just...wanting to wake you gently." She could feel the moisture trickling down the back of her neck.

"Uh huh," Lizzie Cantle mumbled through gums that showed no signs of utilizing the modern advantages of man-made teeth.

Klaye smiled wide, full lips parted from bright white perfect teeth, moved as usual by the...she could not put a name to it...she could never think of the right word...to correctly describe the power, or the aura, or the energy that still emanated from the elderly woman.

"Would you like some tea, Nana? You need something to drink." She watched as the withered body slowly came to life, nearly as if the blood had all settled in her feet and Nana had to force her heart to pump it to the rest of her body before she could move.

"Water'd be good, Klaye. Tea makes me pee too much, and I ain't too keen on traipsing down that hallway none too often."

"Nana..." Klaye said as she pulled the bony hand to her lips, "Nana, please reconsider moving to St. Louis with me. You could have your own suite, and the bathroom is in there, and I'd cook..."

White strands of hair floated through the air as Lizzie shook her head. "Yer Granpa's been waiting here for me a mighty long time. I ain't leaving him now, child." She pulled the withered hand back down to her lap to regain hold of the picture frame. One side had a black and white photo of a yound woman with dark hair, even darker eyes and a tentative smile against a background of weatherworn buildings. The other side of the frame was empty and had been for as long as Klaye could remember.

Klaye bent down and kissed the delicate skin, once thick with muscle and callus. All that remained of the hands she rememberd were the scars on her knuckles. "I could bring you back here...you know, later, whenever you needed me to, Nana. It's only four hours away. He wouldn't mind that."

"I would, honey. And he'd know. It's nigh on 65 years, and I ain't broke my promise to him yet. Guess I ain't gonna stumble none on the last leg of the journey."

Klaye swallowed the remaining plea. "Okay, Nana. I'll get you some water."

As her granddaugher let go, Lizzie tightened the hold on the picture frame. The scarred knuckles creaked in resentment. She smiled at the feeling. It made her think of him. Despite the presence of Death throughout her bones, the Heat was still in her body. Thoughts of him put it there years ago and nothing she had been through could take it away. She rubbed a gnarled finger across one of the damaged knuckles. Suddenly, Rube Johnson poked his ruddy face into her memory. Missing teeth. Eyes filled with rage and hatred. She owed Rube for the knuckles. He owed her for putting an end to the misery he would have continued to heap onto others.