pronounces my name—he recognizes me even though I look nothing like the little girl he once protected. And hearing the rumble of his cof-fee-and-cigarette voice, I know him in return. In a familiar, unconscious gesture, Banjo runs his hand over his stubbly beard. Harley’s dad always was a fidgety one, never could sit still for more than a minute. A need to see the world beyond our farm, to do things the way city folk might, set his muscles twitching and kept his feet planted on the trail. I reckon he’s much like his twin in that sense; Ma once said neither he nor Jez, my father, ever had it in them to stay put for long. And as long as they didn’t mind other men keeping the chill from her bed, she didn’t begrudge them their freedom.
Again, Banjo coughs. Too many excuses, too many overdue answers fight their way up his throat. A lifetime of words glue his mouth shut.
I don’t get up from the couch, so I have to crane my neck to the right to see him. “That’s what Harley asked me,” I explain, motioning Banjo to come all the way in and close the door. The summer months have scrubbed the sunlight thin over the fields but it’s still too bright for Ma. She’s curled up on the cushions beside me, skin clammy with sweat though she’s stripped to her petticoat, mouth clamped on wads of cotton and gore. I pull the afghan up to cover her shoulders, wipe the blood from her cheek. “The first time we saw Mister Pérouse at one of Ma’s parties, Harl asked—almost hissing, so Ma wouldn’t catch us sneaking—he asked, ‘What do ghosts look like? Ain’t that one?’ Peering through the slats in the pantry door where we were hiding, Harl’s eyes stretched wide enough to swallow the night. His hand shook, clutching mine, but a smile tickled his lips as we stared. A mix of dread and awe—but that’s just like our Harl, isn’t it? Always mistaking fear for excitement. Then again, seeing that man, so pale he was more blue than white, so skinny he seemed to float while the rest of us clung heavy to our footsteps, for once I knew how Harl felt.”
My gaze drifts to Ma’s face as I speak. Anxiety lines her forehead, even in sleep. Each breath she takes is shallow; her exhalations are thick wheezes of air.
“I’ve thought about this a lot,” I say. “Spent years doing little but.”
Banjo’s fingers worry at his chin, scritch-scritching over his bristles.
“I can’t stop hearing his voice,” I continue. “Even now I’m back here. ’Cause, far as I can tell, that was it: the parties, those outfits, that ghost of a man. His dreams. His high notions of what made proper living. Everything that changed us; right there, dancing on the other side of the pantry door.
“Of course, how could we know that then? Harl always was young for his age—you said so yourself, remember? And Ma thought I was too sweet for fourteen, too innocent to wear such a grown-up face.” I feel the color rising in my cheeks. Outside, Banjo’s truck cools, settles with a series of metallic pings. There’s no wind to shake the trees ringing our twenty-acre lot, no harvest for revving tractors to tend. Crickets hum pure white noise, thrumming beyond register in the heat. Silence plods into the room, sits like a boulder between me and Banjo.
I can see he wants to ask more about Harl.
Instead, he shifts from foot to foot, still hanging back. “Where are the girls?”
“With their brother.” I swallow hard; there’s no time for tears. “It’s rude to linger in doorways, you know.”
Harl’s dad squints and takes a good look at me, but doesn’t show any sign of moving.
“I’m fine,” I say, sighing. Baring my teeth, I run my tongue across their blunt edges. “See? Harmless as Ma.”
He releases a pent-up breath and finally lets the door swing shut. My eyes take a minute to adjust to the returned gloom. Outdoor scents waft from him as he sits in the worn recliner across from me: maple and pine and a rich hint of hot earth. He brushes invisible dirt from his jeans. Smooths out the lifelines they’ve collected over the years; exhausted white wrinkles like the ones on the backs of his hands.
“I’d offer you a drink.” I look down at Ma, then back at Banjo. “I don’t know if she’s got any. And after this