what was left of the tin roof Aron had taken down when he repaired the tool shed. But it was secure enough, and we were still small enough that fitting inside wouldn’t harm us any. Now it seemed like the safest place to hide from Joe Andres case he still was after me. I was up the tree and in the back of the small shack before I even thought twice.
“Sookie!”
It was a whisper somewhere around the back of my head; pushing past the blood pumping hard and heavy into my ears. The sound was barely there, lit with a dim light inside my head, coming outside of the tree house and I was safe, safe, but maybe he was still coming for me. There were too many things working around inside me, most of it fear and worry that Andres would find me or worse: that maybe he’d make up a lie that I’d attacked him and the police would come for me. That would be the end of me no matter what I said. They’d never believe me over that fat white man. Not ever.
Mainly, though, my own brain worked to do the biggest damage. It was more than the terror of being punished for hitting a white man. What went on and on in my brain was the possibility of what could have been—that sweaty, fat body sliding against me; those tubby short fingers rubbing all over me, the smell of his mouth and tongue and that burning liquor left on my skin when he’d finished.
I wanted to be sick, thought maybe I would be; even got to my knees, slumping over the open hole in the board floor in case I threw up. Below I saw the twisted, long roots of the tree, how they went out into the yard, how they reminded me of twisted limbs and broken bones underneath the ground.
My head spun and swam and I couldn’t make the shake in my hands quit good enough. When the sound of my name came again, it took a full minute for the noise of it to hit my ears.
“Sookie?”
My whole body went shaky in relief when my addled brain realized it was Dempsey calling my name, not Andres or some devil from hell. When I didn’t move or say anything, he climbed up into the shack, just barely making it through the opening, he’d gotten so much bigger than when we were little.
“Hey.” He didn’t try touching me when he came in front of me, kneeling into a crouch as I backed against the wall, pulling my skirt over my knees. “What is it?”
His voice was so soft, so low just then. It felt like a whisper, like some song I knew but had never heard before. His height and the sweet scent of his skin knocked up inside my nose, stretching sensation and sweetness into every pore of my body.
“Sook?”
I wanted to take his hand when he reached for me. I wanted so much to let Dempsey put his arm around me and hug me close so I could wet his shirt with my tears and hold on to him. It would feel good, so good, just for a little bit, to disappear in the circle of his body and lay all my troubles down; to be with him in a world we could fashion together in that small shack resting within the limbs and leaves of my Mimi Bastie’s big ole oak tree.
But that would not do. Not with Andres probably after me. Not with him running his mouth over how his eye had gotten all purple and bruised. Not while Dempsey’s daddy was likely listening to all Andres had to say and was right now on the phone to the police, making them thunder up our gravel road to drag me into one of those big police cars.
Instead, I jerked at Dempsey’s outstretched hand, the stench of Andres’ breath still stuck in my sinuses, the feel of his grimy hands gripping my arms and the sound of ripping cloth, and I withdrew back into myself. It seemed I’d sully him somehow just by touching him.
But Dempsey was mule-stubborn, same as me and he cocked up an eyebrow, curious, a little worried before he dropped his hand to his knee. “Come now, Sook, tell me what’s got you spooked.” He inched closer, the heat of his body a comfort. The sweat had set down my back and though I’d run hard and