Downtown, restaurants and gift shops have moved into old brick warehouses and the train depot. A little bell chimes over the door when we walk into Sweetie Cakes Bakery. The air inside is cool and chocolate-scented.
A woman in an apron is laying out trays of cookies. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“Maybe.” I smile wide. “We’re looking for a woman named Mattie Peake.”
“Sorry, no Matties work here.”
I nod and keep smiling. “Right, but we think she lived around here once. Some people might have called her Auntie Peake.”
The woman shakes her head. “Sorry.”
“She was a, uh, root-worker.”
“A what, honey?”
“She mixed up medicines and, like, charms maybe.”
“I don’t know any root-workers. Y’all need to buy something or get on out.”
It’s the mark of a good Southern upbringing when a woman can make it clear she doesn’t like you and may call the cops while still keeping her voice as bright as birdsong. We thank her and leave.
We’re run out of Momma’s Kountry Kitchen and the Ooh-La-La Gift Shop just as quickly. The guy at Excalibur Vintage and Vinyl thinks we’re playing some joke on him. The man in the Chevron gas station lifts his eyes to the ceiling and scratches his chin. “Hmm … don’t think I know any Peakes. Sorry.”
“She was a root-worker,” Tyler says. “She knew how to make charms and medicines and things.”
The man scowls. “Sounds like some sorta witch.”
“Well, yeah. But she didn’t curse people or anything. She was good. She helped people when they were sick and stuff.”
“No such thing as a good witch. They all get their power from the devil, and their power is nothing but tricks. You kids might know that if you got your tails to church.”
“Okay. Sorry to bother you.” Tyler turns to leave, but I can’t.
“We go to church,” I say.
“Yeah?” He snorts. “Must not be a real church if you’re out looking for witches.”
“Come on, Jane.” Tyler plucks at my sleeve.
“We’re trying to help somebody. You don’t know—”
“All I need to know is the word of the Lord, little girl. ‘There shall not be found among you any who practice magic, call on evil spirits for aid, be a fortune-teller, or call forth the spirits of the dead.’”
“No! This isn’t—we’re not—we’re trying to help somebody.”
But the man shakes his head sadly and won’t look at me. Tyler has my wrist now. “Forget it, Jane. Jane, let’s go.”
We leave. The man’s voice chases us out the door. “It’s not too late. ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they can be made white as snow.’”
Stepping back out under the sun’s hard glare, Tyler says, “Forget it. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
I’m too mad to say anything. Shaking my head, I just climb into the truck.
“Jane … come on.”
“I hate this, Tyler.”
“I know.”
“I hate not being able to go to church. I hate Brooke gossiping and who knows what everybody else thinks about me. I hate not knowing if this is right or not.” And I hate praying and feeling like no one’s listening, but I keep that part to myself.
“It’s right. We’re helping Holly, Jane. In your heart, you know it’s the right thing to do.”
“I don’t know anything! Everything’s messed up. Everything’s all wrong. I just want to go home.”
“We’re going to get you home.”
If I could just cry, I’d feel better. But all my sadness and frustration keep building up as heat in the back of my neck, an aching pulse right behind my eye, and I can’t let it go. It just keeps building and building so I can’t think, can’t even see straight.
I grab Max’s guitar. I push some of the frustration down my fingertips, down into G … D seven … G … G …
Tyler keeps talking. “Besides, we’re not trying to ‘call forth the spirits of the dead.’ We’re trying to put Holly’s spirit to rest. We’re just trying to put things right. And Mattie—”
“Ow! Errrgh!” My blister tears open on one of the guitar strings. I clench my hand to my chest, feeling oily fluid leak between my fingers. “Ow, ow, owww!”
“Blister pop?” Tyler grins.
“Oh, I can’t look. You have a Band-Aid in here?”
“No, no, can’t let it heal. You have to keep playing until it hardens into a callous.”
“I’m bleeding, Tyler. I can’t play, it hurts!”
“I know it hurts. Look.” He shows me his hand. Shiny, crescent-shaped scars crown each finger pad. “But if you stop practicing now, let it heal up, it’ll just blister and pop all over again. You have to keep playing. Let it hurt, let it bleed, let your fingers toughen up.”
I lift the guitar onto my thigh again. Touching the strings, I wince, then shake my hand and blow on it. “Guess the one on my ring finger is going to pop too?”
“Yep.”
I set my fingers back on the strings. G … D seven …
G … G … I won’t give up; I don’t care. Clenching my teeth, I let anger push me through the pain. My bloody-gummy fingers smear the strings black.
“Good, good. So, you want to call it a day?” Tyler asks.
I shake my head, still hunched over the guitar, still playing. “We’re here. We do this.” Each note stings like a fire-ant bite, but I won’t stop. Holly, do you see me? I don’t care how much it hurts, I don’t care what we have to do. I won’t stop until we’ve saved you.
Life is supposed to hurt. You’re not doing it right if it doesn’t hurt.
That thought keeps me going as we get back to it, asking about Mattie Peake, people thinking we’re crazy or going to Hell or both. Under every sour stare, I squeeze my fingers into a fist, stroking my grimy blister like the pearl of great price. Blessed are the stubborn, for sooner or later, they shall inherit the earth.
It’s past lunchtime when Tyler yelps, “Penn’s!” and breaks away across the street. The restaurant sign reads
C. F. Penn’s Hamburgers in neon letters.
“Ever have a Penn’s burger?” Tyler asks after I catch up.
“Uh-uh. Are they good?”
“My dad took me here sometimes, back when he owned that apartment building out here. Come on, I’m buying.”
I follow his wide strides. “So are they good?”
“They’re … kind of an acquired taste, but come on. This place has been around forever, so we should ask them about Mattie Peake anyway.”
The door is propped open to let in a breeze, but the air inside still feels oily. A couple of flies wander across the patched vinyl booths. The waitress and cook both look skinny and scorched dark, like burned french fries.
We climb onto stools at the counter. The waitress smiles. “What can I get you?”
“Give us two double cheeseburgers with the works—”
“Uh, just a single for me.”
“Sure?” Tyler asks.
I nod.
“Okay. One double, one single. The works on both. And onion rings and Cokes.” Tyler swivels on his stool.
“Got it.” The waitress calls out our ticket to the cook. Taking three patties from an under-the-counter fridge, he drops them into the seething oil of the fryer.
“He’s deep fat frying our burgers?” I hiss to Tyler.
“Give it a try. You’ll like it.”
The “works” are mustard, tomato, and lettuce. The bun tastes buttery from the grease, and the whole thing sort of dissolves in my mouth and slithers down my throat. I take two bites, and I’m done. At least the Coke is cool and sweet.
The waitress heads for the door with a cigarette in her hand. As she passes by, I say, “Excuse me. We were wondering, do you know anybody named Mattie Peake?”