I didn’t stop until I was past the cottage, back against the south fence line, past the tool shed and away from the house and where Sylv and I had mustered up the smarts enough to build a small tree house against one of the largest oak trees on the left of the property. The tree house was no more than a few loose boards tied together with fraying rope in knots, and 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 fast in the small spring heatwave, I felt cold, like my bones were made of ice, and chills had moved over my skin, goosebumps on my arms, making me looked like a plucked chicken.
“I…” Could I tell him? How many times did Dempsey offer to hear me speak whatever fretted me? A dozen? A hundred more that he’d done without needing to ask. He was my friend, always had been, even when his mama and daddy told him to keep away from me and my family. Even when his face was bloody and his lip busted, Dempsey still wanted to listen to whatever held my attention.
“Sook,” he started, reaching for me again. This time I didn’t flinch away. This time I wanted him to touch me, just a little to see if that touch would warm me up. But then Dempsey dropped his hand, nodding at my torn shirt. “Someone do this to you?” When I didn’t answer, Dempsey’s jaw went tight and his mouth went stiff, as though someone had whispered something dark and dirty in his ear and just the sound of it had his feathers ruffled. “Who the hell did this to you?” He leaned back, coming to his knees to stare down at me with his hands balled up tight at his side. “Was it… God, Sook, was it my brother?”
“What?” My voice was low, awed likely because I didn’t believe his question. Malcolm Simoneaux was nearly eighteen and hated the sight of anyone, man or woman, who didn’t look just like him and his people. He hated black folk worse than his daddy. Dempsey should have known better to ask, but right then, to me, he didn’t seem like he was having thoughts that made much sense at all.
“It was. That son of a bitch. I knew he was home. I knew he was drinking, if that son of a bit…” He went on mumbling to himself, pacing around in a circle before he said something rude and filthy under his breath and then Dempsey headed toward the opening that led to the ladder below.
“No!” He didn’t slow until I scrambled to grab him, pulling on his arm. “Dempsey, don’t be a fool. It wasn’t your brother. I swear.” He came around to face me, mouth still set hard and somber when he stared down at me. “It wasn’t Malcolm, cher, I promise.”
He took to looking me over, hard, but that small word, cher, worked like a balm on him, keeping the rise of fury from his head. He liked when I called him that, which is why I never did it much. But the more Dempsey looked, the more frozen and raw I felt. Were there marks or bruises starting up where that old man had grabbed me, scratches? I was too scared to look, too caught up in the hard look on Dempsey's face. In my stillness, he looked me up and down, over my face, to the top of my head, back down to my face, over my cheekbones, until he stopped to stare at my mouth. I swear there was something peculiar about the look in his eyes then, how he took on the air of someone who hadn’t had anything at all to fill his belly. Dempsey stepped closer, resting his hands on my shoulders and I let him, liked how big his fingers felt on my skin, how one palm covered my collarbone completely. But then it was like the moment between us passed when he realized just how torn my shirt was and went all still.
His skin went pale white just as mine pinked up and heated over my cheeks as his gaze traveled down my neck, to my resting on the beige strap of my frayed undershirt.
“Who…” He cleared his throat, like something thicker than hay had taken root in the back of his mouth. “Who?”