Aunt Jane lived there, the head of the Giles family in that part of Harrison County. She lived with Borden Giles, a son, who I knew wasn’t home, as no car was there, and so she opened for me herself — a gray-haired woman of 60 but smallish and not bad looking. She had a touch of Mom’s slick shape and of my mother’s high-toned way of holding herself. She knew me at once — though it was some years since I’d been there — and was really surprised to see me, not just make-out surprised, a point which I noted at once, as she wouldn’t have been if Mom was somewhere around. She didn’t kiss me, as by her lights she shouldn’t, but did shake hands very friendly, first wiping her hands on her apron. It was gingham and clean. Her dress was wool, of some dark color like brown, and under it she had on pants. I patted her hand after shaking it and watched her eyes, how they looked. Sure enough, they were searching my face, trying to guess what I wanted, which reinforced my first feeling that she had no news of Mom or any idea where she was.
She brought me in, sat me down by the fireplace, which had three logs already burning, disappeared into the kitchen, and was gone a couple of minutes. When she came out she had a cup and saucer in one hand, a coffee pot in the other. She poured, telling me: “You see I remember you take it black.”
“Thanks, Aunt Jane.”
Then, shooting it quick, on purpose, to catch me off balance: “Dave, where’s Little Myra?”
“Why do you ask?”
From mountain people, me included, you never quite get a straight answer. They don’t mean to deceive you, but they never come right out and say it. “It’s what you’ve come about, ain’t it?”
“It might be at that.”
“She don’t stay with me no more when she comes. Now she stays with Sid.”
“You mean, I should go there and ask? Not that I want to.”
“If she was there, I’d have heard.” And then: “Dave, there’s no need for you to go there, and I wouldn’t if I was you.”
“Aunt Jane, I don’t like him.”
“I didn’t say he likes you.”
“Maybe I found that out.”
“You mean you’ve seen him?”
“He might have been by, yes.”
“When, Dave?”
“Day before yesterday, maybe.”
“Asking for her, was that it?”
“Could have been, at that.”
“And she wasn’t there, Dave?”
“Not as I recollect.”
“He was looking for her, and you are. Where is she?”
“Wouldn’t say if I knew.”
After a long time: “Dave did she take that money?”
“Oh, so you know about that?”
“I got a TV in the back room. The man on it suspicions her.”
“Not on my TV.”
“We get Pittsburgh here.”
“And they say she took the money?”
“They don’t say it, they think it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can tell.”
She was right on top of the truth, though not yet the whole truth, and I had to make up my mind about it, if I was going to tell her that Jill had found the money and that that proved that the Pittsburgh suspicions were true. I decided against it. I couldn’t control what she’d tell in case Mom showed up and I had Jill to consider in light of what Bledsoe had said — and myself to consider too. Suddenly she asked: “What did you come to tell her?”
“To skip.”
“Where to?”
“Mexico, I would think. Anywhere, so it’s not in the U.S.”
“Get out of the country, you mean?”
“That’s it, but fast.”
“Dip into that money and—?”
“She ought to have enough.”
It had been bothering me that I’d driven straight over, without stopping for cash at the bank, to fix her up with what it took to skip with. But if she still had the $2,000, as she must have, that she took from the hundred thousand before hiding it, she didn’t need any cash from me.
I could feel Aunt Jane’s eyes searching my face and knew she must know I was holding something back, but before she could start working me over again, there was the sound of a car outside and then there was my mother — my real mother — parking behind my truck and getting out of her car. I went out to meet her, then helped her out and kissed her. She kissed me and whispered: “Is she here? Mom?”
“No.”
She kissed me again and then turned to Aunt Jane, who by then was at the door and who seemed glad to see her. She asked: “Aunt Jane, is Little Myra here?”
“Not that I know of, no.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Not as I recollect.”
We went inside, where Aunt Jane sat us down, and my mother turned to me. “I haven’t seen her,” I said.
“I came to warn her.”
“Of what?” asked Aunt Jane.
“Of that girl,” my mother told her. “Of that Jill, who’s on her tail.” For a moment, I thought she must know about Jill’s finding the money, which I didn’t want Aunt Jane told. But then I realized she meant the previous day’s conversation, when Jill shot her mouth off so loud. I cut in: “I’ve just asked Aunt Jane to tell her to skip if she comes.”
“What I came to say,” said my mother.
“And she has what it takes to skip with,” growled Aunt Jane, in a tone not friendly to Mom.
We sat back then and visited, with Aunt Jane bringing more coffee and my mother asking about people, all sorts of Gileses apparently, that I’d never even heard of. But pretty soon she got up, and I got up of course. We both shook hands with Aunt Jane, left our greetings to Borden, and went outside. I kissed my mother and put her in, telling her: “Be better if you let me pull out first.” As to why it would be better, I hadn’t quite figured out, but she said “OK” real quick, as the main thing was not to wink or do anything that might tip Aunt Jane we had stuff to tell each other that we didn’t mean to tell her. So I patted Aunt Jane once more, then got in the truck and drove off. But I drove slow to make sure my mother was back there, tailing me. As I turned into the road, I kept motioning with my hand, my left hand that is, that she should stay there, behind, and not make any effort to pass. I watched in the mirror, and sure enough her hand gave a little shake, and I knew she understood. It gave me a real lift, that she should know what I meant just from one little wigwag.
16
We drove on, back through Clarksburg, then turning into route 50 and keeping on for some miles, she following right along, till ahead of us was a lookout, one of those parks with a view. I signaled, then pulled out and stopped. She pulled up right beside me, and when I got out we looked at each other and laughed. I think it sent her too, that we’d do things together that way, each one always knowing what the other one meant. I walked to her window and told her:
“Something’s happened I couldn’t tell you back there.”
“OK, but first: did you tell her, or did anyone, what Little Myra told you? About us, I mean?”
“No — I couldn’t tell just a little bit.”
“Of course she knows — but you knowing the ins and out of why — it could have got pretty complicated.”
“That’s why I said nothing about it.”