Daddy, Dolly, and I had drilled the scenario a hundred times before.
"Ready, set," then he'd ring the bell like crazy. "Go."
We knew the bell tinkling meant the first checkpoint along the half-mile wire had been tripped. Daddy made us practice every single day since he started the business. He'd ring the bell and count out the checkpoints.
"They're at number two. Where's number two, Dolly?"
"At Tall Tree."
"That's my gal."
My little sister and I'd race out the back door, down the steps, and under the house. Dolly would head for her station at the strings, and I'd head for the trench. Right on our heels, he'd ring the bell again.
"Three. Where's checkpoint three, Blue?"
"At the frog pond, Daddy," I said. "They sure are quick. Can't you make them slow down?"
"They're going to be hauling ass when they come for me. There'll be no slowing them down."
"But it's so hot," I said.
"Quit your whining, girl. They'll be in air-conditioned cars. They won't be complaining about no heat."
A few times, he even made us practice in the middle of the night.
"Get up, get up," he'd yelled. "They're coming."
As he rang the bell over our dreaming heads, the dog barked and wouldn't shut up until we were finished. In our nightgowns, Dolly and I would reach out our hands, grab one another, then grope through the darkness counting out steps, eleven down the hall, seven across the back corner of the living room, and another ten over the kitchen linoleum. By the time we stepped to twenty-eight, we had reached the backdoor.
Above the sink, Daddy'd fashioned more black curtains with the leftover fabric from the living room window, but there wasn't enough to stretch across the whole way, so some moonlight shined in.
On those nighttime drills, the backdoor always stood shut. I'd grab Daddy's small hunting knife from the counter and hand it to Dolly, and I'd take Daddy's bigger one. With the moonlight flooding the room, I'd look back at Daddy fiddling with his gun. He'd have a tiny flashlight clamped in his teeth to light his way. Then he'd open chamber after chamber and load the bullets. Momma never let him keep a ready gun in the house, so out of respect for the dead he continued to honor her wishes.
Every time we drilled, the last things I looked at were the guns and the bullets. Five handguns, two rifles, and one shotgun resting in an umbrella stand next to the front door. Hundreds of shiny brass bullets lined up in rows across every flat surface, except for the piano. That was sacred space. I used to think about pushing over the bullets like dominoes, but I knew I couldn't because we were always preparing, and that wouldn't be considered getting ready.
Daddy would raise the shotgun, press it to his shoulder, and cock it. At that sound, my shoulders would relax, and me and Dolly would hop down the back steps. Nothing could hurt me or my sister when Daddy's shotgun was at the ready.
* * *
The bell rang again. But not by way of Daddy's hand. This was the real deal.
"Shit, they're already at checkpoint two." He turned toward me. "What are you waiting for?"
I looked around the room. "What about Dolly?"
"She's safe out there. Dog's with her. Go on now. Get under the house."
I nodded and ran toward the backdoor. The bell rang again.
"They're moving fast, only five more to go. Hurry now."
Before I pushed the screen door open, I grabbed Daddy's big knife. I turned back and looked at him. He winked at me then continued with his chamber checking.
At the bottom of the steps, I heard the shotgun cock and felt the fright leave my shoulders. I scanned the yard for my sister. She wasn't on her swing or in Strawberry Field. I stared as far into the woods as my eyes would take me. Nothing. I hoped the wind or Momma would carry my message.
"Stay hidden, little sister," I said. "Hear me now. Hiding place two. Remember the drill."
I ran down the back steps and crawled under the kitchen. The dust clung to my arms and legs and to my face. It was hot under the house almost steaming. The thermometer in the shade had read ninety-five at the start of the day. I swore, Southern July heat had to be hotter than anywhere else on the planet. Sweat beads ran down my temples and dripped off the tip of my nose. I scooted to the edge of the rock and looked over. The roar of the river felt like it was going to grab ahold and pull me in.
Daddy had built the back part of the house, where the kitchen was, so it hung over the water. Momma loved the water, any kind of water. Before she got sick, we'd eat breakfast in that little nook. Out the window, Daddy had built a leaning shelf. It was about the size of a flower box, but closed up on top, so Dolly and I could lean out and rest our elbows while we watched the river rush beneath us. When Dolly and I were left all alone, my little sister would encourage me to sit next to her on the shelf and swing my feet as fast as she did. Momma always called Dolly her little daredevil. But there wasn't any devil in her; she was as sweet as Great-Grandma Love's brown sugar peaches.
* * *
Back toward the water, the sun lay at just the right angle to shine through the river trees and fill Daddy's dangling jugs with bright light. Watching them shimmer was my favorite part of the drill. The only thing was their beauty was darkened by the fact Daddy could get ten to fifteen years just for having them on the premises. Didn't matter he didn't hardly drink anymore.
I hated heights, even twenty feet was a long way to fall, and the big rocks on the bank looked like a hard place to land. I held onto a beam and leaned out. With the tip of my knife, I pinged one of the hanging jugs just to say hello.
The men would be here soon. I backed away from the edge and lay down on my belly. I had to army crawl to hiding place one under the center of the house where the river didn't drown out the sound of footsteps above. Daddy had punched out knots in the floorboards, so I could see a bit of what was going on, and I could hear his signal better.
I flipped over onto my back and listened. The birds sang, and the little brass bell chimed again.
"Blue, you down there?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's number seven," he said. "They're at Round Rock." He clicked his tongue. "Did you get the instructions?"
"Just about to," I said.
Daddy had fashioned a secret compartment, which he called a survival box, under the floorboards. Inside was a plastic bag with a flint, some dryer lint, and further instructions. I pulled it out, and with a shaking hand, I stuffed it in my pocket.
"They'll be here soon. You ready?"
"Ready, sir."
"On my mark."
Daddy's mark was my Momma's name, Anna Christina. If this was the real deal, he'd say it out loud, and I'd cut the lines. I wondered if the sound of her name would come out of his mouth backwards or side-to because he wasn't real good at talking about her. In fact, he forbade Dolly and me to speak her name in his presence, and if we did, there was a heavy price to pay. What that price was I don't know, because Dolly and me never crossed that line. We had enough sense to only discuss Momma in the tree house.
Out front, tires crunched on the crushed rock, alerting me that the bad guys were closing in. At this end of the drive, Daddy, Dolly, and I had raked out ten square yards to sound off the last checkpoint. The noise of turning tires on pea gravel sounded a lot louder than any tire on dirt, and a trained ear could track a vehicle moving over it inch by inch.
A police car came to a stop in front of the house. From where I lay, I had a clear view out to the driveway, and I recognized my Uncle Jesse's white-wall tires. Daddy said most men face the white stripes in but not my uncle, he liked to be flashy. The engine died. The car door squeaked open. I looked up through a hole in the floor and saw Daddy's right side. He held a shotgun in his hand. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I pressed on them, trying to make them fly away.
I looked down at Daddy's big knife. I'd been using it since I was old enough to hold on without stabbing myself. Momma and Daddy kept all my campfire carvings on the mantle in their bedroom. I looked back toward Daddy's jugs hanging from the splintering brown twine and listened for his mark. Uncle Jesse stood at the foot of the steps and cleared his throat.
His black shoes looked new, and one of his pant legs was sticking to his sock. "Hello the house!"
Daddy's footsteps rapped above me. The front door clicked open.
"Deputy," Daddy sounded like he was holding his breath. "What can I do you for?"
"Howdy, brother," my uncle said.
"There's no need for niceties." I hoped my uncle didn't hear the shake in Daddy's voice. "I presume this ain't no friendly calling."
Uncle Jesse cleared his throat again. He had a way of doing that. I don't know how Aunt Ilene could stand it.
"I suspect you know why I'm here."
"Can't say as I do." Daddy sounded like he was just playing with his little brother.
"We can mess around if you want. But as I see it, it's a waste of my time and yours." My uncle kicked the first step. The cuff on his pant leg fell and landed on his shiny shoe. "Can you see your way to letting me in, so we can talk like gentlemen?"
"Now why would I want to do a thing like that? You weren't too gentlemanly the last time you was here."
I swore I could hear Daddy grinding his teeth.
"You didn't give me no choice."
"A man always has himself a choice. God saw to that a long time ago."
I felt proud of Daddy for saying that. He sounded real smart.
The dust under the house settled into my nose. I pressed my finger under it like a mustache and pushed hard to stop a sneeze.
My uncle's voice grew soft. "How are the girls? Teach Bean said he hasn't seen them around for a while. They getting along all right?"
"My girls are none of your business."
"They could be. No matter what's between me and you, it doesn't have nothing to do with them. The wife and I still stand by our offer. We'd take them in a heartbeat. We'd raise them right too."
I twisted the tip of Daddy's blade in my palm until a bead of blood appeared.
"A girl needs a Mama. And, well, since—"
"Don't you say her name."
I imagined Daddy's furry eyebrows joining forces and his lips gone into hiding.
The deputy climbed the steps and pulled the squeaky door open.
"Don't you come into my house. You ain't family no more." Daddy stepped back.
I wormed my way forward to see up through another hole. Daddy's gun was braced against his shoulder. He backed up more.
"Brother, I just want to talk."
I couldn't see my uncle. The door snapped shut. His footsteps were heavier than Daddy's.
I closed my eyes and whispered, "God, please make Uncle Jesse go away."
"Don't take one more step, or I'll shoot." Daddy's voice shook.
"Now, now. Let's talk about this."
I imagined my uncle had a hand on his own gun, ready to pull it out of its holster; after all, he was war trained. But Daddy was prison trained, so I didn't know which one to be more scared for.