Forgiveness Road: A Powerful Novel of Compelling Historical Fiction

me.

Chapter 1

Cissy stood in the exact center of the bedroom, chewing her bottom lip and staring at the dark oak flooring. The morning sun streamed through the east windows, illuminating scratches from her recent failed attempt to move the bed against a different wall. She’d get holy hell for that later, but she couldn’t be bothered with worrying now. Cissy was too busy appreciating how the light made it easier to count the number of six-inch-wide boards that stretched from one side of the room to the other. There were always twenty-three, unless of course she decided to count the half board at one end as a full board or disregard it altogether.

Since it was summer and she knew she’d not be late for the bus, Cissy counted a second time, allowing the numbers to wash over her like a warm rain shower.

Jessie, the youngest of the three Pickering sisters, flung open the door. Eleven twenty, sixteen eighty!

Cissy turned and pulled her baby sister into a hug. She smelled of children’s sleep and Ivory soap and all comforting things. Silly goose, those are made-up numbers. Now I have to start over. And if you don’t hightail it to breakfast, Mama will start ranting about our lollygagging. Or she’ll make an excuse not to drive us to the library.

The sisters had already consumed an impressive stack of books since school let out, reading long into the sticky June nights, even under threat of punishment. Jessie still preferred picture books, but Lily had progressed to Nancy Drew mysteries. For the past week, Cissy had needled her mama until she finally agreed to take the three of them to the Biloxi library that morning. Her chief argument against getting more books—and a flimsy one at that—was that the girls read too fast and the books they had should have lasted all summer. Cissy chose to ignore her complaining, something her grandmother once remarked took a special talent.

Get your butts downstairs this instant. Your cornflakes are getting soggy! Her mama’s voice carried easily from the kitchen, down a long hallway, and up the flight of stairs. Cissy believed scolding to be one of her special talents, as was pouring milk into their cereal before they got to the table to punish them for their tardiness or some other transgression.

Her mama could have avoided much of her aggravation this summer, including multiple trips to the library, if she had just agreed to teach Cissy how to drive. Her excuse had been that Cissy didn’t exhibit the maturity necessary to operate a vehicle, and until she gave up her childish ways, a license was off-limits. Cissy vowed to wear her down, though. It had been providence that she earn her license this year: it was 1976, she was sixteen years old, and it was twenty-six miles to the Department of Motor Vehicles office. You couldn’t ignore that many sixes.

After Jessie scurried off to brush her teeth, Cissy slipped into a plaid cotton sundress and pink plastic sandals that squeaked when she walked and rubbed blisters on her little toes. The sound irritated her mama just enough to make those blisters worthwhile.

As Cissy left her room, she noticed Jessie across the hall, her ear pressed to the closed door of the bedroom she shared with Lily.

What’s going on? Cissy asked.

Daddy’s talking to Lily and they don’t want to be disturbed. But I need my shoes. The six-year-old squirmed with indecision.

Cissy had made her sisters promise never to be alone with him and to always keep their door open. Her hand hovered over the porcelain doorknob, hopelessness squeezing her heart into a tight mass. Her breath began to escape in short bursts. She put her hands to the sides of her head to stop the rush of thoughts tumbling up and down and sideways. When that didn’t work, her hands curled into tight fists at her sides and she stood as stiff as a board.

Jessie tugged at her sister’s dress, anxious fingers twirling the cloth. What’s wrong? You having a spell?

Cissy unclenched her fists and looked at the marks her fingernails had dug into her palms, half-moons that looked like the birds Lily drew in pictures of the sky.

She counted to twenty to steady her breath. I’m fine, she finally said. Head on down to breakfast.

But she wasn’t fine. She’d made a deal with her daddy, one that protected her sisters if Cissy agreed to keep their secret. She didn’t know why she felt he’d one day go back on his word, but that’s what her churning gut told her. It was rarely wrong, and to ignore it now could jeopardize the two beings in the whole wide world who still made it worthwhile to get up each day.

With Jessie out of sight, Cissy turned the knob and the door swung open easily. She shuddered to realize it made no noise, not even a halfhearted squeak from the metal hinges to alert someone, just like her own door.

You can’t be in here! Lily snatched the piece of orange construction paper that lay across their father’s lap and shoved it under a pillow. Bits of gold glitter clung to his slacks. I was showing Daddy a birthday surprise for Jessie. Now get before Jessie barges in and ruins everything.

Her father stood. He adjusted his tie with his right hand. His left clenched his favorite gray fedora. It was the one he wore on mornings he had to be in court. He said it brought him luck.

Cissy looked at her feet, then to the flowers on the wallpaper, an atrocious pink not found anywhere in nature. There were too many blooms to count and she doubted anything could calm her stomach in that moment anyway. When he slid past her in the doorway, the lingering scent of shaving soap clung to him.

You got something on your mind, girl? His whisper was just a breath, warm and disquieting.

No, sir. She turned her head to the side, desperate to escape their proximity. Mama wants us down at breakfast. I came for Lily.

Well, you know better than to keep her waiting.

He laughed to himself and left them be. Cissy couldn’t help but watch him until she could no longer hear his footfalls on the stairs. The ghost of him remained, though, almost a solid thing rendering her fixed to the spot.

You’re a hot mess. You better brush that hair before Mama sees it. Lily’s command seemed to break the spell.

I’ll be right down, Cissy said. Go on without me.

She waited a few seconds before walking into her parents’ room. Something wholly outside herself compelled her forward. She headed straight to the old bureau where her daddy hid his revolver in the bottom drawer under his socks, neat little bundles grouped according to color. He kept the thing loaded because he said an empty gun wasn’t much use when it came down to needing it. Today, she agreed with him. She wouldn’t have known how to load the bullets, but was hopeful she could pull a trigger.

She heard her mama berating their housekeeper, Bess, for using too much dish soap, but it was Lily’s voice that dominated the kitchen conversation. She asked Jessie what kind of picture books she wanted from the library and told her it was time she tried some big-girl readers. Cissy smiled to think she’d imparted a love of reading to her baby sisters. Books would never fail them. And she wouldn’t either.

While the girls finished up breakfast, Cissy tiptoed down the hall and out the front door, following her daddy to the detached garage. With the gun behind her back, she walked in sync with his steps, although several paces behind. Her eyes were riveted on the heels of his shoes, ink black and shiny. There was a time when the sisters fell over themselves begging to help him shine those shoes, eager for just a crumb of approval, even if it meant extra time in the bath to scrub the polish from beneath their nails. Cissy couldn’t remember the last time she wanted his attention.

When he whipped around, she almost dropped the gun. What do you want, Cissy? I’m going to be late for work.

She soaked in every detail of how he looked: his light gray suit, which set off his freckled skin better than his other suits; the maroon and navy striped tie and white dress shirt starched just so; the silver cuff links that cast tiny globes of light against the window panes of the garage door; the red hair they’d both inherited from his own mama.

Good God, girl, cat got your tongue?

Her wrist shook from the weight of the gun, still behind her back. She didn’t know what she could possibly say to make things any different.

I don’t have time for your foolishness, Ciss. Go back inside.

He pulled up on the handle of the garage door. The steel springs sang out their displeasure, causing goose bumps to travel the length of her body. He walked inside and opened the back door to his new Lincoln. With the sun in her eyes, he became just a shadow in a dark garage. Not even a person really.

She steadied the gun with both hands and pulled the trigger until no bullets were left. Her arms jerked upward with every shot, making it difficult to stay centered. More than one bullet made an ear-splitting ding when hitting the metal of the car. She’d aimed at his back so he wouldn’t realize what was happening to him. It was an odd feeling not to want your daddy to be disappointed in you, even for killing him. It was an even odder feeling to love him despite his lack of good boundaries.

Her aim had been good enough. A pool of blood crept beyond his body and the briefcase he’d dropped. In the shadows, it looked black as oil, and Cissy figured it’d stain the concrete just as bad. She stood there, not knowing what else to do.

It seemed an eternity before her mama and Bess ran past her and into the garage. Screams twisted their faces into horrible masks. Bess scanned the scene for a second before her gaze settled on the gun still in Cissy’s hand. Her screaming stopped abruptly.

Please, girl, don’t shoot. Please. Think of your sisters.

Cissy didn’t understand Bess’s pleas. She had been thinking of her sisters. She wasn’t going to hurt anyone else. When Lily and Jessie appeared on the porch, Bess ran for the house, yelling for the girls to hide upstairs.

Her mama’s wailing continued as she knelt over her husband’s body, desperately trying to squelch the flow of blood. For a second, Cissy panicked that her daddy would open his eyes, sit up, and demand to know what all the fuss was about.

She shook the image from her head and dropped the gun. A cool breeze nipped at her neck even though the summer sun was already showing its strength. She slipped off her sandals, letting the cool grass soothe the sting of her blisters, and made her way to the tire swing hanging from the big magnolia.

Chapter 2

Janelle Clayton hung up the phone without saying goodbye and walked down the hall. The stairs loomed before her unwilling legs. She pulled herself up the banister, hand over hand, until the landing mercifully appeared. When she opened her armoire, she blinked in confusion, its contents foreign and disorienting.

Mrs. Clayton, let me help you. You’re not yourself. Ruth darted around her, grabbing a pair of slacks, her knee-high hosiery, a blouse and light sweater.

I’d like a scarf, Janelle said, moving a hand to her throat. This sweater demands a scarf.

Should I drive you to your daughter’s? You’re talking nonsense and sure don’t look in any state to drive yourself. Worry was always most apparent in her housekeeper’s eyes, which glazed with emotion when she was upset. Ruth used the edge of her apron to wipe the perspiration from her upper lip and sat on the edge of the bed.

Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do. You’re treating me like an infirm old lady. Janelle sat down next to her. She grabbed Ruth’s hand, a gesture to soften the sharpness of her words.

She wasn’t good at apologies, although if anyone deserved one, it was Ruth. Many times over. They’d been raised side by side, the judge’s and housekeeper’s daughters. One was rarely seen without the other, causing Janelle’s mother to comment on the inappropriateness of her attachment to a house servant. When Janelle married in 1924, it was a given that Ruth would follow and manage her household. On the first day of work, she’d called her Mrs. Clayton. Janelle laughed and said, That’s my mother-in-law’s name. Ruth had smiled weakly. Not a real smile, but one suffused with sadness and memory and longing that things could have been different if they’d both been black or both been white.

I wish Mr. Beau was still with us, Ruth said.

Janelle had been thinking the same thing. Her husband died of a heart attack five years ago. They’d just celebrated his seventieth birthday with a barbecue on a stifling August evening. Dozens of well-wishers surrounded them. After dark, when the fireworks lit up the Mississippi sky, she remembered thinking they still had twenty good years left in them and plenty of celebrations to come. She and Beau had been on the front porch, waving goodbye to the last of the guests, when he said he didn’t feel quite right. Janelle chalked it up to the heat and too much bourbon. She showed him to his rocker and went inside to get an antacid. When she’d returned to the porch, Beau’s chin was tucked to his chest as if he’d just nodded off.

Well, my husband’s dead, Janelle said. And now, so is my son-in-law.

She headed down the stairs and out to her car. Ruth shuffled after her, insisting with each step that she call someone, anyone.

Who, Ruth? Tell me who I can call? She’d barked the words, unable to contain her rising panic. My granddaughter has just . . . Caroline’s husband is dead.

Ruth’s mournful mouth twisted. I just want to be of help. You know that I love those girls, too.

I do know that. I shouldn’t have raised my voice, Janelle said, and got into the car. I just need to get going.

Within twenty minutes, she drove through the arch over Caroline’s driveway and down the gravel path to the freshly painted Georgian-style mansion. Bess sat on the front stoop, holding Caroline against her breast. She was hysterical, one second clawing to get away and the next holding on for dear life. Cissy sat motionless on the tire swing under the largest magnolia in the front yard.

What happened here? Janelle shouted to no one in particular. Tell me this instant what happened.

Like I told you on the phone, Miss Cissy shot her daddy! Bess wailed. Lord save us all!

Don’t be ridiculous. Calm yourself and tell me what happened.

She did, Mother! She did! Caroline directed her voice at Janelle, but pointed violently toward Cissy.

Her granddaughter stared at her with soft, haunted eyes and moved her head up and down slowly. The blood drained from Janelle’s limbs, and the truth she refused to believe earlier now gut-punched her.

Where are the police? Did you call someone? she demanded. The nearest neighbor was a half mile away, but gunshots weren’t uncommon out in the country. They’d have no reason to call the sheriff’s office. It seemed clear now that Caroline hadn’t called either.

Without waiting for an answer, Janelle ordered her rubbery legs to carry her to the garage. Richard’s body lay facedown on the cement floor, his briefcase at his side, two islands surrounded by the ever-widening sea of blood. She gagged back her breakfast and wrapped both arms around her middle trying to hold the world together.

The gun lay on the grass right outside the garage next to a pair of pink plastic sandals. Why hadn’t Caroline or Bess thought to pick it up? She considered wiping Cissy’s fingerprints off the gun and throwing it out into the oat field next to the house to rid themselves of at least one piece of a horrific puzzle. Or she could tell the police she shot Richard.

Janelle, pull yourself together. She spoke the words out loud, needing the sound to awaken her brain and legs. She ran toward the house, shouting for Bess to help Caroline inside. Then she changed course and headed for Cissy.

Child, what have you done? She shook her granddaughter’s shoulders, but Cissy remained placid, a pitiful slackness in her face and body. What happened?

Don’t worry, Grandmother, she whispered, and cast her vacant eyes toward the sky as if watching the clouds. It’ll all be okay. Lily and Jessie are safe now.

Janelle couldn’t deal with her gibberish. Stay put. Don’t you go anywhere.

Of course not, Grandmother. She kicked her bare feet in the dirt beneath the swing.

Janelle ran into the house to look for Lily and Jessie. She explored the first floor, room by room, calling out their names until her voice grew raspy and inadequate. She heard nothing. Where were those babies? At least Bess had managed to stop Caroline’s screaming.

When she reached the second-floor landing, muffled cries escaped Cissy’s room. Janelle opened the closet door to find Lily with her hand over her sister’s mouth to stifle the whimpers that had already given them away.

Oh, children. Come out of there this instant. Don’t be afraid.

Lily, only twelve but the protector, shook her head no. Janelle had offered no proof that the girl’s world was once again safe or normal, so her hesitancy was expected. Jessie, however, busted loose from her older sister’s grasp and shot out on her knees. She threw her arms around the lower part of Janelle’s legs, knocking her off-kilter. Within seconds, Lily also emerged and squeezed her stooped shoulders. The girl stood almost as tall as Janelle.

Bess said Cissy killed Daddy. Lily’s tone implored her to contradict those words.

She embraced the girls. Well, I’ll go find out exactly what happened if you promise not to worry. Now, go to your room and wait until Bess or I come for you. She pushed them down the hallway and waited to hear the click of the door. Then she made her way downstairs and to the phone. Someone had to call the sheriff.

* * *

On the phone, Sheriff Roe had promised her that he’d not make a scene, yet the first of two cruisers arrived with lights flashing. When two young deputies emerged from the first car with guns drawn, Janelle marched toward them ready to unleash a fury the likes of which they’d never seen.

The sheriff exited the second car quickly. His booming voice instructed the men to stand down and he rushed over, taking liberties to place his arm around her shoulder. The deputies milled about uncomfortably, waiting for orders.

Mrs. Clayton, I’m terribly sorry. The dispatcher leaked word Richard had been murdered. He towered over Janelle. They ain’t seen this much action before. Getting a little too excited, I suspect.

Shot, she said. No one said anything about murder.

Ma’am, I’ll need to speak to your granddaughter. May I? He nodded toward the swing, where Cissy waited in her limbo. Janelle shooed him over with both hands.

At the same time, Caroline couldn’t be contained by the house or Bess, and raced about the side yard, her arms and legs out of sync. I wish you’d never been born! she howled, and pounded her gut as if expunging Cissy from her womb.

Cissy’s expression never changed, a still pond not yet disturbed by a skipping stone. She nodded once, maybe twice while the sheriff spoke to her, yet seemed deaf to her mother’s anguish.

The deputies retrieved yellow tape from the cruiser’s trunk and cordoned off the front of the garage. The men stood in front of the crime scene, awaiting instructions. Crime scene. Janelle stood, useless, listening to the hum of a horsefly and noting the brutish Mississippi humidity.

A few minutes passed before Sheriff Roe took Cissy’s upper arm and pulled her from the swing. He led her back to his car, a gentle hand around her elbow. Without any instruction Cissy opened the back door herself, crawled in, and folded her lanky legs in front of her. Grasping her knees, she seemed to sway to a lullaby only she could hear.

Sheriff Roe instructed his men to stay by the garage until the coroner arrived. He said Cissy would be detained at the county jail in a small room he used when staying overnight.

Don’t worry, Mrs. Clayton. She’ll be treated well, the sheriff said. I’ll see to it myself.

Janelle had no choice but to believe him.

Ma’am, you should get a lawyer for that gal right away. I can put off questioning her officially only for so long before it appears I’m not doing my job.

Yes, of course you’re right. She handed him Cissy’s sandals, although she wasn’t sure how they got into her hands.

I’m sure you can find yourself a good one, he said. Folks remember your husband fondly. Judge Clayton made more friends than anyone I’d ever seen preside over a circuit court.

Beau had been a good man and an even better judge. He built a fine reputation over thirty years, and the Clayton name meant something in Mississippi. Janelle also had the financial means to hire the best attorney in the state, or elsewhere for that matter, but there’d be challenges.

"My son-in-law is . . . was a highly regarded attorney, she told the sheriff. He’ll garner sympathy in some circles."

Don’t you be worrying about Richard. He wiped the sweat from his brow and fanned his face with his hat. You need to focus your energy on helping Cissy now.

Her granddaughter had always been an unusual child, with peculiar notions about the world that often made Janelle’s head spin or her blood boil, sometimes at the same time. She questioned authority relentlessly, but with a genuine curiosity rather than rebelliousness. Her odd behaviors caused family and strangers alike to shake their heads in wonderment. Janelle refused to believe Cissy capable of premeditated murder, yet failed to ask her the reason for changing their lives so irrevocably. And what did she mean when she said Lily and Jessie were now safe? Why hadn’t Janelle asked?

When the sheriff started the car, she pressed a hand to the backseat window. Cissy’s enormous blue eyes, glistening and distant, revealed no clues. Her lips, upturned in a strange little smile, mouthed, Don’t worry about me, Grandmother.

Janelle watched the car drive away, her eyes fixed on Cissy’s ginger curls. Her granddaughter didn’t turn around, so she returned to the house to see about Caroline and the girls.

* * *

Miss Caroline, you need to tell Mrs. Clayton what your daughter told you, Bess pleaded, but Caroline stayed mute. The three of them stood in the parlor.

Miss Cissy said her daddy touched her in the wrong way, Bess said, her hand over her mouth. Said she’d not let him do the same to her baby sisters.

She’s a lying bitch, Caroline shouted.

Janelle hit her daughter with all the force she could muster. Why would she lie? She’s a good girl. She’s never told a lie in her short life.

Janelle recalled the many rules that governed her granddaughter’s odd behaviors. Topping her list of things she vowed never to do was lying. Even as a very small child, she’d stride up to her parents and grandparents to confess any wrongdoing, even when it would have likely gone unnoticed. Once, when Cissy was just six or seven years old, Janelle asked her why she didn’t just keep the deed to herself. Cissy had said, If we can’t trust each other to tell the truth, Grandmother, what’s to become of us?

Bess stepped between them, perhaps to stop Janelle from striking Caroline again. Janelle steadied herself by placing a hand on the back of a wing chair. She shuddered to imagine Cissy speaking her horrors aloud, trusting that Caroline would believe the unthinkable of her husband.

How could you not know? Janelle asked. She’s your daughter.

She’s not my daughter any longer! Caroline spit her words. She’s telling horrible, disgusting lies about Richard. Why are you taking her side?

Because I’m her grandmother and I believe she’d never do something like this without reason. Janelle pondered what other motive Cissy might have had if she wasn’t telling the truth about her father. Why today? She’d been so calm, sitting under the magnolia. Shouldn’t a sixteen-year-old who’d killed a person be distraught? If anything, the girl looked at peace.

She murdered him, Mother. Murdered!

Anyone could understand Caroline’s anguish and her primal hope that Richard was not capable of such monstrous acts. But Cissy needed her mother more than anyone right now. She needed to be believed.

Bess grew alarmed by their shouting and put an arm around Caroline’s shoulders.

You’ll frighten the little ones, Miss Caroline, she whispered. Please lie down. Rest a spell.

The wildness in Caroline’s eyes dimmed in response to the soothing tone of Bess’s instructions. Caroline curled up on the sofa. Bess touched her hair lovingly, something a mother would do; something Janelle couldn’t imagine being able to do again.

Bess, why don’t you go check on the girls. I need to speak to my daughter.

I don’t have anything to say to you, Mother. You can believe Cissy, but I want that girl put away for good, someplace where she can’t hurt any of us ever again.

Bess locked eyes with Janelle. Sympathy flooded her dark features.

I don’t care how you treat me, Caroline, but I expect you to pull yourself together and be there for your child, she said.

That’s rich coming from you, Caroline said. And today of all days, when I’ve lost my husband, you’re going to believe a girl who’s never been in her right mind.

Janelle bristled at the unfair assessment. Don’t say that about your daughter. There’s nothing wrong with her mind.

Oh, Mother, don’t try to rewrite history. You’ve told me on more than one occasion that I needed to do something about Cissy’s ‘eccentricities,’ Caroline said. What possesses an eccentric child to retrieve her father’s loaded gun from a drawer, follow him out to his car, and kill him in cold blood?

I can’t begin to understand the depth of your pain right now, but please reserve your judgment about Cissy until we know more.

What more do I need to know? Isn’t a dead body enough for you? Caroline demanded. You know Richard was a good man. There’s no way he’d harm a child, much less his own daughter.

Janelle found it hard to argue with that. Over the years, he rarely attracted Janelle’s attention at all. She thought him a vain sort of man,