The Steep and Thorny Way by Winters Cat

Author:Winters, Cat [Winters, Cat]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Abrams
Published: 2016-12-31T08:00:00+00:00

METHODIST YOUTH PICNIC, WASHINGTON COUNTY, OREGON, CIRCA 1920s

CHAPTER 15

WHO IS’T THAT CAN INFORM ME?

DRESSED IN A YELLOW SKIRT AND WHITE blouse that spoke of sunshine and innocence, I rode behind my mother and Uncle Clyde in the back of my stepfather’s four-door Buick sedan. My straw hat sat beside me on the plush seat, and my emerald ring sparkled in the rays of light shining through the open windows. I looked nothing at all like a girl who had slept on a blanket in the forest with a young man no one wanted around.

Mama kept turning in her seat and checking on me, as though she feared she’d find me gone again.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said over and over, and I steeled myself against potholes in the road and the sight of Uncle Clyde’s head bobbing about on his neck in front of me.

On the way into town, we passed Elston’s two restaurants—the Dry Dock and Ginger’s—which were separated by an oak tree with a sturdy trunk and crooked branches covered in leaves. The establishments flashed by as blurs of wood-paneled walls and redbrick chimneys, and a stab of dread, as quick as lightning, tore through my stomach.

We reached the strip of brick buildings that made up downtown, the tallest structure being the Lincoln Hotel at the far end, which stood three stories high and boasted a marble statue of “Honest Abe” out front, amid the rhododendrons. The owners claimed to be related to our sixteenth president, but I always wondered if they possessed any verifiable proof of that story. Tall tales and exaggerations seemed to be a staple in Elston.

Just past the heart of the town, we heard the horns of the local brass band blaring “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” I braced myself for the upcoming barrage of socializing that made my head swim on even normal Julys. Every year Elston held the Independence Day picnic on the lawn in front of our forty-year-old church—the type of church one would find on a Christmas card, complete with a steeple and paint as white as heaven itself, minus a few scuffs from stray baseballs and leaky droppings from the birds that nested in the eaves. Even the townsfolk who attended the church over in Bentley, plus the folks who dared to declare themselves Catholics or atheists, migrated to our Fourth of July festivities. If any actual Jewish folks resided in Elston or Bentley, aside from the aforementioned deputy, they’d probably come puttering over in their automobiles, too.

Uncle Clyde pulled the Buick next to a line of parked cars that gleamed in the sunlight in a patch of dirt. From my backseat window I spied the fair citizens of Elston, clad in red, white, and blue, crowded together on blankets in the lush green grass, hopping about in potato-sack races, and stuffing their mouths full of food. The brass band—all men in white linen suits—trumpeted away on the steps of the church, their cheeks puffed wide, their faces flushed and shiny.

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