Liar's Bench by Kim Michele Richardson Page B

one whipcrack of thought, I reflected about Mama—my grandparents—and the final escape of madness—and never-ending sorrow. I licked my lips and pressed a hand over the barrel. Oh, but to drive away this madness . . . to lie down beside them in green pastures and restore my soul!
    â€œDriving is a privilege, and one that I can take away.” Daddy’s voice was low and stern.
    Startled, I piled the quilts over the .410 and dropped the lid. I whipped around to find him standing in the doorway, with his arms crossed and his mouth set in a hard line.
    â€œYou’re not the Department of Motor Vehicles,” I said, shaken.
    â€œI am today.” He lifted his coffee mug, before he turned and went back downstairs.
    When I heard his footsteps hit the bottom landing, I crossed the hall to his bedroom, intent on finding that key.
    I worked my way over to his armoire in the corner and opened its doors, doing a double take in the inlaid mirror. Shocked, I peered closer. My long brown hair was a tangled twist of knots instead of its usual soft curls. My nose, splattered with freckles, what Grammy Essie used to call “a redhead’s angel spit,” glowed like Peckinpaw’s only red light. I groaned. My eyes were road-map red, like the day I’d gotten caught in Grammy Essie’s cellar polishing off a jar of sweet dandelion wine. I was nearly thirteen. She’d yanked me out of the cellar and shamed me with a lecture on the evils of alcohol, carefully bringing Mama briefly into it, but I’d only caught two words: White trash.
    I shut the armoire door. “I’ve worked three years for that car,” I said to the empty room, my resolve growing.
    I reached on top of the bureau, fumbling for his leather jewelry box. Finally, I pulled it down and lifted the lid. My nerves lit into my hands, leaving me to fumble. The box slipped from my hands and the contents scattered across the floor.
    Dropping to my knees, I scrambled to pick up my car key poking out from beneath the corner of the bed and triumphantly stuffed it into my jean pocket. I stretched my arm across the hardwood to sweep the rest of the mess back into Daddy’s box, but I was distracted by a piece of twisted fabric looped around a ring. A small plastic bag labeled “Quality Hair Ribbons, $1.99” lay a foot away, bearing the stamped logo of Nettie’s Nest General Store. I scooped it up.
    â€œYou leave here without permission, gal, and I will take off your bedroom door and store it in the cellar again,” Daddy said from the doorway. “And you will lose your right to privacy for the rest of the summer!” He set down his coffee cup.
    â€œGo—go ahead,” I stammered, rubbing my closed hand. “Just need to get out of here . . . I’ll be back by four.”
    â€œDon’t push it, Muddy. You know the rules. Leave the house without consent, you lose my trust—the trust that comes with the protection of privacy—beginning with your door.”
    â€œYou’ve taken it off so many times, the lock only works half the time anyways.” I stood.
    â€œMuddy—”
    â€œI’m an adult now, seventeen,” I said evenly.
    â€œOnly ten years older than seven,” he shot back, “and damn well showing it.”
    I raised a shaky fist and opened my palm.
    Daddy leaned against the doorframe, arms blocked, eyes tightly scrunched as if he didn’t see it, it wouldn’t be real.
    â€œWho’s—who’s the lucky woman this time? Which one of them gets this—the new secretary?” I clutched the piece of jewelry. Slowly, I disentangled a cameo ring from the ribbon and placed the piece down on the nightstand. The ribbon was all too familiar.
    â€œWhat’s this, Daddy? This is the same ribbon Mama was wearing.” I raised my fist and let the ribbon slowly unravel. “Everyone knows that Nettie sells in threes.” She always put an