He walked toward me with his thumbs jammed into his pockets and his eyes squinted half shut from the glare. I watched his shadow slide over the dirt and weeds and thought he had come to punish me for stabbing a peach. I didn't even know why I was doing it.
Instead he said, "Lily, you're starting school tomorrow, so there are things you need to know. About your mother."
For a moment everything got still and quiet, as if the wind had died and the birds had stopped flying. When he squatted down in front of me, I felt caught in a hot dark I could not break free of.
"It's time you knew what happened to her, and I want you to hear it from me. Not from people out there talking."
We had never spoken of this, and I felt a shiver pass over me. The memory of that day would come back to me at odd moments. The stuck window. The smell of her. The clink of hangers. The suitcase. The way they'd fought and shouted. Most of all the gun on the floor, the heaviness when I'd lifted it.
I knew the explosion I'd heard that day had killed her. The sound still sneaked into my head occasionally and surprised me. Sometimes it seemed that when I'd held the gun there hadn't been any noise at all, that it had come later, but other times, sitting alone on the back steps, bored and wishing for something to do, or pent up in my room on a rainy day, I felt I had caused it, that when I'd lifted the gun, the sound had torn through the room and gouged out our hearts.
It was a secret knowledge that would slip up and overwhelm me, and I would take off running -- - even if it was raining out, I ran -- - straight down the hill to my special place in the peach orchard. I'd lie right down on the ground and it would calm me. Now T. Ray scooped up a handful of dirt and let if fall out of his hands. "The day she died, she was cleaning out the closet," he said. I could not account for the strange tone of his voice, an unnatural sound, how it was almost, but not quite, kind.
Cleaning the closet. I had never considered what she was doing those last minutes of her life, why she was in the closet, what they had fought about.
"I remember," I said. My voice sounded small and faraway to me, like it was coming from an ant hole in the ground.
His eyebrows lifted, and he brought his face closer to me. Only his eyes showed confusion. "You what?"
"I remember," I said again. "You were yelling at each other."
A tightening came into his face. "Is that right?" he said. His lips had started to turn pale, which was the thing I always watched for. I took a step backward.
"Goddamn it, you were four years old!" he shouted. "You don't know what you remember."
In the silence that followed, I considered lying to him, saying, I take it back. I don't remember anything. Tell me what happened, but there was such a powerful need in me, pent up for so long, to speak about it, to say the words.
I looked down at my shoes, at the nail I'd dropped when I'd seen him coming. "There was a gun."
"Christ," he said.
He looked at me a long time, then walked over to the bushel baskets stacked at the back of the stand. He stood there a minute with his hands balled up before he turned around and came back.
"What else?" he said. "You tell me right now what you know."
"The gun was on the floor -- - "
"And you picked it up," he said. "I guess you remember that."
The exploding sound had started to echo around in my head. I looked off in the direction of the orchard, wanting to break and run.
"I remember picking it up," I said. "But that's all."
He leaned down and held me by the shoulders, gave me a little shake. "You don't remember anything else? You're sure? Now, think."
Oldest romance writer in the world dies aged 105. Books #124 and #125 to be published next year(Dec 10 2013) Ida Pollock, author of more than 120 books, and believed to be the world's oldest romantic novelist, has died at the age of 105.