her long before that, as a little girl, when she’d come into my father’s grocery with her mother.
“I’m Miss Troy” were the first words Kelli’s mother said to my father. She was a tall, slender woman with pale skin, light brown hair and an air of nervous distraction about her, as if she were continually trying to recall where she’d mislaid her keys. She flopped her shiny black purse onto the counter as she spoke, and it lay there like a dead bird between herself and my father. Overhead an old ceiling fan whirled slowly in the summer heat, and I remember that its breeze gently rustled through her hair.
“I’m Miss Troy,” she said, emphasizing the “Miss,” though without explanation, even after she’d added, “And this is my daughter, Kelli.”
It was the summer of 1952, long before much had really changed in the South, and a woman with a young daughter and no husband was not a common sight in a town like ours, where the Confederate battle flag still waved above the courthouse lawn, and the older ways of life it represented, a strict moral and social code, personal reticence, a world order that was essentially Victorian, still held sway. Miss Troy had clearly broken with that world, not only in having borne a child without a husband, but in declaring it so bluntly.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am” was all my father said. Then he smiled that quiet, knowing smile of his, the one that seemed to accept life on its own terms rather than as something that had somehow broken its promise to him. “And what can I do for you, Miss Troy?” he added.
“I’d like to buy a few things,” Miss Troy answered. “I’d like to put the bill on my mother’s account.” She said it almost sharply, her eyes still fixed on my father’s face, as if expecting him to turn her down. “My mother’s not well and I’m down here to see after her for a while.”
My father nodded, then glanced down at Kelli. “Mighty pretty little girl you got there,” he said gently. “How old is she?”
“Six,” Miss Troy answered matter-of-factly.
My father pointed to me. “This is my son. Name’s Ben. He’s the same age as your little girl.”
“Thelma Troy, that’s my mother,” Miss Troy said briskly. “She says you know her.”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“Do you need to see some identification for me to put things on her account?”
The question seemed to surprise my father. “Identification? What for?”
“So you’ll know I’m really her daughter.”
My father looked at her curiously, in wonder at such cold formality. “No, ma’am, I don’t need to see any identification.”
Miss Troy gave him a doubtful glance. “So I can go ahead and do my shopping now? You don’t need to check anything?”
My father shook his head. “I’m sure you’re who you say you are, Miss Troy.”
“Well, thank you, then,” Miss Troy said, still a little coolly, but with some part of my father’s trust already warming her.
She went directly to her shopping after that, tugging Kelli along with her as she made her way down one of the aisles.
From the front of the store, I watched as the two of them moved among the canned goods and stacks of paper products. From time to time, Kelli would glance back at me, her face half hidden in the black curls of her hair. She was darker than her mother, with nearly black eyes, and she wore a white dress that had small green lines scattered across it so that, at first, I thought she must have been rolling in new-mown grass. But more than anything, I noticed how directly she stared at me, as if she were expecting me to challenge her in some way, demand something she had already determined to refuse.
“Hi,” I said as she passed by.
She did not answer but only continued to watch me closely, her eyes evaluating me with what even then I sensed to be a fierce intelligence.
They left a few minutes later, Miss Troy holding her groceries in one hand and tugging Kelli along with the other, both of them passing quickly through the store’s old screen door, letting it fly back with a loud pop.
With a little boy’s purposeless curiosity, I followed after them, and stood on the wooden porch, my small hands sunk deep into the pockets of my faded blue overalls, watching them go.
They’d come in a dusty red pickup truck with black-wall tires and a rusty grille, an old model, scarcely seen anymore, with the headlights mounted on the front fenders, like frog’s eyes. Kelli sat on the passenger side, of course, the window rolled down so that I could see her slender arm as it dangled outside the door. When it pulled away, she glanced back at me, her face still locked in an odd concentration, earnest and unsmiling.
It is the absence of that smile that most haunts me now, and each time I recall it, I remember how serious she appeared even at that early age, how guarded and mistrustful, and how, years later, at the instant of her destruction, all the trust and belonging she had come to feel during the previous year must have seemed to explode before her eyes.
Within an instant, she was gone.
I remained on the porch, my hands still in my pockets, toying with one of the assortment of dime-store clickers I’d collected over the years. I was always clicking them, using them, as I realize now, to click away boredom, loneliness, fear. At night I clicked away the darkness. Alone in my backyard I clicked up imaginary friends. I suppose that as I stood on the store’s front porch that afternoon, I half believed that with a single innocent and fantastic click I could bring Kelli Troy back to me.
Such a wonder does not exist, of course. Only memory does, the standing miracle of life. And so, despite the passage of over thirty years, the slightest thing can still return her to me. Sometimes, for example, I will glance out my office window, fix my eyes upon the gray upper slope of Breakheart Hill, and recall the many times I’d wanted to take her up that same hill and lie down with her. I had dreamed of it quite often during the time I knew her, and it was always the same dream, delicate enough, and tender, but unmistakably sensual as well. I would take her to the crest of Breakheart Hill, lower her upon a dark red blanket, and as the music swelled to a thrilling height, we would come together in that passionate embrace I’d seen in countless movies, a touch I had never felt, though many times imagined.
But nothing like that ever happened on Breakheart Hill. Something else did. Something that continually weaves through my consciousness, slithering into my mind from this corner or that, but always returning me to the past with a terrible immediacy, as if it had all happened yesterday and I was still reeling from the shock.
At times it begins with Sheriff Stone standing before me, his eyes slowly scanning the bare concrete walls of the little office where I worked on the high school newspaper. At other occasions it has begun with the sound of my father calling to me from the mountain road, his tall figure veiled in thick gray lines of rain. It has begun with my being ushered into a musty, cluttered room, an old woman’s voice coming from behind, ancient, gravelly, and unspeakably ironic in what she says to me.
At still other times it comes to me in a dream of that last day. It is midafternoon, and a breeze is rustling through the grass of my front yard. Across the way, my neighbor’s son blows a dandelion into the shimmering air, and suddenly in my mind I see Luke’s old truck come to a stop on the mountainside. He takes off his blue baseball cap and wipes his brow. He says, “You sure?” She says, “Don’t worry, Luke.” Then she smiles at him and gets out of the truck. He lingers a moment, reluctant to leave her. “Go on, Luke,” she tells him. He nods, jerks into gear, then pulls away, the old truck lumbering down the hill toward town, a puff of blue smoke streaming from its dusty tailpipe. She watches him from her place at the edge of the mountain road, her hand lifted in a final wave, her bare arm weaving like a brown reed against the green wall of the mountain. She smiles slightly, as if to reassure him that she is safe from harm. Then she turns away and heads down the slope toward Breakheart Hill, disappearing finally into a web of trees.
Sometimes the dream ends there, too, with a faint smile still lingering on her lips. At other times, however, it goes on irrevocably, step by step, all the way to the instant when I see her body as it crashes through the dense forest growth, her legs torn by briar and shrubs, her face slapped mercilessly by low-slung branches. She runs desperately, dazed and terrified, her body bent forward as she rushes back up the steep grade of Breakheart Hill. At times she stumbles, her fingers clawing madly at the rocky ground until she pulls herself to her feet again and struggles forward, staggering up the slope, toward the point where the high ridge levels off at the mountain road, where she hopes Luke, by some miracle, may have returned for her. She is almost there when she falls, exhausted, unable to move. In the last moments, I see her face pressed hard against the ground, her snarled hair littered with bits of leaves. I see the shadow fall over her, watch her face twist around surreally, rotating slowly into an
