Chapter 1
Forest Drive
Tilly--1937
Our home on Forest Drive loomed among towering oaks, their limbs heavy with Spanish moss, casting shadows that seemed to whisper secrets. Surrounded by the town’s elite, nestled among pristine lawns, it was a picture of perfection—an illusion. Beneath the gleaming surface, however, it was not a happy place.
The invitations to my parents’ parties on Forest Drive were the most coveted events in Columbiana, Alabama—attended by the influential, the wealthy, and the powerful. But despite the glistening reputations of the guests, our home was thick with an air of decadence and decay. Every weekend, the house buzzed with the lull of charm-soaked lies, clinking glasses, and the sharp sting of cigarette smoke. The guests, with their family crests and pedigrees, behaved in ways that made the townsfolk at pig pickings and cattle auctions seem dignified by comparison. It wasn’t just the drunkenness—it was something darker, something uglier. In fact I felt safer among the working class of Columbiana than I did in my own home.
I sat with my little brother, Finn, our legs dangling through the banister as we watched the people below. The ladies wore alluring dresses adorned with beautiful beads in all patterns and colors. Pearls and delicate jewels swung around their necks as they promenaded around the floor beneath us. The men’s hands roamed freely over the bodies of the women—hands that belonged to fathers, husbands, and men who wore the masks of respectability in the daylight, but forgot their owners in the dim glow of the moon in our home. I looked at my four-year-old brother, who was completely unaware, then glanced back down at the scene below. My cheeks blazed red, not knowing what to do while they freely groped each other in front of us. I knew I shouldn’t be watching the adult-rated scenes below, but even at nine years old, it was too hypnotizing not to stare. They held each other close, rubbing and fondling each other as they slid across the floor while carelessly spilling their drinks and dropping their cigarette ashes onto our beautiful wooden floor.
I was mesmerized by my father’s banker, Mr. Norris, a man with a large handlebar mustache, as he spun his partner around the floor with such expertise; she appeared to be dancing on air. He had a large cigar hanging from his mouth and a drink he never once spilled as he danced. He saw me watching and he hurriedly dipped the beautiful blond, kissed her passionately, patted her on the rear, and sent her on her way.
“Thanks for the dance, sweetie, but I may have found a new partner,” he said staring up at me. I felt my heart skip a beat as he silently moved across the floor to the stairs.
“Hey Tilly, why don’t you come down and take a spin with me?” He winked and slowly caressed his crotch then beckoned me to join him. “Well, are you coming?”
I yanked Finn’s hand, pulling him away from the banister as I felt my world narrow to the immediate danger before me. I wasn’t sure who I feared more: the man now following our every step, or my father’s inevitable wrath if he found out we had been out of our room.
“Come on, Finn, hurry,” I hissed, practically dragging him down the hallway. The sound of Mr. Norris’ footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoed in my ears as I pushed Finn into the room and bolted the door behind us.
I tucked Finn into bed without answering the questions he was asking but not saying. The puzzled look on his face was familiar, but one I had learned to ignore. I didn’t want to destroy the little bit of innocence he had left by trying to explain things I knew little about myself. I heard a tap at the door and watched the knob turn back and forth.
“Come on, let me in,” Mr. Norris yelled in a whisper. “Come on, Tilly. I thought you liked me.”
Surprisingly, his cries for my attention calmed my quickened heartbeat and I could feel the heat and the color drain from my cheeks. I had grown accustomed to the behavior of the drunken men my father brought into our home, and, I had complete faith in the lock Grammie secured on my door.
Our parent’s parties finally ended with the depletion of alcohol or the light of day, whichever came first. Finn and I were happy to help our maid, Violet, wipe away all the signs of the party from the night before. However, no matter how hard we scrubbed, cleaning cloths and soapy water could not wash away the visions of drunkenness and sexual exploits that had become a regular part of our lives on Forest Drive.
. . .
Finn and I surveyed the house the morning after the party. My brother was fascinated by the empty glasses that crowded our living room, dining room, and kitchen; red and pink lipstick smiles left behind. Ashtrays full of cigarette butts and half-smoked cigars littered the first floor of the house. Clumps of gray ashes and black smudges covered the dark wood flooring. One of our large velvet curtain panels had escaped its pull-back cord and its hem was laying amid the dirt and ashes on the floor.
“What is this?” Finn asked pointing at a glass on the steps with a dark blob floating in brown liquid. I immediately thought of Mr. Norris and his large handlebar mustache. No doubt he left it there as he followed us up to my room. I would tell my mother about his visit, but she wouldn’t care. As usual, she would say he was married and would never do such a thing.
Mother enjoyed herself the night before. I knew this because she didn’t get up to fix Finn and me breakfast and it was almost lunch time.
The front door opened and Violet, our maid, walked into the house.
“Well, hello there,” she said smiling at Finn and me. “Another party?” She asked, frowning as she looked around the house.
I followed her gaze. It was bad. Worse than usual.
I felt sorry for Violet after our parent’s parties. The guests didn’t seem to care about the mess they left behind and never offered to help clean up. I got in trouble for pencils and crumpled paper left behind after homework and got a lecture about respecting other’s property. I wonder why my mother never lectured her guests.
As Violet gathered her cleaning supplies, I ran over to the closet by the front door where coats were hung when guests arrived. There was always a few left behind. I guess the drinking and dancing left people too hot to even remember the coat or fur they arrived wearing. I opened the door as Finn skipped up behind me. Staring down at us was the face of a fox. His eyes, wide open and his teeth bared. It had four paws buried in the fur that covered its body, and a long bushy tail. I jumped up, grabbed the head, and pulled it to the floor. Finn laughed, as he growled at the fox, then threw it around my neck.
“Don’t worry, he’s not real,” Finn said.
“What are you kids doing?” Mother interrupted as she descended the stairs. She reached down and picked up Mr. Norris’s drink, then covered her mouth and set it back where she found it. “Is Violet here yet? Put that fur back in the closet before you ruin it, Tilly. You have to learn to respect other people’s things.” She never stopped to say good morning, but instead headed to the kitchen in search of Violet.
“I’m hungry, “Finn said, staring at my mother’s back as she walked past us.
“I know you are, but can you give me a moment to catch my breath?” she asked, shaking her head as she walked to the kitchen calling Violet’s name. Despite my mother’s obsession with looks, she had not combed her hair and she was wearing her slip. Her long white pearls still dangled between her breasts, lipstick was smeared across her face, and black smudges encircled her eyes which were swollen and red.
As usual, I knew we were on our own for breakfast and lunch. It was always this way the morning after a party.
A few hours later, Finn and I were eating oatmeal in the kitchen when a loud knock interrupted the silence. Thanks to Violet, the kitchen was back to its normal state, and Mother had disappeared upstairs. Our Father had yet to make an appearance. Since Violet was still busy in the living room, I ran to the front door and pulled it ajar, peeking, nervous to see who was here now. I was happy to see Grammie standing on the doorstep with a smile on her face, holding a covered dish.
My maternal grandmother was small, but she carried a force within her that made grown men pause. She had no patience for back talk—not from strangers, not from my mother, and certainly not from Daddy. Her name was Nadie Tilliford Martin, but to my brother and me, she was always Grammie. To Mom and Aunt Julia, simply “Mother,” though they said it with a mixture of reverence and caution. Grammie was the one soul I trusted completely.
Her maternal grandmother, a full-blooded Cherokee, had married a soldier just after the smoke cleared from the Creek War of 1813. From her, Grammie had inherited the hands of a healer and a maker—capable of sewing life back together with thread, coaxing dinner from nothing, and knowing when the weather was about to turn simply by the color and shape of the clouds. She also had her beautiful olive skin, black eyes, and dark hair streaked with the faintest threads of gray, which never looked old—just wise.
I used to stare at her, trying to memorize the lines on her face, the weight of her silence, the smell of pine and coffee that clung to her dresses. Then I’d glance at my reflection—pale, blonde, blue-eyed—and feel like a ghost beside her. That coloring was my father’s gift, a legacy of the Hanover family. I promised God I would do anything if he would make my eyes and hair dark like Grammie’s and the rest of the Martin family.
“Hello my darling,” Grammie said. She stepped into the house and handed me a warm plate, while she took off her coat and hung it in the closet. Seeing the fox fur, she sighed and looked at me. “So, there was another party last night?”
“Yes, and a big one,” I said, setting the warm dish on the floor and removing its cover excited to see what Grammie had made for us. It was her famous chicken pot pie. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the smell of the pastry drifted up to my nose. “Can Finn and I have a piece now?”
“Of course you can,” Grammie said pulling me up off the floor and retrieving the plate. “Come on, sweetie. Where’s Finn?”
“He’s eating oatmeal.”
“Well, let’s get you two fed. No doubt you need something a little more substantial.” She glanced around the living room and shook her head, but didn’t say anything about the mess. She nodded at Violet as she departed the kitchen, then turned back to me. Where’s your mother?” Grammie asked.
“Still upstairs. Daddy too.”
Finn jumped up at the site of our grandmother and ran into her arms. “Grammie! He screamed. You’re here. We saw a furry fox today. Someone left him in the closet. I guess they didn’t want him anymore because he can’t even growl.”
“Yes, Finn, I saw him. I wish I had known there was a party here last night. You and Finn could have stayed with me and Aunt Julia in town. I don’t like you here when your parents have these events. Did you stay in your room with the door locked?” Grammie stopped serving the pie and looked back at me. “Tilly, did you?”
“Yes, we did, Grammie. Well, most of the night,” I replied, knowing I couldn’t lie to my grandmother.
“What have I told you about staying away from your parent’s parties? You know I don’t want you and Finn anywhere near all the drinking that goes on. You’re too young.” Grammie frowned, shook her head back and forth, and went back to serving our plates. She poured us two glasses of milk and set pot pie in front of us both.
“I saw some people dancing,” Finn said. He jumped up and twirled around, mimicking the guests he watched the night before.
“What?” Grammie asked, frowning at me. “Tilly?”
“We only came out for a few minutes, Grammie. The music was so loud, and I love to watch them dancing.”
“I don’t care how loud it gets, Tilly. You need to stay in your room with Finn. I don’t trust the folks that attend these things. Next time, you and Finn will stay with me, you hear?”
“I know, Grammie. But I always look after Finn. We were fine.”
“You are growing up too fast for my taste, Tilly.” Grammie smiled and handed us both a fork. “Eat up.”
After licking the last of the pot pie from his spoon, Finn sprang to his feet, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He slapped me hard on the back and shouted, “You’re it!”
He tore through the kitchen doors like a shot, his laughter echoing through the old house. I was just about to give chase when I heard the sharp thud behind the swinging door. Finn had tripped—his small frame sprawled awkwardly across the wooden floor.
I ran past him, touched his back lightly, and bounded up the stairs two at a time. “Now you’re it!” I called over my shoulder. Trying to evade Finn, I darted into Daddy’s office and slipped into his closet. The air was thick with the scent of mothballs and aged fabric, a musty stillness settling around me as I held my breath. Crouching down in the small space, my eyesight finally adjusted to the dark and I saw an opening in the floorboard. I pulled it up and discovered a secret storage space. Shuffling through Daddy’s things, my fingers brushed against a stack of cash, brittle papers, unopened envelopes—and then, cold metal. Daddy’s gun. I’d seen him with it before, hunched over the dining room table, polishing it like something sacred. It had looked harmless then, part of the scenery, like the yellowed wallpaper or the creaking floorboards. But in my hands, it felt different. Heavy. Real.
Then, the closet door creaked open. I looked up, heart lurching, expecting Finn. But it was my father.
“What are you doing in here, Tilly?”
My father was tall and striking, with a face that could light up a room with a smile, but behind it was something darker that had lately kept me on edge. I never knew which version of him I was going to get—would it be the charming, collected man, or the sudden, volatile storm? His calm moments were few and fleeting, always followed by the unpredictability of his temper. I lived in constant anticipation of the shift, bracing myself for the outbursts I couldn’t predict.
But now, when I expected to feel the brunt of his anger, something else happened instead. He knelt beside me, his large frame looming, and reached for the gun. My breath hitched as his fingers wrapped around the cold, metallic surface. There was no warmth, no kindness, only an eerie calm as he began to demonstrate how to open the cylinder, revealing the bullets inside. He showed me how to aim it, how to pull the trigger—his movements smooth, and practiced, almost hypnotic. He was fixated on the weapon in his hands, and, to my horror, so was I.
“You know, Tilly,” he said, his voice low and steady, “this is a powerful tool. It can turn any situation in your favor if you have the courage, that is.” His eyes never left the gun as he turned it over and pointed it toward the door, the barrel cold and unforgiving. He took my hand without a word, guiding it until my fingers curled perfectly around the handle, every joint aligned as if it had always belonged there. His hand, warm and steady, wrapped around mine—a gesture almost tender. Almost.
“With this, you can stop anyone from hurting you,” he added, his voice strangely calm. “As long as you have this, you’re in control.”
The words should’ve been a comfort, but instead, they hung in the air, thick with the weight of something I didn’t yet understand.
He moved my hand as if in exact reverse, guiding it with eerie precision, placing the gun back beneath the floorboards. The plank clicked into place as though the house itself had swallowed a secret. Then he looked at me, his gaze sharp, unblinking, full of something I couldn’t name. A warning. A memory. A promise. I didn’t dare breathe.
“Stay out of my things, Tilly,” he whispered, the softness of his voice making my skin crawl. “Now get out.”
