Rating
3.85 of 5 Votes: 4
Publisher
St. Martin's Press
Follow the latest news from Julia Keller at juliakeller.net Copyright © 2012 by Julia Keller She didn’t come here often, because there was nothing left.
When she did come, it tended to be at dusk, and she would stand and look at the bare spot, at the place where the trailer had been. It was only a few dozen yards away from Comer Creek.
You could smell the creek, a damp rotting smell that was somehow also sweet, even before you could see it. The woods around it made a tight screen, as if the branches were gripping hands in a game of Red Rover. Daring you to break through. You could hear the creek, too, its nervous hum, especially in the early spring, when the frequent rains made the water run high and wild.
When she was a little girl, she would play on the banks of the creek in the summertime. Her sister Shirley kept an eye on her. In no time at all, Bell—her real name was Belfa but everybody called her Bell, because “Belfa,” Shirley had told her, sounded dowdy, old-fashioned, like a name you’d hear at a quilting bee or a taffy pull, whatever that was—would get astonishingly muddy.
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