“Okay, let’s think. We’ve got a scrapbook with a few yellowed newspaper clippings, a handful of faded photographs, and an old family Bible. Maybe there’s some kind of clue in all this stuff that’ll tell us who Steadfast was. We should split it up, go through the articles and photographs.”
The newspaper articles seemed to be mostly announcements of engagements, weddings, and births. One was a brief write-up, dated June 5, 1934, about a Mrs. Magdalene Kittle, wife of Mr. Eli Kittle of St. Florian, Alabama. Mrs. Kittle had been taken to the Lauderdale County jail on suspicion that she had caused the death of her middle son, Jasper, age seven, by forcing him to spend three days and nights in the woods. Mrs. Kittle had been repentant, and the judge was inclined to leniency in his sentence. Especially as the woman had eight additional children who still needed looking after.
Althea shuddered and refolded the yellowed paper. “My God. Why would Dove hold on to something so morbid?”
I shook my head. “No idea.”
Griff lifted a finger for our attention, then read from Althea’s phone. “Per Wikipedia, there are only fifteen Flowing Hair Dollars left in circulation. First dollar coin, designed by a Robert Scot, was minted by the United States government in 1794 and 5. One side has a bust of Lady Liberty. The other side, an eagle surrounded by a wreath. Ninety percent silver, ten percent copper. Last one sold for ten million.” He looked at us. “Long story short, it’s purported to be the most valuable coin in the world.”
We stood, absorbing this in stunned silence.
I looked down at a tissue-thin piece of paper that had fallen out of the Bible. “Listen to this. Dear Mr. Jarrod, I hope this letter finds you in fine mettle and blessed by the Almighty. I am Miss Ruth Davidson, the girl who sang the alto part on ‘Throw Me Overboard’ (and other selections) along with Miss Bruna Faulk at your tent meeting in Florence, Alabama, on April 21. There was quite an outpouring of the Spirit that night, which all were heartened to see, and I do believe many were saved. I was in the green dress. Miss Faulk and I have continued with great and blessed success as the Hawthorn Sisters—”
I paused. There it was. The Hawthorn Sisters. Just like Margaret Luster said.
“Go on,” Althea said.
“—singing and ministering here and there, managed by Mr. Arthur Holt. However, Miss Faulk and I now find that we have run through near about all west Alabama and east Mississippi, and we would very much like to attach ourselves to someone such as you, in order to travel to further states, especially California.”
I flipped the paper over, but there was nothing on the other side.
“Missing a page or two,” Griff said.
“But clearly she wanted out of her situation,” I said.
Althea waggled her phone. “I googled Steadfast. He’s either an internet company, a brewery, or a real estate leasing firm. No person that I can find.”
“We’ll have to look up death notices, I guess.” I sighed. “Just add it to the list of things Dove lied about. Or omitted.” I inhaled and let my breath out slowly. The adrenaline had ebbed, and I was starting to feel the effects of being roughed up as well as, thankfully, the alcohol. I scooted back on the bed and rested against the headboard.
“What do you think made her do that?” Althea said. “Be so secretive about her life?”
I shrugged. “Dove had my mom later in life, when she was forty. That was the late fifties. She and Charles were still traveling, doing meetings, conferences, seminars. Sometimes, Mom went with them, but mostly she stayed home. I think Dove was better at helping strangers. She had a harder time with the long-term, family commitment stuff.”
Althea settled back on the tiny sofa and lifted an eyebrow. “She definitely kept her past shrouded from me. I know a lot of people thought she was the half sister of Dell Davidson.”
Griff perked up. “Oh, right. The outlaw from Mississippi. I did hear about him. Maybe that’s how she got mixed up in this Steadfast guy’s death.”
“Maybe,” I said. “She never directly admitted she was Dell Davidson’s sister, but she didn’t deny it either.” I shrugged. “That was Dove. She didn’t feel any compulsion to set the record straight about anything.”
“Not even with your mom?” Althea asked.
“No. Mom acted like those stories didn’t exist. Dove was her touchstone. She dedicated her life to preserving her legacy and continuing her ministry in any way she could. I mean, quite literally—she made it her career.”
“It made her feel close to her mother,” Althea said.
“Yeah. My father left us when I was young. And Dove was already living in Alabama then, and I guess, for Mom, the foundation became a substitute for the real person.”
Althea nodded, but she seemed lost in thought. I felt strange, spilling my guts to a near stranger and one of my employees. But who else could I talk to? I was alone. Completely alone. A wave of despair washed over me.
“Eve?” Althea said. “You okay?”
I lifted my chin. “I should tell you. I’m not that surprised that my grandmother might’ve been connected to some trouble. There’s something you don’t know about her.”
Griff sat up. “What?”
“I had a problem with my arm, something I was born with—and she tried, but Dove wasn’t able to heal me.”
They were quiet.
“I was okay with it for a while, but then, when I was fourteen years old, I changed my mind. I went to Alabama to see her. Alone. Just booked a flight and . . . went. I was going to insist she try again. Pray or whatever. Finish the job she started and give me my miracle.”
I held out my right arm, dispassionately, like it wasn’t even a part of me. But it was. It made me who I was. Just an arm, slightly softer and smaller, the muscles less defined than those in my left arm. No one would ever know by looking at it how hard that arm had worked. Still did.
“I was a kid. I wanted to not have to always be thinking about it. Hiding it from people.” I kept my eyes down, reluctant to see their reactions. It felt easier that way. And easier not to know if this new revelation was having any sort of adverse effect on Griff. But then I forged on, telling myself that if he was bothered by my arm, he could well and truly go fuck himself.
“I landed in Birmingham. Caught a cab to her house in Tuscaloosa. Knocked on the door. She invited me in, and we had spaghetti and sweet tea and Oreos. We talked. But there was no miracle.” I paused. “Then she sent me home. A few years after that, I heard about a specialized type of treatment, constraint-induced movement therapy, and fixed myself.”
Althea looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t she pray for you?”
“It’s not that she wouldn’t. It was that she knew it wouldn’t work. She started crying. Confessed to me, all of it, that she’d been a fraud from day one. That she’d built a life, a career, all on a lie. She said any time someone claimed to be healed by her, it was either a plant in the audience or someone who got carried away with emotion and convinced themselves of it. Like a psychosomatic thing. She said she’d never had a gift, never worked a single miracle, and she couldn’t do anything for me.”
They stared at me.