Days of Little Texas (15 page)

I half scream and throw myself out of bed. Scuttle to the door backward on my hands and heels. I get up and get my hand on the crystal doorknob, twisting it back and forth.

I’m locked in
.

My whittling knife is on the floor; it must’ve still been on my lap when I fell asleep. I snatch it up and hold it out in front of me, pointing the blade at her. She sits on the edge of the bed, so high up her sneakers are dangling. If she makes one move, if she starts toward me, I—

Something creaks behind me. The big door is swinging
open again, and the long hallway beckons like an escape hatch to another world. I start for it—

“Stay.”

I wheel around looking at Lucy. Still sitting there on the bed, but her mouth is open.
Did she really just…?

“Wait
.”

I straighten up a little from my crouch, but my heart hasn’t slowed down a lick. I’m standing there in nothing but my drawers. I’ve still got the whittling knife out in front of me, thumb on the fat part of the blade.

“Come on,” she says. “Put that stupid thing away.”

My hand tightens on the knife.

“I didn’t come here to hurt you. Please put it away.”

I hesitate, considering. The door is still open. I can still leave in a hurry if I need to. I fold the knife up, stick it in the waistband of my drawers. Show her my empty hands.

The smallest little grin pulls up both sides of Lucy’s lips.

“Did you really think you could hurt me with that?” she says.

A ghost. I’m talking to a ghost
. “I can’t—I can’t believe this,” I say. “Any of it. I can’t even believe I’m talking to you.”

“Okay, then don’t. But it won’t change the fact I’m sitting right here on your bed. What’s your name?”

“What? They call me Little Tex—”

“What’s your
name?
” she says again. “Your real name.”

“Oh.
Oh
. Ronald Earl Pettway.” My voice is so quiet, I wonder if she can even hear it.

“Oh man. That’s too bad,” Lucy says. “Ronald Earl Pettway. It sounds like somebody who would shoot his uncle at a picnic. But I’ll get used to it. How old are you, Ronald Earl?”

“Me? I’m sixteen this month—but…”

I’m the one should be asking questions
.

“Wow,
sixteeeeeen
,” Lucy says, drawing it out like it’s a magic number or something.
Is she making fun of me?
It’s hard looking into her eyes, talking like this—they are too …
shattered
is the only word I can think of.

“Well, how old are you?” I say.

I’m sorry the minute the words are out of my mouth. Lucy looks up in the air, eyes flicking all around. Searching. Like she’s trying to remember.
Remember who she used to be
.

She looks straight at me. “It’s not important.”

“Are you—are you a ghost?”

She shows that little grin that’s almost not a grin. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, Ronald Earl?”

“I don’t—I don’t know what you are.”

She leans to one side on her hand, like she’s getting comfortable.

“Hasn’t anybody ever told you there’s no such thing as ghosts?”

I put my weight on my back foot, the one closest to the door.

“Oh. So you’re a devil. Like in the Bible.”

“Hey, you’re shivering. Why don’t you come over here and get dressed?”

She glances at my clothes hanging on the chair and pats the bed.

“That’s all right,” I say.

“Afraid I might bite?”

I watch her, still not really sure I’m believing any of this. A girl. In my bedroom. A
dead
girl.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

“You didn’t ask one. You said, ‘So you’re a devil.’ Maybe I am. Does that bother you?”

“How could you not know what you are?”

Lucy sighs. “Believe it or not, you don’t instantly get all the answers over here.”

“After—after you’re …”

“Dead?” Lucy says. “Okay. Might as well get it out of your system. You want to know what it’s like, don’t you?”

Her eyes make it hard to think. I finally manage to nod.

“All right,” Lucy says. “You know all those TV shows, the ones where somebody pretends to be talking to spirits in the afterlife?”

“Yes. Me and Certain Certain were just watching an episode of
Crossing Over
where—”

“That’s bullshit….”

I wait, looking at her.

“Does swearing bother you?” Lucy says. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know—I don’t know if we should be talking like this. Seeing how you’re a devil.”

“Because only devils curse?”

“No. I reckon plenty of folks curse.”

She smiles again. “Won’t the
Lord
protect you?”

“Don’t make fun. It’s not right. It’s just—why would a ghost need to swear?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” She smiles a big smile. It looks real this time. “I’m sorry. I’m teasing you, okay? What else would you like to know?”

I think about ways I could ask it, decide there aren’t any good ones.

“How come—why do you move so funny sometimes? And your voice—”

“Because it’s so
hard
, Ronald Earl.”

“What is?”

She moves her head, jerking it side to side like she’s studying the room. “Being
here
. This place. You can’t imagine. I don’t know—I don’t know if I can explain it.”

“Try.”

She looks at me awhile. “Have you ever—when you were a little kid—did you ever crawl up inside some place that was really tight? Where you could barely move?”

“I guess so. Certain Certain has this place up above the truck cab where he sleeps—it’s not so bad, but behind it there’s this tiny little space for storage. When I was little, I loved climbing in that space. I had to make myself as little as I could, squeeze myself in where I couldn’t move a lick. Then we’d fly on down the highway, me balled up in there—”

“That’s what it’s like,” Lucy says. “Being here. Except it’s
not just the feeling of being cramped into a space—it’s like you’re cramped into a
world
. A whole world that is nothing but small, cramped-up places. Slow. Everything is so
slow
. It’s hard to—to make anything work. Do you understand?”

“Is that why you couldn’t speak before? At the motel? And the drive-in theater? Last night?”

“Exactly! I wanted to talk to you so bad….”

“So how can you now? What happened?”

“You. You did it.”

“You set me free,” Lucy says.

I feel my skin go all over with gooseflesh, and back away from her.

“Are you talking about my
prayer?
” I say. “Where I asked Jesus to set you free? How could you know about that?”

“I was there.”

“Inside my head?”

“Yep. I’m there now. You talk about
cramped
.”

“That’s not funny. Don’t you make fun of me.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to say. I was just suddenly there, inside your dream. It wasn’t something I
had any control over. I didn’t do it.
You
did it. You brought me here.”

I realize my hand is on the knife again. I slide it away, but keep it close. I raise my voice, cocking my head toward the hall.

“Maybe you’re just trying to trick me,” I say.

Lucy smiles. “They can’t hear you. Yell your head off if you like.”

I already know it’s true. I can feel what I felt before—like a mixing bowl has been set down over the room.

“Are you magic?” I say.

Lucy shifts to leaning on the other hand.

“Are you still hung up on that devil thing?” she says.

“Bible says there will be signs and wonders. In Matthew. ‘For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall show great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect.’”

Lucy looks mock-serious. “So which am I? A sign or a wonder?”

“Depends, I guess … on why you are here.”

“You,” she says. “I came because of you. I told you. You brought me here.”

“How could I do that?”

“You don’t have to know you are doing it. You just have to do it.”

“But what did I do? I didn’t do anything!”

Lucy’s shattered eyes get bigger. “We all do
something
, Ronald Earl. You’ve been doing a lot of something lately.”

No. No. She can’t mean that. She can’t know about that. She
can’t
. How
bad
I really am. How
evil
I am becoming.

“What’s wrong?” she says. “Come
on
, talk to me.”

“What do you want?” I say quietly.

“Did you find it? What I left for you the last time?”

“The piece of brick you wrote on?”

Lucy’s head flops up and down.

“That’s why—that’s why I’m here,” she says. “I’m here for
you
. I’m here because I want to be here. I couldn’t be here without you.”

I swallow, feeling something in my chest. I make the mistake of looking straight into her face. When she’s this still, it’s hard to think someone is actually inside those eyes-inside whatever she is.

“Are you all right?” Lucy says.

“Not exactly,” I say, hoping she doesn’t notice my hands shaking.

“You’re cold.”

She levers her skinny arms like a puppet and slides stiffly off the bed. Her little shoes thump the oak floor. She stands there, hands at her sides, watching me. Now she looks like the girl I saw at the drive-in movie theater. Alive, but somehow not alive. My heart shinnies up my throat.

“Do you believe in me?” she says.

“I reckon I have to,” I say, gulping the words.

“Then you have to believe in other things, too, Ronald Earl. You have to start
thinking
. Thinking with a new mind.”

“All I’ve got’s the old one.”

She smiles. “Since you’re a preacher and all, I didn’t think you’d be—”

“Didn’t think I’d be what?”

“Funny.”

Lucy turns to the chair, reaches her hand out to my shirt—she puts her hand on it, then looks hard at her hand, like she doesn’t remember how a person picks something up. Finally her thin fingers pinch together like a dying spider, and she lifts the shirt up. It takes her just as long to get the pants with the other hand.

“Here,” she says, turning and holding them out to me.

“That’s all right,” I say.

“You don’t have to be afraid. Please take them.”

“No.”

Her arms still standing straight out, she begins to glide toward me.
Glide
. Her feet—they aren’t even touching the floor. But the worst is her legs….

They’re not moving
.

I put my hand on the handle of the knife and back a couple of steps into the flickering light of the hall.

“That’s enough,” I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “Don’t come any closer.”

She keeps coming. I jerk the door shut, stepping away from it. I wait a little while, watching the door. Finally I take hold of the knob. Jerk my hand away again. The doorknob is
wet
. I brush my hand on my drawers, feeling my Adam’s
apple bob up and down. I touch the knob again, turning it with only the tips of my fingers. Give a gentle push, and the door swings open….

A gush of mist rolls out from inside the room and a smell of damp. Lucy is sitting on the bed again, hands folded in her lap. My clothes are on the floor. She looks up at me, head snapping up so sudden I almost think I hear her backbone pop.

“I’m glad you didn’t go,” she says.

I pick up the clothes and pull them on. They feel clammy.

“I can’t stay much longer,” Lucy says, watching me. “When you left, I almost got pulled away. I’m … tired.”

Something about the way she says it stings my heart. She doesn’t look as scary sitting there with her feet dangling. She looks like a sad little girl.

I move toward the chair. Lucy tilts her head, curious. Lord, in this light—her eyes don’t look like they have any pupils.

I sit down in the chair. She looks at me a long time. This is the closest we’ve been since I woke up with her sitting on the bed.

“So how did I set you free?” I say finally.

“Something was holding me,” Lucy says slowly.

I remember the monster that was chasing her in my dream. “Who? The devil?”

“You. You were.”