Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 02 (25 page)

"Doesn't everybody?" I murmured. I caught myself in a yawn and headed for the front door, the jeep, and my bed -- if only for a few hours. My grandiose scheme to have a decent night's sleep was not to be, but Maggody had its 756th citizen.

"Thanks again. You must have been a midwife in one of your previous lives. Can I do your chart for you sometime? What's your sign?"

I looked over my shoulder at her. "No trespassing." Once I got to the jeep, I realized there wasn't much point in going to my apartment for such a short time. The departure from it would only depress me. I was reasonably warm and dry after the marathon session in the Emporium office, and the rain had stopped. I could go crawl into my sleeping bag and save myself an hour's drive at the godawful crack of dawn. I could wake up at six and have time for a leisurely cup of coffee before I called in to the sheriff's office with my report that nothing had happened.

"Aw, hell," I said to the empty highway. I then backed up, turned around, and headed for the far side of Cotter's Ridge. Like wow.

"I'm gonna die," Carol Alice said, flat on her back in bed and staring at the ceiling. "I just know it. Something dreadful's fixing to happen. I'm gonna die."

"No, you're not," Heather said firmly.

"I'm gonna die. There's not a doubt in my mind."

Heather put her hands on her hips and tried for a more authoritarian air, like the home ec teacher the day the class had started throwing oatmeal-raisin cookie dough all over the room. "Carol Alice Plummer, you listen and you listen up good. We're all going to die someday, but it ain't going to happen for a real long time. So stop the crazy talk right this minute. Okay?"

"I reckon I should get it over with and save everyone the trouble of waiting around," Carol Alice continued in a hollow voice. "Tell Bo Swiggins I'm sorry that we didn't get married in June, but I don't see how we can if I'm dead. Madam Celeste says that death is hovering nearby, maybe right over my shoulder. I can feel his icy breath on my neck, Heather."

"I thought you promised Bo that you wouldn't go there anymore. He'll be furious if he finds out, you know."

"He can be as furious as he's a mind to be. I intend to be dead, so what do I care?" Sighing, she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. "Go away, Heather. I got to think about my last will and testimony."

Heather looked down at Carol Alice, wishing with all her heart that Mr. Wainright could whisper some advice in her ear right that minute. She didn't think her best friend in the whole world would actually do something crazy, but she wasn't sure. When Madam Celeste had telephoned Carol Alice out of the blue and told her to come to the house, Carol Alice had been thoroughly spooked; Heather couldn't blame her one teeny-tiny bit for that. Then the madam doing cards and Mesopotamian sand for free -- well, that'd been enough to put Carol Alice in a downright hysterical mood. Heather couldn't blame her for that, either.

But you'd have thought Madam Celeste would have said some comforting things instead of throwing the cards on the floor and ordering Carol Alice to get out then and there. And there wasn't any call to go saying that nice Mr. Dickerson couldn't read Mesopotamian sand any more than he could fly round-trip to the moon and back.

Heather patted her friend's shoulder, gathered up her schoolbooks, said good night to Mrs. Plummer, who was in front of the television set in the family room, and then slowly walked home, while she tried to think what to do. She finally decided that she ought to call Mr. Wainright, even if it meant disturbing him right in the middle of the evening when he was -- well, sort of off-duty. Then she could call Carol Alice and say all the right words to make her quit talking about suicide and killing herself and wills and testimonies. Her best friend would feel happier, and Mr. Wainright would know that she, Heather Riley, was a mature, concerned, selfless person.

To her regret, Mr. Wainright didn't have the opportunity to discover all her virtues because he wasn't home. To her further regret, she found herself blabbing everything to Mr. Plummer when he called and demanded to know what in tarnation was wrong with Carol Alice, who was moaning and rolling her eyes and refusing to touch her mother's homemade split pea soup.

When David Allen Wainright did get home, he found a bizarre little group huddled on his front porch. Once he got everybody inside and mopped off, he gave Hammet a searching look. "Why were you all waiting on my porch?"

"The door were locked. Bubba said it weren't no trouble to break a window, but I wouldn't let him."

"Thank you." David Allen sat down and took out his handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat off his forehead. It was the first time he'd seen all of Robin Buchanon's children in one clump, and it was unsettling. To say the least. "I went by Mrs. Jim Bob's this morning to talk to you, but she said you'd left. That right?"

Hammet shrugged. "Iffen we weren't there, we done left. That's right." Several heads nodded in agreement, but it was obvious to David Allen that Hammet was the official spokesman for the group. "Where'd you go?"

"We jest got wearied of that woman and all the mean things she said about our mam. We decided we wanted to go for a walk without gettin' on the road, so we cut through some folks' yards and a pasture by the creek. We camed out on another road, where we had the good fortune to find Baby in some damn-fool car."

David Allen struggled to understand the intricacies of the narrative. "I thought Baby was with Ruby Bee. In fact, I went by the Bar and Grill and had a word with her, and she didn't mention any of this. When you had this stroke of good fortune, did you see Ruby Bee?"

"The only thing we saw was Baby. He looked mighty lonesome, so we fetched him with us." Hammet glanced at his siblings. "We all got something we wants you to explain. It's about this foster stuff, and gittin' new siblings and a bicycle. Arly's gone, and I figgered you was the next smartest person I knew."

David Allen recounted what he knew of the process, being as truthful and candid as he dared. He admitted a lot of things that didn't sit real well with the Buchanon children, who were squirming and peeking at each other like wallflowers at a cotillion class (although they weren't that, by any stretch of the metaphor).

When he finally stopped, Hammet looked at Bubba and shrugged. "So maybe you don't get a bicycle after all. I still don't think we should tell anybody, though."

"Tell anybody what?" David Allen inserted, rather slyly he thought. "About our pappies," Sukie said through a finger.

Bubba whacked her on the side of the head hard enough to put her on the floor. "You shut up, you stupid little pig. Me and Hammet is talking together. And shush your howlin' unless you wants another slap."

Sukie didn't shush, which set Baby off to howling, too, and Sissie to scolding both of them. Despite the noise, Hammet and Bubba managed a low conversation while David Allen sat helplessly on the edge of his seat. At last Hammet gestured for David Allen to join him in the kitchen.

"We're gonna tell you about our pappies," he said. "Bubba says that's a darn sight better than going off with some tight-ass social worker lady, and I guess he knows 'cause he's the oldest."

"Great. Let me get a piece of paper and a pencil, and we'll -- "

"Oh, we ain't gonna tell you now. We're gonna tell you tomorrow after we goes to church," Hammet said, shaking his head.

"After you go to church? Why would you want to do that?"

Hammet looked at the floor. "Because that holyfied lady said we was going to hell iffen we didn't, and that we'd burn like sticks of kindling. We decided we need to see this church of the almighty place."

"You realize they may not welcome you with open arms?"

"We don' care what all they do. We ain't gonna talk until after we go to this church place."

"But why do you have to wait to tell me about your fathers?" David Allen asked, totally bewildered. "I don't see what that has to do with anything." He went to the refrigerator and took out a much-needed beer, keeping a leery eye on Hammet. "If you want to go to church, I suppose I can take you in the morning, but there's no reason not to -- "

"Good," Hammet said. "By the way, we was wondering if we could sleep on your floor the rest of tonight. Baby's got snuffles, and Sukie don't look all that good, neither. If either of them commences to crying, we can stick 'em outside to shush 'em real fast. We won't bother you hardly at all."

David Allen realized his jaw was going up and down but he wasn't making any noise -- that he could hear, anyway. Hammet gave him a grin, then went back to the living room and turned on the radio receiver. By the time David Allen numbly followed, Hammet was explaining how Mr. Macaroni had also rigged up this here box where you could find rockets what prematurely crashed in the woods. Course it weren't as good as the ones you used to talk to foreigners in their houses, even if you didn't know what they was saying. For David Allen, the scariest thing was that it almost made sense.

The moon came out about the time I reached my reserved parking space on the back side of the ridge. I took the little package of carob chip cookies that Rainbow had pressed on me, threw a few branches over the jeep, grabbed my flashlight, and trudged up to my campsite, yawning so hard my eyes watered and my jaw felt like it might pop out of its sockets. There was no indication I'd been visited by raccoons, bears, skunks, or anything else that might merit concern. Filled with gratitude for that small blessing, I crawled into the tent and secured the flap. My sleeping bag was damp, and my beeper cut into my side as I wiggled around to find a tolerable position, but I was too tired to do more than unclip the damn thing and lob it across the canvas floor.

As I drifted asleep, I did wonder why Ruby Bee and Mrs. Jim Bob had ceased their relentless campaign to speak to me via LaBelle. I must have wasted a good ten seconds on that one.

Madam Celeste stared into the blackness of her bedroom, unable to dismiss the face. The death mask. The wide, unblinking eyes. The flies on the clotted blood. The open mouth. The terror. For the first time in twenty years she longed to be Sarah Lou Dickerson, a gawky, knock-kneed, grimy girl in a faded dress donated by the righteous church dogooders. Living in a miserable trailer on a rocky patch of mountainside. Being whipped on a regular basis by her pa, when he wasn't doing other nasty things to her. Watching her ma get older and grayer, until she looked worse than the wash on the line.

Grinolli had saved fifteen-year-old Sarah Lou from that, but he'd turned out to be worse than her pa and she'd had enough sense to exit with the first truck driver who'd stopped at the crossroads. Vizzard had been the savior. Although he'd been forty-five years older, he'd been rich and kind -- as long as she serviced him (and at his age, it wasn't exactly a daily chore like milking cows; it was more like churning butter once a week). He'd taught her to read and write, and introduced her to a woman who'd understood how Sarah Lou kept seeing things that weren't there and having scary dreams that came true.

She'd been right sad when she'd had the dream about Vizzard choking on the chicken wing, but she knew she couldn't alter the future, so she cooked what she had to cook and served what she had to serve. Despite having the ambulance number handy, she'd found herself a widow with a reasonable inheritance. She'd used it for what she called her junior year abroad, although the studies took place in dim parlors rather than in snooty art museums. Vizzard had been worth the trouble.

But now, haunted by the face that would not go away, she wondered how she would have made out with Grinolli in the dreary apartment above the body shop, or with Vizzard if she'd risked cosmic displeasure and insisted on tuna casserole for dinner. Or if she'd allowed Mason to talk her into trying Atlantic City. Mason did seem to enjoy the bright lights, but they both knew he would go wherever she told him to go. Purse strings were longer than apron strings.

They'd ended up in Maggody, which bore a strong resemblance to Hickory Ridge and all its narrow-minded shabbiness. And as she stared at the ceiling, she figured she knew why. Sarah Lou Dickerson Grinolli Vizzard had no theories, but Madam Celeste ("World-Renowned Psychic as Seen on the Stages of Europe") had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen. The shadow on the ceiling bore a passing resemblance to a chicken wing. There wasn't anyone to consider serving tuna casserole this time.

13

Imagine, if you will, the gossamer rays of pink and orange streaming from the eastern horizon as the sun begins its journey across the sky, lavender now but soon to change to a delicate clear blue. The early birds hop from leaf to leaf, trilling bright little songs of optimism and goodwill, of promised sunlight, of rebirth. Squirrels scamper about on the branches. Raindrops sparkle like rubies and sapphires as the morning light catches them. Idyllic, no?

Now we must mar the bucolic beauty by the addition of one tired, rumpled woman. Her hair has been pinned up without the benefit of a mirror, and her clothes are wrinkled and somewhat dirty. Her face has not enjoyed the improvement of lipstick or mascara. Her shoes are muddy. Yes, it is the upholder of law and order in a small Arkansas hamlet, a police officer dedicated to the apprehension of a vile murderer at any personal sacrifice, the defender of the faith, all that. She is standing by a clearing, her hands curled into fists and her face frozen in a decidedly unattractive expression of disbelief, horror, and outrage (to list only a few). She is so angry that her body quivers like a plucked violin string. Her eyes are dry from the unblinking stare. Her mouth is slightly agape, but her lips do not move despite the little noises that emanate from deep within her. At last we hear two words.