Moon Over Manifest (11 page)

Ned reached to tap the middle shell but Jinx stopped his hand. “Not that one. This one.” Jinx moved his hand to the shell on the right.

“But I was watching. It’s not—”

“This one,” Jinx said firmly.

“Now, don’t let him sway you, son. You’re a natural at this game,” the man said without his usual smile.

There was something so definite in Jinx’s voice that Ned uncovered the shell on the right. There was the pumpkin seed.

The monkey jumped from Ned’s shoulder, snatched up the seed, and popped it into his mouth.

“Now, look here,” growled the shell man. “This is not a two-player game. If you want to play, put up your own dime.” The monkey chattered more and more loudly in agitation.

Just then, Judge Carlson approached the booth, patting Ned on the back. “Keeping those legs warmed up, son?”

“Yes, sir,” Ned replied. “I’ll have my work cut out for me staying ahead of Heck and Holler,” he said, referring to the Judge’s sons, who were also star runners on the Manifest track team.

“That’s right, Judge,” Jinx said, emphasizing the word
Judge
. “He might even get a new pair of shoes with the dollar he just won. That is, if this gentleman will give Ned his rightful winnings.”

Judge Carlson looked at the shell man. “Is there a problem here?”

The man grimaced. “Nope.” He pulled the silver dollar from his pocket and shoved it across the counter. Judge
Carlson picked it up. “May I?” he asked Ned. He held up the coin, studying the woman’s profile, with her wavy hair and crown. “Lady Liberty. She’s a beauty.” He flipped it into the air to Ned. “Don’t spend her all in one place.”

The judge moved on and Ned and Jinx walked away from the scowling man and his monkey.

“I never took my eyes off that shell. I knew it was in the middle,” Ned said.

“Just like I told you. The art of distraction. You took your eye off the shells when the monkey jumped on your shoulder. Nikki did his part and the shell guy switched the shells.”

“You mean that monkey is trained to do that?”

“Sure. Most people aren’t willing to make a thirty-cent bet, so they let you win a couple of easy rounds to get you to put down a couple more dimes. Then Nikki makes his move and you lose.”

“The art of distraction,” Ned mused.

“Yup. All kinds of things can be accomplished when someone’s looking the wrong way.” From behind his back, Jinx revealed the large red canister from Jasper Hinkley’s fireworks booth.

Ned’s eyes got big. “Nice trick. But you can’t just steal his Manchurian Fire Thrower.”

“It’s not stealing. It’s like the library. You check out a book, look at what’s inside, and take it back. We’ll use this canister as our model. We make our own and return this one.”

“Then what?”

“Then we set up shop and sell them to every kid around.”

Ned caught sight of Pearl Ann standing in a pretty pink
dress. He headed for the popcorn wagon. “Count me out.”

Jinx caught sight of Sheriff Dean near the popcorn wagon, and as he always did when he saw the sheriff—or any sheriff, for that matter—he turned the other way. This time he ducked into the diviner’s tent.

I
n bare feet and overalls, I looked out my bedroom window. It had been several days since Miss Sadie had left me hanging with her last story, about Jinx and Ned at the county fair, and that day I had the afternoon off. The Liberty Head silver dollar mentioned in Ned’s letter had taken its place on the sill, next to the Wiggle King fishing lure. I had to admit, it was exciting and mysterious how the diviner could draw a whole story out of these little somethings. I could see why people would come to visit her.

And they did come. I’d been going to Miss Sadie’s for a week and sometimes I’d be there only an hour or two and she’d call it quits for the day, which was fine by me. She wouldn’t say why, but then a visitor would come calling just as I was leaving. The day before, an old woman who’d seemed anxious and fretful had come. She said her mind wasn’t what it used to be.

This morning it was a young, pretty woman. I recognized her. It was Betty Lou, the beautician from the beauty emporium, and I could tell she was close to crying. I wasn’t exactly eavesdropping, but before I got all the way out the door and past the porch window, I heard her say something about being afraid she was barren. I knew that meant she couldn’t have a baby, and wondered why she thought Miss Sadie would have anything to say about that. But maybe she just wanted someone to listen to her troubles. Miss Sadie said she’d show her how to make tea with some special herbs, and the two got quieter. I went on my way after that.

I was glad to have the afternoon off, but I was sort of hankering to know what was going to happen with the Manchurian Fire Thrower. And had Jinx managed to avoid the sheriff? And was it Miss Sadie’s tent he’d ducked into? Had he unburdened himself to her? Had he seen her more than that one time and was that how she knew about events she wasn’t present to witness? I touched the raised face of Lady Liberty on the silver dollar. Miss Sadie was an awful purveyor of the future, but she sure knew how to spin a tale from the past.

Ruthanne and Lettie hollered to the window from outside. “Yoo-hoo, Abilene. You up there?”

In my free time from Miss Sadie’s, I’d helped Hattie Mae at the newspaper office some, and helped myself to a few more old editions. But mostly, Lettie, Ruthanne, and I had been spying on people all over town, peeking in windows and eavesdropping on conversations, figuring we’d come upon the Rattler sooner or later. But so far, nobody had given himself up. And we were all ready for a break from spy hunting.

“Come on, lazybones,” called Ruthanne. “The frogs are waiting.”

I lumbered my way down the stairs and outside. “Lazybones,” I moaned. “My back’s so sore from digging in Miss Sadie’s dry dirt I could spit. Except my mouth’s too parched.”

“Well, we can remedy that.” Lettie produced a jar of cold water. “Mrs. Dawkins gave me some ice from her cellar. She’s got enough down there to last all summer.”

“You got a frog sack?” Ruthanne asked, swinging her own burlap sack.

Truth was I’d never been frog hunting. But as I didn’t want to seem inexperienced, I said, “I just use my pockets.”

“How do you get ’em to stay put?” Lettie asked.

“I tie their legs in a knot, how else?” I tried to keep a straight face, but Lettie was looking at me so serious I couldn’t help grinning.

She wagged a finger at me. “You are a hoot, Abilene Tucker. Let’s get going. Mama’s going to have the frying pan ready to fry up some frog legs for supper.”

Frog legs, huh?
When you were hungry most of the time, you learned to eat what you could get. Still, frog legs sounded a bit exotic even to me. But the three of us set off into the woods on my first frog-hunting expedition.

We could hear them croaking all around. But finding them seemed to be a different story.

“Once you spot one, work him into a corner somewhere,” Ruthanne instructed.

“A corner? In the woods.”

“Yeah, there’s rocks and trees, and logs all over.”

I crouched low to the ground, listening and watching,
when suddenly a fat green frog hopped in front of me. “There’s one!”

“I got one too,” Lettie yelled.

Before I knew it, the three of us had taken off in three different directions. My frog hopped this way and that, always staying just out of reach. I chased him into a clearing, where he hopped into a prickly bush. He sat there, calm as could be, knowing I couldn’t reach in and get him.

I thought about waiting him out, but then something caught my eye. It was a gravestone beside an old craggy sycamore tree. Just a simple arched marker, nothing special about it, except it was the only one.
Whose could it be out here in the middle of nowhere?
I wondered. My curiosity got the best of me and I moved closer to read the name.

But just as I reached to brush the years of dirt from the marker, I heard a scream. It came from just up the way, through the trees. I ran through the bushes toward the sound, my face and arms getting scratched as I went. Then I stopped short. The scream had come from a little house tucked back in the woods.

It was a tidy house with a neat stack of firewood piled up against the side. Straight and sturdy stairs led up to a little porch and I could see red and white gingham curtains in the windows. This was a nice house that probably housed nice people. But right now, there was an air of distress all around.

Lettie and Ruthanne tumbled into me, out of breath and similarly scratched.

“What’s happened? We heard a scream.”

“Shhh.”

Billy Clayton came around the corner of the house, his
face drawn with worry and fear. He steadied a log upright on a tree stump, and with an ax that looked bigger than he was, he gave it a whack and chopped it in half. He tossed the two pieces into a pile and reached for another log. Lettie, Ruthanne, and I kept hidden among the trees when the door to the house opened.

“Holy Moses,” Ruthanne whispered in disbelief.

Sister Redempta came out of the house and walked over to the well. She still wore her long black dress and rosary beads, but had no veil on her head. Her hair was cropped short, her face red with exertion. She hoisted a bucket from the well, rolled up her sleeves, and splashed water on her face and neck. Then, with her hands in the small of her back, she stretched and let out a deep breath, probably as deep as that well.

She closed her eyes.

“What’s she doing?” Lettie asked.

“You think she’s praying?” I asked.

Billy stopped chopping and waited for Sister Redempta to open her eyes.

When she did, she seemed surprised to see him standing there, as if she’d been away for a spell. “Billy Clayton, we’re going to need some of that wood now. Your mother is resting and your new baby brother is in need of a warm bath.”

“So everything’s all right? I mean, Mama? She’s gonna be all right?”

“Yes, Billy. She had a tough go of it, but she’s a strong woman. She must be to keep an ornery boy like you in line.”

Billy smiled. “Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister,” he said, his voice shaky with relief.

Sister Redempta went back inside and Billy gathered up a few wood splits and followed her.

Lettie, Ruthanne, and I dropped to the ground in exhaustion, as if we’d delivered that baby ourselves.

“Thunderation,” Lettie whispered.

“You said it,” Ruthanne agreed.

“I can’t believe it either. A nun delivering a baby?” I said, shaking my head.

“Oh, Sister Redempta does that all the time,” Lettie said. “When any baby is being born upside down or a mother is too small for her baby, Sister Redempta is called in.”

“That’s right,” Ruthanne said. “Why, she’s birthed lots of folks around here for years. My mama says my oldest brother wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for Sister Redempta.”

“Well, if it’s so common, what are you two all ‘thunderation’ about?”

“We’ve never seen Sister Redempta without her veil on,” Lettie said. “There’ve been stories that she has hair the color of a tomato. Others said she had no hair at all.”

“Come on,” Ruthanne said, hoisting herself up. “We’d better get home and tell our mamas that we didn’t catch any frogs and that Mrs. Clayton could use some tending to.”

As we began the walk home, I kept my eyes open for the grave marker, still curious about what lonely soul might be buried alone, but we never passed it.

A
warm wind blew as I headed for Miss Sadie’s house the next day. I was still wondering about the grave marker beside the craggy sycamore tree near Billy Clayton’s house. With Miss Sadie’s stories floating around in my head, I came up with any number of folks who might be buried there. Maybe it was a lonely immigrant with no family. Or it could be a drifter who had come through town and they’d buried him where he’d dropped dead. Either way, I wondered if the lanky Mr. Underhill had measured out the grave.

Maybe it was just thinking about spooky Mr. Underhill that made me feel a little uneasy. Like someone was watching me, following my footsteps. I was nearing Miss Sadie’s but wasn’t close enough to make a dash through the gate. I kept walking, looking back over my shoulder. I expected to see Mr. Underhill’s long legs and hunched shoulders right behind me.

My game of rhyming started up. “
Horse is in his stable and Pig is in his pen. Dog is in his doghouse and Farmer’s in the den. Cow is in the field and Cat is on the stoop, but where is Chicken? Fox is in the coop!
”

I was not comforted by my rhyme, and feeling a little too out in the open, I veered off the path and into the hedge for some cover. I took another long look behind me, through leafy branches swaying and bowing in the wind, to convince myself that my imagination had run away with me. I could swear I’d even heard a rattling sound echo in the woods. But there was no Mr. Underhill. No one was there. Finally, I let out a long breath and vowed to stop thinking about graves, and undertakers, and dead people. I tried to start up what I hoped would be a happier rhyme. “
Johnny likes sunshine, I like rain. Johnny likes to ride his bike
—” I bolted from the bushes and ran headlong into a tall figure dressed in black.

“Thunderation!” I yelped. My heart was pounding to beat the band when I saw that it was Sister Redempta.

“Thunderation, indeed.” She raised her chin at me.

I hoped
thunderation
wasn’t on a list of forbidden words. It must not have been, as she’d said it herself.

“I, uh, I didn’t see you. Sorry for running into you.” For the life of me, I couldn’t figure where she had come from, but scary as she was, I was relieved it was her.

“That happens when one comes sprinting out of bushes.” She tucked her hands up into her sleeves, studying me. “Well, go on. Finish it. If Johnny likes to ride his bike …”

“I ride the train?” I hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question.

“I see. I think it’s best that I assigned you a story to write
over the summer and not a poem. Still, I know a good rhyme can calm the soul.” She looked a ways past me. “When the sisters ran an orphanage here, some children would sing themselves to sleep, often in their native language, as many were immigrant children.”