The Buried Book (16 page)

CHAPTER 29

What happened when you went home?

His uncle’s cabin loomed at the end of the two-track drive. Its whitewashed siding piled together in the middle of a giant field of tall grass flanked by autumn-red trees. Looking down at it from where Jasper stood, the house was as small as his thumb. Its stone chimney was smoking. Aunt Velma would be cooking something for supper.

Wayne strolled down the gravel drive, leaving Jasper standing there alone at the edge of Harris Road. Aunt Velma greeted Wayne at the front door, then stepped out onto the crooked front porch with her hand shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. She waved toward Jasper. He just stood there, rooted to the spot.

“You gonna stand here all day?” a voice asked from behind him. It was his uncle Leo. He had his shotgun slung over his shoulder, and a dead goose hung from his hand.

Jasper’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out.

“Help me with this thing.” His uncle handed the webbed feet of the goose to Jasper. Blood dripped from two small holes down its neck and onto the ground. Jasper set Miss Babcock’s book on his suitcase and grabbed the feet as he was told. The twenty pounds of goose that hung from them sent him staggering off balance. Its black leathery skin stretched tight over hollow bones still felt warm, like it might still be a little bit alive. Uncle Leo picked up the boy’s book and suitcase and headed down the driveway without another word.

Jasper followed him, struggling to hold the goose high enough to keep its head from dragging on the ground. It was nearly as tall as he was. Its huge wings flapped half open, catching the air and making its body swing. The way the bird hung taut and springy in his hands, Jasper wouldn’t have been shocked at all if the head swung up and bit him. It left a trail of blood along the driveway. The stained hallway of the apartment back in Detroit flashed in his mind, stopping his feet. Red drops fell onto his shoe.

“Velma.” His uncle waved to the front porch. “You got that water ready?”

She nodded and ducked back inside, returning two seconds later with a giant pot hanging from the handle in her oven mitt. She set the steaming cauldron on the porch.

“Take this, will you, dear?” His uncle handed her Jasper’s suitcase.

Aunt Velma’s eyes flitted from the hard leather bag stained with mud down to Jasper frozen in the driveway. Then she took the things inside without a word.

“Stick her in there, boy,” his uncle instructed, pointing to the pot.

Jasper swallowed hard, then stepped onto the porch. The poor goose’s head thunked against the wood step, splattering it in blood.

“Go on. She’s not gettin’ any deader.”

Hoisting it up with his rubbery arms, Jasper managed to clear the rim of the pot and lowered the bird’s head with its glassy, dead eyes into the steaming water. Its long neck and half its body followed. The water level rose up until hot liquid poured over the edges, washing the red stains from the porch. The bird hit the bottom, but its tail and feet still stuck up out of the water as though it were diving for fish.

“We’re going to need a bigger pot.” His aunt chuckled from the doorway, sounding pleased at the size of it.

Aunt Velma bent down with a giant iron spoon until she was face to face with Jasper. He was certain the spoon was meant for him. Instead, she dipped it into the steaming water, now pink with blood, and shifted the bird around until its feet and tail were submerged and its drowned head hung over the side, staring up at him.

Uncle Leo put a hand on his shoulder.

Jasper jumped.

“Take this inside before it gets hurt.” His uncle was holding Miss Babcock’s book.

“Yes, sir.” Jasper grabbed the book and hurried away from the blood on the porch.
Crime scene—do not enter.

“You look like you seen a ghost,” Wayne chirped with a mouth full of food. He was sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. There was a second one set on a plate in front of Jasper’s usual seat.

The floor seemed to roll under his feet.
It was her blood on the wall, her hand on the door.
“What if she’s dead?” Jasper whispered.

“Who’s dead?” Wayne dropped his sandwich.

Jasper grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. “Uh, nobody. Your dad shot a goose.”

“Great! I love goose. Hate pluckin’ ’em, though. Lucky for me.”

“Lucky?”

“Yeah. Pluckin’s a job for the youngest. Have fun!” With that, Wayne stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and headed out the front door again. Jasper could hear him through the door say, “Nice one, Pop!” before whistling away.

Jasper’s stomach turned when he looked at the sandwich on his plate. He ran to the tiny alcove where he shared a bed with Wayne and threw his book on the mattress. His muddy suitcase was back in its perch on top of the bureau next to the bed frame. It was open and empty. That meant his aunt had found his muddy clothes inside, still wet from sleeping in the culvert the night before. Jasper bit his lip and considered crawling out the window and running into the fields. Instead, he pulled his mother’s necklace out from his shirt and held it in his hand.
Where are you, Mom?

The front door opened. “Jasper? I could use some help, dear.” It was his aunt calling him from the front porch.

“Coming,” Jasper called back. He stuffed his mother’s necklace and her diary under the thick feather mattress and wiped his eyes.

When he stepped back out onto the porch, his uncle was gone and the goose was hanging from one of the rafters. The black webbing of both feet had been pierced by a sharp hook. Aunt Velma pulled a knife from her apron and swiftly cut the bird’s neck from its plump chest. Jasper sucked in a breath as the blood poured from the stump into a fresh pan.

Noticing the look of horror on his face, Aunt Velma chuckled. “Where do you think gravy comes from? These necks really add some flavor too if you can get the feathers off.” She snapped off the head and tossed it into a slop can, then made short work of it, running the dull edge of her knife over the long neck in brisk strokes. Strips of damp black fluff fell into the large bucket at her feet. Soon something resembling a red sausage emerged. She dipped it into the hot pink water of the soaking pot before tossing it into the pan full of blood.

The stump of the bird had stopped leaking by then. Aunt Velma stood and handed the bucket with the black fluff to Jasper. “Catch the feathers, dear,” she said and began yanking out the long feathers from its wings. The bird jerked and twitched as she methodically robbed it of everything that made it a bird. When the large feathers were picked clean, she handed him a wicker basket. “This is for the down. We can get a few dimes in Burtchville for goose down, but I’m fixin’ to make a new pillow.”

He stood holding the basket over his head as fine feathers rained down in clumps. He caught them the best he could as the bird transformed into meat before his eyes. He had always loved his aunt’s roast goose. It used to be his favorite holiday meal. The holes widened in its black feet as the corpse swung violently from the hook.

“You alright, Jasper?” She didn’t look at him, but he could tell from her tone she wasn’t talking about the goose.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wayne tells me you took the bus back from Detroit all by yourself this morning. Is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did your father put you on that bus?”

Jasper fell silent. He didn’t want to lie to Velma.

“You’re droppin’ feathers, hon.”

Jasper raised up the basket. “Oh. Sorry.”

“I’m going to send Leo over to the Tally Ho tonight to use their phone. We need to let your father know you made it back here alright. Is there anything you want to tell me before we do that?”

The bird had stopped twitching. Jasper looked up at her and could tell from the way she was studying his face that she was talking about his black eye. The bucket of feathers he was holding drooped a bit. The tenderness in the set of her brow made him nervous she might try to hug him.

He dropped his eyes to her hands, sticky with blood and covered in feathers, and shook his head.

The knife she was holding went back to scraping the feathers from the meat. “Alright then,” she said and without warning ripped the bird down from the hook, tearing the rusty metal right through its feet.

Jasper nearly toppled the basket of feathers as he lurched back. She didn’t seem to notice. In three quick movements she snapped off one foot, then the other, and handed them both to Jasper. “Put these in with the neck,” she said.

They were cold and clammy and no longer felt like feet at all. He dropped them as quickly as he could into the pan with the blood and the angry red sausage. Aunt Velma set the rest of the carcass into the pink water and picked the cauldron up by the handle. She stopped in the doorway and smiled at him. “It’s nice to have you back.”

CHAPTER 30

Didn’t they suspect something was wrong with you?

Jasper struggled to eat his supper that night. The oily smells of goose and gravy that he used to welcome with such relish made his stomach turn. He kept his eyes on his plate and forced himself to eat bite after bite. There was no greater insult on a farm than uneaten food.

Never leave food on your plate, Jasper. You gotta respect what the world’s gone through to put it there,
his father had said once when their family had come up for a Sunday dinner. His mother hadn’t said anything. She’d just put her fork down and stared out the window. Jasper tried to remember her face at that moment, but all he could see was her thick black hair. It always smelled like flowers after getting set in curls at the hairdresser’s. After a long day at the creamery, it smelled like sour milk.

His aunt and uncle were busy talking about something other than him, which was a relief.

“Been thinkin’ about heading over to Black River tomorrow,” his uncle said.

“Do you really think we have the money?” Velma asked.

Uncle Leo cleared his throat and dropped his fork and knife onto his plate in a metallic reply.

“I’m sorry, but hired hands cost,” Velma said, mostly to herself, then got up to clear the dishes. Jasper didn’t protest when she took his half-eaten meat. She shot him a glance of disapproval before scraping the bits of goose back into the pot.

His uncle sighed. “Wheat and corn stuck in the field costs more, now, doesn’t it?”

“You’re right.” His aunt held up a hand in surrender. She came back to the table with an apple pie and fresh cream.

“You wanna come?” Uncle Leo asked. It took a minute of awkward silence for Jasper to realize his uncle was talking to him.

He looked up. “Me, sir?”

“Well, you seem to be mighty interested in Indians.”

“I do?” Jasper squeaked, picturing the necklace hiding under his mattress.

“Kids don’t usually borrow books about things they’re not interested in, do they?”

“I guess not.” He forced a smile.

“It’s settled then. We’ll head over to Black River when you get back from school tomorrow.”

“Can I come too?” Wayne piped in. “I found some more arrowheads in the back field.”

“I can’t see the harm in that. Can you, Mother?”

“No. Just be sure to get your chores done in the morning,” she said, giving each boy a double helping of pie.

“The Manitonaaha will sometimes trade you for arrowheads,” Wayne said to Jasper. “Last time I got a nickel each.”

Jasper stuffed his mouth with pie so he wouldn’t be tempted to ask too many questions. Like whether Indians really did kill people.

A minute later, Uncle Leo stood up from the table. “I’m headin’ out. You boys better hay those cows before bed. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” both boys answered.

“Invite Wendell for supper Sunday, will you, dear?” Aunt Velma asked.

Uncle Leo looked long and hard at Jasper and his black eye. He finally said, “Will do.”

Even in the chill of the fall evening, the hayloft was sweltering hot from the day’s sun. Square bales were stacked to the rafters, leaving only a narrow path from the ladder to the open chute in the center.

“We’ll need three bales,” Wayne decided. The older boy grabbed a giant hook hanging from a crossbeam and handed a second one to Jasper. They each plunged a hook into either side of a fifty-pound bale, and together they dragged it over to the chute. They unhooked and shoved it the last foot through the hole. It fell fifteen feet to the barn floor.
Whump.

“So, what’d they say?” Wayne asked as he hooked into a second bale.

“About what?” Jasper decided to play dumb. He seated his hook and helped his cousin drag another square bundle of hay to the opening.
Whump.

“About you taking the bus home?”

“Nothing.” Jasper walked to another bale.

“No. Not that one. Pop wants us to mix in the timothy grass till we run out.” Wayne motioned to a different stack on the other side of the chute.

Jasper picked his way carefully in the light of the kerosene lantern past the large hole in the hayloft floor.
Lots of people been known to get hurt in haylofts, Jasper,
his mother had warned him the last time she’d caught him horsing around up there. She’d squeezed his arm hard and said it again,
Lots of people.

“They really didn’t ask?” Wayne pressed him as they dragged the third bale.

“Your mom asked about it a little, but she didn’t say much.”

Whump.

“Must be nice,” Wayne said, hanging the giant hooks back where they belonged.

“What’s nice?” Jasper picked up the lantern.

“Give me that,” his cousin ordered and took the light. “One spark and this whole place will go up like a firecracker.”

Jasper followed Wayne back down the ladder. “What’s nice?”

“Must be kinda nice not havin’ to answer to a mom and dad.” Wayne hung the lantern from a hook and pulled a pocketknife out of his jeans. He’d cut the twine from two bales before he noticed the sour look on Jasper’s face. “Shoot. I didn’t mean nothin’ by that.”

Jasper shrugged, trying to show his cousin that his stupid words didn’t bother him.
It was sort of nice,
he told himself. He’d be like Tarzan in the jungle or Peter Pan from the storybooks. He wouldn’t have to worry about getting in trouble anymore if he were a Lost Boy.

But he wasn’t lost. He’d been left on purpose.

Wayne cut open the last bale and handed Jasper a pitchfork. “Each cow gets two good loads, but you have to break ’em up like this.” He stabbed the hay bale, breaking it apart. “Give each lift a good shake too. The side rake sometimes picks up nails and scrap. Vet pulled a fistful of metal outta one of Pop’s best cows last year. You know, after they put her down.”

Jasper speared a good forkful and shook it hard. All the hay scattered to the ground.

Wayne laughed. “Okay, maybe not that big of a shake.”

Three more tries and Jasper finally got the hang of it. It still took the better part of an hour to get all ten cows fed and watered. When Wayne finally hung up the pitchforks, they each had a fine layer of itchy hay dust clinging to their clothes.

“I’m gonna go wash up. You comin’?” Wayne asked.

“In a minute.” Jasper didn’t want to go back. His uncle would have talked to his father by now. Both men would be looking for blood.

“Alright. Bring the lantern with you. And watch out for Lucifer. He’s on a mean tear lately.” With that, Wayne left him alone with the sounds of cows chewing hay.

Jasper picked up the lantern and rushed past the swishing tails in the stalls to the far corner. The rafters creaked as a brisk wind whistled through the open slats in the siding. He glanced over his shoulder. The sounds of mice skittered across the wood planks overhead. Somewhere up there the black cat was stalking after them, but otherwise the barn was empty.

He sat down with the light and pulled his mother’s diary from the waist of his pants.

August 26, 1928

I went up the hill today with nothing but Hoyt’s empty cart and a sick feeling under my skin. Mr. Hoyt thinks he owns me now. He squeezed my backside again as I climbed up onto the driver’s seat.

I have no idea what that grinning bastard meant by giving rich boys a taste, but I know it wasn’t good. It was dirty. And I can tell by the way he looks at me now that he thinks I’m dirty too.

Jasper grimaced at the word
dirty
. That’s exactly how he’d felt when that bus driver had made him touch the beast inside his pants. He’d never be able to wash the dirty off. He rubbed his palm against his overalls until it hurt, but he could still feel it.

It took all I had not to kick him in the teeth! My fanny felt strange where his hand had been the whole day. Like it wasn’t even mine anymore.

The entire five-mile ride I plotted ways to get right again with the world. I’d burn down Hoyt’s barn. I’d drive the cart straight to the sheriff’s office on Lake Road and tell him everything. I’d take the ten dollars I’d earned for doing Hoyt’s dirty work and leave town for good. I’d do something, but I couldn’t seem to figure what.

In the end, I just did what I was told. Hoyt was going to tell Papa I’m worse than everybody thought. He’d tell him I’m lifting up my skirts and doing dirty things with boys. God knows what else he’d tell him. I almost ran the cart off the road I was crying so hard.

I nearly drove past the entrance to the Indian reservation. The narrow drive up into the woods was only marked by a dead tree and a tiny splintered signpost that read “Door of Faith Road.” I had to read the sign twice. “Door of Faith.” What does that even mean? It didn’t seem like something a heathen Injun would write. For a second there, it made me feel a little braver. Like God might be watching me at that very moment, but dear Lord, what would God say? Here I was, the worst sinner under the sun, hoping for his protection. I had to practically beat poor Josie to get her up the hill.

I’d never met an Indian before. I’d seen two of them once in town, walking on the sidewalk. No one lets Indians into their shops or cafés, so it was a real novelty to see them there in Burtchville. I pointed at one with long black hair and asked my mother who it was. “Don’t point, Althea.” That’s all she said.

I found out who they were, with their strange clothes and shoes, at school. Delilah Cummings knew them from her family’s church group. “They’re Manitonaaha Indians,” she said in that bossy voice of hers. “Didn’t you know there are actually many different kinds? They’re more like animals than like us, but they do have some strange language that they sort of talk. I once saw one that could even speak English, although not too good. My mother says it’s important to teach them about Jesus, but I personally don’t really see the point.”

Between you and me, I don’t see the point either. I hate sitting in church hearing about all that hellfire waiting for us sinners. Unless Jesus forgives us, of course, and we get to go to heaven. That’s what I’m supposed to hope for, but when I pray to him, it feels like I’m writing letters to Santa Claus. But I sure was praying my heart out as I led my cart up that hill.

This is what I was doing when a very tall brown-skinned boy with long black hair stopped my cart in the road. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but he had on pants just like Papa wears. He just stood there staring at me like I was some sad creature that had lost its way.

“Hello?” I said real slow and then muttered a bunch of nonsense like, “Do you speak English . . . um . . . no of course you don’t. I don’t—I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry. I should probably leave.” I started to turn the cart around, certain that the boy would pull out a tomahawk any second and try to cut off my head.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in perfectly fine English. I was so surprised I nearly ran old Josie into a tree! He talked to me like he knew me. He was actually sort of smiling.

I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there with my mouth hanging open like a gaping fish.

“You okay?” He seemed really amused that I was so stupid. That made me mad.

I straightened myself up and said, “I’m here to pick up a delivery for Mr. Hoyt.”

“You want firewater,” he said and frowned at me like I was crazy. “Why’d he send you? You’re just a girl.”

I didn’t have a good answer until I realized he might send me back empty-handed. Part of me wanted him to, but then I’d have to deal with Mr. Hoyt. I could barely stand him when he was pleased with me. The few times I’d made him angry, he’d smacked me dead in the face.

“I can drive a cart just fine, thank you,” I said in the haughty voice Papa hates.

“Do you know what firewater will do to you?” He was not amused. “You know what the sheriff can do to you if he catches you? Go home, little girl.”

“The sheriff won’t bother me.” Now I was getting rather annoyed. “I’m just a little girl. Don’t you see?”

He nodded with his head, but his eyes did not seem to agree. I’d never seen eyes like that—so black, like the eyes of a crow—and when they looked at me it was like they could see every bad idea I’d ever had. I guess he gave up on changing my mind, because he said, “Follow me.”

So I did. I followed behind him in my cart as he led me past tents and scrap-yard huts and a clutch of small cabins. I kept my head down the whole way, but I could feel a hundred eyes on me, I swear.

He had me pull the cart up just outside the door to a large barn. Inside were three large copper tanks and hundreds of jars and jugs like the ones Mr. Hoyt had in his barn. The tall boy talked to an older man with a long gray braid running down his back in a language I didn’t understand. The man looked up at me and laughed the way Hoyt likes to laugh at me. Like I’m some dirty joke. Two younger men were sitting on the ground, passing a hand-painted jar between them. They started laughing too.

I started to get down to give those hyenas a piece of my mind, and the boy held up his hand. “It would be better if you sat.”

The two younger men began loading the jugs. Each had a long knife hanging from their belts and a dark look in their eyes. I sat back down and stayed there until the cart was full. The old man said something softly to the boy in the strange language before he led me back down the road. When we reached the sign at the bottom of the hill that read “Door of Faith,” the boy turned to me. “Tell Hoyt he must pay it back before the next full moon.”

I agreed.

He looked at me a long time with those black eyes before he asked, “What is your name?”

At first I didn’t want to tell him. I was there on criminal business after all, and he was a Godless Indian. But he didn’t seem so Godless. Besides, even if he went to the sheriff himself, no one would believe him. No one trusted Indians. So I told him.