The Day of Small Things (38 page)

Oh-see-yoh
, I say,
Hey there
. And I raise my stick in a salute like Granny showed me and I hold my breath, waiting.

For a minute, the day stops. There is no sound and nothing moves—not the water that was tumbling down the branch, nor the leaves that was a-quiver on the trees. Time ain’t working right now and in the stillness I feel them trembling on the edge of coming to me.

So many years since I’ve seen them … so many years
since I’ve saluted them … and the air all round is thick with their wish to show themselves.

I stand stock-still there in the midst of the road, holding up my walking stick till the water begin to run again and the breeze to blow and time is going once more. Now my arm is shaking with weariness and I lower my walking stick and lean on it. I feel swimmie-headed and like to fall.

They ain’t coming out. We ain’t on the old familiar terms we once was, and if I want to see them, I will have to sing the Calling Songs and coax them that-a-way—the very thing I promised Luther I would not do. But I watch a minute longer, just to make sure, before continuing on.

At last the hogback ridge comes into sight. In all the years since I first begun coming up this way, this has been the place I can breathe free and think clear. This is where all the beginnings and endings come together.

I feel the Quiet People as they rouse from their long sleep to bid me welcome again. I brush my fingers over the gravestones of the angels and their greetings are like the tinkling of bells or the twitter of hummingbirds. Innocent lambs … I’ll not trouble them with my worries.

Cletus is another innocent but his hello is a kind of happy chuckle, the same he would give if he had shot a groundhog or if Pup cut a shine or there was side meat for dinner. A happy boy, my Cletus. I reach in my pocket for the white arrowhead I found when I was hoeing out my cabbage and I lay it atop of his marker.

“Here’s a pretty for you, son,” I say and the chuckle is louder this time and I feel his rough face rub against mine.

Luther is next and he wraps me in the same loving warmth as always. I study the marker—his name with the
two dates and mine with but one. Like a double bed with only one sleeper—like our bed back at the house.

“I miss you, old man,” I say, setting on the tall stone to rest myself, “and I hope that you’ll be glad to see me when I get there.”

You know I will, Little Bird
. I feel him say it, and not for the first time, I wonder what age he is now. If I had my druthers, we’d both of us be young with fine strong bodies. And what age would my angels be? Would they be babes like when I last saw them? Or would they have growed?

It’s a puzzle I have thought on before this. Folks always talk of seeing their loved ones on the other side—of wanting to see their mamaws and papaws and such. But I reckon what they want is the gray-haired comfortable old mamaw they always knowed—and what if
she
wants
her
mamaw?

Sometimes I think that to give everyone their druthers, there’d have to be a sight of different heavens—in one I’d be a child with my own sweet granny, in another, me and Luther’d be young and just starting out, in another I’d be the mommy to all my babies and them alive, every one, and running and playing in the sun.

Now it’s Luther’s turn to chuckle.
Oh, Miss Birdie, you are a sight on earth. Stop your puzzling and get on with what you mean to do
.

I pull myself back to my feet and make my way to Granny Beck’s grave.

(Calven)

S
he don’t care about me, not a lick. All that petting on me was just so’s she could find out about Heather. Shit, that stuff last night was likely just her and Pook putting on an act—her yelling while he whupped that bag of oranges against the floor. This whole thing—them coming and taking me away from Dorothy’s—I reckon it’s all of it been about getting to Heather. And she let them do it. My own mother. I don’t reckon she has ever cared about me at all
.

Calven buried his face in the musty sleeping bag and wiped the moisture from his eyes. His throat felt raw and, in spite of having rinsed out his mouth after throwing up, the sour taste of vomit lingered. Outside, the sound of the van faded into silence.

Pook had just laughed when Calven slunk back into the kitchen. “What’s the matter, Good Boy? Don’t like oranges? Or maybe the pizza ain’t to your taste.”

Ignoring the mocking questions, Calven had grabbed
a Mountain Dew and gone back outside. As he stood by the back steps, swilling the foul taste from his mouth, he saw that Darrell was over by the van, occupied with unloading more bags and boxes. Catching Calven’s eye, he motioned him over with a jerk of his head.

“Give me a hand with the rest of this stuff, will you?” The big man handed him a tool kit and a duffel bag. “Set them under that tree yonder—we’re going out and pick us up another vehicle—got to dump this one after what happened yesterday.”

The van was being systematically stripped of every loose item; once the personal possessions were out, Darrell went through the interior, sweeping gum wrappers, empty chip bags, fast-food boxes, a magazine, even tiny anonymous scraps into a paper grocery bag. When this was done, he handed the bag to Calven.

“Take this over to the middle of the driveway, and burn it,” he directed, digging a plastic lighter from his pocket and handing it to Calven. “Burn it all, then stomp the ashes good.”

Calven had done as he was told, happy to have something that would keep him outside
away from them
a little longer. As he ground the little pile of black ashes into the dirt, he saw Darrell ripping out the carpet from the van and wadding it into big black plastic garbage bags.

“You about done, Darrell?”

Pook was standing in the doorway, looking at his watch and tapping the pointed toe of one cowboy boot.

“Yeah, that’s the last of it.” Darrell opened the rear hatch and slung in the bulging bags, one after another.

Prin appeared in the doorway behind Pook. Her sunglasses covered her eyes and her head was turned away from Calven.

Pook pointed to Calven and snapped his fingers. “Back in your room, Good Boy. We got some business to do and we don’t need you along. You go back in there and rest up to get ready for your date with Little Miss Heather tonight.”

Pook’s tongue slid lasciviously around his bloodless lips. “Reckon how long it’ll take her people to get the ransom together? Suit me if it’s a few days—I can show you how to have some real fun with that sweet young thing.”

Calven’s stomach heaved again but he gritted his teeth and made for the back door, passing by his mother without a glance.

“You best take some of them cold drinks and the rest of the pizza in there with you.” Pook followed him into the kitchen. “We may be gone a while.”

He waited, jingling a ring thick with keys, while Calven scooped up the rest of the six-pack and the box with a forlorn few pizza slices congealing on the grease-stained cardboard.

After the key had rattled in the lock and the bolt had been slid home, Pook rapped on the door with a farewell warning. “Case you get any ideas, Good Boy, just remember you’re a by-God criminal now—part of the gang and guilty of breaking and entering. Receiving stolen goods too. You think about that while we’re gone.”

I got to get away and warn Heather. I got to make an escape
.

Calven wiped his eyes once more and sat up. He still had the phone, but the last time he’d turned it on, it had gone dead before picking up a signal.
If I could get outside, I might have better luck—if there’s any charge left
.

He pulled the phone from his pants and studied it
wistfully, then put it away without trying the On key.
Don’t run down the battery till you know you got a chance
.

Without much hope he went to the door and tried to open it. No luck.
Even if I was to find a wire or some such to pick the lock
and he had no idea how you did that
even was I to get the lock open, there’s still that old bolt—ain’t a chance there
.

Calven turned to study the window—there was a rusty screen and, beyond it, a long, narrow rectangle of dirty glass, cracked open about six inches. For lack of a better idea, he climbed up on the narrow cot. Could he get out this way?

The mattress sagged in an alarming fashion as the boy rocked from foot to foot. Though the sill was above his eye level, by straining on tiptoe, he could see a small nipple-like protrusion of toothed metal at the base of the window, evidently where the crank to open the window would go—
if there was one. They must of taken it away before they put me in here that first night
.

With a vague idea of vaulting up to the windowsill like some cartoon action hero, Calven caught the dusty ledge between fingertips and thumbs and tried a cautious bounce on the sagging mattress.
If I could just get a good hold … maybe it’d work better was I to grab the two ends
.

As he shifted his hands, his fingers hit something. Startled, he jerked his hand away, then returned a cautious fingertip. Metal, by the feel of it. He nudged the object toward the edge.

I be damn! It was right there all along
.

Calven grabbed the window crank and, after a brief struggle, fitted it in place and began to turn.

It caught and slipped, caught and slipped, but by slow creaking fits and starts, the glass panel began to lift.

Once I get her open, I ought to be able to bust through that old screen and slide right out. It ain’t so far above ground.…

At last the window was open as far as it would go. But it was too high—he couldn’t even touch the screen, much less bust through it. And as for getting himself up there …

“Shee-IT!”

Calven dropped down onto the bed and lay studying the window.
How’m I gone to get up there? I got to get
out.

With a weary sigh, he stood back up on the bed.
Maybe if I was to bounce, I could catch hold—

The first gentle attempts were disappointing. There was little bounce in the thin mattress and the wire webbing that supported it but, undeterred, Calven bent his knees and tried harder. Surely he was getting a little more height—one more and—

“NOOOO!”

One end of the cot collapsed and the mattress slid off, taking the boy to the floor, where he lay fighting back the tears of frustration that prickled at his eyes.

“Damn ol’ piece of shit.” He stood and kicked at the cot and to his surprise the H-shaped piece of metal that had supported the fallen end came loose and skittered across the floor.

Calven stared—first at the detached support and then, with a growing elation, at the wire grid of the cot frame.

Just like on television
, he thought, as he jogged through the pine woods in what he believed to be the direction of the highway,
slicker ’n owl shit. The hero turns the old bed on end and climbs it like a ladder. Then he uses the broken-off leg thing to bust out the screen and ta-da! the fearless Calven is on his way.…

Calven punched his fist into the air and paused to execute a little victory celebration, like a football player who has just crossed the goal line for a touchdown. In the midst of a high strut he stopped.

Through the pines in the distance something was moving—a flash of red—and he heard a vehicle slow, idle, and abruptly cut off.

Oh, shit! What if that’s them, back already? There ain’t hardly been time …

Moving with care now, Calven crept over the pine-needle-covered ground, silent as a wild thing. At the edge of the woods he stopped, keeping well behind a tangle of scrubby bushes while he inspected the red pickup truck and the man whose head was under the hood.

(Dorothy)

S
he said she needed some fresh air but where in mercy’s sake can she have got to?

Dorothy stepped out to the front porch and looked through the trees to the path running up the mountain. There was still no sign of Miss Birdie, not in the yard nor out on the road where she usually took her walk.

“Up in the graveyard, that’s where you’ll find her.”

Dorothy whirled around. A moment ago Aunt Belvy had been sitting on the plastic-covered sofa, seemingly lost in a prophetic trance. Or asleep. Now she was standing, tall and imposing, in the doorway. And she was saying—no, the old woman was confused. Dorothy silently cursed Marvella for leaving this ancient, obviously crazy woman in her care as she spoke slowly and loudly into the ear of the prophetess.

“Why, you’ve had you a bad dream, Aunt Belvy. Birdie’s not in the graveyard; she’s just gone for a walk. I reckon you got a little confused—”

A bony hand grasped Dorothy’s arm. “Git in your car and crank the engine, young un. I want you to take me up to the graveyard where Birdie is. She’ll be talking to that old woman and I got to go protect her.”

The fingers held her in a pincers grip. “And I ain’t one lick confused.”

Dorothy turned her car up the narrow road leading to the cemetery. Beside her sat Aunt Belvy, eyes half-closed and hands folded, her mouth curved in a small smile.

“Just don’t argue with her or treat her like she ain’t got good sense or, buddy, she’ll put you in your place right quick.” Well, Marvella got that right
.

And did I ask a question or say one word? No, I did not, I just helped this old … this old whatever she is into my car and brought her here. There was several good reasons not to but seemed like my mouth weren’t working. And now I can’t remember what the reasons was anyhow
.

Dorothy’s tongue loosened as she brought the car to a stop, and she said to her companion, “Miz … Miz Belvy, if you want to set here and wait, I’ll go see is Birdie up there—”

The old woman turned. Brilliant dark eyes bored into Dorothy. “What did you say your name was?”

“Dorothy … Dorothy Franklin … my mama was—”