The Deadsong (9 page)

She leaned forward. Her eyes disappeared in the deep shadow under the brim of her hat. “Tell me about Ellis Pearson.”

Floyd tipped back his coffee. “What is there to say? You know most of it, I’m sure. He’s taught at Durden High for twenty years or so, been married for longer than that. His son Duke is about your age.”

“Yeah, I know Duke. Have the Pearsons lived here their whole lives?”

“Not always,” he said. “Ellis moved here from Pittsburgh in the spring of ’88 or ’89.” Floyd scratched his balding scalp. “Nope, it was definitely in ’88. I say that because some houses on Lutton Street caught fire––new ones still on the market. Something to do with the electrical job, they said. One burned to the ground, the other had a wall in the kitchen gouged out. Ellis bought that one cheap and hired me, Ned Robertson, and Shitty Smitty to clean the place up while he and the new misses honeymooned in Chattanooga. Stayed in a converted choo-choo, he later told me.

“Anyhow, we got the work done before they got back. We washed the walls, repainted, put in a new back door, installed trim––that kind of stuff. Oh, and we replaced the microwave oven, too. The old one was still new but had melted into a boxy glob of charred putty.”

He poured more coffee down his throat and continued. “But he seems like a nice guy to me. Nice enough, anyway. I suppose it’s that air about a city person––that cold, calloused way of interacting with people. They can’t help it, though. I think they’re just born into a different culture, a different way of life. It’s not that they’re any worse than you or me, you know?”

He raised a furry eyebrow at Gina.

“He’s eased up over the years, I guess,” he went on, “and he and his family have gotten fairly active in the community. I don’t know him all that well, though. I see him and his wife come in here for dinner from time to time, but that’s about it. Why do you ask?”

Avery’s wife, Betty, stood at the end of the table. “Get you something, Gina?”

Gina decided she was hungry and could use a bit of grub to hold her over until dinner. “I’ll take a Cherry Coke.”

Betty pulled her ticket pad from her apron. “Fries?”

Gina nodded.

As Betty dipped into the kitchen and out of sight, Gina noticed Floyd nervously twisting a napkin between his creped hands.

“What shouldn’t I know about him, Floyd?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s involved in something, isn’t he? Something people choose to ignore, or they’re just too damn stupid or scared to do anything about it. Am I right? Something to do with the snakes?”

Floyd smiled but his eyes were sad. He looked as if he had just bet the farm and lost it all.

“Gina,” he said, “there’s a lot more going on here than you realize. I don’t even know half of it myself, but I do know that it’s dangerous. For you, me, or anybody who’s brave enough to ask questions. I decided long ago to keep my nose out of it. You’d be wise to do the same.”

Betty came by with the fries and soda then stepped out for a smoke.

“You know that fella? He’s looking over here.” Floyd squinted his eyes toward the front door. Gina spun around. No one was standing there.

“About time to get them old peepers examined, Floyd.” Gina grinned with relief. “I don’t see anyone.”

“He’s right there,” he said pointing, “in the jersey. Black-haired fella. See him?”

She looked again. Nothing. She shook her head slowly then reached for the soda. Her gut tickled.

“Eh, maybe you’re right,” Floyd resigned. “These old eyes ain’t what they use to be.”

Were they being watched?

Gina considered this might have been a bad idea. How could she expect to get reliable information from a senile rambler like Floyd Wiggins? Sure he was a gentleman, very kind and old-fashioned, but
old
might be the key word. Perhaps he’s grown senile and delirious with small town gossip like the others who gathered here each morning to chat about the weather and odd bits of useless information such as the worn pathway from Mrs. Pendleton’s house to her mailbox from checking it a dozen times a day.
I’ve even seen here out there on Sundays,
they’d say
, waddling from the house to the box and back again.That old hag! Crazy loon!

A couple of elderly sisters sat down in the booth behind Gina. They planned to fill their bellies before catching the Greyhound bus headed for Skokie, Illinois, where the annual Patsy Cline convention would be held over the coming weekend. After Betty took their order, one of them turned around in her seat.

“I just love your hat!” the lady said, flashing her porcelain veneers. “May I ask where you got it?”

“It was my father’s,” Gina said. “It was his favorite. And mine. And I kinda got a thing for hats.”

The old lady giggled. “Well, you have good taste. I’m Dolly and this is my sister, Evelyn.” She gestured to the woman across from her who looked almost identical to Dolly, aside from the poorly dyed tufts of hair on her head.

Gina introduced herself and wished them well as Betty brought their tea. 

“I like your hat, too, sir,” Dolly said, making eyes at Floyd.

“Ma’am.” He blushed and tipped his hat. Floyd slid out of the booth, thumbed his suspenders, stretched. The skin hung loosely around his neck, red and splotched from decades out in the sun.

“Things are the way they are for a reason,” he said throwing down two fives. “Sometimes we don’t have a choice in the matter. Someone has to carry the torch.”

Gina opened her mouth to speak, but Floyd put up his hand.

“I want you to listen to me very carefully, okay? I know things,
terrible
things that are going on in this town. I talk too much, but I also listen too much. If I repeat any of it, it’s my neck.”

“It’s not like they’d believe you anyway, no offense.”

“None taken, but if you think someone’s gonna waltz in here and lift this curse on Hemming, your dead wrong,” Floyd sighed heavily and turned towards the door. “Ellis Pearson ain’t the one you gotta watch out for. If what I know is true, his boy’ll be taking after him soon.”

“But it’s not––”

“Enough. I’m going home.”

It’s not Duke!
Her mind screamed.
You old geezer! It’s Jared! He’s making Jared do it instead, and I want to know why or whoa boy I’m about to start splittin atoms!

Floyd had already walked out of Avery’s. The bells tied to the doorknob jangled and clanked against the glass panel looking out at the highway, as Perry Como sang “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Around the Old Oak Tree.”

2

He plopped down on a wooden bench overlooking the Arlo County Courthouse and studied a crossword puzzle. Sunlight streaked across an azure sky, threading ribbons of pink and gold behind the courthouse clock, which read five minutes till four. Floyd saw Margaret Oates coming out of the archives with a newspaper tucked under her arm.

“Afternoon, Margaret,” Floyd said, patting the empty space next to him.

Margaret sat down and stretched her legs. “Haven’t you got anything else better to do besides sit out here and people watch?”

“After retirement, you try to do anything that gets you out of the house. What’s new?”

“I’ve been fetching old files for that Blair fella from the university.”

Floyd’s brow creased, puzzled.

“He’s here about the…the snakes.”

“Oh,” Floyd said. “Well, it’s about time.”

She nodded. “Haven’t seen you in church in a while.”

“You know me, I just pop in from time to time when my religion meter’s a little low.”

“That’s no way to be, Floyd. God is good. He’s going to deliver us from these snakes he’s brought upon us. I know he is. I’ve been praying for it.”

“Who hasn’t?” Floyd avoided her eyes in fear of contracting a fit of guilt for not strolling into Sand Mountain when the doors opened at ten o’clock every Sunday morning. Truth be told, he didn’t much care for that place. Or the people for that matter. Gave him the willies. Especially Carl Motley. That wide-eyed reverend would get to spitting and dancing around like he was possessed by something else other than the spirit of God. Floyd reckoned Motley was just a crayon shy of a full box, that’s all.

But he should keep up appearances. To them, Floyd was hotter than a newswire, and if they knew Ellis Pearson was the one who brought the snakes upon Hemming, well, Floyd was not only afraid of what they’d do to Ellis, but to him as well, especially for keeping his flap-trap shut for almost two decades.

You can have all the answers in the world, but sometimes the answers are far more destructive in the hands of those with questions.

And Gina, what a little detective. She got to the bottom of everything quick, fast, and in a hurry. Floyd only hoped she would be careful, even though it didn’t matter how careful she was. If you were marked, you were taken. Simple as that. He didn’t think her mother would have made a covenant with the devil to have children, but thirteen mothers made that deal every year. How they did it, well, that was one thing Floyd still wasn’t sure about.

A sharp crack of pain coursed through his leg.
Damn pinched nerve.
It was hurting worse everyday. He thought about digging out his old Remington and checking out early. He thought about it often. His son-in-law had already been dropping by information on retirement homes out in Lewiston. His leg hurt but his heart hurt worse, and there was no pill for that except the kind you loaded into a Remington as far as he was concerned. Maybe he didn’t have that long anyway. Maybe he’d stroke out before sundown. If he did and survived,
then
he’d use the Remington, given his hands still worked well enough to pull the trigger.

Tomorrow night. After the football game. That’s when I’ll do it. Adios, amigos. Yes indeedy.

After making his appointment with death, what harm would it do to tell Margaret what he knew? Floyd had known Margaret since grade school. Surely she wouldn’t allow the crazies at Sand Mountain to go after Pearson.

They would, though,
he thought.
Might not kill him, but they’d make him disappear like the last fella. The one they were wrong about.

What if he just kept Gina out of it? Told them about Ellis and let him get what’s coming to him? Hell, he probably deserved it anyway. And if they had a bone to pick with Floyd, he’d be long gone having drinks with his maker. For the first time in a very long time, Floyd Wiggins thought it might be worth shaking things up a bit. A final hurrah.

Yes indeedy.

3

Alan had enough. There were folders sprawled out on the cherrywood table, all of them full of poor photocopies with Polaroids stuck to them with yellowing tape. He pulled the chain on the desk lamp, killed the light. His hand found his face and removed his glasses. He sighed, wiping his eyes with his thumbs as Margaret Oates approached him with a mug that said #1
GRANDMA
.

“It’s black tea. Strong.”

Alan took it with both hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Oates.”

“May I?”

“Of course.” He gestured for her to sit. As she slid into the chair across from him, a shadow appeared behind her.

“Boo!”

Margaret wailed and became rigid, her face white beneath her heavy makeup. She grabbed her chest and saw Floyd stepping out of the shadows with a big childish grin smeared on his face.

“Floyd Wiggins!” she yelled. “I’m gonna get you! I thought you went home.”

“Wanted to meet the man from the university.”

Alan, recovering from Margaret’s shocking ear-splitter, got up and shook Floyd’s hand. “Alan Blair. Mr. Wiggins?”

“Floyd.”

“Very good,” Alan said. “I saw you at Avery’s in Hemming earlier. Meant to speak to you then, but I saw you were with someone.”

“Yep. Nice girl. You assimilating?”

“Huh?”

Floyd pointed. “Your shirt.” It was a Durden High football jersey you could get at most places of businesses for ten dollars. Money from sales went to help with burial expenses during the reaping season.

“Oh. Souvenir,” Alan said, smiling. “Well, Floyd, can you tell me a little bit about this town from your own experiences here?”

“You want to hear about the snakes?”

“That too, but give me a general sense of what it’s been like living here.”

Floyd took off his hat and scratch his scalp. “They don't grow cotton no more. Hemming had a cotton gin, Briar Ridge had one, Durden had two. Not anymore, though. Those days are long gone, sir. Back in the forties and fifties and on up into the sixties they were still around. I still had cotton back in '67. You took about twelve-hundred-fifty pounds to make a bail, take it down to the gin and put em up on these big scales. They'd gin it off to get the seed out, put it in a press, squeeze it, put steel bands on it, buckle em, then let em go––get em real tight. They’d weigh it, about five hundred pounds, give or take a little bit. They'd give you a ticket then you’d go in the office, and they’d write you a check. Twenty-eight, thirty cents a pound, if memory serves me right.”

Alan made some notes, but began to doodle once his attention waned.

“Use to have a bunch of crab grass come up in it,” Floyd said.

“Excuse me?”

“Crab grass would be all in the cotton, you see. So you’d have to… Where was I? Oh, yeah, we use to have cotton around the house. Those Martins were picking it. Picked some for me. A daughter with kids. One boy had snot pouring out of his nose all the time. Their granddaddy, he was from up north. His wife was from England or something. She had a funny talk. They came to visit once and she got a stalk of cotton and took it home with her. She was amazed by it.”

“I see. So, about the snakes––”

“You know that straight run of highway between Durden and Hemming? It’s called Grissom’s Stretch. Kids use to drag on it until Ned Robertson became Sheriff. Use to have two to three weeks cotton vacation, you know? Bonham family lived on the road behind momma and them. They'd have to pick cotton. But that was before the mechanical pickers came out.”

“Is that so?”