Night Bird Calling

by Cathy Gohlke

  Celia poked her head out of her room again. “Chester’s sleepin’. Please, don’t make me stay alone.”

  “Go in with Ruby Lynne,” Gladys directed her daughter. “You girls keep the light off and stay there.”

  “Gladys, stay with them. I’ll handle this.”

  “Not alone you won’t.”

  Never had I been so grateful. Together we tiptoed down the stairs, our footsteps tentative more from fear than concern for sound. The pounding on the door continued.

  I switched on the porch light, thankful beyond words that Aunt Hyacinth had bought in once the electric lines had reached No Creek, even though she was already blind. Through the window I glimpsed the owner of the fist. Sure enough, Rhoan Wishon, all six feet and muscled arms, stood on the other side of our door. Without opening, I said, “What do you want, Mr. Wishon? Do you realize the hour?”

  “I want my daughter! My Ruby girl! Is she in there?” His slight slur caught my ear.

  “He’s drunk,” Gladys whispered. “Those Wishons hardly know what they’re doing when they’ve been in the ’shine. Don’t let him in.”

  I had no intention of letting him in. “Go away! If you want to talk to me, you’ll return in daylight at a decent hour . . . sober.”

  “I say, is my Ruby Lynne in there? She’s been gone two days, maybe three. You runnin’ that courtin’ school again, you white trash—you and Gladys Percy?” He beat on the door.

  “Mr. Wishon, your daughter is here, safe and sleeping, which is more than can be accomplished in your house. If you want to see her or speak to her, if you want to speak to me, you must return in the morning—sober and without your cowardly white sheets to hide beneath. Is that clear?”

  He stepped back, out of the pool of light. I saw that he ran a hand over his stubbled jaw as if mildly embarrassed. That surprised me. It also gave me a growing sense of power. He swayed a little, struggling to regain control of his senses.

  “I’ll be back, I swear it. You let that boy near my girl and—”

  “Go home, you drunken fool!” I shouted, nearly at my wit’s end. The idea of him blaming Marshall for what he’d done was so repugnant I wanted to scream.

  He stumbled off the porch. Then, from the darkened yard, he turned and called, “You talk so high-and-mighty, so hoity-toity. Let me tell you, you’re cut from the same cloth as the rest of us. You understand me? You’re no different and you best get that through your pretty head fore you get somebody killed!” He swore and swore again, then disappeared into the dark.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  CELIA WOKE THE NEXT MORNING to find the bed she’d shared with Ruby Lynne empty. At first she thought Ruby Lynne’d gone to use the bathroom, but when she’d rubbed the sleep from her eyes and saw that Ruby Lynne’s shoes were missing, that the nightgown Miss Lill had given her lay folded across the foot of the bed, Celia knew she’d run off.

  “Mama.” Celia shook her mother’s shoulder gently. “Mama, wake up. Ruby Lynne’s gone.”

  “What do you mean she’s gone? Gone where?”

  “Just gone.”

  Celia’s mama pushed the covers aside. “That fool girl. Call Lilliana. We’ve got to find her. She’s not well enough to be running home or anywhere else.”

  Celia woke Miss Lill and Chester and would have woken half the county if she could. “Mama, do you think we ought to get Reverend Willard? Ought we not go look for her? Do you think she went home to her daddy? Maybe to the Tates?”

  “Celia, hush now. We don’t know and we won’t know till we find her. Don’t be after Reverend Willard with this . . . at least not yet. Get dressed. I want you to stay here with Chester. I’ll go to the Wishons’ come daylight. If she’s not there, well, I’ll try the general store, see if anybody’s seen her.”

  Celia hated being left at home, left behind. And she didn’t think Ruby Lynne would go home or to the general store. Ruby Lynne feared her daddy and she’d never run to Ida Mae for help or anywhere she’d be fodder for gossip. There weren’t many Ruby Lynne trusted—not now. But she trusted the Tates, she’d told Celia, and she trusted Granny Chree.

  By the time everyone was up and dressed, gray daylight crept through the sky. Celia’s mama insisted on a hearty breakfast before beginning the search. “It won’t do anybody any good if we go fainting by the wayside. I’ll set a plate for Ruby Lynne in the warmer. She’ll be chilled through.”

  “If we find her,” Chester said, wide-eyed, gulping down the last bite of redeye gravy and biscuits.

  “When we find her,” his mother responded.

  “I’ll go to the Wishons’,” Miss Lill said.

  “Not alone you won’t,” Celia’s mother countered.

  “We’ll cover more territory faster if we split up,” Miss Lill insisted.

  “That’s true, but the Wishons’ is a different place. A woman alone—”

  “I’ll go with her,” Celia piped up. “That old Rhoan Wishon wouldn’t do anything bad in front of a kid.”

  Miss Lill raised her eyebrows as if waiting for Gladys’s response.

  Celia’s mama opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it again. “I s’pose that’s true. He’s at least that concerned about his reputation when he’s sober, though he sure didn’t act it last night.”

  “He was drunk,” Celia stated, matter-of-fact, though that didn’t seem to make her mother feel any better. “He’s not likely to be drinkin’ this early.”

  “If Ruby Lynne did go home, you both showing up might put him on notice that he’s got to behave.”

  Miss Lill gasped, “Ruby Lynne can’t stay there! A man who’d do that to his daughter once will do it again. He needs to be brought to account—prosecuted!”

  Celia’s mama stood in the center of the kitchen, fists on her hips. “You think that’s gonna happen? Here, in No Creek?” She shook her head and turned back to the stove. “Would that happen in Philadelphia?”

  Miss Lill went white—whiter than she already was. It looked to Celia like her mama had hit the nail on the head, whatever it was they meant.

  “Let’s go, Celia.” Miss Lill grabbed her coat on the way out the door. Celia gulped her last bite of biscuit and followed in her wake. It was a good two miles to Rhoan Wishon’s. Celia knew that though Ruby Lynne was mending, she was in no condition to make that trek on foot.

  They'd barely started before they met Marshall on the road, a rake slung over his shoulder. He tipped his cap. “Mornin’, Miss Lilliana, Celia. You ladies out bright and early.”

  “We’re off to the Wishons’,” Celia piped up, “to see if Ruby Lynne went home.”

  Miss Lill gave her a look meant to shush. “You’re out early, too, Marshall.”

  “On my way up to Shady Grove. Reverend Willard asked me to help him rake the leaves in the cemetery.”

  “Good. That’s good.” Miss Lill shifted her eyes but didn’t look Marshall in the face. “Have you passed Ruby Lynne on the road this morning, Marshall?”

  “Ruby Lynne? No, ma’am. You’re the first soul I seen this mornin’. Everything all right over her way?”

  “Till she got beat up,” Celia offered. This time Miss Lill pinched her arm. “Ow! What’d ya do that for?”

  Marshall set down his rake. “Beat up? Somebody beat up Ruby Lynne? Who? She be all right, won’t she? Please say she be all right!”

  “She will. She’ll be fine, but she needs to rest.” Miss Lill wrung her hands. “And we need to find her. She was staying with us, but sometime in the night she left.”

  “I’ll help you look—whatever you need. Reverend Willard would want me to.”

  “That’d be great!” Celia was relieved to think he might accompany them to the Wishons’. She’d talked big at breakfast, but after Rhoan’s midnight visit, and after what had happened to Miss Lill with the Klan and the burning of Garden’s Gate’s books and now to Ruby Lynne, she wasn’t anxious to go Wishon visiting with no more protection than pretty Miss Lill.

  �
��I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Marshall.” Miss Lill looked worried. “I don’t know what to expect from Mr. Wishon.”

  “Don’t reckon he’s there. He left out of here in his truck late last night.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Heard him. He’s got the fastest engine this end of the county. The road runs not far by Uncle’s house. Not been by again.”

  “Celia, do you know what time Ruby Lynne left? Was it in the night—or early this morning?”

  “Can’t say. Went to sleep and she was there. Woke up and she’s gone. You reckon she ran off with her daddy?”

  “I can’t imagine—I hope not.”

  Marshall lifted the rake to his shoulder again and spread his feet. “Did Rhoan Wishon hurt her?”

  “You should see the bruises!” Celia whistled.

  “Celia, be quiet! Ruby Lynne hasn’t said who it was, but . . . I’m worried for her. I’d like to go and be gone before Rhoan returns.”

  “Coulda been a drifter.” Celia wanted it to be a drifter. She couldn’t abide the notion of it being Ruby Lynne’s own daddy who beat her that way. It was too much like saying any daddy could turn that mean from drink—so mean he’d do things unmentionable.

  “I’m comin’. If that man lay a hand on Ruby Ly—”

  “No, Marshall. Don’t say another word. That’s the last thing you or your family need. You showing up now could be the worst possible thing for Ruby Lynne.”

  “But—”

  “No! I can handle this. He’ll not dare hurt me or Celia.”

  “Miss Lilliana, Ruby Lynne’s been good to me. She be the only person—black or white—ever take the time and patience to help me learn to read besides you. I won’t let that man—”

  “Then follow at a distance. Stay where you can’t be seen from the house. If we need you, I’ll call, or I’ll shout for you to go get help at the store. But for all that’s holy, Marshall, don’t let him see you, and stay back. You starting a war with the Wishons won’t help Ruby Lynne.”

  “All right, then.”

  Just before reaching the house, Marshall hung back behind an old maple at the edge of the yard. Rhoan Wishon’s truck was not in the drive. Miss Lill knocked on the front door. No one answered. She knocked again, louder this time.

  From the corner of her eye, Celia saw the front room curtain move slightly to one side. “Somebody’s in there,” she whispered. “That curtain moved.”

  “Ruby Lynne?” Miss Lill called. “If you’re in there, please come out. I need to know that you’re safe.” No answer. “You can come back with us to Garden’s Gate if you want—stay as long as you want.” Long moments passed. “Please, Ruby Lynne!”

  The door never opened, but Ruby Lynne’s voice came through, quiet and sounding scared. “I know you mean well, Miss Lilliana, and I thank you kindly for taking me in when I needed it. But I need to be home. Please, please go away before my daddy gets back. It won’t do any good for him to find you here, and it’ll be best for me that I came home on my own.”

  It was a long speech for Ruby Lynne. Celia looked up at Miss Lill, uncertain.

  Miss Lill leaned her forehead against the door and closed her eyes. “Ruby . . .” She spoke softly now, even though Ruby Lynne did not open the door. “Aren’t you afraid to stay here?”

  A minute must have passed. With such a question hanging in the air, a minute seemed forever.

  “Every day.” Ruby Lynne spoke through the door, so quietly Celia wondered if she’d heard right. Miss Lill half sobbed, and Celia, not knowing how to help, waited.

  “Day or night—anytime you want—you come to Garden’s Gate. Our door is always open for you, Ruby Lynne.”

  “I know, Miss Lilliana. I know.”

  And then the conversation was done. It took Miss Lill a bit to raise herself up, smooth her skirt down, and wipe her eyes. She didn’t look at Celia but turned defeated shoulders and walked down the steps.

  Celia followed at a respectful distance. Marshall had disappeared from behind the tree where they’d left him. Miss Lill kept her face resolutely turned toward Garden’s Gate.

  But when they were back on the road, Celia turned in time to see Marshall slip from the woods to the barn behind the Wishon house and to see Ruby Lynne round the corner, headed in the same direction.

  Celia didn’t say a word but caught up and slipped her hand between Miss Lill’s fingers.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  IT WAS MONDAY, the week before Thanksgiving, when Ida Mae lowered her bombshell to Joe Earl at the general store and post office. Celia had just finished sweeping the floor and sat on the pickle barrel, chomping down on her dill pickle reward.

  “I got a telephone call from my sister up in Olean, New York. She tripped over her little J. J.’s solar system project for school—something about Jupiter and the red eye of death—and broke her leg. Her oldest girl, LouAnn, is due any day now with her first and she’s beggin’ me to come and look after things for a month.”

  “A month! When?” Joe nearly swallowed his own pickle whole while plopping his seat on the flour barrel next to Celia.

  “Now! This week!”

  “This week! But Thursday a week is Thanksgiving. What about . . . what about Joleen and me?”

  “I hate that I won’t be here to cook for you all and the reverend—not to mention my girls and Ray—but babies don’t mind holidays and they don’t come on schedule. She’s not due till the end of December, but LouAnn’s had trouble and they’ve put her to bed rest. Edna fears the baby might come early—or that they’ll have to take it, and now she’s laid up and can’t do a thing.

  “Celia, you reckon your mama might take a few more hungries Thanksgiving Day if we send some extra sweet potatoes and maybe a turkey or ham out your way?”

  “I reckon. Sure! Mama always says, ‘The more the merrier.’ It’s just poor what keeps her stingy from time to time.” Neither thing was true, but Celia knew it wouldn’t matter. Ida Mae’d do whatever she pleased.

  “Well, I’d be much obliged. I was looking forward to having Reverend Willard over, but my daughters can’t cook worth spit, and poisoning him might not help their prospects.”

  “Nor me, nor Joleen,” Joe Earl piped up. “Can’t you wait till after Thanksgiving, Ida Mae? It comes early this year, and I’d surely miss your sweet potato pie.”

  Ida Mae smiled at the compliment but shook her head. “Wants me to take the Carolina Special Wednesday morning from Asheville to Cincinnati. She said her neighbor can meet me at the station and take me on out to Clermont County in his market truck. Her husband, Jim—Jim’s got a job with the railroad—can get me a round-trip ticket and it’ll be waiting for me at the Asheville station.”

  “You can’t get over to Asheville that early!” Celia knew Joe Earl was throwing up roadblocks, hoping she’d wait till he’d had his Thanksgiving dinner.

  Ida Mae sighed. “I hate to do it, I hate to ride with that man, but I’ll ask Rhoan Wishon to take me tomorrow night. You know he drives over to Asheville late on a Tuesday night.” She looked significantly at Joe. “Least, ever since someone we won’t name was incarcerated.”

  Incarcerated was a word Celia knew applied to her family and she didn’t appreciate it. Whatever her daddy had been, she’d seen on her recent visit to the jail that at least he was more than she’d remembered. It was one thing for her or Chester or their mama to bad-talk her daddy, but Ida Mae wasn’t kin and had no call, and Celia was tired of it.

  “Reckon I’ll sleep on the bench at the station until time for the train to roll. Can’t afford to miss it. I don’t know why they up and moved north. I can hardly abide the shame of that. But family’s family. You can’t turn on them just because they’ve done foolish.”

  “When’ll you come back?” Celia tried to keep her voice even and civil. If Ida Mae never came back, it would suit her just fine.

  “Before Christmas, I hope.”

  “You hope?” Joe nearly fell off the flour ba
rrel.

  “More likely mid-January.”

  “Who’ll run the store? Who’ll get out the mail?” Joe Earl couldn’t take hold.

  “Who’ll run the Christmas play?” That was much more Celia’s concern than the business or the federal government.

  Before Ida Mae could answer, the bell over the door jingled. All eyes turned to see a man—young, disheveled, and dirty—step inside, bringing the cold November wind and a swirl of brown leaves Celia had just swept from the porch.

  “Close that door!” Ida Mae all but huffed at the stranger.

  The man looked up, near sorry for existing, Celia thought, and closed the door. “My apologies, ma’am.” He tipped his cap—a summer cap, Celia noted, and a lightweight coat not worth mending.

  Celia’s eyebrows rose and Ida Mae frowned, whispering, “Another dang drifter.”

  Celia flinched. She’d built a whole story in her head about how a drifter had found Ruby Lynne alone on the road at night and beaten her within an inch of her life. Drifters are bad. Drifters are scary. Celia told that to herself over and over, hoping it would drown out her fear of fathers able to turn mean on a dime.

  But Celia knew in Ida Mae’s eyes this man’s sin was more than drifting. He’d spoken as the words might be written—short on syllables for anybody born south of the Mason-Dixon.

  Ida Mae cocked her head, then pretended to go back to her account books. Joe Earl rubbed his jaw, swinging his head around as if to stretch his neck but really to eyeball the stranger. Celia watched the man openly, wondering who he was and where he came from. Must be on foot. She’d not heard the gun of a motor or the brakes of an automobile.

  For all that Ida Mae complained about drifters every week or so, few strangers passed through and nobody made No Creek a destination—at least, not since Miss Lill had shown up, and it turned out she had kin in town. But no matter. Every stranger was raw meat for the lions of Celia’s imagination and Ida Mae’s gossip.