Moon Over Manifest

by Clare Vanderpool

  “Yes, sir,” Jinx and Shady answered. They waited for the sheriff to leave, but he leaned back against the fence and whittled away at his block of wood. With a nod, Jinx and Shady continued on their way back to town. The sheriff wasn’t just keeping watch. It was a downright vigil.

  A single candle lit Shady’s place, and the mood was equally dark. Small clusters of men huddled around tables, waiting for someone to speak.

  “What are we going to do now?” asked Donal MacGregor. “With Sheriff Dean watching our comings and goings, you can’t just waltz in and out of town unnoticed.”

  “And Lester Burton’s been phoning in twice a day to the switchboard,” said Ivan DeVore. “Checking to see if the men are well enough to go back to work. He won’t be satisfied somebody’s not fit to work until they’re dead and buried. And even then he’ll dock their past wages for not reporting to work.”

  Jinx thought it strange that Burton was calling in. What news did he expect to find out? Who had he been talking to? And more importantly, who’d been talking to him? Of course not everyone in town had been apprised of the fake influenza before it happened. They just had to hope that the people in town during the quarantine were tired enough of the mine’s choke hold on them to go along with the scheme.

  “What about the boy?” Hermann Keufer asked, somewhat accusingly. “Hasn’t he got another rabbit to pull from his bag of tricks?”

  Suddenly, all eyes were on Jinx, who sat quietly on a stool behind the bar. Their faces reminded Jinx of Sheriff Dean’s warning. He had been identified as a stranger and felt his sense of belonging slipping away.

  Shady sheltered Jinx again, this time from the stares of those waiting for yet another miracle. “We’ll have to just keep producing the elixir until we figure a way to distribute it again.”

  There was an uneasy scraping and shifting of chairs on the dusty wooden floor. This time it was Donal MacGregor who came to the rescue.

  “Now, come on. I’m sure we’ve all got better things to do than fuss and fidget around here all day. Let’s move along.” Like a mother hen, he gathered up his chicks, sometimes nudging, sometimes snapping, and shooed them out the door.

  Donal remained in the entryway, as if posting himself sentry.

  But Jinx slid quietly from his perch and left Shady’s place, letting the door swing shut behind him.

  The mood in the town was already somber when the first death of the quarantine was reported a few days later. Mr. Underwood prepared a pine box and was quite put out when Donal said he would take care of the rest. The body would be buried out of town, they said, to keep the smell and germs away.

  With shovels in hand, Shady, Jinx, and Donal MacGregor carried the casket out of town. Each sagged under the weight of their heavy task.

  They reached the clearing, not far from the abandoned mine shaft, and took turns digging near an old craggy sycamore tree. Six feet down and four feet across. Late-afternoon shadows crept across the clearing as Donal threw out the last shovel of dirt. He wiped his brow and accepted a canteen of cool water Shady offered when Lester Burton emerged from the trees.

  “I heard there’s been a death.”

  “You heard that, did you?” Donal said. “Word sure gets around, even in a quarantine.”

  “Who is it?” His abrupt speech indicated what the men already knew. Burton’s primary interest was in discovering if he’d lost a miner. And if so, was there a strong son of thirteen or fourteen left behind to take his place?

  “Gourouni,” said Donal.

  “Gourouni? I don’t know him.”

  “Aye, God rest his soul,” Donal said. “He didn’t say much. He lived in the little house behind me. Kept to himself mostly.” He took in a breath. “No, I didn’t know him well, but he could eat, that one. Both of us bachelors, I’d often fix extra. My cooking wasn’t the best, mind you, but I never heard a word of complaint out of him.”

  Shady stood by the open grave and removed his hat. “It’s time, Donal.”

  “All right. Let’s lay him down.”

  “Wait,” said Burton. “Let me see him.” A note of suspicion rose in his voice, as if this Mr. Gourouni might have a few hours work left in him.

  “I don’t think you’ll want to be doing that,” said Donal. “He’s been dead more’n a day. Not exactly fresh, if you know what I mean.”

  “I said let me see.”

  “Right.” Donal nodded at Jinx, who pried open the lid of the coffin.

  Immediately, such a stench arose from the casket that Burton covered his nose and nearly retched. Jinx let the half-opened lid drop back down.

  “Aye,” Donal said. “The smell of rotting flesh is one few can stomach. When Mr. MacTweeg was a lad back in Lochinver, he was on his way home from the pub. He took the shortcut through the Ballyknock Grove when a wild boar charged him, goring his leg, nearly tearing it off before MacTweeg could reach his knife and slice open the boar’s throat. Three days he lay there, in the stench of the rotting beast and his own festering flesh still caught on the animal’s tusks.”

  Donal MacGregor took a slow drag from his pipe and let the smoke curl out of his mouth like the story itself. “When some local lads came upon him, MacTweeg lay pinned beneath the bloated, oozing carcass. Clawing and scratching, he was, already fighting his unseen demons. The infection eventually took his leg. But ’twas the stench of death that drove him mad.

  “But,” Donal said, his mood suddenly brightening, “come have a look if you must.” He gave the coffin lid a yank, sending another waft of odor floating up. “He’s not at full steam yet.”

  Burton covered his mouth and gagged again. “Just hurry up and bury him.” He whipped out a ragged bandana to cover his nose and stalked away.

  The men waited until he was gone; then Shady and Jinx lurched away from the open grave, gasping for air. “Blast it, Donal, did you have to open it a second time?” croaked Shady. “I was barely keeping it in as it was.”

  “Well, it got rid of him, didn’t it? And I don’t expect he’ll be coming back round to check again.” Donal opened the pine box. “Ahh, Stanley, God rest your soul.” He hoisted out a smaller, metal box lying within the pine coffin. “A finer pig there never was. He’d been ailing for a time, so I do suppose it was right to put him down.”

  “Where’d you come up with the name Gourouni?” asked Jinx.

  “Matenopoulos told me it’s the Greek word for pig. Gourouni.” Donal rolled his r’s as he said it. Then he wagged a finger at Jinx. “You were right, lad, to come prepared for Burton. But how do you think he knew we’d be here?”

  Shady and Jinx were still holding their breath. “Donal, please, just take it in the woods and bury it,” said Shady. “No one’s going to come around with that smell surrounding us.”

  Donal was off, carrying the metal box of pig remains, and the smell gradually followed him.

  “Looks like you were right,” Shady said, sitting down on the coffin like a balloon gone flat. “What did you call it?”

  “A mole.”

  “A mole,” Shady repeated, rubbing his whiskers. “So there’s someone among us in Manifest who’s feeding information to Burton. I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  Both sat for a moment, lost in thought and speculation as to who the mole might be.

  Then Shady stood. “Well, we’re not going to figure it out sitting here. Give me a hand with this lid.”

  Shady and Jinx opened the coffin and inspected the dozens of bottles resting in a bed of straw so as not to clank against each other.

  “We dug the hole; we might as well use it,” Shady said. “That way the stuff’ll not be in plain sight, in case someone else happens along.”

  Jinx climbed into the pit, then helped lower the pine box. Shady eased in after him and the two hunkered down like soldiers in the trenches, their backs up against the wall. Dusk faded to dark.

  Jinx broke the silence. “You think folks’ll find us here?”

  Shady answered with certain
ty. “They’ll find us.”

  Another few moments passed and Jinx spoke again.

  “Shady?”

  “Yes.”

  “D’you think a person can be cursed?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Cursed, like when a fellow doesn’t mean for bad things to happen, but they just sort of follow him around like his shadow.”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure,” Shady answered, speaking as one with a few shadows of his own. “I suppose it’s either a matter of outrunning your shadow or staring it down in the light.”

  “Staring it down, huh? Easy as that.”

  Shady shook his head and let out a heavy breath. “Nothing easy about it. Don’t let nobody tell you otherwise.”

  The two sat in silence until they noticed a figure emerging from the woods. And then another. And another. They knew to keep away when the sheriff and Burton were around. But now the sick and weary had returned.

  Shady and Jinx remained in the open grave, pulling out bottle after bottle. They worked steadily, distributing the elixir. It was an eerie sight—Shady and Jinx, their arms reaching up from the ground, as if the dead could provide some comfort for the living.

  PVT. NED GILLEN

  SEPTEMBER 12, 1918

  Dear Jinx,

  Do the Akkersons still have that Shetland sheepdog? The one that could round up a whole herd of cows, practically lining them up single file? That must be how Sarge got his nickname. Fellas in other battalions know him as First Sergeant Daniels, but he’s always been Shep to us.

  He got hit by a mortar shell yesterday. The guys and me, we’re still sitting around like a bunch of scared kids. Oh, we talk all big and cocky, but he was like our dad and we were his boys. We loved him. We’d have walked into a swarm of bees if he’d told us to.

  But he’s the one who walked into it this time. Way I heard it, the guys were under heavy fire. Hank Turner got shot in the leg and was stranded out in no-man’s-land. Shep barked at the men to stay put, then headed out to get him. He carried Hank forty yards and shoved him into a foxhole before the mortar shell got him.

  Last I saw Shep, I was leaving to make a run to the Sixty-third Battalion. I didn’t salute, of course. This close to the front, you don’t salute officers. That only tells Heine who’s in charge. But our guys had a sort of vocal salute to show Sarge our respect. Just a little chirpy cricket sound. As I started my trot out yesterday, I gave Shep that quick cricket salute. He conked me in the back of the head with a pinecone for it, but we were his boys. We knew it and he knew it.

  I was making my way back last night. Couldn’t figure out what was going on in those woods. Sounded like a bunch of crickets were singing to high heaven. I joined in before I realized it was our final salute to old Shep. It sounded pretty. Real pretty.

  Ned

  P.S. Hey, buddy, can you do me a favor? I’d do it myself, but I’m not there and I want it done in words, out loud. Tell Pop I love him.

  A Dying Breath

  AUGUST 7, 1936

  “School’s going to be starting before long and we’ll have nothing to show for our summer of spy hunting,” Lettie said after we’d clambered up the rickety rope ladder to the tree house, carrying a tin of buttermilk biscuits for our afternoon snack. “In fact, I’d be ready to think the Rattler has been long gone or buried if it wasn’t for the note we found on the tree trunk.” Lettie’s eyes grew wide. “Now, there’s an idea. Maybe the Rattler is dead and buried and left us that note. Remember Uncle Louver’s story about the ghostly figure moving about the woods.”

  “For gosh sakes, Lettie. We all saw it. We all read it.”

  “I’ve still got it right here in the cigar box,” I said.

  “Are the words still on it? Or have they disappeared?” Lettie asked.

  Ruthanne rolled her eyes.

  I took the crumpled note from the box and widened my eyes in amazement. “There’s nothing here. It’s blank!”

  “What?” Ruthanne snatched the note away from me. She stared in disbelief at the blank paper. Then she flipped it over. “Oh, very funny. It’s on the other side.”

  Lettie and I laughed. Ruthanne didn’t find it funny.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Ruthanne. It’s too hot for that.”

  The note lay on the floor in the middle of us and we stared at the four words, each one capitalized. Leave Well Enough Alone. The words taunted us. Dared us.

  “We’ve got to come up with a plan,” said Ruthanne. “Something clever and resourceful that’ll shine a light on the person who wrote this note.”

  “Yeah, but what if he’s somebody really nasty, like James Cagney in Public Enemy?” said Lettie. “Remember when he smashed a grapefruit in Mae Clarke’s face? Of course, in “G” Men he was on the other side of the law as Brick Davis. What do you think he’d do?”

  “He’d use his tommy gun, and by the end, the whole town would be dead or in jail,” said Ruthanne. “No, it has to be something sneakier, and not so bloody.” Ruthanne turned her attention to me. “What would Jinx do, Abilene?”

  It was strange. I’d been wondering the same thing. The answer was simple. “He’d come up with some fancy scheme to trick the Rattler into giving himself away. You know, a con.”

  “Like …?” Lettie and Ruthanne asked in unison.

  “Well, let me think.” I felt I knew Jinx well enough to put myself in his shoes. What would he do? Then I smiled. “This is kind of like being a diviner. Do you have a bauble?” I asked in Miss Sadie’s Hungarian accent, making my voice thick and husky.

  Lettie and Ruthanne just stared at me in confusion.

  “A totem or trinket. Something belonging to the person in question.” I said the word question like it had a v in it. Question.

  Lettie jumped with excitement. “The note. Here, use the note.”

  I took the paper and made a big show of smoothing out the wrinkles on the tree house floorboards. Then I took a deep breath and pondered the note.

  “What is it? What do you see?” asked Lettie.

  “She sees a girl who’ll believe anything,” Ruthanne said, rolling her eyes.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ruthanne. I know she’s just putting on, but I can play along, can’t I?”

  “Silence.” I held up my hand. “The spirits are thinking.”

  I looked intently at the note, holding it up to the light as if it would shout an answer at me. And then it darn near did.

  “Hey,” I said in my regular voice. “The handwriting.”

  “What about it?” Ruthanne said.

  “I knew a lady once, Miss Leeds in Springfield, Illinois. She could tell all manner of things about people just by the way they tapped out their messages on a telegraph machine.”

  “So you can tell who the Rattler is just by looking at the handwriting?” Lettie asked.

  “No, but just like telegraphing is different from one person to another, handwriting is too. See here?” I pointed to the note. “See how these letters are straight up and down, plodding across the page? And at the end of each word, the last letter trails off like it’s giving out its dying breath.”

  “Why, you’re right,” Lettie said in admiration. “So we should go door to door and ask everyone to write the same words as on this note and we’ll see whose matches up.” Lettie paused. “But how are we going to get everyone to write it down?”

  I answered before Ruthanne could jump on her. “We won’t have them write these words. They’ll write something else.” My mind was racing. “Anybody seen Billy Clayton today?”

  “He’s over at the school yard. Sister Redempta’s got him fixing the fence he ran into on his bike.” Ruthanne perked up an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because Hattie Mae’s having a contest. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  HATTIE MAE’S

  NEWS AUXILIARY

  AUGUST 9, 1936

  To the faithful readers of “Hattie Mae’s News Auxiliary.” First an explanation, then an ann
ouncement. Many apologies for the mix-up last week. Uncle Henry set out a stack of old newspapers (from 1918 to be exact) to be stored in the shed out back. We all know that man can’t part with a penny or a paper.

  Anyway, Fred got the papers as far as the back door when his lumbago set in. Of course I had to get him home to bed, even though my knees have been no great shakes lately. Fred’s never been a silent sufferer, but “for better or worse,” right, ladies?

  Well, I guess it’s asking too much for Billy Clayton to actually read the papers he delivers. I’m assuming he’s got bad eyes, as he hits the bushes and the roof as often as the porch at our house.

  For those of you who thought that we were back at war with the Huns, that Woodrow Wilson was still president, and that you could buy a washing machine for fourteen dollars, wake up and smell the Depression.

  Still, it was a hoot seeing the hats that were in fashion at the millinery. Remember the styles for men? Those stiff celluloid collars around their necks and the spats around their ankles. And the lace-up boots we women used to wear. Lord, have mercy.

  Remember when Manifest boasted citizens of twenty different nationalities? When you could walk down Main Street and smell Mama Santoni’s warm bread instead of dust and wind? Listening to Caruso sing “Eyes of Blue” on the Victrola? When we all bought Liberty Bonds to support our brave soldiers “over there”?

  This brings me to the announcement. Due to Fred’s “injury” and the fact that his mother is coming in from Springfield to “help,” I will be taking a sabbatical from “Hattie Mae’s News Auxiliary.”