by Greg Howard
“Who wants dessert?” Grandma says, creating a diversion.
A diversion is when something bad is happening, so someone waves their hands in the air and yells, “Hey, stop looking at the bad thing that’s happening and look over here!”
As in, I wish Tucker would create another one of his farting diversions so I can slip out before the sun sets.
Grandma touches Daddy’s arm gently. “Daniel? How about some fruit salad?”
She knows he can’t resist her fruit salad. No one can.
Daddy takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. The muscles in his face relax a little and he gives her a quick nod. “Sure.”
Grandma’s fruit salad saves the day. Again.
Daddy doesn’t look at me and I don’t say another word to draw his attention. He used to like me. He used to like me a lot, actually. He used to kiss me on the cheek every day before he went to work and hug me every night before I went to bed. I mean, Danny has always been the daddy’s boy in our family, sure, but I never minded because I had Mama. I don’t know where I fit in now that she’s not here. I’m like an annoying stray cat that won’t go away because someone keeps feeding it. What’s a mama’s boy anyway without his mama? Nothing, that’s what.
That’s why I have to find the Whispers. They’ll know where to find Mama. I have to take matters into my own hands, solve this case, and find her before something terrible happens to her.
Or before the police find out what I did and arrest me.
10
MAGIC TIME
Daddy says I can ride my bike for a little while after supper. I think he feels bad for yelling at me and for saying can’t. I take advantage of his guilt and go ahead and secure his permission for this weekend’s “sleepover at Gary’s” too.
Secure is when you lock something down so you know it’s a sure thing.
As in, Gary’s trying to secure a date with Rebecca Johnson for the school dance, but it’d be a miracle if Rebecca Johnson even knows Gary is a live human person.
I stand there in the backyard, straddling my bike and gazing past the cornfield to the tree line of the woods. Tucker sits on his haunches beside me—ears pointed up to Jesus and eyes alert, like he’s listening for them too. We wait patiently as the wind picks up and the golden sun dips below the tree line in super slow motion. Nature’s symphony has already started its nightly concert. That’s what Mama calls the evening song of the crickets, frogs, cicadas, and birds—nature’s symphony. I listen carefully, wishing with all my heart and mind that the Whispers would speak to me. I know I’m running out of time. She’s running out of time. And I just can’t imagine a world without Mama in it.
“Please,” I say in a whisper of my own. “Please help me find my mama.”
Tucker cocks his big Rottie head at me, giving me his dude, are you talking to yourself again? look.
I remember something from the story and turn my face back into the full force of the wind.
“I have gifts for you,” I say, hoping the breeze will carry my message and deliver it to the Whispers.
“Tributes,” I clarify, using the word for gift from the story. “Really good ones, too.”
I listen. Tucker listens. I wait. He waits. Nothing but nature’s symphony and the wind sounding like ocean waves in my ears. After a few minutes of nothing, I sigh and look over at Tucker.
“What do you think, Tuck? You think I’m crazy?”
He cradles a soft whine in the back of his throat. I’m pretty sure that means, sorry, dude, but pretty much.
I look back to the tree line. “I don’t think I’m crazy. I think you’re real. And I need you to help me find her.”
Nothing. I stare at the slowly dimming woods a moment more, watching the wind roll through the treetops like the human wave people do in the stands at football games. I close my eyes. A wind chime sounds in the distance as the warm breeze slips over and around my face, changing directions on a dime. It brushes my cheeks and the soothing scent of honeysuckle tickles my nose.
I try to imagine what their voices would sound like calling my name. Would they even sound like voices at all? Would they sound like a human person? Or an animal? I will myself to hear them, but still, nothing. Frustrated, I let out a deep sigh, open my eyes, and lift the handlebars to turn my bike around.
“Come on, Tuck.”
As I’m pushing away from the spot, something buzzes my right ear—something bigger than a fly. A wasp? A horsefly? I duck and swat at it. A small blue trail of light flashes in front of my face, but fades away just as quickly as it came—just like outside my window last night. My breath catches in my throat, and that’s when I hear it. I swear to Jesus and all his disciples, including Judas, I hear it. My name—gently tucked in the folds of a honeysuckle breeze.
Riley.
I freeze. Every muscle in my body tenses up. I know I heard it. I’m sure I did. My heart thumps so hard in my chest I’m afraid the noise of it will scare them away. Tucker slowly rises up on all fours, a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat. He heard it too. Either I’m not crazy, or we both are.
“Easy, boy,” I say, hoping he doesn’t spook them. “Shhhh.”
I gaze out into the dusky twilight, inching my bike toward the edge of the yard. It came from the tree line beyond the cornfield, I’m sure of it. But it’s also like the voice—or voices—tickled the rims of my ears. Like they were out there and right here all at the same time. It was like nothing I’ve ever heard before. One voice, but also many. Far away, but close up too. A sudden gust of wind whips the Pentecostal corn choir into a Holy Ghost frenzy. The treetops in the distance sway like they’re waving me forward, testifying that the Whispers are out there somewhere, just waiting for me to come find them.
Riley.
There it goes again—soft and barely there. Far away and yet right in my ear. I push off and start pedaling. Tucker trots ahead of my bike, leading me down the dirt path lining the Mathewses’ cornfield. I don’t go too fast or pedal too hard. I need to figure out exactly where the voices are coming from. It sounds like they’re everywhere, filling every dark shadow of the woods. But there has to be a central location, like a Whispers ground zero or something. A clearing with a rotted-out tree stump, like in the story.
Now that the sun has disappeared, night comes quickly, making everything around me gray and dim. It feels like there’re a million eyes watching me from the shadows of the woods—some of them friendly, but some of them, maybe not.
I look over my shoulder just to make sure the nonmagic world I know is still back there. The rooftop of our house and Grandma and Grandpa’s beside it are small in the half-lit distance over the cornfield, but at least I can still see them. I look forward again and slow my pedaling to a complete stop. Resting my feet on the ground, I steady the bike between my legs and listen. The tree line in front of me is like a dark fortress. Something about it in this magic time light screams DO NOT ENTER. Too many shadows. Like the big one moving closer to me right now, just beyond the fortress walls. I watch as the slow lumbering form stops just ahead, staying hidden behind a row of tree trunks. Tucker spots it too and growls at it.
Riley.
It doesn’t shock me this time, but I can hardly contain the excitement of hearing my name echoing through the woods and yet somehow right in my ear. I wonder if the giant shadow is like a Whispers hive or something, and they’ve come to greet me—to carry me right on in to see Mama. But the shadow monster is gone now, vanished into thin air, and I can still hear them. I guess it wasn’t a Whispers hive after all. Maybe it was a ginormous deer. Or the ghost of Mordecai Mathews. Or Bigfoot.
The breathy voices seem to be coming from the right of where the sun disappeared. North. That’s one of the things Gary and I learned exploring these woods in the safety of nonmagical daylight—which-a-way is which. I walk my bike over to the tree line in that direction.
Tucker stays right beside me—the fur along his spine rising and a growl thickening in his throat. I’m glad he’s here because I haven’t forgotten for a second about the other dangers lurking out in the woods at night, and I don’t just mean bobcats and coyotes.
Hobgoblins.
I ease my bike to the ground and creep closer to the tree line on foot. The voices sound again, not as clear this time, but definitely coming from the north.
Something buzzes my head again and a faint bluish glow forms a path in front of me, like it’s leading me into the woods. But as soon as I focus my eyes on it, it fades into darkness.
Tucker lets out an anxious whine and gazes up at me, his big brown eyes pleading. I know he wants to bolt into the woods right now and chase them. So do I. But Dylan’s words shuffle around in my brain.
All kinds of crazy in them woods.
Still, I take a step forward, crossing over the shadow border.
“Riley? Riley!” Daddy’s distant voice echoes over the cornfield, sharp and irritated. Out here in the country, a father’s angry tone carries for miles and vibrates deep in your bones.
Tomorrow is Friday. I can wait one more day. I’ll be more prepared and I’ll have some good backup in Gary. I pull Tucker from the tree line by his collar. He’s a little stubborn about it but doesn’t fight me. Lifting my bike upright, I hop on it and peer into the shadowy woods once more. I can’t see much of anything, but I know they’re out there. Watching me. Waiting for me.
“I’ll be back,” I whisper to them.
I push off toward the house with Tucker trotting close by my side. Even as I ride away, I hear them calling out to me. Their voices simmer in the hazy stew of twilight and come to a quick rolling boil, like the Whispers are upset that I’m leaving. But one last message slips through the garbled soup of white noise. It rides the swell of nature’s symphony, tickles the rim of my ear, and warms me from head to toe.
She’s here.
11
A GOSSIP
The next morning I wake so full of anticipation that the whole day is a blur of routine.
Pee-soaked sheets in the washer.
409.
Lysol.
Put clean sheets on the bed.
Hide the ring under my heavy winter sweater in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
Tape feckless on my wall. (Have to stand on my desk to reach a clear spot for it.)
Review the word of the day—cavernous.
Avoid Daddy.
The short school day passes in a blur, too.
Language arts.
South Carolina history. (We learn about the Swamp Fox. The real human person, not the roller coaster in Myrtle Beach.)
Gene Grimes calling me a freak and a princess in the hallway between classes. (That second one is new.)
Math.
Early dismissal.
The only two things that really stick out are that Miss Betty let out a string of R-rated curse words when she clipped and destroyed a mailbox on the bus ride home, and Dylan Mathews wasn’t at school today. Maybe he didn’t come because his family is going away for the holiday weekend or something. But I can’t spend time worrying about why Dylan skipped school because I finally have a lead on Mama.
A lead is a piece of information that could help you solve the case.
As in, Frank probably couldn’t find a lead if it slapped him upside the head.
But the Whispers said Mama was out there in the woods somewhere. That’s a solid lead. Maybe she hasn’t been eaten by a hobgoblin after all. Or maybe the Whispers know where the hobgoblin is holding her hostage. Or maybe they’ve been protecting her all this time. All I know is that I’m going to find them so I can find her.
Before I get off the bus, I tell Gary to meet me at our usual spot at the tree line at five thirty. I should be back from what I hope is my last interview at the police station in plenty of time for us to find somewhere good to set up camp before the sun goes down. Tucker meets me in the driveway and gives my hand a couple of welcome home, dude, glad you survived another day at that nuthouse licks. Tucker gets it.
Grandpa is heading into Daddy’s work shed, but he doesn’t see me. I haven’t gone into Daddy’s work shed since the Kenny from Kentucky incident, but I squash that memory right out of my mind before it can take hold. That kid is bad news. I drop my backpack on the steps of the porch and head straight over to Grandma’s house. I find her sitting at the kitchen table riffling through her shoe box of prescription pills with her reading glasses clinging for dear life to the end of her nose.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says, distantly lost in her search. Then she mumbles, “Migraine. Blood pressure. Heart. Arthritis—”
“Hey, Grandma,” I say and jump right in with the bait . . . or lies. “I’m staying over at Gary’s house, so I’m going down to Mr. Killen’s to get snacks to take with me. His mama never has anything good. You need anything while I’m there?” Not all lies. It’s good to sprinkle in some truth. I am going to get snacks, and Gary’s mom does buy mostly fruits and vegetables as snacks. Like that makes any sense.
Grandma looks up at me, her eyes a little glazed over. She must have already found her Xanax. That’s a pill you take to make you feel fluffy. But Grandma says I won’t need it anytime soon.
“Some Crisco,” Grandma says. “The big tub. Go grab me my pocketbook off the coffee table.”
Bingo!
I do as I’m told, and when I return, Grandma digs through the bag. She practically has her whole head in there.
“Grandma,” I say. “I don’t know how in the world you find anything in that cavernous bag of yours.”
It was the perfect use of today’s word, but she barely notices it, so lost in her search. If Mama were here, I know she would’ve laughed at my sentence using the word of the day. Grandma finally pulls out two bills—a twenty for the Crisco and a ten for me.
“Don’t tell anybody,” she says in a near whisper as she wads the ten-dollar bill and presses it into my palm like this is a drug deal or something.
I thank her with a hug and meet Tucker in the backyard. He and Grandpa are playing tug-of-war with a stick. Tucker is winning. I use the same line on Grandpa, and while he doesn’t add anything to my shopping list, he slips me a five-dollar bill with the same cloak-and-dagger routine that Grandma did. Grandpa’s usually a little cheaper than Grandma, but I can always count on both of them. Detective Chase Cooper on CID: Chicago might call this extortion.
Extortion is when you shake people down for money by making threats against them. But in my defense, Grandma and Grandpa want to give me money and I don’t ever threaten them. They just need an excuse, so that’s what I give them.
Like, The way I get money from my grandparents by supplying them with excuses to give it to me is really more of a public service than extortion.
“Be back soon so I can take you to your . . . your . . .”
Grandpa never knows what to call my trips down to the police station.
“It’s called a voluntary police interview,” I call out, pushing my bike toward the road with Tucker lagging behind. His game with Grandpa plumb wore him out.
* * *
Tucker waits by the front door of Mr. Killen’s Market like a huge, furry security guard. Even though he’s lost some weight since Mama disappeared because he hasn’t been eating as much, he’s still over a hundred pounds and pretty scary looking to most people. We took him to the vet when he started throwing up his food. The doctor thought it might be his pancreas and gave him some medicine. That helped for a little while. I just think his heart is heavy right now. I can relate—without the throwing-up part. My heart feels like it weighs a ton these days.
Mr. Killen is helping a customer in the sporting goods department. That’s what he calls the ammo counter in the back of the store. He waves at me as I pick up a basket
and start grabbing everything we need for the camping trip.
Matches. Check.
Two cans of Vienna sausages. Check.
Two six-packs of Mountain Dew. Check.
Family-size bag of Ruffles. Check.
Two bags of Mr. Killen’s World Famous Boiled Peanuts. Check.
A bag of Flamin’ Hot Funyuns. Check. Actually, those always give Gary explosive farts, and we’ll have a fire. I put them back and grab the plain ones.
“Well. If it isn’t Riley James.”
I look up from my Funyuns and find Sister Grimes, mother of the Voldemort of Buckingham Middle School, looking down her nose at me. Sister Grimes is not a nun. She’s a member of the North Creek Church of God and the adults there say Brother and Sister instead of Mr. and Mrs. It’s a little weird, but no one there ever called me Brother anything, so who am I to judge?
“We sure do miss you and your father and brother at church,” she says, though she’s looking at me like I have leprosy or something.
Leprosy is a really gnarly disease they had a lot back in Bible times where you got sores all over your body and nobody wanted to get anywhere near you.
As in, As far as I know, Jesus is the only cure for leprosy.
I just nod at her. I don’t like this woman at all, and not just because she gave birth to Satan’s baby and named him Gene. Sister Grimes is a gossip. That’s what Mama calls her. A gossip. Which sounds way worse than just being someone who gossips, like Grandma.
