Mighty Old Bones

by Mary Saums

  I made a little pile of branches at the far corner of the yard by the curb. Muttface inspected everything I set down there. I looked over at him one time and he was headed for a flowerbed I’d cleaned out, which was now a big bed of mud.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “I am not having you track mud in the house.” He stopped, gave it a look, and trotted back over to me. “Good. That’s good.” I hated to admit he was smart, but if he could understand what I said and then would do it, he was better than most of those kids I wrangled with at the library.

  That’s what I did before I retired. I got married when I was a junior in high school, and then as soon as I graduated, I started working part-time at the library and never quit.

  That was another place I went that morning. Having a storm didn’t necessarily put my friends at the library out, but I don’t need very much of an excuse to take them some goodies and catch up on the latest gossip. That’s why I always save them for last when I’m out and about.

  I like to take my time when I visit with Grace. Grace Taylor is just like me except she’s younger than I am by a good fifteen years. I’m guessing there, because she never would tell me the exact year she was born. But other than that, we’re just alike. Except her hair is black with just a sprinkle of gray, where mine is red with a lot of gray sprinkles. Well, if you want to get technical, her skin is black and mine’s not. But otherwise, we are just alike. We wear the same size clothes, and though we don’t do it as often as when I still worked, we get together for lunch and a clothes swap every now and then. We have the best time. That girl knows how to have fun.

  I hadn’t seen her since we drove down to Birmingham together when her sister was sick. One of my sisters lives down there, too, so I visited her while Grace was at the hospital. Of course we went shopping. You can’t go to Birmingham without a stroll through Brookwood Mall. We had us a big time. If we stopped at the wine store on the way home for pantry stock, it wasn’t anybody’s business.

  The Tullulah library is fairly good-sized. We may not have a lot in Tullulah, but what we’ve got is done right. We missed out on the Carnegie buildings, back in the 1920s. I reckon we were too far away from the big cities. That kind of ticked off Lorna Todd, whose daddy owned the timber company and had scads of money. In those days, Lorna liked to think of herself as both the tops in high society and also the intellectual leader of Tullulah, if you can imagine either thing around here.

  She went to one of those ritzy colleges up north, some woman’s name, not Agnes Scott but something like that, and up there, she got the wild idea that she was a queen. All she needed was some royal subjects. That’s where Tullulah came in. She’d sworn she’d never come back, but I reckon there weren’t any towns up north that would let her tell them what to do, so she came home. This is just what I’ve heard. That was way before my time, of course.

  Anyway, Lorna went around starting clubs. Guess who was always the president? She started a local history club, a gardening club, a wildlife club, a charity club that raised money for various causes, and a literary club. Notice I didn’t mention a Bible club. She knew that would be a lost cause. She knew any six-year-old in the county could quote more scripture and out-preach her heathen self any day of the week.

  She called her literary club a salon. This wasn’t like the other clubs because it was by invitation only. She held it at her house, and then when her parents died, she decided to make their house—which was and is Tullulah’s closest thing to a mansion—a museum, library, and local civic center. She had nice glass cases made for doodads passed down through her family. It grew as she added local historical finds. Then people started donating things, including personal libraries. So we don’t have one of those ugly government buildings for our library. Ours is classy. It has what they call grandeur. I never tire of walking in and taking a deep breath. The marble entrance, the sweeping staircase, all the wood polish, and the smell of old books are things I miss being around every day.

  But now, I was telling you about Grace. That morning, when I walked in, Grace saw me coming and her whole face lit up in a big smile. “You took your sweet time, Chi Chi,” she said. “What happened? Did that new lineman from Memphis take one bite of cupcake and propose?”

  I gave her the eye. “Hush your mouth. That boy ain’t never getting near my cupcake.”

  She threw her head back and laughed and then slapped my arm. “Give me that basket,” she said. She took it and the cake carrier from me and led the way back to the break room.

  Our voices echoed off the walls when we walked by the checkout desk, past the computer room and the microfilm room, and on into what had once been the kitchen of the old house. The back windows and old crown molding were the only things left of the original. Everything else shone like a New York kitchen, all metal and nice counters big enough for several cooks to work. The library rents it out for things like political to-dos and even wedding receptions.

  “So,” I said while Grace took the green plastic wrap off a tray of chicken fingers, “how long was the power out at your place?”

  “Only four hours,” she said. “Took two trees down in our backyard.”

  “No damage to your house though, I hope.”

  “No, just a big mess in the yard and the driveway. One tree missed Al’s car by about three inches.” She went over to a phone on the counter, one of those office kinds with lots of buttons. She pushed one of them and when she spoke, her voice went all over the building. “Attention, everyone. One of our favorite patrons has brought us some fine-looking snacks. Come on back to the break room and help yourself.”

  It wasn’t a minute before three library workers and one customer had already fixed themselves a plate. They all said, “Hey, Phoebe” except for a young boy I didn’t know. He smiled and nodded hello. He said he was Brian and was twenty-five years old but he sure didn’t look it. I would have guessed sixteen. “Now who is your mama?” I asked him.

  “Darlene Miller.”

  “Oh, goodness. Are you her youngest boy? I’ll say, you sure have changed since I’ve seen you. How is Darlene? I saw her about two weeks ago as they were wheeling her out of the hospital.”

  “She’s better. Cranky, but able to get around some. My sister took care of her a while until I was able to move back.”

  “How nice that you’d move in to help out.” His hair flopped down in his eyes as he shrugged.

  “I was able to get a temporary job here until I have to go back to school next spring, so it’s no trouble. I would have done that anyway.”

  “What, are you on one of the work release programs?” Everybody laughed. Which is so rude. I have no idea why people do that all the time and then don’t explain themselves like I’ve said something stupid when I have made perfect sense.

  “Something like that,” he said.

  Lucy Watts, the oldest employee at the library, was the only one who didn’t laugh. But then, that’s not her thing. I don’t think she can hear anymore, either. She was old when I started working and that was over forty years ago. She refuses to retire. She usually sits in the back and toddles around doing who knows what. The only time she ventures out onto the library floor is to shelve books. She can do that fine since she can use the cart as a walker. Taking corners is a little tricky because she wears those slick soled Mary Jane slippers all the time. That makes it hard to get any traction and sometimes they fly out to the side. But she hangs on to that little cart for dear life and does fine.

  Jim English pecked me on the cheek as he left with his plate. “I’ve got some paperwork I’ve got to finish by noon, so I’ve got to run. Thanks, Phoebe.”

  I love Jim. He hired on not long before I retired and was always doing such nice things for all of us. He came over and put in a new bathroom sink for me to save me money. Stuff like that.

  As he went out the door, I overheard the library’s only customer talking to Grace. He wasn’t bad looking for an old guy. Grace saw me looking and got that tw
inkle in her eyes that I knew meant one thing. Trouble. She was putting her hand on his arm and steering him toward me.

  “I don’t believe you two have met,” she said. Her lips turned up at the corners and her dimples crinkled which was yet another sign she was up to no good. “This is Mr. Jay Gould. He’s working on a little research. For the production company doing the movie in town.”

  I shook his hand as Grace introduced me. While he was complimenting my cooking, Grace took a step back and mouthed, “He’s single,” real big from behind his shoulder.

  It took massive willpower to hold my tongue. I really wanted to stick it out at her but I knew Grace would do something to make me laugh. I had to admit, he wasn’t bad. Seemed nice. White hair, no bald spots, and a white beard that he kept very neat. He had pretty blue eyes that are normally not what I like. If I was looking for a man, that is. He had a trim figure but not bony. He had a little bit of a funny accent. That was to be expected of a Hollywood movie person, I suppose.

  “Where are you from?” I asked him.

  “Originally from Peoria. Lived in California until my wife died four years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “So, all the way from Indiana and California, huh?”

  “Actually, Peoria is in Illinois.”

  “Silly me. Of course it is.” I smiled and giggled, you know, to show him how good and silly I am. Strike one, Yankee boy. Not that I was counting. He did have a very nice smile. “So your company is thinking of filming in Tullulah?”

  He looked away. “Thinking about it, yes.”

  “If you do, Grace and I would make good extras.”

  He laughed and promised to call us if they needed anyone. And then he just looked at me. He sure wasn’t much for conversation.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve got several more stops to make, so I better get going. Nice to meet you, Mr. Gould. Grace, would you come walk with me to the door, please, ma’am?”

  Mr. Gould waved and turned back to the table for another oatmeal cookie. Grace and I didn’t say a word until we got outside the library with the front doors closed behind us. Then we both busted out laughing. I grabbed Grace’s elbow and walked her to the side where nobody could see us from inside.

  “What are you, nuts? The last thing on earth I need is an old man for a boyfriend.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Feeb, he is three years younger than you.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s older. A lot. And how would you know his age anyway?”

  “Looked on his driver’s license, of course.”

  “What, are you a pickpocket now? There’s no reason he would have showed it to you.”

  “He didn’t know that. I told him I had to see it to let him use the microfilm. How else am I going to screen men for you?”

  I shook my head. “Lord help my time, what am I going to do with you? Now quit that. I’m happy by myself. I don’t want some fancy husband, wandering around my house, wanting me to cook something.”

  “Oh, yes, you do,” Grace said. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to. Like I just walked up out of the blue. I know you better than that, Chi Chi.”

  “Whatever. I’ll see you when I fit your costume. How about Friday night?” We were already getting ready for Halloween.

  She said that would be fine. She’d stop by on her way home from work. Grace is a doll. She does her best for me. It’s slim pickings in my age group, I realize that, so I had to cut her some slack for trying. But I’d still get her back.

  Before I went home, I stopped at the drugstore again. I thought I might pick up some food for Rowdy, rather than go to the Pig. I wasn’t ready to go back in there yet, after the trauma.

  You wouldn’t believe all the stuff for dogs on the shelves in that drugstore. I picked up a can of dog food and slapped it down again when I saw the price sticker. What was in there, Russian caviar? They had to be kidding. I saw Betty coming toward me.

  “Betty, don’t you have a little dog?”

  “Sure do.” She wasn’t chewing gum, but I could smell Juicy Fruit. I understood. We’re both old school. Our mamas taught us that ladies may not chew gum in public. It’s trashy. She had a wad stuck in the roof of her mouth. I’ve done it a thousand times myself. The wad would also explain the slight lisp when she said, “Sure.”

  “What kind of dog is it?” I said.

  “She’s a Yorkie-poo.”

  “Oh,” I said like I was impressed. I had no idea what she was talking about. “What’s her name?”

  “Peekie-boo.”

  Good grief. I forced myself to keep a straight face. “And about how big is a Dorkie-poo?”

  Betty held her hands out about a foot apart. I told her about Rowdy. You would have thought I told her I had a new baby grandchild from the way she carried on. She showed me what kind of food Peekie-boo liked. I bought what she suggested, which I was happy to see had a much better price tag than the other stuff, and also picked up a few other little things, like a special comb. I figured I might as well make it easier on myself even if Rowdy wouldn’t be staying with me very long.

  Eleven

  Jane Finds Another One

  When I heard the kettle rattle, I rose and poured myself a cup of tea. Phoebe wouldn’t be arriving for our walk for some time yet. I thought I’d read the previous day’s newspaper while I waited. I was about to take a sip but, slowly and with great care, I set my grandmother’s china cup into its saucer with a slight tremor. I stared at the front page. I blinked hard and blinked again.

  “Good heavens,” I whispered. Homer, lying by the door, raised his large square head from atop his front paws and gave me a questioning look.

  “Sorry. It’s just that the newspaper is behaving strangely.”

  He rose and walked to me, sitting before my chair and cocking his head. He gave me an incredulous look. “Yes, you’re quite right,” I said. “Actually, it isn’t the newspaper that’s misbehaving at all, is it, love? It’s me. I’m afraid it’s happening again, dear.”

  I set the newspaper down and sighed. I rubbed my eyes. What should have been simple print in black and white on the page was something completely different. Part of the print had a yellow glow, as if a ghostly hand had highlighted the text.

  I tried to ignore it. I got up and started a load of laundry. I dusted the living room and dining room. Finally, armed with another cup of tea, I faced the paper once again.

  Enough dithering, I thought. What I needed was an objective opinion. I picked up the newspaper and turned it toward Homer.

  “You see? No matter how I turn it, this section is yellow.” He gave a single bark that sounded more like a word. I was unsure if it was one that confirmed or denied my own assessment.

  I gave the rest of the paper a glance, turning through the pages in search of other highlighted passages. There were none.

  “Well, then. I suppose I should give attention to the article. On the off chance that it is actually yellow, you understand.” He blinked. Since he remained seated there beside me, I thought it a small courtesy to read aloud for his benefit.

  “‘Local Man Missing,’ it says in the heading. ‘Sheriff John Bailey has phoned us here at the Day-Herald to let everyone know that Junie Reed has reported her father, Brody Reed, is missing again. As you all know, Brody frequently goes off into the woods for days on his own. This time, Junie is a little worried since we have storms predicted. This wouldn’t ordinarily be of any concern to her. Brody is probably the best woodsman in these parts. “This time,” Junie says, “I’m worried because Daddy has been getting forgetful lately.” This is a valid concern, as some readers will remember his last spell got him lost in downtown Tullulah. Junie asks that if anyone has seen him in the last few days to please call her or the sheriff’s department “He knows these woods better than anybody, and has survived in a lot worse conditions outside. At his age though, and with the bad weather coming, I’d feel better if he was home.” ’”

 
I set the paper down and sipped my tea. Homer returned to his rug. Puzzling. Why was that name familiar? I’d ask Phoebe about it. No doubt she could give me the names of all Brody Reed’s family members, their ages and occupations, and what his life had been like since birth. Her knowledge of personal histories in Tullulah astounds me.

  I had almost finished reading the paper when Homer uttered a soft growl. He was on his feet without a sound and off quickly. This wasn’t unusual behavior. In the last few weeks, he’d taken to staying inside with me after our breakfast. Quite often, at about the same time of morning, he’d done just this, perked up his head and padded off to find the source of a noise I had yet to hear myself. In the first few instances, I followed him to the kitchen door. He always sat and looked at me expectantly, asking, I assumed, to be let out. I obliged, and every time he trotted down the porch steps and to the old shed twenty yards or so behind the house.

  Nothing ever came of his searches. I would watch him sniff around the small building where I stored tools and sundry items. He never flushed a small animal out, and he would trot back to the door a few minutes later, his imaginary search as security guard done.

  This time, I walked outside with him. We still had fog, but it now lay like a thin covering over the grass. As he made his way across the grass, I, too, heard a sound. It was faint, but unmistakably a voice. Or so I thought at the time. I couldn’t make out any words, only the emotion behind them. Fear.

  Homer’s sleek figure moved quickly through the ankle-high fog, his nose touching the ground as he made a circuit around the shed. We stood, waiting. Nothing but a slight stirring in the wind moved until Homer’s ears swiveled forward.

  He padded slowly to the shed’s door without a sound. His body went rigid, like a pointer showing his master the hidden prey’s location. I froze as well. Homer was right. We heard something quiet, almost like a sob.

  I told myself it was surely nothing more that a mouse or wild rabbit caught in the shed. Or perhaps it was a dove or some other bird. Still, I hesitated rather than opened the door to see the perfectly good explanation for the sound we heard. I could believe I might be imagining things, but surely Homer was not.