by Mary Saums
“You’ve been there?” Phoebe said with excitement. “To the Holy Land in person?”
“Oh, yes. Many times. The Colonel and I lived there a while. In fact, in this area here. In a small apartment.”
“You never mentioned it. I’d have brought you here sooner.”
Reese seemed pleased with my reaction. “It’s a work in progress, of course. Always something new to do.”
“Have you visited often?” I said. “The detail is quite good. You must have spent quite a lot of time there as well.”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Never been. Always wanted to. I do everything from pictures, that’s all.”
I couldn’t have been more astonished. There were market stalls, ones I’d visited, in such detail and in perfect relation to their neighborhoods that I could hardly believe Reese had never been in them himself. The entire city wasn’t complete in every respect. In many sectors, he merely had whitewashed squares and rectangles to represent buildings, yet those he had worked on so far showed exquisite craftsmanship.
His smile grew wider. “I’m working on this part right now.” He walked around to the end where a small table sat. Upon it were various implements and glass bottles filled with mixtures of what looked like paint. Spills of greens and white and black blotched the old metal tabletop. A wooden crate on the ground held small bits of glass, metals, and what appeared to be ceramic. Broken dishes, perhaps.
Reese walked along slowly in front of other displays, speaking in a rich, lilting tone about his other interest. We passed a miniature Rome, where he reached into the tiny Hippodrome to retrieve a fallen orange maple leaf from its center. “I do something little, usually, and then I get interested in what’s around it. Or I do another place. Depends on what I find.”
At each section, similar crates to the one I saw at the miniature Jerusalem sat nearby. I noticed the small pieces inside them were similar. China, broken plates or cups possibly, some looked like broken glass vases. Other bits of wire and metal, rope lengths, all sorts of sundries.
When Reese had walked farther on, Phoebe leaned into my ear and whispered, “People bring him all that junk there and he uses it to build stuff.”
“So I see. He does a remarkable job.”
“Yeah, pretty good, huh? Got the hands for fine work. His mama was the best seamstress around here in her time, so he gets his hands from her.”
We approached a beautiful scene of sculpted hills and valleys that sloped down to a shore. Upon the water rested a wooden ship, meticulously made from tiny sticks and string.
“Look,” I said to Phoebe, “its hull even sits a bit below the water. Very realistic.”
“He does those ships in bottles, too, don’t you, Reese? And makes toy boats that he sells at the flea market.”
“I like to stay busy.” He raised an arm to direct us around the end of the rock wall.
We strolled past other exhibits, most inspired by Biblical themes or particular prophets and other Biblical figures, but also a few battle scenes with Roman gladiators and English soldiers from various time periods.
Just as with Ruby Alice, Reese himself had exhibited no signs of “weirdness” as of yet. This appeared to be another example of Phoebe letting her imagination get the best of her.
“Oh. I almost forgot. I brought you a little gift,” Phoebe said as she opened her purse. She took out a small brown paper bag and handed it to him. “I didn’t have any use for these and I thought you might.”
He turned the bag to pour its contents in his hand, then looked at his palm, filled with glistening bits of glass, buttons, and other trinkets.
“Now be careful with that broken glass in there. That dark green. It was an old Avon bottle.”
He thanked her profusely, as if she’d given him a sack of gold nuggets. A childlike glow came over his face. He chose a particular translucent bit of glass and turned it round and round. He gave a throaty laugh. “So you’ve found me, have you? Let’s get you settled in your place then.”
He turned but continued talking, so we followed him to an old barn. We didn’t go inside, only watched as he moved boxes and searched the lower area. I craned my neck, not sure what I searched for as I remembered Dad’s words. The barn’s walls held farm utensils on hooks, many of which were unfamiliar. In the darkness at the rear of the barn, I could make out a sled and other recreational items hung on the wall, along with what looked like half a globe, only much larger, with tattered black material flapping in the breeze from the open doors.
“Good to see y’all,” Reese said. “Stay as long as you like. There’s a lot more to look at down yonder.” He indicated the Bible Gardens displays on the other side of the pond. And then off he went, almost at a trot, clutching the bag Phoebe had given him in one hand and his new treasure of broken glass in the other.
Phoebe gave me an unblinking stare, an “I told you he was crazy” look, but I didn’t comprehend it. I found him to be a lovely gentle soul. Phoebe, on the other hand, had already made her feelings about him clear.
“Let’s go, Jane. He’s gone.” On the way to the car, we walked the length of his yard, passing a workshop that looked much newer than the barn.
“See? What did I tell you? Wacko.”
“He was perfectly charming. Not ‘wacko’ at all.”
“I knew you’d say that. He wasn’t so bad today. When he shuts off like that, though, there’s no telling what’s going on in that mind of his. For all we know, he could be one of those serial killers. Going around chopping people’s heads off and burying them in the woods.”
“Really, Phoebe. He was a dear.”
“Whatever. Just don’t turn your back on him.”
We rode in silence a while, Phoebe humming along with the radio. I watched the passing hilly scenery. “Phoebe, if your Aunt Woo-Woo and Reese disturb you, why do you visit them? I know you did this today for me, and thank you again, but from the conversations, it seems you come out often.”
Phoebe sighed. She shrugged.
“Jane. You and I are real friends, right? Real friends who have been in the trenches together.”
I raised my eyebrows and nodded while I tried not to laugh. Our trench service together lasted all of an hour, perhaps one one-hundredth of the time she had spent since then re-telling the event to all she encountered.
“So, you know I wouldn’t tell you stories.”
“Of course not, dear. I trust you implicitly.”
She sighed again. “Okay. I come out here for the same reason a lot of other folks around here do.” She paused, weighing her words. “Because it makes things happen. Kind of. Good things happen, I mean.” She turned her head toward me to see how I took this startling news from a confirmed skeptic.
“You’re saying it brings you good luck.”
“Yes. Like that. People who are sick or maybe there’s somebody being mean to them, and they go see Aunt Woo-Woo and Reese, and the kids get well and the mean people go away. Which I know you’re probably thinking is a load of bull hockey, and we’re just a bunch of ignorant hicks who believe in superstitious things. But we’re not ignorant hicks. At least, if we are, it’s not because of that. But I’m telling you what is the truth. There’s something about those two. It’s a proven fact. You believe me?”
“Certainly.” I did believe her. However, I wasn’t sure I could confide in her as she did in me. I didn’t know how to tell her I had my own confirmation. The line she draws between what constitutes the supernatural and what doesn’t has been difficult for me to pinpoint.
I knew she was right about the luck. I knew it because I could see it. It shone over their houses and the trees on their property. I had witnessed the same sight in my own woods for the first time on the day Phoebe and I were in our “war.” The same arcs of golden strands in the air around us then were here in great number and moved like comets over Ruby Alice’s and Reese’s land.
Perhaps these brought the good luck somehow, something Ruby Alice and Reese
could direct to others. Maybe simply living in this place allowed the two of them to absorb some magical quality, akin to the manner that my own land apparently granted me my special new abilities.
Magic, however, was most definitely not part of Phoebe’s belief system. I ventured a question on the subject. “Phoebe, are you ever afraid of this? Of something that happens that can’t be explained?”
“Oh, I can explain it,” she said with a confidence that left no room for doubt. “It’s a small-scale version of those virgin miracles.”
Her answer perplexed me. I thought a moment but couldn’t make the connection. “I don’t understand. Like the birth of Jesus?”
“No, I mean all those virgin statues crying and bleeding and their faces appearing to people. That kind of thing. The days of miracles are over, but we still have signs.”
“I see,” I said, though I didn’t.
“You don’t believe me.”
“It’s not that. I do believe you. It’s just that you’ve shown a slight aversion to any sort of supernatural phenomenon before.”
She shrugged. “Whatever this is, it works. So therefore it is real and not supernatural at all. Reese and Aunt Woo-Woo might be nuts, but they’re not doing actual magic stuff. Here’s what I think. It’s because the Lord gives them special blessings, you know, to make up for their low brain wattage. And then it’s too much for what little brains they’ve got, so it spills over onto other people. Simple law of nature. They can’t hold it all in and it seeps into anybody who comes in contact with them. So don’t be surprised when something happens to us.”
I gave her a mock incredulous look.
She winked at me and laughed and then said, “We’ll see.”
Twenty
Phoebe and the Brain
Jane and I decided to ride over to the library. I had been telling her all about the haunted house. I wanted to check on the progress of the Trail of Terror props and make sure the kitchen had all the utensils I would need for the refreshments. I hoped seeing it all would get Jane excited about it. She was going to be perfect for the special part Grace and I had in mind for her.
The Trail of Terror is what everybody looks forward to every year. Grace comes up with some good gags for the kids. We both enjoy acting like fools in our spooky get-ups and they all seem to get a kick out of it.
Let me tell you, there’s nothing more fun in this world than scaring the living grape juice out of a little kid. Now, mind you, we don’t get the little bitty ones upset. Well, not too much anyway. We save all the real good stuff for a select few who make upsetting other people, like their parents and teachers, into an art in real life. Yes sir, buddy, we get those young hellions good. Jane looked a little shocked when I told her this.
“I thought you loved children,” she said.
“I do. Even the mean ones. They want to be scared, Jane, or they wouldn’t beg their mamas and daddies to pay their way in. We don’t hurt them, for goodness sake. We just play fun tricks on them. Then once they get their hearts out of their throats, they laugh about it.”
Come to think of it, it’s pretty fun to play tricks on little old ladies, too. One night the week before, I had a small trick ready for Jane. I got the coffeepot started and walked to the refrigerator.
“And now, for dessert, a rare delicacy,” I said, all innocent. I had been careful to not let Jane see in the refrigerator since she got there. I couldn’t wait to see her jump out of her skin.
I carefully pulled a plate off the top rack and said, “Okay, close your eyes.” When she did, I set the plate in front of her. “Surprise!”
She opened her eyes and stared. She sat real still. She looked up at me with a deadpan expression on her face.
“It’s a brain. How wonderful. I’ve never seen one so appetizing.” She picked up her fork and knife like she was about to dig in.
“You didn’t even blink. You’re one tough old broad, you know that?”
She couldn’t hold back any longer and laughed out loud like she was a kid herself. “Why, thank you dear. You’re quite the stalwart yourself. I take it this is for the haunted house.”
I nodded. “I got the mold from the Archie McPhee catalog, the one where they sell all kinds of weird novelties. I got some big squishy eyeballs from them, too. When I turned the page and saw that plastic brain mold, I knew I had to have it. I’ve made several brains so far. I’m experimenting with the color. This one looks the most natural. I mixed lemon Jell-O and vanilla pudding this time.”
“You’ve seen a good many before, eh?”
“No, of course not. Why? Does the color look wrong to you?”
“I thought they were closer to gray.” She opened her mouth and took a breath, but then changed her mind and didn’t say anything.
“Hmm. Well, I’ll keep working on it. Maybe if I put some chocolate syrup in there it would look gray.”
Jane turned the plate around and studied the jiggly concoction from other angles. “It’s actually quite nice. Just as it is. Well done.”
When we turned into my neighborhood, we talked about all the Halloween decorations we passed. It’s about like Christmastime. A few people have those huge blow-up air balloons of things like Frankenstein or witches. Most have smaller things, like strings of orange lights in their bushes and carved pumpkins, but even those give the neighborhood a festive look.
“Isn’t that funny,” I said. “Look over there. What has Junie Reed got fixed in front of her door?”
Junie is one to go all out decorating, no matter what time of year it is. She’s big on making something new for the different seasons. She had a Halloween-collage wreath hanging on her screen door and had little fake jack-o’-lanterns set a few feet apart inside the screened-in porch.
“The lighted sacks that line the walkway? I like those.”
I slowed to a stop by Junie’s driveway. “No. Right there in the middle of the air. How did she do that? I don’t see any wires.”
“Nor do I,” Jane said. “Is it moving?”
We both stared. “It looks like it’s floating,” I said.
“Perhaps it’s a reflection?”
“Maybe. I can’t tell where it might be reflecting from though. I’ll ask her the next time I see her. Right now, we’ve got to get to the house. I don’t want to miss my show. Hey, you know what? I saw another funny thing there the other day. That candle is right where I saw that dog.”
“What dog?”
“The big white one. It was standing in front of the door, big as a Shetland pony, and howling like the end of time.”
Jane gasped. Her hand came up to cover her mouth.
“What is it?” I said.
She didn’t answer right away. She turned all the way around in her seat as we drove by, not taking her eyes off the candle. “Its flame is blue,” she mumbled. Her voice sounded so weak, I almost didn’t understand what she said. I sure didn’t understand why the color mattered.
Twenty-One
Phoebe Takes Rowdy to Get His Hair Fixed
Even though I know how to fix hair just about as well as a beautician, my expertise did not extend to fixing the hairball’s fur. Its texture is not easy to work with, let me tell you, because I tried everything I had in my bathroom pantry to make Rowdy look presentable. So, even though I hated to spend the money, Rowdy had to go to the doggie groomer.
Sissy Breedlove, who runs Smoochie Poochie on the town square, worked Rowdy in the very day I called. It kind of made me feel bad when she said I could come anytime since I’ve always thought it was a pretty foolish business. That wasn’t right of me. Sissy is a good person and is just like everyone else, trying to make an honest living to take care of her family.
I figured her having an empty schedule must mean she doesn’t get much call for dog pampering here in Tullulah. We’re not like those fancy big city people who treat their pets like children and sometimes better. A dog is a dog. The silliness of getting all kissy with a slobbering fuzz ball is for the bi
rds, something people around here have better sense than to do. We just don’t throw money away, like for painting dog’s toenails or stupid antlers to put on their heads at Christmas.
Rowdy’s hair needed help in a bad way, though. Since I couldn’t get it to act right or look decent I decided to take him to an expert just this once. With any luck, Corene would be back before long to take the rug rat away so I wouldn’t have to have him detangled again. I couldn’t wait. I’ll say this for Rowdy, he didn’t whimper or act crazy a bit in the car.
When I pushed through the door, it surprised me that three other customers were in there. Ginger Taggart, who cleans my teeth over at Dr. Chandler’s office, had a puppy under her arm at the cash register. Another customer was Betty from the drugstore. She stood by a table where a young fellow was holding up her dog’s ears, discussing what kind of cut it needed.
“Hey, Betty,” I said. “How are you and your Porkie-poo doing today?”
“Not Porkie-poo, silly. Yorkie-poo.”
“Oh,” I said but nothing else as I eyed that poor thing’s fat belly. There’s times when the facts aren’t necessarily the same as the truth.
The third person was Delilah Newberry. Delilah stood on the other side of the room, twirling a rack of silly-looking dog clothes. She waved at me so I walked to her. She had her sunglasses on top of her head and two more pairs of glasses hanging on a long gold chain around her neck. She works for the newspaper, so she needs different strengths to read that tiny print.
“Phoebe, what are you doing here? I didn’t think you were a dog person.” She took one pair of glasses and held it up to her eyes to read the price of a leather biker vest.
