Remnants of those times trickled down to today. Legends mostly. Since Amber’s disappearance, the one most prevalent in Alan’s mind was about the Little People. Before the wars, stories had abounded. Short, squatty men who could fly and played pranks on villagers, they hid personal belongings, a prized beaded necklace, or new moccasins, giggling and stamping around a hunter alone in the woods. After the Cherokee relocation, the stories turned malevolent. Warlords and chiefs learned they could use the legend as psychological warfare. They perpetuated threats that the Little People would steal the young of those who committed crimes against other tribes. During the night, scouts would kidnap the children of rival communities, and a day or two later they would find their young hanged from a redbud tree.
The largest mass kidnapping in American history took place on Alan’s land. More than fifty children were taken and later found not a few miles into the woods, dismembered into several pieces, arms and legs and heads. That was in 1839. A few years back, Alan had found a little shrine where the bodies had been found. He had no idea who’d built it. It wasn’t much: a group of large stones piled atop one another, blocks of slate that reached about twenty feet high. Every few weeks or so he’d go out there and just sit. It was peaceful out there. He wouldn’t be troubled by worldly things, his students’ failing test scores, their rising dropout rate, the state’s threat to shut down the school. He would simply sit in a lawn chair and listen to the sounds of the woods, sometimes dozing off. In those few moments between sleep and waking, he would think he could hear the pitter-patter of footsteps, the Little People coming in close to pull one of their pranks. It had to be them. Everything was just too goddamn funny.
THE TEACHERS WEREN’T EVEN SHOWING up to school anymore. Substitutes came in, his students’ grandparents, who’d seen every last rerun M*A*S*H had to offer and were thrilled to have an excuse to get out of the nursing home. Between classes, he would share a little snort with a few of them as he passed them in the hallway. Why the hell not? They needed a little excitement in their lives. One of the few who still showed, though, was Ms. Redtree. The district had already started shipping out desks and chalkboards and projectors, storing them for use in the Bartlesville Alternative Academy come next fall, so Ms. Redtree was having class outside each day, lecturing about the Trail of Tears as the children were gnawed raw by mosquitoes. Alan and Blinky, an old geezer who volunteered to watch gym class from nine to eleven each morning, would sip from paper cups and look on like spectators who couldn’t afford a ticket. Freeloaders most would call them.
Ms. Redtree had rolled out an old whiteboard into the courtyard where the students would gather and smoke Pall Malls between classes. She diagrammed the southern United States, showing where and how far the Cherokee and other southern tribes had to walk back in the 1830s, driven by gunpoint from their homes. She would write fractions on the board, most notably 4,000/15,000. Four thousand had died on the trail. They were buried along riverbanks and at tree lines without stone or façade to mark them. Some were cast out into rivers, rocks tied to their arms and legs so they would sink. Others were simply left by the trail, the soldiers too busy to stop and dispose of the body. Yet these were simple, stale facts to the students, not the tragic history of their ancestors’ fate. They would need to regurgitate it on a state exam at the end of the school year, but then they were free to forget it and focus on the importance of how to throw rocks at the Santa Fe railroad cars that ambled past, at least during good times when the oil rigs still chugged along. If not, they were forced to pick up cans along the road and take them to the recycling plant in Bartlesville so that they could collect change for food money. Regardless, they had more important things to do than learn from their teacher.
To mark the end of period, Susan, a lithe girl with cheekbones like cue balls, stood and bounced on her legs like a gymnast unfolding out of a cartwheel.
“Criminal,” Blinky said. “Only time I ever get an erection is when I stare at underage girls.”
“Jesus, Blinky. You can’t tell me those sorts of things.”
The old man snorted. “I’m just saying. It’s nice to feel something down there every once in a while. Most of the time I’m afraid the twig is dead.” He took a drink from his cup, the wine staining his lips merlot purple. “Tell me,” he said. “You ever get with that Amber girl? The one that’s missing.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Alan asked.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Blinky continued. “Honestly, I don’t see how you restrain yourself sometimes with all this young tail walking around here.”
“Seriously, Blinky. Where’d you hear that?”
Blinky shrugged. “Around,” he said. “People talk. Half the time it’s bullshit.”
“And the other half?”
He shrugged again. “Just watered-down bullshit.”
The class dispersed. Ms. Redtree tried to corral them back into the school, but most of them, the boys anyway, scattered to the parking lot where they would climb into their trucks and find a secluded place to smoke some pot. Used to, Alan would try to stop this. Now he didn’t see the point. He even had half a mind to join them.
“Another day in the books,” Blinky said. “See you tomorrow.” He patted Alan on the shoulder before parting, almost a consoling gesture. Yes, it seemed to say, there will be a tomorrow. I’m truly sorry for that.
Alan wandered into the school to gather his things so he could head home and try to find the strength to heat up a frozen chicken-fried steak instead of having a dinner, for the third night in a row, that consisted of sunflower seeds and Scotch. The halls were thin with students. Since he’d been teaching, the dropout rate had climbed exponentially. For every student who graduated, four dropped out. They weren’t bad kids by any means. Most ended up needing to work in order to support their families, who, for whatever reason, didn’t qualify for welfare benefits or had been swindled out of their social security or had become disabled from mesothelioma poisoning from the old tire factory out on Highway 80. The kids wound up working for the county underage, laying asphalt and welding old bridges. It was illegal to hire anyone under eighteen, but no one complained. There wasn’t much of a workforce around here anymore. If the kids couldn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done.
As Alan gathered his papers—his résumé and last Sunday’s crossword—someone knocked on the wall outside his office. It was Sheriff Whetsel, looking, it seemed, for a place to spit tobacco juice. He was a surly man now, gruff and with a short temper. Alan remembered him as Jeff, though, a cranky kid who’d whined every time an essay was assigned.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Alan asked.
Jeff motioned with his hand as though he was drinking an imaginary glass of water. Alan grabbed an empty water bottle from his desk and handed it to the sheriff, who unscrewed the cap and spit into it. Black liquid slid down the edge of the bottle, tiny remnants of tobacco sticking to the clear plastic.
“Had a few questions for you, Mr. Donahue,” he said, “about the missing girl.”
Alan motioned for the sheriff to take a seat, and he did, slouching the way teenagers would when in trouble.
“Not sure how much I can help,” Alan said. “She didn’t have any enemies that I know of. Wasn’t bullied. Had her problems at home like any other kid her age, but I never thought she’d run away.”
“Eyewitnesses put you at the scene when she disappeared,” the sheriff said. “Some say they even saw you with her, but you didn’t stick around to give a statement.”
Alan shook his head.
“Seems odd for a prominent member of the community, the high school principal, to leave the scene of the crime, don’t you think? Especially since you knew the girl.”
“To be fair,” Alan said, “I didn’t know she was missing at the time. Or that it was a crime scene.”
“Did you see her while in the store?”
“Yes,” Alan said.
“Did you speak with her?”
/>
“Yes.”
“And what did you two talk about?”
Lies. The lies they should tell. The importance of keeping their mouths shut. Anything but the truth, that it had happened after school when Amber came by the office to talk about her trouble with her mother, how she’d been drinking too much and how she was dating some guy who worked for Phillips 66 over in Bartlesville and who Amber thought might be a pervert. He’d just learned that the school was going to be shut down, and although Alan’s students had always been asexual creatures to him, he was mired in a four-day drunk, and she had great legs, legs like a track star, legs that could wrap around his body twice, the taste and color of warm honey, not that that was an excuse, but on that day his blood pressure rose and his head swam and he felt a warm tingle down in his groin that he hadn’t felt in years. She peered up at him and though she didn’t fight his touch, she didn’t welcome it either. She slipped her arms through her shirt and covered her breasts with her hands, and as he went to touch them, he knew he should stop, that what he was doing was wrong, but he couldn’t—it just felt so right.
Alan shrugged. “School,” he said. “She was having problems in history class and wanted to know if I could recommend a tutor.”
“Nothing else?”
Alan shook his head.
“She didn’t follow you out into the parking lot? You didn’t take her somewhere?”
“Jesus, Jeff. No.”
The sheriff plucked tobacco from his tongue and rubbed it in between his fingers, smudging the tips a juicy black. “Sure, sure,” he said. “I, for one, believe you. There’s just the rumors and all. The fact that you were nowhere to be found. That you might’ve been the last person who spoke with her. That when you did find out she was missing, you didn’t come give a statement voluntarily. All strange, Mr. Donahue. I think it was you who taught me that if it quacks like a duck, walks like a duck, then it’s a duck.”
“I don’t remember teaching you that at all. It was history class, if you remember.”
“Might’ve been someone else. High school’s all a blur now.” He grinned a yellow-stained grin. He slapped his knees and leaned forward and stood. “Well,” he said. “If you think of anything…”
“Certainly,” Alan said. He pointed to where the door should’ve been.
ALAN TOOK TO DRINKING MORE than he should have, though he didn’t blame himself considering the circumstances: his school shutting down, impending joblessness, Amber. It was her that troubled him the most. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. It got to the point he was even dreaming about her. The one he had most often, they were sitting in the bed of a pickup out by Bluestem Lake, this brown and murky reservoir in Osage County, and they cuddled like lovers and looked up at the stars. Soon, they began to make out, and she started to pant, and he could feel his blood pressure rise, feel himself getting aroused. She would pull away from him and smile and open her mouth up as wide as she could. She would then start to pull out her teeth, one by one, until all she had left were these bloody, pockmarked gums, hands filled with red-stained teeth. He would wake up screaming, and he briefly thought he needed to go see someone, a doctor, a therapist, somebody, but he knew that wouldn’t help—only seeing her again would.
So he volunteered for the search party. Amber’s father was there, and when Alan showed, he stared at him suspiciously, no doubt having heard the rumors: the sexual trysts, the unlawful humping in the dark library, the theory that he’d strangled her so she’d keep her mouth shut. Amber’s father gave the police a sweater she’d often worn, an ugly little thing that caused the dogs to bark in anticipation once they’d gotten a whiff. They started at the IGA and then walked east down the highway, calling out Amber’s name every few yards. Of course, no one answered back. The search party sauntered behind the dogs, seemingly resigned to the fact this search would be fruitless like all the rest. Even Amber’s father appeared hopeless. His face was long and bruised and yellowed, like he hadn’t slept in weeks, but he trudged forward, perhaps convinced that they’d find her alive any minute, perhaps all hope gone and merely searching out of obligation. Alan wouldn’t have been surprised either way. It had been weeks since she’d gone missing, and the police didn’t have any leads. But people believed what they believed, oftentimes despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
After a few miles, they came up on a dirt road cut out from the tree line. It looked like it had hardly been used. A fallen tree blocked the entrance, and a rusted gate had been pulled back. It was now warped and oxidized to the point of disrepair. The dogs stopped in front of it, sniffing the air, and then barreled down the trail. About two hundred yards down the dirt road, the dogs stopped again. They barked and they howled and they pointed west toward the woods. It was dark in there, the underbrush thick and dense. They all stared for a few moments, the dogs barking, the woods, however, silent. Only a stiff breeze could be heard, blowing above the canopy.
“Amber!” her dad yelled. “Amber, are you out there?”
Not even an echo answered back.
The deputies let loose the dogs and followed behind, sprinting through the underbrush. Soon, they came upon the smell. It was putrid, debilitating even, something that Alan would never be able to forget. It was like it crawled up his nose. Like it got right up inside him and twisted his guts. One man stopped and began to vomit. Another started to gag but kept running. Amber’s father just wailed.
They found her in a little clearing. She was naked, and she was tied to a post, her wrists shackled with a rope. She had been there a while and was hardly recognizable anymore. What remained was just dried tissue and muscle and blood, the color and texture of beef jerky. Maggots crawled over her, and flies shrouded her skull. A coyote or a wild dog had eaten her eyes and face. Around her was a collection of bones. Leg bones, it looked like, from cows and deer. Tied to the post above her head was a bison skull. On her stomach was a picture of a small person, drawn in her own blood.
EVENTUALLY THE LAST DAY OF school, for the year and for the town forever, came. Hardly anyone showed. Maybe ten or twelve students. Susan was there. Blinky was there. Ms. Redtree, along with dozens of covered wagons fashioned from Radio Flyers and bed sheets. Ms. Redtree lined each of the wagons up in a row behind a black line she’d spray-painted onto the red clay. There were about thirty or so parcels of land marked out by hulahoops and wooden rods lodged into the soil. These represented the 160 acres the settlers could claim as their own. Several had flags draped from the top, the ones that had already been staked out by the Sooners, the settlers who had entered the territory illegally and hidden out before the Land Run officially opened on April 22, 1889.
It had started at high noon that day. An estimated 50,000 settlers lined up to take part. People who had decided to start anew someplace else, who had, for whatever reason, decided to abandon their birthplaces for the promises of the West. A fitting tribute to the end of the school year, Alan thought. The underclassmen would start a new school come next fall. The teachers and administrators, like Ms. Redtree and himself, would be forced to find employment in other districts or new professions altogether. Most of them would be unqualified for anything else and be forced to take jobs they hadn’t worked since college, delivering pizzas or assisting a plumber. Honest work. Work that they shouldn’t, but would nonetheless, be ashamed of. It took a lot of courage to do a thing like that. And it wasn’t a normal kind of courage. Not the kind where people acted on impulse, running into a burning building to save a child or to shield a friend from a grenade. This took forethought, a premeditated and detailed plan, execution. It was a type of courage Alan was afraid he didn’t have.
To start the reenactment, Ms. Redtree fired a cap gun into the air. A little burst of smoke spewed from the barrel, and the children loafed out of the starting gate. They didn’t rush or fight over the parcels of land. Instead, they malingered, dragging the wagons behind them and shielding their eyes from the harsh summer sun. Ms. Redtree slouched in d
isappointment at their obvious disinterest. Alan wasn’t surprised. Here these kids were, following orders because they didn’t know they no longer had to. As of three o’clock, when Ms. Redtree had fired the cap gun, the Pawhuska school system no longer existed, and along with its dissolution, he and she were stripped of their power. But here they were, Alan and Blinky and Ms. Redtree and all the kids, pulling red wagons and claiming imaginary land stripped from its rightful, imaginary owners, afraid that if they disobeyed, the Little People would come, and take from them all that they held dear.
The Motion of Bodies
IT WAS JUST A TWEET, AFTER ALL, A FIFTY-NINE-CHARACTER JOKE HE’D TYPED BEFORE GETTING ON THE plane in Miami: “On my way to the USVI, hope I don’t get Ebola JK I’m white.” But by the time he landed several hours later, refreshed from a Scotch-induced nap, he’d already received six voicemails from his sister, the last one stating ominously, “I am so sorry this is happening to you.”
The airport in St. Thomas was unlike any Harry’d been to before. The plane touched down, idled along the runway, then parked upon the tarmac, and he and the other passengers deplaned and stretched under the piercing sunlight. Airline employees greeted them with their luggage and a complimentary bushwhacker, a sweet drink light on the rum, and as Harry drank it he wondered what exactly his sister had meant. She’d made it quite known she didn’t approve of his adopting a child, a single man, a solitary man, a man, she feared, who might be gay. Her disapproval had hurt; he couldn’t lie to himself that it didn’t, but it hardly mattered. For the longest time he’d felt he wasn’t in control of his life, at the whim of some unnamed cosmological force, like a particle accelerated at near light speed, destined to collide with countless other particles in a barrage of energy equal to a million atomic bombs, but now all that would change—he would be a father, the one thing he wholly desired before anything else. He would love and care for and mold a beautiful little girl, and he could take solace in that fact: he would affect her, whatever that was worth, good or bad.
Five Hundred Poor Page 9
