Who Let That Killer in the House?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “At least people have been kinder, even about Buddy, than I’d have expected them to be,” Martha pointed out.

  “I think everybody feels like we share a little bit of blame for not noticing what was happening to him when he was little.” I would have said more, but Clarinda shouted.

  “Look! There’s the banner!”

  Four Hope County team members carried out a long white banner with a red heart in each corner and WE LOVE YOU, DEWAYNE printed in big blue letters. They tied the banner to the fence where they could see it both from the field and while batting. Then, without worrying or caring whether he’d be hauled before the Supreme Court, Ridd gathered his team together and they bowed their heads.

  Those Hope County girls played their hearts out. Every time one of our girls came to bat, she looked at the banner. I saw a lot of them wipe away tears before they swung. Every time Bethany wound up for a pitch, she looked at it, too. She pitched three no-hit innings.

  Cookies kept passing up and down the rows, and I saw several old codgers Joe Riddley’s age give theirs to children. Of course, they made sure the kids’ parents agreed. During one time-out, Shana Wethers made a point of coming over to tell Martha and me, “I sure was sorry to hear about Hollis’s sister. She’s so lovely.”

  You may be thinking that with so much goodwill flowing, we easily won the game. We didn’t. This time we were the families trickling down the bleachers in a stream of disappointment while another bunch of girls jumped and squealed over by home plate.

  Hollis and Bethany had ridden with Ridd, and Ronnie and Yasheika had come together, so Clarinda, Martha and Cricket had come with us. Cricket elected to stay and ride back with his daddy, so the four of us got in the car and headed home, hoping we wouldn’t collapse from heat exhaustion before the air conditioner kicked in.

  “It seems like a lot longer than a month since the last game,” Martha said from the backseat as Joe Riddley started the engine.

  “Seems like a year, at least,” I agreed. “It’s no wonder that other team beat us, with everything that’s been going on. I’ll bet their catcher hasn’t had a family crisis and their coach hasn’t buried her brother in the past two weeks.”

  “Face it, Little Bit”—Joe Riddley pulled into the stream of traffic with the caution I use separating eggs—“Washington County has a better team. They’re more experienced. And don’t poke your lip out like that. It makes you look just like Cricket.”

  I gave him a little swat. “What you mean is, our winning before was a fluke.”

  “Bethany and Hollis aren’t ever going to be good hitters,” Martha admitted.

  “Oh, they played real good,” Clarinda insisted stoutly. “It was the rest of the team that wasn’t up to snuff. If it had just been the Honeybees . . .”

  “They all played fine,” Joe Riddley said firmly. “We sponsor summer sports to give kids something fun to do, and the way those girls played today, you could tell they were having fun.”

  “I hope that Franklin boy gives them a good write-up,” Clarinda worried. “Looks like, for such an important game, Mr. Rutherford would have come himself.”

  “Art will do okay,” Martha promised. “He used to write for his high-school paper.”

  I added my bit. “Slade told me this week he’s decided to work with Art. He thinks he could go on to journalism school if he wants to, so he said he wanted to give Art a chance today to show what he can do. He said Art has been reading up on fast-pitch softball all week to get the terms right, and he has the makings of a good writer, but he needs some grounding before he can fly—whatever that means.”

  “Whatever it means, a lot of grown-ups in this town are taking more interest in our young people,” Martha said with satisfaction. “Speaking of which, Hollis has asked if she can live with us next year. Garnet’s going out of state to college, and Hollis thinks Sara Meg will probably leave, too. We don’t have space for Hollis, but I was wondering if you all might.”

  Joe Riddley and I exchanged a look. I nodded, and he cleared his throat. “We hadn’t meant to say anything to you and Ridd until this ball game was over, but Little Bit here and I did some talking and decided we need a smaller place.” He ignored Clarinda’s gasp in the backseat. “We want you all to move down into our place so Cricket can swim, Ridd can farm, and you can take in all the children you want.”

  “But—” Martha started to protest.

  I interrupted her. “Don’t object, honey. We’ve known for nearly a year that this was coming sooner or later. It’s finally time. We looked at several houses, and just yesterday, we signed a contract to buy one over on Honeysuckle Way. It’s got only two steps up, for the days when we are older and infirm, and there’s two bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and a nice screened porch to one side. Just our size.”

  “And it’s brick, with no eaves, so it won’t need much painting,” Joe Riddley added. “And it’s got a yard I can mow in half an hour.”

  “And we can walk to work and church. It’s even a nice walk over to Walker’s,” I finished up. Joe Riddley and I had listed all the things we wanted to brag about as soon as we’d decided to get the house, so Martha and Ridd wouldn’t know how hard this change was going to be.

  “Do you think your parents hated leaving as much as I do?” I had asked Joe Riddley wistfully.

  He had thought, then nodded. “I saw Mama cry for the only time in my life when they shut the door on the moving van,” he admitted. “But she told me she just had an allergy to all the dust that got stirred up moving stuff out.”

  “If you’re sure . . .” Martha said doubtfully.

  “We’d better be sure. We gave them our earnest money,” Joe Riddley told her.

  “I bet it’s got a little-bitty kitchen you can’t even turn around in,” Clarinda grumbled. I hadn’t realized that this might be as hard on her as it was on us—or that she’d need reassurance we’d still want her in the new house.

  “You’ll be able to turn around just fine,” I told her, “if you lose a couple of pounds. And you can organize it any way you like.” That satisfied her. Next thing we heard, she was gently snoring. That sounded like such a good idea, I propped my pocketbook against the window and dozed the rest of the way home, too.

  Three weeks later, Ridd, Martha, Joe Riddley, and I sat through Buddy’s trial to give Sara Meg and her girls some support. After heart-wrenching testimony, though, when Buddy was convicted of molesting Garnet, Sara Meg told us coldly, “I don’t care what they say. I won’t believe it.”

  She never has.

  She left that courtroom, looked at the shambles of her family and the superstore rising on her economic horizon, and had herself a nervous breakdown. Hollis tells us she’s in a place with good food and a lovely garden. At first, Sara Meg alternated between wanting to kill Buddy for “dragging our family through the dirt” and wanting to kill herself. Then she got involved with art therapy and started to paint again.

  Her pictures all look like they’re crying. Daisies in the rain. Gladioli with huge tears dripping from gigantic cups. I have one of a small white snowdrop with a bent head and one drop of dew in its cup. Hollis says that since her mother started painting again, she doesn’t want to kill anybody. That’s a definite improvement.

  Another improvement is that Sara Meg has another man who loves her, a salesman who used to call on her selling toys. Harvey Wiseman is his name, and he lives in Macon. He came through town the day Buddy’s trial began, and when he heard what was going on, he stayed and sat with Sara Meg through the whole thing. Now he goes to see her every weekend. He came to town recently, took Hollis to lunch, and asked permission to marry her mother as soon as Sara Meg gets well. I think Hollis described him best when she said, “He’s not pretty, but he’s patient, and he loves my mama to death. He’ll be good to her.”

  Garnet left Hopemore as soon as the trial ended. She went first to stay with my brother, Jake, and his wife, Glenna, over in Montgomery. Glenna helped
her apply to the University of Washington in Seattle—about as far from Hopemore as she could get. She’s planning to get a doctorate in counseling so she can help other girls like herself. Martha thinks she’ll make it. She says Garnet is strong enough to be a thriver, not merely a survivor.

  When they accepted we really were going to move, Ridd and Martha asked for all the bedroom furniture we didn’t need. They’re already taking classes to become foster parents, so they can take in more kids. Tyrone spends so much time over at their place, he might as well live there.

  When I culled out the stuff we wanted, what Martha and Ridd wanted, and a few things Walker and Cindy wanted, there was still a lot left. In forty years, you carry in a lot of stuff you never carry back out. Hubert’s son, Maynard, who’s been clearing out their place, took a lot of stuff I considered junk for the Hope County Historical Museum. Then Maynard suggested that we go in together and hold what he advertised as Hopemore’s Biggest Garage Sale Ever. It was so successful, I’ve convinced Joe Riddley we can afford to go to Europe next spring.

  Meanwhile, Joe Riddley and I are making adjustments in the way we spend our time. We’re volunteering more, now that we know we’re responsible for all the children in the world, not just those in our family. As Joe Riddley puts it,“I used to be concerned for the kids in my wallet. Now I’m concerned for those in God’s wallet.”

  I thought he took that a bit far, though, when he brought home Smitty.

  Smitty had been in detention for a nice long vacation. After Tyrone decided to testify, some of the other boys got braver, too. I even told the judge how he shot at me that day.

  When Smitty got out, Joe Riddley asked the probation officer to let him come work for us. He told me, “Little Bit, this is a test of our faith. If we really believe all things are possible for God, we’ll believe God can make something of Smitty, and we’ll work to help that happen. And relax, honey. After all we’ve been through together, we can survive this.”

  Ridd has started taking Smitty out to the fields with him, and Joe Riddley has him working with him around the nursery. They claim he’s turning into a right good little horticulturist. I confess that some days—like the one when Smitty mowed down the little forsythias I’d just planted in our new yard—I’m not sure if we aren’t expecting too much of both God and Smitty. But there was also a day when Smitty came toward me brandishing hedge clippers and asked politely, “Judge, would you show me how to prune a rose?”

  According to Tyrone, Smitty’s talking about joining the Future Farmers of America next year, and he plans to raise prizewinning vegetables in their yard. So, as Ridd says,

  “Who knows? If Isaac is right, and Smitty has the intelligence to become a CEO, maybe someday we’ll buy a tomato with a little sticker on it: Smitty Smith Fine Produce. ”

  A Personal Word

  Nothing would be more rewarding for me as the author of this story than for readers to put it down with a stronger commitment to make a difference for children.

  While writing this book, I was also being trained as a court-appointed special advocate (CASA), a volunteer assigned to one child or family of children who have entered the court system for neglect, deprivation, or abuse. While caseworkers and foster homes come and go, the CASA remains a constant in that child’s life, providing the child with a “voice in court.” Lawyers, parents, even the system designed to protect children may have various agendas. A CASA has one only: to advocate for the best interests of the child in order to quickly move that child into a safe and permanent home. In years of volunteer service, I have found no program with more potential to make a lasting, positive difference in a child’s life.

  This is a federal program that operates at the local level. You can learn about the CASA program in your county juvenile court system by contacting the National CASA Association, 100 W. Harrison St., North Tower, Suite 500, Seattle, WA 98119. 1-800-628-3233. Or check their Web site: www.nationalcasa.org.

  1 But Why Shoot the Magistrate?

  2 Who Invited the Dead Man?

  3 Who Left That Body in the Rain?