Unfolding

by Jonathan Friesen

  She smiled, though tired covered her face. “Angry people make mistakes. The chess game isn’t over, and pieces will move quickly once the sun rises. I need to be sure your dad is one of them.”

  I didn’t completely understand, and the two of us lay down on the bed and held each other. I felt no urge for more. I only wanted to fast-forward a year or two, in hopes that we could skip whatever happened next.

  Next came swiftly.

  The door swung open and Dad and Mr. Cartwright pounded into the room, grabbing each of us by the arm and pulling us toward the door. No words were said, but I knew where we were heading.

  CHAPTER 18

  The chat piles.

  We stood silently at the base, while Mr. Gurney slipped and stumbled about the top. He was a good choice. Mr. Gurney wandered homeless through Gullary. Unattached and widely considered mentally challenged in any number of ways, Gurney was rumored to have served our country well in Vietnam. This, and general human dignity, earned him a place at most any dinner table in Gullary. But when Gurney spoke, the man was ignored.

  He caught sight of us and slowed. Three crosses lay across his arms, and he was fumbling with a fourth. After an unsuccessful tug, he straightened.

  “Hey Jonah, Stormi! Say, Mayor, there’s names on ’em. Why are there names on ’em?”

  Dad shook me. “Be clear, Jonah. Is this your doing?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “No,” Stormi said sharply. “It isn’t. It was my doing. The crosses were my idea. The inscriptions, well, they’re Gullary’s doing, but you already know that. Jonah knew nothing until this morning.”

  “I told you about her. Now you understand the threat.” Mr. Cartwright hauled Stormi in front of Dad. “She buried my Gina, and now she’s trying to raise—”

  “Who?” Stormi called out, firm and strong. “Say your child’s name. Who’s under there? Doesn’t it eat at you, Mr. Cartwright? Don’t you wake up and go to sleep under a cloud? How about you, Mr. Everett?” She glanced at Dad, and peered into the sky. “I’m not blaming, I’m just saying. I bet losing a child destroys a man.”

  Dad’s face changed a sickly shade of white and he looked to me. He knew that I knew about Evangeline.

  Color returned, and Dad lowered his head. Slowly, he reached out and pried Cartwright’s fingers from Stormi’s arm. He was evil, but not cruel.

  “Stormi,” he spoke slowly, “you realize you waded into some things here that are before your time. Have you spoken with Tres lately?”

  Here she smiled, soft and settled. “I’ve spoken with my grandpa.”

  Cartwright pushed her aside, and shook his head. He took hold of Dad’s shoulders, but Dad’s gears were spinning, his eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Girl’s lyin’. That ain’t possible,” Cartwright spoke. “Tres’s lost girl was only eighteen. She had no child.”

  Dad’s hands shook. “Tres had an older daughter. He did. She left here and Stormi could be hers.” He cupped hands around his mouth. “Gurney! Get a move on!”

  Gurney worked with speed, stumbling across the second chat ridge. He no longer gathered up the crosses, but rather pitched them down on the far side of the pile. On the ground, Dad’s worry sent Cartwright into a frenzy. He paced back and forth, muttering as if his mind had soured.

  I was watching the failure of Stormi’s plan. A news ad would have been much more certain. There were better ways to spread word through a town.

  Stormi eased toward me and winked, nodding toward the distance.

  In the midst of all the confusion, a wind had picked up, swirling dust around the chat pile base. When the wind cleared, young Leonard, Kyle, and Colton, each eight years of curious, peered up at Gurney with gloves swinging from bike handlebars.

  “What you doin’, Mr. Gurney? Ain’t you supposed to stay clear of them piles?” Leonard called.

  Gurney froze, the words that fell from his lips doing more damage than any news ad could have done. “Hey, Leonard. I’m not rightly sure. Mr. Everett and Mr. Cartwright told me to dig the crosses out of the chat, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  Secrets take a long time to construct and strengthen. It only takes two sentences to shatter them. Those boys shrugged, and then biked toward Gullary’s ballfield, but Colton reached down and picked up two crosses on the way.

  Dad and Cartwright took off after him, but Colton knew the rules; if an adult is in pursuit, you must possess something of value and you do not stop.

  Mr. Gurney had a bird’s-eye view of the whole affair, and glanced down at Stormi and me. “Do I keep on going?”

  “No, sir,” I shouted. “Leave those last two up there.” Gurney slid down.

  “Glad of that. Creepy business. And what of these other crosses on the ground here? Over ten of ‘m.”

  “Did you recognize any of the names?” Stormi asked gently.

  “Last names. Most folk in town.”

  Stormi took a deep breath. “Maybe deliver them for me, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Gurney started to pick them up. “Glad to, Stormi. Glad you’re back. Gullary was mighty boring without you.” He mouthed the name on the cross at his feet, bent over, and reached it to me. “Here you go. Easy enough. Evangeline Everett.”

  We watched him shuffle away, his arms filled with the past.

  I clutched the cross in my hands.

  “I’m sorry, Jonah. I really am.” Stormi raked her fingers through her hair.

  “You should leave here now,” I begged. “Cartwright lost his head, but he’ll come back. Dad too.”

  “They will. I’ll be waiting right here.” Stormi kissed me. “But you should go. I’ll need you before this is done.”

  I glanced into the sky. Clouds had rolled in. “You know that for sure? Because I don’t really want to leave you.”

  “You won’t.” Stormi pushed me away. “You promised.”

  I don’t know which was more effective: three kids peddling Gurney’s testimony, or the hand-delivered crosses. I suspect they worked in tandem. But the result was a scene I had not witnessed before.

  My vantage point was the DairyWhip, filled with memories of Arthur. From an inside table, I watched the older residents of Gullary scurry into town, then vanish across the street into Orton’s Drug. Folks went in. Dad and Ma went in. Three cones later, they had not emerged.

  An hour passed, and Cartwright hopped from his truck, Stormi in tow. Again, he hauled her beneath the shoulder, though he needn’t have done so. For her part, she looked at peace.

  Why Orton’s Drug, I did not know. There was nothing to distinguish the business from Gullary’s other few establishments, other than its designation as Gullary’s oldest. Once Orton’s Drug Emporium, and before that Orton’s Mercantile, Orton’s had been a fixture in this part of Oklahoma for generations.

  I rose and crossed the street. Though the store sign had been flipped to read Sorry, We’re Closed, I slipped in. Mr. Orton was not seated behind the counter, nor was Roger, his mutt hound, usually wandering the aisles. Backroom voices raised, and I eased down the painting supply aisle toward the storeroom. The door was ajar and I ducked beneath the tarp rolls and peeked inside.

  Women wept. Men wept. I thought I’d encountered every type of cry in Gullary, but those were normal cries. These reminded me of Saul’s from the Hive. They were not of this earth.

  “Quiet, all!” Dad said. “None of us thought we’d ever need to make use of the meeting place.”

  “But then, none of us knew that an unnatural would fly in!”

  Cartwright.

  “But we all knew we had a hand in killing our babies.”

  For a moment, the weeping stopped; all sound, really. “You know it’s true. I’ll say now what we all know, but were too afraid to say then.” I had never heard Ms. P silence a room.

  “Martha’s right. We did this. We allowed it. This falls on us, not Stormi.”

  Ma?

  “There’s nothing to revisit. We’ve worked
through it. We survived.” Mr. Cartwright took the floor. “The question at hand is what we do now. Our misfortune is barely contained. Leonard and Kyle especially are unconvinced. Now, they’re but kids, but Gurney, the old coot, he’s talking all over town.”

  “What is he saying?” Stormi’s voice sounded peaceful, and I breathed deep.

  Cartwright cleared his throat. “You’ve said enough.”

  “No, the question is valid.” Ms. Utica, the English teacher, spoke up. “I’ll tell you what he’s saying, because he told me. He’s saying that you and the mayor asked him to climb up on a toxic pile and remove a bunch of crosses, and that each cross bears the last name of someone from this town. Why treat Stormi like a criminal? Where’s her part?”

  I always liked Ms. Utica.

  “Why are you here?” Dad asked. “You don’t have anyone who . . .”

  “Who what?” my teacher pressed.

  And just like that, Ms. Utica was shoved from the room, and the door slammed.

  “Look around! Make sure only the kids’ families and those involved are here!” Cartwright boomed, and I stood. Ms. Utica grimaced and straightened her blouse.

  “Something’s afoot, Jonah. I followed the herd, and something’s afoot.”

  “Two somethings, probably.”

  I stared at the wall, and the idea that my Stormi was trapped on the other side sickened me. I stayed because she asked me to, but it was all I could do to remain. On the wrong side of the door, a door I suddenly noticed had been painted red.

  CHAPTER 19

  Stormi was right.

  The message spread.

  With Ms. Utica, one of the few articulate people in town, asking questions, there was no way Dad could hide what had happened. He was a quick thinker, but he wasn’t Houdini. I left Orton’s and slowly walked down Main, turning onto C Street. The few nice homes in town stretched out before me, including the red brick beauty on the left. Arthur’ house.

  I took a deep breath, slowly climbed the steps, and rang the bell.

  Arthur answered, but did not raise his gaze to meet mine.

  “I was wondering when you would stop by. We went through an adventure. Wouldn’t you say it was an adventure? Normally, people who go through adventures become friends. I thought that before our illegal adventure we might already have been friends. Certainly after, though.”

  I had no words. Death had been quick to take people of late, and I didn’t reckon it planned on giving any back. But there Arthur stood, and then I was hugging him. He stiffened, not hugging me back.

  I released him and stared and frowned and stared some more.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? You idiot! Do you know what I’ve been going through? I came here to tell your dad—”

  His face lightened. “You thought I was caught up in the fire.” He smiled broadly. “I wasn’t.” Arthur paused so long, I almost hit him. “I should have been. Absolutely, I should have been. But the gas keeper, number nineteen if you are referring to him by number . . . Isn’t that strange that they used numbers? I think if I chose a number for myself, it would be twenty-eight, after my birthday, but it was probably taken, and then there would be two of me—”

  “Arthur!”

  “The gas keeper came running out right after I gave you the can, before I went in for more, and I couldn’t go in then and I hid. Actually, I dropped onto the ground, but I’m quite flat and—”

  “Arthur.”

  “He dashed into their prayer shack and came out with a candle, hurrying back to his cabin. He must have needed the flame to see, but gas and candles don’t sit well together. Do you know about the laws of combustibility?”

  I reached out, covered his mouth, then slowly uncovered it.

  “He wasn’t in there ten seconds before the explosion occurred. You were gone when I reached the garage. I thought you left me.” He paused. “Why did you leave me?”

  I opened my mouth. I had an answer, but it sounded flimsy and weak. Why does anyone leave anyone?

  “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have.”

  “So, I started walking. I walked twelve hours, and the next evening, I hitched back to Gullary. I thought I’d find you.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. We, uh, took a day off.”

  “A day off? I don’t understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Like I said, I came to tell your dad that you’re dead.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Glad you’re not.”

  I turned to leave.

  “Hang on. Do you want to come in? There are some strange events happening.”

  I’d never before been inside Arthur’s house, a solid build with a wide foundation and a crawl space. It struck me how much I did want to stay here. Facing my parents felt hideous. Heading back to work at SMX even more so.

  “Yeah, I’ll hang out for a while.”

  I wish I could recall all of Arthur’s room. The space miniatures and children’s toys positioned on shelving units, the disassembled computer equipment strewn everywhere; this my mind still holds. But the knock downstairs came so forcefully, Dad’s voice sounded so unsettling, that it filled all my brain’s remaining memory.

  “Jim, Margaret, the town’s holding a gathering tonight at Jake’s. We need you there.”

  The heat that night was overpowering. Not that we were strangers to sweat, but every few weeks an evening arrived with a vengeance that emptied streets and drove us into bought air.

  But there was no space in Gullary large enough to fit the town. The Baptist church came close, but I wondered if a sanctuary meeting hit a nerve with Cartwright. Instead, an outdoor meeting was planned inside Greasy Jake’s fenced yard. Three hundred plus heeded the call and filed into the dusty world where Stormi once lived

  Seating proved tricky, the few decent chairs Jake owned reserved for the oldest and frailest among us. The rest grabbed tires and hubcaps and fenders, and plopped down. I stood against the fence, waiting for Stormi.

  She didn’t come.

  Nor did anyone else of the young variety, and none that were in the Villa were wheeled in either. The few new families were also absent. This was a meeting of those who held power, and of this group, not a single head could I find missing.

  Except Stormi.

  Dad grabbed a wrench and pounded on a fender. Jake winced at the clang.

  “Thank you for coming. We needed to speak to you all. Given the unfortunate events of this day, the Circle thought that perhaps you ought be aware of facts, so you can discern for yourself what is true and what is hearsay.”

  “Tell me why my neighbor had a cross planted in his yard!”

  Bless Ms. Carlisle. The woman had no filter. A murmur went up, as many, especially on the outskirts, had their first encounter with today’s activities.

  “What cross?” Mr. Ingersoll, a hard-working farmer/hermit who we only saw every few months, folded meaty arms. He undoubtedly was inconvenienced by the meeting.

  Dad raised his hands to no avail, and resorted again to the wrench.

  “I’ll get straight to it. Stormi Pickering, a girl we all know to be a bit—”

  “Unnatural.” Cartwright finished the sentence.

  “By cloak of night, she planted crosses in our chat piles. If her confession is true, and I for one believe it, she needed a high-profile area to make her point.” Dad shot me a glance. “I know a lot of you are close to Stormi. You’ve come to love her over the years she’s been with us. I understand the sentiment. I’m still driving my Chrysler because of the care she put into it.” He turned to Ms. Utica. “She sat in your classes, ate with your children, grew up in your homes.”

  At this, Ms. P. began a slow shake of the head. Connor sat still as stone beside her.

  I wanted him dead.

  “But Stormi, as you know, was never one of us. This, the extended culmination of her last school project, proves the point.”

  Dad was joined by the other members of the Circle. An ominous group of men, I might add. Cartwright stepped t
o the fore.

  “Seems Stormi was taken with the plight of the Cherokee in Oklahoma. A worthy concern, to be sure, but one abnormally urged on by a book read right before school’s end in literature class—ain’t that right, Ms. Utica?”

  Ms. Utica opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  “Hear My Flight—wasn’t that a book assigned in your class? Did not discussions about injustice follow? Was Stormi not most vocal in her outrage?”

  Ms. Utica nodded, defeated.

  “Well, it seems that Stormi felt obliged to do more than talk. The crosses on those chat piles, in your yards, based on a confession from her own lips, were meant to make you realize what it felt like for Cherokee families to lose their children. The names pulled from an old yearbook, like the one Jake reported missing not hours ago. Isn’t that right, Jake?”

  Jake was tortured. His face said it. “Missing, yeah, but she worked for me. She was privy to all I owned—”

  “It was a cruel act by her, to be sure,” Dad interrupted, “but one urged on by one of our community’s most trusted teachers.”

  More murmurs. Ms. Utica hung her head, and Dad’s gaze found me. Do not speak, son. I read it perfectly. Do not speak.

  I watched as Dad’s words took root, deepened in the fertile soil of a desperate town. I felt the Circle’s hold tighten, deepen.

  I’ll need you before this is all over.

  “That’s a good story.” I winced, my back screaming as I stepped into the ring. “A good story, Dad. Is there any more to it?” I stared at Ma. “Is there a chapter about Evangeline? Do you remember her? I don’t. I don’t remember my sister. I never got to meet my sister. I was never told about my sister.”

  Dad took a step toward me. “Enough, Jonah!”

  “It’s been long enough, all right. Today, by the chat piles, I finally saw her burial cross.”

  Ma’s knees buckled and she toppled, caught on the way down by Ms. P. I turned slowly.

  “Do any of you remember Lanie? She was beautiful. I’ve seen pictures. Daughter of Tres Cantor. She died the same night as my sister. There are sixteen more stories where those came from. Eighteen kids from this town are dead and buried beneath those mounds.” I pointed at the piles in the distance. “Eight girls, ten guys, teens like me. Teens like me and Stormi. Let’s tell their stories now!”