“Just look at it.”
Tom unfolded the piece of paper. Every crinkle made Allie’s eyes blink toward the hallway. On the page was a line and a list of names and events, each placed under two categories. It would have been cute had it not been so serious. And, considering the look on Allie’s face, so damning.
“When did you do this?” Tom asked.
“This morning. I didn’t sleep much.”
“Me neither,” he said. “Why are you showing me this, Allie?”
“Because you care for hurtin’ people,” Allie said, “and there’s a hurtin’ person in your house. Maybe two, ’cause I think Miss Ellen is sad about somethin’. And you don’t seem so happy either, Mr. Doctor, if you don’t mind me sayin’. But I think Leah’s hurtin’ most of all, and I’m worried for her.” She looked at the plastic chair and back. “I don’t know if God’s in that chair, sir. He might be. But I reckon He might not. And after last night with Miss Mabel . . .”
There was Tom’s opening. He pounced before Allie could say more.
“What happened at the hospital last night, Allie?”
She didn’t answer. Tom moved a hand over hers and squeezed.
“I didn’t want to let either of you go in there,” he said. “I could explain why I did anyway, but I doubt it would make much sense. As soon as you two went back, I knew it was a mistake. And then when Leah came running out, she looked so scared. So . . .” Another squeeze. “. . . small.”
“Mr. Barney thought the Rainbow Man was gonna make Mabel all better,” Allie said. “Because of what Leah said before, about them bein’ okay now. But Mabel weren’t okay. I think she saw the Lord, Mr. Doctor. I know you don’t believe in all that, and I reckon it’s okay if that’s who you are, but I ain’t lyin’. Leah said that was the Rainbow Man’s doin’. I don’t know anything about that. I believed her before, like with Mr. Barney winnin’ all that money, but what happened in that room didn’t feel right in my bones. Leah hurt Mr. Barney.” She looked at the chair and then to Tom. “She hurt me too.”
“So you think Leah’s not telling the truth now?” Tom looked across the table once more. “Is that chair empty, Allie?”
She looked and said, “I want to be Leah’s friend. I think she needs one. I think she didn’t have no friend, and that’s why the Rainbow Man came. But I think she needs a real somebody to talk to, ’specially now. Momma says Leah might be stretched too tight on her insides, like a rubber band. You see that picture we took to Mr. Barney’s yesterday?”
Tom nodded.
“It had numbers on it. I ain’t no little girl. I saw how all them people acted down at the Treasure Chest when they saw them numbers tumblin’ outta that bird’s mouth. I know what them folks’ll do. The lotto drawin’s tonight. I wonder how many in Mattingly already got their tickets?”
Tom answered with a sigh. Allie nodded.
“Now, if they all win, I’ll believe for real this time. I wanna believe. I figure everyone wants to, deep down, even you. But if Leah’s wrong about those numbers like she was wrong about Miss Mabel . . .” Allie didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
Tom looked at the sheet of paper in his hands. He saw his name on one side and Ellen’s on the other. He also saw Allie hadn’t written her own name on the page.
“You’re a smart girl, Allie Granderson.”
“Better wise than smart,” she said, “that’s what my momma says. I’ll tell Leah I tried to talk you into stayin’, but you said no. Which you did. But I won’t say nothin’ else, and I trust you ain’t gonna either. I just wanna let you know what’s goin’ on. Leah says you love too much. I don’t know what that means, but I think sometimes it makes you not see things you should.”
From down the hallway, the bedroom door cracked open. Allie paused, and Tom turned to see two small eyes peering through the opening. Ellen followed Leah toward the dining room.
Leah smiled. To Tom, that smile looked like a rubber band stretched too tight.
5
The Old Firehouse Diner sat on the corner of Main and Second, just up the alleyway from the Treasure Chest. The two-story brick-and-stone square was built in 1872, which might as well have been yesterday in Mattingly terms. It served as a boarding-house for travelers stopping along the railroad until 1908, then for the next century it served as headquarters for the Mattingly Volunteer Fire Department, staging area for the yearly carnivals, and an emergency shelter for whatever hurricanes, floods, or blizzards the Lord saw fit to allow.
When Big Jim Wallis ascended to the mayorship in 2006, his first order of business was to convince voters that the fire department had to be upgraded. To Big Jim, it made more sense to build rather than renovate, and it made much more sense to build in a location away from downtown and more accessible to the surrounding hills and hollows where most of the townspeople lived. And as luck would have it, Big Jim himself owned ten acres of dead and rocky land out on Route 620 that would be perfect for a fire station—land that he was more than willing to sell to the town at a fair price. Why, he’d even use his own construction company—besides being mayor, Big Jim was owner of Wallis Construction, LLC—to make sure everything was built right. A special ballot was called the next year. The motion passed. And by May of 2008, Mattingly had a new fire department and Big Jim had unloaded a plot of worthless land and made a killing in the process.
Reggie considered all of this as Big Jim smiled at him from across the table through bloodshot eyes—in the end, the mayor’s first priority was the mayor. Family came second, the town third, and sandwiched somewhere in between was the faith he professed every Sunday morning from the front pew of the First Church of the Risen Christ. Reggie would have to be careful here. This was happening. As much as he had thought in the past few days that it would happen, he didn’t think it would be so soon. Yet here they were, the mayor, the preacher, and the head deacon—three of the most powerful men in town. Mattingly’s version of the Bilderberg meetings.
Beside Reggie sat Brent Spicer, who had not bothered to change out of his milking clothes—a subtle hint that he hoped their impromptu meeting wouldn’t take long. He rubbed the white whiskers on his gaunt face and gazed out the window. Their talk quieted as other diners passed. The thick smell of sausage and gravy hung in the air like a fog. From the jukebox, Brad Paisley sang of how you’d never get out of Harlan alive. Allison Summers brought coffee and doughnuts and told Reggie to holler if there was anything else they needed.
“Heard about Mabel,” Big Jim said. His blue suit jacket was open—the mayor had been unable to cinch his suit for years without the threat of a button popping off and putting out a constituent’s eye—and his red tie was slung over his shoulder. He leaned in for a doughnut and took a bite. Without saying grace first, Reggie noticed. “How’s Barney doing?”
“About as good as you’d expect,” Reggie said. “Last night was a hard one.”
Brent said, “Just gotta believe she’s better off,” and reached for a doughnut of his own. He rested it on the napkin in front of him but did not take a bite. “Barney’s too good a man to have to suffer the evils that have befallen him.”
“He’s over at the Treasure Chest right now,” Reggie said. “Left him awhile ago. I told him to sleep if he could. I expect the store’ll be closed for a time. If you could spread word on that, Jim, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll tell Trevor to put something in the paper,” the mayor said through the glazed crumbs that fell from his mouth. “And I’ll see that the funeral arrangements are handled proper. Town takes care of their own. That’s our way.”
Reggie said nothing to that, only nodded. A week ago Barney and Mabel were afterthoughts to most in town. Aside from Reggie, the Barnetts, and the Grandersons (and, he supposed, the Norcross family), the Moores had no friends. But now Barney was one of their own. Big Jim reached for another doughnut.
“Why’d you get us here, Reggie?” Brent asked. “I got stuff to do.”
Reggie sipped hi
s coffee and listened for the Still Small Voice. The crowd around them chattered amongst themselves, sharing news of weather and crops and the carnival that was now only three days away. No doubt they had all heard about Mabel by now, though none seemed as affected by her passing as they were by the timing of it—poor old Barney couldn’t even catch a break by winning more money than God.
“You seen that new painting of Leah Norcross’s that Barney put up?” he asked.
“Nope,” Big Jim said. He’d finished his second doughnut and reached for a third. “Heard it’s pretty, though.”
“It’s an abomination is what it is,” Brent said. “I’s there when all them people were fawnin’ over it. Don’t know why you didn’t kick Barney outta church after that sin he did, Reggie.”
“Because church is for sinners, Brent,” Reggie said. “And we’re not here to talk about that, we’re here to talk about Leah Norcross. She was at the hospital last night”—Brent opened his mouth to speak, Reggie silenced him with a finger—“Don’t ask. But she was there, along with her parents and Allie Granderson. Barney convinced Tom Norcross to let Leah and Allie into Mabel’s room. He thought Leah and her little imaginary friend could make Mabel well.”
“You’re kiddin’ me,” Jim said. His shock was so great that he momentarily forgot the doughnut in his hand. His tie slipped away from his ample shoulder. He tossed it back.
“You’re surprised?” Reggie asked. “Come on, Jim. You know what’s going on in this town more than anyone. That girl’s convinced people she’s got a direct line to the Almighty.”
“Maybe she does. You ever think about that, Reggie?” The mayor smiled. “Or maybe you already have, and that’s what’s got you so riled.”
Brent’s face turned two shades of white. His lower jaw looked as though it had been disconnected from his mouth. “Y’all can’t be serious,” he said. “I mean, summa these other folks, okay, I can see them bein’ tossed and turned by some notion of magic. But not you, Jim. And surely not you, Reg.”
“Of course not,” Reggie said, but at that moment the jukebox filled the air with music and he thought of Mabel, sitting up in heaven at the Lord’s Table and listening to music that had no beat because there was no time. “She’s just a confused little girl.”
“Confused ain’t the word, Reverend,” Brent said.
“I ain’t made up my mind yet,” Big Jim answered. “So far there’s just stories of that man she says follows her around. I know she’s been good for the town. Plenty of Away folk been visiting us since that news conference, all looking for a sight of that young’un. Ain’t no proof of nothing unless you buy Barney’s story. And right or wrong, Reggie, you gotta admit that story has a ring of the magic to it.”
“There ain’t no magic,” Brent told them. To Reggie, it sounded less like a statement and more like something he was trying to convince himself was true.
All Jim said was, “Like Reggie said, it’s my job to know what goes on in this town.”
“Well, right now,” Reggie said, “two little girls have this town stretched to breaking, and last night Barney broke because of it. I’m telling the both of you, it wasn’t Mabel’s passing that hurt him so; it was that he trusted Leah and her imagination rather than give his wife a proper good-bye. And it’s Wednesday. Lottery day. That painting Leah made, the one hanging in the Treasure Chest’s window right now, has more numbers on it. Now, how many people y’all think have snuck off to Camden or Stanley to drop some money on tickets? Money they don’t have, mostly. Who are they gonna turn on when those numbers come up false? That family won’t be safe in this town.”
That last point wasn’t a lie, but it was an exaggeration designed to provoke the very reaction that Big Jim Wallis offered. Suddenly his mind was less concerned with doughnuts and more worried about the potential political fallout of having a false prophet in town.
“What’s in your mind, Reggie?” the mayor asked. “I appreciate the breakfast, but I got a lot on my plate today, and I’m tired. Dad-gummed mockingbird hollered outside me an’ Gloria’s window all night long. You want to run that family outta town?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time town’s resorted to such things,” Brent offered. “It’s plain they’re trouble. I say run ’em out now while we can.”
“I don’t want to run them out of town,” Reggie said. “I just want Leah to stop this nonsense before she hurts someone else. A warning, maybe. Like a petition.”
“A petition telling her to stop . . . what?” Big Jim asked. “Believing in her imaginary friend? Painting her pictures? That ain’t gonna work, Reggie.”
“It’ll work if the right names are on there. Might be enough to make Tom Norcross be a father for once and start getting hold of his child’s imagination. And if not, well, we can say we gave them a warning. It’s for the good of the town, Jim. It’ll make things easier for you too. Better to nip this in the bud, especially with elections coming up next year.”
And with that little tidbit, Jim placed the remaining two bites of his last doughnut on his napkin.
“See what you can do, gentlemen,” he said. “But if you’re right about everyone playing those numbers, might be wise to wait till morning before you commence. If we still got a town fulla poor, folks’ll be lining up to sign a sheet of paper telling Leah to shut up.” Big Jim paused and leaned in. His next words were a warning covered with sugar: “But if we have a town full of millionaires, it just might be you two they run outta Mattingly.”
6
The smile on Leah’s face quickly evaporated with news that Allie’s parlay hadn’t worked. Despite Tom’s best efforts, there was no good way to tell his daughter that she would have to face the aftermath of Mabel’s death the same way she’d faced the cameras and reporters—without her father. To make matters worse, Mary had arrived to pick up Allie just after. Ellen did her best to both comfort Leah and assuage Tom’s guilt—“She’ll be fine,” she’d whispered as he left, “and so will we”—which was supposed to make Tom feel better but instead only made him feel worse. He arrived at work a full twenty minutes late.
A chill shuddered through him as he walked into his second-floor office and scanned the empty waiting area. Meagan was not there. Rita, however, was. She peered through the open section of her cubicle window, sighed, and shook her head.
“Won’t ever leave early,” she said, “but you’ll show up late. What in the world happened, Tom?”
“I’ll tell you later. Meagan’s not here?”
Rita motioned to her left toward the closed bathroom door. Whatever fury usually seethed beneath her pale and wrinkled face had disappeared—a bad sign. While most people centered their lives around the pursuit of some semblance of peace and happiness (however fragile those things may be), Rita was one of the few who thrived on anger. If she wasn’t mad, that meant something was wrong.
“Been in there about fifteen minutes,” she said. “I was just about to check on her. It isn’t pretty, Tom. You put on your doctor face when you see her. Anything else, and she’s apt to run right out of here and never come back.”
“What happened?”
“That’s your job, not mine, though I almost called the police myself. Now get in there and get ready. I’ll send her in when she comes out.”
“Between you and me,” Tom said, “I don’t know if I can get ready this morning. Leah really needed me to stay home today. Something happened last night.”
Rita smiled and said, “You’re a good man, Tom.” She used her grandmother voice, and now Tom knew she was angry, because she only resorted to smiles and sugar when she was ready to snap. “I don’t know what’s going down there in Hooterville, and I honestly don’t care. I’m telling you right now, that girl in there is your first priority. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Tom walked into his office and set his briefcase on the desk. The telephone stared at him, receiver tilted downward to the right in the perfect angle to pick up the receiver and give L
eah a call, tell her he was coming home, that he was sorry and wanted to—
The knock at the door crumbled those thoughts into dust. Rita turned the knob and stepped aside so Meagan could enter. The first thing Tom thought was how thankful he was that his receptionist/bookkeeper/bouncer had given him a warning. If she hadn’t, he felt sure the calm, objective demeanor he’d cultivated since graduate school would have shattered into a gape of shock and rage.
The makeup on Meagan’s face was meant to cover as much as it could, but all the lipstick and rouge had accomplished was to highlight what she wanted to hide. Both of Meagan’s eyes were the color of deep holes. Red scratches covered her cheeks in a zigzag pattern that looked like some grotesque road map. The bruises that had covered her arms on her last visit were now joined by fresher ones, these yellow mixed with orange. Her hands shook as if she’d been left alone in the cold. She raised her right hand to cough—coughing was what most people did when embarrassed, though the why of that had never been explained in Tom’s psychology books—and he noticed two fingernails were missing. In a fit of rage that he barely managed to keep hemmed beneath his doctor face, Tom hoped those two fingernails presently resided in Harold Gladwell’s jugular.
He moved from behind the desk as Rita guided Meagan to the leather sofa and silently excused herself. Meagan made no move for the box of tissues on the coffee table. From the way she cradled her left arm, Tom didn’t think she could. He moved the box to her right side.
“What happened?” he asked, and then he thought that was likely the most absurd question he’d ever asked a patient. It was obvious what had happened. Meagan had made another mess, and this one had been much worse than dropping a couple of dishes.
Meagan stared at a spot on the table. In a whisper Tom could barely hear, she said, “I told Harold about the baby. I prayed about it. God didn’t tell me anything, so I took that as permission. I thought it might make things better. Harold said it wasn’t his. He said I’d been sleeping around. ‘Whorin’ around,’ is what he said. He said, ‘You been whorin’ around when I’m off working and providing for you. I been busting my back while you was layin’ on yours.’” Her lips trembled, and her right arm curled around her left as if wrapping her in the sitting equivalent of a fetal position. “He said I’d lay down for anybody, and then he beat me. And then he . . .”
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