Wreath

by Judy Christie

  Living in the junkyard, she liked nature more than she had expected—except for the bugs. She had figured out quickly which birds came around at certain times and what sounds they made. The crows were the noisiest … and the nosiest. The woodpeckers were persistent. The blue jays were loud, and mockingbirds dive-bombed her if she went too close to a certain bush. As she walked, she considered checking out a book on birds.

  Wandering through downtown, Wreath chose the Dollar Barn for her shopping debut, a store she recognized from Coushatta and Oil City. These stores were cluttered and inexpensive. She figured she would blend in, just as she and Frankie had in the other ones.

  As soon as she pushed the smudged glass door open, she could tell the air-conditioning wasn’t working. The store smelled like the locker room at her old school, and the girl clerk had a small fan plugged in next to the cash register. An angry woman in an oversized housedress and terry cloth slippers jerked a screaming child by the arm, away from the candy aisle, loudly fussing without any visible results. A man in overalls paid for a gallon of milk with food stamps, and a middle-aged woman browsed through the cheap greeting cards.

  No one paid any attention to Wreath as she chose food that met the requirements on her notebook list:

  1. Cheap.

  2. Will last without a refrigerator.

  3. Can be eaten without cooking. (Need can opener.)

  4. Can be lugged back to the junkyard.

  As a treat, she chose a small sack of sale candy, passing over the chocolate for cheaper hard pieces that wouldn’t melt. Frustrated, however, she couldn’t find the item she most wanted—a big flashlight. She went up and down every aisle three times before asking for help.

  “Excuse me,” Wreath said to the clerk, who wore a store smock over a cute shirt. The girl stopped scrolling through her cell phone to look up. “Can you tell me where the flashlights are?”

  “Those are seasonal,” the clerk said, going back to her texting.

  “Seasonal?” Confusion and anger blasted through Wreath. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” the girl said in an exaggerated tone, “that we ran out, and we aren’t getting any more. Seasonal means seasonal.” A pretty teenager with a name-brand watch and a small diamond necklace, she looked out of place in the store.

  Wreath shuffled back down the aisles, picking up necessities, her head low and her mood lower.

  She could adjust to the junkyard. She really could. However, she didn’t think she could stand one more night of the pitch-black darkness, the unseen sources of weird noises in the woods, and no way to read or find her way outside. The night was too scary without a light, and her eyes filled with tears at the thought.

  Her arms full, she plopped her items on the counter, sensing her money dwindle every time the scanner beeped. She counted a few crumpled bills from her pack and wondered how she was going to keep from starving. Frankie had taught her to be thrifty at a young age, but even that wasn’t going to make her little bit of money last.

  “You might try the hardware store,” the clerk said in a friendlier voice as Wreath placed her purchases in the thin plastic bags next to the register. “They might have flashlights, and sometimes Mr. J. D.—the owner—runs sales.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Wreath said. Her relief must have shown, because the girl gave a small smile before going back to her cell phone. Carrying the sacks and fretting about the lack of a light, Wreath figured she had messed up. Landry didn’t look nearly as appealing under this load.

  Discouraged, she crossed the street and shifted the packages. Her shoulders throbbed, and she tripped on the curb, a sack tearing and precious cans of potted meat rolling down a slight hill. Frantic, she chased them, dodging a pickup whose driver gave her an annoyed look.

  The meat was vital. But at the moment, the cans looked like animated pieces in a crazy video game, rolling along the street, evading obstacles. She watched in despair as one careened right in front of an approaching delivery van, crumpling in front of her eyes. She stood so close she could smell the odor of the smashed heap, but the driver seemed not to notice and sped on down the street.

  Snagging the second can, she watched a third roll to the curb and bounce, landing next to the tire of a beat-up red bicycle propped in front of a store. Breathless, Wreath lunged for the potted meat, knocking the bike onto the sidewalk.

  Looking around to see if anyone was about to scold her, she righted the bike. Then she noticed the FOR SALE sign taped to the handlebars. Wreath touched the seat and looked at the tires, imagining how good it would feel to put her packages inside the wire basket and ride away. She knew she could not afford it, but after only one foray into town, she was tired of the long walk and dreaded the time it would take to get to school.

  The price on the bike, written in blue ink, was smudged and unreadable.

  She made a list in her mind. Perhaps having the bike could help her find a job and give her a head start if she needed to leave Landry fast. She could get to school more easily and go to the library to check out books on a regular basis. She’d have more time and energy for fixing up her camp.

  She and Frankie had almost always been broke, and she had gotten used to wanting things she couldn’t have. But she wanted this old bicycle more than she had wanted anything in a long time.

  “Use that good sense God gave you,” her mama would have said. But Wreath didn’t have money for the bike, and she needed to get back to the Rusted Estates before dark.

  With shoulders slumped, she walked five minutes before jutting her chin out, straightening her back, and exhaling the deep breath she had held. She whipped around, arms aching, the supplies heavy. She could at least look at the bike and buy a flashlight at the hardware store, maybe more expensive than one from a discount store, but even a small one would be better than nothing.

  Wreath had never been a quitter, and she was not going to start now.

  The store with the bike out front was dim and dingy when Wreath stepped in, and it took her a minute to get her bearings.

  “A bike and a flashlight, a bike and a flashlight,” she said to herself.

  Her eyes adjusting, she made immediate eye contact with a woman who looked like she was dressed for church or a funeral. Sitting in a chair, the lady did not bother to get up as Wreath stood uneasily before her.

  Neither spoke for what seemed like forever, and Wreath looked around, wondering where the hardware was.

  “Excuse me,” she finally said, disliking the woman and the quivering sound in her own voice. “Could you tell me where the flashlights are?”

  “Flashlights?” the woman snapped. “We don’t sell flashlights.”

  Her heart sank. “Oh, someone told me the hardware store had flashlights.”

  “This is a fine furniture store, or did you not notice? Durham’s Fine Furnishings.”

  Wreath looked around and saw a few pieces of what her mother and the old lady next door in Lucky might have thought of as fine furniture. Mostly she saw empty spots with dust on the floor, and a pile of junk in a back corner.

  “I thought this was a hardware store?” The sentence sounded like a question.

  “Of course not.” Disdain dripped from the woman’s voice. “That’s next door. Can’t you read?”

  “You don’t have to be rude about it,” Wreath whispered. She knew Frankie didn’t like back talking, but the woman’s attitude was uncalled for.

  As she turned to walk out, the bike caught her eye, and she remembered what had drawn her into the store. “Are you the one selling that bike?” she asked.

  “That’s why it’s sitting out front with a sign on it,” the woman said. She slowly got up from the chair, laid down the magazine she was reading, and walked to a desk piled with paperwork.

  “That’s what confused me,” Wreath said, as much to herself as the lady. “I thought this was the hardware store because it had a bike out front.”

  “As I told you, this is a fine furniture store. I need
to get rid of that bike. Do you want to buy it?”

  “How much is it?”

  “Twenty dollars. Includes the basket and an air pump.”

  “That’s a little expensive,” Wreath said, mentally counting her small stash of money. “Thanks.” She headed for the door. Stopped. Turned.

  The big desk dwarfed the woman. She looked as out of place as Wreath and Frankie had the time they had gone to a ladies’ tea at a big church in Vivian.

  “Did you forget something?” The voice had a peculiar sound to it, a coldness.

  “Would you be willing to come down on the price of the bike? I might be able to take it off your hands, get it off the front porch of your store.”

  “This isn’t a flea market,” the lady said. “I don’t haggle over prices.”

  Wreath walked to the door, not saying a word. She was reaching for the handle when the woman spoke again. “I won’t sell it for less, but I’ll throw in an old flashlight if you buy the bike for my price.”

  Wreath felt a smile come to her face, despite her attempt to remain expressionless. “Sold,” she said, and put her supplies and the dirty pack on the woman’s desk, digging out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “That all the money you got, girl?”

  Wreath considered lying, but she had grown tired of untruths in a hurry. The lies went against everything Frankie had taught her. “Just about,” she said.

  “Who are your people?”

  “My people?”

  “Landry’s a little place. Who are your kinfolk?”

  Wreath swallowed hard and decided to lie after all. “The Williams family. They live out north of town a ways.”

  “You visiting for the summer?”

  Wreath looked down at the floor. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be here for a few weeks at least.”

  “You willing to work?” The lady pushed her chair back from the desk.

  “Work?”

  “Yes, work. As in a job. Are you lazy?”

  “Oh no.” Wreath’s protests were earnest. “I just got to town, and I’m looking for a job.”

  “I need help around here. I can’t pay much, but I’ll trade you odds-and-ends and give you a few dollars. Take it or leave it.”

  Wreath considered her choices. This woman would be a pain to work for, but a bike and a light would be worth a lot of griping. The cash could pay for food, and this woman didn’t act like someone who would try to get in her business.

  “I’ll take the job,” Wreath said. The musty smell of the store nearly overpowered her as she uttered the words, but this would be a start.

  “You’ll have to work. I don’t have any use for laziness.”

  “I’m a hard worker. My mother said—says—I’m the strongest girl she’s ever seen.”

  The woman surveyed Wreath from head to toe. “Come back tomorrow at one.” She held the twenty out. “Keep your cash. I’ll take the money for the bike out of your paycheck.”

  Wreath stepped back. “I don’t take charity.”

  “You won’t think it’s charity when I put you to work,” the woman said, waving the twenty in front of Wreath. “If you want the bike and the job, take the money.”

  The generosity and the words contradicted each other, but after giving it a moment’s thought, Wreath pocketed the twenty, relief surging through her.

  “Dig around in that pile and find you a flashlight,” the woman said, pointing to the rear of the store. “There might even be an old lantern back there. You can take the bike after work tomorrow.”

  Wreath found a big used flashlight and a lantern in excellent shape and wanted to dance to the front of the store.

  “I’m Wreath, by the way,” she said as she pulled open the heavy old door to leave. “Wreath … Williams.”

  “Faye Durham,” the woman said. “Don’t be late for work.”

  Chapter 7

  As Wreath walked out of town, her packages didn’t seem so heavy.

  She used her renewed energy to look for a new route, a path on which she might go undetected. She walked down three streets, turned around, and finally wound back to the road, still quite a ways from the junkyard.

  Taking the bike home today would have been nice, but she knew her new boss didn’t trust her to return. Plenty of Frankie’s friends and relatives made promises they didn’t keep, so Wreath understood.

  Faye Durham was the boss’s name. Durham, it dawned on Wreath. As in Durham’s Fine Furnishings.

  Mrs. Durham must be the owner’s wife, because she sure didn’t seem like someone who ran a store every day.

  Wreath thought of the money she could make and the purchases she needed to set up housekeeping. She would have lots of lists to put into her journal tonight.

  The slight tap of a horn interrupted her thoughts.

  “Hop in, and I’ll take you where you need to go. Looks like we’re in for a storm.”

  Wreath looked over to see Clarice’s now familiar car. This woman sure showed up a lot of places.

  Clarice rolled to a stop, and Wreath’s eyes darted from side to side, looking for an escape. “Are you following me?” she asked, walking on, shifting her pack and the plastic sacks from arm to arm.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” Clarice said with a smile. “Every time I turn around, there you are.”

  Wreath rubbed her right shoulder and glanced at the car.

  “I’ll pop the trunk, and you can put all that stuff in there,” Clarice said. “I’m sure your mother wouldn’t forgive me if I let you get rained on.”

  “My mother?”

  “You said you and your mom are visiting relatives. Looks like we might be in for rain. I don’t think she’d like you coming in looking like a drowned rat.”

  Studying the clouds, Wreath inhaled a big breath, and her shoulders sagged. “If you’re sure you don’t mind,” she said. “I hate for you to go to any trouble.”

  “My pleasure. I told you I live north of here. It’s not out of my way at all.”

  Wreath put her purchases, including the lantern and flashlight, in the trunk and climbed into the comfortable car. She had not noticed the ominous clouds, and she certainly didn’t want to get drenched now that she was loaded down with supplies.

  “I saw you headed to the library earlier. Did you check out any books?” Clarice asked as they started north on the two-lane road.

  “Not today,” Wreath said. “But it’s a nice library.”

  “Do you like to read?”

  “For sure.” Wreath turned in the seat to look at the older woman, a hint of excitement in her throat. “Do you?”

  “Always have. I keep a big stack of books I want to read. I like novels about the South and biographies. How about you? Any favorites?”

  Wreath paused to think about the question, one Frankie had never asked her. “I like all sorts of books, except not science fiction. I mostly like stories with happy endings.”

  “My all-time favorite book is To kill a Mockingbird,” Clarice said. “What’s your number one favorite?”

  “When I was a kid, I liked those books about the Boxcar Children, how their grandfather found them and helped them out,” Wreath said. “And I like that book about Anne Frank’s diary. It got me started keeping a journal.”

  “I like that book, too.” Clarice pointed at a crossroads ahead. “Which way?” she asked.

  Wreath was puzzled, caught up in thinking about favorite books.

  “Which way to where you’re staying?” Clarice asked.

  She squirmed, not a clue where to have Clarice drop her. “My family lives out past the state park.”

  “So who are your people in Landry?” Clarice asked. “Was it a cousin or aunt, you said?”

  Wreath flinched at having leaked information. “They’re relatives on my mother’s side. I’m staying a few more weeks before heading home. They’re the Williams family.” She realized immediately the lie was a mistake. If she had run into Clarice three times already, there was a good chance i
t would happen again. And she didn’t know any Williamses.

  “Or my mama may decide to move down here for good,” Wreath said. “Then I’d live in Landry till I finish high school.” It was as though the spigot had opened on the garden hose, and untruths gushed out. Having her mother join them would surely be a trick, although Frankie would fit right into the junkyard. Even her ghost would be better company than the frogs and mice and what seemed to be a coyote that made Wreath’s skin crawl in the middle of the night.

  “This is good,” Wreath said as a row of ramshackle mobile homes came into sight. “My cousins live near there where that door is open. They smoke a lot, and they don’t have air-conditioning. It’s stifling. Not that I’m complaining, because they have been great to let us visit.”

  She couldn’t stop babbling, making up one false detail after another.

  The woman pulled into the drive and got out of the car, causing Wreath to panic. She fully expected Clarice to ask to meet her mother and stay for a chat with the Williams family, whoever they were.

  However, Clarice merely walked to the trunk and helped Wreath unload her belongings, touched the girl lightly on the arm, and said good-bye, handing her a bottle of water through the window.

  “I’ll keep an eye out for you,” Clarice said, “and here’s my card, if you ever want to call. I’d be glad to pick you up, help you out.”

  Wreath’s eyes drifted down as the woman drove off.

  Clarice Johnson, Attorney-at-Law, Johnson, Estes, and Johnson in Alexandria.

  Clarice was a lawyer!

  The dust from the car hung in the air as Wreath set her belongings on the ground and regained her wits.

  Moving to the side of the trailer, she walked into a small overgrown area, sat on the ground, and began to kill time, wanting Clarice to be long gone before she walked to the junkyard. With no one else in sight, Wreath pulled her journal out, her brain eager to spill onto the page. She started scribbling, words pouring onto the lined paper.