Jim himself wasn’t the practical joker type and his father hadn’t been, either. He wanted to tell her that, but the glinty lights in her eyes seemed to dare him to contradict her. Why did she have to make everything a contest of will? He had done all this research, but he wasn’t even allowed to have an opinion. He turned away, tried not to be disappointed, angry.
“You don’t want to believe it,” she said.
“I’m thinking,” he snapped.
And he was. Trying, at least, though she wasn’t making it easy. His father had been the youngster of the group, just tagging along, like Everett had said. If he was involved in the haunting, that wasn’t so bad. Except that it was because of the haunting that Francis was caught when he came home from starting the fire. So in a way, his father and Eldon were responsible for him being sent away to reform school.
Jim tried to imagine being sent away from home. How horrible it would be to feel responsible for someone else being sent away. No wonder his dad was so down when Francis Tuffy Tufts died. Down enough to quit school. It explained a lot. In fact…
Jim looked at Ruth Rose. “What if Tuffy got really bent out of shape — depressed — at reform school. Like he was pretty nuts to begin with, but being locked up pushed him over the edge. So he came back to make a point.”
“Make a point?”
“Suicide,” said Jim. “The fire, I mean. Like it was a statement or something. It was meant to make my dad and Eldon feel bad. Which it did, big time.”
He looked at Ruth Rose for encouragement. But she had turned her attention back to the article. Her forehead was wrinkled in thought.
“Or,” she said, “it wasn’t suicide.”
Her eyes locked on Jim’s. “They say Francis Tufts owned up to being the ghost when he got arrested. He didn’t point the finger at anybody else. Which could mean one, he did it all by himself, which seems pretty unlikely; or two, he didn’t rat on the others.”
“Which would make them kind of owe him,” said Jim.
“Right,” said Ruth Rose. “You said your bus driver called Fisher a real wheeler-dealer. So what if he cut a deal with Tuffy? ‘You take the fall and when you get out I’ll make it worth your while?’”
Jim wrinkled his nose. “How would he do that?”
“He was rich, or at least his daddy was. Bet he promised him money or something. Maybe he was going to come into his inheritance when he graduated from college.”
“I still don’t get why Tuffy would go for it.”
Ruth Rose looked exasperated, as if she were talking to an infant. “He was caught red-handed. He was going to jail anyway. So at least this way, he has something to look forward to. Except that when he gets out and comes back, Fisher tells him to beat it, or whatever. So Tuffy threatens to expose him — them, I mean, your daddy, too. Then, kazam! Tuffy goes up in flames. Pretty convenient.”
“Murder?“
She shrugged, but there was a satisfied look on her face.
“So you’re saying Fisher murdered Tuffy?”
Ruth Rose threw her head back against the couch. Jim was staring at her pale, thin neck when her head jerked forward again, and her eyes were filled with irritation.
“When are you gonna get it?” she said. “When are you going to face facts? We’re not just talking about Fisher, here, Jim.”
The insinuation was unmistakable. Jim blew up.
“Bullshit!”
Suddenly, there was a crash from the kitchen.
They both jumped to their feet. Snoot dashed past them, her hair on end. Ruth Rose grabbed a broom that was leaning against the wall and held it like a pike staff. They waited for another sound — the floor to creak, something else to break, someone to speak.
Nothing.
Jim sneaked towards the door and peered into the kitchen. Some crockery lay broken on the floor by the sink, supper scraps scattered all around it. This was a mystery that didn’t take much to solve.
Jim turned to Ruth Rose. “I’ll need your weapon,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though his eyes gave away his anger at her. She was sitting on the couch again with the broom across her lap. She looked shaken, all the swagger and dark suspicion drained from her eyes. He snatched the broom from her.
He swept up the damage and then spent some time stoking up the fire, not wanting to talk to her, wishing she had never shown up. It was as if she wanted to hurt him, wanted him to feel the way she felt. As if she was lighting a fuse and waiting for the explosion…
When he returned to the parlour, Ruth Rose was fast asleep on the couch. Jim almost wanted to shake her awake, but he knew it would be fruitless. She was all done in. It was a relief, really. He couldn’t go through any more of this with her now. His father a murderer: the idea was absurd.
After a moment of just standing over her, watching her, he found her a blanket. Then he took the seat across from her. It was piled with his mom’s sewing stuff and clothes in need of repair. He moved them aside and sat staring at Ruth Rose in a stillness broken only by the pounding of his heart and the steady rainfall outside. Even in her sleep, Ruth Rose’s face was creased in a frown.
The heat came in waves from the kitchen stove. Jim found himself drifting off, his mind a jumble. There were a lot of ways to read the few so-called facts. And you brought to the facts what you wanted — what you needed to believe.
“All we’ve got in this God-forsaken corner of the county is history.” That’s what his father used to say.
If only history would stay where it belonged, thought Jim. And with that sobering thought, he picked himself up, switched off the light and went up into the cold.
15
In Jim’s dream, the Godmobile sailed into the farmyard without a sound, on a muddy lake of fall rain. And out of the car stepped Father Fisher, in his long black coat and with his black hat pulled low over his eyes, gliding towards the house, soundless and strong.
Then Ruth Rose was shaking Jim, shaking him hard.
“Wake up, wake up!”
Jim woke into the cold of his room with Ruth Rose sitting on the bed beside him.
“He’s back!” she was saying, but it took him a moment to realize she meant for real.
He crawled to the end of his bed and peered through the curtains to see the van in the yard, its motor and lights off, the driver still sitting inside.
“What do we do?” asked Ruth Rose.
Jim got his robe from the back of the door. “I’ll talk to him,” he said.
“Are you crazy?”
Jim didn’t feel crazy. He felt scared. But he didn’t want her to see it. She followed him along the upstairs hall.
“Don’t let him in,” she whispered.
“Are you crazy?” he replied.
Something told him that meeting Father Fisher at the door was somehow a better plan than giving him the chance to break in.
“Stay up here,” he said.
Descending the stairs, he peered through the landing window in time to see Father crossing the yard. By the time he reached the darkened kitchen, Father was knocking on the door.
“I know you’re there, Jim,” he was shouting. “It’s an emergency, son.”
Jim flipped on the light and stood as tall as he could, staring out at the shadowy figure on the porch.
“There you are,” said the pastor. His voice grew friendlier. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
Jim approached the door and turned on the porch light so he could see the man outside more clearly.
His coat was undone; his hat hid his eyes.
“I’m not allowed to let anyone in,” said Jim.
Fisher rattled the doorknob. “Oh, come on, Jimbo, it’s freezing out here.” He made a big deal of wrapping his arms around himself, shivering and smiling in a familiar way.
“Not anyone.”
Fisher held up his hand in a placating gesture. “I understand,” he said. “Your mother is a sensible woman and such a precaution makes good sense. But listen t
o me, Jimbo—”
“Don’t call me that,” said Jim, surprising himself as much as he surprised Father Fisher. A convulsion of annoyance rippled across the man’s bland face. It passed in an instant, but it was as if his mask had slipped a bit and Jim didn’t like what he saw poking out from behind it. He stepped away from the door.
“Your mother is not being sensible about one thing, Jim. Ruth Rose is here.”
“No,” lied Jim without even the slightest compunction.
“Oh, please,” said Father Fisher, making no attempt this time to hide his anger. “I smelled her, Jim. Her perfume. She was here when I came earlier. I’m always leery of people who wear too much perfume. It makes me wonder what kind of stink they are trying to cover up.”
Jim rubbed the sleep from his eyes. There seemed to be some kind of stain on the lapel of Father Fisher’s coat. Father noticed Jim’s attention waver.
“Your mother lied to me, Jim,” he said. “That saddens me.”
“No, she didn’t,” said Jim, no longer caring what he said. “Ruth Rose was here, but she ran away.”
Fisher looked exasperated. “When I arrived home, I found that my wife had also run away. I guess we’ve got ourselves some kind of epidemic. There was a note explaining how her mother had phoned and was ill. But, interestingly, when I checked Call Return on the telephone, I found that the last call had come not from her ailing mother, but from here.”
“So what.”
The pastor held up his hand and managed a patient smile. “There isn’t time for games,” he said. He took off his hat and pressed his face up near the glass. He rearranged the mask again into a church-door greeting. “She has stolen something, Jim. It’s that simple. I’m not going to harm her, I swear.”
“That isn’t what she thinks.” It was out before Jim could stop himself. He saw the lights go on in Father Fisher’s eyes. “That’s why she ran away,” he added. But Fisher wasn’t fooled.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with you, Jim,” he said.
Jim looked at the clock on the wall — 3:00 AM. What could he want at three in the morning? He was drawn irresistibly towards the door, right up to the glass. This made Father smile even more confidently. But Jim was only examining his face. There was a cut, a bruise. Some kind of abrasion on his right cheek bone. His eye was half closed by swelling.
The pastor raised his hand to touch the injury. “I had a fall,” he said and sighed. “Young man, it has been quite a night, let me tell you.” He put his hands together. “Believe me, all I want is something of mine that Ruth Rose has taken. She can’t possibly understand what it means, but I am sure she will have been quick to interpret it in the worst possible light. I must have it back, Jim. Please understand that.”
Jim stood in stunned silence. Ruth Rose had shown him nothing. Was she holding out on him? It didn’t make any sense. Slowly he shook his head. Then he gazed again at the pastor’s face.
“Looks like you were in a fight, Father.”
Fisher turned away to compose himself, but there was nothing he could do to hide his agitation.
“She is sick. I tried to explain that to you,” he said. “That child you are harbouring is deluded. She has terrible, morbid fantasies.”
Jim didn’t want to listen. He concentrated on Father’s wounds and something else. His cross was gone. The crucifix he always wore — had been wearing earlier that evening — was no longer around his neck.
“Her stories sound real, Jim — frighteningly real — because she truly believes them. She doesn’t mean to lie; she can’t help it.”
But Jim was distracted yet again. The rain had let up, the wind had stalled. And in the country quiet beyond the hectoring voice of the pastor, Jim thought he heard a noise a long way off.
Father Fisher rattled the doorknob again. “All right, all right,” he said, his voice both tired and exasperated. “Do you think I don’t know why she has come to you? There is a hole in your life, isn’t there, Jim? The horrible mystery of your father’s disappearance. And suddenly there is this girl who can supply a ready-made explanation. An explanation that nicely coincides with her favourite fantasy. And you fell for it.”
Jim was shaking now.
“She’s dangerous, Jim. You’re afraid to open the door, but believe me, the lunatic is in there with you.”
“Please go away,” said Jim.
“Hub was my friend, Jim. You know that.”
“Please!” Jim yelled it this time and he moved towards the phone. “I’m calling my mother.” That was enough to silence the pastor, and in the silence came a sound from across the fields. Something coming.
Father Fisher heard the sound, too. Jim’s heart leapt; he knew for sure now what it was. He raced to the door.
The cornfield dog.
Poochie came barking out of the night like a wild chunk of moonlight. He came straight towards the back porch, barking his fool head off. The pastor turned to face him, leaning his back against the door.
There were scratches on his neck.
The dog stopped at the foot of the back stairs, his hackles bristling, his muzzle snarling.
Jim laughed. He couldn’t help himself.
Fisher yelled at the dog.
Poochie stood his ground. He even bounded up the steps, snapping his jaws, making Fisher flinch.
“Get out of here! Go home.” Fisher sidled along the porch to the wood pile and grabbed a piece of iron-wood as thick as his wrist. The dog dashed away when Fisher threatened him, but came back for more. Fisher finally started edging away from the door down the length of the porch, his back against the brick wall, making his way towards the front yard. The dog raced after him, leaping at him.
Jim went to the front window and watched as the pastor walked in long strides towards the van, whirling around to ward off the dog that hounded his every step.
As the door of the van finally opened, a loud hallelujah escaped from Jim. “Way to go, Poochie,” he yelled, spinning around in a pyjama victory dance. The pastor threw the ironwood at the dog, missing him, then he jumped into the van. The door slammed shut and the engine started, drowning out Poochie’s noise.
Jim ran upstairs, calling Ruth Rose’s name all the way.
“Did you see it?” he shouted from the landing, out of breath. “Did you see it?” He turned to look out the landing window.
The van had not moved. He climbed the last flight of stairs.
“Where are you?” he called.
She appeared from the darkened doorway of the spare bedroom. Behind her, he saw the curtains billow in. The window was wide open. Her eyes looked strange.
Everything Father had been telling Jim suddenly flooded his mind. Then he noticed that Ruth Rose was holding something silver between her lips.
“What is that?”
She held it up. “A dog whistle,” she said.
“I didn’t hear any whistle.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she said. “You’re not a dog. You didn’t hear it when I called him out in the back field, either.” Then she filled her cheeks and blew as hard as she could. Jim heard nothing, but out in the front yard Poochie went into a frenzy of howling.
“Brilliant!”
Then they tore into Jim’s front room and pulled back the curtains. The van still had not moved. And as they watched, the engine was turned off.
“Get your clothes on,” commanded Ruth Rose in a low voice. Jim grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on over his pyjamas, grabbed his sneakers, didn’t bother with his socks. Ruth Rose swore under her breath. Jim was on his knees feeling for his sweater under his bed. Then he heard the door of the van slam shut again.
When Jim joined Ruth Rose at the window, Father Fisher was opening the cargo door. He closed it and stood with a tire iron in his hand.
Poochie danced and barked just out of range of Fisher’s raised hand. Then the pastor moved with a quickness that startled Jim, and the tire iron came down wickedly across the dog�
�s back. Poochie yowled and bellied to the ground. Ruth Rose screamed.
Father Fisher straightened up, tall, and stared towards Jim’s window as the dog slunk away into the darkness, yelping.
Jim grabbed Ruth Rose by the arm, “Let’s get out of here,” he said and dragged her towards the stairs. But even as they reached the landing they heard the sound of the back door crashing open.
Jim swore. “He found the spare key,” he said bitterly. Then he grabbed Ruth Rose and headed back upstairs.
“Children,” boomed the voice of Father Fisher. “Enough of this foolishness.”
16
At the far end of the upstairs hallway stood a door that led to a room above the kitchen. The Hawkins family called it the apartment. It was a spacious room with windows on three sides. There had been some thought a few years earlier of converting it into a granny flat for Hub’s mother, but she had opted for a seniors’ home, and the room was only used for storage now. Iris had stacked insulation against the door in an effort to keep the heating costs down. It made the door difficult to open.
“Help me!” Jim whispered. Ruth Rose immediately put her shoulder to the door and, after a few shoves, they were able to squeeze through. There was a latch on the inside. It wasn’t much but it was something.
Yard light spilled into the crowded room, casting jumbly shadows. There were odd bits of furniture and cardboard boxes laden with junk. Sheets covered a dresser, a rocking chair, a sofa. Everything glowed a ghastly yellow. Ruth Rose began to pile things, as soundlessly as possible, against the door.
Father’s voice drifted up from the first floor. “I can only be so patient,” he said.
Jim was already at the front window of the apartment.
“We can climb out onto the porch roof,” he whispered. He turned the latch on the top of the sash and heaved up. Nothing happened.
They heard the pastor on the stairs. “Ruth Rose, leave the poor boy alone. He’s got problems enough of his own without you adding to them.”
The Boy in the Burning House Page 11
