Up ahead lay downtown, the heart of Hangwell. Main Street, of course, was where the money-makers, the real business contingent of Hangwell took up roost. Bank president Terrence J. Thomason (his father a master of alliteration) was bent over in front of his bank’s door, keys in hand, opening up for the day. Alternately the most well-liked and most reviled man in town, folks often didn’t know where they stood with the banker. Like the wind, he could come calling either way, foreclosing at a whim or handing out a loan on his more fair-weather days.
I whizzed by him, tossed off a wave and a howdy. “Morning, Mr. Thomason!”
He started, straightened. His impressive belly kept him centered, all things balanced. He hollered, “Morning, Dibby! Careful how you ride!”
A grim reaper of the banking trade, Mr. Thomason hadn’t seen fit to come calling on Dad yet, our death business healthy and doing just fine. I imagined the bank and our funeral home would probably be the last two businesses standing in Hangwell, even after the advent of an atomic bomb.
I zipped down the street, past “Carol’s”—the finest and only diner in town—and flew by the aptly named “Tavern,” closed until late afternoon. As one might imagine, the Tavern had proven to be a strong spot of contention amongst the townsfolk: the Baptists wanted it shuttered permanently and the Catholics didn’t mind it as long as it stayed closed on Sundays. Even though the two reigning groups of religion both followed the peaceful teachings of Jesus, they couldn’t get along worth a spit, more than once nearing fisticuffs. Regardless, the Tavern was here to stay. A loyal group of farmers—led by crickety ol’ Hy Thurgood—saw to that, keeping the bar’s doors open unto the wee hours.
The competing churches, Hangwell Baptist and The Holy Mary Shrine of God Catholic Church, sat catty-wampus across from one another making for some interesting showdowns come Sundays once both churches let out.
The post office flashed by, as did the Hangwell Public Library (a place where I hung my boots on many a day). Ever regal, the Starlight Cinema stood tall and proud, vigilant over the rest of the two-level brick and glass buildings. Its marquee—unlit and less glossy by day—proudly heralded the upcoming The Curse of the Fly, the third in the series, already planned on my agenda come opening night.
Next to the cinema stood the town’s sole hotel, The Lewis and Clark. Lots of folks doubted either Lewis or Clark ever set toe into the dusty, two-story establishment, but try telling that to the proprietors, the crabby-as-could-be Clarks. Harold Clark even claimed to be a descendant of his famous namesake, another point of controversy. Still, visitors didn’t have much choice should they choose to stay over in Hangwell.
Rodney Simonson, Hangwell’s pharmacist, busied himself sweeping off his drug store’s stoop. Dressed in his form-hugging, white pharmacist’s smock, he turned and swirled with his broom, practicing his much ballyhooed prowess on the dance floor. I’d had many an encounter with Mr. Simonson, usually with gosh-awful tasting results. He loved to ladle out syrups with gruesome ingredients. Still, as Dad said, he’s a man you wanted on your side should the fever claim you. In my younger years, I fretted over that, wondering just how in the world things could possibly get worse than Mr. Simonson’s latest concoction.
“Morning, Mr. Simonson!”
“That it is, Dibby.” He maintained his typical sleepy monotone, better suited for Dad’s line of work. Maybe they were in secret collusion, Mr. Simonson hastening Dad’s flow of business with his vile line of prescriptions.
The combination police and fire station sat on the very edge of downtown, strategically placed to watch over the entirety of Hangwell. While strange occurrences and unexplained disappearances were all too common in Hangwell, our actual crime rate stayed low. Things as they were, there didn’t appear to be much call for more than Sheriff Grigsby and Fire Chief Wakuna. More often than not, they’d trade hats, help one another out in a pinch. Other than tending to an occasional rowdy good time down at the Tavern, most of their job consisted of strolling downtown or checking into the odd animal mutilation. And eating lots of pastries at Carol’s Diner.
On the other side of Main, on Hollow Crick Road, smaller stores and businesses, a service station, a seed and feed store (the porch always full of big men with little ambition), Doc Bracket’s little office, and a couple of other odds and ends comprised the rest of downtown.
On occasion, I’d ride down Hollow Crick, too, but nothing gave me greater satisfaction than watching Main Street wake up.
I left the business district, came upon my old grade school, the unimaginatively titled “Main Street Grade School.” The school opened up an hour after the high school did, so the parking lot and the playground sat nearly empty. Except for Odie Smith, the one constant in my morning rides.
Odie swung on the swing set, his legs lifting, folding. The bars wobbled above him, the chains rattled in his hands. Not fat by any means—maintaining good shape via his daily postal delivery routes—the swing set nonetheless hitched a fit beneath his adult weight. As always, he held his breakfast sack in his lap, never straying from his two muffins—corn and blueberry—purchased from Carol’s Diner the night before.
Like his name, Odie made for an odd sight, but the townsfolk let him be, pretty much a tradition.
“How’s breakfast, Mr. Smith?” I yelled.
“Never better! And I told you a thousand times, Dibby…call me Odie!”
Mr. Smith was the only adult who didn’t stand on tradition by having kids refer to him by his proper name, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe when I turned sixteen in a couple months.
The high school just ahead, right before Main Street petered out into endless farmlands, I pushed myself faster. The school bell clanged. Kids separated from mulling about the flagpole and sitting on the front steps. I burst onto school property, skidded to a stop. Behind the front fence, I slashed my bike into the rack and ran into school before the second bell rang.
Just in time, the way I always did it.
* * *
As the class-bell triggered, I slipped into my seat. Mrs. Hopkins favored me with a sour eye. Wrinkles wadded up her face, pruned too long in the sun. One of the class cut-ups had once likened Mrs. Hopkins to an old tree’s core with each wrinkle representing another year she’d spent teaching. Personally, I had no foul with my tenth grade teacher, even though I suspected she nurtured a deep down dislike for me because I was so different from the other girls.
That sat just fine with me. Rocks settle in all paths from time to time.
As usual, Mrs. Hopkins led us through the Lord’s Prayer, something Dad had ranted against for years, an irritating sore spot to him. To avoid a level of embarrassment I never wanted to visit, I constantly calmed Dad down before he stormed my school in outrage.
Mrs. Hopkins stood, cleared her throat like a grinding tractor engine. “Quiet, class!” When my classmates ignored her, she turned a fine shade of red. “I said quiet!” Her ruler whacked down hard on her desk, her third one this school year. Her methods were effective, though. Fear tamed even the football goofs.
“Today, we have a new student joining us. Principal Brining is currently—”
The door opened, slammed with a loud thwack. A long, lanky boy slouched in, cheeky in sunglasses. He stood, surveyed the class, slowly taking us all in like he’d never seen such a strange sight.
But he conjured the startling new sight, one dreamed up in Hollywood.
A turtleneck sweater hugged him, lucky garment. His mop top of brown hair drooped onto his collar, over his sunglasses, just like one of the Beatles. Faded jeans fit tight, then ballooned into bell bottoms.
He dang well knew how to enter a room. No one said anything, even Mrs. Hopkins was at a loss for words. Classroom fashion styles—pencil skirts and tapered slacks for the girls; checkered shirts, slim trousers and hooded pullovers for the boys—had just been rendered extinct. A new breed walked the earth, an absolutely dreamy one.
Granted, the pickings in Hangwell h
ad always been slim at best, but this was the first time I’d ever immediately gone head over heels for a boy; a bell-clanging, siren-whistling crush that made me feel stupid and silly just like the other girls. Part of it was the boy’s freshness, I’m sure, not a bit stale. I knew this, intellectually I did, yet I still couldn’t repress my loosey-goosey urges. I scrunched down in my seat, suddenly very self-aware of my over-alls and plaid shirt.
A few of the girls, including the inexplicably popular and monstrous Suzette, went aflutter. Excited whispers bubbled over into titters, a bunch of chickens het up by the wolf at their door.
Appearing on the verge of a heart attack, Mrs. Hopkins strode across the classroom. Her ankles cracked in metronome precision until she stopped in front of the new boy. She yanked off his sunglasses. “Mr. Mackleby, I presume.”
“You presume right.” Without his sassy sunglasses, he looked even cuter. Eyes as brown as caramel, they’d easily melt in the sun. He grinned, displayed a smoker’s yellowed teeth, but I reckoned even Adonis had a flaw.
“We do not wear sunglasses inside the classroom, Mr. Mackleby.” Mrs. Hopkins snapped back to her desk, deposited the glasses into her drawer of collectables. “Class, this is James Mackleby. He’ll be joining us for the near future. Please have a seat…next to Miss Caldwell.”
Of course the seat next to me was always vacant, the way I preferred it. I rearranged my preferences, straightened up a bit in my chair.
Fluidly, James slid into the next desk, everything about him understated and easy. He looked around, his gaze eventually landing on me. Caught me red-handed staring at him. I jumped, nearly yelped, and fled to the safety of my English book. But his gravitational pull proved magnetic, same as that ol’ moth drawn to his light bulb doom.
When I dared look his way again, James flashed the prettiest color of yellow teeth I’d ever laid eyes on.
And I do believe I flooded redder than Mrs. Hopkins on a sun-baked day.
* * *
School proved to be particularly trying. Especially with James—James. Even his name sounded like a poet’s—next to me, his charisma smoldering, burning the edges of my thoughts. I felt his heat as surely as I did the last hot days of summer.
As soon as the final bell mercifully released me from my suffering, I made a beeline straight to the bike rack. I dared one last look over my shoulder. The wolves had moved in on the meat, Suzette leading the pack. Hungry, they circled James. Suzette toyed with her blonde locks, tilting her head in that dopey, beyond lazy way that every other boy found alluring.
I’d almost made my escape, vowing to put a little effort into my wardrobe tomorrow, when a voice called out, “Hey!” A rich, deep voice of culture from lands far away.
Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh…
I stood, straddling my bike, feet anchored to the ground, head shooting for the clouds. My mouth hung open, ready to catch flies. “You talking to me?”
“Sure am.” James broke from the pack, jogged toward me. Just like a movie star, he swept his hair aside, slipped his sunglasses on. Stroked the handles of my bike. “Boss bike.”
I didn’t know from “boss,” but I intuited it as a good thing. “Thanks. It was a birthday gift. You know…until I drive.” Wishful thinking, of course. But I thought it sounded kinda mature.
“That’s mine over there.” He pointed to a road-beaten, black bike, patched together with rust and stickers.
Without trying to offend regarding his eyesore of transportation, I offered, “I reckon it is.”
He laughed. “It’s kinda a wreck, I know. I’m James.” He stuck out his hand, took off his sunglasses to show who he really was. A move I much appreciated.
I accepted his handshake, gave it a firm up and down, the way Dad’d taught me to do regardless of gender. His grip felt warm and nice. “I know. I’m Dibby. Dibby Caldwell.”
“Yeah, I caught your last name earlier. But ‘Dibby’? That’s kinda…weird.”
“I suppose it is as I’ve never met another Dibby. I’ve always suspected my folks made a mistake on my birth certificate. Meant to call me Debby. But the name just stuck.”
“I’m glad it did. I mean, your name. I like it.”
“Thanks.” The boy was full of compliments. Good manners suggested I return some, but I couldn’t, not without unleashing a vapid, giggly teen. “So…why’re you here?”
“Finer learning, I guess.”
“No…I mean, why’d you move to Hangwell?”
“Oh…well, Dad’s an agriculturalist. An expert on mechanized milking or something dumb like that. The government hired him to run a milking parlor in Durham. That’s the next—”
“Yep. The next town over.”
“Yeah. But there wasn’t anything in Durham. I mean, no schools, no available homes, not even a hotel. So Dad packed us up, moved us to Dullsville, Kansas.”
That struck a nerve. Hangwell may be many things, but dull didn’t suit it. “That’s my town you’re disregarding.”
His hands went up. “Hey, everything’s copacetic. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just…well, hell’s bells, we’re staying at The Lewis and Clark Hotel until Mom can find us a house. Place is the pits. And some damn dog keeps barking all night. Guess I’m tired.”
“Welcome to Hangwell. And it ‘pears you’ve met Mittens.”
“Mittens? That’s a cat’s name.”
“Not this critter. It’s a dog. Well, I ‘spose I should say it used to be a dog. Now it’s the dog’s ghost haunting the hotel.”
A slow grin hauled James’ cheekbones high. “Come on… I’m no rube. I’m from Los Angeles! There’s no such thing as ghosts. Especially a ghost dog. With a cat name.”
“Say what you will, but there’s a lot about Hangwell you don’t know. Mittens belonged to Harold Clark’s grandfather. You probably met Mr. Clark?”
“The guy with the bushels of hair sticking out his ears?”
“That’d be him all right. Anyway, legend has it, Mittens—a Doberman by breed—used to bark up a storm day and night at the hotel. Just a’barking away at nothing, not a thing folks could see anyway. Closed doors, empty halls, as if he saw something that wasn’t there. Then one day Mittens up and disappeared.” I snapped my fingers for effect. “But folks could still hear Mittens barking away at night, fit to raise the dead. But they could never find him, though. Just heard his barks coming from the walls and the basement and the attic. Everywhere at the same time, yet nowhere. To this day, folks hear him bark. Me? I never heard ol’ Mittens, but that’s more than likely ‘cause I never had reason to stay over at the Lewis and Clark. I’m surely not gonna disregard the legend outta hand.”
James’ striking yet dull, eyes finally alit with a eureka moment. “I saw the dog’s photo in the lobby! Big framed photo. I just thought it was a—what’s it called?—double exposure. Because I could see right through the dog.”
“That’d be Mittens.”
“I’m still not buying it. Is this some kinda town initiation or something?” He shook his shaggy head, not yet ready to accept the peculiar side of Peculiar County. “You pulling my leg?”
He needed a tour guide and it appeared that particular job would have to fall on me. “Hangwell’s no ordinary town, James. Your education’s gonna have to travel further than Mrs. Hopkins’ class.”
“You gonna play teacher?” His sunglasses went back on. So did his arrogant—and altogether irresistible—bad boy smile.
“Reckon I am.” Daring, at least for me, I sped away on my bike, teasing him, grinning, inviting him to chase me.
Chapter Three
We got sidetracked. Headed toward downtown, James fell behind. On Hollow Crick Road—just one block north of Main—he hollered after me. I wheeled my Raleigh around. Out of breath, he’d stopped, now walking his bike up the gravel drive between the fortress-like oak trees guarding the cemetery.
I turned back and rode into the wooded cemetery grounds. James had staked out a piece of shade, fl
at on his back beneath the “Judge’s Tree.” Plum tuckered out, his chest heaved up and down, one hand gripping the wheel of his carelessly slung bike, the other shielded over his eyes.
“I’m not used to tough bike rides in Los Angeles,” he said.
“Spoiled rotten city slicker.” Carefully, I laid my Raleigh down, far from the Judge’s Tree. Even though I wasn’t prone to superstition—regardless of what happened last night—it never hurt to be cautious.
I sat down next to James, keeping a leery eye on the Judge’s Tree at all times.
He reached into his sock, pulled out a beaten package of Lark cigarettes. Before he could strike a match, I snatched the cigarette away from him.
“Hey, what’re you doing?”
“Saving you.”
“From what?”
I sighed. The boy seemed several loads light in the head. “First, smoking’s bad for you.”
“That’s not what the commercials say.” He scoffed, swept his hair out of his eyes, a rebel looking for a cause.
“Have you ever seen someone die from cigarettes?”
He thought about it. “No. Have you?”
“Yup. Seen a lot of dead bodies.”
“Really? What a gasser! How? Where?”
Although most kids my age find Dad’s vocation distasteful, James appeared far from being like most kids. “I live in a funeral home. Dad’s a mortician.”
“He makes dead people pretty and ready for burial and stuff?” I nodded. “Cool! Can I come over?”
In the past, Dad had been particularly touchy about allowing me into his basement workshop, let alone any acquaintances, few as they may be. On the rare occasions Dad had allowed me into the forbidden basement, he’d cleaned up ahead of time, nary a corpse nor drop of blood on display. Disappointing and boring hardly did it justice.
Peculiar Country Page 2
