Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

So, in the spirit of exploration, late at night I’d had to venture forth on my own to view Dad’s latest works in progress. Of course Dad had always made a strong case against the perils of smoking, but once I snuck down and saw ol’ Jeb Wells’ green and emaciated corpse—a victim of smoking cancer—laid out and open like a human book, I became a believer in the health hazards of smoking.

  As much as the thought of inviting someone into my world—especially someone like James—sounded mighty enticing, I put my foot down. “Dad doesn’t let me near his work lab. He dang sure won’t let you visit.”

  “Come on… Please?”

  Course he had me at begging, his brown puppy dog eyes hard to ignore. “Let me think on it.”

  His eyes slipped from sleepy to red hot. “Man, that’d be a gasser!” To celebrate his perceived victory, he stuck another cigarette between his lips.

  “Uh-uh, nope.” Again, I snagged it. This time I snapped it in half.

  “Aah! Why’d you do that?”

  “I told you, I’m trying to save you.”

  “Everybody else smokes. Just go with the flow, baby.”

  I tried to ignore how he’d addressed me as “baby,” I truly did. No one’d ever called me that before. In fact, I’d never heard anyone speak quite like James before, his hip language lifted from beatniks on TV programs.

  “Not only is it bad for your health, you could get in big trouble smoking here in Hangwell.”

  “Yeah? Like how?”

  “Sheriff Grigsby, for one. He doesn’t much cotton to kids acting like adults. Besides, you’re breaking the law. You’ll end up in jail and I don’t mean maybe.”

  “Ahhh, I’m not afraid of the heat.”

  “You haven’t met our Sheriff, then. And you oughta respect where you are. If you insist on smoking, I’d be real careful where you do it.”

  “What? Here?” As if just noticing his surroundings for the first time, James looked around. His jaw near loosened once he saw the Hangwell Cemetery 100 feet or so beyond the Judge’s Tree. “This place is really gone, Dibs! I love cemeteries!”

  “First lesson, look above you. Best respect the Judge’s Tree if you know what’s good for you. Don’t litter. And for Pete’s sake, don’t smoke around it.”

  James looked up at the skeletal remains of the Judge’s Tree. Since I’d been knee-high to my dad, I’d never seen the old elm sprout any leaves. The gnarled trunk had three central knots: two blank eyes and a silent, ever-screaming, ever-tortured mouth. Arms branched out, bent like elbows. Smaller fingers achingly reached for the sky as if a bandit poked a gun at the tree’s back. While the judge’s tree remained barren of foliage, the old branches never rotted or fell off either. Still alive, just not very happy about it, I reckoned.

  “Yeah, big deal. It looks like the pits…so what?”

  “You’re looking at the tree that gave our town its namesake. It’s called the Judge’s Tree. Used to be Hangwell’s hanging tree.”

  “Cool!”

  “Ol’ Judge Wilbur—no one’s ever told me if that’s his first or last name, you know how adults can be—ruled this town before it was known as Hangwell. He was a hanging judge, a fearsome one. Judge Wilbur, he didn’t see color, not like most folks did back in the day. Well, I ‘spose he did, but it didn’t matter two hoots and a holler what color folks were to him. Judge Wilbur hung ‘em all up on this very tree. You name ‘em, bandits, gunslingers, Mexicans, coloreds, folks he didn’t like, folks he tolerated just fine, he hung ‘em all. Set some sorta record in the Midwest from what I understand. He hid behind his robes, claimed he wanted justice for Hangwell’s townsfolk. Maybe he truly did. Surely he did, even if just a bit. But folks say, after a while he developed a real taste for killing. Enjoyed watching the men sway, wetting their britches like toddlers. Liked hanging a lot.

  “Anyway, when he wasn’t busy hanging folks—and he hung ‘em well, hence our town’s name—people say he was the meanest ol’ coot to ever walk the prairie. Rail thin, wild gray hair strung out like cotton candy, bush-like eyebrows, a nose as big as a hawk’s beak, he bullied his way into town leadership. Suggested the name Hangwell. It stuck like molasses.”

  “So what happened to him?”

  “Story goes late one night some ol’ drunk found him hanging from his own tree. Tongue out like a dog, eyes rolled up into egg-whites. Just swinging in the breeze. And they say the knots in the tree took on a different look. The mouth changed into a smile. Happy to welcome Judge Wilbur among his victims.”

  “Wow… But the tree’s not smiling now,” said James.

  “That’s ‘cause the Judge’s body went missing. The town undertaker had him all boxed up and ready to send off the next morning for burial. But that morning, the Judge was nowhere to be found. They never did find him.”

  A slow smile crawled across James’ face. “C’mon, you’re pulling my leg again. You don’t really believe all this ghost stuff, right?”

  Therein lay the question I’d been pondering since last night.

  “I don’t know what I believe, tell you the truth. Some folks believe in God and that’s just fine. Some believe in other things that have no explanation. My dad believes in things only science can set right.”

  “Geez. Sounds like my old man.”

  “C’mere.” I got up, walked over to the cemetery. We entered the graveled walkway, stone teeth grinding up the sides. Crooked tombstones jagged up as if the dead were mighty restless beneath. I stopped in front of an old, rusted, chest-high spiked fence. Whether intended to keep trespassers out or the dead within, I reckon I didn’t care to know the fence’s true purpose.

  “Everyone in here was hung by the Judge.” I took a moment, respectful of the dead. “That’s why it’s gated off from the rest of the cemetery.”

  “’Cause people were ashamed of the Judge hanging them all?” asked James.

  “Heck no! Folks around here just don’t wanna’ disturb all this dead riffraff. Keep ‘em dead. Last thing they want is a buncha dead bandits and ne’er-do-wells running rampant through town.”

  “And they believe the dead can come back? Has everyone here flipped their lids?”

  “No. But folks don’t like taking risks. Not when there’s so much talk. Because where there’s a lotta talk, there’s a tendency of a kernel of truth behind it. You go outta your way to walk beneath a ladder?”

  James shook his head, quietly taking it all in.

  Beyond the fence, I saw something that didn’t quite sit right by me. I unlatched the gate and entered the guarded section. James followed, no longer so eager for the macabre. “See this here?” I picked up a nearly skull-sized rock that’d tumbled off a mound covering one of the gravesites. “Folks placed all these rocks on top of the graves for a reason. Now, I’m not saying it’s a good reason, or that it holds its weight in water. None of that, not for me to say. But sometimes tradition’s all a gal can put her faith into.”

  I replaced the rock, careful not to tip the rest. The notion struck me the rock might’ve been disturbed due to forces beyond our ken, but I didn’t mention that outlandish fear aloud. No sense scaring James away. With a backward step, I dusted my hands on my over-alls.

  We left the hanged men’s cemetery and strolled through the outlying field. A comfortable horse’s tail shake away from the ghosts—real or imagined—we sat. Although James appeared not ready to accept Hangwell’s strange and colorful history, I had a real urge—a solid hankering—to burden someone with what happened to me last night.

  I told him the story of the boy in the cornfield. Ordinarily, I’m a tight-lipped cuss, keeping everything bottled up inside. But for some reason, I felt I could trust James.

  To his benefit, he didn’t neigh like a horse. “So…you’re telling me the kid was a ghost?”

  “Didn’t say that at all.” I shrugged. “I’m just recommending you keep an open mind in Peculiar County. I don’t care how you city boys do it, but things are different here.”

  “There’s s
ome sorta explanation. I mean, other than the kid being a ghost.” James had cut out his hep-cat patter, clearly set straight by my tale.

  “You sound like my dad. Guess you’re a scientist’s kid, too.”

  “Ah, my old man lives in Dullsville. But your old man sounds really hep. He’s got the best job in the world.”

  “He’s still a dad. Sometimes he understands, sometimes he doesn’t. But at least he tries.” I stood. “Earlier you asked me if I believe in ghosts. Truth of the matter is I’m not quite ready to pin a tale on any ol’ donkey just yet. But one thing I rightly do believe in is evil, nothing supernatural about it.” I spread my hands wide. “We got evil here in Hangwell. Lots of it just boiling beneath the surface, ready to spill over.” I called out the Judge’s Tree. “And just as I’m sure as shooting ol’ Judge Wilbur was evil to his rotten core, I think something bad…real evil happened to that boy in the Saunders’ corn field. I aim to find out what that was. ‘Cause I will not abide by evil, particularly against children. Not if I can do anything to stop it. So…you gonna sit there all day in your fancy bell-bottoms and smoke your big city cigarettes? Or you gonna get up and help me find out who that boy was?”

  He jumped to his feet. Grinned like a cat who’d stumbled across a bird’s nest. “Homework can wait.”

  * * *

  Next to the stone gargoyle perched up beside the Hangwell Public Library steps, James stopped and slung his bike to the ground. Ever vigilant, ol’ Stoney (as he’d been called forever) appeared scornful, his face knotted with irritation at those folks who didn’t heed library rules. Or so library lore would have it.

  “Cool,” said James. “Is he trying to scare people away from reading?”

  I parked my bike in the rack behind the sidewalk. “He doesn’t stop me from coming,” I said. “I figure ol’ Stoney for a saint of reading maybe.”

  “I dunno. Something’s keeping people outta here. Don’t see a whole lotta cars.”

  True enough. Folks didn’t visit the Hangwell Public Library nearly enough, which suited me just fine. I had the pick of the litter of books.

  “Now, don’t hang your jaw when you meet Yvette and Miriam.” Ahead of James, I raced up the stairs, giving no further explanation. Some things make more sense experienced.

  The high ceilings never ceased to inspire awe, something more apt for a fancy church in Italy. Slightly dropped lights provided dim illumination. The second floor—not much more than a narrow walkway ringed with books and a railing—stood high and empty; my favorite area, the fiction section. Old books smell musty to most folks, I reckon, but to me the odor promised grand adventure and visits to unexplored worlds.

  As watchful as ol’ Stoney, Yvette and Miriam stood side by side behind the front counter, one thing you could always count on in Hangwell.

  “Good afternoon, Dibby.” Yvette didn’t smile. The Sooter sisters rarely did. Best you could expect was a nod of acknowledgment. In keeping with tradition, Miriam, her hand gripping her sister’s arm, nodded.

  “Afternoon, Miss and Miss Sooter. This here’s my friend, James. He’s new to school.”

  Clearly uncomfortable, James sorta shuffled, stuck his hands in his pockets. I suppose that big city living didn’t quite prepare him for everything after all. Eventually, he managed, “Um, hi.”

  Miriam gave her sister’s arm a couple squeezes, then a short pinch.

  “Yes, the Mackleby boy,” said Yvette. “We’d heard your family had arrived.” With a finger, she pushed up her dark glasses and I rightly hoped to high heaven they’d stay put. Once, and that was more than enough, I saw her without her dark spectacles. When I returned Huckleberry Finn one day late, she whipped off those glasses, and leaned over the counter. Her eyes were solid white, unnaturally snowy. Those unseeing, white globes seared a brand of shame onto my soul. Never again did I return a book late.

  James said nothing, just looked at the sisters in turn. I struggled to keep a boot-kicking grin from surfacing.

  On the other hand, Miriam gandered at James for all she was worth. She tapped out a secret code, one known only to the Sooter sisters, on her blind sister’s arm.

  “Miriam wants to know when the rest of your family will visit the library, James.” Yvette tilted her head, caught James in her blind, yet uncannily accurate, sites. Although blind, sometimes I suspected Yvette possessed better vision than an eagle.

  “Well…my dad’s pretty busy with the dairy project and—”

  “I see.”

  And I dang near thought she could see James all squirming and roping a finger around his turtleneck’s collar.

  “Very well then,” sniffed Yvette, “what can we do for you today, Dibby?”

  I could tell the sisters had already cast James aside as a book-avoiding heathen, their attention focused solely on me. Although Miriam never spoke (and whether she physically couldn’t or just chose not to provided gossip gist for the phone party lines across town), her eyes spoke heaps. Today they flowered big and watery and full of more empathy than a convent of nuns.

  “Well…I have a different matter than usual to tend to today. I—”

  “Dibby…” Yvette leaned over the counter. Her glasses slipped, just a bit, but enough to stiffen my spine in panic. “Have you lost your reading copy of Frankenstein?”

  “No, ma’am, not at all! I’m nearly done with it! And I’ll be sure to have it back a day early!”

  “That’s fine, Dibby, that’s just fine.” Miriam nodded in agreement. “There’s nothing worse than a tardy reader, isn’t that right, Miriam?” Again, Miriam agreed.

  Frankly, I could think of a right good number of things that might be considered worse than bringing a book back late, but I knew better than to argue with the keepers of the castle.

  “So, then…what is it today, Dibby? We finally received a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, along with several new mysteries.”

  “That sounds swell. But, honestly, I’m more interested in some town history. Of Hangwell.”

  Usually the library keepers enforced a quiet-as-Miriam standard, the sisters on guard against uncouth snickers and whispers. But today, my request dropped an eerie, total silence over the entire building. Silent as a morgue, and I should know.

  “I…see.” This time Yvette didn’t sound so much like she did see. “And what kind of town history are you looking for, Dibby? And may we ask why?”

  Honestly, I’d never met with such resistance from the Sooter sisters. In my years of visiting, they’d bent over backwards to suggest books, help me root out things I might like, even daring to recommended books some might consider more adult than my age-set. But, now, I felt like I’d stumbled into a hornet’s nest and the sisters were ready to sting. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why, but I figured it best not to tell the sisters the entire truth.

  “We’re working on a school project. Digging into Hangwell’s past events and history. Right, James?” Dumbfounded, James didn’t help, didn’t utter a word. “I’m looking for something fairly recent, maybe the last ten to twenty years?”

  Miriam narrowed her usually friendly eyes, glanced sideways at her sister. Through a series of taps and squeezes, she communicated a message. And I rightly didn’t believe it to be of the friendly sort.

  “I haven’t heard of any such school project, Dibby.” Yvette set her already hairline lips even tighter. “Surely, I would’ve heard of such a project. I think there’s more here than meets the eye.” As if in threat—a dang terrifying one—Yvette slowly reached for the bridge of her glasses.

  “No, ma’am.” I felt like the Sooters had inherited ol’ Judge Wilbur’s hanging robes and I’d been sentenced to death. Of course I didn’t want to lie to them, not one bit, but I’d already jumped into the deep end of things and couldn’t dog-paddle out. “It’s an extra credit project, Miss Sooter,” I said. “That’s probably why the other kids haven’t been at it yet.”

  “Why, Dibby Caldwell, since when did you need extra credit?” The to
ne of Yvette’s voice lightened a bit. So did the slant of her sister’s eyebrows.

  “You know me,” I answered. “I’m just fixing to get the best high school transcript possible.”

  Academics before everything else, the Sooter sisters smiled. “We always had you pegged as a bright one, Dibby,” said Yvette. “One who—ahem—shouldn’t resort to words such as ‘fixing.’”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered.

  A natural response I positively couldn’t stand, my cheeks flushed red, hotter than bare feet on asphalt. The thought of James seeing me this way really flame-broiled my cheeks. I glanced at him, quickly turned away. Grinning that grin, the one he wore so easily, he wouldn’t take his eyes off me.

  “Alright, then…” This time, Yvette grabbed Miriam’s arm. Together, the sisters walked down along the counter to the swinging gate. “Follow us.”

  James and I followed the sisters, hustling to catch up. They moved as one, a three legged race, in perfect unity. Years of experience had taught them the lay of the land well. Even with their handicaps, they effortlessly swam around book carts, scooted errant chairs into tables, picked up fallen books. Far in the back of the building, they led us to a door, one I’d never noticed before.

  Periodicals had been painted onto the rippled glass inset into the door. Side by side, the women pushed through the door and we followed. Now the smell of ancient paper nearly set my stomach to roiling, no longer a nice, inviting odor at all. I felt like an explorer opening a long-closed, suffocating tomb. Stacks and stacks of yellowed newspaper were stuffed into nearly a dozen wooden bookshelves, the shelves sagging mightily beneath the weight. Along the wall, thick binders lined more shelves. The sheer amount of information available threatened to overwhelm me and send me screaming toward the simpler pleasures of fiction. I should’ve expected as much, though. Hangwell’d never been a simple little town.

  “If you could narrow down the era, Dibby, we could point you in the right direction. Over here you’ll find back issues of The Hangwell Gazette.” Miriam displayed an animated arm as her sister directed. “Not sure how much history you’ll garner from those, though. Not actual journalism in our opinions.” They both sniffed, haughty as all get out. “Along the wall…” With a flourish, Miriam unrolled her arm. “…you’ll find some of Hangwell’s town records that we’ve managed to accumulate and preserve.” Yvette tapped her chin. A frown drew down her mouth. “Unfortunately, they’re a bit spotty at best. I’m afraid if you’d like a full recounting of our history, you may have to visit Town Hall. Although, since the fire of a few years back, I’m afraid Mayor Hopkins says a lot of the official records have gone the way of decent music.”