Anything would be better than facing the classroom again. And James’ clear disenchantment with me and sudden infatuation with the fanged she-devil Suzette.
* * *
Never a body part to beat around the bush, my gut made a strong case for James’ betrayal. But my gut tended to be one of the more traitorous parts of my body, leading me astray on more than one occasion. On the opposing side, my brain argued that Suzette was just flirting with James, no clear two-ways about it.
But honesty’s the best policy—so Grams used to tell me, at least—and if I couldn’t be honest with myself, then I may as well give up, crawl in bed, and let tears wash me away. Either way, tossing a fit hardly seemed like the answer.
Childish pettiness aside, I suppose I had no claim on James, no stake on his heart. We hadn’t even gone on a date and most definitely weren’t going steady. I’d known him all of one afternoon.
So why had his flirtation with Suzette plugged my heart full of lead? Just more silly, hormonal girl stuff, the junk of those creaky ol’ Harlequin romances at the library.
I laughed, pretended like logic had worked its miracles again. But it hadn’t.
Fact of the matter was I couldn’t deny the allure of deep, brown eyes, a strong chin, and a roguish smile. And James had all of that and a dollar.
Not to mention he’d shown interest in me. For a change, me.
Still…
Slowly, I crept my bike down the road toward our house. I truly hoped Dad had been called away. Not that I ever wished for folk to die for personal gain, mind you. That’d be tantamount to flipping nickels with ol’ Death himself, and I’d come close enough to that last night, thank you very much.
I just didn’t feel up to one of Dad’s heartfelt talks, usually designed to wring tears from at least one of us. Not to mention the unfortunate, but understandable, fact I’d cut class.
Fate smiled kindly on me. The drive sat empty, Dad’s hearse gone. I sped across the gravel, bumped through the yard, and hid my bike behind the house. The longer Dad suspected I was at school, the longer I had to build a stronger defense for myself. Maybe catch up on some much needed sleep, too.
As I stood next to Evelyn Saunders’ corn field, curiosity lured me in. A quick look around didn’t mean much as I couldn’t rightly see over the tall stalks anyhow, but I figured if Devin Meyers had been out working the field, I’d at least hear him or see some stalks swaying.
On tip-toes—not that it mattered a hoot-and-a-half, it just felt right—I crept toward the rotting picket fence, stepped over a fallen slat, and snuck into the field. In the daylight, the crops adopted a healthier persona. Alive under the sunlight, the greens appeared more natural and the yellows provided a lovely contrast. At first the sun-licked rows threw me off-track, but soon enough I stumbled upon my well-trodden path from the night before.
Maybe my stubborn nature just wanted to confirm I hadn’t dreamed the entire ordeal, or maybe I hoped to find more clues, but I was drawn to the field as surely as a child is drawn to candy.
I felt a pang of guilt, just a smidgeon, when I realized the extent of the damage I’d caused last night. I’d trampled more stalks than I’d imagined. They lay broken and wounded, sad amongst their healthy brethren. The spot where I’d toppled was easy enough to find, the shape of my body (and do I really look like that?) outlined by surrounding, standing stalks. Down on my knees, I looked closely at the ground. I found my footprints, one fitting my foot like Cinderella’s slipper. But further searching turned up nothing. Ghosts didn’t leave behind footprints.
A sudden, tuneless melody nearly shuttered my heart.
I jumped to my feet and listened.
Not very far away, most assuredly in the corn field, the whistling grew louder. Stalks whisked, someone brushing gently past them. Briefly, the whistling stopped. A man grunted. Not a grunt of anger or dismay, rather it carried the calm of a man perplexed, working things out in peaceful solitude.
The whistling resumed, the man not too terribly fraught. But very much coming my way.
I had to get out of there.
Carefully, I stepped over the stalks that lay in my path. Thirty feet or so of field stood between me and where I’d entered. The dull white of the fence glowed beneath the afternoon sunlight.
Two rows over, I saw Devin Meyers’ ball cap bobbing along with his peculiar waddle. I dropped into a squat, made like a four legged varmint. On all fours I followed the dirt-packed row to freedom.
“Well, I’ll be…” Devin said it under his breath, to himself, a man nonplussed. No doubt seeing the damage I’d perpetrated in his field. Carefully he divided a path through the stalks, entered, aimed in my direction.
Ten more feet to the fence…
Devin Meyers stepped into the row behind me.
I leaped for the fence, stuck myself in between the slats. Mr. Meyers gave me an eyeful.
Fast on my feet, I reversed direction, and pretended I’d just climbed into the corn field.
“Oh, you gave me a start,” I said, by no means a lie. “You must be Mr. Meyers. I’m Dibby. Dibby Caldwell, your neighbor next door.” I approached him, hand out. Without saying a word, he tilted back his ball cap to fully gander at me. After he wiped his hand on a red handkerchief, he accepted my hand in his. My shake gave it all, showed Mr. Meyers some steel. Pumped up and down, then released.
“Well, good morning to you, Dibby.” He grinned, showcasing tobacco stains and damaged gums. But it was a friendly enough grin, a right neighborly one. “I’ve seen you around, sure, but I reckon we’ve never had the privilege of actually meeting.”
“Reckon you’re right, sir. I hope you don’t mind my intrusion, but I swear I saw a coyote dash in here just now. Thought I’d shoo him away. Now I know they’re primarily carnivores, but if you listen to legend, they’ll take to corn like it’s dog food if given the opportunity.”
Mr. Meyers tipped his head back and laughed at the sun. “Sounds to me like you’re a well-educated young lady. Speaking of which…” He lowered his head and his eyelids drooped in a suspicious manner. “…why ain’t you in school?”
“Oh…well, I was feeling under par, so they ran me and my germs on home.” I shuffled, stuck my hands in my pockets. Toed the dirt. Adults knew how to make kids feel guilty. Whether they actually were never seemed to rightly matter.
“Looks like you were par enough to go coyote hunting.”
I shrugged. “I’m feeling better. I just didn’t want the coyote to damage your corn stalks, healthy as they look and all.”
Suspicion slipped away into a sort of Santa Claus gentility. He took his hat in hand and allowed me a better view. Grime covered his forehead and cheeks. Sweat drove it into small black tears of mud. His hat line divided worm-belly, white skin from sun-bothered flesh. Small, animal-like eyes kept on the prowl, skitting this way and that, but not without kindness. A wealth of wrinkles rode his forehead, surrounded his eyes with tough leather, more proof that he fought a losing battle with the sun. Strands of hair stretched sparingly across the top of his head, while bushels of it stuck to his temples and sprouted from his ears. As I’d only known him from a vague boogeyman status, his gentle nature caught me off-guard.
He swayed his hat back and forth, trying to beat the heat. “I appreciate that, Dibby, I surely do. But I don’t reckon your papa would look kindly on your crawling through my fields and hunting for coyotes. Particularly when you’re sick.”
“It’s no problem at all, Mr. Meyers. I’m glad to be of help.”
“That damn ol’ coyote—‘scuse my French—must’ve got to some of my stalks.” He switched his lips back and forth as if searching for a forgotten lump of chew. “Plum done tore ‘em up to hell and back.”
Guilt saddled up on my back and rode me hard. “I’ll be glad to keep an eye out for the coyote, Mr. Meyers. Shoo ‘em away with Dad’s rifle should I see ‘em prowling around again.”
He took a step toward me. Again, he wiped his hand on his kerc
hief. Then ruffled my hair as if I was a toddler, a boy one to boot. “I ‘preciate that mightily, Dibby. I surely do. But…it ain’t your place to be doing a man’s job. And I suspect your papa wouldn’t take kindly to you doing me any favors either.”
When on fishing expeditions, sometimes the pole dang near baits itself. “I doubt that. My daddy loves helping people.”
As in the Wolfman movies, Mr. Meyers’ face transformed, step-by-step. First, he grimaced. Then he chuckled, just once and dry as the desert. Gazing down at his feet, he kicked a boot. When he looked up again—still not at me—he appeared lost, eyes clouded by memory, somewhere else entirely. Squinting hard as if locking up some base emotion.
More than a bit hesitant, he said, “I’m mighty sorry, Dibby, but it just ain’t my place to tell you why your daddy might find issue with you being here.” Turned on a dime, he mussed my hair again, and I really wished to high heaven adults would cut it out. “Now you run along home, you hear me? Thankee kindly for the heads up on that ol’ coyote.”
He stuck his arm out, finger pointing, showing me the way home.
* * *
I’ve read that catching up on sleep is like snipe-hunting, nothing more than a myth. But the second my head hit the pillow (after scrubbing off the make-up, of course), the wonderful shut-eye that followed surely felt like catching up.
While the ghosts took a holiday, the caller at the doorbell surely didn’t, ringing away like Sunday church bells.
Half awake, I sat up. An opossum had crawled inside my mouth and died, leaving me parched and gummy. I didn’t want to see anyone but the afternoon caller’s persistence couldn’t be denied.
Bing-donggg…bing-donggg…bing, bing, bing…
Honestly, I’d rather have smothered myself with my pillow, but Dad would never forgive me if I’d become his next customer. Or if the visitor was a customer in need of Dad’s services.
After I hauled myself out of bed, I glanced in the mirror and frowned at the silly cowlicks poking up in back. I looked a fright. Rubbing sleep from my eyes didn’t do anything to diminish my appearance. Beauty sleep appeared not to shine on me.
Quickly as a brain bothered by fog would allow, I jumped into regular folks’ clothing.
If a door-to-door salesman stood on our stoop, I vowed to run after him with a pitchfork. My hand on the doorknob, I snuck one last peak in the foyer hanging mirror, frowned again at my image.
But at least it was the real me. None of that childish make-up and dolly clothes to impress a boy.
I whipped open the door, nearly squeaked like a mouse caught in a trap.
Bent forward, James appeared confused, doorbells apparently non-existent in Los Angeles. Poker-faced, he straightened and said, “Dibby.” Not a salutation, no excitement, just a factual statement.
Panic set my body to full alert. I performed an impromptu dance-step, ending with an awkward pat at the damned cowlick on the back of my head. Not that James noticed. He just sorta looked around, peered over my shoulder.
I struggled to think of something witty to say. I came up with, “What?”
A smile wiped away James’ dim-witted appearance. “You feeling okay, Dibs? Man, you cut out fast. I got worried.”
The hallway clock chose that inopportune time to chime three o’clock. James should’ve still been at school, just getting out. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
His jean jacket shoulders pinched up with a shrug, stayed that way briefly before falling back in place. “Hey, you know, study hall. I don’t need study hall. I bugged out. Everyone was buzz, buzz, buzzing about you. Thought I’d, you know, check up on you.” Another shrug, a poor substitute for emotion.
“You’re gonna get in trouble, James. Especially as a new—”
“Hey, no sweat. Trouble and me, we’re no strangers. But I couldn’t help it, practically up a tree all day long about you. I mean, you show up, then beat feet.” He knew how to use his eyes, leaned in with the practiced soul of a puppy dog. “So, you okay?”
“Right as rain. No need to worry ‘bout me. I can take care of myself.” It seemed silly, standing there, having the conversation in the doorway. But I felt guarded. And I’d let my guard down already with James.
“I know you can, Dibs. But…why’d you wig out?”
“I did not wig out, nor did I bug out, or whatever you wanna call it! I left because I plain and simple wanted to! And I don’t owe you any explanations and I don’t mean maybe!”
“Okay, geez, don’t blow a gasket. I didn’t mean anything. Really. I was just worried about you, that’s all.”
“Didn’t look like it to me.” Immediately I wished I could lasso the words right back in.
“What?” Like a tortoise-slow sunrise, realization dawned on him. “Oh… Oh. You mean Suzette?” He grinned and I surely wanted to turn that the other way around. “She’s nothing. Pffft. I knew girls like that back in L.A. They’re a dime a dozen, those broads.”
Seeing as how I practically needed a slang dictionary to decipher James’ odd speech, I intuited enough to realize I may’ve jumped the gun in my assumptions. Just a bit. “Looked to me like she was right special to you this morning.”
“Hey, she’s nowhere! I can’t help it she wouldn’t leave me alone. The minute I got there, she was on me like white on rice. Nothing to it, baby.”
Of course, my heart pit-patted. In a good way. But I knew he was slick, too slick. A boy to watch out for, the kind Dad told me to stay away from. Which, I suppose, made him that much more exciting. “You telling me the truth?”
“Nothing, but.” He held up three fingers, waffled with a fourth, absolutely messing up the Boy Scouts’ sign. “Come on, Dibs. Like I said, those girls are so…Dullsville. They’re all the same. All stylish clothes, fancy make-up, giggles all the time. Just…phony, phony, nothing but baloney, dig?”
I dug alright. But he was doing a right good job of shoveling it even deeper. “I’m sure Suzette and her little hellion squad had nothing but awful things to say about me.”
His hands went up, neither confirming or denying. No matter. I knew the truth. After one day, I could read James’ body language. Nervously, his finger ringed his collar.
I let him off the hook. “Let ‘em gab. They’ll be that way their whole lives.”
“Yeah. I think so, too.” James looked up at the sun, drew his arm across his forehead, clearly not used to the Midwest heat. Might do him a world of good if he reconsidered wearing his jean jacket all the time. “Hey, can I come in, Dibs? Maybe get a glass of water?”
He’d earned passage. “I suppose so. But if Dad comes home, you might wanna hightail it outta here.”
“But I thought your ol’ man sounded like one of the good ones.”
“He is. But, trust me, if he catches a boy here, he’ll grill you like a hotcake. A nice and toasted one.”
He said nothing, just breezed by me. “Ah, I know how to handle adults. No sweat.”
While I didn’t necessarily buy into his secret mastery of the world of adults, he was definitely dead wrong about the “no sweat” part. He looked soaked through to the bone. “I’ll get that glass of water. If you’re so hot, you might take off your jacket.”
He shrugged. Kept it on. For a boy who claimed he didn’t care about the appearances of the tarted up girls at school, he sure put a lot of thought and care into his looks.
When I came back with the water, he’d taken up residence on the den’s sofa, one arm draped over the back of it. He patted a hand on the cushion next to him. I ignored him and sat down in Dad’s recliner next to the sofa. Over the coffee table, I handed him the glass.
Disappointed, his cocky grin slipped away. He hid it well behind the glass as he gulped the water down.
“So…your Dad’s gone? I mean…not like he’s ‘gone’.” He wiggled finger quotes. “Gone like he’s not here now?”
“I said he wasn’t here, didn’t I?”
“Fab! Can I see where he works?
” James shot off the sofa.
“That’s not a good idea. I gave it some thought and it’s just not worth the trouble.”
“Ah, c’mon, Dibs, your old man’ll never know. I won’t touch a thing, I swear.”
“Dad made the rules to—”
“You’re kidding, right? Let me clue you in on something. The squares wanna lord it over us with their rules. No rock ‘n roll, no fun, no nothing. That’s the only kinda life they know. But times are changing. You need to live life a little, baby…”
He rattled on like a beatnik poet, going round and round and headed nowhere. But he had a point. Maybe it was time for me to explore my world a little, branch out from beneath Dad’s protective wing. Earn my own adult wings and learn to fly. I faced a mighty perplexing crossroads. I was the only one who could make my adulthood happen, yet Dad seemed pretty adamant about keeping me underfoot as his little girl.
As I tuned back into James’ goofy soap-boxing, I’d made up my mind.
“…squares, baby, nothing but squares.” Out-of-breath, James drew a lopsided square with his finger. “S…q…u—”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
“What?”
“I said, let’s go. Don’t stand there gawping. You wanna see where Dad works or not?”
“You’re the ultimate, Dibs. Let’s beat feet!”
“Hold your horses.” I stuck an authoritative hand high. “I’ve got some ground rules—”
“Always rules,” he grumbled.
“You can’t touch anything. And you can’t ever, ever tell anyone. If we hear my dad coming, you’re gonna hightail it out the back door. You understand?”
He nodded, held up his half-way Scouts sign again.
“Alright, then. Let’s go.” I gave the hallway clock a glance. 3:32 P.M. Of course that didn’t mean beans when it came to Dad’s work schedule. Some days he’d be gone all day, others he’d slip out for fifteen minutes. I’d struck the match, though, ready to play with the fire. While I knew this particular fire could likely burn, a larger fire blazed within me, smoldering with excitement.
Peculiar Country Page 6
