“Ew. Um…were they having sex?”
Clearly, the idea of sex seemed to startle Suzette more than a flesh-eating witch. She formed that gawd-awful figure eight with her mouth. “That’s disgusting, Dibby! Blech!” She stuck her tongue out between prissy, pursed lips. Gave her head a right shake as if clearing thoughts of sex away might keep her mind pristine forever. Seemed to me if Mrs. Keating hadn’t had “The Talk” with Suzette yet, it surely shouldn’t fall on me.
“Fine, Suzette. So Angela saw Hettie doing that to Gordon.”
Solemnly, she nodded. “Gordon was never seen again.”
Frankly, banging erasers had proven more productive. “How do you figure Thomas Saunders ran afoul of Hettie?” If ol’ Hettie was favoring young men with sex—the imagery a might bit disturbing—that didn’t explain what she would’ve been doing with a younger boy.
“Well… It’s just a fact that Hettie eats all the runaways. Been doing it for years.”
“That ain’t no fact, Suzette! Hell, it’s hardly even a good rumor!”
Again, Suzette screwed up her mouth. “You cursed! I’m gonna tell—”
“Oh, go tattle on your own time. In the meantime, I’m trying to find out what happened to Thomas Saunders. I think someone killed him. And I don’t reckon it was Hettie Williquette, either.”
“I know she did it. I truly do.”
“How?” With Suzette, it proved worse than wrenching teeth, maybe my actual next move.
“’Cause Momma told me so. She says Hettie eats all the bad kids. They don’t run away, that’s just a nonsense story everyone made up. Momma told me to stay far from Hettie’s, and seeing as I’m no fool—”
“Beg to differ.”
“…I listen. Momma also said Hettie did away with Thomas’ father, Hedrick.”
“What?”
“Before Thomas Saunders went missing, his daddy, Hedrick Saunders, used to pay Hettie visits. Everyone thought they were in cahoots over witchcraft. It’s no secret that when Hettie runs dry of kids, she takes to eating cats. Hedrick Saunders used to bring her cats for her supper.”
I’d heard the rumor, and frankly, I didn’t discount it out of hand. Like any small town, Hangwell has its fair share of stray farm cats roaming the countryside. You can’t swing a…well, a cat, for fear of hitting one. At least that used to be true ‘till a couple years ago, when the cat population done fairly dried up. Naturally, the blame fell on Hettie. A lotta disgruntled farmers blamed her for crops faring poorly as well.
“So…if what your mother says is true—”
“It is.”
“…whatever became of Hedrick Saunders?”
Suzette guffawed, very un-girly-like. “Hettie ate him. Duhhh! Just how slow are you, Dibby?”
To answer her properly, I tilted my chair back, grabbed two dirty erasers, and clomped them together mightily below her nose.
Chapter Seven
At long last, Mrs. Hopkins returned, miraculously pleased as punch over the thorough job we’d done. Outside, Suzette’s mother, Mrs. Keating, sat behind the wheel of her big ol’ Lincoln Continental, scowling like a rabid badger. By way of parting, I managed an almost amiable chin jerk toward Suzette.
Behind me, laughter belted out. Half-hidden beneath the shadows of an elm tree, James lay in the grass, his bike next to him.
“You look white as a ghost,” he said.
“You’re a real cut-up, James, a real comedian.” I patted my shoulders, clapped my hands. Chalk dust rose. “The rewards of hard work.” Worn out, I dropped into the grass beside him.
“So…how’d it go? Did you get into another brawl?”
“No. Not really. Just chalked each other up a bunch. It….well, it didn’t pan out like I expected.”
“You buddies now?”
“Never. Just…I dunno, I reckon maybe the world’s big enough for both of us. Forget all that. What’re you doing here? Don’t you ever crack a book?”
“Sure do. Every night, I crack ‘em against the hotel wall trying to shut that damn ghost dog up.” He stood, stretched. His T-shirt came untucked, exposing a tanned, taut belly. “Let’s beat feet.”
“Can’t. I’m grounded, ‘member?”
“Oh, yeah, right. You ask your ol’ man about the movie yet?”
I stood. “Not yet. One thing at a time. I sorta need to handle Dad with kid gloves.”
“Yeah, sounds familiar. But, hey, you gotta go through downtown anyway, right? We can go together.”
“I reckon there’s no harm in that.”
Already, dusk seemed antsy, battening the sun down before its time. As we walked our bikes down Main Street, our shadows stretched as long as our limited time together.
“Not to change the channel or anything,” he said, “but…what happened to your old lady? You never talk about her. Did she…um, die?”
Rude and to-the-point, but I figured it best to put a tail on the situation before James heard about Mom from someone else. Particularly from one of the more judgmental Hangwell folks. “Tell you the truth, I don’t know where she is now. And, frankly, I don’t rightly remember her much. When I was just a little gal, no taller than your hip bone, she took off. Just up and left one night without so much as a ‘boo’.”
James stopped. “Oh…wow. Sorry she finked out on you. What a drag. Why’d she leave?”
“Not real sure. I ask myself all the time.”
“What’s your old man say about it?”
I shrugged. “It’s something we don’t talk about. Not that it’d bother me, I ‘spose. As I said, I don’t remember much about her. Just the idealized notion of her more than anything, I guess. You know, the kind of mom who wears aprons, hums a lot, shows you make-up tips, cooks up a storm…that kinda thing. But…it bothers Dad. So, I just leave it be. Some things are better off buried, I reckon.”
“I’d be…you know, off my rocker trying to find out why she left. Did they get divorced?”
“Dad doesn’t even know where she is to get the procedure handled, the papers signed. Or maybe he’s waiting for her to come back…some day.” I swallowed, my throat parched as a gulch. Maybe the topic bothered me a bit more than I let on.
Silent for a spell, we walked our bikes side-by-side down Main Street’s sidewalk. More than happy to change the subject, I asked, “What’re your folks like?”
“I dunno. The usual, I guess. They’re so square, their edges are sharp. My old man’s Uncle Sam’s soldier, you know? And my old lady spends a lot of time locked in her hotel room, doing who knows what. When they’re together, they fight and scream a lot. I kinda wish they’d just get divorced.”
“Careful what you wish for.” Turns out James and I had a lot in common, our folks an unhappy bunch. For those still present, at least. “I’m sorry they’re not happy, James. But…be thankful you have a mother.”
He didn’t say anything, just shuffled along. I ambled ahead a ways before I realized he was no longer beside me. Stopped in front of Simonson’s Drug Store, he gazed into the display window. Mr. Simonson’s year-round train set had captured his attention. Railroad cars trundled through a cave, up a grassy hill, and hooked around the figure eight layout. Various candy and drug boxes stood about like odd trees and three-dimensional billboards. A BB gun, several board games, an odd looking rubber device that looked like it’d hold a gullet full of water, a pair of crutches, old time remedies, and flavored cough syrups padded out the crowded panorama. Other than the sheet of snowy cotton Mr. Simonson painstakingly set beneath his display come every winter, the items rarely changed, a rare comfort in Hangwell.
The window reflected James’ image, his consideration not on the moving train after all. Turned away, his shoulder hitched up—hiding in plain sight—he dabbed a finger beneath his eye.
I moved in closer, touched my shoulder to his. We stood that way for a bit, a more effective tonic than words. I grabbed his hand, gave it a squeeze, let him know I understood. Pretty much like the Sooter sisters,
if anyone could read my physical short-hand, I reckoned James could.
His sudden vocal outburst startled me. “Hey, I’m starving! How ‘bout some chow?”
“I can’t. I gotta get home. Besides I don’t have any money.”
“No sweat, my treat!” Excited now, a complete turnaround, he dragged me into Simonson’s Drug Store.
The little bell above the door ding-a-linged.
Behind the counter, Mr. Simonson looked up, all nose, brush mustache, glasses, and business. Sometimes it tickled me wondering what he really looked like behind his Groucho-styled disguise. “Why, hello there, Dibby Caldwell!” Always my full name, the way he addressed everyone. “Surely Dibby Caldwell’s not due again for more feminine products just yet?”
Oh, dear Lord, no!
Flames of scarlet shame spread across my forehead and my cheeks. Busy studying the colorful candy bar displays, James hadn’t heard Mr. Simonson, or at least had the common decency to pretend not to. I set my brow to a very serious position, shook my head with grim determination, hoping Mr. Simonson would realize his mistake.
“How’s your daddy’s corns coming along, Dibby Caldwell? Still setting him to ache at night?”
I gladly embraced the world’s second worst topic of conversation. “I do believe Dad’s corns are going the way of the do-do, Mr. Simonson. This here’s my new friend, James Mackleby. He’s new to town.”
“Ah, yes, James Mackleby. Your father’s Robert Mackleby, I presume. It’s a pleasure to meet you, James Mackleby.”
By way of hello, James gave a curt nod, grunted, a bit sullen. His hair swooped down, animated, announcing the scary-for-adults length. For someone who prided himself on his ability to communicate with adults, James appeared far from photo ready.
I hurried toward him, nudged him. Dense as all get out, he still didn’t understand what he’d done wrong. “Say hello in a proper fashion,” I whispered, and it surely got my dander up I had to do so.
“H’lo.”
His hands full of candy bars, he shoved them toward me. “You want one of these?”
Absolutely befuddled by his sudden mood swings—his actions now bespoke of a sugar-addled child—I shook my head. “Dad doesn’t like me snacking on candy. And I really gotta head home.”
“Oh, right, sure. Let me lay down some bread.” His arms full and spilling over, he rushed toward the counter. I scooped up a fallen Baby Ruth bar and followed.
As Mr. Simonson rang up the bounty of candy, he commented, “My, oh, my, James Mackleby, you’ll rot your teeth out, you surely will.”
“Fab!” James grinned. “Then my old man won’t have to get me braces.”
James attempt at humor soared over Mr. Simonson’s flat-topped head. The pharmacist frowned at me as if I’d been in charge of James and had let him out of his cage. “Will there be anything else today, James Mackleby?”
“Sure. A package of Kents. No filters.”
My world tipped sideways, then sprung a leak. My stomach flipped. Lunch swirled, swooshed, threatened to revisit. The unspeakable done, James had hogtied me into being his accomplice in crime.
Mr. Simonson appeared appalled, lower jaw set to wobbling. James just kept grinning, the grin I now felt stupid for once considering charming.
“I think not, Mr. Mackleby.” I knew we were in trouble—acres worth of trouble—when Mr. Simonson resorted to James’ surname. “I hardly ‘spect you’re twenty-one, let alone sixteen if a day.”
“Hey, back where I come from, they—”
“And where is that, Mr. Mackleby? Hooliganville? Crime Alley? Dibby Caldwell, I’m surprised at you! Why, wait until I tell your poor daddy about this…this…” Mr. Simonson fumed. Steam practically whizzed out his ears, his words stoked on coal.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Simonson. Honestly, I had no idea what James was up to. It won’t happen again.” I grabbed a good handful of James’ jean-jacket back and dragged him toward the door. He tottered after me, arms flailing every which way.
“Hey! What about my candy?”
“Shut your pie-hole,” I hissed. “Right now you best just hope to get outta here afore ol’ Sheriff Grigsby comes around.” To the pharmacist, I called out, “I apologize again, Mr. Simonson.” I didn’t stop until I’d scooted out the door and shoved James toward his bicycle.
“Dibby, what—”
“Oh, shut up, already! I can’t believe you did that, especially since I already warned you not to! And now I’m your…your criminal accomplice!”
James looked at his feet, feigning a lost little boy. “Sorry. I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t! You never think! And that problem’s gonna get you in deep, deep trouble, James! It’s time you bellied up to the truth. You ain’t smoking cigarettes in Hangwell no way, no how! And if you don’t wise up? Hangwell’s got a way that’ll come back and bite you!”
Finished leading my angry Main Street parade, I ignored all of the gathered gawkers and hopped onto my bike. I zipped past Mildred Clark, narrowly missing her as she swept the sidewalk in front of her hotel. I swerved around Mr. Thomason, the banker, as he left Carol’s Diner. Across the street, Sheriff Grigsby stood big and large, glowering at me.
Eyes locked straight ahead, I fled downtown. The Hangwell communication highway travelled even faster than me and Dad had probably already heard about my new life of crime.
“Dibby! Hang on,” James called. “I’m sorry! You’re right, I didn’t think!” His words panted out, ho-hum and tired. “Wait!”
Once I cleared the business district, I pulled my bike sharp. The tires skidded, my feet trawled dust. As I watched James struggle to catch up, I wondered just how many chances I’d give him, if he was worth all the trouble.
Like a judge holding court, I set my arms on top of the handlebars.
“I’m sorry, Dibby. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble. Sometimes I just do stuff…stupid stuff…”
“Sometimes, ‘sorry’ doesn’t make things right. And I got to thinking… Were you trying to use my good reputation in town to help you get your damn cigarettes?”
“No! I’d never do something like that to you, Dibby. Scout’s honor.” Again, he made the faulty Scout’s sign, fooling only himself. “Look… If you want, I’ll make everything right. I’ll explain to the old coot in the drug store that you had nothing to do with it. I’ll even talk to your old man and tell him—”
“You’ll do no such thing! You’ve done more than enough damage. When word gets back to Dad, I’ll be grounded for two lifetimes. And I’ll never find out what happened to Thomas Saunders!”
“What can I do to make it up to you, Dibby? Just say it. Anything.”
And there, sitting on his bike, eyes sorrowful, and voice choked with big clots of regret, I believed him. Either that or he’d mastered a lifetime’s worth of swindling.
“Right now, just…just don’t do anything. But if it comes down to it, I ain’t falling on this sword for you.”
“Sure thing. I’ll kiss-up to whoever I have to.”
“How ‘bout you start by knocking off all your hip play-acting? My dad’ll see right through your phony baloney.”
“I’ll do it. You’ll see.”
Under the sun’s heat, I percolated. Before reaching boiling point, I turned my temperature down to an even-keeled simmer. “You aggravate the tar outta me, James Mackleby.”
“That’s because you kinda like me, Dibby Caldwell.” His smile, the one that could conquer cities, came back. “I kinda like you, too.”
So help me, he was right. About my liking him. But he hadn’t earned any sort of recognition of the fact. Far as I was concerned, he still had a good long haul to make right with me.
“Don’t you ever, ever try anything like that again! Not with me around. I won’t stand for it!”
“Got it.”
“You’re just lucky I need your help. Till you prove yourself worthy, you do as I say.”
“I’m at your service, m’lady.�
�� His hand rolled away beneath his chin in what he considered a gallant move. Rather it looked like he’d just swallowed a mouthful of hot peppers.
“Tonight, I need to go see someone, a trip I’d be rightly stupid to make by myself.”
“Yeah? Who’s doorbell we gonna ring?”
“A witch’s.”
Crickets chirped. Cicadas buzz-sawed. From a distance, a cow lowed.
Finally, “Fat city!”
* * *
Not for a minute did I buy into Suzette’s stupid little Grimm-minded tale of a boy-eating witch, but one thing life in Hangwell had taught me. Behind every fanciful beanstalk of a tale, a deep seed of truth had been planted. I had no idea what the best, if any, method would be to approach scary Hettie. I didn’t much take to the notion of banging on her front door and inquiring if she ate Thomas and Hedrick Saunders. But I suspected she knew something about their disappearances, maybe even acted as a participant in their fates. Either way, I’d be highly negligent if I didn’t pay a visit.
I just didn’t care to do it alone. Particularly if Hettie had a mind to stir me into Dibby stew. Silly, of course, nothing but a little kid’s campfire notion. But there wasn’t a single, silly thing about missing—possibly dead—kids.
Lost in thought—dawdling a bit and hesitant to face Dad—I stitched back and forth across the gravel road in a lazy knitting pattern. In front of the Saunders’ homestead, I dropped feet and anchored them. The Saunders’ mailbox flag sat down, Odie’s postal run completed.
Far off down the drive, Mrs. Saunders sat on her porch, rocking her life away. In the distance, I heard evidence of her brother, Devin, pitching up the earth on his tractor.
And Dad’s hearse was nowhere to be seen.
Peculiar Country Page 12
