* * *
In the kitchen, I found Dad struggling with a huge bag of cat food.
“Well, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather regarding the Sooter sisters. Did you have any idea Hettie Williquette was their sister, Dibs?” He tipped the back of the bag up, aiming for three bowls on the floor. A torrent of nuggets rained down, scattering everywhere but the bowls.
“I surely didn’t. Might be easier if you put the bowls up on the counter,” I said.
He dropped the bag with a grunt of relief. “Could be. Either way, I figure these cats are gonna’ be around a while. I don’t want them in the house, mind you, but as long as you’re up to feeding and watering them, they can stay. Can you handle the responsibility, Dibs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s my girl. Have a seat.” He gestured toward our meeting hall, the kitchen table. Honestly, I’d been grounded so much lately, I couldn’t keep up anymore if I’d done anything new worth punishing. Dad belly-upped next to me. “Dibby… I know you’ve been going through a lot lately. Taking on problems and headaches that aren’t yours.” He reached out for my hand and I gave it to him. “I think…maybe I’m partially to blame. I mean, for the trouble you’ve been getting into. How you’ve been acting out.”
“I don’t recollect you giving me boxing lessons. Wasn’t your fault I socked Suzette.”
Dad grinned, but I could tell guilt hitched a ride. “No. You know I abhor violence. But…let’s just say I’m concerned. With your skipping school, your fights, your—”
“Just one punch, not really a fight.”
“…your blatantly ignoring my rules. This new boy…James. Everything.”
Dad toed at the shoreline of whatever really had him bothered. I truly hoped he wouldn’t dive into another Birds and the Bees talk. Once was more than enough.
“Dad, if this is about James… I don’t think he’s gonna’ be pestering me any longer. So you can relax.”
Apparently I hit the bull’s-eye. He settled back into his chair, sighed. “Oh… I’m sure sorry to hear about you and James.” A small smile didn’t quite seal the sentiment. “Do you want to talk about—”
“No.”
“I’m sorry?” And he did look a bit sorry, too. Puzzled, unable to fix me as he’d always done in the past. “Anyway… I am concerned, Dibs. As your father, I’d like to know what’s going on in your life.”
“There ain’t—”
“Don’t say ‘ain’t’.”
“…isn’t anything to be concerned about, Dad. James and I weren’t going steady or anything like that. We never got that far. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. We used to talk about everything. Everything. You told me all about your life, asked me questions...we really talked. But now… I dunno, you’re different somehow. More secretive.”
“Probably ‘cause I’m not the little girl I used to be. Maybe I’m growing up a bit, trying to figure things out on my own.”
“I understand that, Dibs.” But I could tell he didn’t. “Of course everyone grows up. But you’ve been acting out lately. A lot. That’s not like you. You’re my golden girl. Always have been, always will be.” He let go of my hand and ruffled my hair.
“Dad, I’m the same person. Older, maybe.” I grabbed his wrist, brought it back down to the table. “How am I supposed to take on more responsibility, grow as a person, when you won’t let me?”
He nodded. “I certainly don’t mean to stand in your way. Of course you need room to grow. And now’s the time to do it. Now that you’re becoming a responsible young woman…experiencing the changes high school life brings. Which is why I’ve decided to lift your grounding.”
In a week of shocks, I considered that the only good one. “Thanks, Dad. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. But…there’re some conditions.”
Of course there were. Always. I couldn’t wait until the day I made my own conditions.
“First, you’re going to have a strict curfew. Weeknights at 9:00. Weekends at 10:30. And I want to know where you are, day or night. Everywhere.”
“I reckon I can abide.”
“Second…you need to bring your grades back up.”
“My nose is already at the grindstone.”
“Third…and most importantly…” He leaned forward, serious. I got a good whiff of mortician’s chemicals rolling off him. “…you tell me everything that’s going on in your life. The full truth. No more half-truths, no more lies.”
It seemed like half-a-step back, but as in any dosey-do, there’s give and take in any dance. “I’ll put forth my best efforts.”
“That’s all I can ask for. So, let’s start now.” He settled back, arms crossed, very much the authority figure again. “Why have you been misbehaving lately? Tell me the truth.”
Because a dead ghost boy wants me to find out what happened to him, and someone killed Hettie, maybe because I talked to her, and every dang adult in town treats me like a baby, and won’t tell me the truth, especially you about Mom, and dead folks come back to life, and James, the boy I thought was downright dreamy, betrayed me and broke my heart into a kazillion pieces, and...
“No real reason, Dad.” I topped it off with a shrug.
He sighed, not hiding his irritation very well. “You’re already breaking our agreement. There has to be a reason for your turnaround in behavior. All of it happened so fast and unexpectedly. I’ve seen the effect. Now, I want to know the cause. We’re creatures of science, biology plain and simple. There’s logic and reason behind our behavior. Unless…unless you’re experiencing…issues.”
Therein lay the root of the problem. The real “cause” for Dad’s weird behavior. The insinuation hurt. Then anger reared. Finally, I wondered if maybe Dad’s theory was right…and it more than scared the hell out of me.
“So…that’s what you think? You think I’m crazy?”
“What? I don’t—”
“That’s what you said about Mom! That she had ‘issues,’ too! You think I’ve gone crazy! Why can’t I just do something without there being a reason? Why can’t I just… Dammit!”
“Dibby!”
I jumped up. “I ain’t crazy. I’m not like her. Sometimes…I don’t know why I do things. Do you? Maybe it’s…hormones. Or who knows. Maybe you’re to blame! Ever since you finally—finally—told me the truth about Mom, I’ve been wondering if I’m going crazy! And now I am crazy!” I wanted to give into tears. But I fought them. Plenty time for those upstairs. When I’m alone.
“Dibby, your Mom’s not crazy. I explained that. And…you’re not crazy, either. All I—”
“Then quit acting like I am!” Before I started acting crazier than a bed-bug, I high-tailed it upstairs. Dad called after me. Wanting to make things right between us.
But sometimes things are said you just can’t forget. Or forgive.
* * *
Ornerier than a caged polecat, I paced my room, tackled my bed, couldn’t get comfortable in my own skin, let alone the bed sheets. Reading didn’t take either.
In a way, I felt petty, childish for throwing such a tantrum. But I had a big fish tugging on my line and Dad jerked it clean out of the water. Since Dad told me about Mom, the notion had been lingering like a boogeyman beneath the bed: maybe I’d inherited Mom’s craziness.
I rethought everything, questioned what was real, what my mind might’ve spun. No one else seemed to be bothered by ghosts or dead witches or unspeakable creatures that fly in the night.
And if craziness hadn’t already claimed me, it surely would if I kept dwelling on it.
I had to get out of the house.
After a quick change of clothing, a splash of water on my face, a comb through the hair, I felt movie-ready.
I heard Dad in the living room, his newspaper rattling. To get out the door, I had to walk past him. I had no intention to pick up where we left off.
Fast as ligh
tning, I struck. “Dad, I’m going out,” I hollered from the doorway.
The feet of his recliner flumped down. “Dibs, can we talk?”
“I can’t. I’ll be late for the movies.”
“Wait! How’re you doing? I’m just—”
“Bye. I’ll be home by curfew.” I hurried out the door, didn’t let it smack me in the behind. Honestly, I was fed up to my back teeth with folks, particularly Dad, asking about my mental welfare, walking on eggshells around me, afraid to tip the crazy girl into a hatchet spree. It set me to doubting myself, looking deep into my brain for broken pieces.
On my bike, I blew through town, my eyes locked dead ahead, my business my own. Caught up in a tizzy, I couldn’t really say who I’d passed. The seven o’clock showing of Return of the Fly mattered, nothing other, nobody else’s problems. My back arced up like a cat, my claws ready to come out at anyone who dared get in my way.
Unusually careless with my Raleigh, I hashed it into the theatre’s stand. As always, Benji manned the ticket kiosk. I slid my change through the hole in the window, ordered my ticket. Possibly the slowest man in town, Benji’d been known to create block long lines due to his sloth-like speed, handling every bit of currency like sticks of dynamite. When folks complained, Mr. Halloway, the owner of the Starlight Cinema laughed it off, boasting, “Them long lines makes it look like every picture I show is a top-notch house packer.”
“…thirty-five cents, Dibby…forty cents…forty-five—”
“It’s all there, Benji, and then some. Just keep the change and I’ll be on my way.” Antsy, I did a little jig, afraid to run into someone from school. Or James.
“No, no, Dibby,” said Benji, “what’s fair is fair. You’ll pay fifty cents like everyone else, not a penny more. Just wouldn’t be right.” He squinted at me behind glasses too big for his grapefruit sized noggin. “Let’s see… Where was I? Oh! Forty-five cents…”
“Well, lookie what the cat drug in,” said a hellishly familiar voice. I wheeled on Angela, Suzette’s first in command. Suzette and the rest of her Lollipop Guild sashayed into line behind her, all frills and bows and gaudy idiocy.
“Looks like you’re here with all of your friends,” continued Angela.
They tittered, cackled, a witch coven in training.
“I thought you were going with James.” More laughter, sharp as paper cuts. “What’s the matter, Dibby? Did he find out you’re really a boy?”
“No. But he told me about your feminine ailment, Angela,” I said. “You still scratching down yonder?”
Angela gasped. I grinned, mean and well-earned. My mood demanded it.
“You…you stupid, ugly…stupid tomboy!” Angela’s fists knotted beside her billowing skirt. The clownish, red color painted on her cheeks spread to her forehead. “You take it back right now!”
“Nope. Why don’t you keep your sex disease all to yourself?”
Angela shrieked, came at me with crab-like hands.
“Cut it out!” Suzette stepped between us. “Angela, you leave Dibby alone!”
Dumbfounded, Angela’s crayon-encased features crinkled. “But, Suzette, Dibby’s icky. We can’t stand her! We always—”
“Maybe you better rethink things a bit.” Of course Suzette didn’t find her own behavior in need of adjustment, but even babies have to crawl first, I reckon. “All you be nicer to Dibby. She can’t help the way she is.”
I rolled my eyes, thought they might spill out and continue rolling down the alley. “I don’t need your help, Suzette.”
She gave me a crooked, sad smile. Her head tilted as if sand weighed down one side, and maybe it did. When she grabbed my hand, I nearly jumped out of my overalls. I much preferred her outright scorn over this baby doll pity.
That’s when she really plied her talent for torture. Like a carnival high striker, Suzette whomped a figurative mallet on my toe by whispering, “Are you alright?” A bell clanged in my head.
She’d asked the question; the one that’d set things rosy side up, fill the world with unicorns and butterflies, and shoo away all the demons. The question that absolved the asker of all responsibility, their task completed, job well done. The question that didn’t ever help one damn iota and just made things worse.
“Not a thing wrong with me. I’m right as rain.” Not exactly how I wanted to answer, but it seemed a might bit more tolerable than punching Suzette again. Besides, for once her tiny little heart at least searched for the right place. “Thanks for asking.”
Ready to make a getaway, Benji still hadn’t straightened out our transaction. Naturally, Suzette wouldn’t let up. “By the way, James didn’t say anything else about taking me to the movies. Actually, he hasn’t said more than howdy to me. Can you imagine? Me?”
I imagined Suzette spontaneously blowing up, a welcome quirk of fate.
“Suzette, it doesn’t matter a pile of beans what James does with his life. And while I appreciate your riding to my rescue, I don’t need saving.”
“Well…” All bashful and coy, she took to swaying in her party dress, chin tucked to her chest, eyes wandering, acting like she was too darn cute to be held responsible for her abhorrent personality. I couldn’t understand why anyone found her behavior adorable. “Just thought I’d try.”
Caught up in a storm of confusion, Suzette’s followers, minus their leader, circled their wagons. They clucked, tossed up hands, spoke in beyond rude outdoor voices. I imagined a coup was underway. Now that Suzette had shown a kinder side, her cruel days of dictatorship might be coming to an end.
“…and fifty-four cents!” hollered Benji. “Dibby, you plumb gave me four extra pennies, you did.” Oblivious to the confrontation that had happened in front of his ticket booth, Benji scooted pennies toward me. “Let’s see now. Onnne…twooo…”
An audience now gathered at my back, I told Benji to keep the change, reached in, and snatched a ticket off the coiled loop.
Beneath the unlit marquee (frugal to the point of Great Depression days, Mr. Halloway never lit the bulbs until after dark), the posters for upcoming motion pictures held me in their sway. Even though I’d wanted to quickly disappear inside, I just couldn’t pass up the gaudy, ghoulish delights. One poster displayed a skull shooting light-beams from its eyes, the ballyhoo proclaiming I’d scream once I saw the titular skull. In another poster, Boris Karloff’s milky white eyes—not unlike Hettie’s from the other night—glowed menacingly. Next to him, a woman in repose (always a woman in tattered clothing) lay awaiting for menace to overtake her.
For a moment all my troubles seemed not to matter, my mind giddily anticipating the blood-curdling horror and dreadful frights that would unfold on the silver screen in the weeks to come. Rarely did the movies outrace my imagination, my expectations hard to beat, the build-up just part of the fun. But now that real horror had ensnared my life, any macabre fun had dampened a bit.
I stepped into the theatre. A fascinating mixture of aromas assaulted my senses. The popcorn machine unleashed a smell of salt and butter mixed with feet that’d been marching through the trenches for too long. An overriding odor of water damage and mildew had been stampeded into the burgundy, ornate carpet. The sweat of underpaid ushers practically oozed from the walls. Behind the concession stand, hot dogs rotated round and round on a grill, on the cusp of burning black. But mostly I smelled excitement.
Dressed in his silly, marching band outfit, Mr. Halloway manned the podium. Curtain ties draped from his chest and waist, matching the ropes strung across the theatre’s entrance. “How’re you this fine evening, Dibby?”
“Just swell, thanks.”
He tore my ticket, handed me a stub. “Don’t you go getting too scared, now, y’hear? This motion picture’s guaranteed to turn that purty hair of yours white as pillow feathers.” Always the same patter, complete with spooky wiggling fingers. I enjoyed it anyway. Part of the experience of going to the pictures.
Several chandeliers dangled overhead, lending the Starlight
that palatial look Mr. Halloway strove for. It worked. I felt a might bit like royalty every time I strolled into the glorious, garish museum of wild adventures, faraway lands, and things that made most people hide behind their hands.
A maze work of fat, purple ropes strung back and forth (for no particular reason I could see) between gold posts. Straight ahead the theatre’s main level sprawled out, a place I avoided like the cooties. Suzette and her mindless posse always saddled up there. Instead, I hightailed it to the left staircase (next week, I’d opt for the right side) that wound up into the balcony. I commandeered my usual spot, front row, smack dab center, right in front of the partition to keep rowdy moviegoers and suicides from plummeting to their deaths.
Usually I had the balcony dang near to myself. No exception tonight, only a bald fella behind me, and a couple in the back (who clearly had more on their mind than cinema), kept it from feeling like a private screening. The amorous couple’s deep-sea breathing set a pace, ticking down the seconds until show time.
Below, excited voices mixed, rose, shrieked, the crowd anxious tonight. I enjoyed overlooking them, studying folks’ top-sides. Tightly coiffed pig and pony tails identified Suzette and her cronies, their dresses flumped out over the seats like parachutes. I recognized several football players from school. They stood in the aisle, punching one another in the shoulder, basically carrying on like monkeys at a zoo.
The lights dimmed. An engine chunked alive. Curtains swayed, then tugged back. I wriggled into the seat, the wood welcoming my bottom like a firm handshake.
Even though I’d outgrown cartoons, if I missed even a few seconds of the opening one, I felt gypped. Woody Woodpecker knocked his way through the opening credits and raised the roof on an unsuspecting walrus, his usual victim. Throughout I laughed, maybe not too old for the colorful antics after all.
Someone slid into the seat next to me. A blast of stale nicotine rolled with him.
Peculiar Country Page 21
