Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

  “Yep. I suspect everyone’s had those thoughts from time to time.” I placed my hands aside his cheekbones, assuring his full attention. “It’s normal. What ain’t normal is acting upon those thoughts. You know that, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Someday, somewhere, things’ll change for us, James. I know it. Feel it down deep. Just hang on. ‘Cause I think life—the future’s—worth hanging on for.”

  He got it alright, a bit too much. Eyes closed, lips puckered, he leaned toward me. I probably would’ve surrendered, too, if the Catholic church’s bell tower hadn’t clanged just then.

  “Here they go again,” moaned James. “No wonder I can’t sleep Sundays.”

  “You shouldn’t be sleeping ‘till noon anyway, lazybones. Now, hush, you already ruined my show last night. You’re not gonna do it again.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  Since words never worked, I clamped my hand down over his mouth.

  “You gonna shut your hole now?” He nodded. “Fine and dandy, then. Just watch.”

  Folks flocked out of the Holy Mary Shrine of God Church doors, many of them strangers to me. The Holy Mary was the only Catholic church around, so Hangwell played host to Catholics from several counties.

  Pastor Dobbins, he of mighty import to the Hangwell Baptist Church, took the Catholic invasion as a personal affront. Every Sunday, after both churches simultaneously released their congregations, Pastor Dobbins visibly boiled as Catholics swarmed the streets.

  Not to be outdone, Father Lufton donned his fighting gloves as well. Those unfortunate souls who still bothered with town meetings were always treated to the holy men spatting over trivial matters.

  By watching the Sunday showdowns, I learned a lot about Hangwell’s inhabitants.

  “What’s going on?” asked James.

  “Will you just hush and watch? I swan, worse than a kid.”

  The Catholic bell tower clanged its twelfth stroke. Across the street, Pastor Dobbins twisted up his face and carried on, his hands over his ears. Several of his faithful followed his lead.

  “Now watch this.” I nudged James, pointed toward the Baptist church.

  Several of Dobbins’ acolytes propped speakers into the church’s open windows. With the aid of a very long extension cord, a man dragged a microphone stand out to the front stoop. Mrs. Dobbins, 300 pounds wrapped tightly into her floral dress, waddled to the stand. She cleared her throat, demanded attention.

  I grinned, anticipated the caterwauling.

  Mrs. Dobbins never disappointed. Someone, somewhere, apparently had told Mrs. Dobbins she could carry a tune, forty cats tossed into a wood-chipper be hanged. Enormous bosom thrust out, she belted through Onward Christian Soldiers, stuck in that one-note, glass-breaking, high-pitched shriek.

  “Oh, man…too, too much!” James approved, bent over with laughter.

  “Told ya.”

  Pastor Dobbins and his flock clapped along spiritually, smiling, some marching in place like the titular soldiers.

  Across the street, Father Lufton grimaced, red beneath his collar. With a military roll of his hand, he ordered return fire. The Catholic’s carillon system rolled into a hymn I didn’t know. Since Mary figured prominently in the lyrics, I reckoned it’d been picked with the sole intention of getting under the Baptists’ skin.

  In their Sunday’s finest, folks filed out of both churches, milling about on their respective lawns, afraid to cross the line into enemy territory. Nasty looks were shared, heads were shaken, stories were perpetuated about the unknown adversary lurking just across the street.

  Suzette and her picture-perfect family posed on the Baptist church’s lawn, dudded up straight out of a Sear’s catalog. On the other side, Odie, our postman and one of the few local Catholics, pretty much kept to himself. Most folks thought it odd Odie chose the bachelor’s life. Some of the local busybodies used to try to set him up with the few eligible women in town. He declined. These days, I kinda thought Odie might be onto something.

  Back at the Baptist church, Sheriff Grigsby (nearly unrecognizable out of his professional uniform) parlayed belly to belly with Mayor Hopkins, amazing they could even hear one another since their ample guts created a long drift between them. Serious faces portended serious import, no doubt regarding Hettie’s remains. Couple times their grave consideration fell upon me. Unable to stand up to such heat, I switched my head away.

  Bank president Terrence J. Thomason and family, noses up in the air like show poodles, breezed by the Catholic church, not affording their adversaries a glance. Except lil’ Terrence Jr., always free with his wicked tongue. “Mary worshippers,” he spat.

  A Catholic teen retaliated. “Stupid faith-healing frauds!”

  “Dancers! You’re all going to—”

  “That’s enough, Terry!” Mrs. Thomason snatched Terry’s arm and dragged him away. His little legs toddled beneath fancy dress-shorts. Hard shoes clogged down the sidewalk as he skittered to keep up with his mother.

  “Is it always like this?” asked James.

  I nodded. “Once a fistfight even broke out. Wait…this part’s always fun.”

  Both men of God strode to the center of the street, both angry as hornets. They didn’t shake hands, didn’t say boo. Just grimly stared at one another, mouths pulled taut.

  Father Lufton began the ritual. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Fine morning, Pastor Dobbins.”

  His white cotton field of hair blowing in the breeze, the Pastor volleyed back. “It’s a great morning, Father Lufton.”

  Their voices rose, competing with the dueling hymns of redemption.

  “I had a wonderful congregation today,” hollered the Pastor. “Near full house, one hundred and some change, I reckon.”

  “For your church, that’s just fine,” countered Father Lufton. “Course we were pushing 160, give or take a soul or dozen.”

  “Lord, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” The Pastor looked up toward Heaven, suffering scrawled across his face.

  Father Lufton crossed himself, closed his eyes. “Oh, Lord, Jesus Christ, redeemer and savior, forgive their sins, lead them unto the right path.”

  They stared at one another, nostrils flared, fists bunched at their robes. Mrs. Dobbins set fire to another blistering verse. The Catholic hymn looped back to the beginning. I full-on expected guns to appear. Then the holy men would take ten steps, swivel, and blast one another to Kingdom Come. Which Kingdom they landed in would surely make for a lively debate.

  Mr. and Mrs. Halloway breezed by me. The theatre owner tipped his hat. “Dibby, I didn’t see you leave the Starlight last night. Was my movie too spooky for you?” Again, he wiggled crawly fingers at me.

  “That it was, Mr. Halloway. Not for the faint of heart,” I said.

  He laughed and rolled on his way.

  In the street, the showdown grew more fevered. Now nose to nose, the pastor and priest looked ready to duke it out.

  “I’m gonna’ put a stop to your Bingo night if it’s the last thing I do,” spat Pastor Dobbins. “The very idea! Gambling and what not!”

  “I’ve already got the official okey-dokie from City Hall,” said Father Lufton. “Half the proceeds goes to charity, the other half to city works.”

  Pastor Dobbin’s hair whipped violently forward. “Feh. That’s because the Mayor’s secretary is a Catholic.” He rubbed a thumb against his first two fingers. “A little payoff to sweeten your Bingo plans? I know how you Catholics operate.”

  “That’s an outrageous insinuation and I take personal umbrage toward it, sir!” Father Lufton thrust his barrel chest out, an old-time boxer. “If I wanted to be ornery, I might just ask the Sheriff to look into some of your fund-raising ways. How you’re bilking your congregation outta’ their hard-earned dowry. Honestly, Pastor…faith-healing?”

  “At our church, we don’t go in for such shenanigans! We—”

  “That’s not what Miss Billyews claims! She says you cured her
rheumatism! For a generous donation, of course.”

  “That’s neither here nor there! Your gambling and dancing and drinking will undoubtedly lead next to whoring!”

  “There’ll come a reckoning, Pastor, and then you’ll see! You’ll see! Mark my word! You holler about fire and brimstone ‘till you’re purple in the face, but you’ll be proven wrong one of these days! In Hell!”

  Sheriff Grigsby strolled up. “We all had a nice bout of religion this morning, fellas. Let’s pack it in real peaceful-like, go our own ways, maybe do some reflecting at home.” Chief Wakuna—who I don’t believe belonged to either church, but always put in an appearance at noon—stood behind the Sheriff, ready to wake up if necessary.

  “Hmph.” Pastor Dobbins stalked back to the safety of his church’s yard.

  “Hateful, intolerant buffoon,” hissed the priest. He rejoined his congregation, arms out as if ready to hug each and every one.

  The crowds began to dissipate, ready to rest six days before the next Civil War reenactment. The bell tower hushed. Thankfully, so did Mrs. Dobbins. The sudden silence was at once calming and oddly unnerving.

  “Hi, Dibby.” The daughter of the town pharmacist, Mr. Simonson, stood before us, swaying in her red dotted dress, an act adorable on young ‘uns, deplorable on Suzette and her ilk.

  “Hey there yourself, Libby.” Libby always liked me, mostly because our rhyming names tickled her. “Libby and Dibby, zippy in Mississippi,” I sang.

  She giggled. Her father swooped in, swept her up in his arms. Without a word, he rushed her to safety, away from the vile teen smokers. Over his shoulder, he shot me a look of disgust. I imagined it’d take a while for him to forgive my wanton act of teen rebellion. One more reminder why I shouldn’t be so willing to forgive James.

  “So…what do you wanna do next?” he asked.

  “Suit yourself. As long as it’s in the other direction I’m headed.”

  “Come on! Where you going? Let me tag along.”

  With a deep sigh, I explained things slowly, as I would to a child. “I’m just not ready to trust you yet. That’s just the way it is.”

  He lowered his face into his hands, growled. When he came back up, his hair stood on end like the Wild Man of Borneo. “What’s it gonna take? I mean…I’ve never gone through this much for a girl! I’m sorry, sorry, sorry! A thousand times sorry! Suzette means nothing! I think of her like…I dunno, a kid sister! Not like you, Dibs.”

  He almost had me. But I couldn’t go through it once more, not now that I almost felt human again. “I believe you, James. I think. Thing is…I can’t help it. It’s not all your fault, truth be told. I guess Mom had a sorta hand in it, leading me to distrust folks who I…” I nearly said “love,” a mighty bold word to toss about, especially since I’d only known James a short while. “I just don’t trust you.”

  “I won’t do anything to lose your trust again, Dibs. Not now, not ever. Honest.”

  “That’s all fine and dandy. But it’s my decision, James. Not yours.” I didn’t want to leave him with no hope, all sad-eyed and downtrodden. “Maybe with time. We’ll see.”

  He brightened, hope in his eyes. “Fab! How long?”

  “Slow down, hot-shot. I said ‘maybe.’”

  “Right. So what’re you gonna’ do next about Thomas and his killer?”

  “Beats the tar outta me. I keep going back to the clue Hettie left me. The star on Dad’s freezer door.”

  “Wait, wait, wait! Hold the phone!” He waved his hands. “Hettie gave you a clue at the Starlight last night?”

  In between my busted affairs of the heart, I’d plum forgotten what I’d told James and what I hadn’t. So I filled him in on Hettie’s first ghostly visit. To rub salt in the wound—I knew he wanted to see a ghost, or at least thought he wanted to—I embellished the story, made it rival the best of Lovecraft.

  “Dammit! I miss all the great stuff. So…what’s the star mean?”

  “Well… Remember what I told you about that night at Hettie’s? How I saw her sitting inside a six-pointed star?”

  “Sure. A Hexagram. What all witches use, right?”

  James’ knowledge of witchcraft rivalled my own, our teacher horror films and comics. “That’s what the motion pictures say, at least.”

  “But I still don’t get it. What’s a hexagram got to do with Thomas Saunders?”

  I shrugged. “I got a hunch. Have to see how it plays out.”

  “What hunch? Spill the beans, Dibs.” He scooted closer, excited.

  “This is a lotta guesswork and all, but it goes to figure that if Hettie was a witch, then her sisters might be witches, too.”

  “Her sisters? Wait… Who’re her sisters?”

  I’d forgotten I hadn’t told him that as well.

  “Wow. I guess that makes sense. You know, with how weird the Sooters are and everything. Like how the blind one can really see and how they can talk to one another without words and stuff. So…you think they killed Hettie?”

  “I don’t know what I think. It appears the sisters and Hettie didn’t much care for one another, that much I know. But that doesn’t fit in regards to Thomas Saunders. And who killed his daddy, Hedrick. Unless there’s more than one murderer in Hangwell.”

  “Hm.” James rubbed at not-quite-there whiskers. “Kinda weird you saw Hettie and Hedrick’s ghosts together at the theatre last night, though. Doesn’t that sorta prove they were, like, connected?”

  “Hettie admitted Hedrick had come to her, asking who Thomas’s daddy was, so I suppose there’s that connection. This dang…mess is so big, I can’t see the whole picture! I need more information. From someone who’ll finally talk to me for a change.”

  “You…you’re gonna go talk to the Sooters?”

  “Heck no! Their lips are sealed tighter than a tomb. Besides, I don’t fancy a hex or evil eye or scythe in my back. Nope, tonight I’m gonna go visit ol’ Boot Gundersen.”

  James’ eyes grew big and worried, the way I like ‘em. “That…creepy guy? Dibs, you can’t! He might…who the hell knows what he’ll do, but it’ll be creepy! At least let me go with you!”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.” I suppose I felt like I had to do it on my own, not rely on anyone but myself. And with my mind all swimmy, James would just provide a distraction. Not knowing if I could trust him. Wondering when (if?) our next kiss might happen. “I’m gonna visit him alone. Besides, he didn’t invite you.”

  Before we wasted more time bickering, I hopped on my bike and got up to speed.

  “What if he’s…a vampire? Or a ghoul?” James called.

  “Then I’ll deal with him,” I hollered back with a wave. “And pack my wooden stakes!”

  Fear shambled up, wrapped its prickly shawl around me. I deliberated, considered changing my mind. I surely would like someone else with me when I entered Boot’s creepy shack. But I stuck to my guns.

  Consumed by my thoughts, Main Street just sorta whizzed by me like a vista outside of a moving train car’s window. As I flew by the Hangwell Public Library, the temperature plummeted. I slowed.

  Fear and curiosity—two good kick-in-the-seat motivators—prompted me to look up at the library.

  Attached at the hip, Yvette and Miriam stood on the steps, dressed head to toe in mourning black. They said nothing, unmoving like those at the Starlight last night. Something appeared within Yvette’s dark eyeglasses. Fire whipped around and around, swirling like dragon’s breath.

  I raised a shaking hand, a half wave.

  No salutations, no acknowledgment, verbal or otherwise. Then Miriam raised a crooked finger, as crooked as ol’ Hettie’s, and pointed at me. Although blind, Yvette’s withered digit also pinpointed me with accuracy. Accusing me of a heinous crime, something far worse than an overdue book.

  Together they mumbled, indecipherable, reaching a near melodic duet. Putting the whammy on me.

  I sped out of there. Terror burned a fiery trail behind
me.

  Earlier I’d guessed the sisters were dressed as if in mourning.

  Not for their sister, though. Rather, for me.

  * * *

  Dad had visitors, a good thing today. It’d keep him occupied instead of more grueling heart-to-hearts.

  Sheriff Grigsby’s hound of a pick-up overshadowed Mayor Hopkins’s very mayoral Lincoln Continental. From the ticks and clicks of the cooling engines, I reckoned the autos hadn’t been in the drive for long.

  I parted the festival of cats and slivered through the half-open door. Just outside the living room where the men had gathered, I listened.

  Dad’s imaginative cursing dominated. Testier than a squirrel with a nut allergy, Dad gave the Sheriff and Mayor what for, flinging expletives like torpedoes. I almost felt sorry for the Hangwell lawmakers.

  “Goddammit, I’m not done with the autopsy yet,” hollered Dad. “I’m just at the tip of the damn iceberg! Sure as hell Hettie was murdered and in a shit-kicking horrible way, too!”

  “Calm down, Oscar,” pleaded Mayor Hopkins. Didn’t take much imagination to know he had his politician hands up. One of Dad’s irritants. Course then again, everything about our mayor irritated Dad. “No one’s asking you to do less than your usual stellar work. And by no means are we—”

  “Then leave me the hell alone so I can get back to my job!”

  “Oscar, for Pete’s sake,” said the Sheriff, “we’re just asking you to keep a lid on things while I complete my investigation. That’s all. We ain’t looking for you to bend any rules.”