Who Invited the Dead Man?

by Sprinkle, Patricia

  I unlocked the case, and together we gathered all the firearms and took them to his car. Then I went back and got the ammunition as well, then the shotgun in the backyard. “When he gets better, you let me know when you want these back,” he said as he stowed the last one in his trunk.

  I shuddered. “I could do without them ever coming back. Particularly the way Joe Riddley is now.”

  Maynard leaned over and gave me a hug, the privilege of a boy who’d known me since he was in diapers. “He’s gonna be all right. He’s getting better every day. You maybe can’t see it, because you’re with him all the time. But just now he was perfectly lucid when I was getting him into bed. Thanked me for coming and apologized for hauling me down here at this hour. Said he hates to be a burden on you and other people.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “You don’t know how it cheers me to hear you say that. Seems to me like it goes on and on. It helps to get a fresh perspective. You want a cup of coffee or something before you go?”

  I offered automatically, but found I really hoped he’d stay. “You got the makings of hot chocolate?” Maynard used to come down on chilly Saturday afternoons when he was a kid and I’d make hot chocolate with marshmallows. I didn’t know at the time that his mother was trying to cut back on his sugar because she thought it made him hyper. Looking back on it, and on how well he’d turned out, seemed to me what made Maynard hyper as a little boy was being fussed over so much.

  I made hot chocolate and put three fat marshmallows in each cup. We went out onto the porch and sat rocking gently, listening to night sounds and letting the steam warm our noses. The darkness made me bold. “Tell me something. When do I get to wear my wedding hat? You’ve bought Marybelle’s house and are having it fixed up, you’ve got a good job and a legacy from your uncle, Selena’s got a good job, so what’s holding you back?”

  He looked out toward where an owl was calling. “I don’t see my way clear quite yet.”

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes!” His thin face broke into that smile that made him so surprisingly handsome.

  “So what’s got hold of your suspenders? You can’t live with your daddy forever.”

  He twisted his mouth, like he was trying to decide whether to tell me. Finally he drained his cup and held it, turning it around and around in his hands. “I can’t see getting him to move, can you? And he can’t stay out here by himself, but he has a fit if I suggest looking for somebody to live with him.” He stood up before I said another word. “That was good. Thanks.”

  I wished I were charitable enough to have Hubert move in, but we couldn’t live with Hubert. Still, I hated to see Maynard and Selena putting off their marriage because of him.

  I watched his taillights grow small up the road and found myself thinking, How blessed a person is who has good neighbors.

  As I turned to go in, I saw another set of lights coming down our road.

  For a terrifying moment I remembered Ridd’s truck barrel ing down to say his daddy had been shot. But these headlights were lower than Ridd’s truck and not as blinding as Walker’s Infinity. I hurried to the kitchen and latched the screen, wary since I’d inadvertently let in a murderer. With relief I saw a sheriff’s cruiser pull to a stop under the light.

  A deputy got out, pausing to take off his hat and smooth back his hair before he shut his door. “You need me to sign a warrant?” I called, unlatching the screen.

  “No, ma’am, I brought you something.” He put back on his cap and opened his back door. I heard a raucous shriek. “Sic ’em, boy! Sic ’em!” The yard dogs started a trio on the theme that we didn’t need any parrots. At my ankles, Lulu made it a quartet. I fully agreed, and so, apparently, did Joe. His wings flapped angrily as the deputy reached into the backseat and struggled to grab a parrot who did not want to be grabbed.

  Fighting an impulse to slam the door and go back to bed, I padded to the yard in my slippers. “Don’t overexcite him. Give him a minute to get used to you.” Then I turned to the dog pen and yelled, “Quiet, there! Quiet!” like Joe Riddley used to. To my utter amazement, the dogs hushed. Even Lulu subsided after a brief solo.

  “You and who else?” the parrot shrieked as the deputy made another grab for his tail. The next minute the man backed out, rubbing the back of one hand with the other.

  “Dang bird bit me! Maybe you ought to try, Judge. I don’t know much about birds.”

  “I don’t know much about birds, either. Why didn’t you take him to Hector, or back to your office?” I felt as disgruntled as the parrot.

  “Hector wouldn’t take it, and we don’t have holding facilities for a bird. Besides, I thought you wanted him.”

  “Your nose is going to grow five feet long. Have you fed him?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Wait a minute.” I had no idea what parrots liked to eat. The only thing I’d ever seen Joe eat were bits of Hiram’s hamburgers, buns, fries, and pizza. I ran into the kitchen, grabbed a bun left from the barbeque, and filled a bowl with water. I opened the car door. Joe perched on the steering wheel looking like any minute he’d drive away. No such luck. He gave me a disdainful glare, then turned around to show me his back. “Hungry, Joe?” I asked. “Want some roll?”

  He twisted his head this way and that, but didn’t move. As I continued to stand quietly and hold out the bun, though, he turned and hopped onto the seat, then inched my way. I also offered the bowl of water and he ducked his head for a swallow. After he’d had several, he arched his neck and pecked off a bite of bun.

  I stood there while he ate bread and water, then held out my arm like I’d seen Hiram do. I was as frightened of his claws as Joe was of me, but when he hopped onto my forearm, they felt like tiny feathers on my skin. I was surprised how light he was. He felt no heavier than an orange.

  I nearly dropped him, though, when he side-walked up my arm and climbed onto my shoulder. “Sic ’em, boy!” he called to the dogs, flapping his wings in my face.

  They tuned up again. The deputy at least was good for something. He got them quiet.

  “I’ll take him in for tonight,” I agreed grumpily, “although how I’ll keep him and Lulu in the same house I don’t know. Could you take her upstairs and shut her in a bedroom until I get Joe settled?”

  We went to the kitchen together, and the deputy picked up the beagle without any trouble. He had two of his own from one of her litters. He nuzzled her gently as he took her up the stairs. “There you go, girl. Happy dreams.”

  Behind the closed door, Lulu started another aria. I hoped Joe Riddley’s air conditioner was turned on high.

  As the deputy clomped back downstairs, Joe started climbing from my shoulder to my head. “No!” I said crossly, but he hopped up and perched in my hair. “If you mess in my new hairdo . . .”

  I didn’t complete that sentence any more than I used to with the boys, but as I shook my head crossly, Joe hopped back to my shoulder. “Good boy,” he croaked. “Good boy.”

  The deputy took off his hat, smoothed his curls, and replaced his hat. “He says a lot of words.”

  “Why don’t you take him home with you? Your kids would love him.”

  He grinned. “And my wife would kill me. Good night, now.”

  “Well, Joe, I hope you are housebroken,” I muttered as I closed the back door. “If you tear up my house while I’m asleep, I’ll positively kill you.”

  Then I remembered that his owner was already killed, and I felt so bad I gave him another bun. I left him perched on a ladder-back chair, muttering parrot obscenities to himself.

  13

  I stared in dismay at my kitchen. Morning sunlight streamed through the window over the sink, which was full of broken flowerpots, loose dirt, and fresh herbs that used to decorate the sill. Plastic containers and lids Clarinda had left in the drainer littered the floor. A red potholder dangled from the top of the refrigerator. Dish towels were strewn here and there. Clarinda’s blue kitchen sweater was nothing mo
re than a shredded mass of yarn covering the stove. Up near the twelve-foot ceiling, Joe perched on the curtain rod over the sink, a splash of scarlet against the creamy wall, and preened himself like he’d been grooming all night long.

  Lulu stood below the sink and barked a warning that as soon as she learned to fly, Joe was dead meat.

  “You filthy animal!” I raged. “As if I have nothing better to do than clean up after you.”

  “What’sa matter, Little Bit?” Joe Riddley spoke behind me.

  I turned in astonishment. “You walked to the kitchen by yourself?”

  “Me and my helper here.” He steered the walker through the door.

  I’d been too upset the night before to realize he’d made it all the way to the backyard alone. Now I found myself with the same jumbled emotions a mama feels when her infant first toddles across a room. Of course I was delighted Joe Riddley could walk by himself. But what if he wandered off, or went somewhere and couldn’t make it back?

  Sometimes life got too much for my legs. I sank into the nearest chair. Lulu pranced nervously at my feet, waiting for orders. With me out of the way, Joe Riddley finally saw the kitchen—and Joe. He laughed so hard he had to push himself over and take the chair beside mine. “Hello, Joe! No point pleadin’ innocent. You left an evidence trail.” He pointed to the overturned sugar bowl and large prints in the mess.

  Joe flew straight to his shoulder. Joe Riddley gently stroked his bright red chest. “Always wanted a bird. Mama kept sayin’ no.”

  “Your wife says no, too.” I picked up dish towels, then reached for a sponge to clear the table. Joe squawked his displeasure.

  “She’s destroying your masterpiece, isn’t she, feller?” Joe Riddley continued to stroke his bright chest with a large forefinger. Joe picked at something under one wing.

  Lulu yipped her displeasure at not getting Joe Riddley’s attention. I bent to pet her, then wiped sugar into my cupped palm. “Have you ever known a dog to make this big a mess in one night?”

  Joe lifted his head and gave me a cold stare. “Not to worry. Not to worry.”

  Joe Riddley gave me a smug grin. “Ever know a dog who could talk?”

  “This bird belongs to the Blaines. It’s going home as soon as I can get Hector over here to pick it up.” I couldn’t rinse the sponge until I cleaned dirt and herbs out of the sink, which involved getting a bucket from the utility room. I went to fetch it, calling over my shoulder, “Heaven only knows what germs that animal has left in this kitchen.”

  “Not an animal. Birds are not animals. I don’t think.” Joe Riddley held up his arm and peered closely at the parrot. “Hello, Joe. Why are your cheeks so pink? Are you blushing?”

  He was right. Joe’s cheeks were normally white. Today they were bright as a flamingo.

  “Blushing with shame for making such a mess.” I finished picking plants and dirt from the sink and rinsed it. Then I rinsed the sugar-coated sponge. As I wrung the sponge, I half wished it was that bird’s neck.

  Joe fixed me with one big white eye with a bottomless black pupil. “Hello! Got a burger?”

  Joe Riddley laughed. “Get him a cracker, Little Bit. Bird’s hungry.” He drew his log toward him and reached for the pencil. “Feed bird,” he said as he slowly wrote the two words. His sprawling letters were much larger than his handwriting used to be.

  “I’m hungry, too,” I said crossly. “Up half the night with you, and now feeding a bird. I don’t even know what they eat.”

  “Call Cindy.” I was astonished he could remember that. Our second daughter-in-law looked like a fashion plate, but she grew up with animals.

  Fortunately, her family menagerie had included parakeets and cockatoos. “Feed him anything fresh and crunchy,” she told me. “Apples, carrots. Also oatmeal and sunflower seeds.”

  Behind her, I heard Walker demanding, “What’s Mama up to now?” so I said a hasty good-bye.

  While I was retrieving carrot sticks and broccoli spears left over from the party, Joe spread his wings, flapped them a couple of times, and swooped back up to the curtain rod. In a second, a stream of bird doo streamed down to the sink.

  “Get him out of here!” I was shaking with disgust.

  “Hey!” Joe Riddley stuck out his arm. “Come down here.” Joe obligingly flew down to the top of his head, then hopped down to his shoulder and walked down his arm. “Wanna be my bird?” It had not occurred to Joe Riddley to ask where Hiram was.

  “You are not keeping that bird,” I informed him shortly, cleaning up the latest mess.

  “Sic ’em, boy,” Joe urged him.

  Joe Riddley put up one fist. “Wanna fight, Little Bit?” He gave me Joe Riddley’s old, normal grin. I turned away. I would not soften on this. I didn’t need a bird to clean up after, with all the rest I had to do.

  “Here. Eat this.” I held out a carrot stick. Joe arched his neck, then turned away.

  “You have to cut it up,” said Joe Riddley, Mr. Ornithologist U.S.A.

  When I thumped smaller pieces down on the bare table, Joe Riddley picked up a few and held them on his palm. Joe ate like he hadn’t eaten for a week.

  I went to a phone out of earshot to call Hector. After I’d told him how sorry I was about Hiram, I said, “We’ve got Joe. You need to come get him.”

  “Wring his neck,” Hector said brutally, making me ashamed I’d thought the same thing a little while ago. “I hate that animal. Messes up the house and uses the whole place like one big toilet. You keep him.” He hung up before I could protest.

  I came back to find Sheriff Gibbons and a couple of his men talking to Joe Riddley in the kitchen. Joe Riddley explained, “Sheriff and his men came to help you clean up from the party. Right neighborly, I call it.”

  I threw Buster a grateful look over Joe Riddley’s head. He clapped his old friend on the shoulder a couple of seconds before he led his men toward the dining room. I needed to get Joe Riddley and myself fed and ready for church.

  Joe Riddley didn’t object when I said Joe had to go to the barn while we were gone. “Birds can’t go to church,” he explained to Joe. “You’ll like the barn. Room to fly. Go to Little Bit.” The bird hopped willingly from his arm to mine, surprising me again how light he was.

  The dogs set up a racket as soon as I carried the parrot out on my arm. I half hoped Joe would fly away in terror, but he clung to my arm and taunted the dogs with squawks. When we got to the barn he hopped onto the handlebar of the lawnmower like it was a new kind of perch. I left him looking around to see what kind of mess he could make.

  We had a crisis after Joe Riddley got dressed. I couldn’t find his cap. He usually hung it by the kitchen door, but before the party, I’d hung it on the ladder-back chair by his bed. Now, it wasn’t there.

  “I can’t go without my cap,” he insisted.

  “You don’t need it for church.”

  “I need it to”—he searched for the word—“blind my eyes. From the sun.” He sat stubbornly on his chair, waiting for me to find it.

  “Shade your eyes,” I corrected him. “And this isn’t Miami in July.” I’d already looked everywhere I could think of, and we were running late.

  Suddenly he flapped one hand. “Not to worry.” He sounded like the parrot. “It’s mislaid.”

  “Mislaid?” This was the second time in two days he’d used that word, which I couldn’t ever remember him using before.

  He explained as if I was the one with an injured brain. “Mislaid means you put it somewhere else and forgot. But now I remember. I gave it to Hiram.”

  “Hiram?” I was so startled, I blurted the word loudly. I hoped Buster hadn’t heard me.

  I also remembered what was different about Hiram. His cap had been clean.

  “Hiram Blaine. You remember him?” Joe Riddley still sounded like I was the one with memory problems. “It was his birthday. He had a dirty cap, so I gave him mine. A present.”

  “Hiram climbed the water tank on his birthday, honey, a
nd that was in April.” This could be another of Joe Riddley’s con fabulations, but if so, where did Hiram get that clean hat? “Where were you when you gave Hiram the hat?”

  “We were on his birthday.”

  “Hiram wasn’t here on his birthday. Was it on the sidewalk Thursday, when you all were talking? After you went to the bank?” If I sounded desperate, I was. Desperately trying to recall if Joe Riddley had worn a cap since Friday. I couldn’t. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was having sympathetic memory loss, like a husband who gets nauseated when his wife is pregnant.