I think my daddy—well, I think he’s—
But Jim couldn’t say what he thought his daddy was.
Thomas took a tentative step away from the cabin. I best be going with you, he told Jim. You start fading like you did yesterday, that might be the end of you. Then who I’m gonna talk to?
Jim nodded. He was starting to think it was nice to have someone to talk to. He’d almost forgotten what that was like.
17
When Jim Trebble’s Mama Opened the Door
Wendell was starting to wish his dad had never brought up the cabin in the woods in the first place. If he hadn’t, then Wendell wouldn’t be walking through town with a colored girl, feeling stupid and out of sorts. He had pretty much gone unnoticed his entire life, and he’d liked it that way. Every once in a while he made a standout catch in left field or earned the only A on a math test, and it was fine to get the two minutes of attention either of those things were worth. But as a rule Wendell liked to go about his day without anyone giving him much thought.
Walking through the Bottom with Callie Robinson and Buddy? Wendell felt like the whole world was looking at him. One man even stopped his truck in the middle of the street, rolled down his window, and stuck his head out, just to get a better view of their circus act. They’d seen white people down here before, hadn’t they? There was even one white family, the Arnettes, who lived in the Bottom. Stanley Arnette was known for saying he thought colored folks were more neighborly than whites. He was also known for being halfway crazy, though Wendell’s mother said that wasn’t true, it was just that the Arnettes had always been a little bit different from other people.
Wendell didn’t have any interest at all in being different. He had absolutely zero interest in walking up Marigold Lane with Callie Robinson, but for some reason he felt like he had to. That stupid Ray Sanders and his stick! Wendell couldn’t help but feel bad about that. He couldn’t help feeling like now he owed Callie something.
You just don’t like a dog being mad at you, Wendell thought, and that was true enough. In fact, he was pretty sure half the reason he was doing this was because of the way Buddy had looked at him after Ray Sanders ran off into the woods. Wendell could live with a lot of things, but he couldn’t live with the idea that a dog like Buddy thought poorly of him.
“We turn left up there,” Callie said, pointing toward Main Street. “And then I figure it’s about a five-minute walk. Mr. Renfrow says Mrs. Trebble’s house is right at the edge of town, where things start turning back into countryside.”
That was going to be the hard part—turning right onto Main. Main Street was a street, but it was also a line you crossed to get from the colored part of town to the white part of town. It was bad enough being seen walking with Callie in the Bottom; what about when white folks saw them together?
Wendell looked at Buddy and wondered for the thousandth time in his life what it was like to be a dog. Buddy didn’t care who was what—if you were colored or white or a boy or girl. He just kept going along his way, looking for whatever it was he was looking for.
“Come this way, Buddy,” Callie instructed the dog when they reached Main Street, tugging him toward the left. “We’re going to your old house. Then we’re going to write a newspaper article about you.”
“I ain’t writing any article,” Wendell said. “I don’t even like to write.”
“I didn’t mean you. Mainly I just meant me.”
“Then why’d you say ‘we’?”
Callie stopped and looked at him. “You always so touchy?”
“I ain’t touchy.”
“Oh, you’re touchy, all right. You scared to be seen with a colored girl?”
“Scared to be seen with a crazy girl, is more like it.”
Callie tugged at Buddy’s leash again and started walking. “You think I’m stupid or something? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking. Thinking how bad it be if some of your friends see us walking down the street. Like I’m giving you cooties or something.”
“How do I know you won’t?”
“’Cause I’m colored?”
“Because you’re a girl.”
Callie grinned. “I bet I’m cleaner than you. You ought to check behind your ears, Wendell Crow. A man could start a farm back there.”
Wendell felt a laugh coming up, but he managed to turn it into a snort at the last second. “The backs of my ears ain’t none of your business.”
“Well, thank the Lord for tender mercies.”
Wendell shook his head. Girls.
They walked in silence for a few blocks, the sound of birds yakking in the trees filling in the empty space where their conversation had been. To Wendell’s relief, there wasn’t much traffic and he didn’t see many people out in their yards. The few he did see didn’t seem to take much notice of their little gang. Maybe he was making too much of a big deal out of it. This couldn’t be the first time in human history a boy had walked down the street with a colored girl and a dog. Probably happened two or three times a year at least. Just because Wendell had never witnessed such a thing himself didn’t mean it couldn’t be.
“I bet that’s it there.” Callie was pointing at a house up the street, but Wendell was looking at Buddy, whose tail and ears were sticking up at full attention. Buddy seemed to know exactly where he was without having to read a street number or know the address.
Maybe seeing what happened when Jim Trebble’s mama opened the front door and saw Buddy would be worth the embarrassment of walking down the street with a colored girl, Wendell thought. Or at least halfway worth it.
The Trebbles’ house was the last one on the right. It was different from the other houses on the street. Set far back off the road, it was standing in a field, its gravel drive cutting a swathe through a blanket of wildflowers.
“It sure turned into country quick out here,” Callie said, turning to look at the street behind them. “It’s like a regular street running through town, and all the sudden—bam! Welcome to nature.”
Wendell nodded. That was what it was like, all right. He wondered if Mrs. Trebble lived here all by herself. It gave him a sad feeling to think that she did, the house being set apart from the others the way it was. Well, just about everything concerning the Trebble family made him feel sad. Their boy drowning in the river that way—Wendell winced to think of it. How many times had he been swimming right where Jim Trebble went in? Maybe a million. And he’d been pulled under a time or two, no doubt about it. He knew what that felt like.
“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Callie began as they started up the gravel drive. “I’ll stand a few feet back while you knock on the door. You tell her that you’re working over at the Celeste Gazette and Informer for the summer, kind of like a volunteer, and you been tracking down the story about Buddy here. Tell her that Buddy’s been staying at my house, and that’s why I’m here with you.”
“But you’re the one writing the story.”
“Yeah, but that don’t matter. It’ll make more sense to her that you’re the one writing it.”
Wendell guessed he could see Callie’s point. He didn’t know how he felt about lying to Mrs. Trebble, though. Seemed like her life had been hard enough without some kid she didn’t even know standing on her front porch telling her lies.
His heart started beating a mile a minute the second he knocked on the front door, and he could feel his palms getting all sweaty. Buddy was standing right at his heels. What if seeing Jim’s old dog gave Mrs. Trebble a heart attack? Wendell hadn’t even thought about that. Oh, Lord, he prayed, please let her not be home.
A pair of eyes appeared at the window, and a moment later the door opened to reveal a woman still in her bathrobe. She had a pleasant if somewhat confused expression on her face. “Well, goodness, I wasn’t expecting company so early. Is there something I can help you all with?”
Wendell opened his mouth, but the words froze up in his throat. What was it that Callie had told him to say?
“Wel
l, hello there, uh, ma’am,” he finally croaked. “I’m writing a report for school and I—”
“For school? In the middle of July?”
“No, not for school, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was . . . that is, what I meant to say—”
“He’s writing for the newspaper, ma’am,” came Callie’s voice behind him. “That’s what he means. He’s volunteering over there this summer, the way some young people do. You know, for career experience?”
The woman nodded, but looked unsure. “For career experience? But the both of you look a little young to be thinking about careers.”
“You see, it’s like this, ma’am,” Callie said, pushing her way past Wendell. “I’m not thinking of a career at all. I’ve just been keeping this dog at my house the last few days, and Wendell here got all curious about him because he’s a dog everyone’s been seeing around the last week or so, especially down by the river. So Wendell here, in his curiosity, started doing some investigating work as part of his volunteer job at the paper. And he seems to think that this dog used to belong to your son Jim.”
The woman paled. “Oh, no. Jim’s dog . . . Jim’s dog drowned, you see.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not the case, ma’am,” Callie said. “Even though that’s what folks thought at first. But why don’t you look at the dog and see?”
Callie pushed Buddy toward the door, and Mrs. Trebble took a step back, grabbing the doorknob to keep her balance. “Buddy?” she asked in a trembling voice. “Is that you, boy? It certainly looks like you, with a few years added on.”
Buddy panted and whined to be let off his leash. When Callie freed him, he lay down in front of Mrs. Trebble and rolled over onto his back, exposing his belly. “Oh, Lord, that is exactly what Buddy used to do.” Mrs. Trebble patted her chest with her hand, as though trying to slow down her heartbeat. “And he had brown freckles on his belly too.”
She kneeled down and scratched Buddy’s chest. “Where’ve you been, boy? You’ve surely been missed.”
“I think he somehow figured his way home from wherever the river washed him to,” Callie informed her. “That’s the idea I’m working on, anyway.”
Mrs. Trebble stood, her eyes brimming with tears. “He’s looking for Jim, is what he’s doing. Most loyal dog in the world. But it’s been ten years. I can’t believe it took him ten years to find his way home.”
“I read a story once—,” Wendell began, and then he paused because he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say. But Mrs. Trebble looked at him like she was interested, so he continued. “It was in my Scout magazine. About how dogs have traveled a thousand miles to find their families. One dog got lost in California, and it took him five years to get back to his home in North Carolina. But he did it.”
“Isn’t that something?” Mrs. Trebble said, her mouth trembling. “Well, Buddy is the sort of dog that would do that. Loyal as the day is long.”
“Ma’am, you feel like you could talk to Wendell here some about Jim?” Callie asked softly. “Just for a minute?”
But Mrs. Trebble was already backing into the house. “Not today, children. I’ve—I’ve got company coming over. Why don’t you come back on Monday? I’ll be better prepared for you on Monday.”
Wendell wondered if they showed up on Monday, whether she’d even answer the door. “You want Buddy to stay with you? I mean, now that he’s back and all?”
Mrs. Trebble smiled a sad smile. “Oh, I reckon he could have found his way back a long time ago if he’d wanted to. No, I suspect Buddy’s just going to keep searching that river for the rest of his days.”
And sure enough, right then Buddy jumped up and turned toward the path. Giving one last glance back at Mrs. Trebble, he scampered toward the road like he was late for an appointment.
“He’s a good dog,” Wendell told Mrs. Trebble, and to his surprise felt his throat grow tight. He bet if he drowned in the river, King would do the same thing Buddy was doing. There wasn’t nothing better than a dog, Wendell thought as he swiped his hand across his eyes. Nothing better.
“You think she’s gonna open that door come Monday morning?” Callie asked as they followed Buddy down the drive.
“I’d be surprised.”
Callie nodded. “Me too. I’d still like to write an article for the paper, though.”
“Is that what you’re going to be, a newspaper reporter?”
“Maybe. That or else a private investigator.”
“Private investigator sounds like it might be fun,” Wendell agreed. “You reckon that’s the same thing as a detective?”
“What my daddy says is that detectives work for the police department and private investigators work for themselves. That’s the main difference.”
“Well, how you gonna private investigate Jim Trebble if his mama won’t talk to you?”
Callie shrugged. “Ain’t sure. I was thinking I might try tracking down that Robert Lincoln, who got quoted in the article. He was one of Jim Trebble’s friends.”
Wendell had to admit that was a good idea. He glanced at Callie. For a girl, she was all right, he guessed. She wasn’t stupid, anyway. And then he thought of something. “Lincoln’s Used Cars—you reckon that’s him?”
“How old this Robert Lincoln gonna be now? Around twenty-two? Twenty-three? Can you be twenty-three and own your own used-car lot?”
“Maybe,” Wendell said, pondering. “Or maybe it’s his dad’s place. Maybe Robert Lincoln works there.”
“Where is it? That place on Green Street?”
“That’s the one.”
Callie looked at Wendell. “You know I can’t go if you don’t go with me. Or at least, it’d be better if you did. I know you don’t want to, though.”
The confounding thing was, Wendell did want to go. He didn’t even mind the thought of going with Callie, who he decided he liked fine as a person, even if she was bossy and opinionated. He just wished she weren’t colored. Or a girl. Those were the two facts about Callie Robinson that made her complicated.
“I guess I could get Carl Jr. to go with me,” Callie said. “People tend to like Carl Jr. a whole lot. Even white folks like him.”
“I’ll go,” Wendell told her, surprising them both. “I guess I’m getting interested in who this Jim Trebble person was.”
“You know what I’m interested in? I’m interested in who this Jim Trebble is. Sometimes I feel like he’s right behind me, and all I got to do is turn around.”
“That’s crazy. I ain’t going anywhere with you if you keep talking crazy talk.”
“Fine then, I’ll keep it to myself for the time being. Exceptin’ it ain’t crazy. He could be right behind us this very second.”
“Oh, it’s crazy, all right,” Wendell insisted. “Crazy as Halloween on Christmas morning.”
Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little chill go through him right that very second. And he couldn’t help but turn around.
Just like he’d thought, there was nobody there.
At least nobody he could see.
18
The Catcher Boy
When Jim saw them children heading with his dog down to the river, he just couldn’t follow, so Thomas pushed him another way. When you were like them, you could get through the woods fast, no worries about tripping over vines or rubbing against the poison ivy. You just went. So they headed west till they got to this lady’s yard full of tomato vines and yellow flowers. She was sitting in a chair, humming, and when Thomas and Jim went through her yard, she looked all around, like she knew something there, just didn’t know what.
You ever notice that? Jim asked Thomas. How some people know you’re there, and other people don’t?
I ain’t been around a lot of folks, Thomas told him. Mostly I stay to the cabin, waiting for my family to come back. They never come, though.
How long you been there?
I don’t know. I reckon a long time, only I ain’t sure. Maybe a thousand years, maybe a month.
By that time they was out on the sidewalk and could see them two children and Jim’s dog walking their way. Jim hid behind a tree, but Thomas let the girl walk straight through him. It was like getting tickled by a feather. After they passed, he and Jim fell in behind them.
What do you remember—I mean, about after—? Jim asked. Did you—?
You asking me if I’m dead?
Jim nodded.
I reckon I am. Only it don’t feel that way sometimes.
Jim nodded again, only this time he was all excited, like Thomas had said something important and true.
I don’t think I am, he said, his voice all a-trembling. I think I’ve just got to get it figured out. I mean, how to get back.
Back to life?
Yeah. You think I can?
Thomas didn’t tell him no, but that’s what he was thinking. Even though he didn’t brush up against many folks, he’d come across some souls trapped in this world worse than him and Jim. They be thinking the same as Jim, that some sort of spell gonna get ’em alive again. All they had to do was find the right trick.
Thomas didn’t go into town too much ’cause of all the noise and commotion, and there was these wagons that were all closed up and didn’t have no horses pulling ’em. Spooked him. But once in a while he’d go at night, when things got quiet. Town was a full-up place, with buildings everywhere. Walking with Jim, it didn’t seem like town was new to him. Maybe that’s why Jim didn’t know he dead. Maybe he hadn’t been dead long enough to realize it.
Amazing thing was when this man who looked just like Jo-Jo Bates from back home come walking down the street and stop to talk to them children. Thomas knowed it wasn’t Jo-Jo ’cause of his clothes, but still it made him jump. Whoever it was looked like he thought the boy and girl be an odd pair, but the man didn’t say nothing. Just asked questions and looked interested in the answers.
Now Thomas and Jim took a turn onto a road with lots of pretty trees, and that’s when Jim got all nervous. Thomas thought he must be getting close to his home, the way he strain forward like a mule pulling a plow.
Trouble the Water Page 10
