The wind has given way to a gentle breeze, and the sunshine and bright blue sky make the overlapping voices I heard last night seem like a dream. I force my thoughts to other things, but when I picture Hailey with Colin at the Kinky Blue concert, I feel worse than ever. I won’t cry, I tell myself. Not over them.
We head for the field behind the house. Just ahead, the old windmill’s blades spin slowly, like a twirler’s baton in a marching band. I wonder if Cedar Canyon High School has twirlers—the old-fashioned kind with white ankle boots, short flirty skirts, and fringed jackets. Perky little cowboy hats perched at an angle on their heads. The image pulls a laugh from me, and it feels as good as the sun on my face. Papa Dan lags behind. I turn to check on him, and movement over at the Quattlebaum farmhouse catches my eye. Lifting the camera, I zoom in for a better view, using the lens like binoculars. A man—Mr. Quattlebaum, I guess—shovels the yard at the side of the house, tossing each scoop into a pile beside him. He’s wearing a dark coat and hat, even though it’s warm outside. Weird. Everything framed in the viewfinder looks colorless. I adjust the focus, but it doesn’t help. I must need to clean the lens.
Pausing to wait for Papa Dan to catch up, I watch the rhythmic plunge and lift of Mr. Quattlebaum’s shovel. Somewhere close to his house, a bell clangs. A second later, a big black dog prances up to the farmer. Mr. Quattlebaum leans on his shovel, takes something from the dog’s mouth, and throws it. The object sails through the air and disappears behind the barn. The dog bolts after it and out of sight. Mr. Quattlebaum pulls off a glove and holds his hand to his mouth, as if he’s warming his fingers with his breath.
Now, that’s pretty freaky, I think. The man must be really cold-natured; the temperature outside is at least sixty-five degrees.
Before I can wonder any more about it, Papa Dan’s whistling draws my attention and I lower the camera to look at him. Wiping the lens with the hem of my shirt, I say, “Hey, slowpoke. What took you so long?” I glance at my watch: 8:15. “At the speed you’re moving, we’ll reach the windmill in time for lunch,” I tease. I take his hand, and we start walking again.
A cloud moves over the sun, casting a shadow across us. When I look toward the Quattlebaums’ farmhouse, the farmer and the dog are gone, and something about the scene seems off—different somehow. Releasing Papa Dan’s hand, I pause and use the zoom lens to zero in on the farmhouse again. Cleaning the lens worked; the image is bright and colorful. The yard is smooth, untouched.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and goose bumps scatter up my arms. What was Mr. Quattlebaum shoveling? Something that he tossed into a pile at his side—a pile that’s no longer there. How strange is that? Beyond strange. Maybe Mom wasn’t teasing when she said I need glasses. Shaking off my unsettled feelings, I lower the camera and hurry to catch Papa Dan at the windmill. He holds his cap and shades his eyes with one hand as he looks up at the twirling blades.
In that instant a shaft of sunlight illuminates my grandfather. My breath catches and I stop. Luminosity. In photography the term refers to the brilliance created by a light source or radiated back from the face of something. Right now, it seems as if the sunbeam doesn’t shine down on my grandfather, but rather that he emits the ray that stretches between him and the sky. Amazed by the beautiful sight, I lift the camera and take the shot.
After I shoot several more pictures, we make our way back to the barn where I take photographs of the ramshackle building at different angles. The camera feels good in my hands. I’ve missed it. Life always seems so clear when I’m seeing it through a lens.
I hear Mom talking in the front yard as we make our way in that direction by way of the side of the house. Papa Dan pauses beside the mulberry tree and his whistling stops. A breeze flaps the fabric of his baggy pants. Birds chirp, filling the air with music. I follow my grandfather’s gaze to a nest tucked in the crook of a bent-knuckled branch.
“You want me to take your picture?” I ask him, but the tree holds his attention. He doesn’t seem to be looking at the nest anymore but at the limb beneath it. “Papa Dan!” I call, laughing, feeling better after spending this time with him outside. “Look at me! Smile!” Though he doesn’t turn, I lift the camera, peer through the viewfinder…and freeze.
The image in the frame is completely still. Black, white, and gray. Like a photograph already shot. Snow dusts the scene like powdered sugar. A guy about my age occupies the space where Papa Dan stood only a moment ago. He wears a coat and a woolen scarf, an old-fashioned winter hat with earflaps, heavy boots on his feet. A sparrow hovers above him, paused in midflight. The mulberry tree seems smaller and the limbs are bare. On one of them, I see a faint, blurred silhouette—a second guy dressed in bulky clothing. The boy on the ground stares up at the guy in the tree, and the guy in the tree stares back, his eyes the only distinguishable feature in the white smudge of his face.
The wind has died. The birds no longer sing. I don’t hear Mom’s voice around the corner. Only silence. Adrenaline shoots through me, and my stomach flips over. I jerk the camera away from my face.
At once, birds chirp and chatter, and Mom’s laughter drifts to me again, carried by a whispering breeze. No phantom sits in the tree, and only blue sky fills the spaces between the limbs. Papa Dan gazes up into the flickering green leaves, his focus on the branch beneath the nest where the sparrow lands with a flutter of wings. At my feet, patchy grass covers the ground instead of snow.
“Papa Dan,” I whisper. But he won’t turn to me. He won’t glance away from the tree. A chill ripples through me as I lift the camera again and look through the viewfinder.
Silence. Everything black and white and gray, everything frozen in time, snow on the ground. The boy standing in Papa Dan’s place stares up at the tree where the blurred guy sits with his legs draped over a limb. But the pale, hazy phantom no longer stares at the boy on the ground.
He stares straight at me.
6
Somehow I manage to press the shutter release and take the picture before I drop the camera; only the strap around my neck saves it from hitting the ground. Grabbing Papa Dan’s hand, I practically drag him behind me as I hurry around the corner of the house. Mom stands in the driveway talking to a small blond man with a deep Texas drawl. He wears a brown uniform and tan cowboy boots. Relief sweeps through me when I see letters plastered across the door of his white SUV that tell me this man is the county sheriff. My first instinct is to tell him what I saw. But what did I see?
“There you are,” Mom says. “Come meet Sheriff Ray Don Dilworth. Sheriff, this is my father-in-law, Daniel Piper, and my daughter, Tansy.”
“Mornin’, young lady…sir,” he says, smiling.
I pause beside them and open my mouth to reply, but I’m too shaken up to speak.
Mom pulls off her sunglasses. “What’s wrong?”
More than anything, I want to tell them, to hear the sheriff laugh and say: Oh, that? Nothing but a hologram the prior renters left behind. I turned it on to show your mother. Conditions have to be just right. An unlikely explanation, but at least it doesn’t question my sanity, which is exactly what I’m starting to do. First the voices last night, now this. Maybe Papa Dan’s condition is hereditary.
The dread in Mom’s expression changes my mind about speaking up. She’s already worried enough about me. Sometimes she acts like she thinks I’ll unravel if everything isn’t just right. I don’t want to make her even more anxious. “Nothing’s wrong,” I tell her, dropping Papa Dan’s hand and crossing my arms.
Mom searches my face, as if she isn’t sure she believes me. “The sheriff drove all the way out here to welcome us to town. Isn’t that nice?”
I nod, then pull the brim of my hat down a bit farther so Mom can’t see my eyes.
The sheriff chuckles. “Word around town is your mama was over at the Longhorn last night devising a scheme to murder some poor sucker with a Weed Eater, so I decided I’d better come have a little talk with her.”
Mom tips her head to one side, a teasing glint in her eyes. “I’m afraid you’re too late, Sheriff. But I used a blowtorch instead of a Weed Eater; it was much more efficient.”
While they snicker over her joke, I glance behind me, half expecting to see those two guys from the tree standing there. When I turn back, the sheriff stops laughing, peers at the sky, and says, “Beautiful morning, isn’t it? We could sure use more rain, though. A real downpour, this time. It’s supposed to get hotter ’n all get out this afternoon.”
“Yes, a shower would be nice,” Mom murmurs, her voice trailing, her attention fixed on the sheriff in a flirty way that would probably disgust me if I didn’t have more important things to worry about. Was what I saw at the mulberry tree real, or was I hallucinating?
The sheriff twirls his cowboy hat between his hands. He looks as antsy as I feel. I’m pretty sure Mom’s scrutiny has him flustered. Either that or his collar is too tight. “I bet y’all are going to feel right at home here before you know it,” he says. “Texans are a friendly bunch, and the folks in Cedar Canyon are even more so than most.”
“We’ve already found that to be true,” Mom says.
While I squirm and look back toward the tree again, the sheriff puts on his hat. “Are y’all going to the Watermelon Run on Sunday evening?”
“The Watermelon Run?” Mom shakes her head. “I haven’t heard of it.”
“It’s held every August to kick off the school year and the new football season. Everyone goes. The tradition dates back to when my grandparents were in school.”
“In that case, we’ll definitely be there,” Mom says, sounding overjoyed.
“It’s at the stadium…over by the school complex. Have you had a chance to visit the schools yet?”
“No, we haven’t gone by,” Mom tells him. Placing her sunglasses on top of her head, she asks, “How does watermelon figure into all this?”
“The Food Fair brings in the melons—enough for each football player to choose one,” the sheriff explains. “The team meets at the store to pick ’em up, then it’s a footrace to the stadium where everyone’s waiting. When they show up, the players are introduced and the pep rally starts.” Grinning, he adds, “It’s quite a deal. It’ll be a great chance for you to get acquainted with folks.”
“It sounds like fun,” Mom says.
More like pure torture, I think, but nobody asks my opinion. And, anyway, I’m not sure it could be any worse than what I’m going through now. My heart’s thumping so hard, I’m surprised they can’t hear it. Was there someone in that tree? Or am I losing my mind?
“This year the booster club’s sponsoring a fund-raiser for the Pruitts at the same time as the run,” the sheriff continues. “Their house burned down a couple of weeks ago. Folks are donating baked goods and crafts, and businesses around town are providing merchandise for a raffle.”
“I should donate some of my books,” Mom says. “I’ll call my publisher today and ask them to overnight a box or two.”
The sheriff’s face lights up. “If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll tell Della Shroeder to get in touch with you. She’s headin’ up the thing. She’ll be tickled pink.”
Mom tells him her number and he pulls a small notebook from his shirt pocket and jots it down.
“Well, I best be letting you get back to your business.” Returning the notebook to his pocket, Sheriff Dilworth says, “Y’all be careful out here all alone.”
“Careful?” Mom frowns.
“Not to worry you, but previous tenants reported some strange things going on around the property. Recently the Quattlebaums have, too.”
I was wrong to think that my heart couldn’t beat any faster. If others have seen the same sort of thing I did, then maybe Mom won’t think I’m going crazy…and neither will I. “What kind of reports?” I ask.
“Noises,” he answers. “A break-in or two. Hank Quattlebaum thought he saw someone prowling around here at night a week or so back.”
“Oh, you mean the ghost.” Mom laughs. “Hank told us about him. Actually, I’m hoping we meet.”
“Seriously, Ms. Piper.” Sheriff Dilworth scratches his chin and squints. “Is it Moon or Piper?”
Mom looks flirty again as she answers, “It’s Millie.”
He smiles. “I don’t particularly believe in ghosts, Millie, but you might want to keep your eyes and ears open.”
“We’ll call if we hear one rattling around the place.” Mom pulls a serious face and adds, “Especially if he’s carrying a blowtorch or a Weed Eater.” She slides her sunglasses onto her nose again, and the tiny rhinestones at the corners sparkle in the sunlight.
Chuckling and blushing, Sheriff Dilworth reaches to open the door of his vehicle.
“I think I just saw someone,” I blurt out, afraid for him to leave us alone.
“What?” Mom says.
The Sheriff pauses with his hand on the door. “You saw a prowler?”
“I was taking Papa Dan’s picture, and I thought I saw someone in the tree behind him. But when I lowered the camera the guy was gone.”
Mom touches my shoulder. “It was a man?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. Or he could’ve been closer to my age.”
Closing the car door, Sheriff Dilworth says, “Let’s go take a look.”
Holding my grandfather’s hand, I lead them to the tree. We don’t see anything strange, so we walk around back to the barn but don’t find so much as a footprint other than mine and Papa Dan’s. After returning to the driveway, the sheriff warns us again to be careful and reminds us to call if we need anything. He studies me a second, concern wrinkling his forehead. Then he climbs into his SUV and backs out. Mom, Papa Dan, and I stand in the yard, watching dust billow on the road behind his vehicle as he drives away.
“Honey, are you sure about what you saw?” Mom asks, turning to me.
I shrug. “I don’t know. It was probably just a smudge on the camera lens.”
“We’re so isolated out here that it can mess with your mind, if you let it,” she says.
Her concern makes me wish I’d kept quiet. I laugh, hoping to disguise my anxiety. “I guess this house has me spooked. And Mr. Quattlebaum’s story about the ghost.”
“This is a pretty spooky house. And this is such desolate country. Did I tell you what I dreamed last night?” she asks, starting for the porch, her voice lighter.
Papa Dan and I follow her. “No, what?”
“I dreamed someone was screaming out in the canyon. Out in the direction where the bridge is supposed to be. It was that bird screeching, I bet. The one that kept you up all night. My subconscious must’ve turned the noise into a scream.”
Apprehension strokes up my spine like an icy finger as we climb the porch steps. I don’t mention to my mother that the bird didn’t exactly screech.
She glances back at us and says to Papa Dan, “Ready to set up your workshop, Dan?” The screen door squeaks when she pulls it open. “The sooner we put the house in order, the sooner it’ll start to feel like home.”
“Can we wait just a little while?” I ask. I don’t want to spend too much time around her when I’m feeling so edgy. “I’m really tired. I think I’ll go lie down and read for a while.” I want to draw the curtains, pull the covers around me, curl up, and shut everything out. Forget the mysterious frozen world; push the image of it out of my mind.
Mom faces me and frowns. “You just got up. Are you sick?”
“No, I’m okay. I think the trip just wiped me out. But you’re right; I probably shouldn’t be lazy or I won’t sleep tonight.”
Holing up in my room wouldn’t have worked, anyway. Even with the shade drawn, I’d sense the mulberry tree on the other side of the window. It doesn’t seem all that friendly anymore. I’m not sure which scares me worse—that I might have imagined what I saw or that I didn’t. But I need to figure it out, and the sooner the better.
“I still don’t feel like starting on the shop, though,” I
tell Mom. “I’d rather take my film into town to have it developed. You want to go?”
“I think I’ll stay here. I don’t want to miss the handyman if he drops by. Papa Dan might enjoy the ride, though.”
“Where do you think I should take the film?”
“Probably City Drug on Main. Did you see it last night?”
“No, but I’ll find it.”
She must sense that I’m nervous about leaving her out here alone, because she touches my arm and adds, “I’ll be fine. You two go ahead. And pick up some ibuprofen for me. My back is killing me already from tugging furniture around.”
I hurry inside to get my keys and some money from Mom’s purse, wishing I had already set up a darkroom. A few years ago, Papa Dan bought me the equipment and supplies, but everything is in boxes.
I should’ve known Cedar Canyon wouldn’t have a place to process film. Which is one more reason I should ask for a digital camera for Christmas. Putting away my 35 millimeter would be hard, though. It’s been a friend for so many years. A better one than Hailey, that’s for sure.
While Papa Dan scans the magazine rack, I talk to the pregnant woman behind the counter at City Drug—Mary Jane, according to the name tag on her blouse. “Saturday, I’m driving into Amarillo. I’d be happy to drop off your film at the one-hour photo,” she says.
“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”
“If it was any trouble, I wouldn’t offer,” she assures me. “I’ll run my errands and pick it up when I’m heading home.”
I hesitate a moment before handing Mary Jane the film. I don’t even know this woman. But I’m not sure how long it will take to get my darkroom up and running, and I doubt Mom and I will be going to Amarillo anytime soon.
Through Her Eyes Page 5
