by Glen Krisch
But he didn't look her way.
He followed the men into the cellar. The last stranger stepped into view, blotting out the final image of her dad.
She began to cry. Greta hadn't lied. Betty had never believed her stories, not until this very second. But what else could they be besides the Collectors? She blinked away her tears when she heard a noise coming from the cellar. Before she could figure out what it was, a new coughing fit covered the sound.
She just knew he wouldn't go so willingly.
But she was mistaken. She placed the sound as the fit subsided. It was rocks grating on one another. Being stacked in to piles. Replaced to their rightful position. Covering up the tunnel dug into their home. Sealing away her dad into the earth.
4.
The sun lit the horizon when Cooper woke from a fitful night's sleep, his clothes damp with dew. He gathered up his gear and headed back down the game trail. He took the slight hill to the rails at a solid clip, trying to warm his muscles. He felt compelled to watch the house until it disappeared from view. Something there was peculiar. He felt it when he was near the house, a pulling at his consciousness, an inexplicable yearning, and now, as he was leaving it behind, the feeling receded like floodwater.
About a half mile off, Cooper came across what the townsfolk would have considered downtown. He left the rails since they curved away from town and into the hills, as if to avoid the town proper. There was a quaint main street, packed dirt like the other branching roads leading from town. Many of the shops had scavenged boards covering the windows. A bakery and a bar sandwiched a law office side by side by side, all three vacant and quiet.
A few tired-looking cars were angle-parked curbside. Most people living in this stretch of country still relied on horses, as their fathers and father's fathers once had. Others would get by like Cooper, walking to and fro, from here to there, and getting to their intended destination a lot slower than desired.
He stepped up to a plank walkway and considered the first business that wasn't boarded up. A hand-painted sign hung askew from the porch's overhang, touting the place as Calder's Mart. The window front displayed a handsome handmade rocking chair draped with a quilted tan blanket. A sign advertised flour, eggs and ice. Cooper peered through the window and could see a rows of dusty shelves. Campbells's Soup and sweet potatoes sat alongside glass jars packed with a variety of homegrown preserves. Tilted bins held fresh produce. Lettuce, tomatoes, chickpeas and beets. The stock was thin and the whole place looked sleepy.
Across an intersecting alley, Cooper looked in on a barbershop. An old man reclined in a barber chair, his straw hat pulled over his eyes. He gripped a half-empty bottle of hooch in his sprawled grasp, and though asleep, it didn't look like he would let it fall to the floor anytime soon. Another man was sitting on a wooden bench near the window, flipping through a yellowed newspaper.
"Good afternoon," Cooper said as he walked inside.
"Um, oh, hello." The man folded the newspaper he'd probably read front to back more times than he had fingers. He had short limbs on a stocky frame. His toes barely brushed the floor from his sitting position.
"Are you open?" Cooper's throat felt scratchy, his voice thicker than normal. He hadn't spoken to anyone in almost a week, since well south of Champaign.
"We sure are, come on in." The man slapped his palm against the open barber chair, raising a dust cloud. The man occupying the other seat didn't move. "You don't look familiar."
"I was just passing through, but with such an inviting town, I had to stop." Cooper sat in the offered chair. "Anyways, I need my ears lowered." It felt good to get off his feet and let his weight ease into an actual chair. His bones were feeling fragile lately.
"You sure do. Good thing you stopped in. At least your shave is civilized."
"What's this town called?"
"Coal Hollow. We been 'corperated since before the Civil War. I'm Bo Tingsley," he said and started snipping around Cooper's neck with his sheers. "Dad was in the war, pushed them Rebs right back to hell, he and a bunch of boys from Illinois. Dad moved down the road from Peoria after his service to the Union, then married Ma not long after," Bo Tingsley spoke as if he had chewed the ears off everyone in town and was happy to see an unmarred pair sitting in his barber chair.
"That so?"
"Sure is." Bo wetted a comb and swiped it dry through Cooper's shoulder-length black hair. "You planning on staying for a stretch?"
"I'm thinking about it. Coal Hollow looks like a good place to take root. By the way, my name's Cooper. Theodore Jameson Cooper. Most people just call me Cooper."
"Nice meeting you, Cooper. What's your trade if I might ask? I know just about everybody within fifty miles. Jobs are tough to come by this far off from anything you might call a city. Still, I might could steer you right."
"Oh, I suppose you can say I've done a little of everything along the way. Farming, ranching, stabling, shopclerking. I worked at a drug store jerking sodas all day. I'm sure I'm leaving something out, but I can do just about anything to earn an honest day's pay." He didn't bother mentioning his true profession as a librarian. Most folk didn't understand an educated man voluntarily taking to the roads and rails.
"Quite a laundry list. I'll have to take a time or two to think on it," Bo said, fighting a nasty cowlick at the top of Cooper's head.
A gurgle rumbled from the liquored lips of the man in the other chair. He rattled off a couple wet snores, then settled back into his murky respite.
"That's Magee over there. This is his barbering place, but as you can see, he's disposed of for the moment, if you catch my drift."
"Bo, I don't know Magee at all, but I do believe you'd give a better barbering than old Magee any day."
Bo laughed with comfortable acceptance.
Cooper observed Bo's handiwork in a cloudy mirror. "That's a nice cut, Bo. I'm glad I stopped in. I feel halfway human again. How much do I owe?"
"Two bits."
Cooper reached into his pocket and pulled out two quarters. If he judged Bo correctly, a big tip would pay off down the line.
"Thanks, Coop. That's mighty kind of you."
"It's just nice to be off the road is all I can say."
Cooper was about out the door when the chatterbox barber called out. "Say, Coop, you know where you're gonna lodge?"
"Magee's is the first place I stopped. Haven't had the time to look around. Is there a place you can recommend with a warm bed and warmer food?" He ran his hand through his close-cropped hair, again checking the mirror. He wasn't used to the short cut, but looked more presentable than before meeting Bo.
"The Calder Mart up the block has rooms above the store. You get a bed and three squares for a fair price. Thea, she's Henry Calder's daughter. She runs the place, for the most part. When you see her, you'll know it's her. She's a real looker. She went off to California to make movies, and actually made a few, but now she come home. She does the cooking, but it ain't even close to her ma's, God rest her soul." Bo paused and crossed himself before continuing. "Eating her mom's cooking felt like a sin of indulgence. She's gone now, a good four years or so. Pneumonia took her away."
"That's too bad." From the pain on Bo's face, the man still harbored feelings for his neighbor's wife. The barber's eyes darkened and became distant.
"Sounds like she was a fine woman." Cooper felt awkward, and wanted to leave Magee's more than anything.
"Oh, she was. A fine woman. A fine cook, but she had a finer heart. The kindliest woman you'd ever meet. Too bad Thea only got her looks. She inherited her Pa's mean streak. He's German, you know." Bo sat in the empty barber chair. He turned in the swivel chair, and continued to speak to the inebriated Magee. Cooper supposed the two old barbers held one-sided conversations like this quite often.
"Thanks for the advice, Bo."
"Oh, sure," Bo said distantly, his face turned away.
Cooper let the door close behind him.
A bell rattled above the entrywa
y when he opened the door to Calder's Mart. Two wide aisles housed fresh produce bins, sacks of flour, jars of molasses and other assorted dry goods. Beyond, a hodgepodge of basic hardware hung on pegs against the back wall. Cooper walked to the far corner where the cash till stood on a high wooden countertop. Perfume bottles and cheap-looking jewelry boxes filled a display behind the counter. A black curtain blocked the view to a backroom. A scarred wooden counter formed an L-shape with the register counter. A few rickety stools stood in front for customers. The place had little stock and seemed deserted. Cooper waited at the counter, not sure if he should look around for anyone working the place.
A hand-painted placard hung next to the jewelry boxes and dusty perfume bottles.
Your business means the world to us. Let us know if you have any suggestions!
"Good afternoon," a harried voice called from a stairwell tucked away between a grimy pickle barrel and a display of Henderson brand pitchforks.
Cooper caught some of his breath before all of it rushed from his lungs. Bo hadn't lied. Thea Calder was a looker. She stood at the bottom of the steps, her hands on her hips, a damp apron around her thin waist.
"Can I help you, or are you just going to gawp-about like a doe-eyed simpleton?" Her cheeks were flushed and dark brown curls drifted from a haphazard bun.
Cooper's chest tightened. He realized he wasn't breathing. It had been a long while since he'd seen such an attractive woman. Eyes like smoky-brown coals, full lips painted a shade most respectable women avoided. She wore a simple flower-print dress, but Cooper figured Thea Calder could wear a housecoat in seminary and still command, at least momentarily, all the men's attention away from God.
"I heard you have lodging. Food too." He'd regained his breath and a partial amount of his ability to speak. Feeling childish, his face crept with color.
"You heard right. Is that all you wanted to know, or do you want to rent a room in this Godforsaken place?" She seemed downright offended he would consider taking a room at Calder's.
"A night or two is all. I'm passing through from all I can tell." He could look her in the eye now. Bo mentioned she'd been in California making movies. That's where she belonged, away from this small town, her face plastered on billboards and handbills announcing her latest film. She would be a cinch for a coquettish role. She could own the part of a shrew.
Thea nodded and Cooper could just about pluck the words from her head and place them on her tongue: So you're one of those, a transient. A vagabond?
He glanced at his clothes, at his threadbare knees and shineless shoes. His pack was by his feet, all his worldly possessions in one small, dingy pile. Thea's glare made Cooper feel about as small as a full-grown man could get. She stormed past and pulled a pad of paper from behind the counter.
"Can you sign your name?"
The question stymied Cooper. No one had ever asked him that since childhood. Of course he could read and write. He had read a library's worth of books.
"Do you have the ability to read? Can you even speak, or has the cat got your tongue?"
"I… sure I can read." He stepped up to the counter. Thea slapped the pad in front of him to read.
She decided to paraphrase anyway, in case he'd been lying. "Basically, we have three meals a day. One at seven, one at noon, the last at five-thirty. Five minutes late, you're out of luck. I'd rather serve the food to the dog than to a man late for a meal I slaved over. Also, lights out at ten. A minute after, you'll be out on the street. It'd be a shame considering no one else rents rooms for miles around. You pay for the following night's occupancy during the morning meal. If you aren't going to eat at the morning meal, you'll bring your payment to the morning meal anyways. Are we clear on all that?"
He nodded then signed the bottom and slid the pad back to Thea.
Thea inspected Cooper's signature before setting it aside. "I'll show you the room now. And another thing, for God's sake clean up after yourself. I'm too young to be someone's momma, and I'm not going to start acting like one for you."
"Sure thing, Thea. Uh, Miss Calder. I wouldn't want to be a burden on anyone." He followed her around the grimy pickle barrel and up the stairway.
"I don't repeat myself. If you can't act like a human being, you can move on to somewhere else that tolerates such behavior. And another thing, how'd you know my name?"
"I just had my hair cut. Bo Tingsley recommended your place."
"Don't get me started talking about Bo Tingsley." She didn't need prompting; she started on her own just fine. "That sonofabitch tried to break up my family. He had an unnatural attraction to my momma. He pined for her openly, brought her little trinkets. In some ways I'm glad for the pneumonia. She'd started to bend to the beady-eyed dwarf after awhile."
Cooper had lost the ability to speak again. He had a feeling he risked losing his room if he said the wrong thing. He also had an idea there was never a right thing to say to Thea Calder.
"Here's your damn room," Thea said, reaching the top.
She threw the door open. Cooper looked inside, but when he turned around to thank her, she was gone. All that remained was a haunting hint of perfume.
5.
Shocked and confused, Betty had climbed into bed after those men had taken her dad. Pulling the covers to her chin, it felt like a one hundred pound weight sat against her sternum. She watched the bedroom door, waiting for it to open, terrified the strangers would return to take her away.
Exhausted, she fell asleep with the sun's rising.
By the time she woke and pried herself from bed, she'd missed breakfast. She left her bedroom, keeping an eye on the cellar door as she made her way to the kitchen. It all seemed unreal; everything she'd seen last night, everything she didn't see.
Junior was already off doing whatever he did during his lazy summertime days. Probably causing some mindless ruckus somewhere. Obviously, he didn't know their dad was gone, didn't know that three featureless strangers had broken in during the night, had dug their way in to steal him away. Or that he had gone along without a fight.
Her mom had left her a breakfast plate at the kitchen table. A hollowed-out baked apple, filled with chopped dates and brown sugar. It was congealed and cold. Betty had no appetite.
She went to the back door, and despite wearing house shoes and a summer nightgown, she stepped outside. Her mom was in the garden next to the house. Her dad's garden. She never ventured into the extensive vegetable patch, claiming she had a black thumb compared to the emerald brilliance of her dad's.
"Mom?" She stopped at the chicken wire fence used to keep out the rabbits.
Her mom was on her hands and knees, crawling through rows of lettuce, working her hands under the wide outer leaves. Holding a long paring knife between her teeth, she looked up at Betty. She took the blade and cut a head from the ground. She then held it up to the sunlight, appraising it.
"Have to take out these heads before they get soft. Can't risk ruining your dad's reputation because I didn't get his lettuce to Calder's on time. I won't stand for it. He doesn't deserve it." She gently placed the head in a basket beside a half dozen others. She crawled a few feet down, found the next ripe head, and went at it with her knife.
"Mom? What's going on?"
"You gone deaf? I'm getting the lettuce ready for market. It'd be nice if you changed into some work clothes and lent me a hand. There's plenty of work to do." She hacked the knife through the lettuce root, held it up, found it to be an exemplary specimen, and placed it in the basket. "This garden… I didn't realize all the work he did," she said through panting breath, pulling the basket along with her to the next row. "Just think, he grows the best lettuce in all of Summerset County. People come from miles wide, because it's the crispest, and stays that way the longest."
"Mom, what the hell is going on?" Betty shouted, surprised by both her force and open vulgarity. "Where's Daddy? Who were those men who came in through the cellar?"
Her mother sighed, ignoring her obscenity. S
he placed the paring knife inside the basket and groaned as she stood. "Oh, my knees. I don't know how he managed this. I'm gonna be broke in half by winter." She blew an errant strand of hair from her eyes, walking stiffly to the chicken wire gate.
Her mother placed a hand on Betty's shoulder, guiding her away from the garden and empty house.
"You shouldn't go outside dressed like that anymore. You're no longer a girl. You don't know who could be watching you." Her mom squeezed her shoulder, but it wasn't a mean-spirited gesture meant to punctuate a scolding. There seemed to be a smile in her voice. An acceptance that her little girl was a grown woman.
They walked in silence through the apple orchard at the back of their property. A grown-over path through thick grass abutted the property boundary with two other farms. Her mom's cousins, the Newsteins, lived on one. Her dad's sister, Paulette, lived on the other. At the grassy corner was their family graveyard.
At first Betty thought they were walking to her Aunt Paulette's house. Such an even-keeled woman, Paulette would shed light on what was going on. A widow, she worked her one hundred-twenty acres side by side with a dour, quiet man, named Nelson. They had lived together for almost twenty years. Betty called Nelson her uncle, when she knew he wasn't; but he was a nice enough man. Hard working. Honest.
Betty's Uncle Craig was buried here. Aunt Paulette's husband. She came out every Sunday morning at sunrise and sat by the headstone, staring at the ground covering him. She sometimes cried, sometimes she smiled. Sometimes both at once. But she never forgot her Sunday visits, even though she'd been with Nelson twice as long as her first love.
Betty realized they weren't heading to her Aunt Paulette's when she saw the dark brown dirt of a freshly dug plot next to her Uncle Craig's.
"Mom."
A new headstone, with sharp-edged letters untouched by the elements, sat behind a blanket of recently turned loam.
With disbelief, she read the headstone's inscription:
Gerald Lincoln Harris
