Dream With Little Angels

by Michael Hiebert

  He then asked his congregation to all bow their heads and pray that poor little Mary Ann Dailey had found peace in heaven and that the good Lord found His way to returning Tiffany Michelle back to her loving parents. Even from our position at the back of the church, I could hear Mrs. Yates sobbing from somewhere up in the front pews. Then more people started crying. By the time Reverend Starks dismissed everyone and they all filed out, most folk were dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs, or simply letting the tears stream down their faces. It was a much more emotional experience than I had ever felt at Clover Creek First Baptist.

  Some of the folk going by gave me and Dewey strange looks, but most were too upset to even care that we were there. Reverend Starks followed behind everyone and, when he finally made it to where we stood, he took off his glasses, held them up to the sunlight washing down through the open doors, and wiped them clean with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. “So, what brings two white boys like yourselves to my congregation this afternoon?” he asked. He had a deep, soothing voice that bellowed even when he talked quietly, like he was doing now.

  I explained what my mother had told me about why Clover Creek hadn’t really spoken of Tiffany Michelle and that Tiffany would be getting her share of praying down here at Full Gospel, and that I wanted to come see so for myself, because I couldn’t rightly figure out the difference between a white girl missing and a black one.

  “But you said just as much about Mary Ann Dailey as you did about Tiffany Michelle,” I told him. “Least while we was standing here.”

  The reverend replaced his glasses on his wide nose and looked both of us in the eyes one at a time before answering. When he did, he answered slowly, but his voice still seemed to thunder through that small church. “God don’t see no color, boys,” he said. “It’s only man who sees color.”

  “You mean He’s colorblind, like Jacob Rivers in my class?” Dewey asked. “You can hold a green crayon and a black crayon up to Jacob, and that kid will swear up and down they both the exact same.”

  The reverend cracked a smile. It was missing a few teeth, and I noticed one had been capped with gold. “Sorta, son. Although I reckon the Lord knows the difference between black and green. He certainly knows the difference between black and white, but He don’t care about that difference. If He did, He wouldn’t have put us all here on this planet together all them years ago.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Dewey.

  I wanted to punch him. “He don’t understand much,” I said.

  Dewey glared at me.

  “No, it’s fine,” Reverend Starks said, holding up a large palm. His fingertips were nearly bright pink. “Most folks don’t understand, to be honest. Even some of my own congregation have trouble when it comes to graspin’ this point. And really, it’s probably the easiest yet most important thing the Bible has to teach us.” He squatted down in front of Dewey, reached out, and clutched his arm. “You see, son, God made us all different for a reason. It’s like a sort of test. He put us all down here together to see if we could work things out by ourselves and somehow figure out how to get along.”

  “So, how do you think we’s doin’?” Dewey asked.

  The reverend looked away for a second, thinking. “Some days, I believe we manage to pull it off a mite better than others. But I’ll tell you what. I believe we all got a whole lotta learnin’ to do.”

  “Reverend Starks?” I asked. “Do you think Mr. Garner killed Mary Ann Dailey?”

  He looked genuinely surprised by this question. “Now, that sounds more like somethin’ you should be askin’ your ma. She’s the one who arrested him, ain’t she?”

  I scratched my head. “Not technically,” I said. “Technically, it was Officer Jackson. But she did think Mr. Garner was probably the one who did it originally. And evidence brought back from Mobile, well, it . . .”

  Reverend Starks waved my discussion about evidence away with his hand. Both his knees popped like bottle rockets as he stood. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about that science stuff. You say she originally thought it was Robert Garner? I’m guessin’ that means she’s had a change of mind since?”

  I wasn’t sure I should be talking about what my mother thought about the case and told the reverend so.

  He nodded slowly. “That’s fine. But between you an’ me? I’m glad she’s on a different path. I know Robert Lee Garner. I remember when he found Ruby Mae’s body going on, what? Ten years ago now?”

  “Twelve,” I told him.

  He shook his head and gave a low whistle. “Time certainly does not wait for no man now, does it? Doesn’t matter, to me it will always feel like yesterday. I remember how discovering Ruby Mae’s little body affected Robert Garner. A man who reacts like that from findin’ a dead girl by a tree near his swamp? There ain’t no way he did somethin’ like this. And you can even tell your mother I said so if you find it in your heart to do so.”

  I told him I wasn’t sure if that would happen or not.

  He arched an eyebrow. “You boys didn’t tell your mas you was comin’ here today, did you?”

  Dewey gestured to me. “His mom knows we’re out on our bikes, just not exactly where.”

  “I see,” Reverend Starks said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Maybe you should think of becoming a lawyer instead of following in your ma’s footsteps when you get older.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Never mind,” he said, and a big grin spread across his face. “Best you both be running along though, I imagine.”

  I looked at my watch. “He’s right, Dewey. We’ve only got twenty minutes to make it home.”

  “That’s a nice watch you got there, boy,” the reverend said. “It new?”

  “It was a present from my Uncle Henry.”

  “I remember your Uncle Henry. From what I know of him, he’s a good man. And now that I think about it, haven’t I seen him round town lately? He stayin’ with you and your ma?”

  I nodded. “And my sister. Just ’til this thing with Tiffany Michelle Yates gets solved.”

  “That’s good. Awfully nice thing of him to do. Like I said, he’s a good man. Maybe you should ask him how he feels about Mr. Garner.”

  I already knew the answer to that, but I didn’t tell the reverend. Instead, I thanked him for his time, and me and Dewey headed off.

  CHAPTER 25

  The next day was a Monday and school got out early on account of there being a teachers’ meeting after lunch. Dewey’s mother had to go into Satsuma for some shopping. She had insisted that an actual mall was in order (the closest thing we had to a mall in Alvin was a small strip of outlet stores along Old Highway Seventeen). Uncle Henry had gone down to Mobile for the afternoon to take care of something to do with renewing the mortgage on his property, so that meant one of two things. Either my mother let me brave the afternoon streets of Alvin home alone on foot, or she had to take time out of her day of suspecting farmers and come pick me up. I’m willing to bet the farmers were happy with the choice she made. I told her this as I climbed into her car.

  “I was almost done anyway, smart mouth,” she said. “Do up your belt.”

  I did. “Did you find anythin’?”

  She frowned. “No. Nothin’ worth mentionin’. Seems the farmers of this town are ’bout the most honest people in the whole place.” I thought about mentioning that Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow not being a farmer tended to support her point as far as I was concerned, but I held my tongue.

  “Which farms you got left to investigate?” I asked. The sun was a pale yellow today, not nearly as hot as it had been lately.

  “A couple on the outskirts,” she said. “The Allen farm’s up next.”

  With a shiver, I remembered how that farm had loomed past my side of the car the night we drove out of town to threaten the life of Carry’s boyfriend. Both Allen farmhouses, but particularly the old one—the one that burned up and killed nearly all of Jesse James Allen’s family—had squatted there in
the dark mist and felt as though it was staring back at me as we went past, its black insides like a gaping mouth ready to gobble up anyone who might dare go near it. I hoped my mother wasn’t about to suggest we go together now and finish up that part of her investigation.

  My hope dissolved fast.

  “How ’bout we just take one small detour down Highway Seventeen so I can check on Jesse James and his grandpa before heading back to the station?” she asked. “Then you can wait with Officer Jackson while I file my paperwork. We might even make it home in time for me to wrestle up some burgers for supper.”

  Burgers almost made any proposition worthwhile, for I certainly did like them. Especially my mother’s, which she always fried with mushrooms and onions. “Okay,” I said. Besides, sometimes when Chief Montgomery wasn’t at the station (and he just might not be if we showed up around suppertime), my mother and Officer Jackson let me sit in his office and watch satellite television. The screen wasn’t very big or nothing, but the fact that I could watch over three hundred channels more than made up for that. It sure as heck beat what we had at home.

  The drive to the Allen farm went much faster than it had that night in the dark. At least it sure felt like it did. I figured it was that way with lots of stuff. Nighttime, especially when it’s dark and misty like it had been then, makes everything feel slower and scarier.

  Soon we were on Highway Seventeen, driving past fields of cotton and corn. The pungent smell of manure filled the car as, outside my window, the corn broke into a field of cattle. Then there was the old Hunter barn tall in the center surrounded by all them cows. They looked hot, even on this autumn afternoon, swishing away flies with their tails while they stood and chewed.

  There wasn’t much left of the cotton crops going by on the other side of the street. Harvesting was now over. The fields passing by outside my window began to slow as my mother came up the rise connecting to the dirt driveway that led off into the Allen farm. Even in the daytime, the burnt-out husk of the original farmhouse gave me a bit of the willies. It sat very close to the road, but no longer had a driveway connecting it to the highway. The gate that used to be in front had been replaced by a stretch of fence continuing up to the new driveway that led through to the main gate of the farm.

  Turning in, my mother pulled to a stop outside the gate and honked her horn. When nobody made any indication of coming out to open it for us, she stepped out of the car and swung it open herself. It wasn’t locked. Then, after driving through, she got out once again, and closed it behind us. The wide, dusty lane beyond the gate took us to the new farmhouse that Jesse James and his grandpa had built all by themselves, not counting the help they got from them Mexicans.

  My mother parked well in front of an old, red Chevy truck. It was caked with dried dirt and mud and parked facing toward the street.

  “How come the new farmhouse is so much smaller than the old one?” I asked.

  “Well, remember,” my mother answered, “Jesse James and his grandpa built this one all by themselves.”

  “I thought you said they got help from them Mexicans?” I asked.

  “I reckon they likely did,” she said, “but you just keep that tidbit of information to yourself, you understand me? Under no circumstances do you say such a thing in front of anyone, especially not Jesse or his grandpa. If they like people to think otherwise, that’s fine and their business. You got that?”

  I told her I did.

  “Besides,” she said, “there are only two of them now. They don’t need as much room as before.” She got out of the car and put on her hat.

  “Can I come, too?” I asked.

  She thought this over and decided it would be okay. I followed her across the dusty drive and then over the walkway that ran along the front of the farmhouse and up to the front door. The walkway was overgrown with weeds, wild grass, and bunches of wild flowers, including some of the tallest dandelions I’d ever seen; nearly all of them had gone to seed already. I thought about how it would feel to lose my whole family, or near on all of it—the way Jesse had—and another shiver twisted its way up my backbone.

  “And,” my mother said, “I don’t think they keep animals in the back the way they used to. They used to have goats and stuff.”

  “They still have chickens,” I said, pointing out two hens that had come from around the side of the farmhouse. They stood at the end of the walkway, cocking their heads sideways as though trying to figure out who we were and what we wanted. I laughed.

  “Chickens don’t take much room, Abe,” my mother said. She knocked on the front door and waited for someone to answer. Nobody did, so she knocked again, only louder this time.

  “That’s strange,” she said, stepping back and looking up at the house and then over at the old Chevy in the driveway. “George Allen’s truck’s here.”

  “It don’t look much like it’s been driven in a while, I reckon,” I said. “Look at the windshield, it’s covered in dust. I doubt you could even see out of it well enough to drive.”

  “Well, I don’t reckon they do much drivin’ no more,” my mother said. “ ’Cept maybe into town every now and then for food and supplies and stuff. They keep mostly to themselves.”

  I almost told my mother about seeing Jesse James Allen in town that Saturday morning me and Dewey were following Mr. Farrow, but decided any recollection of that day was best left alone.

  I followed her back around to where we was parked. She made a big circle, rounding the side of the red pickup farthest from the farmhouse. “Mr. Allen!” she called out, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Mr. Allen, are you out here somewhere? It’s Leah Teal from the Alvin Police Department.”

  The only response she got was the clucking of chickens. Maybe five or six more were on the driveway behind the pickup, pecking through the gravel and patches of dried grass while being led around by a rather stern cock.

  “The place seems dead,” I pointed out. A small wooden shed had been built against the side of the farmhouse on the other side of the pickup. Probably it was full of things like chicken feed, axes, shovels, and other basic farming tools. It was much too small for the big equipment—the stuff they used for harvesting. That would all be stored somewhere else.

  A slight breeze picked up, blowing from the back fields. It carried with it the unmistakable smell of farm. There were several varieties when it came to the smell and, living in Alvin, you got to know them all. Thankfully, the Allens didn’t farm cattle. That one was the worst, by far.

  From here, the acres of land owned by the Allens seemed to stretch on forever. All of the crops had been harvested, of course, but way off in the back (it may have been two hundred yards away, it may have been more; crops tend to throw off your sense of distance completely) the cornfield still did its best to stay standing. It waved in the breeze like the slight ripple of waves in a sea of bright green.

  “How come the corn hasn’t been harvested?” I asked.

  My mother hushed me. “Maybe George Allen had to sell the columbine,” she whispered back. “Jesse and him don’t have a lot of money.”

  “You mean all them Mexicans harvested the corn by hand?”

  She shushed me. I tried to figure out if I had said something racist.

  My mother cupped her hands around her mouth. “Mr. Allen!” she called again.

  “I reckon the only things here are the chickens,” I said. They hardly looked overly well fed. “And even they look hungry.”

  “Mr. Allen!” My mother was hollering in all directions now. “George Allen? Are you out here anywhere?”

  “They gotta be somewhere,” I said.

  My mother cut me a sideways glance. “That’s very astute of you.”

  I had no idea what astute meant, but decided she had just called me smart. “Thank you,” I said. “Maybe Jesse and his grandpa walked into town?”

  “Abe, George Allen’s gotta be eighty-five if he’s a day. I doubt he’s walking much these days, never mind the two
and a half miles it is each way into town. Especially not in this heat.”

  I was about to point out that today actually wasn’t really that hot when my mother walked over to the truck and ran her finger along the inside of the bed, examining the dirt on it afterward. Then she opened the door on the driver’s side and carefully examined the seats, looking behind and underneath them. She even checked out the mats and the steering wheel. The last thing she did was pop the glove box, but all she found inside were the registration papers.

  “Find anything?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Seems pretty clean to me,” she said.

  A squawk drew my attention away as the cock decided to attack three of the straggling hens. I decided to teach it a lesson, so with a squawk of my own, I chased it around the back of the farmhouse, running through the unkempt grass that looked as though it hadn’t been mowed in months. The cock fled as fast as it could, bobbing along on its tiny stick-feet. The falling sun intensified the splashes of red on its outstretched wings. Its beak opened in a way that made it look like it was screaming.

  It looked so ridiculous I couldn’t help but laugh as I chased it.

  My mother was still examining the truck. “Abe!” she called out. “Please don’t. This isn’t our—”

  But I didn’t hear whatever she finished saying, because around the back of the farmhouse I discovered something that made my legs, my arms, and even my ears stop working. I skidded to an immediate halt, my heart racing so hard in my chest I thought it might burst right through my rib cage.

  A wheelbarrow leaned up against the back porch, positioned so its bed faced outward. Like the cock’s wings, the handles and bed of that barrow were red, only completely red, and even I could tell it wasn’t paint I was looking at glistening under that pale yellow sun.

  It felt like an eternity went by before I managed to regain control of my mouth. When I spoke my voice came out shaky and quiet. “Mom,” I said, “you better come here.”

  CHAPTER 26

  My mother came around, both anxiously and cautiously at the same time. “Abe, what—” she started to ask, but stopped at the sight of the wheelbarrow. Without even looking down, her hand pulled her gun from its holster, something I had only seen her do once before.