by Billy Coffey
“Dumb Willie, what you doing?”
The feather slips from Dumb Willie’s grip, sending him farther away.
“Dumb Willie. Dumb Willie, you look at me.”
A passing car honks. No sign of Dorothy, but the men across the street are watching. Abel stands helpless as Dumb Willie lunges forward, pinning the feather beneath his boot with a “Got. Choo” of victory and his hand upon the newspaper box. Dumb Willie smiles as he lifts the feather from the pavement. He twirls it in his hand and goes to place it in his breast pocket. His face turns toward the clear window beside.
“A Bull.”
“What?”
“A. Bull look”—pointing at the box—“It’s my. Pitcher. My pitcher’s onna . . . paper.”
He jumps as he speaks the words, Dumb Willie’s thick boot heels barely clearing the cement. The men across the street are rubbernecking, their gaze unbroken even by the passing traffic. Abel feels himself beginning to walk but doesn’t know how. His mind is not working his legs. A big man, old and wearing suspenders, points and turns to the others gathered about the barbershop. All of them look now.
There are degrees of stares. This is a fact known only to the freaks of the world. The stares directed at Dumb Willie are not the curious sort, nor ones of pity. What Abel sees in the eyes of those men is fear deepened by suspicion.
“A Bull it’s my. Pitcher.”
“No, it ain’t, Dumb Willie. Now shush.”
That idiot’s grin, wide and unfeeling. Spittle pools at the sides of Dumb Willie’s mouth. Abel reaches the box. He bends to see The Greenville Sun written at the top of the paper inside. The words are on his lips—That’s just some man—until he spies the picture above the fold, a grainy black-and-white copy of the same faded BibAlls and vacant stare as Dumb Willie wears now. The headline is large and bold and strikes Abel to his core:
Reward Offered for Mattingly Murderer
Manhunt under way
Across the street, the old man in suspenders steps to the sidewalk’s edge. He turns, motioning for the newspaper. Dumb Willie waves. A shout—“Hey!”—sets time from pause to fast-forward, four of the barbershop men now standing at attention.
How Abel can hear the faint sounds of the church door opening and closing he does not know, but he knows he has never before been so thankful for Dorothy. She comes down the steps looking one way and then another, not seeing them.
Abel sees her turn at Dumb Willie’s words: “It’s me it’s Dumb. Willie,” repeated once and again in growing decibels.
“Thought I told you stay put,” she says. Her gaze is to Abel as she walks, though he sees her eyes cut to the men bearing witness. “What’s goin’ on?”
Only the first two lines of the story are visible, the rest hidden beneath the fold. Yet even those few words are ones Abel cannot bear to read. Dorothy’s shadow draws near. She bends low over Abel’s shoulder.
“What’s that? Is that Dumb Willie?”
Authorities have issued a reward of $25,000 for information leading to the arrest of William Randolph Farmer, 22, of Mattingly, Virginia, in connection with the brutal mur—
“Abel, what’s that say?”
“It’s me Dumb. Willie.”
Abel cannot move, cannot think. This thing he has feared ever since jumping the train is now unfolding, the hope of gaining his reward proven false, all those foolish wishes of a child.
The men at the barbershop point, yelling through the traffic.
Abel turns to Dorothy: “We have to get away.”
-4-
Dorothy bends close and studies the front of the day’s newspaper. A “Hey!” is shouted from across the street, a man in blue suspenders pointing. He is older, seventy at least, wearing the flushed face of a drunkard and bearing a bulged and hardened gut. The sort of person Death expects to meet face-to-face soon, and one who may have just realized that the simple-looking stranger across the street is a wanted killer.
“What’s that? Is that Dumb Willie? Abel, what’s that say?”
Thankfully, the pointing old man is not the one in possession of the day’s Sun. That distinction belongs to another man who appears equal in both age and condition, sitting in a faded green plastic chair at the other side of the barber’s door. He is leafing through the classifieds by the look of it, likely searching for a steal on a used lawn mower or a pickup bed of mulch, paying no attention to either the picture on the front page or the very possibility that the same man could be no more than fifty feet away, screaming, “It’s me Dumb. Willie,” in a voice so loud and grating it sounds political.
Abel has gone even paler than usual. His lower jaw is slack, his eyes two wide caves swimming in gleaming white lagoons. The men are hollering as he stammers, “We have to get away. You have to get us away, Dorothy. We have to go right now.”
The dread Dorothy kindles, that shadow unseen yet powerful enough to reach even across the street, is enough to hold the men in place, though not for long. The old man talks fast. One hand points to Dumb Willie while the other motions for the newspaper. Down the corner turns a policeman. Dorothy knows all it will take is that old man seeing Dumb Willie’s picture. He will flag down that cop, and then there’s no dread powerful enough to keep them safe and Abel’s secret hid. All she had wanted was for Abel to see that newspaper, for him to be forced to confess what happened in the field that night. It is a strange thing, Dorothy thinks, that even the schemes of Death can be undone. And yet in these moments of panic she realizes she should not be shocked at all, having strayed from her purpose and done what was not meant.
“I can save us,” Abel says. “Dorothy, get ready to run. I’ll get Dumb Willie.”
The words are nearly out of her mouth (“No, Abe—”) when he reaches into his pocket. Abel throws down a smoke bomb and yells, “Shazam!” as it pops and billows, sending the people on the sidewalk running and traffic to swerve and snarl. The men, all of them, jump from their place in front of the barbershop. They run into the road and across as Dorothy reaches for Abel and Abel reaches for Dumb Willie. The policeman, too, is running. And Dorothy, for the first time in her existence, finds in her deepest places something like fear.
She pulls on Dumb Willie, leading him and Abel halfway down the block toward a narrow alley that cuts between two shops. People are screaming, yelling, the men and the cop both now on Dorothy’s side of the street. She grits her teeth at how Abel creeps along, knowing that is all he can do. Dumb Willie calls out, “Koose me,” to those scrambling out of their way, “That’s my . . . pitcher,” and “I’m fay. Mus,” Dorothy shaking her head, because a politeness born from innocence is all Dumb Willie can do as well.
Another holler rings out, this time a man’s name. Dorothy lifts Abel into her arms and thinks that name might be the policeman’s. She tells Dumb Willie to move faster—“No runnin’, that’ll just bring more eyes”—saying it full of the panic she feels.
The alley empties into a parking lot. Here, Dorothy chances a loping jog. Her leather bag jostles against Abel’s shoulder. His legs swing free against her thighs, yet his eyes remain fixed for the mob he must expect to come rushing behind them. Far away, a whistle calls.
“The train,” she says. “We have to get to the train, Dumb Willie. Hurry.”
The way they came is cut off from them now—too crowded, too many eyes. That leaves only Greenville’s smaller side streets and neighborhoods. They wind their way among backyards and homes and over chain-link fences, ditches filled with mosquito-laden rainwater and empty culverts. Sirens wail in the distance. Abel spots the hill. Dumb Willie points toward the tall metal shafts of the mill, gleaming in the sun.
They skirt the hill, moving slowly along the slopes so they are out of traffic’s sight, and here Dorothy can see beyond the pond and patch of woods to the rails and the four men surrounding the train. They stand in brown uniforms with wide hats and sunglasses and shotguns leaning against their hips. Three police cars are spread evenly across the length of
the twenty cars hooked to the single engine preparing to leave. Two on the right, Dorothy sees from their vantage point, one on the left. They’ll have to go there. In the middle of the line rests a faded red boxcar. Its door is open.
“The trees,” she says. “We’ll hide in the trees. Right when the train gets moving, we run for that boxcar.”
“They’ll get us,” Abel says. His face is the color of snow. “They can’t get us, Dorothy. They’ll take me and Dumb Willie away.”
She rests a hand to his cheek. “They will not, Abel. Not so long as I’m with you. Dumb Willie, you be a ghost now, you hear? They can’t know we’re down there.”
Dumb Willie stands off, grinning as though he’s never had more fun. “Kay Do. Tee.”
“Okay then. Let’s go.”
They inch their way down the slope. Abel remains in Dorothy’s arms. He feels as light as air in her hands, though heavy in her worry for him. At the pond they ease into the woods, making their way a step at a time until they reach the tree line. The single police car remains on their side. Officers search the backs of all the cars, their tops and sides. They enter the empty boxcar and carry out what looks like an old coat. Left by another hobo, Dorothy reckons, before she lights upon another idea.
“They think Dumb Willie got here on the train,” she whispers. Abel looks up at her. She corrects herself: “That’s what they must think. You and him got here by the train.”
“Then what’ll we do?”
“We’ll wait. They won’t see us.”
And yet they will, she realizes, as soon as the police decide to search these woods.
They’ll have to be gone before that.
She sees the engineer and conductor both. They’re arguing with one of the cops and saying they got a load to deliver, ain’t nobody on their ride. They must be convincing, because the policeman begs off. The uniforms huddle in a tight circle and talk on their radios as the engineer climbs back aboard. He idles the big diesel in clouds of white smoke. Three of the officers peel away toward the other side of the train, leaving one standing at the car.
Dorothy pulls at Dumb Willie’s sleeve. “Get ready,” she says. “When that cop moves off, you take Abel and run. Run as fast as you can, Dumb Willie, and don’t you stop till you hit that boxcar. Okay?”
“What are you gonna do?” Abel asks.
She grins. “A trick.”
Dorothy eases from the trees and steps onto the rocks that line the rails. Moving easy, confident. Letting the power grow in her in much the same way as Abel’s soul grows in him. The sun is not yet at its highest, casting long shadows of the trees outward over the cars like thin, black fingers. Dorothy puts that shine behind her, letting her own shadow grow outward. The policeman stands facing the train. She hides just beyond the periphery of his sight and continues moving until the very edge of her silhouette touches the heel of his boot.
He flinches. Looks right toward the last car, now left at the idling engine. Now the boxcar.
Death takes another step, bringing her shadow to the back of the man’s knees and causing the man to take off his hat and run a hand through his hair, over the back of his neck. He fingers his radio first (just a hunch, Dorothy believes, and so she inches closer still and turns that hunch to a worry), and now he reaches for the cell phone in his pocket.
He sticks a finger in one ear after he dials. Dorothy hears, “Honey? Me. Everything okay?” as the man bends low, trying to drown the noise of the train. He cannot. “No, I’m up here at the mill. Something about that guy who killed those kids. I just need to know everything’s good there. What?”—pushing his finger in more—“I can’t . . . hang on.”
Perhaps it is the way Dorothy’s shadow is upon him, perhaps it is chance, but the policeman turns right toward the end of the train rather than left toward her. She bolts toward the open door of the boxcar, motioning for Dumb Willie to do the same. He races from the trees with Abel in his arms, those big legs pumping and those boots slamming upon the rocks and ties. Abel’s eyes are wide. His good hand is a fist holding a clump of Dumb Willie’s overalls, though Dorothy sees that Abel doesn’t seem to be jostling at all. It is rather that he’s floating, an angel of stillness set against Dumb Willie’s flapping jowls and flying hair, and to Dorothy’s horror she knows that is because so much of Abel is gone now, and so little remains.
She tosses her bag into the boxcar followed by herself, then turns to take Abel from Dumb Willie’s arms. Dumb Willie scampers up and inside. Dorothy has no need to tell them where to go. By fear and instinct, both boys crawl into the faint shadows in the car’s rear.
The train comes to life with a jerk, easing the cars on. Dorothy huddles with them in the back corner as the police car disappears behind them. The mill follows next.
Then, miles later, Greenville itself.
-5-
They’re over there by the door now, A Bull and Do-tee. They look out as the world goes zoom, but Dumb Willie won’t move from his place in the back of the boxcar. Even though he thinks a munster might be lurking about in these shadows, he won’t move. There’s people out there yelling and chasing because he’s faymus. Dumb Willie don’t want to be faymus no more.
He wants to tell A Bull to get away from that door. Someone might see. Then Dumb Willie remembers nobody can see A Bull no more because A Bull’s dead, caught between places. They got to go find A Bull’s da’ee. A Bull thinks it’s to bring his da’ee home, but Dumb Willie knows better. Do-tee told him she’s taking A Bull there only to say good-bye. Then they got to go home.
Sunlight creeps into the car in thin shadows that end near the tips of Dumb Willie’s boots. The shine lights on a million bits of dust and dirt left hanging in the air, making them shimmer as the wind carries them up up up into the shadows where they vanish without a sound. He wonders if that’s how it will be when Do-tee takes A Bull away.
Do-tee takes everyone away. One day she’ll even take Dumb Willie. He thinks that will be a good day. Do-tee’s his friend.
Sometimes A Bull looks behind and watches Dumb Willie, but that look makes Dumb Willie sad. He smiles anyway because that sad is a hush-hush. Do-tee said, Don’t you tell Abel, and so Dumb Willie won’t. But there’s a shine in A Bull’s eyes now like those bits of dust in the sunlight. His eyes used to be blue like the sky because he was broke there, but now they just shine because A Bull’s not broke no more. A Bull’s looking at him now.
“Hey, Dumb Willie,” he say, “come on up here.”
“I. Can’t ’cause I’m fay. Mus.”
“It’s okay, we’re moving now. Greenville’s a long way back. Don’t nobody know we’re here.”
Now Do-tee turns and smiles but not in her eyes. She says, “It’s okay, Dumb Willie, I promise,” and so Dumb Willie gets up. Do-tee’s smart like A Bull; she won’t let nothing bad happen.
He sits at the edge of the open door, careful to do like Do-tee say and keep his feet from hanging out so that driver won’t see. Do-tee is sitting like an Indian does but Dumb Willie can’t do that, his legs are too big. He tries to sit like that anyway, because Do-tee is smart. She’s pretty and smart and kind.
Dumb Willie has never thought long on Death, even though he’s seen it. The animals die on the farm and the corn dies in the garden, the tomatoes and the onions and the watermelons die, even the seasons die and people too. Some things die and then get born again, like his garden. People go to hebbin or hell. He has always thought Death to be not something that happens but a thing, like the cold that chases summer away and makes all the plants die. Like a spurut, or a munster, something to be feared. But now he knows Death is Do-tee, Death has long brown hair and a warm face and soft lady-parts, and Dumb Willie isn’t scared at all.
“We have to say something,” A Bull say. “Don’t we, Dumb Willie.”
“Yez,” even though Dumb Willie doesn’t know what.
“Something happened when we left Mattingly.” A Bull’s talking to Do-tee now. “Something bad. It was a
n accident, though, wasn’t it, Dumb Willie? You didn’t mean to.”
“I din’t mean. To,” Dumb Willie say. Then, “What din’t I . . . mean?”
“About what you did in the field.” A Bull looks at Do-tee again. “There was trouble in the field. It was awful. I was getting hurt. Dumb Willie saved me.”
“Chris. Stunk.”
“He did,” Abel say. And to Do-tee, “That’s why Dumb Willie’s picture was in that paper. I thought if we got far enough away, no one would know. But I guess everybody does now.”
Do-tee moves some of her hair behind her ear and tucks it under her hat. She’s looking hard, like she’s trying to figure things. A Bull stares at his own shoes. They’re muddy and streaked with grass and there’s a pine needle sticking out through the laces, and what Dumb Willie thinks is that on A Bull’s shoes is all the way they’ve come.
“They think Dumb Willie murdered somebody,” A Bull say. “But he didn’t. He didn’t, Dorothy. That’s not the way it happened.”
“But someone went Westbound?” she ask.
The word unlocks something in Dumb Willie’s thoughts, a memory of them on the train and Do-tee saying what going West meant. Her eyes were dark in the night, and in those eyes were secrets. Chris died because Dumb Willie made him, and Do-tee was taking Chris to the West even as she stood in that train saying, Who are you? It is a strange thought, nearly too big for Dumb Willie’s specialness to hold: Do-tee is sitting right here with them now and yet she is other places too, doing what’s meant.
“Yes,” A Bull say. “Somebody did. And there’s a reward for him. That’s why those men came running across that road when we were in town. They wanted that money.”
Do-tee’s eyes flicker. “There’s a reward for Dumb Willie?”
A Bull nods. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“ ’Cause I’m fay. Mus.” Dumb Willie shakes his head, already tired of celebrity. He yawns he’s so tired.
