by Billy Coffey
“Case you haven’t noticed,” she says, “I ain’t dined much at all. Because I’m a free spirit, you see. A rider of the rails. Like you’ve become. A body gets to be that of a proper hobo’s, it learns to do without certain things. We store up what we can in times of plenty so we can get ready for times of want. It’s like the bears, I guess. They don’t do much but eat all spring and summer, because they know winter’s coming.”
He beams. “Really? I’m a hobo now.”
“Way I see it,” Dorothy says, “you’re right among the best.”
*
She says she’s going to scout what’s ahead and leaves the boys by the creek, hiking up the next ridge alone. Its top is bare but for a few scraggly pines and a narrow game trail. This is empty land, forgotten. Dorothy looks first to where they’ve come from. The rail is gone now, swallowed by trees. Now on, past rolling ridges backed in midday sun that appear as waves upon an ocean, to where Abel’s letter leads. That place, too, lays hidden by the reaching woods. Death, here, is alone. What counsel is left to Dorothy now will be found only among the living, and from there alone must come their aid.
They will turn east. It is a safe place, she tells herself, and then tells herself again. The woman will not know who I am. I was another those years ago, and perhaps she has since moved on.
That is what Dorothy says.
Yet her thoughts whisper the woman would never leave so long as blood flowed through her, and so she must be there still, Death having not been called since to claim her.
PART VI
THE WOEMAN
-1-
They are across the last ridge when Dumb Willie asks, “Where we. Goin’ Do-tee?”
“You might like it, Dumb Willie,” she says. “It’s a farm.”
Abel answers, “Who lives there?”
“Don’t know”—the truth—“maybe nobody anymore”—the hope—“but just in case, I guess we’ll need some rules.”
Forest yields to a field where deer gather and the grasses rise nearly as tall as Abel. His blond head bobs among the tangles, disappearing in and out of sight. Dorothy’s thoughts wander to another boy long ago, dirty and brown-haired, reaching for her hand as screams echoed in the distance.
“What kind—” Abel starts, and then is silenced by the noise.
Dumb Willie stops and tilts his head into the breeze. He looks at Dorothy, who hears it as well—a clanging rung twice. At the far side of the field rests a path of flattened grass and a bank of trees. Dumb Willie crosses the field before Dorothy can tell him no. He disappears into the trees and returns leading the source of the sound: a spotted cow, too emaciated and frightened to do more than make a lowing sound at Dumb Willie’s tugging. A rusted bell hangs from a rope beneath its sagging chin. Dorothy looks down the path. In the distance rests a rusted, half-opened gate.
The matter seems settled now. The farm is occupied.
Abel limps to where Dumb Willie stands and reaches high to caress the cow’s nose, gaping at the beast as though it is exotic. Dorothy steps wide of the path and guides the boys closer to the trees.
“Rules,” she says. “Now listen, I said we might find this place empty but it ain’t, so that means I got to go ask permission for us to be here. It’s a powerful thing coming to a town, but it’s even more when you come to a house. So be on your best behavior, both of you. Dumb Willie, you be as kind as you always are and we’ll be just fine here. And, Abel,” she says, running a hand over a head that may as well be made of wind, “I’ll need you to keep your distance. Say nothing unless said to. Be a ghost, you understand?”
Abel slips his hand between the rope and the cow’s neck. “Don’t worry, Dorothy. We won’t do nothing to get us in trouble.”
Dorothy offers a grin she knows looks anything but happy. “Now that’s fine. Not y’all I’m worried will make the trouble, though. Stay here until I call.”
She eases the boy’s fingers away and takes hold of the rope, clicking her tongue so the cow will follow. Walking to the mouth of the path but no farther, because Dorothy knows who will be waiting. She lifts her head slowly.
Down the path at the gate is the woman, tall and defiant. A shotgun lies crosswise in her arms.
No words pass between them. Hers is not the face Death remembers, one as young and beautiful as Dorothy’s own, though less spoiled. Time has weathered her skin to ridges and valleys that resemble the land around them. Her hair is a tangled and dirty brown, unbrushed past her shoulders. She wears a plain dress that covers her small breasts and nonexistent waist. The hem ends some inches above a pair of boots in worse condition than even Dorothy’s old shoes. Her legs, what part can be seen, are covered with a thick layer of coarse hair.
The last hope Dorothy has is that she will be seen as a stranger. She was called here those long years ago not as a young girl but as an old man, weathered in face and calloused of skin. A farming man. The boy’s grandfather.
That hope is dashed when Dorothy sees the rage settle into the woman’s cold eyes.
So it is punishment, then. This may be Abel and Dumb Willie’s refuge, but it will be Dorothy’s own chastisement, laid out by Abel’s letter and ordained by what is meant. All the power Death holds and all the dread Dorothy can summon fall away, leaving her as humbled as a child caught beneath the judging stare of her momma.
The woman’s voice is one of anger and strength, slicing through the mountain breeze: “You come for my cow?”
“No.”
Now her hands, hard upon the gun. “For me, then.”
“No.”
The wind tosses her hair, covering her eyes.
“Will you end me, woman,” Dorothy asks, “and kill what cannot die? I come for nothing save your hospitality.”
“And what hospitality are you owed?”
“None, I know. But I am in need of aid.”
“So it looks to me,” the woman says. “So is right. I would turn you away, filth, and leave you to suffer.”
“Then you would have the innocent suffer as well. Is that your way?”
She raises the scatter-gun high. “That is no way but your own.”
Dorothy raises the hand not holding the cow’s rein. She does not believe the woman will shoot; a gun won’t harm Death, nor chase it, but only waste a shell. Yet perhaps the price of shot will be worth any revenge she can manage, however small and meaningless. Dorothy turns her head back toward the field. Dumb Willie stands as a stone. Abel wears a confused look.
Dorothy motions with her hand. “Come on here.”
From the corner of her eye she sees the woman stiffen and her finger move to the trigger. Dorothy’s hand remains out, pleading, and there is a moment she is sure the woman means to take Dumb Willie as Dorothy herself once took all the woman loved. Yet now the woman’s eyes fill with Dumb Willie stepping into the path, and the sight of his ignorant grin is enough that it looks to shake the hate inside her. Abel slides out to a spot between the cow and Dorothy, unseen.
Dorothy lays a hand to Dumb Willie’s shoulder. He covers it with his own.
“This boy has found trouble not of his own making. He is in danger, and I have sworn my help. Cast me out, woman, if you must. I will go. But let him stay and rest, and the good Lord will count it to your credit.”
The woman says nothing, nor does she lower the gun.
Abel says, “What’s wrong with her, Dorothy? That your momma?”
“Hush now, not a word.” And to the woman, “My heart is pure, such that it is. We are being chased. I’m here only because we have no choice. We were led.”
“Led?” Scorn laces the woman’s voice.
“We ask charity, nothing more. Grant us that, and we will leave you in peace. You have my word.”
“Your word is no more than you, spoiled and empty.”
Yet her gaze remains upon Dumb Willie, betraying what Dorothy sees is the softness of a heart still beating in spite of the harsh life around it. The cow lows once more, as though off
ering an opinion of its own.
The woman lowers the shotgun, and with it her challenge. “What is your name, stranger?” she asks.
Dorothy squeezes the shoulder of the man beside her.
“I’m Dumb. Willie.”
“Bring the cow,” she says, turning away. “I grant you a day. No more.”
-2-
Abel settles at a spot between Dorothy’s left leg and the mooing cow, peering through the narrow crack between the two. The woman bows her head and turns away. Her hair moves in thick clumps for the dirt and grease that have gone unwashed from it. Dumb Willie takes the cow. He does not so much as glance behind to see if Abel and Dorothy follow. It must be because he’s so dumb, Abel thinks, that Dumb Willie would so blindly follow without even a pause to judge if following or waiting is best.
“Well, that could’ve gone better,” Dorothy says, watching where the woman goes. “Then again, coulda gone a whole lot worse. Come on, Abel. We’ll rest easy and tell ourselves the hard part’s done.”
And yet Abel sees that it is a halfhearted three steps Dorothy takes forward, like she’s testing her feet to make sure they can still move, leaving himself to remain moored to the field. The woman has already reached the gate. She pushes it wide to let Dumb Willie and the cow through (Abel hears the faint call of “Fank. You”), keeping the barrel of the shotgun pointed well away. That barrel trains on Dorothy instead—an act Abel believes is no accident.
“That ain’t your momma, is it?” he says. “I don’t know a momma in the whole world’d aim a gun at her kid. Not even Dumb Willie’s momma would.”
“No,” Dorothy says. “She ain’t my momma, Abel.”
“You sure this place is safe? It don’t feel safe. Guns don’t make a place safe, Dorothy. Not when there’s folk of bent mind about.”
“She don’t have a bent mind.”
But Abel’s watching her, how that woman moves and how her eyes are wild like an animal’s, and he says what he means: “She ain’t well.”
“Not well don’t mean bent.”
“Then what is she?”
“Help,” Dorothy says. “That’s what she is.” She takes a step back to where Abel stands. “That woman’s the only soul near who can give us shelter and safety, and that’s why we’ve come.”
“You said it was meant.”
“And I believe it, hard as it is. But standing here like we’re having second thoughts is an insult to her kindness. Ain’t a good hobo in the world wants to bring an insult, so let’s get our feet moving. It’s safe for y’all. I promise it.”
“For us,” Abel says. “You said it’s safe for us, Dorothy. That means it might not be for you.”
She looks back. Abel follows Dorothy’s eyes. The woman is gone.
“Come on,” she says, holding out a hand. “We’ll go together.”
The path is level, the grass warm in the sun. Grasshoppers and millers flit with each step Dorothy takes, making a brr sound as they fly away.
“She don’t like you,” he says. “How you know her, Dorothy? You been here before?”
“Only once, long way back. She won’t mind Dumb Willie. And she won’t mind you. Just keep away.”
“Dumb Willie won’t keep away. He thinks everybody’s his friend.”
Dorothy says, “You let me worry about Dumb Willie.”
They reach the gate and find the woman waiting in the shade of an old elm. Abel keeps his head low as they pass, looking up only once and only enough to register her hard stare and to offer a “Thank you, ma’am” that goes unremarked other than for Dorothy’s soft “Shh.”
“Obliged,” she says.
“Get on,” the woman tells her.
She closes the gate and keeps a fair distance, the shotgun down but ready. Marching them, Abel thinks, like two prisoners. Ahead is a small rise he cannot see past, though he hears the cow’s clanging bell and Dumb Willie’s singsong voice on the other side. When they cross, Abel finds the remains of a wood fence leading past a small fallow field pocked with clumps of wildflowers—grape hyacinths and coltsfoot, golden ragwort. A sea of fleabane leads down to where there sits a faded and worn two-story farmhouse with its back to the green peaks beyond. Its roof is a weak red, long bleached by the sun, the structure beneath cramped and slight with wood showing far more gray than the white paint that once covered it. A leaning porch rises from four warped steps, fronted by a center door and a dust-covered window to either side. Above, an upper porch rests at the second level with three more windows.
To the side of the house rests a barn in much the same condition. The door is open, as are the windows to the loft. Sunlight struggles to enter into the darkness. Dumb Willie stands at the barn’s entrance. He’s petting the cow’s nose and offering it a pail of water.
“This all hers?” Abel asks.
Dorothy nods.
A few chickens and a fattened sow meander about in what could be called a yard. They scatter as Abel and Dorothy make their way to the barn, the woman drawing closer, the shotgun all but forgotten now in her arms. She leans it against the front of the barn and takes the cow from Dumb Willie, at once guiding and pulling it into a pen of mud and old boards.
“There are chores,” is all she says.
“We’re happy to pitch in,” Dorothy says. “Dumb Willie here’s a strong one not afraid of work. That right, Dumb Willie?”
“I help good,” Dumb Willie says.
The woman stares at the cow, four sad eyes meeting. To Dumb Willie she asks, “And what have you done that warrants my aid?”
“I’m fay. Mus.”
“A darkness chases him,” Dorothy says, “and he has none inside.”
The woman grins, though only Abel can see it from where he stands at the barn’s entrance. Only he can see how that grin fades to a scowl.
“Darkness has no need of chasing when it arrives on my land walking alongside you, boy. There is hay to get out and feed for the chickens and pig. See to that, then I’ll see if your supper’s earned.” She leaves the cow and walks through their midst.
Abel asks, “Do you know how far we are from Fairhope?” as she passes without a word and vanishes into the barn. He looks at Dorothy. “She ain’t the friendly sort.”
“Hush now. Come on.”
Dorothy follows, as does Abel, while Dumb Willie resumes petting the cow. Cooing at it as though it is his pet. The chickens draw near to where he stands. The pig snuffs at his feet. Abel glances at him without surprise. Dumb Willie has always been good with animals, not just farm ones, but wild ones too. Animals, they don’t judge.
There is a stench of rot and staleness inside the barn where neither light nor wind can reach. An old truck is parked near the back, its nose pointing toward daylight as though trying to escape. To the right near the door is a small wooden table with an oil lamp and a worn Bible resting on top. A thick mat of blankets rests on the ground beside it, along with a pail of waste. Dorothy stares from there back toward the house. The woman returns from the darkness in the back of the barn with a pitchfork in her hand.
“You bed here?” Dorothy asks.
She walks past, out into the day. “It’s ghosts in the house.”
Dumb Willie waits by the door. The woman stands in front of him, staring at that empty but beaming smile on his face. It is the same grin Dumb Willie offers to everyone everywhere, though Abel sees it as something the woman has not received in a long while. Maybe never. It’s like that smile strikes in her a fear, making her wary. She hands the pitchfork to him without a word and makes her way alone around the side of the barn.
“Abel,” Dorothy says. Her voice is both soft and hard, meant only for him. “No words, okay? It won’t go well if you do. That’s just her way.”
“But she’s talking to Dumb Willie.”
“I know. She’s just not used to so many people about.”
“That right, what she said? About ghosts being in that house?”
“Don’t you worry on that.”
“But is it right?”
“She’s special,” Dorothy says. “That’s all.”
“Like me and Dumb Willie?”
“Yes, in a way. Now, I’m going off with Dumb Willie to help with these chores. More we do, more she’ll accept of us. You come along. I’ll let you watch, but you can’t do.”
“What’s her name? That woman?”
Dorothy looks down. The wind plays with her hair. Abel wishes he were that wind.
“Don’t know,” she said. “I was only here once. Never got far enough along for names. I had to move on.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what I do. And for the bad that happened. She blamed me for it, though I had no part. Now come on. She’ll be expecting me and Dumb Willie get this done.”
Dumb Willie says, “A Bull you. Comin’? We got the . . . chores.”
“I’m gonna stay here,” Abel says. “You go on and help Dorothy.”
“Don’t go far,” Dorothy says. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Dorothy moves off into the barn and up a ladder hidden in back, where she begins scooping hay through the window for Dumb Willie below. Abel examines the woman’s bed and her table, keeping far from the stench inside the pail. The pages of the Bible are wrinkled and yellowed with age. The cover is worn near off. He likens it to a preacher’s Bible from its heavy use. Something Preacher Keen might carry. Certainly Reverend Johnny.
He keeps close until Dorothy and Dumb Willie have settled into their work, then moves from the barn and across the yard, up the house stairs. The wood boards do not creak, though they look like they should. Abel leans in close to one of the windows and peers inside. No spirits wait on the other side of the glass. There is a sofa and two chairs and pictures on the wall too covered with dust to reveal their subjects. A piano in the corner. An empty dining room table. Peeling paint and flowered wallpaper. The only thing that captures Abel’s interest is the long shelf of books reaching down the hallway. Volumes of them, paperbacks and hard, thick books and thin books and books with cracked and peeling spines. They are not stacked in the exact way some bookshelves are, ones kept as mere decoration or monuments to ego and loved by the eyes alone. These are laid haphazard, some placed on their ends and others with their spines facing outward. Pages dog-eared and stained, loved by touching.
