Some Small Magic

by Billy Coffey

  That woeman, she’s sad.

  And so for much of that time he tilted his head through the back window to make sure Do-tee was still there and A Bull. Dumb Willie made sure A Bull felt good. A Bull kept nodding his head like he meant he was okay. Dumb Willie never believed that because of A Bull’s shine. By then, A Bull was like a sun.

  His offer to drive the truck was met with a chuckle and snort. Dumb Willie took that as a no. That woeman and Do-tee both wouldn’t let him look out the window because Dumb Willie’s faymus now. Do-tee would knock on the glass sometimes, and sometimes that woeman would say, “You keep your head low, or it’ll get shot off.”

  It’s the only thing that woeman said.

  And so Dumb Willie talked some and some he slept. He would wake up when that woeman’s hand came upon his head and pushed him away from her. That first time it was a hard shove, like she was scared and he was a munster she wanted away. Then that push got softer. By the end, she never did a thing and let Dumb Willie sleep there against her. Dumb Willie’s nose couldn’t help but seek her out as he drifted. She smelled like pig poop and wildflowers and hay. It was like they were taking her farm along on their venchure.

  Those roads got crowded the longer they were on them. Dumb Willie liked the dirt roads and the long, empty ones smoothed out that made the truck sound to hum around him. But these crowded roads he didn’t like. There was too many people, and that woeman wouldn’t even let Dumb Willie sit in the seat no more. She made him get down on the floor instead so that only his head could rest. It was crowded down there, and he couldn’t see Do-tee or A Bull.

  “She’s laying down back there,” that woeman said. “Ain’t fell off, which I wouldn’t mind. But she can’t be seen either. Ain’t legal, riding back of a truck.”

  “Where we. At?” he asked.

  “The city,” is what the woeman said.

  *

  The sun has gone behind the trees when the woeman stops, waking Dumb Willie from his nap. He wipes the slobber that has collected on the passenger seat. His neck and back are a giant knot from having been squished on the floorboard for so long. He tries stretching and finds that only makes him hurt more. The woeman puts the shifter to park.

  “Where we. At?” he ask again.

  The woeman say, “Here.”

  She won’t move, but Dumb Willie hears moving in the back of the truck. He lifts his head just enough to see Do-tee standing up in the window. A Bull’s with her. He still shines.

  Dumb Willie gets out of the truck and nearly falls because his feet don’t work. They pinch and stab and he stamps his feet to make them wake up. Do-tee helps Dumb Willie walk and then goes to talk to the woeman. Dumb Willie helps A Bull out of the truck while the woeman isn’t looking. She can’t see A Bull, he’s a seecrit.

  “Hey A. Bull,” he say.

  “Hey, Dumb Willie.”

  “You oh. Kay?”

  “I think so. Dorothy says we’re in the city. We’re looking for a man who knows a magic place. I’m gone get healed, Dumb Willie, just like Reverend Johnny said.”

  He smiles. It’s a bright smile and so full of sun that Dumb Willie has to wince.

  “Gone. Heal you?”

  “Yep. And get this, Dumb Willie. That man, he’s an Indian.”

  It is a marvel to Dumb Willie, all the things they’ve seen and the people they’ve met. It’s fun being faymus.

  It’s a quiet place where they are. There’s trees and birds, not like a city. That woeman talks to Do-tee for a long while. Sometimes she looks to yell and sometimes to cry, and when she’s doing neither she only listens. Dumb Willie hears Do-tee say she’s sorry but he don’t know for what.

  Then the woeman say, “Our eyes will never meet again.”

  And Do-tee say, “You know we must. All find an end to their path, and that is where I stand and wait.”

  “What they saying over there, Dumb Willie?” A Bull ask.

  “They good,” he say.

  Do-tee comes back to the other side of the truck and holds A Bull’s hand. She say, “Abel, can you walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Come on with me a minute. Dumb Willie, that woman wants to talk to you.”

  They go off a little ways to wait. The woeman stands near her truck looking at Dumb Willie. He goes to her and wonders if she’s going to hit him again like she did in the garden. The woeman won’t say nothing right off, she’s talking with her eyes.

  “You keep safe,” she say.

  “Sape. Sape’s good.”

  “Don’t let that girl lead you to ruin. Follow her if you must, but leave her when it’s time. And it will soon be time. Do you understand?”

  “Kay,” say Dumb Willie.

  She looks off to where Do-tee and A Bull stand. “What is it you love most? What is that girl trying to keep safe for you?”

  It’s a seecrit, he wants to say. A hush-hush. Yet the woeman looks at Dumb Willie in a way he believes everyone should, like he is a man rather than a thing, and the only way he can express his thanks for this is by offering the truth.

  “It’s. A Bull over. There,” he whispers.

  She looks in that direction again. Dumb Willie knows the woeman cannot see. And then the woeman leans close in a slow way so that Dumb Willie won’t flinch. He smells the stink of her skin and clothes and the wet of her lips on his cheek.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “Well. Come,” says he.

  -2-

  Abel watches and wonders why it doesn’t bother him that Dumb Willie has kissed a girl first. Dorothy’s hand is still in his. That’s pretty much all that matters. The woman waits until Dumb Willie has walked back to where they’re waiting before climbing back into her truck. She starts the engine and moves the shifter into reverse, then merely stares.

  Abel waves at her. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he says, though the woman answers not at all. She backs away as Abel shakes his head. “Thank you,” he says again, waving the cast this time instead of his good hand because the cast is brighter and easier seen. “Manners can get you far in life, you know that? That might get you more friends,” but she is gone.

  Dorothy squeezes his hand, though Abel can barely feel it.

  “It’s okay, Abel,” she says. “That was very nice.”

  “I got the feeling she don’t like me.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  Dumb Willie nods in agreement. “You a. Seecrit,” he says.

  Abel sighs. Dumb Willie, he can be so dumb.

  “Come on, you two,” Dorothy tells them. “We got a little ways to walk, but it’s straight on and close.”

  She leads them through the patch of trees to the familiar sight of speckled rocks the size of Abel’s hand, crabgrass and the occasional groundhog hole, and rows of steel crossed by oil-laden blocks of wood that stretch into the distance. Abel grins in spite of that stretchy feeling still inside him. He must be a hobo now, he thinks, seeing rails and feeling such comfort.

  “We gone wait on a train?” he asks.

  “Nope. We’ll walk it. Ain’t but a mile, maybe more. Then we’re there.”

  “Arthur work for the railroad?”

  Dorothy shakes her head. “No, but these tracks go right by there.”

  They move as the sun turns the orange of evening and dips behind them. Dumb Willie falls away, his head turned more to what’s behind than ahead.

  Woods and fields stretch on to their left. To their right begin the buildings. Tall ones, warehouses and businesses and others that look little more than great hulking monstrosities. Dorothy leads them off the rails when they reach a spot where the tracks intersect with a road. A great empty lot filled with long-haul tractors and fading trailers lies on the opposite side. Traffic is low for this time of night. That doesn’t keep Dorothy from telling Dumb Willie to keep his face down and for them all to keep to a narrow strip of trees to the right of the road.

  The road loops softly to the left. Abel studies the bus
inesses they pass and the smattering of cars still parked in what must be the end hours of the business day: Overhead Door Company of Raleigh, Dan’s Glass, Inc., Compass Rose Brewery. None of these seem to him the proper place for a real live Cherokee Indian to be working.

  “Not far now,” Dorothy says. She turns, holding out her hand again for Abel’s, and tells Dumb Willie to stay close. With every car that passes, she angles the leather bag over her shoulder so that it obscures part of his face. “Looks like it’s closing time for a lot of places here, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Arthur should still be there. He stays at work more than he keeps home.”

  Gresham Lake Rd is on the sign they pass, though Abel sees no lake. They pass a massive lot riddled with cars and trucks but can’t see the business they belong to; everything is behind a metal fence.

  “There,” Dorothy says. “That’s where we’re going, right up ahead.”

  Abel sees a white sign bordered in blue resting atop a tangle of vines and weeds not a hundred feet on. He squints his eyes as that sign gets closer and stops.

  The words read Rowland Landfill, Inc.

  “Arthur works at the dump?” he asks. “We’re going to a dump, Dorothy?”

  She turns around, still holding Abel by the hand. “It’s where Arthur works, Abel.”

  “It’sa. Dump,” Dumb Willie says. “Up there.”

  The entrance is shut, guarded by a gate. Fencing rings the property with three strips of barbed wire hanging above the top posts.

  “It’s closed up,” Abel says.

  Dorothy says, “Not to us. Come on, it’s easy.”

  They wait until the road is empty. Dorothy slings her bag over the top of the fence, mashing the wire.

  “You first, Dumb Willie,” she says. “Just mind the wire. It’ll hurt if it gets you.”

  Dumb Willie clambers up and over. It’s a wonder to Abel that the entire fence didn’t come tumbling down with the man’s weight upon it. Dorothy lifts Abel up and over next, into Dumb Willie’s arms. She climbs next with the grace and speed of a tomboy. On the other side of the fence is a long and wide paved road that leads on around a curve hidden by piles of dirt and gravel and the chopped-off half of a hill. The road is where she leads them.

  “Offices are up here a ways, and that’ll be where Arthur is.” She waits before adding, “I hope.”

  Abel’s expectations of what a genuine Indian would do for a living are only somewhat dampened by the sights around them. Crows caw from the tops of straggly bushes and narrow pines. The air is thick with the stench of trash, reminding him yet again of the old woman’s farm. And everywhere there are machines, dump trucks and bulldozers and backhoes, all things to boys now that dragons were to boys once. Giant steel boxes hold mountains of gray and black garbage bags. A warm, stale breeze lifts bits of litter into the air like a ticker tape parade. Dumb Willie can only marvel at it all.

  Two mountains of what looks like dirt loom at the horizon. At the peak of one rests a dump truck that looks to Abel like an ant perched upon its hill. A white trailer that reminds Abel all too much of home is to the left. Beside it are two trucks. The one nearest has a frayed rebel flag attached to a wooden pole stuck into the end of the bed. Both trucks are filthy. Both have guns hanging from the racks at the back windows. Three men wait there, smoking their cigarettes and watching. Dorothy lets go of Abel’s hand and walks toward the trucks. Her gait is strong and confident, that leather bag swinging off her shoulder. Dumb Willie falls in behind. Abel takes his hand.

  “Keep your head low, Dumb Willie,” he says.

  The three men are of the rough sort, their clothes streaked with sweat from long days beneath the summer sun. Their shirts are unbuttoned to near their stomachs, names stitched in cursive along narrow tags where a left pocket would be.

  “Closed,” one of them says. He is the biggest of the three, with a barrel chest and tattoos along both of his arms. When Abel gets close enough, he sees the tag reads Lester. “Y’all ain’t supposed to be up in here.”

  “Our apologies,” says Dorothy. “We’re passing through and got here too late. Arthur working?”

  “What you want of Arthur, pretty thing?”

  “We’re friends.”

  One of the other men—Harold—works a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek the size of a baseball. He spits a runner of brown juice onto the ground and says, “Arthur have a friend looks like you, he’d’ve told us.”

  Abel squeezes Dumb Willie’s hand at that remark. “They can’t talk to Dorothy like that.”

  “Shh,” Dumb Willie says.

  “I’ve known him a long while. He around?”

  The third man, whose shirt says Lonnie, answers, “He’s still up in the office.” He points around the mounds of dirt. “Right around the corner there.”

  “I’m obliged,” Dorothy says.

  She turns, looking at Abel and Dumb Willie, and motions with her head for them to come along.

  “Ain’t got to go nowhere just yet, honey,” Lester says. “Whyn’t you keep us comp’ny here a bit.”

  They chuckle in a way that runs a chill up Abel’s back. He squeezes Dumb Willie’s hand again. Those men aren’t even looking Abel’s way, he’s so small. So much of nothing. Like a bug they could squish. It flares an anger in him that serves as heat to ward off his chill, but also a fear. Those men are big, and Dorothy is so thin and frail.

  “Kay,” Dumb Willie says, though Abel has said nothing. But he lets go of Abel’s hand and strides forward as though hearing Abel’s thoughts and puts himself between Dorothy and the men. Even among these, Dumb Willie is a giant. Their chuckle is cut short at the size of his legs and arms. To Lester he says, “You stink you a. Weed.”

  “Come on, Dumb Willie,” Dorothy says. “It’s okay, they’re just having some fun.”

  “I’d like to have some fun,” Lonnie answers, making the other two chuckle again.

  Dumb Willie holds his spot until Abel passes by. He turns now and follows Dorothy, giving the three men his back. Showing them he’s not afraid.

  *

  It doesn’t look like an office around the back side of those dirt mountains, though that’s what the sign in front of the little shack says. Two steps lead to what resembles a porch. An air conditioner grinds against the heat through the front window. Dorothy doesn’t bother knocking but walks inside. Abel and Dumb Willie go along.

  The air here is colder than Abel has ever imagined air can get, more freezing than winter. He wraps his arms around himself trying to brace against it.

  “You oh. Kay?” Dumb Willie asks.

  He nods, thinking, Number six. Thinking, No, I’m not okay.

  “Almost there, Abel,” Dorothy says. “You hang on.”

  A wooden counter, chipped and faded by years of use, extends the width of the room. Beyond is an assortment of desks and telephones, books and papers and computers. A closed door hides in the back corner. The light inside is on. Abel reads the nameplate hung from two small chains anchored to a faded yellow ceiling:

  Arthur Free.

  Part of the counter is hinged on top. Dorothy lifts it and passes through, leaving it open for Dumb Willie and Abel. She knocks at the office door.

  A voice bellows from the other side, “Come on in.”

  Dorothy eases the door open. Abel crouches down to a spot to the side of Dorothy’s bag and gawps.

  The man sitting behind the small wooden desk is unlike any Abel has seen in his life. He is older, sixty at least, with dark skin like leather left to crack in the sun. His chest is wider than even Dumb Willie’s, but he doesn’t look fat. To Abel, Arthur Free looks powerful. Like he could take those three men outside and sling them senseless. His hair is the color of coal with streaks of gray, long and braided in the back. A necklace of polished bone and feathers peeks from the open neck of his shirt. He glances up from the papers in his hands with eyes full of knowing, two piercing black holes that remind Abel of Dorothy’s. Those eyes widen at the girl by the
door before softening to the color of clouds heavy with rain.

  “Oh my,” he says.

  Dorothy steps inside. “Hello, Arthur.”

  His mouth twists, and for a moment Abel is unsure whether Arthur is about to cry or laugh. He can see little through the slender space between Dorothy’s arm and her bag other than the walls. Hanging there are pictures of Arthur with people Abel does not know, along with a collection of artwork depicting ancient warriors. A pipe (a genuine Indian pipe) hangs near the door. And there are crosses. Everywhere Abel looks, Arthur has hung a cross.

  “Are you here for me?” he hears the man say.

  Dorothy answers, “Yes, Arthur, but only for your help. I am in need.”

  Silence fills the room. Only the hum of the air conditioner can be heard. Dumb Willie takes a step closer to the door.

  “What would you possibly need?” Arthur asks.

  Abel feels Dorothy’s hand come around her back and touch him at the side of his neck. Her fingers lead him out from behind her. He sees a fleeting look of shock upon Arthur’s face that is passed over by the longer, fiercer one Abel feels growing upon his own. His cheeks flush, his chin dips. And in a whisper so quiet that even Dorothy doesn’t seem to hear, Abel says, “He sees me.”

  Arthur’s hand goes to his mouth. “What is this you’ve brought me?”

  “Arthur,” Dorothy says, “I’d like you to meet Abel Shifflett.”

  -3-

  It shouldn’t be this way, Dorothy thinks, having to introduce Abel in such a manner. The risk of doing so is great. And yet she has long known Arthur Free of the ani-yun-wiya, the Real People. The man in front of her is noble and proud, Keeper of Stories. She trusts Arthur will not let on that anything is different about the shining boy standing in front of him, and will in fact hold his kind face still and his surprise to himself.