“Who did it?” “Offed the cat?”
“No, I mean, who called it into the state? Wouldn’t someone realize they were causing a lot of trouble for Fuzzy for no reason if …” Jane stopped when she and Charley reached the food table and Nellie appeared at her elbow.
“Four,” she said, almost spitting. “No, five.”
Jane looked at Nellie. She knew she was supposed to know what her mother was talking about. Nellie’s language was primitive, a kind of guttural, one-word shorthand that required the listener to make many strange and dangerous leaps through what Jane had long referred to as “Nellie’s mindfield,” as dangerous to one’s psyche as an actual minefield would be to one’s limbs.
Jane’s defense against the mindfield was silence. If she waited patiently, Nellie’s next burst of linguistic puzzlement might give her the clue, lead her across the bridge, so to speak, to an island where they, for a brief moment, would communicate.
“Orange with bananas, cherry with pineapple, raspberry with some whipped cream crap in it, and green with marshmallows and nuts. And that wasn’t enough.” Nellie seemed, even for Nellie, unnaturally upset about the Jell-O variety laid out on the table. “Blue Jell-O with … what the hell is that on top?”
“Cool Whip, Nell,” said Tim, holding a plate with a scoop of each flavor. “Where but in Kankakee are you going to get a groaning board of Jell-O like this?”
“Red with oranges is good enough,” said Nellie, sniffing. “Lula’s got better things to do, and she ought to be doing them.”
As swiftly and silently as she had appeared, Nellie was gone, probably to point out the appallingly egocentric Jell-O display to the rest of the crowd.
“What flavor’s red?” asked Tim, sticking his tongue out to show Jane the proof of the rainbow of Jell-O he had already ingested.
“Every Sunday, Nellie made Jell-O for dessert. She combined raspberry and strawberry and cherry, whatever she had in the cupboard and put oranges in it. She thought the combined flavors tasted better. You know,” said Jane, “redder.”
“Sort of makes sense,” said Tim.
“Then you’ve got to get out of town,” said Jane, but she was thinking of how cold and delicious that Jell-O had tasted, she and her brother eating it on the couch and watching those Cartwright brothers ride through the burning Ponderosa map at the beginning of Bonanza.
Fuzzy and Lula’s barbecue went the way of most large, outdoor gatherings. Lots of people all talking in tight little clusters, opening up to engulf a newcomer, then closing in around him or her like some kind of amoebalike digestive motion. Jane noted the grim faces of the men softened with every trip to the beer keg; and with every trip they watched their husbands make, the women’s faces grew harder. As the mounds of food diminished and those foil pans were emptied and crumpled, the crowd began to thin. First a couple, then two or three, then all the cars starting, and Fuzzy and Lula, Jane, Charley, and Nick watched a caravan of cars travel down the highway.
The EZ Way customers who had been there had given Jane the obligatory once-over. They had known her since she was a baby and still felt the need to comment on her height, weight, and the length of her hair. Jane often felt like the only adult woman, all grown up with a child of her own, who went home to be surrounded by dozens of people who told her she was taller than the last time they saw her. Jane knew she had been five foot three for at least twenty-five years, but she knew enough to keep it to herself.
Jane hadn’t wanted to interrupt Lula, who had kept one eye on Fuzzy and the other on the roasting pit most of the evening, so she hadn’t yet had a chance to visit with her hostess. Jane realized that although she had heard about Lula most of her life, she had only met her a few times. Fuzzy was a daily EZ Way Inn customer who talked about his wife as though everyone knew her, and Jane was surprised to see that she was nothing like the heroine of Fuzzy’s stories. She wasn’t round and jolly and warm and playful. She looked overworked and hard-edged and had an expression of wary concern that reminded Jane so much of Nellie that if she didn’t know better, she would think the two women were related.
Jane checked her watch and was surprised that it was only 9:15. It had been a long day—a lifetime or two since she had let Claire Oh and Tim thin the herd in her garage that morning. Jane stacked some of the large pans that had been filled with Jell-O and three-bean salad and started toward the kitchen.
“Can your husband help us out?” asked Lula, wiping her hands on her apron and reaching out for the pans. “With the state and all?”
“I’m sure he can,” said Jane, looking out to the yard where Charley and Nick were stuffing giant garbage bags with the empty plates and cups scattered around the yard. Fuzzy was out by the barn, talking to some men. Rather he was being talked to by one of them. Joe Dempsey. Dempsey was waving his arms in the air, describing something wonderful by the dreamy look on his face, and Hoover was walking another man toward the cornfield. The third man seemed to be staggering a bit, and Jane thought Hoover might be trying to walk him around a bit, sober him up. Surely they weren’t going to let that one get into a car. The big yard lights had gone on at dusk, and although they illuminated the areas immediately near the buildings, the rest of the grounds were swallowed up in the summer night. Once Hoover and the other man got to the cornfield, they disappeared.
“Lula, who are those men out there with Fuzzy? What do Dempsey and Hoover do?”
Lula squinted her eyes in the direction of the barn. “The forty-dollar suits?” she asked.
Jane didn’t have the heart to tell her that a forty-dollar suit hadn’t existed for more than forty years.
“They’re trying to start some business here. They showed up a while ago, wanting to take polls and ask questions and price land. Carpetbaggers, if you ask me,” said Lula.
Jane couldn’t imagine what motivated anyone to move to Kankakee to seek fame, glory, or profit. And wasn’t that what carpetbaggers were supposed to be after?
“Ever since we got famous with that list and those porches that the talk show sent us,” said Lula. “The gazebos?” asked Jane.
“Yes, our mayor was on television, too. We were all the rage for a while. It’s died down a little though.”
Jane helped Lula dry the last of the big pans. It didn’t seem worthwhile to mention that being known as the least livable city in North America was not exactly a magnet for business.
Jane wished Lula a good night, expecting her to remain in the kitchen, but Lula walked outside with her instead. “Just got to round up Fuzzy. He loses track of time when he’s checking up on things.”
“Lula, who reported the bones and the fossils on the property? Did you or Fuzzy make any calls about them?”
Lula’s dark eyes almost disappeared as she narrowed them. “I’d like to know who made that call myself. There’s a word for people who meddle in other folks’ business.”
Something in the way Lula spoke made Jane not want to ask any follow-up questions. She and Charley might be there by request to help do the paperwork to clear the land, but Jane had the feeling that that was all they were supposed to do. Despite all the Jell-O being passed around that night, Jane had a feeling the party was Fuzzy’s idea. He appeared to be the partner who kept their social life active.
“Go ahead and use the electric if you need it. And don’t worry about any noises. Fuzzy’s not sleeping so good, and sometimes he goes roaming.”
Jane wanted to reassure her, tell her that Fuzzy could rest easy. The only grave they had disturbed was that of an old family pet. He could keep right on growing his tomatoes and sell all the dirt he wanted. But when Jane looked back, ready to give her that comforting news, Lula had disappeared. Just as well. She should let Charley make sure that everything was okay and give the news. Looking back over her shoulder, Jane saw that the kitchen light was already out and only a greenish glow from the television set in the front parlor illuminated the house.
Hoover and the other man had not reappeared
, and Dempsey and Fuzzy were nowhere in sight. Jane thought she heard Lula call to Fuzzy out beyond the barn, but when she looked in that direction, she couldn’t see anyone.
For no good reason, Jane felt a chill down to her toes and walked quickly over to where Charley and Nick were coming out of the tent. Jane, shivering despite the warm night, suggested they bundle up inside the cabin and investigate a board game by candlelight.
“Me and Dad are sleeping in the tent, Mom,” said Nick. “You want to?”
Jane looked into her husband’s brown eyes, which had sent her such loud and clear come-hither signals only a few hours ago. They were sending signals now, too—Jane was certain she could see the white flag of surrender waving in his pupils. She couldn’t blame Charley.
When you had a son like Nick—who didn’t really ask for much, who, most of the time, treated Jane and Charley with reason and patience and a minimum of eye rolling—it was hard to say no when he really did show some interest. They both knew that soon enough there would be high school and a gaggle of new friends and more interests and weekends away at sports events and science fairs. Then there would be a driver’s license, and a girlfriend, college visits, applications, and acceptances. Then four years of college, grad school, hiking through Europe, job offers, an office across the continent, marriage, wife and family, and holiday visits few and far between. Then he’d be signing them into assisted living, and that would be that.
Of course Charley had to sleep in the tent with him. He’d be out of his mind to say no. Jane, however, knew that she should not say yes to this adventure. Her own tolerance for sleeping in a tent and the nighttime sounds of the outdoors had decreased in inverse proportion to her age. Strapping on a backpack and unrolling a sleeping bag had held some charm in her college days, but her older bones begged for a firm mattress, a decent pillow, and a reading light. In the cabin she might not get any of those, but she would be a whole lot closer than out in the pop-up tent next to Fuzzy’s tomato patch.
Charley caressed her shoulder slightly, and she wavered for a moment. If Nick weren’t here, she thought, maybe I would explore the great outdoors one more time. A sky full of moon and stars, barely visible in the city, might draw her for one last campout. In his element here, Charley reminded her of someone she’d known in another lifetime, someone who’d made her hover a few inches off the ground just thinking of him. Who was that man all those years ago? Oh yeah, it was Charley.
But Nick was here, waiting for his father to fetch some bottled water and a few flashlights.
“You okay here?” Charley asked.
“Of course,” Jane said. “What could happen? The ghost of Otto could come in search of catnip or something, but I think I could fend him off. Go camping, my little Boy Scouts,” said Jane. “I’ll keep a light in the window.”
Jane meant to keep a light in the window. She had already planned to plug in the rickety bedside lamp and conveniently fall asleep reading so that there would be some light on all night, in case Nick got scared and needed to find his way inside the cabin. Jane repeated that several times to herself as she got herself ready for bed. For Nick. A light in the window for Nick. But just as she was about to crawl under the covers, she looked out the window toward the farmhouse, and saw Fuzzy coming out the back door.
“You people,” he yelled, and not waiting for an answer, he continued, “decided to turn off the generator for the night! Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
The cabin went dark and, if possible, the outdoors became even inkier than it had been before. Clouds covered the moon. The stars were visible, but not as dazzling as a Wyoming sky or a Montana night might be. No, Kankakee might be the least livable city in North America because of its dearth of cultural opportunities, but it was close enough to Chicago, with enough cultural activities for any number of cities and enough candlepower to still have an impact on the night sky of its little neighbor to the south.
When Fuzzy cut the power, Jane was shocked at the sudden silence. She hadn’t even been aware of the hum from the generator, but when it stopped she heard the stillness. It washed over her and filled in all the spaces, curled in around her like a body pillow, a down comforter. It might have been soothing except for a skittering noise and the occasional hum of a mosquito. And what was it Fuzzy said not to let bite?
Jane squeezed her eyes shut, thinking that if she closed them tightly enough, she could forget how dark it was in the cabin. Eyes closed, she would not know if there was a little hall light on or a little night-light glowing in the bathroom. Damn, don’t think about the bathroom because there isn’t one except out the back door, where it’s even darker than this dark. Charley had told Jane to wake him if she needed to go out, but she was too stubborn to do that. Too stubborn to admit that this place was the darkest rabbit hole into which she had ever been dropped and too stubborn to ever go to the bathroom again if that’s what it took. Stop thinking about it, she commanded herself.
Instead, Jane decided to think about everything that was crazy about this campout/pig roast and what Charley had referred to as archaeological dig lite. Fuzzy had invited them to stay there on the land, invited them to use the cabin, and had, just the other morning, asked for their help in figuring out what exactly they were digging up on his land. And yet tonight, as he heaped Jane’s plate with food and walked her around the garden, pointing out the eggplants and cucumbers and peppers and tomatoes, he wasn’t himself. One minute he was talking about heirloom seeds and grafting pumpkin vines and the next he was staring off into the cornfields beyond his property, looking for all the world as if he expected visitors to come walking out. Had he seen Field of Dreams once too often? Were the ghosts of baseball players about to drift out from behind the stalks? Jane had even joked with him about it, asked him who he was looking for.
“Who?” Fuzzy had asked then, looking at Jane so helplessly that Jane saw him struggling not to finish with “… are you?”
No, Fuzzy was no Kevin Costner, and his small farm was no field of anyone’s dreams. Right now, it was a farmette of extremely minor expectations.
When Jane had asked her dad about Fuzzy, wanting to know if he was all right, if they knew anything more about the fainting spell, Don had shaken his head. “Just getting older, honey, just like me and your mom.”
Jane and Don had both looked over at the food table then, acknowledging that Nellie might be passing through the years at the same rate as everyone else standing around munching roast pork and salads slathered in mayonnaise and too many different colors of Jell-O, but knowing that Nellie wasn’t really getting older. She had probably been a crusty sixty-one, give or take a year, when she was born and had remained there. Now, pushing hard on seventy’s door, she didn’t look any older than sixty, with a trim figure, a weathered but unwrinkled face, and the bottled-up energy of a rattlesnake on speed.
Don had reintroduced Jane to Joe Dempsey while they were cutting into a giant chocolate layer cake. Joe Dempsey, one of the new movers and shakers in Kankakee, as Don had described him. Jane had guessed his age as the midsixties when she first met him; and by the way he gripped her hand and shook it, she told herself again he had been trained in sales. He described himself as an entrepreneur, and Jane couldn’t help wondering what entrepreneurial venture he could possibly be pursuing in Kankakee.
“I see this town as the future, not the past,” he had said, nodding vigorously. “Good land, good people, lots of opportunities,” Joe had whispered, leaning forward, “if you’ve got the eyes to see it.”
It wasn’t all that different from Tim’s assessment of Kankakee. He, too, felt that it had gotten a bad rap, a raw deal. And there was no reason why this pretty little river town couldn’t make a comeback.
Jane had dozed off thinking about Tim and the world’s largest garage sale. She was dreaming about a garage filled with what she thought were rubber balls; but when she got inside the garage, she picked one up and discovered it was a rock. A round, beach-smooth rock. She dropped i
t and the sound it made, rock on pavement, woke her up. Or did a sound wake her up and so direct her dreaming hand too pen?
Interesting how darkness intensifies sound. Jane thought she heard a light scraping outside the window. Then a car out on the road. Was that thunder in the distance? Was there going to be a storm? How long had she been sleeping? She could call out to Charley and Nick in the tent, but she wasn’t sure enough to wake them. Sure enough of what? That she was spooked by being alone in the dark not twenty feet away from them? Maybe she could use her small flashlight to find one of the battery-powered lanterns Charley had said he’d leave for her. So what if she ran down the battery—she was going into town to help Tim canvass people about the garage sale tomorrow—she could, and would, buy fifty batteries.
“Ow.” For a bare-bones cabin furnished only with the essentials, a lot of things were coming out of the dark to bump into her. She crept over to the window and saw that the moon had come out from behind the clouds. The back lawn glowed and shimmered, the green of the grass transformed into a watery silver. Beyond the grass and vegetable gardens, the cornfield stood sentry. Row after row, a grid of green leaves and fat stalks crisscrossed the land for at least two acres.
Where lawn met cornfield, Jane could see something waving at her. Was it a man walking toward her, waving his arms? A breeze rattled the cabin; and in the moving air, Jane saw the arms go wilder, sleeves blowing in the wind. She let out a long breath, not aware of how long she had been holding it.
“A scarecrow,” she said. Jane realized when she named what she saw aloud, her jaw muscles had been clenched so hard, her entire face ached at the release. She opened her mouth and closed it, trying to reclaim her features, and said aloud again, “It’s just a scarecrow.”
Normally by now everything would have relaxed, become unclenched, the adrenaline would have drained away, leaving her tired enough to fall asleep no matter how much scraping, squeaking, and scratching was going on in the dark corners of the cabin. And asleep she would undoubtedly be if she hadn’t just seen the scarecrow get down from the pole and disappear into the cornfield.
Buried Stuff Page 6
