by Chris Fabry
John’s mouth hung open. “But you gave them to me.”
“No, I kept all the memories and insurance papers. I just put in some cash and signed over a few certificates. What did you do with them?”
“I left them in the envelope in that box. I’d never seen a stock certificate before and figured it might be worth a few hundred dollars at most. But with my state of mind, I wasn’t about to go to some stockbroker.”
“Where are they now?”
“Dogwood.”
“And you didn’t cash them?”
John shook his head.
Mrs. Linderman’s gaze wandered from his face to June Bug’s. “There’s a story all over the news. A little girl in West Virginia that went missing years ago. Along about that time . . .”
“I’ve seen a little about it,” he said.
“John? Is this her?”
He looked at the floor. “Can we turn on your TV and see what they’re saying?”
She picked up the clicker with a gnarled hand and gave it to him. He clicked the Power button and found a news channel.
15
It felt good being in Mrs. Linderman’s house, kind of like what I’d pictured having a grandmother would be like except without all the fancy furniture and the round-the-clock help. I imagined having cookies and lemonade and laughing and hearing stories about riding in a covered wagon. I also thought a grandmother would give you stuff, like earrings or a doll or maybe a new outfit she saw at Target and just couldn’t pass up.
But with all the good feelings, I still felt nervous. I now knew my dad wasn’t my real dad, and that brought up a bunch of questions. I always thought the biggest one in my life was who my mama was and what was she like and what did I get from her like a nose or my eyes or some disease. But it only takes something like a visit to an old woman’s house to let you know there are other questions floating around out there like butterflies and that it’s hard to catch the answers. There’s not a net big enough for all my questions.
When my dad clicked around to the news station, he landed on one with a lady wearing a pretty scarf tied around her neck, and I thought it might be the wrong time of year for that but what do I know. She looked like she had on all the makeup in the world and it made her face look like some doll in a store window, smooth as porcelain and shiny, and I doubted that was the way she looked when she got up in the morning. She said something about the “top story” being about a missing child case in West Virginia. We’d seen the story at the farmhouse, but it was hard for me to concentrate there. I moved up real close to hear the reporter’s voice. Seemed to me like the last place on earth he wanted to be was Dogwood, West Virginia. He had perfect hair and a nice face except for these beady eyes that seemed suspicious of everybody.
They showed a picture of me as a kid and then the age-progression one and said my mother was a lady named Dana Edwards. That was a new piece of information. Then they showed an older lady who was walking from her car into a house and shielding her eyes from the lights. The reporter said she was the grandmother.
“I’ve told them all along she was alive,” the woman yelled. She looked a little bit angry. “And now they’ve let the man who took her go!”
I think the news people like it when people scream or cry or throw something. I don’t get to watch much, but every time I’ve seen the news, somebody is pitching a fit about something. Gas prices or an election or some issue that has their veins sticking out on their necks. My dad, even though he’s not my real dad, always says that what gets people riled up is what makes the news. I wonder if they ever covered the fight he had in the war and his friend who died. That seemed to get him riled up.
The reporter’s voice came in over a picture of a crumpled-looking man with a scary face and hair to match. I got the creepers all over when I saw him.
“This is Graham William Walker, a suspect in the disappearance of the girl. He was being questioned at this police station when he escaped authorities.”
Then they switched to an older guy in a uniform standing outside the station, and there seemed like there were about a million microphones shoved in his face. He had his hat pulled down so you could just barely see his eyes. The man looked a little uncomfortable to me.
“The suspect is now at large,” he said, and the way he talked made me feel warm all over, like I was listening to somebody from home, which I guess I was. “He exited through a side window while the interrogation was in process.”
“Was he under arrest?” the reporter said, and there were about a hundred other voices asking the same thing.
“No, we were just questioning him when we had a situation in the office and he was left unattended. . . .”
He said some other stuff, but that’s when it all became real to me. It’s one thing to see your picture on the wall and wonder where in the world you came from, and it’s an entirely different matter to watch TV and see yourself.
“Did he give you any information, Sheriff?” the reporter yelled. “Do you believe he was involved in the girl’s disappearance?”
The sheriff stared at the reporter and said, “I can’t comment on the ongoing investigation.”
The reporter with the beady eyes wrapped things up, though I wanted him to talk with the grandmother or the woman he said was my mother, but there’s probably a time limit. The woman with the makeup came on and shook her head, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, and then she said something about the economy and there was an arrow behind her that went down and I knew my story was over.
When I turned around, I realized how quiet it was behind me, and I found my dad kneeling beside Mrs. Linderman. The woman had her hand over her mouth, and he was whispering to her. When I jumped up, she jerked back like I was a ghost, and there were tears in her eyes. She looked at me with the saddest face I’ve ever seen on a human being, and she reached out a hand that looked more wrinkly than a raisin. “You come here, dear.”
She took my hand and had me sit with her in the chair, which wasn’t hard because she didn’t take up much room. She hugged me tight and kissed my cheek. “The Lord used you, June Bug. Just as sure as we’re sitting here he did.”
I looked at her, but I didn’t really know what to say.
“Do you understand what’s happening? what’s going on back in that place?”
“I think so.”
Dad just knelt there with his head turned and his thumb to his mouth, like he was chewing on it.
“Tell me what you know,” she said.
“That he’s not my real dad. That I come from a place in West Virginia and that my mom and maybe my dad are back there.”
Her eyes lit up, like she didn’t expect what she was hearing. “Anything else?”
“They think that guy with the weird face took me.”
She nodded and hugged me tighter. Dad sat with his back to the chair, staring out the window. It was quiet then, except for the chatter of the news and then a commercial about hair loss and how some men are using a new process to restore themselves to their natural condition.
“We have to go back,” he said. “I have to take you back there.”
“Really?” I said, sitting up.
Mrs. Linderman winced like I had broken her hip bone and I realized I had my elbow in her side and I said I was sorry.
“We’ll head back there first thing in the morning.”
I guess my face showed something because Mrs. Linderman smiled and hugged me again. “Is that what you want to do? Go back and find your family?”
I nodded. “More than anything.” And then I saw the look on Dad’s face. “Except I can still stay with you, right? Your family is there, right?”
He just stared at me like he was looking for some answers, and the cold shivers came over me and I tried to push them down.
“We better go,” he said.
The woman grabbed her purse from her wheelchair and dug inside. She pulled out some wadded-up bills and shoved them into his hand. He
tried to give them back, but she scolded him like a little boy. “You take that. This is to help you both.”
“I can’t take any more of your money,” he said.
“I’ve got a lot more where that came from. Now get on out of here.” She grabbed his hand and looked at him like he was her own son. “You’re a good man, John. I’m proud to know you.” Then she turned to me. “You take good care of him, you hear?”
I nodded and hugged her as tight as I dared. Then I took my dad’s hand and we walked out.
We got in the RV and drove to the interstate. When we passed a Wendy’s, he stopped and got me a Frosty with some of that lady’s money. He drove with me sitting in the passenger seat and the sound of the road rushing up to meet us. I was glad I didn’t have to stay hidden anymore and that we could be together, even though he wasn’t saying anything. I had a million questions, but I figured now wasn’t the time to ask them.
“You getting tired?” he said when I yawned real big.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you go on up and crawl into bed?”
“How far are we going?” I said.
“Till I get sleepy. We won’t need gas for a while.”
“You’re not tired?”
“Nope. Driving helps me think.”
“Think about what?” I said.
“What to do next.”
“And what’re you going to do?”
“That’s why I need to keep driving and not talk, chatterbug.”
I giggled. He called me that when I asked too many questions. I unbuckled and crawled behind him.
Dad patted me on the back as I passed him. “You have some sweet dreams. I’ll see you when you wake up.”
We have this thing about reaching out and touching fingers. He’ll do it at night when I’m going to sleep, and if I get scared and he’s in his bed, he’ll just reach out a hand. It’s kind of dumb, I know, but it’s kind of comforting too. Just reaching out to someone you love.
I turned and hugged him, then kissed him on the cheek, and there was something sad to his face that I wished I could change.
“You don’t think it was your fault about her son, do you?” I said. “It wasn’t your fault that he got killed. It was the bad people who shot him.”
He nodded. “I know that in my head. It’s just that some things stick in there and you can’t get them out.”
“Do you wish you could get me out of your head?”
Dad looked up from the road and locked eyes with me and he didn’t need to say a thing. But I’m glad he did. “I have a lot of regrets but you are not one of them. You’re the best thing in my life, June Bug. And if I had it to do over a thousand times, I’d take you with me every one of them.”
I hugged his neck again and then jumped in my bed and tried to sweep away some of the crumbs that I’d left up there. Then I kicked off my shoes and snuggled into my sleeping bag. I didn’t know much, but I did know somebody who loved me was down below. If you believe that, even if you have questions, you’re in a pretty good place.
It wasn’t long until my eyes were closed and I fell into a deep sleep.
We were standing on a hill overlooking a valley, with craggy rocks all around. It was out west somewhere because there was nothing but tumbleweeds and rocks and a clump of trees in the distance. He was standing there with his hat pulled low, the way he always looks when he’s outside.
Go on; take it.
I don’t want to.
You have to figure it out sooner or later.
I don’t want to.
I had a whine in my voice, which he says he doesn’t like. Don’t whine, he always says, and I try not to but sometimes it gets the best of me and I have to. And then I heard the sound, the little yip yap of a dog. I’ve probably asked him about a billion times if I could have a dog of my own because I know better than to ask him for a cat. There are dog types of people and cat types of people and he is not a cat type.
The pup, all furry and black, ran up to me with his tail wagging and his ears back and his eyes soft and warm. I just wanted to hug him to death. He sniffed around my legs and licked my hand and then was off down the hill. I followed him with my eyes blurry, just giggling at how funny he looked and how happy I was.
You’ll have to learn how to shoot one of these someday, he said. Might as well be now.
Guns are for killing and I hate them. I’ll never shoot a gun.
He got that far-off look in his eyes he gets when he talks about leaving for the winter. I’ve wondered why he does this, but I guess deep down I don’t care because it’s so much fun to go places with him.
He’s staring off and looking at nothing, and then he says, Guns are not just for killing. They’re for protecting too.
I could see his point, but I said I still wasn’t ever going to shoot one.
He whistled into the wind, and the dog just kept running a trail back and forth toward a sandy patch of grass. The clump of trees was to the right along with some taller grass that grew straight up and only bent for the wind. The pup was having a hard time deciding which trail to sniff, and it looked so funny I thought it should be a movie.
Life is a series of choices, June Bug. Sometimes you have to choose what’s good and then what’s best. What’s good may be saying you’ll never shoot a gun. But what’s best is knowing how to shoot one in case you have to.
I don’t know a thing about what you’re saying. I don’t want to shoot it.
He looked off again, and I’d never seen the steely look. Take the gun, June Bug. He said it almost in a whisper, and it made me shiver. Now.
I rolled my eyes and took it. It was heavy and I didn’t see how I was ever going to even hold the thing up, let alone shoot it. Then the gun came up and I was looking at the little nub at the end of the barrel, wondering what to do.
He put his hands under mine to help me. You line up the back and the front sight square with what you’re aiming at. Now you should never point at anything you’re not ready to shoot.
I let go because when my eyes were focused in the distance, I saw he was pointing right at the dog in the clearing. Take the gun back.
No. Hold it up now.
I grabbed it, but my arms were shaking and the tears were starting to come. Don’t make me shoot him, please.
Stop whining and listen.
Please.
Stop it.
He pushed the gun to the right a little, pointing to the tall grass by the trees. I caught sight of something furry, something crouching in the grass, inching forward. Then two eyes and a long snout and pointed ears.
You see that?
What is it?
Doesn’t matter. It’s hungry and it sees a hot meal.
Take it back. You shoot it.
No, aim and pull the trigger.
Please, I don’t want to.
You want to see that little pup in the jaws of that coyote?
No, but you shoot.
He let go of the gun and the barrel dipped.
My heart raced as I looked at the pup waddling toward the grass, hopping like it was playing at a park. He’s headed right for it!
Then aim and shoot.
What if I hit the pup?
Aim and shoot, June Bug.
I pulled the gun up and couldn’t see the coyote in the grass anymore. Then his strong hands were underneath mine and he was behind me, his breath on my shoulder, his face down near mine. I saw a flash of fur as the animal sprang from the grass. His finger squeezed mine on the trigger, and then again, and there were two cracking sounds.
Dirt kicked up in front of the coyote, and he stopped dead in his tracks and glanced at us. And then he fell, twitching for a moment before lying still. Just a piece of fur in the grass. The little pup barked at it as he ran toward us, looking back, stopping, and barking some more.
You killed him, I said. I just wanted to scare him away.
Some things you have to kill. Some things you don’t mess with or th
ey’ll kill you.
The pup ran back to us, his tongue hanging out, scrambling over the big rocks. He crawled into my lap and I hugged him close. Daddy got up and walked back to the RV and I followed him with the pup in my arms, the little thing squirming and licking and kicking.
Just as I was about to put him down, I looked back at the valley and saw the coyote. His head was up and he was grinning, if you can believe that, and saying something. The whispers drifted over the barren land, carried by the wind, and I strained to hear them but I couldn’t. And then he laid his head back down in the grass and never moved again as far as I know.
16
Sheriff Hadley Preston had just arrived home to fried chicken, biscuits, and coleslaw when his cell phone buzzed. He hated carrying the thing and most of the time wanted to roll down the window and toss it out. As far as he was concerned, cell phones had been invented by wives to keep track of their men.
“Just let it go,” his wife, Macel, said. Her eyes were pinpoints in the kitchen’s bright light. The skin around her eyes was wrinkled and cracked with age. “You’ve been working too hard. Let it go and eat something.”
Macel Preston was a good woman. Stocky and short with a few streaks of black hair still showing through the gray, a strong and jutting chin. She looked built for some athletic pursuit, and their life together had seemed to him a marathon of trouble. Trouble with their daughter, trouble with the job, trouble with the family as their parents grew older. She had suggested they move his parents in with them when their health had failed. Shortly after they were gone, her mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and she moved in for the last six years of her life.
When asked how they were able to stay together so long, Preston gave his wife the credit. “She’s a patient and forgiving woman,” he would say, and that was the truth. Forgiving to a fault. He had heard secondhand how she had stood in the midst of the little church on Wednesday nights and asked the congregation to pray for his salvation.
