The Day of Small Things

by Vicki Lane

  “Bank’s too much risk—no, we’re gonna rob some rich Yankees—lift their precious little girl while they’re away and make them pay us five million to get her back. And you’re gonna be our inside man—since you’re already tight with little Miss … Heather? … is that the name you said, Prin?”

  Pook’s hand emerged from beneath the table, holding a battered-looking orange. Picking up the knife on the table, he sliced the orange in two and thrust half under Calven’s nose. “Want some, Good Boy? Nice and juicy. Just like that little girl, I bet.”

  The sharp, sweet aroma rising from the glistening pulp filled Calven’s nostrils and a wave of nausea swept over him. He stood, his legs feeling as if they might fold under him.

  He made it outside before throwing up.

  Movies This Week

  THURSDAY: 9 PM

  THE GRIFTERS (1991)

  (Directed by Stephen Frears; screenplay, Donald Westlake; based on a novel by Jim Thompson) A small-time con artist is caught between loyalty to his feckless mother and love of his new girlfriend—both of whom are con artists themselves.

  Chapter 49

  Keeping Vigil

  Monday, May 7

  (Dorothy)

  The waiting was worse than all that had gone before.

  After Saturday’s brief encounter with the white van and the rapid involvement of the sheriff’s department, their hopes had soared.

  “They’ll trace that vehicle and arrest those fellers and I’ll have Calven back; I can feel it in my bones,” Dorothy had proclaimed, her face weary but radiant. “I’ll stay home by the phone—sheriff promised they’ll let me know soon as they find Prin and those fellers.”

  Now, after waiting a day with no results, Dorothy had given her cellphone number to the sheriff’s office and come back to Birdie’s house for company in her vigil.

  “You go ahead and watch your story,” Dorothy said. “I’ll just stretch out here on the couch and finish up with this library book of Calven’s. That way, soon as he gets back, I’ll be able to help him with his report and he won’t get so behind with his class.”

  Kicking off her shoes, Dorothy settled herself with a pillow at her back and opened to the page marked by the envelope her electric bill had come in.

  “All right, honey,” Birdie answered absently, making no attempt to pick up the remote control that lay on the table at her side. “I may just doze here a while,” she added, pulling the lever to lower the chair back and shutting her eyes.

  Dorothy studied the book. Chapter Five—The Legend of the Little People. A cartoon drawing of tiny Indians taking shelter from the rain under a wide-capped toadstool held her attention briefly, then she began to read, soundlessly attempting to pronounce the Cherokee words scattered here and there through the story.

  Yunwi Tsunsdi, now there’s a tongue twister of a word. I never heard such a funny name. Right funny critters too—hard to say if they’re good or bad. Lead travelers astray—that’s bad. But then they take care of lost children.…

  From the corner of her eye she could see that Birdie was not napping but moving restlessly as if she couldn’t get comfortable. The older woman returned the recliner to a sitting position and picked up the worn Bible from the table at her side, held it briefly, and then set it back on its doily, unopened.

  Dorothy read on but each time she turned a page, she took a stealthy glance at Birdie, and again and again saw the same thing: the wrinkled hand picking up the Bible, holding it, and returning it to the table.

  The old woman’s lips were moving silently and now and then she nodded as if she were in conversation with herself.

  Poor old Birdie. I believe she’s slipping. I reckon at her age Saturday was just too much for her.

  Saturday.

  The helpful Mr. Aaron had been right. All hell had broken loose. One thing after another, going from bad to worse without letting up. Dorothy traced the events in her mind, telling them on her fingers in the order they had occurred.

  One: A burglar alarm in one of the houses of the community had been tripped, sending a signal to the gatehouse, thus making the guard close the gate and call the sheriff’s department.

  Two: The white van had forced her car into the ditch.

  Three: The guard had been on the phone with the sheriff’s office as the white van barreled through the gated entrance, sideswiping a pair of joggers, one of which was now in the Asheville hospital with a concussion and a broken leg. No tractor could be sent to pull their car from the ditch till an ambulance had taken the wounded jogger away and the sheriff’s men had arrived.

  When at last one of the deputies had come to question them where they waited by the side of the road, Mr. Aaron had greeted him like an old friend but had remained silent as the two women told their story. Dorothy had been eager to give full particulars of the van and its occupants, happy that she had such useful and accurate information.

  “A great big feller, brown hair, kindly shaggy. Looks like he could be a few bricks shy of a load, if you know what I mean. And another feller, who I take to be the boss, not near so big but wiry-like. That one has his head shaved and wears sunglasses. Looks awful mean. Couldn’t say what age he might be—real white face, right wrinkled, like a smoker’s sometimes gets. And Prin Ridder’s with them—skinny bleached blonde with … well, she’s got great big bosoms. I wouldn’t bring it up but I reckon it’s what most men are going to notice about her. And Prin’s boy is with them—my nephew Calven. He’s a good young un and he ain’t to blame if—”

  The deputy, who had been scribbling in his notepad in a vain attempt to keep pace with Dorothy’s flow of information, held up his hand.

  “Wait a second there, Miz …”

  He glanced down at his notes and continued. “… Miz Franklin, now let me see if I got this right. Miz …” Again, the downward glance. “Miz Gentry here said you uns were in your vehicle when a white van come around the curve here at speed, forcing your vehicle into the ditch; is that right?”

  “Of course that’s right!” she had shouted. Dorothy blushed at the memory. Lord, if I didn’t stamp my foot like a spoiled young un at his question. “Birdie done told it just like it happened! And I—”

  “That’s correct, Wade,” Mr. Aaron had interrupted. “That van had to have been doing around fifty.”

  The deputy had looked smug, flipped his notepad shut, and tapped on its cover with his pen.

  “Well now, don’t you see, Jake, that’s the problem. Fast as that vehicle was traveling, how the—how the heck could these ladies see what the suspects in the van looked like?”

  It had taken some explaining—from Prin and her companions’ early morning visit to Dorothy’s house to Bernice’s boy’s sighting of the van and on to Earl’s information at the little store and their arrival at Wildcat Reach. Finally, however, Mr. Aaron had smoothed things over, leaving Wade the deputy willing to admit the possibility that the descriptions he had taken down were accurate.

  But by the time the fellow on the tractor came and got us out of the ditch, poor little Birdie was just about wore out. She hardly said a word coming home and she went to bed way before it even got dark. Poor little thing.

  Dorothy looked at her friend—the wrinkled face, the thinning white hair, the liver-spotted hands—and remembered the vigorous woman Birdie had once been. That night we went to the snake church … for a moment I thought I saw a touch of how she looked when first I knew her. But now—Lord, if she don’t look plumb ancient—older than these hills.

  Almost as if she had heard the unspoken words, Birdie’s blue eyes lost their confused, faraway look and focused on Dorothy.

  “Dor’thy, I need to take me a little walk—this setting and waiting is getting on my nerves. You stay there and read your book—I’ll not be long.”

  “Now, Birdie, that’s a right good idea. A little fresh air’ll make you feel better,” Dorothy agreed.

  “Fresh air …” Birdie’s eyes were far away again as she put
down the recliner’s footrest and planted her shoes on the floor. “Ay, law … fresh air.”

  Once more her hand reached for the Bible and brought it to her lap. From the corner of her eye, Dorothy watched, somewhere between amusement and concern, waiting for her friend to put the book back, as before, unopened. This time, however, Birdie opened the book and took from it a small folded square of paper. Without further comment, the old woman hobbled to the door, took up her walking stick, and went out.

  She oughtn’t to go off alone, tired as she looks. Closing the book with a snap, Dorothy pulled on her shoes.

  Watching from the door, she saw the old woman stand in the sunshine of the front yard and raise both arms. Something in the movement brought to mind the television special she had seen once all about the Pope. Even the hickory walking stick Birdie was holding reminded her of the crook-topped stick old John Paul had carried.

  Birdie stood motionless for a few moments. Then she turned toward the path that led into the woods and up the mountain.

  Dorothy had her hand on the doorknob and her mouth open to call after her friend to wait, that she would come with her, when behind her the cellphone she had left on the couch began to ring.

  All thoughts of Birdie disappeared and Dorothy hurried to grab up the phone, fumbling with the still-unfamiliar buttons.

  “Calven? … Oh, the sheriff’s office … Yes, this is Dorothy Franklin.… You found the white van? Was there any … I see, abandoned in the woods … in Yancey County? … Well, whose vehicle was it? … Stole down in Georgia … What about that sign? … Oh, I see what you mean … one of them magnet ones and they just stuck it on the side.… Tell me, wasn’t there nothing to say where they might be now? … No … no, I understand and I thank you for letting me know.… Yes … yes, I’ll do that. Thank you again.”

  The call ended; Dorothy heaved a sigh and stepped outside to see if Birdie might still be in sight but the little woman had disappeared. I could go after her … but I got a kind of feeling she likes her time alone. Besides, this news’ll keep.

  Returning to the sofa, Dorothy picked up the book but found she couldn’t concentrate.

  I’ll get me a glass of ice tea, she thought, starting for the kitchen. And then reckon I’ll go after—

  The rumble of a vehicle rattling the planks of the bridge across the branch broke in on her thoughts and she turned to see who it was. By the time she reached the door, a dark blue compact car had come to a stop at the edge of the yard and a heavyset woman in a long-skirted housedress was getting out. Dorothy opened the door and stepped onto the porch but the woman just nodded at her and continued on around to the passenger side.

  Dorothy squinted; this visitor looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite put a name to her or remember where she’d seen her. Then, as the silver-headed form of Aunt Belvy emerged from the car, she knew.

  The prophetess kept one hand on the car door and slowly and deliberately pulled back her head and shoulders till she stood straight as a young poplar tree. Her daughter-in-law Marvelda, Marbella … something like that waited without comment as the old woman, taller by a head, surveyed the surroundings. Aunt Belvy’s haughty hawk’s-beak nose lifted as she turned her face toward the path Birdie had taken and stared into the trees, evidently seeing deep, deep into the heart of the woods. Dorothy watched, fascinated, fancying for a moment a houndlike quiver and flare of the old woman’s nostrils.

  But now Aunt Belvy had motioned for the other’s arm and the two of them were making their careful way across the grass to the low porch. Dorothy stepped outside, holding the door open, smiling and nodding at the visitors to make up for the fact that she didn’t know how to address them.

  “Howdy there … you uns come right in. Miss Birdie’s just—”

  “Out walking about, ain’t that so?” The dark eyes in the hawk face bored into Dorothy as if daring her to contradict what was obviously a statement of fact.

  “I believe she just wanted a breath of air. She’ll be back directly. Now you uns come right in and get comfortable.”

  Aunt Belvy, supported by her daughter-in-law, paced solemnly into the house and allowed herself to be settled on the sofa, where she folded her hands, leaned back, and seemed to go to sleep. The daughter-in-law what was her name? Marcella? Marelda? gave the old woman a fond look before motioning Dorothy back out to the porch.

  “Is she all right?” Dorothy kept her voice low as she glanced back through the door at the still figure of Aunt Belvy.

  “Oh, Mamaw’s just fine. She does that time and again—calls it ‘gathering her powers.’ Does it afore church, mostly, or if she’s going to a healing. I couldn’t say if she’s praying or sleeping, but everwhat it is, when she opens her eyes, it’ll be Katy bar the door.”

  The daughter-in-law raised a finger as Dorothy started to speak. “Just don’t argue with her or treat her like she ain’t got good sense or, buddy, she’ll put you in your place right quick.”

  A rueful laugh accompanied a shake of the woman’s head. “I learned that the hard way, believe you me.”

  Dorothy looked toward the path, hoping to catch sight of Birdie—Birdie, who in spite of her frail old age was better suited to deal with these people than she, Dorothy, was. But there was no sign of her friend—only the quiet rustling of an afternoon breeze stirring in the treetops and the crimson flash of a red bird disappearing into the green depths.

  The gray-haired woman Marvella, that was it looked at her watch. “Well, I got to scoot back home and fix supper—Mamaw said she’d be here through the night to keep vigil. Told me not to come for her till after dinnertime tomorrow. She said that, for good or for ill, her work’d be done by then.”

  It took a few moments for Dorothy to find her voice. When she did, she called hurriedly after the retreating figure. “Marvella, now you wait a minute! Does Miss Birdie know about this? She didn’t say a word to me about it. And what do you mean, ‘keep vigil’? If you don’t care, I believe it’d be best for you to stay till Birdie gets back. It’ll not be long; I’m sure of it.”

  The daughter-in-law was halfway to her car, but she turned and gave Dorothy an unreadable look. “Ain’t no call for me to wait. Mamaw’s set on what she’s doing.”

  “But what is she doing?” Dorothy pleaded. “If she’s spending the night, don’t she need a toothbrush … a nightgown?”

  A half-smile crept across Marvella’s face. “No, she won’t need none of that. She’ll be setting up. Mamaw had a Seeing that she was going to be keeping vigil all the night long—doing battle for an immortal soul.”

  Marvella opened the car door and paused. The afternoon sun reflected off her glasses and danced across Dorothy’s face, making her blink and shade her eyes.

  “She’s worried near to death about your aunt.” Marvella’s voice was somber and measured. “The day after you uns come to our church, Mamaw had me to call on my prayer group to pray for Miss Birdie—said Birdie’s always been a quare somebody, though she has fought hard against her own nature. And then yesterday Mamaw had her Seeing—she says that on this very night Birdie will have to make her choice for once and for all, choose between God and the Devil, choose between Heaven and Hell.”

  Marvella ducked her head to check her watch again. “Will you look at the time! I got to get on home. My neighbor’s giving a Tupperware party after supper and I promised to come buy something. But don’t you worry—I’ll be back tomorrow. You take care now.”

  From Myths, Monsters, and Medicine: An Anecdotal Study of Pre-Removal Cherokee Beliefs by J. Wyatt Somerville, Southeastern Historical Press, 1957.

  Appendix H—Demonization

  Demonization occurs when a dominant religion (usually, but not invariably, monotheistic) labels the deity or deities of the subordinated belief system (usually, but not invariably, polytheistic) as demons or devils. The practice of demonization is most often linked to Christian missionaries, but demonization has been employed by other religions as well. (Cf. Exodus
34:13, “Ye shall destroy their altars, and break in pieces their pillars, and ye shall cut down their groves, and the graven images of their gods ye shall burn with fire.”)

  Demonizing the gods of an enemy serves the political purpose of justifying, even sanctifying, any actions against a subordinate group, be it enslavement, subjugation, internment, decimation, or genocide. See also, Appendix D—The Removal

  Chapter 50

  Among the Quiet People

  Monday, May 7

  (Birdie)

  Seems every time I climb it, this old road up to the burying ground gets steeper and longer. Was it only a week ago I come up here, rejoicing in the flowers and the birds and all? Today I might as well have on blinkers for all I can see is the hard path ahead nor do I hear aught but a rain crow, croaking out a warning. Law, how much has happened in so few days.

  The afternoon sun is right warm for the time of year, and when I get to the shade of the woods, it’s a relief to lean on my stick and rest. Would have been easier had I taken my truck and come by the river road, but that would have set Dorothy to asking questions I ain’t got no answers for. Best she think I’m just a crazy old woman who’s too fidgety to set still.

  Which is true enough, I am fidgety, but the fact of the matter is I need help. I see all the deeds and doings of the past coming back around, each with its heavy burden of unpaid debt. And there’s this sweet child Calven—in a sight of trouble, him and his mommy—and Dorothy begging me for help. What does that long-ago promise matter if I can do this one good thing? If I could just be sure of the power not turning on me, the way it did … But at my age, I can’t see that there is much more I can lose.

  Oh, I have turned it over and over in my mind till it made me think of the cream in a churn when the butter won’t come. I have tried and tried to see a way clear … but all that I can figure is that I need the wisdom and the powers of the Gifts … those same Gifts I turned my back on so long ago.