The Day of Small Things

by Vicki Lane

  The old woman caught hold of Dorothy’s arm and stood looking up the hill. Only a few gravestones at the near edge could be seen; the main part of the graveyard was hidden from view. Belvy lifted her chin and waited.

  Like a hunting dog—I expect to see her nose go to wiggling any minute now. A tiny smile began to creep across Dorothy’s face but she hastily rearranged her expression as the bright eyes darted sideways.

  “There’s some says I have a nose for evil. You best take care, Dorothy Franklin, not to be a mocker.”

  Dorothy’s mouth fell open. “I … I didn’t—”

  “No, you didn’t mean nothing.” Belvy waved off Dorothy’s attempts to say more and started up the path along the slope. “Don’t say sorry; just arm me up this hill.”

  Dorothy, afraid now even to think, concentrated on helping Belvy up the trail without seeming to help her. The path was steep and uneven, with tree roots and rocks in plenty to trip on, but the prophetess set a brisk pace, skimming without hesitation over the rough path.

  As the main part of the cemetery came into sight, the old woman stopped and held up a silencing finger. A familiar voice was speaking.

  “… stayed clear of the Gifts and Powers these many years, Granny Beck. I knowed you wouldn’t have meant me to use them to do harm—but harm is what came of it back then. You know that. And you know that was why Luther made me promise …”

  Birdie’s words came and went on the little breeze that played around the hilltop. As they reached the edge of the graveyard, they could see her standing by a small white tablet and speaking, it appeared, to the ground.

  “… but this evil that has got the boy …” The little woman sagged against her tall stick as if exhausted and Dorothy made an involuntary move toward her, only to be stopped by the bony fingers gripping her arm.

  Birdie bent slightly. She seemed to be listening intently. Half a minute dragged by and then she nodded. “I love you too, Granny Beck. I thank you and I’ll do what you say.”

  Dorothy felt a jerk at her arm. Aunt Belvy was on the move again, coursing a zigzag path through the gravestones and calling out as she went.

  “The Lord watch over thee, Birdie Gentry. The Lord preserve you from evil and Satan’s snares. The Lord bless and keep you …”

  Dorothy hastened to keep pace with her companion’s steps.

  Without hurry, Birdie turned toward them and Dorothy saw that her face was calm, free of the emotion that had been so strong in her words of the past few minutes.

  “Thank you, Belvy, for coming. Dorothy, there’s news of Calven. The boy’s loose now but there’s danger coming after him and we got to be there to face it for him.”

  Dorothy and Belvy were within arm’s reach of Birdie, and Belvy, breathing hard, held out a shaking hand to her old friend. “Birdie honey, come away from this place. Just put your trust in the Lord—”

  Birdie took her hand. Dorothy watched, silent as the two old women stood, fingers entwined, staring at each other. Belvy’s gaunt face was drawn with anguish but Birdie’s shone with a newfound peace.

  “No, Belvy,” she said, gazing at her friend with a bemused affection, “my mind’s made up. You’ve done your best with your prayers and your scripture but I can’t wait no longer. For all these years I’ve kept faithful to the promise I made to Luther—even as my babes sickened and died, I just buried them and said, ‘Thy will be done.’ When they found Cletus, don’t you think I wanted to call down black doom on the one who killed my poor boy?”

  Birdie raised her stick high and Belvy started back as if expecting a blow.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Lilah Bel,” Birdie’s soft voice begged. “It warn’t none of my doing; I stayed my hand and let that matter work itself out. Even back when I was sick unto death, I knew where I could go to find help, but because of my promise, I let you work your Bible magic with your praying and anointing and laying-on of hands. And it pulled me through that time, I give you and Him the credit. But I believe that this thing what’s after Calven is an old evil that ain’t susceptible to your prayers. Do you remember me telling you, all them years agone, about the Raven Mockers?”

  Chapter 53

  Ronnie Winemiller’s Sweet Ride

  Monday, May 7

  (Calven)

  She’s a ’52 Chevy, son, in tip-top condition. Restored her myself.” Calven froze. He had been peeking through the bushes, trying to get a better look at the most beautiful truck he had ever seen. It was shaped like an old one—the kind he’d seen on those Andy Griffith reruns Dorothy was so crazy about—but it was a shiny red with a chrome bumper and hubcaps that glittered in the afternoon sun. It looks brand-new—like something that fell through a time warp.

  Calven stepped out from the bushes, first giving a cautious look up and down the road. Pook and them was supposed to be gone a long time but it don’t hurt to be careful.

  The road, a two-lane blacktop running through gently rolling fields and woods, was empty of traffic. Calven moved closer to the truck. “How’d you know I was there?”

  Still half-hidden by the hood and with his back to Calven, the man bent over the truck’s engine, one hand busy in its interior.

  “Saw your reflection in the air filter cover.” The man straightened, wiping his hands on the rag he was holding before pointing at the shiny flat cylinder sitting atop the engine. “Good as a mirror.”

  He held out a hand to Calven. “Ronnie Winemiller’s the name and this is my Sweet Ride. Whatcha think of her?”

  Accepting the offer of a lift had cost Calven a brief struggle—Dorothy’s dire injunctions against riding in cars with strangers had warred against the urgent need to get away and warn Heather. He had tried again to use the cellphone and had managed to get Dorothy’s answering machine at home. But he hadn’t gotten any farther than “Dor’thy, it’s me, Calven, and I’m heading—” when the battery had quit, evidently for good.

  Ronnie Winemiller had watched with a curious expression as Calven had jabbed at the button over and over and finally flung the useless thing into the bushes.

  “You trying to get in touch with your people?’ he had asked, running his fingers through his longish gray-blond hair before turning to close the hood of the red pickup.

  “Yeah, but the battery’s give out.” Calven looked hopefully at Ronnie’s belt. “You got a cell I could use maybe? It’s kind of an emergency.”

  “One of them portable phones? Not me.” Ronnie scratched his head. “I could take you to a phone booth—if we could find one. Or,” he had shrugged and a smile spread across his face, “where do you live? I’m just joy-riding, letting Sweet Ride have a little exercise. How about I take you home? Is it far from here?”

  If I tell him the truth, he may not believe me. Or he’ll want to get the law involved and they might not believe me and there’ll be time wasted. The quicker I get to Heather and get her someplace safe, the better. Then we can call the cops. And if Mama gets arrested …

  Calven became aware that Winemiller was staring at him, waiting for an answer to his question.

  “Far from here?” Calven shrugged. “Well, the thing is I don’t know exactly where here is.”

  The man’s eyebrows lifted but he didn’t say anything. Encouraged to invention, Calven began to improvise.

  “I know it sounds kinda sketchy but what happened is, some high school fellers brought me out here blindfolded and left me in the woods—kind of a club initiation, you know. And, buddy, I am flat lost. Like I said, I ain’t got no idea where here is. I live over near Ransom, but this”—he waved one hand—“this don’t look like nowhere in Marshall County that I know of.”

  Ronnie Winemiller shook his head. “You kids—always up to some foolishness or other. Well, son, your buddies brought you all the way to Yancey County. But that doesn’t matter—it’s a pretty drive over to Ransom and me and Sweet Ride’ll be happy to take you there. Get in.”

  At least he ain’t tried any funny stuff. I think it’s
gonna be all right, and if I get him to take me right to Heather’s, Dor’thy don’t have to know a thing about it.

  “This is an awful nice truck, Mr. Winemiller—all this red leather and stuff. It’s really sweet.”

  The man behind the wheel smiled like a proud father. “Did it all myself, right down to the upholstery. I’m pretty handy with all kinds of things—used to work for Gulfstream Aerospace, fitting cabinets into private jets. Met lots of famous people too, and the things they wanted on those jets, you would not believe. Anyhow, I decided that when I retired, I’d have me a truck, and fix it every bit as nice as I fixed those jets.”

  He reached over to open the polished wooden door of the glove compartment, revealing an interior of specialized pigeonholes with a notepad and pen on a silver chain affixed to the door. “Pretty sharp, huh? And I’m not done yet. There’s a few more nifty ideas I’m working on. But I try to take a day off now and then and just go ride around.”

  Ronnie Winemiller clicked the door shut and brushed a few invisible flecks off the glossy wood.

  “Got an early start today. Wasn’t sure which way I’d go but I had breakfast this morning at a little café over near that new place, that Wildcat Reach. Got to talking with a real nice guy sitting at the counter next to me—retired fellow like me, named Jake Aaron—he suggested I travel up this way—even drew me a map so I wouldn’t miss any of the sights.”

  “… and the four-speed tran. Of course, a lot of guys, they’d go the chop and channel route—turn her into a street rod, but I just wanted …”

  Calven’s eyelids drifted shut with the warmth of the sun slanting through his window, the hypnotic hum of the motor, and the soothing rise and fall of Ronnie Winemiller’s voice describing the transformation of an abandoned and rusting old hulk into the sleek red beauty that was Sweet Ride. About an hour, that’s how long he said it would take to get to Ransom … Pook and them likely won’t even be back to the house to get me by then. If things go right, I’ll be waiting for Heather when the bus comes. And then I can …

  A big hand was on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake. “We’re at the turnoff to Ransom—you got to wake up and tell me which way to go, son.”

  Calven blinked his eyes. Three yellow school buses were lumbering toward them, and farther down the road he could see another stopped, flag out and disgorging two small children.

  Shitfire! Must of took a good bit longer than an hour. But still, we got to be ahead of Pook.

  “Keep on straight, past the high school. I’ll show you where to turn. And, could you hurry?”

  Hurry wasn’t even remotely possible. A steady stream of buses, followed by innumerable cars and trucks, was pouring out of the high school entrance. Sweet Ride was stopped by the traffic light and forced to wait as bus after bus chugged down the drive and pulled out onto the main road. Quivering with impatience, Calven watched and silently implored the buses to turn left. Every bus that made a right turn was just one more obstacle between him and Heather.

  Finally, the light turned green. As they poked along the main road behind four buses and six cars, Ronnie Winemiller glanced over at him. “If she was here, my grandma would say you’re acting like a wiggle-worm. You got a hot date or something?”

  Calven ignored the lame adult humor and kept his face impassive. “There’s this girl I need to talk to real bad before she goes home. She’s probably on Bus 12 up there—the second one. If you just follow along where it goes, that’s where I’m going.”

  “Follow that bus, eh?” Ronnie Winemiller chuckled. “Okie-dokie, me and Sweet Ride are on the case!”

  After what seemed a never-ending journey of starts and stops, creeping along behind first four, then three, then two slow yellow buses, they were crossing the bridge and heading up Bear Tree Creek, directly behind Bus 12. As the bus began to empty, letting off passengers at various driveways, Calven tried to spot Heather. She wasn’t in their accustomed spot—the left-hand window seat toward the back—and they weren’t close enough for him to pick her out among the handful of students still aboard.

  But at last he could see the familiar clump of mailboxes that was their stop just ahead.

  “Right up there is where I get out, Mr. Winemiller.” Calven gripped the door handle, ready to leap out as soon as the pickup stopped. “I sure do appreciate you bringing me all this way—”

  The bus didn’t even hesitate at the mailboxes but continued on up the road and around the next bend.

  “Here?” The truck slowed and Winemiller turned a puzzled face to him. “I thought you said where the bus stopped—”

  But Calven was out the door. “She must of stayed home today. I got to get on up to her house quick. Thanks for the ride!”

  He slammed the door and waved, then turned to run up the black-topped drive that led to Heather’s house. Reckon he thinks I ain’t got much manners. Or I’m crazy. But he was in time—that was what mattered. He could warn Heather and get the woman who stayed with her to take them all to Dorothy’s house. Then …

  Then what? Call the cops and tell them about Pook and what he does … only, then Mama’ll get arrested too. He slowed, considering the situation. But Mama’s the one told Pook about Heather … and she don’t care …

  A thought hit Calven … a doubt … a sudden feeling that he was maybe in over his head. He looked back down to the hard road but the red truck had vanished.

  He sure got gone awful quick. Seems like … maybe I should of told him …

  With a little sigh, Calven turned and started up the road, ignoring the warning bells sounding in his mind.

  Newspaper article with attached note

  ONE SWEET RIDE—1952 STYLE

  “She’s been my full-time job ever since I retired. But she was my dream for a whole lot longer than that. And every time I think I’m about done with her, I keep finding one more thing to tweak. The next project is to fit out the glove compartment with some fancy pigeonhole storage. What it is, I reckon, I don’t want to get done. I’m having too much fun.”

  Amiable Ronnie Winemiller runs a chamois cloth over the already spotless hood of “Sweet Ride,” his restored 1952 Chevrolet pickup truck, and he describes how he found the truck at an auction in Illinois, towed it home, and began the laborious job of restoring this classic piece of Americana.

  “I kept the original 216-cubic-inch engine with Babbitt bearings—it was in good shape. The body had some rust and I sandblasted it and had it painted at a body shop. Getting the running boards loose was the biggest hassle—that and replacing the floor in the cab. It had rusted through and someone had fixed it with a combination of tar and linoleum.”

  Winemiller shakes his head in quiet amusement and opens the hood to reveal the (cont. page 23)

  This is the article I told you about that they did on your dad right before he passed away. I hate it that he never got to finish that project he was talking about. The fancy wood he ordered is still here if you have a use for it.

  Chapter 54

  The Warriors

  Monday, May 7

  (Birdie)

  Dorothy looks like a crazy woman, eyes all bugged out and hair straggling down as she comes running through the graveyard to the bench where me and Belvy are talking over what to do. I had seen her slip her cellphone from her pocket, but I already knowed who it was and what she would say. Somehow I am outside of time just now.

  “Calven’s come back!” she hollers.

  Belvy and I swap raised-eyebrow looks. We may be old and we may have our different ways, but we both know that this battle we have been called to ain’t over that easy. “Where’s he at, Dor’thy honey?” I ask and I see her lips tighten up. She stands there before me and Belvy, trying to catch her breath so’s she can say the rest of what I already fear.

  Dorothy pushes the cellphone back in her pants pocket and takes a deep breath. “He’s somewheres up the mountain looking for that little girl he thinks so much of—that Heather.”

  As the wor
ds leave her mouth, I feel the cold breath of a Raven Mocker stirring the air and somewhere in the back of my mind I hear the echoing of his ugly laughter.

  “Who were you talking to just now, Dor’thy?” I ask and she busts into tears.

  “It was that woman—Karen something—the one from Asheville who stays with Heather when her folks is away on business.”

  Dorothy starts in to jabbering a mile a minute. “She said it was not an hour ago, Calven come pounding on the door in a great hurry to see Heather. Karen said that Heather laid out of school today and that she took her camera up the mountaintop to get pictures of flowers and toadstools and such for some nature project she had to do. Heather told Karen she’d be up there till near dark, as she hoped to get a good picture of a sunset. So Karen told Calven all this and he lit out up the road.”

  Dorothy is looking back and forth from Belvy to me. Belvy has that stern look she gets when she’s about to have a Seeing and I reckon my face is full of grim death and thunder and I can tell Dorothy can’t make pea-turkey of none of this.

  Then she finishes up and it is as bad as I thought.

  “The reason this Karen called was to tell me that Calven’s mama and her friends had drove up just now looking for him and Karen told them he was up the mountain with Heather.

  “She said she invited them in but they said no, they’d ride on up the road and find him. So they went on up that way and then Karen got to thinking that Heather and Calven might decide to come down by way of my house and she wanted to let him know his mama was looking for him.”

  Oh, Lord, I am afraid when I hear these words. I turn to Belvy and she still has the Seeing look on her. I wait a minute and then she nods at me.

  “We’ll go together, Birdie.”

  “Where are you aiming to go, Birdie?” Dorothy stares at me like I have lost my mind. Belvy is already getting up and heading for the car.

  “Birdie Gentry!” Dorothy cries out. “You can’t—I asked you for help but I didn’t mean for you to—these fellers are rough men—criminals what ought to be in jail—they like to killed that jogger—”