by Chris Fabry
“We’re looking for Mrs. Leena Hancock,” the white officer said.
“She ain’t here, sir,” Dickie said.
“Could you tell us where she is?” the black officer said.
Dickie’s eyes danced between both of them. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
“I’m sorry, son,” the white officer said. “We need to talk with your mother.” He walked up the steps behind us and knocked on the door.
“I told you, she ain’t here,” Dickie said over his shoulder. Then to the black officer he said, “Don’t you believe me?”
When no one answered the door, the two officers retreated to their car. Dickie stood and followed them. “If this is about my dad, you can tell me.”
The men didn’t speak. They just got in their car and drove to the dead end and turned around. Before they returned, Dickie shouted, “Come on, Matt.”
He jumped on his bike and I followed. I’d never seen him ride so fast. His legs pumped and his shirt flapped in the wind and he left me so far behind I could barely see the turns he made through town.
I finally caught up with him on the dirt alley that led past the volunteer fire department. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
“I need to go to the warehouse. That’s where they’re headed.”
“How do you know?”
He slowed and wiped his face with his sleeve. “I just got to be there. You don’t have to come.”
He only slowed again when he crossed the main street in town and rode past the post office, the flag flying high and proud. We crossed the train tracks and wound through an industrial area, where there were big trucks and a long warehouse.
“There they go!” Dickie said, pointing at the parking lot.
In the distance I saw the men walking toward the building in lockstep. Dickie reached the warehouse entrance first and let his bike fall near the front door. I coasted up and stopped, wishing Jesse were with us. She would know what to do.
When Dickie opened the front door, I heard wailing. I’ve never been able to get the pain of that voice out of my mind. It reached to the bone. The door closed and muffled the sound, but I could still hear it through the glass.
A man in a blue work shirt with the name Williams on it walked up beside me. “What’s going on?”
“Two Army guys just went inside looking for Mrs. Hancock,” I said.
The man muttered a curse. When the door opened, the two men came out on either side of Dickie’s mother, holding her up. Dickie followed them to their car. The man beside me took off his hat as they passed and put it over his heart. When Dickie walked by, the man said, “I’m sorry about your dad, son.”
Dickie looked up in a daze. “Thank you.” Then he turned to me. “Could you take care of my bike?”
One of the officers came back and put the bike in the trunk of Dickie’s mother’s car and they all drove away.
It was one of the longest bike rides I ever took alone. I rode to Jesse’s place and found her in the backyard with Daisy and explained what happened.
Jesse shook her head. “It don’t make sense, does it, PB? A good kid like Dickie losing his daddy?”
I had been to funerals for older people, but never for a friend’s father. Dickie had told me stories of his dad and what he was like. He was not an easy man to live with, to hear Dickie tell it. He expected a lot, expected chores to be done correctly. But Dickie always spoke admiringly about him, as if he knew he was hard for a reason.
“I used to think my dad was mean,” Dickie said one day after the funeral. “But that’s just how he was brought up. And he wanted me to learn.”
Several people from the military got up to talk about Dickie’s father, telling of things he had done in Vietnam and how he had saved lives. None of it made us feel any better. There was a closed casket with an eight-by-ten picture on top and flowers all over the church and people crying.
A full military team with rifles and a twenty-one-gun salute met us at the cemetery. Mr. Hancock could have been buried at Arlington in Virginia, but Dickie said his mother wanted him in Dogwood, where she could visit him.
Jesse didn’t come to the church, but it wasn’t because she didn’t care. She had no place to take Daisy Grace and no nice clothes. I sat with my mother and father and didn’t cry, but when we got to the cemetery, I saw Jesse in the shade of an oak tree with her little sister by her clutching a handful of daisies. I couldn’t hold back the tears then or when they handed the folded flag to Dickie’s mother.
AUGUST 1972
Jesse said we should leave Dickie alone for a while, but I thought that was cruel—that he needed friends. So the next day I went to Blake’s and bought candy and soda and took it to his house. It was overcast and he was in the garage looking through an old trunk of his father’s stuff, pulling out letters and pictures.
“Funny how a life winds up just stuff in a box,” Dickie said. He wasn’t crying or anything but he wasn’t himself.
“Your dad was more than his stuff,” I said. “More than those medals the Army gave him.”
“Maybe.” He found a UFO magazine and flipped through it. “Let’s go do something else.”
We rode our bikes to my house and climbed the hill. The gray sky was perfect for looking for UFOs. It was hot, and everyone knows UFOs hover when it’s hot and Bigfoot comes out.
Dickie and I walked under low-hanging clouds on the hill as if this were the exact spot aliens would congregate. The fire siren sounded in the valley and Ford trucks raced down the dirt road, sending up a plume of dust. Dickie cursed as a thin line of smoke rose from the west end of town.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“I might have left the stove on. My mama said to make sure I turned it off, but now I can’t remember. I better go check.”
I thought about going with him, but I was sure his house was fine, and Jesse’s place was just over the hill. She and I were in full preparation mode, trying to come up with a way to care for Daisy Grace after school started, and we could use the time to plan.
“I’ll see you later,” I said, watching as he ran down the hill.
I took the back route through the property that connected with my grandmother’s land. It was a tangled path, and other than fences, there was no clear direction that would get you to the road. My father knew the trails as well as anyone, and I usually followed him when we came here—but we hadn’t taken any long walks over the summer.
I remembered a briar patch and skirted that, making my way deeper into the woods. Winded, I leaned against a dead tree and realized I was lost. If I went the right direction, I could retreat to our house or reach the road, but I could also go in the opposite direction and walk for miles. I looked for the sun, but the clouds were thick. My breath came in short bursts and I noticed a high-pitched whine that seemed to get louder as I walked to the other side of the dead tree. I froze, staring at the biggest hornets’ nest I had ever seen. It was huge at the top and tapered to a point at the end.
Like a line drive off the bat of some kid too big for Little League, a hornet flew straight at me and stuck its stinger between my eyes. I yelped and if my camera hadn’t come with a nylon strap, I would have left it there. I’ve thought many times how the day would have turned out differently if I had dropped that camera.
I turned and flew down the hill, which, I learned, was not faster than a hornet can fly. I swatted wildly to fend them off, running from the path into virgin territory. My brother had told me years earlier about the Native Americans who had found this area rich for hunting—and he had the arrowheads to prove it.
Two stings on the neck later, I fell and rolled down the hill, scratching my face and arms and coming to rest on a creek bank. I didn’t see bones protruding, so I brushed myself off and hurried past the trickling water.
Something moved in the underbrush and I thought of all the menacing animals—copperheads and bears—not to mention the unexplainable. My camera dangled in front of me and I cradled it,
thinking my flash might fend off a threat, like my mother said Jimmy Stewart did in Rear Window. When I heard a car pass a hundred yards away and smelled the dust from the road, it was the happiest moment of my hiking life.
I stepped onto the rutted road as welts rose on my arms from the stings. But I was alive. I had survived the onslaught of the biggest hornets’ nest in history, and I couldn’t wait to tell my friends.
I exited the woods about a half mile from Jesse’s house, so I headed that way, scratching and trying to pull stingers from my forehead and neck, which made the pain worse. Clouds roiled, releasing the first spitting of rain.
There were two entrances to the Blackwood farm. One gate accessed the lower fields and led to the barn. The upper entrance led straight to the brick house on the hill, and this was what I was passing when I saw someone walking through the field by the house. I stepped toward the gate, next to the mailbox, and stood on the berm of the road.
The Blackwood driveway was empty. An aged Massey Ferguson tractor sat by the barn along with equipment for cutting, tilling, and raking. I glanced at the field and realized it wasn’t one person but two, one leading the other.
Raindrops kissed the earth in big, splotchy drops and I ducked through the fence, ignoring the No Trespassing signs. In spite of all the stories of Blackwood, I figured someone in that house would have pity on me and rescue me from the oncoming flood.
I ran waving up the graveled drive. Then I noticed the second person had long, blonde hair, and before the rain intensified, I recognized Jesse being pulled by Gentry Blackwood.
I ran for the house, my feet crunching gravel, and put my camera under my shirt to protect it from the rain. My biggest concern now was Jesse. Gentry dragged her through the back door just as I came to the house, and lightning struck on the hill behind me with thunder crashing instantly. I ducked under the eave of the house to get dry and heard screaming inside. I couldn’t imagine what was happening—and then I could. And the prospect made me sick.
What should I do? If I tried to stop him, Gentry would pummel me. I couldn’t just stand there.
But I did.
I listened to Jesse scream and closed my eyes and wished I were somewhere else. I wished I’d never come to Dogwood.
I wiped the rain and sweat from my face and noticed a paint-blotched stepladder on the ground. I put it under a window and climbed. I was near the top when I got my head over the ledge and peered into the room. There was a bed directly under the window. Gentry struggled to hold Jesse down. I took one more rung of the ladder and it shifted, but I held on to the ledge.
Gentry had ripped Jesse’s shirt and her bra was exposed—I didn’t even know she wore one. He grabbed at her shorts. I noticed marks of some sort on Jesse’s stomach. Jesse kicked and clawed and screamed, squirming back on the bed, but Gentry was stronger. He pinned her legs with his body and held her arms, yelling for her to lie still.
There are moments in life when the world slows or stops altogether, and I swear if I had turned around right then, I would have been able to count the billions of raindrops one by one. I smelled the fresh ozone and water and dirt, heaven and earth mixing together, and wished I were bigger and stronger and had more courage.
Unable to think of anything else to do, I lifted my camera and held it up to the window. I clicked the shutter and the flash blazed. The Polaroid whirred as the photo spat from it. I grabbed the picture and looked into the room and met the eyes of Jesse’s attacker.
Gentry threw Jesse’s legs away and gritted his teeth. “I’m going to kill you!”
He ran to the bedroom door, but I scrambled off the ladder and shoved the picture in my pocket. I sprinted past the front door, hoping Gentry would come out the back. When I reached the end of the house, a door slammed in the back and I had my chance. I raced for the barn.
The rain was coming in a torrent and lightning flashed, thunder cracking. I knew if Gentry caught me, my life was over. I made it to the barn and looked through the uneven boards at the downpour and the fog that hung between.
I climbed into a loft over the feeding trough and hid behind some hay bales in the back. Water blew through the cracks between the aged lumber, and mud daubers buzzed overhead. I didn’t want another hornet sting, but I promised myself if I got stung a thousand times, I wouldn’t make a sound.
The rain on the barn’s tin roof was deafening. My breathing settled. A month earlier I wouldn’t have been able to climb and move that quickly. I couldn’t even climb up on the edge of the road without help. Now I was running the hills and falling into creeks and getting stung with the best of them.
Grabbing the photo from my pocket, I pulled the back off, revealing the picture. You had to wait the right amount of time to let the photo finish, but I could only guess. The color was off—it was a greenish blue and the flash in the window had made the image ultrabright, but I clearly saw Jesse on the bed and Gentry over her. I had evidence. I knew that picture was important and that I had to get it into the hands of the right person before the wrong person got it.
Just then the wrong person walked into the barn. “Plumley! I know you’re in here!”
There were probably a thousand hiding places in the barn. The question was, could I remain still enough to keep him from noticing me until Jesse got away? The noise subsided a little, in the usual ebb and flow of a mountain rain, and I saw someone running across the field. It was Jesse, her hair wet and clinging. She held her ripped shirt in front of her and I whispered, “Run, Jesse.”
The cows lowed underneath me and the ladder sagged under Gentry’s weight. I sat still, my heart picking up speed.
“I swear I’ll kill you, Plumley.”
I didn’t doubt him. When I heard the ladder creak again, I prepared for a pitchfork in the heart. This was how I would die. Gentry would kill me and bury me in a shallow grave, and my parents would never find me. Water and sweat trickled into my eyes. I wanted to wipe it away but was too scared to move, too scared to breathe.
The rain slowed to a pitter-pat on the roof, and a shaft of sunlight beamed through the cracks in the wall. I glanced through the slat nearest me and saw Gentry running toward his house, yelling and crisscrossing the soggy path.
I stuffed the picture in my pocket and ran for the ladder, then the road. With each three or four steps I looked back. I didn’t stop at Jesse’s house but galloped on, drawn to something more important. Someone I had to see.
I let my bike fall at the front steps of the church and took them two at a time to the front door. It was locked. My father’s car was in the parking lot, so I was sure he was here. I checked the back entrance and found it unlocked, then ran up the right side of the sanctuary past the organ. The office was there and had access to the sanctuary, the baptistery, and the downstairs Sunday school rooms and basement. You could basically get anywhere in the church from there. The only downside was there were no windows in the room.
I burst through the door and my father looked up from his desk. He had the phone to his ear and his mouth was agape. An open mouth and slack jaw were signs of unintelligence, he always told me, but there he was. The bookshelves behind him were made of the same pine that fashioned the church walls. They were filled with commentaries and biographies. He had several versions of the Bible, his favorite being the New American Standard, but he rarely used it anymore because Old Man Blackwood said the King James was the only inspired version.
“He just got here,” my father said. “All right, I’ll call and let you know.”
He put the phone down and I broke into a sweeping, breathless explanation of what had happened. It was clearly too much for him because he held up a hand.
“Matt, slow down. Do you mind telling me why Basil Blackwood and his son were at our house just now asking where you were?”
“I know exactly why they were there. Let me show you.”
Before I could pull out the photo, he ducked into the little bathroom next to the baptistery and got a towel. “Dry you
rself, you’re dripping all over.” He closed his Bible. “Your mother is beside herself. Did you go onto the Blackwood property?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ve told you we need to respect other people’s property. That place is filled with No Trespassing signs. What would possess you to go there?”
I pulled the towel around me to stanch the dripping, my clothes still wet from the rain and sweat. I had been proud of how fast I had ridden to the church—and that I hadn’t stopped to say anything to my mother. I just took the camera from around my neck and put it in the shed and rode. I knew this was something men had to solve.
I told my father about going alone into the woods. A dipped head meant this was forbidden.
“I thought I remembered the way, but I got turned around and then there was this hornets’ nest . . .” The more I revealed, the worse it became and I decided to forgo the part about falling and rolling and the downpour.
He cut me off. “You could have been snakebit. Struck by lightning. And no one would have known.”
“I’m sorry. But listen.” I made going onto the Blackwood property sound responsible. My father’s face softened.
“I didn’t mean to trespass, but I wanted to get out of the rain and lightning. I wanted somebody to call and have you or Mom come get me.”
“You shouldn’t have been up there with that storm brewing.”
“Gentry was holding Jesse by the arm and dragging her through the field. I waved but they didn’t see me. And then I realized she was trying to get away. He got her into his house.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran under the eave. Jesse was screaming and Gentry was yelling for her to be quiet.”
I paused there. Things of a sexual nature had been forbidden territory between us, though I had heard my parents discuss having “the talk” with me and that my father needed to do it. I had heard and seen enough on the bus to junior high to curl my mother’s hair, but still nothing from him.
