Wild Things

by Clay Carmichael

  “You’re welcome,” I told him. “And I thank you. Both of you.”

  “For what?”

  This time, I looked right at him when I spoke. “For keeping a sharp eye on things.”

  He snorted and looked down at his hands and blushed a little under all that dirt.

  “Would you like a story now?” I asked.

  The boy looked at the deer, then turned to me and smiled. “So happens we would.”

  While he ate both sandwiches, I told them the story of the Japanese boy who drew cats, or what I could remember. The wild boy ate, then whittled while he listened. He especially seemed to like the part where the priest tells the boy that one day he’ll be a great artist.

  I pointed at the wood in the boy’s hands and said, “You’re an artist like the boy in the story.”

  He snorted again, shook his head as if this was nonsense, his carvings nothing, but I thought he was pleased.

  I was heading for the end of the story, where the Japanese boy hides in the cabinet from the evil goblin rat, when all of a sudden the wild boy stopped whittling, turned toward Henry’s, and froze to listen. A few seconds later I heard Harlan tromping up the path and mumbling some dissatisfaction to himself.

  I’d never seen anything move so swiftly and silently as that boy and his deer. Calm and attentive one second, they rose, turned, and disappeared into the trees in the next three, all grace and speed, like spirits or smoke or birds on the wing. I heard a few leaves rustling, but only Harlan after that.

  And I hadn’t even asked the boy’s name or thought to warn him about the price on his head.

  The stranger stepped away from his car and spat.

  The cat regarded him from the porch, recognized him as the one who’d come the summer before, ahead of the girl. As before, the stranger turned in a circle, surveying the place, taking in everything as if it belonged to him by right. He sized up the chimney, the roof, the porch, even the tires on the man’s truck, estimating, measuring, comparing. Then he turned to the field and regarded the man’s makings with a sneer.

  The cat watched anxiously as the stranger came toward the porch. He caught sight of the cat, took a lurching step forward, and stomped on the ground. And the cat shot off the porch, across the field, into the trees, the stranger’s hateful laughter loud behind him.

  16

  I went home by way of Henry’s studio, thinking about the boy and torn if I should tell Henry I’d seen him or not. It seemed like my journal and I had brought trouble to him and Sister, and something told me he didn’t have a lot to fall back on. The more I thought about telling Henry, the more I worried he’d call Sheriff Bean. The sheriff would have to do his job. Hargrove and his cousin would lie like before to save their own skins, and it would be their word against the boy’s. I knew who would win that fight.

  But the more powerful picture that rose in my mind was Henry charging down that bank toward me on Thanksgiving Day and the way he’d stood in the line of fire. I knew he wouldn’t always stand with me on everything—I had some wild hairs sometimes. But remembering us in Curtis’s sights, I thought maybe he’d listen to my side and help me figure things out.

  The idea of trusting Henry felt strange, though, like weakness; or risky, like leaving open a door I’d always locked. I stepped into Henry’s workshop. He was welding a sculpture for Lillian’s show on New Year’s Eve, so wrapped up in it that he didn’t hear me come in. He bent intently over it, wearing his full costume—welding jacket, apron, and hood—and sparks poured from his welding torch like it was a magic wand.

  While I waited for him to notice me, I grabbed a pair of goggles off a nail and studied the new piece. Almost exactly my height and made out of shiny silver metal, it really caught and reflected the light. The bottom half was two pieces of pipe that looked like legs, like a person running full tilt, one leg straightish and forward, and the other bent at the knee behind. The upper part looked like a torso with arms flung open wide, and on top was an upturned face with coppery hair streaming out behind. Just looking at it lifted my spirits. I’d never seen Henry make anything this free or joyful before, and I was sad that he’d be sending it to New York.

  I thought of the assignment Ms. Avery had given me to do over the coming Christmas break. She’d handed me a new journal and asked me what I thought of Henry’s sculptures.

  “I enjoyed your report,” she said, “but you didn’t say if you liked his sculptures or not.”

  “They’re okay,” I told her.

  “But they don’t speak to you?” she said, like I was missing something, some silent and important communication.

  I was honest. “Not really,” I said.

  I liked Henry’s drawings well enough, especially the ones of his dead wife. I understood that a lot of time, thought, and energy went into his sculptures. Henry was a good workman. But no, the sculptures didn’t speak to me. That’s when Ms. Avery said that I was to study all the sculptures Henry was making for his show and find one piece that reached deep down inside me, tugged at my heart, or spoke my name. This was the one, I thought, admiring the life in it and beginning to understand what Ms. Avery meant about looking until I really saw.

  I stood there for almost an hour watching Henry weld and waiting for him to notice me so we could talk. I even called his name a couple of times, but his welder drowned me out, and he was wrapped up in his work. Our talk would have to wait. This time, I was ready for him, but he wasn’t ready for me.

  I left him to his work and took my unsettled mind around the side of the house to check the crawlspace for Mr. C. But as I did, I heard someone out front barking Henry’s name, and then Fred marching out on the front porch to snap at whoever was shouting in the drive.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “My business is with Henry,” a voice answered. A hateful voice I knew.

  “I handle Dr. Royster’s affairs,” Fred said.

  “It’s personal business,” the man said. “About the girl.”

  A chill rushed over me like ice-cold water. I froze in place. Ray.

  “I think you’d better go,” Fred said.

  “I just got here,” Ray insisted. “And if waiting’s involved, I’ll wait inside. You run tell Henry and the girl Ray Sikes is here.”

  “I know who you are.” Fred’s voice was sharp as a razor.

  “Is that a fact?” Ray snarled.

  “It is,” said Fred. “And I don’t like what I know. I think you best go, before I call the sheriff.”

  “Suit yourself,” Ray told him. “But I got something I think’ll interest them both.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You don’t know who you’re talking to. I raised that girl.”

  “Near as I can figure, that girl raised herself,” Fred said. “You don’t have any rights here. Not one. You’d best move on.”

  My heart swelled when he said that.

  “You’re mistaken about me having no rights,” Ray said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere till I speak to her or Henry.”

  I heard Henry’s workshop door slide open and saw him roll an empty welding tank outside. Fred heard it too, and shouted Henry’s name good and loud.

  “Everything all right?” Henry called.

  “You best come,” Fred called back.

  Henry walked down the drive on the far side of the house. “Fred,” he said, “this is the man I paid for information about Zoë.”

  “I thought as much,” Fred said.

  “You wouldn’t know squat without me,” Ray said nervously. “Way I see it, I’ve been real useful.”

  “Call Garland,” Henry told Fred.

  Fred went inside.

  “Well, now,” Ray said. “Just you and me again.”

  “Are you here for a reason?” Henry asked irritably. “I have work to do.”

  “Aren’t you special?” Ray sneered. “Mr. Big-Shot Artist.”

  I couldn’t sta
nd any more. I rushed headlong around the side of the house, breathing fire. “Don’t give him anything, Uncle Henry,” I shouted as I ran. “He’s a low-down dirty dog.”

  Henry lunged to grab me around the waist with one strong arm. He lifted me off the ground and held me tight.

  “Turn me loose,” I said, trying to wriggle free. “I’m not scared of that snake.”

  “That ain’t kind, little girl,” Ray scolded in his oily voice. “If it weren’t for Uncle Ray, you wouldn’t have this fine home. Why, I bet you never want for anything ever again. And who’ve you got to thank for that? Uncle Ray, that’s who, who asks so little for his trouble.”

  “What do you want now?” I demanded.

  “It’s cold out here,” Ray said, stamping his feet and looking toward the house. “I could use something warm to drink.”

  “In your dreams, Ray,” I said. “Go.”

  “That ain’t nice.”

  “I don’t have nice left for you, Ray. I gave you all the nice I had. You and Mama sucked it right outta me.”

  “Listen to you,” Ray spat. “Miss High and Mighty. You got yourself a fancy life thanks to me, and it’s turned you into an uppity, snot-nosed brat.”

  “That’s enough,” Henry said.

  A siren sounded, and the sheriff’s car sped up the drive, lights flashing. Fred came back out on the porch as the sheriff got out of his car, shaking his head. “Mrs. Bean says I should just move in here.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Henry told him. He set me down and loosened his hold a little.

  “Good thing I was in the neighborhood,” the sheriff said.

  “I’m glad you’re here, too, Sheriff,” Ray said. “I was thinking these three might be about to draw my blood. I only wanted to offer some things I have from Zoë’s mama. A whole boxful of the dear departed’s possessions. Things the child might want.”

  “You said you took everything to the dump,” I said hotly.

  “Well, I did. Most everything. But I held some back, some few precious things.”

  “What things?” I said. “Show what you got.”

  Ray looked at the sheriff, whose hand was resting on his gun holster, and pointed to his own front pocket. The sheriff nodded to say it was all right, and Ray drew out a square photograph and handed it to me.

  It was a black-and-white picture of a woman with a baby, but you could only see the back of her head and the baby’s forehead resting on her shoulder. I couldn’t tell if it was Mama and me or not.

  “There’s more where that came from,” Ray said.

  “You can’t see her face or the baby’s either,” I said. “Could be anybody.”

  “It’s her, all right,” said Ray.

  “So give what else you got and get on,” I told him.

  “Now, hold on, not so fast,” Ray said. “This is complicated. Might be these things have come to mean something to me. Maybe a lot and I’d be hard-pressed to part with them. Fact is, I’m pretty sure I can’t part with them. Leastways, not easy. They have a special place right here.” He rested his open palm on his chest like he was pledging allegiance.

  “How much this time?” Henry said.

  Ray looked pleased. “Well, now.”

  “Well, what?” Henry said. “How much?”

  “I hadn’t decided on a figure. I was leaving that to your generous nature.”

  “And if I pay,” Henry said, “this is the last time we’ll ever see you again? The last time, the sheriff, Fred, and Zoë as my witnesses? There will be no further contact? No attempt at contact? No surprise visits, no further boxes full of mementos and photographs, no further emotional blackmail?”

  “Those are hard words,” Ray said.

  Henry was as silent as stone.

  “They sound pretty accurate to me,” the sheriff put in.

  “The way I see it, I’m performing a family service,” Ray said. “It’s hard to know if that service would be required in future. Things happen, turn up. Why, on the news just last night, I saw how documents turned up saying a little girl’s dead mama had wanted her to live with somebody different, different from the blood relative she was living with, and how there’d been a settlement to compensate the disappointed party. A sizable settlement.”

  Ray fixed me with his ice-cold stare. My stomach turned. I felt every muscle in Henry’s body tighten, and his hold tightened on me.

  “What are you saying?” Henry said.

  “Speak clearly,” suggested the sheriff.

  “I’m not saying anything,” Ray told him. “Except that the future’s uncertain.”

  “Don’t pay him a dime, Uncle Henry,” I said. “Whatever he’s got, I don’t want it. I’m finished with it, with him, with her, the whole selfish lot.”

  Henry looked at me. “Honestly?” he said. “You’re certain?”

  Ray sensed he was losing a sale. “Ain’t nothing bad in the box. It’s pictures and things. Trinkets. Things women save. Things you might like.”

  “Things I’ve got no use for,” I said, throwing the photograph in the dirt.

  I wriggled free of Henry and walked straight inside, slamming the door behind me. I leaned back against it, breathed out.

  “Guess that’s that,” the sheriff said to Ray. “Guess you’ll be leaving straight away and I won’t be seeing you around here again. I’ll overlook that expired license plate and inspection sticker for the next fifteen minutes, about the time it’ll take you to get to the nearest county line.”

  Henry, Fred, and the sheriff kept silent after that. I peeked through the window. Ray looked from one stony face to the other. Then he went to the trunk of his car, shoved the key in the lock, opened the trunk, and took out a cardboard box. He carried the box five or six paces and set it on the ground.

  “Tell her Merry Christmas,” he spat, got in his car, and slithered down the drive.

  I let Ray’s box sit in the driveway all afternoon. Mr. C’mere went over and sniffed it, but he sneezed right off, which I took as a bad sign.

  I sat in the front room trying to turn my thoughts back to the boy and the deer, but that box kept claiming my attention, like it had a life of its own. One minute I thought sending it into outer space wouldn’t get it far enough away from me, but the next minute my curiosity would rise till I could barely stand to sit. The zzzsstt zzzsstt zzzsstt of Henry’s welder sounded out in the studio. Fred had gone to give Bessie her medicine and Harlan was helping the Padre, so I was alone.

  I started creeping myself out, worrying that the sheriff hadn’t followed Ray all the way to the county line. I worried that Ray might double back to kidnap me and hold me for ransom or claim custody of me with phony papers. Ray could still knock the joy right out of me, he and that box of Mama’s things, if they really were her things. Anything to do with Mama could still do that to me, come out of nowhere, push my buttons, even from the grave.

  Worst of all, it brought back that Saturday I was down at the library reading, away from her and Ray and all their carrying on. They’d been fighting all morning; then Ray stormed out of the house and she screamed after him, “I’m going to do it this time, you see if I don’t!” I hadn’t cared to spend all day listening to her snapping and whining about Ray and how hateful he was, so I headed to the library and stayed as late as I could. But when I got home an ambulance was wailing down the street, police cars were everywhere, and Ray was yelling and fuming that it was all my fault, like Mama was dead because of me.

  When Henry came in, I was remembering so hard I didn’t even hear him.

  “You all right?” he said, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. He was leaning against the doorjamb.

  I didn’t answer. He sat down next to me, put his feet on the coffee table, and waited. He followed my stare out the front window to the box.

  “I was having a good day. A really good day,” I said. “Now, I’m about as low as a body can be.”

  “Ray has that effect on people,” Henry said, like he knew exactly. “I was o
ut in the studio feeling the same way. Anything I can do?”

  I shook my head. “Ray’s coming brought everything back.”

  “Everything is a lot,” Henry said gently.

  “Yeah, and it bugs me that it bugs me, you know?”

  “I do.”

  I sighed big. We both stared some more at the box.

  “I hate it that it’s out there,” I said. “But I hate it more that another part of me wants to know what’s in it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Henry said, still staring at it. “But it’s infected with Ray and your mama’s craziness, with everything, right?”

  I looked at Henry. He knew.

  Just then Mr. C flew off the front porch and into the yard and jumped right on top of that box.

  Henry and I looked at him and then at each other. Henry took my hand. “C’mon,” he said.

  Turned out, wasn’t much in that box at all. Nothing but a bunch of old musty nightgowns and bathrobes, scarves, and junk jewelry. Not one single item I could for absolute certain identify as Mama’s.

  The scarecrow was Henry’s idea, but I latched onto it right away. Less than an hour later, he’d welded together a metal frame for a body with a round gear for a head. Like a life-size stick figure except that the arms stretched out straight in front from the shoulders. At the ends of the arms Henry welded two horseshoes—my idea—ends up, so the luck wouldn’t run out. They looked like two hands saying stop. A metal pole made a neck, spine, and lower body, which Henry stood in a stand he made from a hollow pipe welded to a round base.

  He wheeled the welded frame into the front yard, and I dressed it in all eight or nine of the nightgowns and robes, draping the filmy pink, purple, blue, and green material so the skirts and sleeves would flutter in the breeze. I hung the jewelry from the horseshoes for the crows to take for their nests, then wound the head part all around with the scarves, leaving the ends long to trail behind like hair.