by David DeVowe
MaryAnne lifted one eyebrow at me. “Okay,” she said.
“Follow me!” I got down on my belly. “Now be real quiet,” I whispered.
We crawled like thieves across the front room to the opposite wall, making sure the spy didn’t see us. Then we wriggled on our bellies behind the davenport toward the open crack in the door to Mr. DuPree’s desk room. I motioned MaryAnne to stop, holding my finger over my lips. Mr. DuPree was saying something.
“Not yet,” Mr. DuPree said.
Nobody replied. It sounded like he was talking on his telephone.
“Not yet, I’m telling you. We don’t have the motive nailed down,” he said to someone on the other end of the phone.
MaryAnne whispered, “What is it?”
I shushed her with a wave of my hand.
“If we move now, it won’t stand in court. We’re missing some piece of evidence that ties Hawthorne’s wife to Dietrich Stueck.” Mr. DuPree was quiet again. Then he continued. “I know it was nearly a year ago. I’m just telling you, without it, we have nothing on Hawthorne or Malvern.” There was a pause again. “Yes, I understand. Give me two more weeks. Just two more weeks.” He paused. “Thank you, Sheriff Downing. Yes, good-bye.”
I heard Mr. DuPree hang the receiver on the phone, then I heard his chair push away from the desk. I scrambled backwards on my elbows; MaryAnne scooted behind me. We made it behind the davenport in the nick of time. My heart pounded against the floor.
Mr. DuPree walked through the front room to the kitchen. I whispered to MaryAnne, “That was close. Did you hear what he was saying?”
“I little. But not all of it,” she said.
I filled MaryAnne in. “He was talking to the sheriff. Something about needing evidence that Mrs. Hawthorne had something to do with Dietrich.”
“That’s strange,” said MaryAnne.
“Yeah, I know. Let’s get out of here. I don’t think your dad would be too happy finding us like this.”
We crawled out from behind the davenport, then quietly made our way out the front door. Oscar came round the house to us. He must have found my bike. MaryAnne scratched his ears. Then we instinctively started down the road in case her dad was looking for us. “How do you live with all the mystery in your house?” I asked.
“I guess I didn’t know it was mystery before. I just thought my daddy was working, doing boring paperwork. It wasn’t until I met you that it was a mystery.” MaryAnne spoke with a tinge of regret in her voice.
“Now we’re right in the middle of it,” I said. “You aren’t blaming me, are you?”
“No, I’m not blaming you. It’s just that things are so different now,” she said softly.
“Tell me about it!” I said. “This was a quiet town with no big problems before you moved to Stoney Creek. I think you would have liked it.”
“No big problems that you knew about,” MaryAnne corrected.
“What do you mean?”
“No big problems that you knew about. When we moved here there were already big problems at Stoney Creek, you just didn’t know about them yet,” she concluded.
“I guess you’re right,” I admitted. “But now we’re in it together.” We stopped to pick a wild plum off the volunteer tree by the road. Dad calls them volunteers ‘cause nobody planted ‘em there. I picked one and tossed it to Oscar. He caught it midair, as always, chewed it for a moment, then dropped it on the ground.
I reached high for the darkest purple plum then handed it to MaryAnne. “Still friends?” I said.
“Still friends.”
14
Problem at the Parade
The Independence Day Parade of 1924 promised to be a lot like the others—before last year. A buzz of energy filled the air. The Fourth of July being on Friday made for a long weekend, so folks were making plans. Dad would bring all of us to Grandma and Grandpa’s in Maple Hill on Saturday to spend the night. Ricky and I liked going there, even though it was a couple bumpy hours by wagon. We liked it ‘cause Grandma made special things to eat. Most times there was a meal on the stove and cookies in the jar.
MaryAnne told me they weren’t going anywhere. She said her relatives were in Lower Michigan and they didn’t know anyone outside of Stoney Creek. Lower Michigan was way more than a hundred miles away. Dad said Chicago was closer. I couldn’t help feeling bad for her.
MaryAnne told me, “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m used to it.”
I didn’t believe her. We had been friends long enough. And I had seen plenty of her tears. I knew she missed family. One time in front of the Co-op she asked me, “What’s it like having a brother?”
I had just sent Ricky home with Mama’s things. MaryAnne and I sat down on the steps. “Oh, it’s fine,” I said.
She pressed for more. “What I mean is, what’s it like having another boy in your house, not just parents? Is he kind of special to you?”
“Special?” I had never thought of Ricky like that.
MaryAnne continued, “Yeah! He’s not just another kid at school, or a friend down the street. I wonder sometimes what that would be like. What if I had a sister—someone I could do things with, tell stories to. Maybe just laugh.” MaryAnne propped her chin in her hands and her elbows on her knees. “She would be something special,” she said, gazing across the street.
“I never thought of it that way,” I admitted. “Ricky is kinda irritating most of the time. He brings dead things into our room and leaves them there. One time I found a toad inside my bed—after it started stinkin’. And!” I wanted to emphasize my last point, “Ricky talks more than any kid I know!”
MaryAnne tilted her arms over to look at me from the corner of her eye. She gave an endearing grin as if to say that she liked all the talking Ricky did.
It was clear MaryAnne didn’t understand me. “I remember before Ricky was born. It was just me and Dad and Mama. I had Mama all to myself. I liked it that way. Then one day Ricky showed up; the house got loud. I remember feeling like Mama didn’t have time for me anymore. And before long I was sharing my bedroom.” I paused for emphasis. “MaryAnne, you have it pretty good. Do you see what I mean?”
MaryAnne’s chin didn’t leave her hands. “He’s an image-bearer too, ya know.”
“Image-bearer? What do you mean—you call Buffalo that, and Ricky the same name?”
“Yeah. They’re both image-bearers,” she said.
“So what is this—something you made up?” I was weary of MaryAnne’s mysterious sayings.
“No. I didn’t make it up,” she said. “Daddy read to us that we are all created in God’s image. Boys and girls, every person. Daddy said that means we are all bearers of God’s image.” MaryAnne took her chin out of her hands after Oscar licked her face. She sat up straight and looked at me. “So if Alice bears God’s image, then that would make her an image-bearer, and Ricky, too.”
I wasn’t buying it. “I’ve seen pictures of God and I don’t think Buffalo Alice looks anything like him.”
“I don’t think that’s what it means, being made in God’s image,” MaryAnne said.
I sat quietly for a time. It’s the best thing when a girl doesn’t make sense.
MaryAnne was first to break the peace. “You’re the one that has it pretty good, Shoesth. I would think it very special to have a little brother like Ricky.”
There was sadness in her voice. That’s why I didn’t believe it when she said she wasn’t bothered that folks were leaving town to visit family.
It was the day before the Fourth. Mama was busy making her best pie for the church bake sale. The Ladies Aid was selling pies again. This year it was going to be an auction. The highest bidder would win the pie, and maybe the eye of the lady who baked it. Mama said she was simply helping out the church. Dad took no chances. He assured Mama that he had set enough aside to be Mama’s highest bidder. She liked that.
Mr. Kingman got a bunch of us kids to help pick up junk from the main road so it would look good for the par
ade. We sweltered in the afternoon heat looking for any bit of trash. Even Ernie was there. He didn’t say much, just kept his head down while sweat dripped off the end of his nose. Turned out to be a good thing for picking trash. The best part was when I spied an Indian head in the sand by the Co-op. It was a 1908 penny—enough for Necco Wafers when I was done. We spent most our time in front of INO’s picking up bottle caps and cigarette butts between the horse droppings.
When we finished Mr. Kingman said, “Looks like it’s just about time for a parade!” We all gazed at the road. I hadn’t seen dirt that clean, ever.
***
The mill whistle blasted long and loud on the morning of the Fourth. That was tradition. It was the only noise the mill made on Independence Day. I rushed through breakfast, then morning chores to be in town at the doings. The pie contest was to be held in the morning before other things got started. Mama said the ladies didn’t want pies to go bad in the heat. I was in the church yard early. So was Mrs. Krebbs. She banged through the open doorway with two chairs in hand, about to set them out on the grass. Just as I thought about a reason to turn around, it was too late.
“Well, happy Independence, Arthur,” said Mrs. Krebbs.
“Ah, yeah, you too,” I said.
“What a blessing this nice weather is that the Lord gave us today,” she said with her usual smile. Mrs. Krebbs ambled down the steps, positioned the chairs on the grass, then moved them again to just the right spot. “You came just in time; would you like to help me bring out tables for the pie contest?” she said, squinting my way.
“Ah, sure,” I lied.
Mrs. Krebbs led the way into the empty church building where the potluck tables were. They were the two tables that were used whenever the church had a potluck. I don’t remember the last time that was.
“You lift the front, Arthur,” Mrs. Krebbs said. “I’ll get the back.”
I heaved on the front of the table with my hands behind my back and wondered how Mrs. Krebbs would lift anything at all. I looked over my shoulder and saw that she was lifting, but the table wasn’t comin’ off the floor. I managed to drag it out the door and onto the grass anyway.
“You’re a strong young man,” Mrs. Krebbs said. “A warrior in the making.”
I was still looking for a way out of my predicament when that phrase caught me. I liked the idea of kings and knights, of conflict, of victory.
I dropped my end of the table. “A warrior?” I blurted involuntarily.
“Yes, Arthur.” Mrs. Krebbs squinted my way. “You may be a warrior in the making. You’re a strong young man with a good head on your shoulders. But you need to be in Christ’s army. A warrior for the Lord.”
My blank stare must have registered something with Mrs. Krebbs.
“You’re not following me, are you, son.”
I wasn’t. But it bothered me that she and MaryAnne were sounding a lot alike. I shrugged at her for my answer. “We should get that other table,” I said. Changing the subject seemed to be the right thing to do if I was ever going to see my way out of there. By the time I finished with Mrs. Krebbs, others began to arrive. I never did leave.
Mrs. Saddlekamp brought a pie and draped ribbon around the edges of the tables to—as she said—“fancy it up a smidge.” She shooed Oscar away when his nose caught wind of the pie.
The DuPrees had come, too. MaryAnne put their pie on the table with the others.
“Nice pie,” I said in greeting. “Your mom must be a good cook.”
“It’s my pie, Shoesth.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.” MaryAnne stifled a grin.
“I didn’t know you could bake,” I said.
“I haven’t told you everything,” she responded curtly. MaryAnne turned to join her mom and dad on the blanket they laid out under the big cottonwood. Her hair was done in one big braid again, laced this time with red and blue ribbons from the top to the very bottom.
The pie auction started folks in a good mood. Some were laughing, others were clapping. Mr. Edgar Hawthorne was asked to do the auction on account of his booming voice. Dad won Mama’s pie for $1.80. I saw him wink at her on his way back from the table. Mama blushed.
When MaryAnne’s pie came up Mr. Hawthorne barked, “The next pie is rhubarb with a fancy crust design on the top. This one was made by little Miss MaryAnne DuPree!” An “o-o-oh” rose from the audience. “Do I hear an opening bid for this lovely rhubarb pie by Miss DuPree?”
I’d had enough rhubarb to last me the next two summers. But I was determined to try for my friend’s pie.
“Anyone? Do we have an opening bid?”
I raised my hand.
“Yes, Mr. Makinen, what is your bid?”
“Five cents.” It was all I had.
“Five cents from the young man in the front row!”
“Do we have another bid?”
“One dollar!”
I spun around to see Kip Stinson waving his hand from near the cottonwood. It was bad enough that Kip scorned my bell ringing. Now he messed up the pie contest. I slunk away from the gathering the first chance I got to go wait for the parade.
***
The parade would start up at Red Town, come down the hill to Main Street, past the school, in front of INO’s, the Co-op, the post office, then would peter out past the church. I waited with Mom and Dad and Ricky by the Co-op. Ricky dawdled in the road, filling his pockets with rocks and trying to ride Oscar. Oscar was quick to trot away every time Ricky tried to mount.
Mr. and Mrs. Kingman sat in chairs across the road in front of the Post Office next to Lawrence Blankenshine. Funny seeing him there. Lawrence said something to Mr. Kingman. Mr. Kingman feigned he wasn’t there. Lawrence would most likely be gone in a moment anyway.
Mr. DuPree stopped by next to Dad. Mrs. DuPree and MaryAnne stood nearby. I didn’t look that way.
Buffalo Alice anchored an area up the road from Kip Stinson. Looked like she wouldn’t be showing in the parade again this year. Buffalo didn’t look happy, which is how Buffalo looked.
The sheriff was nowhere to be found. That was fine with me. And nobody brought their long faces this year. Folks were jovial about the day off and a celebration to boot.
“Thanks for bidding on my pie.”
I turned to see MaryAnne’s timid smile. Then I rolled my eyes.
“Did Kip win it?” I asked.
MaryAnne grimaced at me.
“How about a Necco?” I said, holding out a wafer to her.
“Thank you,” MaryAnne said softly.
I looked down the street at the honk of a horn. Mr. Johnson led the parade. He had mounted a rusty car horn on the front of his buckboard. Both mules jittered at the noise.
“Get out of the street, Ricky!” Mama hollered.
Right behind the Johnson wagon was Mr. Saddlekamp, driving his shiny new Chevy, with Mrs. Saddlekamp smiling for all the world. Jimmy was riding in the back, happier than any kid with a real car. He looked my way. I stared.
Five kids from the new kindergarten class came next.
“Oh, cute!” exclaimed MaryAnne.
The biggest boy was out front dragging a flag on a stick. One of the two girls fancied herself as Princess Royal. The other wailed louder than Saddlekamp’s new horn. She had to have been crying since Red Town for a shirt that wet. Her eyes puffed shut, making her bump into the kid with drawers covering the bare minimum. None were ready for school, near as I could make of it. Ricky would have fit right in.
Hanging well behind rumbled Hawthorne’s red Columbia. Hanging on their radiator was the same old sign, aged one more year, “Hawthorne’s Mill at Stoney Creek.” Mr. Hawthorne’s cigar was out cold. He looked tired, not sitting as tall as I remember. Perhaps the auctioneering did him in.
Mrs. Hawthorne made a sweeping wave across the street at Kip Stinson, soaking in all the eyes that fell upon her. The yellow hat perched on top of Mrs. Hawthorne’s head as it always had for every parade—including t
he blue feather sticking out the side.
Except that the blue feather wasn’t blue.
My eyes riveted on a sight I hadn’t remembered, something different at Stoney Creek.
Mrs. Hawthorne’s yellow hat was adorned with a red feather.
My mind raced to the Blankenshine’s porch and the blue feather in Lawrence’s hand. Could it be Mrs. Hawthorne’s? I thought.
I turned to MaryAnne. “Mrs. Hawthorne has a red feather in her hat.”
“So what?”
MaryAnne didn’t know what I was talking about. But how could she? MaryAnne had not seen a Stoney Creek parade before.
My thoughts whirled. Did Mrs. Hawthorne wear the same feather in her hat last Independence? I mostly remembered Sheriff across the street with his gun prominently displayed on his hip.
I looked to the other side for Lawrence. He was gone.
“I’ll see ya later,” I said to MaryAnne, then ran across the street and down the road where the parade was headed. I ran past the Hawthorne’s car, the school kids, and Jimmy in the back seat before I caught up with Lawrence following alongside Johnson’s buckboard.
“Lawrence!” It was as if he didn’t hear me. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Lawrence!”
Lawrence stopped, then turning his back to the parade, looked me straight into one eye. “Sho-o-o-o.”
I yelled above the clamor of the rusty horn. “Lawrence, the feather; do you have the blue feather?”
Lawrence furrowed his eyebrows at me. “My feather?”
“Yes, your feather,” I said. “Lawrence, where is it?”
Lawrence reached into the front pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a rumpled blue feather.
The howling kindergartner passed by again, wailing long enough to make you scream. “Where did you get the feather, Lawrence?”
Lawrence kept his back to the noise and trained his eye on the quill. I waited for an answer. The next long pause pained me.
Then, almost inaudibly, Lawrence said, “Dietrich’s back pocket.”
The Hawthorne’s red Columbia rumbled slowly past within a long arm’s distance from Lawrence. Lawrence’s eye didn’t leave the feather. This time he said it loudly and slowly, “Dietrich Stueck’s back po-ck-et.”
