The Truce

by Angie Smibert

  Who killed you?

  “Why did you do that?” a strange voice asked.

  “He’s just a bum, a hobo,” a more familiar voice replied. Then Mr. Matthews peered down into Beck’s face.

  “Nein, ich bin ein Soldat…” Beck stammered.

  The shovel hit him again and again. Blackness.

  A hand gripped Bone’s arm and yanked her to her feet.

  “Where did you get this?” Mr. Matthews demanded.

  It was only her and Mr. Matthews, and he peered down at her just as he had at Rainier Beck.

  Her fist closed around the dog tag. She twisted her whole body, trying to break free of his grip.

  “Answer me!”

  “Robbie,” Bone said, hoping he’d let her go. He didn’t.

  “Damn that worthless boy,” Mr. Matthews said, his grip tightening on Bone’s wrist. “I should’ve known he was pilfering my collection.”

  “You killed him!” Bone tried to stamp his foot—but she couldn’t reach it.

  “What?” His grip loosened a bit but not enough.

  “Nein, ich bin ein Soldat,” she repeated.

  Mr. Matthews dropped her arm, staggering back. He stared at her, his face blank. Then it darkened—and he lurched for her.

  Bone dodged him. He was blocking the way back into the church hall.

  Bone darted toward the road. Down below, the 8:15 was pulling away from the tipple.

  She hadn’t thought this part through.

  What do I do?

  The tag showed her. The black dog with saucer eyes.

  She ran toward the tipple, Mr. Matthews panting behind her.

  * * *

  The ghost dog wasn’t there.

  She really hadn’t thought this part through.

  Still, she stood in the spot under the tipple where Rainer Beck had, his dog tag burning into her palm. It felt like a no-man’s-land between the living and the dead, light and dark. Razor wire all around.

  Mr. Matthews came to a wary stop a few yards before her, breathing hard, not daring to stand where she did. She saw flashes of the wife, the kids, the dogs, the towering glass buildings, all the things Beck loved. Tanks rolled through the desert, explosions falling everywhere. Surrendering. Escaping. He only had thoughts of fleeing into the hills to wait out the war—and maybe visiting an old friend along the way.

  Tell the story, the object was telling her.

  So Bone did. “This is where you killed Rainer Beck.” She held up the tag. “A major in a panzer division.”

  “An escaped Nazi?” Mr. Matthews laughed. “No one will blame me for that! Give me the tag!”

  He was right about that. The sheriff and army might not care about a POW who died while escaping. Beck had fought against Daddy in the desert. And the Nazis were doing awful, despicable things. Maybe she should let Mr. Matthews get away with it. Bone shook her head. He’d killed a man and framed someone else for it. Is that why he’d promoted Tiny in the first place? So he could blame Tiny if anyone found out what he was up to? Bone spat in the dirt in front of Mr. Matthews.

  “You killed him because he saw you skimming coal—and you were happy to blame Uncle Ash and Tiny Sherman for it all.” The missing ball cap in his collection. “You even planted that Memphis Red Sox cap in shaft twenty-seven!”

  “Bone!” It was Aunt Mattie of all people, running toward them. She stopped by Mr. Matthews and turned on him. “Is that true?” she demanded.

  He didn’t answer her. “Just give me the damn dog tag, you runt!” He started toward Bone again.

  Aunt Mattie threw herself in front of Bone. “Don’t touch a hair on her head!” she snapped. “Answer my question!” She wagged a bony finger in his face.

  Bone was impressed with Mattie’s ferocity.

  “Stay out of this, you old biddy!” He pushed Aunt Mattie to the ground and grabbed for Bone.

  Aunt Mattie screeched—and so did the barn owl.

  And then the ghost dog emerged from the shadows, its big saucer eyes fixed on the man.

  Mr. Matthews went white and stumbled back.

  The dog stood by Bone’s side, baring its moon-white teeth.

  Aunt Mattie gasped. “Move away, Bone, that dog looks rabid.”

  “It’s okay, Aunt Mattie. She’s here for him.” Bone pointed toward Matthews. The dog inched forward. “Answer the question.”

  The spirit dog growled a low unearthly rumble. It was a river of coal tumbling to the ground. It was the roar of a tank thundering into battle. It was the rattle of an old pickup truck climbing a mountain. It was all of them rolled into one.

  “Spirit dogs can be bringers of justice—or death,” Bone whispered. “I think she’s leaving the choice up to you.”

  Mr. Matthews tried to back away and run.

  The dog advanced, its pointy ears flattened and its teeth bared.

  “I wouldn’t go anywheres just yet, Rob,” Uncle Ash said, stepping into the light. His own dogs cowered behind him. “Bone, Mattie, y’all all right? India saw you heading this way.”

  “I’ll be damned,” a man in uniform beside him whispered. He reached for a sidearm, but Uncle Ash put a hand on his arm.

  “That won’t do no good,” Uncle Ash told him.

  Mr. Matthews turned every which way, looking to run.

  Uncle Junior, the sheriff, and the deputy blocked him one way, Will and the boys—including Robbie—another. Uncle Ash and the uniformed man—a third. And the women—Mamaw, Ruby, and Miss Spencer—filled in all the gaps, mortar in the wall between him and freedom.

  Matthews kept one eye on the ghost dog as he faced Bone. “I didn’t mean to do it. He surprised us.”

  “Us?” the sheriff asked.

  “Me and Norton—my cousin from Greensboro. He drove the truck. We’ve been selling coal down in North Carolina and dealing with other goods on the black market. No telling when coal will be rationed, too.”

  The spirit dog snapped at Mr. Matthews and then turned tail toward the mine, vanishing.

  Bone saw the flashes from the tag. “You dragged him down in the mine—and bashed him again and again till he was unrecognizable. That wasn’t no accident.”

  Matthews nodded.

  “Daddy?” Robbie gasped. “Why?”

  Even then, his father wouldn’t look at him. Did the money mean more to him than Robbie? Or was he ashamed? Hard to tell.

  The sheriff signaled his deputy to cuff the mine superintendent and lead him away.

  Bone felt sorry for Robbie as he watched his father get into the sheriff’s car. He turned out his pockets and threw the souvenirs on the slag pile.

  Bone handed Beck’s dog tag to the army man. He had an armband that said MP. “How did y’all get the army here?” she asked her uncles.

  “Yes, why is the military police here?” The sheriff crossed his arms, clearly annoyed.

  “You know, Al, the coal in this mine is under contract to the army.” Uncle Junior nodded toward the MP. “The men and I did a little digging. We found fake invoices for coal shipments that never quite made it to the army arsenal in Radford. Matthews was stealing from the war effort.”

  “I’ve let my superiors know about the theft.” The MP took off his cap and wiped his brow. “But I might have to leave whatever I just saw out of the full report.”

  “That’s probably wise.” Uncle Ash chuckled as he hugged Bone. “Forever Girl, remind me to never tell another devil dog story again.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Bone whispered.

  Those stories were part of his story, now and forever.

  COME CHRISTMAS EVE, the faded yellow pickup climbed down the road from Reed Mountain, Uncle Ash at the wheel and Bone and Corolla in the passenger seat. Snow flecked the windshield as Bone warmed her hands on Corolla. She’d wisely stayed in the cab
while Uncle Ash, Will, and Bone had chopped down the enormous Virginia pine that had been strapped to the truck. Its tip hovered above the Chevy’s cab with its trunk secured to the bed of the pickup.

  Uncle Ash slid open the little window behind them, letting in a blast of cold pine-scented air. “You hanging on back there?”

  All Bone could see was a forest of green in the back. A gloved hand fought its way through the branches to give them a thumbs-up. Wrapped in a blanket—and no doubt warmed by the big dogs—Will was making sure the tree stayed strapped to the bed of the truck as they picked their way down the curvy mountain road. Uncle Ash slid the window shut.

  “There’s something for you in the glove box,” Uncle Ash said as he handed her his work gloves. “And get us some peppermint sticks out, too.”

  Bone undid the flap and fished out the packet of peppermints and a small package done up in snow-white paper and tied in a red ribbon. Uncle Ash relieved her of the candy.

  “I got that in Roanoke for you.”

  Bone undid the ribbon and ripped through the paper. Underneath was a leather-bound book with a tree tooled onto the front. She caught a flash of a young woman lovingly sewing the binding in a barn amid saddles and tack and hay bales.

  “This lady at India’s college makes them. She’s the head groom, and I looked at one of the mares for her.”

  The book smelled of fresh leather and saddle soap, with just a hint of horse. Bone cracked open the cover and riffled through the pages—all blank.

  “You can write down stories, you know, like Miss Spencer does, so they won’t be lost…” Uncle Ash held a peppermint stick between his fingers like he was going to smoke it. “India is trying to get me to cut down on the Luckies.” He took a pretend puff. “Not quite the same.”

  Bone inhaled the book’s aroma again, this time catching a hint of peppermint and tobacco, both of which Uncle Ash kept in the glove box. The paper smelled new. It was almost too fine to write on, but Bone had an overwhelming desire to set down story after story—though maybe not the kinds Miss Spencer was preserving.

  “That’s a laurel on the front, by the by.”

  It was her story book. For her Gift.

  “Uncle Ash, I now know what my Gift is for. It tells me real stories that ought not be forgotten. Beck’s. Will’s daddy’s. Mama’s. And a thousand others.” Bone was itching to start filling the creamy white pages. She was also scared that she couldn’t do them justice, the pages or the stories.

  Uncle Ash took a long drag on his peppermint stick. “You know, Forever Girl, you were mighty brave to tell Beck’s story the way you did. It helped Tiny—and me.” He pointed the stick at her. “Seems to me your Gift is more than just preserving those stories.”

  It’s about making sure those voices get heard. That’s what Uncle Ash was saying, and Bone knew he was right. Mamaw had shown her the family book where generations of Reeds recorded their Gifts. Very few had hers. Fewer still put her Gift to good use.

  “Beck sent you this poetry book, you know.” Bone pulled it out of her coat pocket and slid it back into the glove box.

  “I know.” Uncle Ash smiled. “Thank you, Forever Girl.”

  He turned up the radio as it started to play “White Christmas.” He crooned awfully along with it, and they tried to out-croon each other all the way to Big Vein. The tip of the tree bobbed in time with the music.

  * * *

  They were still singing when they pulled to a stop in front of the boardinghouse.

  “You are pert near a Popsicle,” Bone exclaimed as Will and the dogs clambered out of the bed of the truck.

  He stamped his feet on the ground to warm himself up.

  Uncle Ash continued to sing as he cut the ties and handed the tree down to Bone and Will to drag up to the porch.

  Will joined in with a surprisingly deep, off-key baritone that made Bone’s eyes go wide—and Corolla and other dogs howl along with them.

  “What in God’s green earth is that racket?” Uncle Junior called to them as they dragged the tree toward the porch. He and Ivy’s husband were stacking firewood out front for the bonfire. “You got a visitor.” He pointed to the white ’37 LaSalle coupe parked nearby.

  A man in a dark gray overcoat climbed out of the driver’s seat and strode toward them. “Mr. Reed? Ash Reed?” The man stretched out his hand. “Oliver Hill.”

  Uncle Ash promptly dropped the top end of the tree and shook the lawyer’s hand. “Is Tiny out yet? I ran by the jail this morning. The sheriff said he was still waiting to hear from the judge.”

  “Mr. Sherman remains incarcerated.” Mr. Hill sighed. “It seems Mr. Matthews recanted his confession, at least partially, claiming duress. And he further claims my client was responsible for any and all crimes committed.”

  “That’s absolutely crazy.” Uncle Ash patted his coat pocket for a smoke. He only found another peppermint stick.

  “He’s a liar,” Bone said. She’d seen him do it—albeit in a way that wouldn’t stand up in court. But the ghost dog made Mr. Matthews confess—in front of the sheriff and the MP and other witnesses. Plus Mr. Matthews had the dog tag—and the ball cap, she was sure—in his collection.

  “That’s as may be, young lady.” Mr. Hill pushed the brim of his hat back. “But the judge decided the allegations warranted further investigation.”

  “So Tiny stays in jail over Christmas?” Uncle Ash asked.

  Mr. Hill nodded. “He wanted me to let you know. My office and I are confident we can get all charges dismissed, but I’ll need to talk to everyone involved after Christmas.”

  “Of course.” Uncle Ash shook his hand again. “Would you like to join us?”

  Mr. Hill pulled his overcoat tight around him. “Mrs. Sherman has invited me to the services and a potluck at her church.” He started toward his car.

  “Mr. Hill,” Bone called after him. He turned, looking at her expectantly. The lawyer needed to know about the other ball caps. It might help Tiny. “Mr. Matthews has a collection of Negro League hats in his study. One’s missing.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Very interesting.” He nodded at her. Then the lawyer slid back into the LaSalle and headed down the road.

  “Damn,” Uncle Ash muttered as he picked up the top of the tree again, his brow creased with worry. “Robeson Matthews sure is a peculiar one.”

  “Why did he collect all that stuff? He didn’t serve in the war or even like black folks.”

  “He didn’t like Tiny, leastways. Him and me tussled with the Matthews boys all the time when we were kids.”

  Bone recalled the black eye and busted lip she’d seen.

  “They—Robeson especially—didn’t like Tiny on account of him being such a good ball player.” Uncle Ash shifted the tree to his other hand. “In fact, I bet Robeson was one of the boys who stomped Tiny’s pitching arm. Tiny wouldn’t never say, though, seeing as Robeson’s father was a judge at the time.”

  “That’s not fair,” Bone protested. “They shouldn’t have gotten away with that back then! And they shouldn’t keep Tiny locked up now for something Mr. Matthews did.”

  “Bone, I’m not going to lie. It ain’t fair.” Uncle Ash set down the tree again. He handed Bone another peppermint stick. “Sometimes we do everything we can do—and it still don’t work out exactly like we hoped.” He took a deep breath of the crisp air. Snowflakes started gently falling. “But I got a good feeling Mr. Hill will be able to get Tiny out. And the army does not take kindly to war profiteers. Mr. Matthews will get his comeuppance—thanks in no small part to you, Forever Girl.”

  Bone couldn’t help noticing Uncle Ash still looked a bit worried.

  “Amen!” Will called from the back of the tree, which he was still holding. “Now can we get this thing in the house?”

  Uncle Ash laughed and picked up his end again.

  * * *
>
  They dragged the tree into the front hallway of the boardinghouse. The corner, in the crook of the front stairs, was the perfect spot for the tree. Only when they stood it up, its top bent a good foot under the ceiling. Bone laughed, feeling the echo of Mama’s joy from the butter-yellow sweater on a Christmas Eve many years ago. The joy was dampened by the idea of Mr. Sherman spending the holidays in jail—but still there.

  “You always get this part wrong,” Aunt Mattie told Uncle Ash. She was laughing, but not in a mean way. Her voice was warm and full of memories.

  Uncle Ash gripped his peppermint stick in his teeth as he shimmied under the tree to tighten the stand.

  Will headed up the stairs, saw in hand. Bone busied herself with the box of ornaments on the hall table. Finding the sparkly silver star, she bounded up the stairs after Will. He started sawing.

  “Oh, I get a lot of things wrong, sis,” Uncle Ash declared as he crawled to his feet.

  “Shh. I can’t hear what they’re saying,” Bone whispered, pointing toward Ash and Aunt Mattie. Will stopped to listen, too.